10749	----	THE CIRCUS PROCESSION Open the gates, and draw the curtain, Here comes something fine, that's certain; Louder the band begins to play, Open the gates, and clear the way! Enters a Queen with a King beside her; Every horse is proud of his rider; Two by two they march to the tune, And head the procession that will follow soon. Men in livery, in their places, Make the gay steeds keep their paces, Soothing down their wildest fears At the rising shouts and cheers. Jocko, in these sports a sharer, Acts the part of a standard-bearer, While behind him soldiers gay Bugle notes of victory play. Now a Clown in line appearing With a tandem, swells the cheering; Standing on his Horse's back Thus he guides them round the track. On a Donkey rides another, Quite as funny as his brother, Blowing bugle notes so loud, He astonishes the crowd. Here's another Clown arriving, In a chariot he is driving; Like a noble Roman drest, Lo, he guides three steeds abreast! Nimble little Monkey, Tony, Rides along upon a pony, Followed by a stupid Clown, Who thinks the rain is pouring down. Here's a creature, young and slender, Drest in robes of dazzling splendor, In a chariot decked with gold;-- She's the Fairy Queen I'm told. Close behind her two enormous Elephants, first-rate performers, Stalk along with heavy tread, Sending on their trunks ahead. Here is something very funny, Surely worth the entrance money; At the sight what laughter peals!-- 'Tis an Elephant on wheels! Close behind him a relation, In a state of perspiration, Dons his specs, and wields his fan Just like any gentleman. Here is Jumbo, gentle creature, Kindness shown in every feature; On his back the children are, Safe as in a jaunting car. Shetland ponies--small and stocky-- Each one mounted by a jockey-- March 'twixt Elephants and Giraffes; 'Tis no wonder Towser laughs. Hark, the trumpet loudly pealing Knocks the plaster from the ceiling, As there marches on the course The Jumbos of the police-force. Clowns, and Dogs with queer expression Have their place in this procession; And 'tis hard for dogs, I know, On their two hind legs to go. Who are these with courtly manners Bearing lofty poles and banners? Faithfully they represent Followers of the tournament. Next a line of pretty pages Our attention close engages; The Chinese Giant in the rear Making them like dwarfs appear. Here's a funny turnout, surely, With an Ostrich lashed securely To a coach, Zenobia shares! And well the bird the burden bears! Goats upon the mountains ramble, And in harness sometimes amble; But a tandem-team like this, Is a sight you should not miss. Through the desert Camels travel, Speeding o'er the sand and gravel, Bearing heavy burdens too, Which in our land they could not do. Here the roads are rough and stony; And the Camel's back's so bony, None but Clowns would dare to go On them, with the Circus Show. Goodness gracious! Did you ever? Here are harnessed up quite clever Two Giraffes! The whip they heed; Nor venture at a break-neck speed. A Soldier comes! On stilts he's stalking! Back of him a Dude is walking, Either side of him a friend As you can see;--AND THAT'S THE END! 
11069	----	SQUINTY THE COMICAL PIG HIS MANY ADVENTURES BY RICHARD BARNUM Author of "Slicko, the Jumping Squirrel," "Mappo, the Merry Monkey," "Tum Tum, the Jolly Elephant," "Don, a Runaway Dog," etc. ILLUSTRATED BY HARRIET H. TOOKER KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES By Richard Barnum SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG SLICKO, THE JUMPING SQUIRREL MAPPO, THE MERRY MONKEY TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT DON, A RUNAWAY DOG Large 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume 40 cents, postpaid 1915 _Squinty, the Comical Pig_ CONTENTS CHAPTER I SQUINTY AND THE DOG II SQUINTY RUNS AWAY III SQUINTY IS LOST IV SQUINTY GETS HOME V SQUINTY AND THE BOY VI SQUINTY ON A JOURNEY VII SQUINTY LEARNS A TRICK VIII SQUINTY IN THE WOODS IX SQUINTY'S BALLOON RIDE X SQUINTY AND THE SQUIRREL XI SQUINTY AND THE MERRY MONKEY XII SQUINTY GETS HOME AGAIN ILLUSTRATIONS Squinty looked at the beautiful wagons, and at the strange animals Squinty saw rushing toward him, Don, the big black and white dog "Hop on," he said to the toad. "I won't bother you." "Oh, Father!" exclaimed the boy, "do let me have just one little pig" Squinty gave a little spring, and over the rope he went The next moment Squinty felt himself lifted off the ground "Why, I am Mappo, the merry monkey," was the answer SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG CHAPTER I SQUINTY AND THE DOG Squinty was a little pig. You could tell he was a pig just as soon as you looked at him, because he had the cutest little curly tail, as though it wanted to tie itself into a bow, but was not quite sure whether that was the right thing to do. And Squinty had a skin that was as pink, under his white, hairy bristles, as a baby's toes. Also Squinty had the oddest nose! It was just like a rubber ball, flattened out, and when Squinty moved his nose up and down, or sideways, as he did when he smelled the nice sour milk the farmer was bringing for the pigs' dinner, why, when Squinty did that with his nose, it just made you want to laugh right out loud. But the funniest part of Squinty was his eyes, or, rather, one eye. And that eye squinted just as well as any eye ever squinted. Somehow or other, I don't just know why exactly, or I would tell you, the lid of one of Squinty's eyes was heavier than the other. That eye opened only half way, and when Squinty looked up at you from the pen, where he lived with his mother and father and little brothers and sisters, why there was such a comical look on Squinty's face that you wanted to laugh right out loud again. In fact, lots of boys and girls, when they came to look at Squinty in his pen, could not help laughing when he peered up at them, with one eye widely open, and the other half shut. "Oh, what a comical pig!" the boys and girls would cry. "What is his name?" "Oh, I guess we'll call him Squinty," the farmer said; and so Squinty was named. Perhaps if his mother had had her way about it she would have given Squinty another name, as she did his brothers and sisters. In fact she did name all of them except Squinty. One of the little pigs was named Wuff-Wuff, another Curly Tail, another Squealer, another Wee-Wee, and another Puff-Ball. There were seven pigs in all, and Squinty was the last one, so you see he came from quite a large family. When his mother had named six of her little pigs she came to Squinty. "Let me see," grunted Mrs. Pig in her own way, for you know animals have a language of their own which no one else can understand. "Let me see," said Mrs. Pig, "what shall I call you?" She was thinking of naming him Floppy, because the lid of one of his eyes sort of flopped down. But just then a lot of boys and girls came running out to the pig pen. The boys and girls had come on a visit to the farmer who owned the pigs, and when they looked in, and saw big Mr. and Mrs. Pig, and the little ones, one boy called out: "Oh, what a queer little pig, with one eye partly open! And how funny he looks at you! What is his name?" "Well, I guess we'll call him Squinty," the farmer had said. And so, just as I have told you, Squinty got his name. "Humph! Squinty!" exclaimed Mrs. Pig, as she heard what the farmer said. "I don't know as I like that." "Oh, it will do very well," answered Mr. Pig. "It will save you thinking up a name for him. And, after all, you know, he _does_ squint. Not that it amounts to anything, in fact it is rather stylish, I think. Let him be called Squinty." "All right," answered Mrs. Pig. So Squinty it was. "Hello, Squinty!" called the boys and girls, giving the little pig his new name. "Hello, Squinty!" "Wuff! Wuff!" grunted Squinty. That meant, in his language, "Hello!" you see. For though Squinty, and his mother and father, and brothers and sisters, could understand man talk, and boy and girl talk, they could not speak that language themselves, but had to talk in their own way. Nearly all animals understand our talk, even though they can not speak to us. Just look at a dog, for instance. When you call to him: "Come here!" doesn't he come? Of course he does. And when you say: "Lie down, sir!" doesn't he lie down? that is if he is a good dog, and minds? He understands, anyhow. And see how horses understand how to go when the driver says "Gid-dap!" and how they stop when he says "Whoa!" So you need not think it strange that a little pig could understand our kind of talk, though he could not speak it himself. Well, Squinty, the comical pig, lived with his mother and father and brothers and sisters in the farmer's pen for some time. As the days went on Squinty grew fatter and fatter, until his pink skin, under his white bristles, was swelled out like a balloon. "Hum!" exclaimed the farmer one day, as he leaned over the top of the pen, to look down on the pigs, after he had poured their dinner into the trough. "Hum! That little pig, with the squinty eye, is getting pretty big. I thought he was going to be a little runt, but he seems to be growing as fast as the others." Squinty was glad when he heard that, for he wanted to grow up to be a fine, large pig. The farmer took a corn cob, from which all the yellow kernels of corn had been shelled, and with it he scratched the back of Squinty. Pigs like to have their backs scratched, just as cats like to have you rub their smooth fur, or tickle them under the ears. "Ugh! Ugh!" grunted Squinty, looking up at the farmer with his comical eyes, one half shut and the other wide open. "Ugh! Ugh!" And with his odd eyes, and one ear cocked forward, and the other flopping over backward, Squinty looked so funny that the farmer had to laugh out loud. "What's the matter, Rufus?" asked the farmer's wife, who was gathering the eggs. "Oh, it's this pig," laughed the farmer. "He has such a queer look on his face!" "Let me see!" exclaimed the farmer's wife. She, too, looked down into the pen. "Oh, isn't he comical!" she cried. Then, being a very kind lady, and liking all the farm animals, the farmer's wife went out in the potato patch and pulled up some pig weed. This is a green weed that grows in the garden, but it does no good there. Instead it does harm, and farmers like to pull it up to get rid of it. But, if pig weed is no good for the garden, it is good for pigs, and they like to chew the green leaves. "Here, Squinty!" called the farmer's wife, tossing some of the juicy, green weed to the little pig. "Eat this!" "Ugh! Ugh!" grunted Squinty, and he began to chew the green leaves. I suppose that was his way of saying: "Thank you!" As soon as Squinty's brothers and sisters saw the green pig weed the farmer's wife had tossed into the pen, up they rushed to the trough, grunting and squealing, to get some too. They pushed and scrambled, and even stepped into the trough, so eager were they to get something to eat; even though they had been fed only a little while before. That is one strange thing about pigs. They seem to be always hungry. And Squinty's brothers and sisters were no different from other pigs. But wait just a moment. They were a bit different, for they were much cleaner than many pigs I have seen. The farmer who owned them knew that pigs do not like to live in mud and dirt any more than do cows and horses, so this farmer had for his pigs a nice pen, with a dry board floor, and plenty of corn husks for their bed. They had clean water to drink, and a shady place in which to lie down and sleep. Of course there was a mud bath in the pig pen, for, no matter how clean pigs are, once in a while they like to roll in the mud. And I'll tell you the reason for that. You see flies and mosquitoes and other pests like to bite pigs. The pigs know this, and they also know that if they roll in the mud, and get covered with it, the mud will make a coating over them to keep the biting flies away. So that is why pigs like to roll in the mud once in awhile, just as you sometimes see a circus elephant scatter dust over his back, to drive away the flies. And even such a thick-skinned animal as a rhinoceros likes to plaster himself with mud to keep away the insects. But after Squinty and his brothers and sisters had rolled in the mud, they were always glad when the farmer came with the garden hose and washed them clean again, so their pink skins showed beneath their white, hairy bristles. Squinty and the other pigs grew until they were a nice size. They had nothing to do but eat and sleep, and of course that will make anyone grow. Now Squinty, though he was not the largest of the family of pig children, was by far the smartest. He learned more quickly than did his brothers and sisters, how to run to the trough to eat, when his mother called him, and he learned how to stand up against one side of the pen and rub himself back and forth to scratch his side when a mosquito had bitten him in a place he could not reach with his foot. In fact Squinty was a little too smart. He wanted to do many things his brothers and sisters never thought of. One day when Squinty and the others had eaten their dinner, Squinty told his brother Wuff-Wuff that he thought it would be a nice thing to have some fun. Wuff-Wuff said he thought so, too, but he didn't just know what to do. In fact there was not much one could do in a pig pen. "If we could only get out of here!" grunted Squinty, as he looked out through a crack in the boards and saw the green garden, where pig weed was growing thickly. "Yes, but we can't," said Wuff-Wuff. Squinty was not so sure about this. In fact he was a very inquisitive little pig--that is, he always wanted to find out about things, and why this and that was so, and what made the wheels go around, and all like that. "I think I can get out through that place," said Squinty to himself, a little later. He had found another crack between two boards of the pen--a large crack, and one edge of the board was loose. Squinty began to push with his rubbery nose. A pig's nose is pretty strong, you know, for it is made for digging, or rooting in the earth, to turn up acorns, and other good things to eat. Squinty pushed and pushed on the board until he had made it very loose. The crack was getting wider. "Oh, I can surely get out!" he thought. He looked around; his mother and father and all the little pigs were asleep in the shady part of the pen. "I'm going!" said Squinty to himself. He gave one extra hard push, and there he was through the big crack, and outside the pen. It was the first time he had ever been out in his life. At first he was a little frightened, but when he looked over into the potato patch, and saw pig weed growing there he was happy. "Oh, what a good meal I shall have!" grunted Squinty. He ran toward a large bunch of the juicy, green pig weed, but before he reached it he heard a dreadful noise. "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" went some animal, and then came some growls, and the next moment Squinty saw, rushing toward him Don, the big black and white dog of the farmer. "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" barked Don, and that meant, in his language: "Get back in your pen, Squinty! What do you mean by coming out? Get back! Bow wow!" [Illustration: Squinty saw rushing toward him, Don, the big black and white dog.] "Oh dear! Oh dear!" squealed Squinty. "I shall be bitten sure! That dog will bite me! Oh dear! Why didn't I stay in the pen?" Squinty turned on his little short legs, as quickly as he could, and started back for the pen. But it was not easy to run in a potato field, and Squinty, not having lived in the woods and fields as do some pigs, was not a very good runner. "Bow wow! Bow wow!" barked Don, running after Squinty. I do not believe Don really meant to hurt the comical little pig. In fact I know he did not, for Don was very kind-hearted. But Don knew that the pigs were supposed to stay in their pen, and not come out to root up the garden. So Don barked: "Bow wow! Bow wow! Get back where you belong, Squinty." Squinty ran as fast as he could, but Don ran faster. Squinty caught his foot in a melon vine, and down he went. Before he could get up Don was close to him, and, the next moment Squinty felt his ear being taken between Don's strong, white teeth. "Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!" squealed Squinty, in his own queer, pig language. "What is going to happen to me?" CHAPTER II SQUINTY RUNS AWAY Between the barking of Don, the dog, and the squealing of Squinty, the comical pig, who was being led along by his ear, there was so much noise in the farmer's potato patch, for a few moments, that, if you had been there, I think you would have wondered what was happening. "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" barked Don, still keeping hold of Squinty's ear, though he did not pinch very hard. "Bow wow! Get back to your pen where you belong!" "Squee! Squee! Squee!" yelled Squinty. "Oh, please let me go! I'll be good!" And so it went on, the dog talking in his barking language, and Squinty squealing in his pig talk; but they could easily understand one another, even if no one else could. Back in the pen Mrs. Pig suddenly awakened from a nap. So did Mr. Pig, and all the little pigs. "Don't you hear something making a noise?" asked Mrs. Pig of her husband. "Why, yes, I think I do," he answered slowly, as he looked in the feed trough, to see if the farmer had left any more sour milk there for the pig family to eat. But there was none. "I hear someone squealing," said Wuff-Wuff, the largest boy pig of them all. "So do I," said Squeaker, a little girl pig. Mrs. Pig sat up, and looked all over the pen. She was counting her children to see if they were all there. She did not see Squinty, and at once she became frightened. "Squinty is gone!" cried Mrs. Pig. "Oh, where can he be?" The squealing noise became louder. So did the barking of the dog. "Look, there is a board off the side of the pen," said Mr. Pig. "Yes, Squinty wanted me to come outside with him," said Wuff-Wuff. "But I wouldn't go." "Oh, maybe my little boy pig is outside there, making all that noise!" cried Mrs. Pig to her husband. "Well, he isn't making _all_ that noise by himself," said the father pig. "Someone is helping him make it, I'm sure." They all listened, and heard the barking of Don, as well as the squealing of Squinty. "Oh, some animal has caught him!" cried Mrs. Pig. Then she pushed as hard as she could with her nose, against the loose board near the hole in the pen, through which Squinty had run a little while before. Mrs. Pig soon knocked off the board, and then she ran out into the garden, Mr. Pig and all the little pigs ran after her. The first thing Mrs. Pig saw was her little boy pig down on the ground in the middle of a row of melon vines, with Don holding Squinty's ear. "Bow wow!" barked Don. "Squee! Squee!" cried Squinty. "Oh, you poor little pig!" grunted Mrs. Pig. "What has happened to you?" "Oh, mamma!" squealed Squinty. "I--I ran out of the pen to see what it was like outside, and I was just eating some pig weed, when this big dog chased after me." "Yes, I did," said Don, growling in his deep voice. "The place for pigs, little or big, is in their pen. The farmer does not want you to come out and spoil his garden. He tells me to watch you, and to drive you back if you come in it. "This is the first time I have seen any of you pigs in the garden," went on Don, still keeping hold of Squinty's ear, "and I want you, please, to go back in your pen." "Oh, I'll go! I'll go!" cried Squinty. "Only let loose of my ear, Mr. Dog, if you please!" "What! Have you hold of Squinty's ear?" asked Wuff-Wuff. "Oh, do please let him go!" "Yes, I will, now that you are here," said Don, and he took his strong, white teeth from the piggy boy's ear. "I did not bite him hard enough to hurt him," said Don. "But I had to catch hold of him somewhere, and taking him by the ear was better than taking him by the tail, I think." "Oh, yes, indeed!" agreed Mr. Pig. "Once, when I was a little pig, a dog bit me on the tail, and I never got over it. In fact I have the marks yet," and he tried to look around at his tail, which had a kink in it. But Mr. Pig was too fat to see his own tail. "So that's why I took hold of Squinty by the ear," went on Don. "Did I hurt you very much?" he asked the little pig who had run out of the pen. "Oh, no; not much," Squinty said, as he rubbed his ear with his paw. Then, as he saw a bunch of pig weed close to him, he began nibbling that. And his brothers and sisters, seeing him do this, began to eat the pig weed also. "Come! This will never do!" barked Don, the dog. "I am sorry, but all you pigs must go back in your own pen. The farmer would not like you to be out in his garden." "Yes, I suppose we must," said Mrs. Pig, with a sigh. "Yet it is very nice out in the garden. But we must stay in our pen." "Come, children," said Mr. Pig. "We must stay in our own place, for if we rooted up the farmer's garden, much as we would like to do it, he would have no vegetables to eat this winter. Then he might be angry at us, and would give us no more sour milk. So we will go back to our pen." "Bow wow! Bow wow!" barked Don, running here and there. "I will show you the way back to your pen," he said, kindly. And he capered about, here and there, driving the pigs back to the place where Squinty had run from, and where all the others had come from, to see what had happened to him. The farmer, who was hoeing corn, heard the barking of his dog. He dropped the hoe and ran. "Something must have happened!" he cried. "Maybe the big bull has gotten loose from his field, and is chasing someone with a red dress." Into the garden he ran, and then he saw Don driving Squinty, and his brothers and sisters, and mother and father, back to the pen. "Ha! So the pigs got loose!" the farmer cried. "Good dog! Chase 'em back!" "Bow wow!" barked Don. "I will!" But the pigs did not need much driving, for they were very good, and did not want to cause Don, or the farmer, any trouble if they could help it. Soon Squinty and the others were safely in the pen again. The farmer looked at them carefully. "So, you thought you'd like to get out and have a run, did you?" he asked, speaking to pigs just as if they could understand him. And they did, just as your dog understands, and minds you when you call to him to come to you. "So you wanted a run in the garden, eh?" went on the farmer. "Well, I don't blame you, for it isn't much fun to stay cooped up in a pen all the while. But still I can't have you out. But I'll give you a nice lot of pig weed, just the same, for you must be hungry." Then the farmer pulled up some more of the green stuff, and tossed it into the pen. He also gave them plenty of sour milk, which pigs like better than sweet milk. Besides, it is cheaper. "Well, I guess you won't run away again," the farmer went on, as he nailed back on the pen the board which Squinty had pushed off. Perhaps the farmer thought one of the big pigs--the papa or mamma one--had made the hole for the others to get out. I am sure he never thought little Squinty, with his comical eye, did it. But we know Squinty did, don't we? For some time after this Squinty was a very-good pig, indeed. Not that I mean to say he was bad when he ran out of the pen, for he did not know any better. But, after the board was nailed on tightly again, he did not try to push it off. Perhaps he knew he could not do it. Squinty and his brothers and sisters had lots of fun in the pen, even if they could not go out. They played games in the straw, hiding away from one another, and squealing and grunting when they were found. They raced around the pen, playing a game much like our game of tag, and if they could have had someone to tie a hand-kerchief over their eyes, they might have played blind-man's buff. But of course they did not really do this. However, they raced about, and jumped over each other's backs, and climbed upon the fat sides of their father and mother while the big pigs lay asleep in the shade. Squinty was a pig very fond of playing tricks. Sometimes he would take a choice, tender piece of pig weed, which the farmer had tossed into the pen, and hide it in the soft dirt in one corner. "Now see who can find it!" Squinty would call to his brothers and sisters, and they would hunt all over for it, rooting up the earth with their strong, rubbery noses. Digging in the dirt was good practice for them, and their mother and father would watch them, saying: "Ah, when they grow up they will be very good rooting pigs indeed. Yes, very good!" Then Squinty, or his brothers or sisters, would root up the hidden pig weed, and the old pigs would go to sleep again, for they did not need to practice digging, having done so when they were young. About all they did was to eat and sleep, and tell the little pigs how to behave. "Squinty, how is your ear that Don, the dog, bit?" asked Mrs. Pig of her little boy pig one day. "Oh, it doesn't hurt me," answered Squinty. "Don did not bite very hard. He only wanted to catch me." "Yes, Don is a good dog," said Mrs. Pig. "But you must be careful of other dogs, Squinty." "Why, are not all dogs alike?" the little pig boy asked. "Oh, no, indeed!" answered Mrs. Pig. "Some of them are very bad and savage. They would bite you very hard if they got the chance. So, whenever you see any dog, except Don, running toward you, run away as fast as you can." "I will," promised Squinty. And he did not know how soon he would be glad to remember his mother's good advice. For some days nothing much happened in the pig pen. Once or twice Squinty pushed his nose against the board the farmer had nailed on, but it was very tight, he found, and he could not push it off. "Are you trying to get out again?" asked Wuff-Wuff. "Oh, I don't know," Squinty would answer. "I think it would be fun if we all could; don't you?" "No, indeed!" cried Wuff-Wuff. "Some big dog might chase us. I want to stay in the pen." But Squinty was a brave, bold, mischievous little pig. He was not content to stay in the pen. He wanted to have some adventures. He wanted to get out in the garden, which looked so nice and green. Squinty looked all around the other sides of the pen. He wanted to see if there was another loose board. If there was, he made up his little pig mind that he would go out again. But he said nothing of this to his brothers or sisters, or to his father or mother. He felt that they would not like him to go away again. "But there is not much fun staying in the pen all the while," thought Squinty. "I wish I could get out." Squinty, you see, had made up his mind to run away. Often horses run away, so I don't see why pigs can't, also. Anyhow, that was what Squinty intended to do. But, for nearly a week after his first adventure in the garden, Squinty had no chance to slip out of the pen. All the boards seemed very tight. Then, one day, it was very hot. The sun shone brightly. "Dig holes for yourselves in the cool ground, and lie down in them," said Mrs. Pig. "That will cool you off." Each little pig dug a hole for himself, just as a hen does when she wants to take a dust bath. Squinty dug his hole near the lower edge of the boards, on one side of the pen. "I'll make a big hole," he thought to himself. And, as Squinty dug down, he noticed that he could see under the bottom of the boards. He could look right out into the garden. "That is very queer," thought the little pig boy. "I believe I can get out of the pen by crawling under a board, as well as by pushing one loose from the side. I'll try it." Squinty was learning things, you see. So he dug the hole deeper and deeper, and soon it was large enough for him to slip under the bottom board. "Now I can run away," he grunted softly to himself. He looked all around the pen. His father, mother, sisters and brothers were fast asleep in their cool holes of earth. "I'm going!" said Squinty, and the next moment he had slipped under the side of the pen, through the hole he had dug, and once more he was out in the garden. "Now for some adventures!" said Squinty, in a jolly whisper--a pig's whisper, you know. CHAPTER III SQUINTY IS LOST This was the second time Squinty had run out of the pen and into the farmer's garden. The first time he had been caught and brought back by Don, the dog. This time Squinty did not intend to get caught, if he could help it. So, after crawling out through the hole under the pen, the little pig came to a stop, and looked carefully on all sides of him. His one little squinty eye was opened as wide as it would open, and the other eye was opened still wider. Squinty wanted to see all there was to be seen. He cocked one ear up in front of him, to listen to any sounds that might come from that direction, and the other ear he drooped over toward his back, to hear any noises that might come from behind him. What Squinty was especially listening for was the barking of Don, the dog. "For," thought Squinty, "I don't want Don to catch me again, and make me go back, before I have had any fun. It will be time enough to go back to the pen when it is dark. Yes, that will be time enough," for of course Squinty did not think of staying out after the sun had gone down. Or, at least, he did not imagine he would. But you just wait and see what happens. Squinty looked carefully about him. Even if one eye did droop a little, he could still see out of it very well, and he saw no signs of Don, the big dog. Nor could Squinty hear him. Don must be far away, the little pig thought, far away, perhaps taking a swim in the brook, where the dog often went to cool off in hot weather. "I think I'll go and have a swim myself," thought Squinty. He knew there was a brook somewhere on the farm, for he could hear the tinkle and fall of the water even in the pig pen. But where the brook was he did not know exactly. "But it will be an adventure to hunt for it," Squinty thought. "I guess I can easily find it. Here I go!" and with that he started to walk between the rows of potatoes. Squinty made up his little mind that he was going to be very careful. Now that he was safely out of the pen again he did not want to be caught the second time. He did not want Don, or the farmer, to see him, so he crawled along, keeping as much out of sight as he could. "I wish my brothers, Wuff-Wuff or Squealer were with me," said Squinty softly to himself, in pig language. "But if I had awakened them, and asked them to run away with me, mamma or papa might have heard, and stopped us." Squinty did not feel at all sorry about running away and leaving his father and mother, and brothers and sisters. You see he thought he would be back with them again in a few hours, for he did not intend to stay away from the pen longer than that. But many things can happen in a few hours, as you shall see. "I won't eat any pig weed just yet," thought Squinty, as he went softly on between the rows of potato vines. "To pull up any of it, and eat it now, would make it wiggle. Then Don or the farmer might see it wiggling, and run over to find out what it was all about. Then I'd be caught. I'll wait a bit." So, though he was very hungry, he would not eat a bit of the pig weed that grew near the pen. And he never so much as dreamed of taking any of the farmer's potatoes. He did not yet know the taste of them. But, let me tell you, pigs who have eaten potatoes, even the little ones the farmer cannot sell, are very fond of them. But, so far, Squinty had never eaten even a little potato. On and on went the little pig, looking back now and then toward the pen to see if any of the other pigs were coming after him. But none were. And there was no sign of Don, the barking dog, nor the farmer, either. There was nothing to stop Squinty from running away. Soon he was some distance from the pen, and then he thought it would be safe to nibble at a bit of pig weed. He took a large mouthful from a tall, green plant. "Oh, how good that tastes!" thought Squinty. "It is much better and fresher than the kind the farmer throws into the pen to us." Perhaps this was true, but I imagine the reason the pig weed tasted so much better was because Squinty was running away. Perhaps you know how it is yourself. Did you ever go out the back way, when mamma was washing the dishes, and run over to your aunt's or your grandma's house, and get a piece of bread and jam? If you ever did, you probably thought that bread and jam was much nicer than the kind you could get at home, though really there isn't any better bread and jam than mother makes. But, somehow or other, the kind you get away from home tastes differently, doesn't it? It was that way with Squinty, the comical pig. He ate and ate the pig weed, until he had eaten about as much as was good for him. And then, as he saw one little potato on the ground, where it had rolled out of the hill in which it grew with the others, Squinty ate that. He did not think the farmer would care. "Oh, how good it is!" he thought. "I wish I had not eaten so much pig weed, then I could eat more of those funny, round things the farmer calls potatoes. Now I will have to wait until I am hungry again." Squinty knew that would not be very long, for pigs get hungry many times a day. That is what makes them grow fat so fast--they eat so often. But eating often is not good for boys and girls. Squinty had now come some distance away from the pen, where he lived with his mother, father, sisters and brothers. He wondered if they had awakened yet, or had seen the hole out of which he had crawled, and if they were puzzled as to where he had gone. "But they can't find me!" said Squinty, with something that sounded like a laugh. I suppose pigs can laugh--in their own way, at any rate. "No, they can't find me," thought Squinty, looking all around. All he saw were the rows of potato vines, and, farther off, a field of tall, green corn. "Well, I have the whole day to myself!" thought Squinty. "I can do as I please, and not go back until night. Let me see, what shall I do first? I guess I will go to sleep in the shade." So he stretched out in the shade of a big potato vine, and, curling up in a little pink ball, he closed his eyes, the squinty one as well as the good one. But first Squinty looked all around to make sure Don, the dog, was not in sight. He saw nothing of him. When Squinty awakened he felt hungry, as he always did after a sleep. "Now for some more of those nice potatoes!" he said to himself. He liked them, right after his first taste. He did not look around for the little ones that might have fallen out of the hills themselves. No, instead, Squinty began rooting them out of the earth with his strong, rubbery nose, made just for digging. I am not saying Squinty did right in this. In fact he did wrong, but then he was a little pig, and he knew no better. In fact it was the first time he had really run away so far, and he was quite hungry. And potatoes were better than pig weed. Squinty ate as many potatoes as he wanted, and then he said to himself, in a way pigs have: "Well, I guess I'll go on to the brook, and cool off in the water. That will do me good. After that I'll look around and see what will happen next." Squinty had a good nose for smelling, as most animals have, and, tilting it up in the air, Squinty sniffed and snuffed. He wanted to smell the water, so as to take the shortest path to the brook. "Ha! It's right over there!" exclaimed Squinty to himself. "I can easily find the water to take a bath." Across the potato field he went, taking care to keep well down between the rows of green vines, for he did not want to be seen by the dog, or the farmer. Once, as Squinty was walking along, he saw what he thought was another potato on the ground in front of him. He put his nose out toward it, intending to eat it, but the thing gave a big jump, and hopped out of the way. "Ha! That must be one of the hop toads I heard my mother tell about," thought Squinty. "I must not hurt them, for they are good to catch the flies that tickle me when I try to sleep. Hop on," he said to the toad. "I won't bother you." [Illustration: "Hop on," he said to the toad, "I won't bother you."] The toad did not stop to say anything. She just hopped on, and hid under a big stone. Maybe she was afraid of Squinty, but he would not have hurt her. Soon the little pig came to the brook of cool water, and after looking about, to see that there was no danger near, Squinty waded in, and took a long drink. Then he rolled over and over again in it, washing off all the mud and dirt, and coming out as clean and as pink as a little baby. Squinty was a real nice pig, even if he had run away. "Let me see," he said to himself, after his bath. "What shall I do now? Which way shall I go?" Well, he happened to be hungry after his swim. In fact Squinty was very often hungry, so he thought he would see if he could find anything more to eat. "I have had potatoes and pig weed," he thought, "and now I would like some apples. I wonder if there are any apple trees around here?" He looked and, across the field of corn, he thought he saw an apple tree. He made up his mind to go there. And that is where Squinty made another mistake. He made one when he ran away from the pen, and another one when he started to go through the corn field. Corn, you know, grows quite high, and pigs, even the largest of them, are not very tall. At least not until they stand on their hind legs. That was a trick Squinty had not yet learned. So he had to go along on four legs, and this made him low down. Now he had been able to look over the tops of the potato vines, as they were not very high, but Squinty could not look over the top of the corn stalks. No sooner had he gotten into the field, and started to walk along the corn rows, than he could not see where he was going. He could not even see the apple tree in the middle of the field. "Well, this is queer," thought Squinty. "I guess I had better go back. No, I will keep on. I may come to the apple tree soon." He hurried on between the corn rows. But, though he went a long distance, he did not come to the apple tree. "I guess I will go back to the brook, where I had my bath, and start over again from there," thought Squinty. "I will not try to get any apples to-day. I will eat only potatoes and pig weed. Yes, I will go back." But that was not so easy to do as he had thought. Squinty went this way and that, through the rows of corn, but he could not find the brook. He could not find his way back, nor could he find the apple tree. On all sides of him was the tall corn. That was all poor Squinty could see. Finally, all tired out, and dusty, the little pig stopped, and sighed: "Oh dear! I guess I am lost!" CHAPTER IV SQUINTY GETS HOME The rows of corn, in the field where Squinty the comical pig was lost, were like the streets of a city. They were very straight and even, just like the street where your house is, and, if you liked, you could pretend that each hill of corn was a house. Perhaps Squinty pretended this, if pigs ever do pretend. At any rate the little lost pig wandered up and down in the rows of corn, peering this way and that, to see which way to go so he could get home again. He began to think that running away was not so much fun as he had at first thought. "Oh dear!" Squinty grunted, in his funny, squealing voice. "I wonder if I'll ever see my mamma and papa again?" Squinty ran this way and that up and down the rows of corn, and you can easily imagine what happened. He soon became very tired. "I think I will take a rest," thought Squinty, talking to himself, because there was no one else to whom he could speak. I think the little pig would have been very glad, just then, to speak even to Don, the dog. But Don was not there. Squinty, wondering what happened to little pigs when they were lost, and if they ever got home again, stretched out on the dirt between two rows of corn. It was shady there, but over-head the hot sun was shining. Squinty's breath came very fast, just as when a dog runs far on a warm day. But the earth was rather cool, and Squinty liked it. He would much rather have been down by the cool brook, but he knew he could not have a swim in it until he found it. And, just now, he seemed a good way off from it. Poor Squinty! It was bad enough to be tired and warm, but to be lost was worse, and to be hungry was worse than all--especially to a little pig. And, more than this, there was nothing to eat. Squinty had tried to nibble at some of the green corn stalks, but he did not like the taste of them. Perhaps he had not yet learned to like them, for I have seen older pigs eat corn stalks. And pigs are very fond of the yellow corn itself. They love to gnaw it off the cob, and chew it, just as you chew popcorn. But the corn was not yet ripe, and Squinty was too little to have eaten it, if it had been ripe. Later on he would learn to do this. Just now he cared more about finding his way home, and also finding something that he could eat. For some time the little lost pig rested on the cool earth, in the shade of the rows of corn. Then he got up with a grunt and a squeal, and began rooting in the ground. "Perhaps I may find some potatoes, or some pig weed, here," thought Squinty. "Who knows?" But all he could root up, with his queer, rubbery nose, was some round stones. Some of these were brown, and looked so much like the little potatoes, that Squinty tried to chew one. But when he felt the hard stone on his little white teeth he cried out in pain. "Ouch!" squealed Squinty. "That hurt! Those are funny potatoes! I never knew they could be so hard." Later on he learned that what he supposed were potatoes were only stones. You see it takes a little pig some time to learn all the things he needs to know. Squinty let the stone roll out of his mouth, and he looked at it with such an odd look on his face, peering at it with his squinty eye, and with one ear cocked up sort of sideways, that, if you had seen him, you could not have helped laughing. No one could, if they had seen Squinty then, but there was no one in the field to watch him. "Well," thought Squinty, after a bit, "this will never do. I can't stay here. I must try to find my way back home. Let me see; what had I better do? I guess the first thing is to find that field of real potatoes, and not the make-believe ones like this," and he pushed the stone away with his nose. "When I find the potato field," he went on, still talking to himself, "I am sure I can find the brook where I had a swim. And when I find the brook I will know my way home, for there is a straight path from there to our pen." So Squinty started off once more to walk through the rows of corn. As he walked along on his little short legs he grunted, and rooted in the earth with his nose. Sometimes he stumbled over a big stone, or a clod of dirt, and fell down. "Oh dear!" exclaimed poor Squinty, when he got up after falling down about six times, "Oh dear! This is no fun. I wish I had stayed in the pen with my brothers and sisters. I wonder what they are doing now?" Just then Squinty felt more hungry than ever, and he thought it must be feeding-time back in the pen. "Oh, they must be having some nice sour milk just now!" thought Squinty. "How I wish I were back with them!" And then, as he fancied he could smell the nice sour milk, which the farmer or his wife was pouring into the eating trough of the pen, Squinty just howled and squealed with hunger. Oh, what a noise he made! Then this gave him an idea. "Ha!" he exclaimed to himself, in a way pigs have, "why didn't I think of that before? I must squeal for help. My mamma, or papa, may hear me and come for me." Then Squinty happened to think that the hole, by which he had gotten out of the pen, was not large enough for his fat papa or mamma to crawl through. "No, they can't get out to come for me," Squinty thought. "They'll have to send Wuff-Wuff, or Squealer. And maybe they'll get lost, the same as I did. Oh dear, I guess I won't squeal any more. It's bad enough for me to be lost, without any of my brothers or sisters getting lost, too." So Squinty stopped squealing, and walked on and on between the rows of corn, trying to find his way home to the pen all by himself. Squinty was really quite a brave pig, wasn't he? By this time, as you can well believe, Mr. and Mrs. Pig, in the pen, had awakened from their afternoon sleep. And all the little pigs had awakened too, for they were beginning to feel hungry again. "Isn't it about time the farmer came with some sour milk for us?" asked Mr. Pig of Mrs. Pig. "I think it is," she said, looking up at the sun, for the sun is the only clock that pigs, and other animals, have. When they see the sun in the east, low down, they know it is morning. When it shines directly over their heads, high in the sky, they know it is noon. And when the sun sinks down in the west the pigs know it is getting toward night, and supper time. The sun was low down in the west now, and Mr. and Mrs. Pig knew it must be nearly time for their evening meal. "Come, Wuff-Wuff. Come, Squealer. Come, Squinty, and all the rest of you!" called Mrs. Pig in her grunting voice. "Come, get ready for supper. I think I hear the farmer coming with the nice sour milk!" "Squee! Squee! Squee!" squealed all the little pigs, for they were very hungry indeed. "Squee! Squee! Squee!" They all made a rush to see who would get to the eating trough first. Some of them even put their feet in, they were so anxious. Pigs are always that way. They know no better, so we must excuse them. If they had been taught not to do that, and then did it, we would not excuse them. "Here comes the farmer with the sour milk," grunted Mr. Pig. "Oh, how good it smells!" Just then Squealer cried: "Why, where's Squinty?" His brothers and sisters looked around. Squinty, the comical pig, was not to be seen. But we know where he was, even if his mamma and papa and brothers and sisters did not. Squinty was in the cornfield, trying to find his way back to the pen. "Why, where can Squinty be?" asked Mrs. Pig. "Squinty! Squinty!" she called, grunting and squealing as she always did. "Come to the trough!" she went on. "Supper is ready!" But Squinty did not come. The farmer poured the sour milk down the slide, where it ran into the trough, and the little pigs began to eat. But Mr. and Mrs. Pig began looking for Squinty. They turned up the straw, thinking he might be asleep under it. No Squinty was to be seen. Then Mr. Pig saw the hole under the side boards of the pen. "Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Pig, speaking to Mrs. Pig, "I think perhaps Squinty went out there." "Oh, so he did!" said Mrs. Pig. "What shall we do?" Just then the farmer looked over in the pen to see how fat the pigs were getting. He counted the little pigs. Then a queer look came over his face. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "Only six here! One of those pigs has gotten out. I must look into this!" Quickly he glanced all about the pen. He saw the hole out of which Squinty had run away. "I thought so!" exclaimed the farmer. "One of the pigs has rooted his way out. I'll have to go after him. Here, Don!" he called to his dog. "A pig is loose! We must catch him!" and he whistled for the big black and white dog, who ran up, barking and leaping about. At first Squinty's brothers and sisters were paying so much attention to drinking their sour milk, that they did not notice what the farmer said, even though they missed Squinty at the trough. But when they heard the dog barking, they wondered what had happened. Then they saw their mamma and papa looking anxious, and talking together in their grunting language, and Wuff-Wuff asked: "Has anything happened?" "Squinty is lost!" said Mrs. Pig, rubbing her nose up against that of Curly Tail, the littlest girl pig of them all. "He must have run out of the pen when we were asleep." "Oh dear!" cried all the little pigs, and they felt very badly. "Never mind," said Mr. Pig, "I heard the farmer call Don, the dog, to go off and find Squinty. I think he'll bring him back." "Oh, but maybe Don will bite Squinty," said Wuff-Wuff. "I guess not," answered Mr. Pig. "Don is a gentle dog. But, anyhow, we want Squinty back, and the only way we can get him is to have the farmer and his dog go after him." The other little pigs finished their supper of sour milk, with some small potatoes which the farmer's wife threw in to them. Mr. and Mrs. Pig ate a little, and then the farmer, after stopping up the hole where Squinty got out, so no more of the pigs could run away, started off over the fields, calling to his dog. "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" barked Don. That meant, in dog language, "I'll find Squinty and bring him back." Meanwhile Squinty had tried his best to find a way out of the cornfield. But all he did was to walk up one row, and down another. If he had been tall enough to stand up and look over the tops of the corn stalks, he might have seen which way to go, but he was not yet large enough for that. Pretty soon Squinty looked up, and he saw that the sun was not as bright as it had been. Squinty knew what this meant. The sun was going down, and it would soon be night. "Oh dear! I wonder if I shall have to stay out all alone in the dark night," thought poor Squinty. "Oh, I'll never run away again; never!" Just then he heard, off through the rows of corn, a dog barking. "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" went the dog. "Oh, what shall I do? Where shall I hide?" thought Squinty. "A bad dog is after me." He ran this way and that, stumbling and falling down. The barking of the dog sounded nearer. Then Squinty heard a man's voice saying: "Get after him, Don! Find him! Find that pig!" "Bow wow!" was the barking answer. "Ha!" thought Squinty. "Don! That's the name of the good dog on our farm! I wonder if he is coming after me?" Just then the farmer, who had been following the tracks left in the soft ground by Squinty's feet, came to the cornfield. The farmer saw where the pig had been walking between the green rows of corn. "He's here, somewhere, Don," the farmer said. "Find him!" "Bow wow!" barked Don. "I will!" Just then Squinty stumbled over a big stone, and he could not help grunting. He also gave a little squeal. "Here he is, Don!" called the farmer. "Take him by the ear, and lead him back to the pen. Easy, now!" Squinty stood still. He did not want to run away from Don. Squinty was only too anxious to be found, and taken home. The next minute, through the rows of corn, came bounding Don, the dog. He was followed by the farmer. "Ah, there he is! The little runaway!" cried the farmer man as he saw the pig. "After him, Don! But don't hurt him!" Don raced up beside Squinty, and took him gently by the ear. "Bow wow!" barked the dog, and that meant: "Come along with me, if you please. You have been away from your pen quite long enough." Squinty gave a loud squeal when Don took him by the ear, but when the little pig found that the dog did not mean to hurt him, he grew quiet, and went along willingly enough. "I must make that pig pen a great deal tighter, if they are going to get out and run away every day," said the farmer to himself, as he walked along behind Don and Squinty. Soon they were at the pig pen, and Oh! how glad Squinty was to see it again. The farmer picked the little pink fellow, now all tired out and covered with dirt, up in his arms and dropped him down inside the pen with the other pigs. "There!" cried the farmer. "I guess you'll stay in after this." "Bow wow!" barked Don, jumping about, for he thought it was fun to chase runaway pigs. And so Squinty got safely back home. But very soon he was to have some more adventures. CHAPTER V. SQUINTY AND THE BOY. Did you ever have a little brother or sister who ran away from home, and was very glad to run back, or be brought back again, by a policeman, perhaps? Of course your little brother or sister may not have intended to run away, it may have been that they only wandered off, around the corner, toward the candy store, and could not find their way back again. But, when he or she did get home--how glad you were to see them! Weren't you? It was just like that at the pen where Squinty, the comical pig, lived. When the farmer picked him up, and dropped him down among his brothers and sisters, in the clean straw, Wuff-Wuff, Squealer, and Curly Tail, and the others, were so glad to see Squinty that they grunted, and squealed and walked all over one another, to be the first to get close to him. "Oh, Squinty, where were you?" "Where did you go?" "What did you do?" "Weren't you awfully scared?" "Where did the dog find you?" "Did he bite you very hard?" These were some of the questions Squinty's brothers and sisters asked of the little runaway pig. They pressed close up to him, rubbing their funny, wiggling, rubber-like noses against him, and snuggling up against him, for they liked Squinty very much indeed. Then, after the young pigs had had their turn, Mr. Pig and Mrs. Pig began asking questions. "What made you run away?" asked Squinty's papa. "Oh, I wanted to have an adventure," said Squinty. "Well, did you have one?" asked his mamma. "Oh, yes, lots of them," answered the little pig. "But I didn't find very much to eat." Squinty was very hungry now. "Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pig. "You are just too late for supper. It is all eaten up. We did not see that you were not here until too late. It's too bad!" Squinty thought so himself, for the smell of the sour milk that had been in the feeding trough made him more hungry than ever. Squinty walked over and tried to find a few drops in the bottom of the wooden trough. These he licked up with his red tongue. But there was not nearly enough. "Ha! I guess that little pig must be hungry," said the farmer looking down in the pen, after he had put some more stones and a board over the hole where Squinty had gotten out. "I guess I'll have to feed him, for the others have had their supper." And how glad Squinty was when the farmer went over to the barrel, where the pigs' feed was kept, and mixed a nice pailful of sour milk with some corn meal, and poured it into the trough. "Squee! Squee!" cried Squinty as he made a rush over to get his supper. "Squee! Squee!" cried all the other little pigs, as they, too, made a rush to get more to eat. "Here! Hold on! Come back!" cried Mr. Pig. "That is Squinty's supper. You must not touch it. You have had yours!" and he and Mrs. Pig would not let Squinty's brothers and sisters shove him away from the trough. For sometimes pigs are so hungry that they do this, you know. Being pigs they know no better. So Squinty had his supper, after all, though he did run away. Perhaps he should have been punished by being sent to bed without having had anything to eat, but you see the farmer wanted his pigs to be fat and healthy, so he fed them well. Squinty was very glad of that. "Now all of you go to sleep," said Mrs. Pig, when it grew darker and darker in the pen. So she made them all cuddle down in the straw, pulling it over them with her nose and paws, like a blanket, to keep them warm. For only part of the pen had a roof over it, and though it was summer, still it was cool at night. But Squinty's brothers and sisters had no notion of going to sleep so soon. They wanted to hear all about what had happened to him when he had run away, and they wanted him to tell them of his adventures. So they grunted and whispered among themselves. "What happened to you, Squinty?" asked Wuff-Wuff. "Oh, I had a fine swim in a brook," said Squinty. "I wish that had happened to me," said Wuff-Wuff. "What else?" "I found a nice field of corn," went on Squinty, "but I did not like the taste of it. I got lost in the cornfield." "That's too bad," said Wuff-Wuff. "Did anything else happen?" "Yes, I found some pig weed, and ate that, and some little potatoes." "Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Twisty Tail. "I wish that had happened to me. Did you do anything else, Squinty?" "Yes," said the comical little pig. "I saw something I thought was a potato, and it jumped away from me. It was a hoptoad." "That was funny," said Squealer. "I wish I had seen it. Did anything else happen?" "Yes," said Squinty. "I thought I saw another potato, but when I bit on it I found it was only a stone, and it hurt my teeth." "That's too bad," said Wuff-Wuff. "I am glad that did not happen to me. Tell us what else you saw." But just then Mrs. Pig grunted out: "Come, now! All you little pigs must keep quiet and go to sleep. Go to sleep at once!" So Squinty and the others cuddled closer together, snuggled down in the soft straw, and soon were fast asleep. Now and then they stirred, or grunted during the night, but they did not wake up until morning. They were running around the pen before breakfast, squealing as loudly as they could, for the farmer to come and feed them. But the farmer had his cows and horses and chickens to feed, as well as the pigs, and he did not get to the pen until last. And when he did, all the pigs were so hungry, even Mr. and Mrs. Pig, that they were squealing as hard as they could. "Yes, yes!" cried the farmer, as though he were talking to the pigs. "I'm coming as fast as I can." Soon the farmer poured some sour milk and corn meal down into the trough, and how eagerly Squinty and the others did eat it! Some of the smaller pigs even put two feet in the trough, they were so anxious to get their share. Squinty had an especially good appetite, from having run away, so perhaps he got a little more than the others. But finally the breakfast was all gone, and the pigs had nothing more to do until dinner time--that is, all they had to do was to lie down and rest, or get up now and then to scratch a mosquito, or a fly bite. "Well, I guess none of you will get out again," said the farmer, after a while, as he nailed a bigger board over the hole by which Squinty had gotten out. "Don, watch these pigs," the farmer went on. "If they get out, grab them by the ear, and bring them back." "Bow wow!" barked Don, and that meant he would do as his master had told him. For several days after this nothing happened in the pigs' pen except that they were washed off with the hose now and then, to clean them of mud and make them cool. Once in a while the farmer would take a corn cob and scratch the back of Mr. or Mrs. Pig, and they liked this very much. The other pigs were almost too little for the farmer to reach over the top of the pen. One day the pigs heard merry shouts and laughter up at the farmhouse. There were the sounds of boys' and girls' voices. Then came the patter of many feet. "Oh, look at the pigs!" someone cried, and Squinty, and his brothers and sisters, looking up, saw, over the edge of the pen, some boys and girls looking down on them. "Oh, aren't they cute!" exclaimed a girl. "Just lovely!" said another girl. "Pigs are so nice!" "I wonder if any of them can do any tricks?" asked a boy who stood looking down into the pen. "These aren't trained circus pigs," spoke one of the girls. "They can't do tricks." The boy and the girls stayed for a little while, watching the pigs. Then the boy said: "Let's pull some weeds and feed them." "Oh, yes, let's!" cried the girls. The pigs were glad when they heard this, and they were more glad when the boy and the girls threw pig weed, and other green things from the garden, into the pen. The pigs ate them all up, and wanted more. After that, for several days, Squinty and his brothers and sisters could hear the boy and the girls running about the garden, but they could not see them because the boards around the pig pen were too high. The boy and the girls seemed to be having a fine time. Squinty could hear them talking about hunting the hens' eggs, and feeding the little calves and sheep, and riding on the backs of horses. Then, one day Squinty looked up out of the pen, and, leaning over the top board he saw the farmer, the boy and another man. "Oh, Father!" exclaimed the boy, "do let me have just one little pig. They are so nice!" [Illustration: "Oh, Father!" exclaimed the boy, "do let me have just one little pig."] "A pig!" cried Father. "What would you do with a pig in our town? We are not in the country. Where would you keep a pig?" "Oh, I could build a little pen for him in our yard. Look, let me have that one, he is so pink and pretty and clean." "Ha! So you want that pig, do you?" asked the farmer. The boy and his father and sisters were paying a visit to the farm. "Yes, I want a pig very much!" the boy said. "And I think I'd like that one," and he pointed straight at Squinty. Poor Squinty ran and tried to hide under the straw, for he knew the boy was talking about him. "Oh, see him run!" cried the boy. "Yes, I think he is the nicest pig in the lot. I want him. Has he any name?" "Well, we call him Squinty," the farmer said. "He has a funny, squinting eye." "Then I'll call him Squinty, too," the boy went on. "Please, Father, may I have that little pig?" "Well, I don't know," said his father slowly, scratching his head. "A pig is a queer pet. I suppose you might have him, though. You could keep him in the back yard. Yes, I guess you could have him, if Mr. Jones will sell him, and if the pig will behave. Do you think that little pig will be good, Mr. Jones?" asked the father of the farmer man. "Well, yes, I guess so," answered the farmer. "He has run away out of the pen a couple of times, but if you board up a place good and tight, I guess he won't get out." "Oh, I do hope he'll be good!" exclaimed the boy. "I do so want a little pet pig, and I'll be so kind to him!" When Squinty heard that, he made up his mind, if the boy took him, that he would be as good as he knew how. "When can I have my little pig?" asked the boy, of his father. "Oh, as soon as Mr. Jones can put him in a box, so we can carry him," was the answer. "We can't very well take him in our arms; he would slip out and run away." "I guess so, too," laughed the boy. CHAPTER VI SQUINTY ON A JOURNEY "Mamma, did you hear what they were saying about Squinty?" asked Wuff-Wuff, as the boy and the two men walked away from the pig pen. "Oh, yes, I heard," said Mrs. Pig. "I shall be sorry to lose Squinty, but then we pigs have to go out and take our places in this world. We cannot always stay at home in the pen." "Yes, that is so," spoke Mr. Pig. "But Squinty is rather young and small to start out. However, it may all be for the best. Now, Squinty, you had better keep yourself nice and clean, so as to be ready to go on a journey." "What's a journey?" asked the comical little pig, squinting his eye up at the papa pig. "A journey is going away from home," answered Mr. Pig. "And does it mean having adventures?" asked Squinty, flopping his ears backward and forward. "Yes, you may have some adventures," replied his mother. "Oh dear, Squinty! I wish you didn't have to go and leave us. But still, it may be all for your good." "We might hide him under the straw," suggested Wuff-Wuff. "Then that boy could not find him when he comes to put him in a box, and take him away." "No, that would never do," said Mr. Pig. "The farmer is stronger and smarter than we are. He would find Squinty, no matter where we hid him. It is better to let him do as he pleases, and take Squinty away, though we shall all miss him." "Oh dear!" cried Curly Tail, for she liked her little brother very much, and she loved to see him look at her with his funny, squinting eye. "Do you want to go, Squinty?" "Well, I don't want to leave you all," answered the comical little pig, "but I shall be glad to go on a journey, and have adventures. I hope I don't get lost again, though." "I guess the boy won't let you get lost," spoke Mr. Pig. "He looks as though he would be kind and good to you." The pig family did not know when Squinty would be taken away from them, and all they could do was to wait. While they were doing this they ate and slept as they always did. Squinty, several times, looked at the hole under the pen, by which he had once gotten out. He felt sure he could again push his way through, and run away. But he did not do it. "No, I will wait and let the boy take me away," thought Squinty. Several times after this the boy and his sisters came to look down into the pig pen. The pigs could tell, by the talk of the children, that they were brother and sisters. And they had come to the farm to spend their summer vacation, when there was no school. "That's the pig I am going to take home with me," the boy would say to his sisters, pointing to Squinty. "How can you tell which one is yours?" asked one of the little girls. "I can tell by his funny squint," the boy would answer. "He always makes me want to laugh." "Well, I am glad I am of some use in this world," thought Squinty, who could understand nearly all that the boy and his sisters said. "It is something just to be jolly." "I wouldn't want a pig," said the other girl. "They grunt and squeal and are not clean. I'd rather have a rabbit." "Pigs are so clean!" cried the boy. "Squinty is as clean as a rabbit!" Only that day Squinty had rolled over and over in the mud, but he had had a bath from the hose, so he was clean now. And he made up his mind that if the boy took him he would never again get in the mud and become covered with dirt. "I will keep myself clean and jolly," thought Squinty. A few days after this Squinty heard the noise of hammering and sawing wood outside the pig pen. "The farmer must be building another barn," said Mr. Pig, for he and his family could not see outside the pen. "Yes, he must be building another barn, for once before we heard the sounds of hammering and sawing, and then a new barn was built." But that was not what it was this time. Soon the sounds stopped, and the farmer and the boy came and looked down into the pig pen. "Now you are sure you want that squinty one?" the farmer asked the boy. "Some of the others are bigger and better." "No, I want the squinty one," the boy said. "He is so comical, he makes me laugh." "All right," answered the farmer. "I'll get him for you, now that you have the crate all made to carry him home in on the cars." Over into the pig pen jumped the farmer. He made a grab for Squinty and caught him. "Squee! Squee! Squee!" squealed Squinty, for he had never been squeezed so tightly before. "Oh, I'm not going to hurt you," said the farmer, kindly. "Squinty, be quiet," ordered his papa, in the pig language. "Behave yourself. You are going on a journey, and will be all right." Then Squinty stopped squealing, as the farmer climbed out of the pen with him. "At last I am going on a journey, and I may have many adventures," thought the little pig. "Good-by!" he called to his papa and mamma and brothers and sisters, left behind in the pen. "Good-by!" "Good-by!" they all grunted and squealed. "Be a good pig," said his mamma. "Be a brave pig," said his papa. "And--and come back and see us, sometime," sniffled little Curly Tail, for she loved Squinty very much indeed. "I'll come back!" said the comical little pig. But he did not know how much was to happen before he saw his pen again. "There you go--into the box with you!" cried the farmer, as he dropped Squinty into a wooden box the boy had made for his pet, with a hammer, saw and nails. Squinty found himself dropped down on a bed of clean straw. In front of him, behind him, and on either side of him were wooden slats--the sides of the box. Squinty could look out, but the slats were as close together as those in a chicken coop, and the little pig could not get out. He did not want to, however, for he had made up his mind that he was going to be a good pig, and go with the boy who had bought him for a pet from the farmer. Over the top of the box was nailed a cover with a handle to it, and by this handle the pig in the little cage could be easily carried. "There you are!" exclaimed the farmer. "Now he'll be all right until you get him home." "And, when I do, I'll put him in a nice big pen, and feed him well," said the boy. Squinty smacked his lips at that, for he was hungry even now. "Oh, have you caged him up? Isn't he cute!" exclaimed one of the boy's sisters. "I'll give him the core of my apple," and she thrust it in through the slats of the box. Squinty was very glad, indeed, to get the apple core, and he soon ate it up. "Come on!" cried the boy's father. "Is the pig nailed up? We must go for the train!" "I wonder what the train is," thought Squinty. He was soon to know. The boy lifted him up, cage and all, and put him into the wagon that was to go to the depot. Squinty knew what a wagon was and horses, for he had seen them many times. Then away they started. Squinty gave a loud squeal, which was his last good-by to the other pigs in the pen, and then the wagon rattled away along the road. Squinty had started on his journey. CHAPTER VII SQUINTY LEARNS A TRICK Squinty, the comical pig, tried to look out through the slats of the box, in which he was being taken away, to see in which direction he was going. He also wanted to watch the different sights along the road. But the sides of the farm wagon were so high that the little pig could see nothing. He stretched his fat neck as far as it would go, but that did no good either. Squinty wished he were as big as his papa or his mamma. "Then I could see what is going on," he thought. But just wishing never made anyone larger or taller, not even a pig, and Squinty stayed the same size. He could hear the farmer and the children talking. Now and then the boy who had bought Squinty, and who was taking him home, would look around at his pet in the slatted box. "Is he all right?" one of the girls would ask. "He seems to be," the boy would say. "I am glad I got him." "Well, he acts real cute," said another girl, who was called Sallie, "but I never heard of having a pig for a pet before." "You just wait until I teach him some tricks," said the boy, whose name was Bob. "Then you'll think he's fine!" "Ha! So I am to learn tricks," thought Squinty in his box. "I wonder what tricks are, anyhow? Does it mean I am to have good things to eat? I hope so." You see Squinty, like most little pigs, thought more of something to eat than of anything else. But we must not blame him for that, since he could not help it. Pretty soon the wagon rattled over some stones, and then came to a stop. "Here we are!" called the children's father. "Bring along your little pig, Bob. Here comes the train." "Ha! It seems I am to go on a train," thought Squinty. "I wonder what a train is?" Squinty had many things to learn, didn't he? The little pig in the box felt himself being lifted out of the wagon. Then he could look about him. He saw a large building, in front of which were long, slender strips of shining steel. These were the railroad tracks, but Squinty did not know that. Then all at once, Squinty heard a loud noise, which went like this: "Whee! Whee! Whee-whee!" "Oh my! what a loud squeal that pig has!" exclaimed Squinty. "He can squeal much louder than I can, I think. Let me try." So Squinty went: "Squee! Squee! Squee!" And then the big noise sounded again, louder than before: "Whee! Whee! Toot! Toot!" "Oh my!" said Squinty to himself, snuggling down in the straw of his box. "I never can squeal as loud as that. Never!" He looked out and saw a big black thing rushing toward him, with smoke coming out of the top, and then the big black thing cried out again: "Whee! Whee! Toot! Toot!" "Oh, what a terrible, big black pig!" thought Squinty. And he was a bit frightened. But it was not a big black pig at all. It was only the engine drawing the train of cars up to the station to take the passengers away. And it was going to take Squinty, also. Squinty thought the engine whistle was a pig's squeal, but it wasn't, of course. Pretty soon the train stopped. The passengers made a rush to get in the cars. Bob, the boy, caught up the handle of Squinty's box, and, after some bumping and tilting sideways, the little pig found himself set down in a rather dark place, for the boy had put the box on the floor of the car by his seat, near his feet. And there Squinty rode, seeing nothing, but hearing many strange noises, until, after many stops, he was lifted up again. "Here we are!" the little pig heard the children's papa say. "Have you everything? Don't forget your pig, Bob." "I won't," answered the boy, with a jolly laugh. "Well, I wonder what will happen next?" thought Squinty, as he felt himself being carried along again. He could see nothing but a crowd of persons all about the boy who carried the box. "I don't know whether I am going to like this or not--this coming to live in town," thought the little pig. "Still, I cannot help myself, I suppose. But I do wish I had something to eat." I guess the boy must have known Squinty was hungry, for, when he next set down the box, this time in a carriage, the boy gave the little pig a whole apple to eat. And how good it did taste to Squinty! "Are you going to make a pen for him?" asked one of the boy's sisters, as the carriage drove off. "Yes, as soon as we get to the house," said the boy. By this time Squinty was thirsty. There was no water in his cage, but, a little later, when he saw through the slats, that he was being carried toward a large, white house, he was given a tin of water to drink. "I'll just leave him in that box until I can fix a larger one for him," the boy said, and then, for a while, Squinty was left all to himself. But he was still in the box, though the box was set in a shady place on the back porch. All this while Mr. Pig and Mrs. Pig, as well as the brother and sister pigs, in the pen at home, were wondering what had happened to Squinty. "Where do you think he is now, Mamma?" Wuff-Wuff would ask. "Oh, I don't know," Mrs. Pig answered. "And will he ever come back to us?" asked Twisty Tail. "Perhaps, some day. I hope so," said Mrs. Pig, sort of sighing. "Oh, yes, I think he will," said Mr. Pig. "When he gets quite large the boy will get tired of having him for a pet, and perhaps bring him back." "Were you ever carried off that way, Papa?" asked Grunter, as he rubbed his back, where a mosquito had bitten him, against the side of the pen. "Oh, yes, once," answered Mr. Pig. "I was taken away from my pen, when I was pretty large, and given to a little girl for a pet. But she did not keep me long. I guess she would rather have had her dolls, so I was soon brought back to my pen. And I was glad of it." "Well, I hope they will soon bring Squinty back," Wuff-Wuff said. "It is lonesome without him." But, after a while, the other pigs found so many things to do, and they were kept so busy, eating sour milk, and getting fat, that they nearly forgot about Squinty. But, all this time, something was happening to the comical little pig. Toward evening of the first day that Squinty had been put in the new little cage, the boy, who had not been near him in some time, came back to look at his pet. "Now I have a larger place for you," the boy said, speaking just as though Squinty could understand him. And, in fact, Squinty did know much of what was said to him, though he could not talk back in boy language, being able to speak only his own pig talk. "And I guess you are hungry, too, and want something to eat," the boy went on. "I will feed you!" "Squee! Squee! Squee!" squealed Squinty. If there was one word in man-talk that he understood very well, it was "feed." He had often heard the farmer say: "Well, now I must feed the pigs." And right after that, some nice sour milk would come splashing down into the trough of the pen. So when Squinty heard the word "feed" again, he guessed what was going to happen. And he guessed right, too. The boy picked Squinty up, box and all, and carried him to the back yard. "Now I'll give you more room to run about, and then I'll have a nice supper for you," the boy said, talking to his little pig just as you would to your dog, or kittie. With a hammer the boy knocked off some of the slats of the small box in which Squinty had made his journey. Then the boy lifted out the comical little pig, and Squinty found himself inside a large box, very much like the pen at home. It had clean straw in it, and a little trough, just like the one at his "home," where he could eat. But there was nothing in the trough to eat, as yet, and the box seemed quite lonesome, for Squinty was all alone. "Here you are now! Some nice sour milk, and boiled potatoes!" cried the boy, and then Squinty smelled the most delicious smell--to him at least. Down into the trough came the sour milk and potatoes. "Squee! Squee!" yelled Squinty in delight. And how fast he ate! That was because he was hungry, you see, but pigs nearly always eat fast, as though they were continually in a hurry. "Oh, isn't it cute!" exclaimed a voice over Squinty's head. He looked up, half shutting his one funny eye, and cocking one ear up, and letting the other droop down. But he did not stop eating. "Oh, isn't he funny!" cried another voice. And Squinty saw the boy and his sisters looking at him. "Yes, he surely is a nice pig," the boy said, "In a few days, when he gets over being strange, I'm going to teach him some tricks." "Ha! There's that word tricks again!" thought Squinty. "I wonder what tricks are? But I shall very soon find out." For a few days Squinty was rather lonesome in his new pen, all by himself. He missed his papa and mamma and brothers and sisters. But the boy came to see Squinty every day, bringing him nice things to eat, and, after a bit, Squinty came to look for his new friend. "I guess you are getting to know me, aren't you, old fellow?" the boy said one day, after feeding Squinty, and he scratched the little pig on the back with a stick. "Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty. That, I suppose, was his way of saying: "Of course I know you, and I like you, boy." One day, about a week after he had come to his new home, Squinty heard the boy say: "Now I think you are tame enough to be let out. I don't believe you will run away, will you? But, anyhow, I'll tie a string to your leg, and then you can't." Squinty wished he could speak boy language, and tell his friend that he would not run away as long as he was kindly treated, but of course Squinty could not do this. Instead, he could only grunt and squeal. The boy tied a string to Squinty's leg, and let him out of the pen. The comical little pig was glad to have more room in which to move about. He walked first to one side, and then the other, rooting in the dirt with his funny, rubbery nose. The boy laughed to see him. "I guess you are looking for something to eat," the boy said. "Well, let's see if you can find these acorns." The boy hid them under a pile of dirt, and watched. Squinty smelled about, and sniffed. He could easily tell where the acorns had been hidden, and, a moment later, he had rooted them up and was eating them. "Oh, you funny little pig!" cried the boy. "You are real smart! You know how to find acorns. That is one trick." "Ha! If that is a trick, it is a very easy one--just rooting up acorns," thought Squinty to himself. Squinty walked around, as far as the rope tied to his leg would let him. The other end of the rope was held by the boy. Once the rope got tangled around Squinty's foot, and he jumped over it to get free. The boy saw him and cried: "Oh, I wonder if I could teach you to jump the rope? That would be a fine trick. Let me see." The boy thought a moment, and then lifted Squinty up, and set him down on one side of the rope, which he raised a little way from the ground, just as girls do when they are playing a skipping game. On the other side of the rope the boy put an apple. "Now, Squinty," said Bob, "if you want that apple you must jump the rope to get it. Come on." At first Squinty did not understand what was wanted of him. He saw nothing but the apple, and thought how much he wanted it. He started for it, but, before he could get it the boy pulled up the rope in front of him. The rope stopped Squinty. "Jump over the rope if you want the apple," said the boy. Of course Squinty could not exactly understand this talk. He tried once more to get the apple, but, every time he did, he found the rope in front of him, in the way. "Well!" exclaimed Squinty to himself, "I am going to get that apple, rope or no rope. I guess I'll have to get over the rope somehow." So the next time he started for the juicy apple, and the rope was pulled up in front of him, Squinty gave a little spring, and over the rope he went, jumping with all four legs, coming down on the other side, like a circus man jumping over the elephant's back. [Illustration: Squinty gave a little spring, and over the rope he went.] "Oh, fine! Good!" cried the boy, clapping his hands. "Squinty has learned to do another trick!" "Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty, as he chewed the apple. "So that's another trick, is it?" CHAPTER VIII SQUINTY IN THE WOODS Bob, the boy who had bought Squinty, the comical pig, laughed and clapped his hands. His two sisters, who were playing with their dolls in the shade of an evergreen tree, heard their brother, and one of them called out: "What is it, Bob? What is it?" "Oh, come and see my pig do a trick!" answered the boy. "He is too funny for anything!" "Can he really do a trick?" asked the smaller sister, whose name was Mollie. "Indeed he can," the boy said. "He can do two tricks--find hidden acorns, and jump a rope." "Oh, no, not really jump a rope!" cried Sallie. "You just come and see!" the boy called. All this while Squinty was chewing on the apple which he had picked up from the ground after he had jumped over the rope. He heard what the boy said, and Squinty made up his mind. "Well," said the little pig to himself, "if it is any fun for that boy and his sisters to watch me jump over a rope, and dig up acorns, I don't mind doing it for them. They call them tricks, but I call it getting something to eat." And they were both right, you see. Sallie and Mollie, the two sisters, laid down their dolls in the shade, and ran over toward their brother, who still held one end of the rope, that was fast to Squinty's leg. "Make him do some tricks for us," begged Mollie. "Show us how he jumps the rope," said Sallie. "First, I'll have him dig up the acorns, as that's easier," spoke Bob. "Here, Squinty!" he called. "Find the acorns! Find 'em!" While Squinty had been munching on the apple, the boy had dug a hole, put some sweet acorn nuts into it, and covered them up with dirt. Squinty had not seen him do this, but Squinty thought he could find the nuts just the same. There were two ways of doing this. Squinty had a very sharp-smelling nose. He could smell things afar off, that neither you nor I could smell even close by. And Squinty could also tell, by digging in the ground with his queer, rubbery nose, just where the ground was soft and where it was hard. And he knew it would be soft at the place where the boy had dug a hole in which to hide the acorns. So, when Bob called for Squinty to come and find the acorn nuts, even though the little pig had not seen just where they were hidden, Squinty felt sure he could dig them up. "He'll never find them!" said Sallie. "Just you watch!" exclaimed the boy. He pulled on the rope around Squinty's leg. At first the little pig was not quite sure what was wanted of him. He thought perhaps he was to jump over the rope after another apple. But he saw no fruit waiting for him. Then he looked carefully about and smelled the air. The boy was very gentle with him, and waited patiently. And I might say, right here, that if you ever try to teach your pets any tricks, you must be both kind and gentle with them, for you know they are not as smart as you are, and cannot think as quickly. "Ha! I smell acorns!" thought Squinty to himself. "I guess the boy must want me to do the first trick, as he calls it, and dig up the acorns. I'll do it!" Carefully Squinty sniffed the air. When he turned one way he could smell the acorns quite plainly. When he turned the other way he could not smell them quite so well. So he started off in the direction where he could most plainly smell the nuts he loved so well. Next he began rooting in the ground. At first it was very hard for his nose, but soon it became soft. Then he could smell the acorns more plainly than before. "See, he is going right toward them!" cried the boy. "There, he has them!" exclaimed Sallie. "Oh, so he has!" spoke Mollie. "I wouldn't have thought he could!" And, by that time, Squinty had found the hole where the boy had covered the acorns with dirt, and Squinty was chewing the sweet nuts. "Now make him jump the rope," said Mollie. "I will, as soon as he eats the acorns," replied the boy. "Ha! I am going to have another apple, just for jumping a rope," thought Squinty, in delight. You see the little pig imagined the trick was done just to get him to eat the apple. He did not count the rope-jumping part of it at all, though that, really, was what the boy wanted. Once more Bob placed the apple on the ground, on the far side of the rope. One end of the rope the boy held in his hand, and the other was around Squinty's leg, but a loop of it was made fast to a stick stuck in the ground, so the boy could pull on the rope and raise or lower it, just as you girls do when you play. "Come on, now, Squinty! Jump over it!" called the boy. The little pig saw the apple, and smelled it. He wanted very much to get it. But, when he ran toward it, he found the rope raised up in front of him. He forgot, for a moment, his second trick, and stood still. "Oh, I thought you said he would jump the rope!" said Mollie, rather disappointed. "He will--just wait a minute," spoke the boy. "Come on, Squinty!" he called. Once more Squinty started for the apple. This time he remembered that, before, he had to jump the rope to get it. So he did it again. Over the rope he went, with a little jump, coming down on the side where the apple was, and, in a second he was chewing the juicy fruit. "There!" cried the boy. "Didn't he jump the rope?" "Oh, well, but he didn't jump it fast, back and forth, like we girls do," said Mollie. "But it was pretty good--for a little pig," said Sallie. "I think so, too," spoke the boy. "And I am going to teach him to jump real fast, and without going for an apple each time. I'm going to teach him other tricks, too." "Oh dear!" thought Squinty, when he heard this. "So I am to learn more tricks, it seems. Well, I hope they will all be eating ones." "Make him do it again," suggested Mollie, after a bit. "No, I haven't any more apples," the boy answered. "And at first I'll have to make him jump for an apple each time. After a bit I'll not give him an apple until he has done all his tricks. Come on now, Squinty, back to your pen." The boy lifted up his pet, and put him back in the pen that had been especially built for the little pig. As soon as he was in it Squinty ran over to the trough, hoping there would be some sour milk in it. But there was none. "You've had enough to eat for a while," said the boy with a laugh. "Later on I'll give you your milk." "Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty, and I suppose he meant he would be glad to have the milk now. But he got none, so he curled himself up in the clean straw and went to sleep. When he awakened, he thought at first he was back in the pen at home, and he cried out: "Oh, Wuff-Wuff! Oh, Twisty Tail. I had the queerest dream! I thought a boy had me, and that I could jump a rope, and hunt acorns, and do lots of tricks. But I--!" And then Squinty stopped. He looked around and found himself all alone in the new pen. None of his brothers or sisters was near him, and he could not hear his mamma or papa grunting near the feed trough. "Ha! It wasn't a dream, after all," thought Squinty, a bit sorrowfully. "It's all real--I can do tricks, and a boy has me." Every few days after that the boy took Squinty out of his pen, and let him do the rope-jumping and the acorn-hunting tricks. And it did not take Squinty long to learn to jump the rope when there was no apple on the other side. The boy would say: "Jump over the rope, Squinty!" And over it the little pig would go. But if he did not get the apple as soon as he jumped, he did get it afterward, which was just as good. It was sort of a reward for his tricks, you see. "Now you must learn a new trick," said the boy one day. "I want you to learn how to walk on your hind legs, Squinty. It is not going to be easy, either. But I guess you can do it. And I am going to take the rope off your leg, for I do not believe you will run away from me now." So the rope was taken off Squinty's leg. And he liked the boy so much, and liked his new home, and the nuts and apples he got to eat were so good, that Squinty did not try to run away. "Up on your hind legs!" cried the boy, and, by taking hold of Squinty's front feet, Bob raised his pet up on the hind legs. "Now stand there!" the boy cried, but when he took away his hands of course Squinty came down on all four legs. He did not know what the boy meant to have him do. "I guess I'll have to stand you in a corner to start with," the boy said. "That will brace you up." Then, kindly and gently, the boy took Squinty over to the place where the corn crib was built on to the barn. This made a corner and the little pig was stood up on his hind legs in that. Then, with something to lean his back against, he did not feel like falling over, and he remained standing up on two legs, with his front feet stuck out in front of him. "That's the way to do it!" cried Bob. "Soon you will be able to stand up without anything to lean against. And, a little later, you will be able to walk on your hind legs. Now here's an apple for you, Squinty!" So you see Squinty received his reward for starting to learn a new trick. In a few days, just as the boy had said, the little pig found that he could sit up on his hind legs all alone, without anything to lean back against. But learning to walk on his hind legs was a little harder. The boy, however, was patient and kind to him. At first Bob held Squinty's front feet, and walked along with him so the little pig would get used to the new trick. Then one day Bob said: "Now, Squinty, I want you to walk to me all by yourself. Stand up!" Squinty stood up on his hind legs. The boy backed away from him, and stood a little distance off, holding out a nice, juicy potato this time. "Come and get the potato," called the boy. "Squee! Squee!" grunted Squinty. "I can't!" I suppose he meant to say. "Come on!" cried the boy. "Don't be afraid. You can do it!" Squinty wanted that potato very much. And the only way to get it was to walk to it on his hind legs. If he let himself down on all four legs he knew the boy would not give him the potato. So Squinty made up his little pig mind that he would do this new trick. Off he started, walking by himself on his hind legs, just like a trained bear. "Fine! That's the way to do it! I knew you could!" the boy cried when Squinty reached him, and took the potato out of his hand. "Good little pig!" and he scratched Squinty's back with a stick. "Uff! Uff!" squealed Squinty, very much pleased. And from then on the comical little pig learned many tricks. He could stand up a long time, on his hind legs, with an apple on his nose. And he would not eat it until the boy called: "Now, Squinty!" Then Squinty would toss the apple up in the air, off his nose, and catch it as it came down. Oh, how good it tasted! Squinty also learned to march around with a stick for a gun, and play soldier. He liked this trick best of all, for he always had two apples to eat after that. Many of Bob's boy friends came to see his trained pig. They all thought he was very funny and cute, and they laughed very hard when Squinty looked at them with his queer, drooping eye. They would feed him apples, potatoes and sometimes bits of cake that Bob's mother gave them. Squinty grew very fond of cake. Then one day something happened. Bob always used to lock the door of the new pig pen every night, for, though he knew his pet was quite tame now, he thought, if the door were left open, Squinty might wander away. And that is exactly what Squinty did. He did not mean to do wrong, but he knew no better. One evening, after he had done many tricks that day, when Squinty found the door of his pen part way open, he just pushed it the rest of the way with his strong nose, and out he walked! No one saw him. "Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty, looking about, "I guess I'll go take a walk by myself. I may find something good to eat." Out of the pen he went. There was no garden here, such as the farmer had at Squinty's first home. But, not far from the pig pen was the big, green wood. "I'll go over in there and see what happens," thought Squinty. "Perhaps I may find some acorns." And so Squinty ran away to the woods. CHAPTER IX SQUINTY'S BALLOON RIDE This was the third time Squinty had run away. But not once did he intend to do any wrong; you see he knew no better. He just found his pen door open and walked out--that was all there was to it. "I wonder what will happen to me this time?" thought the comical little pig, as he hurried along over the ground, toward the woods. "I don't believe Don, the dog, will find me here, for he must be back on the farm. But some other dog might. I had better be careful, I guess." When Squinty thought this he stopped and looked carefully around for any signs of a barking dog. But he saw none. It was very still and quiet, for it was nearly supper time in the big house where Bob lived, and he and his sisters were waiting for the bell to ring to call them to the table. But Squinty had had his supper, and, for the time, he was not hungry. "And if I do get hungry again, I may find something in the woods," he said to himself. "Acorn nuts grow in the woods, and they are very good. I'll root up some of them." Once or twice Squinty looked back toward the pen he had run away from, to see if Bob, his master, were coming after him. But Bob had no idea his little pet had run away. In fact, just then, Bob was wondering what new trick he could teach Squinty the next day. On and on ran the comical pig. Once he found something round and yellow on the ground. "Ha! That looks like a yellow apple," thought Squinty, and he bit it hard with his white teeth. Then his mouth all puckered up, he felt a sour taste, and he cried out: "Wow! I don't like that. Oh, that isn't an apple at all!" And it wasn't--it was a lemon the grocery boy had dropped. "Oh! How sour!" grunted Squinty. "I'd like a drink of water to take the taste of that out of my mouth." Squinty lifted his nose up in the air, and sniffed and snuffed. He wanted to try to smell a spring of water, and he did, just on the edge of the big wood. Over to the spring he ran on his little short legs, and soon he was having a fine drink. "Now I feel better," Squinty said. "What will happen next?" Nothing did for some time, and, when it did it was so strange that Squinty never forgot it as long as he lived. I'll tell you all about it. He walked on through the woods, Squinty did, and, before very long, he found some acorns. He ate as many as he wanted and then, as he always felt sleepy after he had eaten, he thought he would lie down and have a nap. He found a place, near a big stump, where there was a soft bed of dried leaves, nearly as nice as his straw bed in the pen at home. On this he stretched out, and soon he was fast asleep. When Squinty awoke it was real dark. He jumped up with a little grunt, and said to himself: "Well, I did not mean to stay away from my pen so long. I guess I had better go back." Squinty started to go back the way he had come, but I guess you can imagine what happened. It was so dark he could not find the path. He walked about, stumbling over sticks and stones and stumps, sometimes falling down on soft moss, and again on the hard ground. Finally Squinty thought: "Well, it is of no use. I can't get back tonight, that is sure. I shall have to stay here. Oh dear! I hope there are no dogs to bite me!" Squinty listened carefully. He could hear no barks. He hunted around in the dark until he found another soft bed of leaves, and on that he cuddled himself up to go to sleep for the night. He was a little afraid, but, after all, he was used to sleeping alone, and, even though he was outside of his pen now, he did not worry much. "In the morning I shall go back to the boy who taught me tricks," thought Squinty. But something else happened in the morning. Squinty was awake when the sun first peeped up from behind the clouds. The little pig scratched his ear, where a mosquito had bitten him during the night. Then he stretched first one leg and then the others, and said: "Ha! Ho! Hum! Uff! Uff! I guess I'll have some acorns for my breakfast." It was a very easy matter for Squinty to get his breakfast. He did not have to wash, or comb his hair, or even dress. Just as he was he got up out of his leaf-bed, and began rooting around in the ground for acorns. He soon found all he wanted, and ate them. Then he felt thirsty, so he looked around until he had found another spring of cool water, where he drank as much as he needed. "And now to go back home, to the boy who taught me tricks," said Squinty to himself. "I guess he is wondering where I am." And indeed that boy, Bob, and his sisters Mollie and Sallie, were wondering where Squinty was. They saw the open door of the pen, and the boy recalled that he had forgotten to lock it. "Oh, Squinty is gone!" he cried, and he felt very badly indeed. But I have no time to tell you more of that boy now. I must relate for you the wonderful adventures of Squinty. Squinty went this way and that through the woods, but he could not find the path that led to his pen. He tried and tried again, but it was of no use. "Well," said Squinty, at last, sitting down beside a hollow log, "I guess I am lost. That is all there is to it I am lost in the big woods! Oh dear! I almost wish Don, the dog, or the farmer would come and find me now." He waited, but no one came. He listened but he heard nothing. "Well, I might as well eat and go to sleep again," said Squinty, "Maybe something will happen then." Soon he was asleep again. But he was suddenly awakened. He heard a great crashing in the trees over his head. "Gracious! I hope that isn't a dog after me!" cried the little pig. He looked up, Squinty did. He saw coming down from the sky, through the branches of the trees, a big round thing, like more than ten thousand rubber balls, made into one. Below the round thing hung a square basket, with many ropes, and other things, fast to it. And in the basket were two men. They looked over the edge of the basket. One of them pulled on a rope, and the big thing, which was a balloon, though Squinty did not know it, came to the ground with a bang. "Well, at last we have made a landing," said one of the men. "Yes," said the other. "And we shall have to throw out some bags of sand to go up again." Squinty did not know what this meant. But I'll explain to you that a "landing" is when a balloon comes down to the ground. And when the men in it want to go up again, they have to toss out some of the bags of sand, or ballast, they carry to make the balloon so light that the gas in it will take it up again. The men began tossing out the bags of sand. Squinty saw them, but he was not afraid. Why should he be? for no men or boys had ever been cruel to him. "Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty, getting up and going over to one of the bags of sand. "Maybe that is good to eat!" he thought. "If it is I will take a bite. I am hungry." "Oh, look at that pig!" suddenly called one of the men in the balloon basket. "Sure enough, it is a pig!" exclaimed the other. "And what a comical little chap he is!" he went on. "See the funny way he looks at you." At that moment Squinty looked up, as he often did, with one eye partly closed, the other open, and with one ear cocked frontwards, and the other backwards. "Say, he's a cute one all right," said the first man. "Let's take him along." "What for?" asked his friend. "We'd only have to toss out as much sand as he weighs so we could go up." "Oh, let's take him along, anyhow," insisted the other. "Maybe he'll be a mascot for us." "Well, if he's a mascot, all right. Then we'll take him. We need some good luck on this trip." Squinty did not know what a mascot was. Perhaps he thought it was something good to eat. But I might say that a mascot is something which some persons think brings them good luck. Often baseball nines, or football elevens, will have a small boy, or a goat, or a dog whom they call their mascot. They take him along whenever they play games, thinking the mascot helps them to win. Of course it really does not, but there is no harm in a mascot, anyhow. "Yes, we'll take him along in the balloon with us," said the taller of the two men. "See, he doesn't seem to be a bit afraid." "No, and look! He must be a trick pig! Maybe he got away from some circus!" cried the other man. For, at that moment Squinty stood up on his hind legs, as the boy had taught him, and walked over toward the big balloon basket. What he really wanted was something to eat, but the men did not know that. "He surely is a cute little pig!" cried the tall man. "I'll lift him in. You toss out another bag of sand, and we'll go up." [Illustration: The next moment Squinty felt himself lifted off the ground.] The next moment, before he could get out of the man's grasp if he had wanted to, Squinty felt himself lifted off the ground. He was put down in the bottom of the basket, which held many things, and, a second later, Squinty, the comical pig, felt himself flying upward through the air. Squinty was off on a trip in a balloon. CHAPTER X SQUINTY AND THE SQUIRREL Up, up, and up some more went Squinty, the comical pig. At first the fast motion in the balloon made him a little dizzy, just as it might make you feel queer the first time you went on a merry-go-'round. "Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty. He was so surprised at this sudden adventure that, really, he did not know what to say. "I wonder if he's afraid?" said one of the men. "He acts so," the other answered. "But he'll get used to it. How high up are you going?" "Oh, about a mile, I guess." Squinty cuddled down in the basket of the balloon, between two bags full of something, and shivered. "My goodness me!" thought poor Squinty. "A mile up in the air! That's awfully high." He knew about how far a mile was on land, for it was about the distance from the farmhouse, near where his pen used to be, to the village church. He had often heard the farmer man say so. "And if it was a mile from my pen to the church, and that mile of road was stood straight up in the air," thought Squinty, "it would be a terrible long way to fall. I hope I don't fall." And it did not seem as if he would--at least not right away. The basket in which he was riding looked good and strong. Squinty had shut his eyes when he heard the men speak about going a mile up in the air, but now, as the balloon seemed to have stopped rising, the little pig opened his eyes again, and peered all about him. "Look!" exclaimed one of the men with a laugh. "Hasn't that pig the most comical face you ever saw?" "That's what he has," answered the other. "He makes me want to laugh every time I look at him, with that funny half-shut eye of his." "Well," thought Squinty, "I'm glad somebody is happy and jolly, and wants to laugh, for I'm sure I don't. I wish I hadn't run away from the nice boy who taught me the tricks." Then, as Squinty remembered how he had been taught to stand up on his hind legs, he thought he would do that trick now. He was hungry, and he imagined, perhaps, if he did that trick, the men would give him something to eat. "Look at the little chap!" cried one of the men. "He's showing off all right." "Yes, he's a smart pig," said the other. "He must be a trick pig, and I guess whoever owns him will be sorry he is lost." "Hu! I'm sorry myself!" thought Squinty to himself, as he walked around on his hind legs. "I wonder if these men are ever going to give me anything to eat," he went on. He looked at them from his queer, squinting eye, but the men did not seem to know that the little pig was hungry. On and on sailed the balloon, being blown by the wind like a sailboat. Squinty dropped down on his four legs, since he found that walking on his hind ones brought him no food. Then, as he made his way about the basket, he saw some more of those queer bags filled with something. There were a great many of them in the balloon, and Squinty thought they must have something good in them. Squinty squatted down beside one, and, with his strong teeth, he soon had bitten a hole in the cloth. Then he took a big bite, but oh dear! All at once he found his mouth filled with coarse sand, that gritted on his teeth, and made the cold shivers run down his back. "Oh, wow!" thought poor Squinty. "That's no good! Sand! I wonder if those men eat sand?" Of course they didn't. The sand in the bags was "ballast." The balloon men carried it with them, and when they found the balloon coming down, because some of the gas had leaked out of the round ball above the basket, they would let some of the sand run out of the bags to the ground below. This would make the balloon lighter, and it would rise again. "Squee! Squee! Uff! Uff!" grunted Squinty, as he wiped the sand off his tongue on one of his legs. "I don't like that. I'm hungry." "Why, what's the matter with the little pig?" asked one of the men, turning around and looking at Squinty. "He must be hungry," said the other. "See, he has bitten a hole in one of our sand bags. Let's feed him." "All right. Give him something to eat, but we didn't bring any pig food along with us." "I'll give him some bread and milk," the other man said. "We won't want much more ourselves, for we are nearly at our last landing place." "Squee! Squee!" squealed Squinty, when he heard this. He watched the man put some bread and milk in a tin pan, and set it down on the floor of the basket. Then Squinty put his nose in the dish and began to eat. And Oh! how good it tasted! Of course the milk was sweet, instead of sour, for men do not usually like sour milk. Squinty had a good meal, and then he went to sleep. What happened while Squinty slept, the little pig did not know. But when he woke up it was all dark, and he knew it must be night, so he went to sleep again. And the next time he awakened the sun was shining, so he felt sure it was morning. And then, all of a sudden, something happened. One of the men called out: "There is a good place to land!" "Yes, we'll go down there," agreed the other. Then he pulled a string. Squinty did not know what it was for, but I'll tell you. It was to open a hole in the balloon so the gas would rush out. Then the balloon would begin to fall. And that is what happened. Down, down went the balloon. It went very fast, and Squinty felt dizzy. Faster and faster fell the balloon, until, at last it gave such a bump down on the ground that Squinty was bounced right over the side of the basket. Right out of the basket the comical little pig was bounced, but he came down in a soft bed of leaves, so he was not hurt in the least. He landed on his feet, just like a cat, and gave a loud squeal, he was so surprised. And then Squinty ran away. Almost anybody would have run, too, I guess, after falling down in a balloon, and being bounced out that way. Squinty had had enough of balloon riding. "I don't know where I'm going, nor what will happen to me now," thought Squinty, "but I am going to run and hide." And run he did. He found himself in the woods; just the same kind of woods as where he had first met the two balloon men, only, of course, it was much farther off, for he had traveled a long way through the air. On and on ran Squinty. All at once, in a tree over his head, he heard a funny chattering noise. "Chipper, chipper, chipper! Chat! Chat! Whir-r-r-r-r-!" went the noise. Squinty looked up in the tree, and there he saw a lovely little girl squirrel, frisking about on the branches. Then Squinty was no longer afraid. Out of the leaves he jumped, giving a squeal and a grunt which meant: "Oh, how do you do? I am glad to see you. My name is Squinty. What is your name?" "My name is Slicko," answered the lively little girl squirrel, as she jumped about. "Come on and play!" Squinty felt very happy then. CHAPTER XI SQUINTY AND THE MERRY MONKEY "Where do you live, Squinty?" asked Slicko, the jumping squirrel, as she skipped from one tree branch to another, and so reached the ground near the comical little pig. "Oh, I live in a pen," answered Squinty, "but I'm not there now." "No, I see you are not," spoke Slicko, with a laugh, which showed her sharp, white teeth. "But what are you doing so far away from your pen? Or, perhaps it is close by, though I never saw you in these woods before," she went on, looking around as if she might see the pig pen under one of the trees. "No, I have never been here before," Squinty answered. "My pen is far from here. My master is a boy who taught me to do tricks, such as jumping rope, but I ran away and had a balloon ride." "What's a balloon?" asked Slicko, as she combed out her tail with a chestnut burr. Squirrels always use chestnut burrs for combs. "A balloon is something that goes up in the air," answered Squinty, "and it has bags of sand in it." "Well, I can go up in the air, when I climb a tree," went on Slicko, with a jolly laugh. "Am I a balloon?" "No, you are not," said Squinty. "A balloon is very different." "Well, I know where there is some sand," spoke Slicko. "I could get some of that and put it in leaf-bags. Would that make me a balloon?" "Oh, no, of course not," Squinty answered. "You could never be a balloon. But if you know where there is some sand perhaps you know where there is some sour milk. I am very hungry." "I never heard of sour milk," replied the girl squirrel. "But I know where to find some nuts. Do you like hickory nuts?" "I--I guess so," answered Squinty, thinking, perhaps, they were like acorns. "Please show me where there are some." "Come on!" chattered Slicko. She led the way through the woods, leaping from one tree branch to another over Squinty's head. The little pig ran along on the ground, through the dry leaves. Sometimes he went on four feet and sometimes he stood up straight on his hind feet. "Can you do that?" he asked the squirrel. "It is a trick the boy taught me." "Oh, yes, I can sit up on my hind legs, and eat a nut," the squirrel girl said. "But nobody taught me. I could always do it. I don't call that a trick." "Well, it is a trick for me," said Squinty. "But where are the hickory nuts you spoke of?" "Right here," answered Slicko, the jumping squirrel, hopping about as lively as a cricket, and she pointed to a pile of nuts in a hollow stump. Squinty tried to chew some, but, as soon as he took them in his mouth he cried out: "Oh my! How hard the shells are! This is worse than the sand! I can't chew hickory nuts! Have you no other kind?" "Oh, yes, I know where there are some acorns," answered Slicko, "but I do not care for them as well as for hickory nuts." "Oh, please show me the acorns," begged Squinty. "Here they are," spoke Slicko, jumping a little farther, and she pointed to a pile of acorns in another hollow stump. "Oh, these are fine! Thank you!" grunted Squinty, and he began to eat them. All at once there sounded through the woods a noise like: "Chat! Chat! Chatter! Whir-r-r-r-r-r!" "My, what's that?" cried Squinty, turning quickly around. "That is my mamma calling me," said Slicko, the jumping squirrel. "I shall have to go home to my nest now. Good-by, Squinty. I like you very much, and I hope I shall soon see you again." "I hope so, too," spoke Squinty, and while he went on eating the acorns, Slicko ran along the tree branches to her nest. And in another book I shall tell you some more stories about "Slicko, the Jumping Squirrel," but in this book I have room to write only about Squinty. The little comical pig was rather lonesome after Slicko had left him, but he was no longer hungry, thanks to the acorns. So he walked on and on, and pretty soon he came to a road. And down the road he saw coming the strangest sight. There were a lot of big wagons, all painted red and green and gold. Many horses drew each wagon, the big wheels of which rattled like thunder, and beside the wagons there were many strange animals walking along--animals which Squinty had never seen before. "Oh my!" cried Squinty. "This is worse than the balloon! I must run away!" But, just as he turned to run, he saw a little animal jump out of one of the big wagons, and come toward him. This animal was something like a little boy, only, instead of clothes, he was covered with hairy fur. And the animal had a long tail, which Squinty knew no boy ever had. Squinty was so surprised at seeing the strange animal that the little pig stood still. The hairy animal, with the long tail, came straight for the bush behind which Squinty was hiding, and crawled through. Then the two stood looking at one another, while the big wagons rumbled past on the road. "Hello!" Squinty finally exclaimed. "Who are you?" "Why, I am Mappo, the merry monkey," was the answer, as he curled his long tail around a stick of wood. "But I don't need to ask who you are. You are a pig, I can see that, for we have one in our circus, and the clown rides him around the ring, and it is too funny for anything." [Illustration: "Why, I am Mappo, the merry monkey," was the answer.] "Ha, so you are a monkey?" asked Squinty. "But what do you mean by a circus?" "That's a circus," answered Mappo, pointing with one paw through a hole in the bush, at the queer animals, and the red, gold and green wagons. "That is, it will be a circus when they put up the big tent, and all the people come. Didn't you ever see a circus?" "Never," answered Squinty. "Did you ever ride in a balloon?" "Never," answered Mappo. "Well, then we are even," said Squinty. "Now you tell me about a circus, and I'll tell you about the balloon." "Well," said the monkey, "a circus is a big show in a tent, to make people laugh. There are clowns, and animals to look at. I am one of the animals, but I ran out of my cage when the door flew open." "Why did you run away?" asked Squinty. "Oh, I got tired of staying in a cage. And I was afraid the big tiger might bite me. I'll run back again pretty soon, before they miss me. Now you tell me about your balloon ride." So Squinty told the merry monkey all about running away, and learning tricks, and having a ride in the queer basket. "I can do tricks, too," said Mappo. "But just now I am hungry. I wonder if any cocoanut trees are in these woods?" "I don't know what a cocoanut is," answered Squinty, "but I'll give you some of my acorns." The comical little pig and the merry monkey hid under the bush and ate acorns as they watched the circus procession go past. It was not a regular parade, as the show was going only from one town to-another. Squinty looked at the beautiful wagons, and at the strange animals, some with big humps on their backs. At last he saw some very big creatures, and he cried out: "Oh, Mappo! What are those animals? They have a tail at each end!" "Those are elephants," said Mappo, "and they do not have two tails. One is a tail, and the other is their trunk, or long nose, by which they pick up peanuts, and other things to eat, and they can drink water through it, too." "Oh, elephants, eh!" exclaimed Squinty. "But who is that big, fierce-looking one, with two long teeth sticking out. I would be afraid of him." "Ha! Ha! You wouldn't need to be," said Mappo, with a merry laugh. "That is Tum-Tum, the jolliest elephant in the whole circus. Why, he is so kind he wouldn't hurt a fly, and he is so happy that every one loves him. He is always playing jokes." "Well, I'm glad he is so jolly," spoke Squinty, as he watched Tum-Tum and the other elephants march slowly along the road on their big feet, like wash tubs, swinging their long trunks. Then Mappo the monkey, and Squinty, the comical pig, started off through the woods. CHAPTER XII SQUINTY GETS HOME AGAIN "Squinty, I don't believe we're going to find any cocoanut trees in this woods," said Mappo, the monkey, after he and the little pig had wandered on for some time. "It doesn't seem so, does it?" spoke Squinty, looking all around, first with his wide-open eye, and then with his queer, droopy one. The monkey ran along, now on the ground, and now and then swinging himself up in the branches of trees, by his long legs, each one of which had a sort of hand on the end. Sometimes he hung by his tail, for monkeys are made to do that. "My, I wish I could get up in the trees the way you do," said Squinty. "Do you think I could hang by my tail, Mappo?" "I don't know," answered the monkey, scratching his head. "Your tail has a nice little curl in it, almost like mine. Did you ever try to hang by your tail?" "No, I never did." "Well, you don't know what you can do until you try," said Mappo. The two animal friends soon came to where some of the acorn nuts had fallen off a tree, and they ate as many as they wanted. Mappo said they were not as good as cocoanuts, but he liked them pretty well, because he was hungry. And Squinty thought acorns were just the best things he had ever tasted, except apples, and potatoes or perhaps sour milk. By this time it was getting dark, and Squinty said: "Oh dear, I wonder where we can sleep tonight?" "Oh, do not let that worry you," said Mappo. "I am used to living in the woods. When I was little, before I was caught and put in the circus, I lived in the woods all the while. See, here is a nice hollow stump, filled with leaves, for you to sleep in, and I will climb a tree, and sleep in that." "Couldn't you sleep down in the stump with me?" asked Squinty. "It's sort of lonesome, all by yourself in the dark." "Yes, I'll sleep with you," said Mappo. "Now we'll make up a nice bed." But, just as they were piling some more leaves in the hollow stump, they heard many voices of men shouting in the woods. "Here he is! Here is that runaway monkey! I see him! Come and catch him!" cried the men. "Oh, they're from the circus! They're after me!" cried Mappo. "I must run and hide. Good-by, Squinty. I'll see you again sometime, maybe. You had better run, also, or the circus men may catch you." Squinty looked through the trees, and saw a number of men coming toward him and the monkey. Then Mappo climbed up in a tall tree, and Squinty ran away as fast as his little short legs would take him. "Never mind the pig! Get the monkey!" Squinty heard one man cry, and then the comical little pig dodged under a bush, and kept on running. When Squinty stopped running it was quite dark. He could hardly see, and he had run into several trees, and bumped his nose a number of times. It hurt him very much. "Well, I guess I'm lost again," thought Squinty. "And I am all alone. Oh, what a lot of things has happened to me since I was in the pen with my mamma and papa and sisters and brothers! I wish I were back with them again." Squinty felt very sad and lonesome. He wondered if the circus men had caught Mappo. Then he felt that he had better find a place where he could cover himself up with the dry leaves, and go to sleep. He walked about in the dark until, all of a sudden, he stumbled into a hole that was filled with dried grass. "I guess I had better stay here," thought Squinty. So he pulled some of the grass over him, and went to sleep. When he awoke the sun was shining. "I must get my breakfast," thought Squinty. He hunted about until he had found some acorns, and then, coming to a little brook of water he took a long drink. Something about the brook made Squinty look at it carefully. "Why--why!" he exclaimed to himself: "It seems to me I have been here before! Yes, I am sure I have. This is the place where I first came to get a drink, when first I ran away. It is near the pen where I used to live! Oh, I wonder if I can find that?" The heart of Squinty was beating fast as he looked around at the scenes he had seen when he was a very little pig, some weeks before. Yes, it was the same brook. He was sure of it. And there was the garden of potatoes, and the cornfield where he had first lost his way. Hark! What was that? Off in the rows of corn he heard a dog barking. Somehow he knew that dog's bark. "If that could be Don!" thought Squinty, hopefully. The barking sounded nearer. Squinty turned around, standing on the edge of the little brook, and waited, his heart beating faster and faster. All at once there came running through the potato field a black and white dog. Squinty knew him at once. It was Don! "Bow wow! Bow wow!" barked Don. "Well, if there isn't that comical little pig, Squinty! Where in the world did you come from? You've been running away, I'll be bound! Now I'm going to take you back to the pen!" "Oh, Don! I am so glad to see you!" squealed Squinty. "I--I did run away, but I never will any more. I am lost. Oh, Don, don't take me by the ear. I'll go with you." "All right," barked Don, kindly. "Come along. Your pen isn't far off," and he ran along beside the little pig, who, after many adventures had wandered back home. Squinty and Don came to the edge of the potato field. "Well, I never!" exclaimed the farmer man, who was there hoeing the potatoes. "If there isn't that comical little pig I sold to that boy Bob. I wonder where he came from?" "Bow wow! Bow wow! I found him," barked Don, but of course the farmer did not understand. "Well, I'll put you back in the pen again until that boy sends for you," said the farmer, as he lifted Squinty over into the pen where his mamma and papa and brothers and sisters were. "Why--why, it's Squinty!" cried Mrs. Pig. "He's come back!" grunted Mr. Pig. "Oh, I'm so glad!" said Wuff-Wuff. "And so am I," added Twisty Tail, as she rubbed her nose against Squinty's. "Where have you been, and what happened to you?" she asked her brother. "Oh, many things," he said. "I have learned some tricks, I have been up in a balloon, I met Slicko the jumping squirrel, Mappo, the merry monkey, and I saw Tum-Tum, the jolly circus elephant. Now I am home again." "And which did you like best of all?" asked Mrs. Pig, when they had finished asking him questions. "Getting back home," answered Squinty, as he took a big drink of sour milk. And that is the story of Squinty, the comical pig. The farmer sent word to the boy that his pet was back in the pen, but the boy said he thought he did not want a pet pig any more, so Squinty, for the time being, stayed with his family. STORIES FOR CHILDREN FROM 5 TO 10 YEARS OLD * * * * * THE KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES By Richard Barnum Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated Price per volume 40 cents Postpaid In all nursery literature animals have played a conspicuous part; and the reason is obvious for nothing entertains a child more than the funny antics of an animal. These stories abound in amusing incidents such as children adore and the characters are so full of life, so appealing to a child's imagination that none will be satisfied until they have met all of their favorites--Squinty, Slicko, Mappo, Tum Tum and Don. Squinty, the Comical Pig Slicko, the Jumping Squirrel Mappo, the Merry Monkey Tum Tum, the Jolly Elephant Don, A Runaway Dog. BOOKS FOR BOYS * * * * * THE BOBBY BLAKE SERIES By Frank A. Warner Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume 50 cents, net. True stories of life at a modern American boarding school. Bobby attended this institution of learning with his particular chum and the boys had no end of good times. The tales of outdoor life, especially the exciting times they have when engaged in sports against rival schools, are written in a manner so true, so realistic, that the reader, too, is sure to share with these boys their thrills and pleasures. *BOBBY BLAKE AT ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL* OR WINNING THE MEDAL OF HONOR *BOBBY BLAKE AT BASS COVE* OR THE HUNT FOR THE MOTOR BOAT GEM *BOBBY BLAKE ON A CRUISE* OR THE CASTAWAYS OF VOLCANO ISLAND 
10212	----	Proofreading Team PECK'S BAD BOY WITH THE CIRCUS [Frontispiece: Pa Kept Mauling the Lion] PECK'S BAD BOY WITH THE CIRCUS BY HON. GEO. W. PECK Author of Peck's Bad Boy and His Pa, Peck's Bad Boy Abroad, Peck's Uncle Ike and the Red Headed Boy, Etc., Etc. Relating the experiences of the Bad Boy and his Dad during their travels with a Circus. The Bad Boy gets his Dad in hot water in every conceivable way, and plays jokes and pranks on everyone, from the Clown to the Manager, and from the Monkey to the Elephant. Rip-roaring, side-splitting fun from beginning to end. ILLUSTRATED BY C. FRINK Copyright 1905 by Joseph B. Bowles Copyright 1906, by Thompson & Thomas Made in U.S.A. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Bad Boy Begins a Diary--Dad Has Become Manager for a Circus--The Bad Boy Expects to Curry the Hyena and Do Stunts on the Trapeze--Ma Says Pa Will Ogle the Circassian Beauty--Pa Buys Some Circus Clothes and Lets His Whiskers Grow. CHAPTER II. The Bad Boy Visits the Circus in Winter Quarters--He Meets the Circus Performers--- Dad Rides a Horse and Gets Tossed in a Blanket--The Bad Boy Goes "Kangarooing"--Pa's Clothes Cause Excitement Among the Animals--A Monkey Steals His Watch. CHAPTER III. Pa Reproves the Fat Woman for Losing Flesh--The Bearded Lady Faints in Pa's Arms--The Bad Boy Introduced Into Animal Society--They Pull the Boa Constrictor's Ulcerated Tooth. CHAPTER IV. Pa Finds the Fat Lady a Burden--The Bad Boy Makes His First Public Appearance--He Talks Politics with the Midget--Pa Meets with Numerous Accidents. CHAPTER V. The Rogue Elephant Creates a Panic and Pa Proves Himself a Hero--The Bad Boy Gets Scolded for "Being Tough"--He Finds that Audiences Like Accidents. CHAPTER VI. The Bad Boy Puts Fly-Paper in the Bob Cat's Cage--The Bob Cat Causes a Panic in the Main Tent--The Midget Quarrels with the Giant--Pa is Almost Arrested for Kidnapping and the Ostrich Swallows His Diamond Stud. CHAPTER VII. The Circus Has A Yellow Fever Scare--The Bad Boy and His Dad Dress Up as Hottentots--Pa Takes a Mustard Bath and Attends a Revival Meeting. CHAPTER VIII. Pa Tales the Place of the Fat Woman with Disastrous Results--A Kentucky Colonel Causes a Row--Pa Tries to Roar Like a Lion and the Rhinoceros Objects--Pa Plays the Slot-Machine and Gets the Worst of It. CHAPTER IX. The Bad Boy feeds Cayenne Pepper to the Sacred Cow--He and His Pa Ride in a Circus Parade With the Circassian Beauties--A Tipsy Elephant Lands Them in a Public Fountain--Pa Makes the Acquaintance of John L. Sullivan. CHAPTER X. The Bad Boy and His Pa Drive a Roman Chariot--They Win the Race, but Meet With Difficulties--The Bearded Lady to the Rescue--A Farmer's Cart Breaks Up the Circus Procession. CHAPTER XI. The Bad Boy and His Pa in a Railroad Wreck--Pa Rescues the "Other Freaks"--- They Spend the Night on a Meadow--A Near-Sighted Claim Agent Settles for Damages--Pa Plays Deaf and Dumb and Gets Ten Thousand. CHAPTER XII. The Bad Boy Causes Trouble Between the Russian Cossacks and the Jap Jugglers--A Jap Tight-Rope Walker Jiu Jitsu's Pa--The Animals Go on a Strike--Pa Runs the Menagerie for a Day and Wins Their Gratitude. CHAPTER XIII. The Circus Strikes the Quaker City--They Go on a Ginger Ale Jag--Pa Breaks Up an Indian War Dance and Comes Near Being Burned Alive--The World's Fair Cannibals Have a Roast Dog Feast. CHAPTER XIV. A Newport Monk Is Added to the Show--The Bay Teaches Him Some "Manly Tricks"--The Tent Blows Down and a Panic Follows--Pa Manages the Animal Act Which Ends in a Novel Manner. CHAPTER XV. The Bad Boy Feeds the Menagerie Scotch Snuff--Pa Gets Mauled by the Sneezing Animals--Pa Takes a Midnight Ride on a Mule to Escape Punishment. CHAPTER XVI. A Senator's Son Bets the Bad Boy That Elephants Are Cowards--They Let a Bag of Rats Loose at the Afternoon Performance--The Elephants Stampede, Pa Fractures a Rib and General Pandemonium Reigns. CHAPTER XVII. The Bad Boy and the Senator's Son Go on an Elephant Chase--The Senator's Son Gets His Friend a Bid to Dinner at the White House--The Trained Seal Swallows an Alarm Clock. CHAPTER XVIII. The Show Strikes Virginia and the Educated Ourang Outang Has the Whooping Cough--The Bad Boy Plays the Part of a Monkey, but They Forget to Pin on a Tail. CHAPTER XIX. The Circus People Visit a Southern Plantation--Pa, the Giant and the Fat Woman Are Chased by Bloodhounds--The Bad Boy "Runs the Gauntlet." CHAPTER XX. The Bad Boy Goes After a Mess of White Turnips for the Menagerie--He Feeds the Animals Horseradish, but Gets the Worst of the Deal. CHAPTER XXI. The Bad Boy and His Pa Inject a Little Politics Into the Show--Rival Bands of Atlanta Citizens Meet in the Circus Tent--- A Bunch of Angry Hornets Causes Much Bitter Feeling. CHAPTER XXII. The Show Does Poor Business in the South--Pa Side Tracks a Circus Car Filled with Creditors--A Performance Given "For the Poor," Fills the Treasury--A Wild West Man Buncoes the Show. CHAPTER XXIII. The Circus Has Bad Luck in Indian Territory--A Herd of Animals Turned Out to Graze Is Stampeded by Indians--They Go Dashing Over the Plains, and the Circus Tent Follows, Picked Up by a Cyclone. CHAPTER XXIV. Pa Is Sent to a Hospital to Recuperate--The Bad Boy Discourages Other Boys from Running Away with the Circus--He Makes Them Water the Camels, Curry the Hyenas and Put Insect Powder on the Buffaloes. CHAPTER XXV. Pa Breaks in the Zebras and Drives a Six-in-Hand Team in the Parade--The Freaks Have a Narrow Escape from Drowning. CHAPTER XXVI. The Rings Are So Muddy the Performers Have to Wear Rubber Boots--The Freaks Present Pa with a Big Heart of Roses--The Show Closes and the Bad Boy Starts West with His Pa in Search of Attractions for the Coming Season. ILLUSTRATIONS. Pa Kept Mauling the Lion. And Pa Swatted Her on the Back. The Sacred Cow Chased Ma Up the Church Stairs. Was Suspended in the Air. A Leopard Reached Out His Paw and Gathered in the Tail of Pa's Coat I Will Hold You Responsible for This! They Had to Turn the Hose on Pa. They Threw Boiled Potatoes and Scrambled Eggs at Pa. She Kicked Pa's Hat Off. Bolivar Took Half a Watermelon and Put the Red Side on Top of Pa's Head. Pa Turned the Cock of the Extinguisher and Pointed the Nozzle at Bolivar's Head. The Bob Cat Struck Pa on the Back. The Man Tackled Pa. The Doctor Said It Was an Unmistakable Case of Yellow Fever. After Scratching His Head a Minute, Ike Turned and Walked Toward the Preacher. I Punctured Pa's Tires. Chased by Police. The Elephant kept Ducking Pa and Swabbing Out the Bottom of the Fountain. John L. Slatted Pa Just as Though He Was a Child. Her Cart, Team and All, Were Thrown Right Against the Band. Pa Struck on His Head Against a Wagon Wheel. Pa Got an Ax and Cut the Fat Woman Out. What Hit Him? That's the Worst Case I Ever Saw! Gee, but Didn't That Russian Talk Kopec and Damski. O, but the Jap Didn't Do a Thing to Pa! The Indians Tied Pa to a Tree and Began to Pile Sticks Around Him. The Fat Woman Jabbed Pa with Her Parasol. When She Saw the Baboon She Yelled Fire. The Lion Sneezed and Blew Pa Clear Across the Tent. Pa Rode Out of Town and Rode All Night. Bolivar Swatted Pa Clear Across the Ring. Pa, Do Not Fear. We Met Some Farmers. Old Gentleman, You Ought to Come Down Off Your Perch. The Keeper Who Trained the Ourang Outang Took Me in Hand. He Hit Me Right in the Eye. Here, Mr. Confederate, I Am not a Union Prisoner. I Yelled Murder and Ran Between the Giant's Legs. The Camel Kicked an Arab Off a Rug. Pa Tasted of It. He Hit Pa Over the Head with His Chinese Lantern. They Stampeded Like They Never Met a Hornet Before. The Sacred Cow Chased Pa Up into the Rafters of the Car. The Pony Was Off Like a Rabbit. The Boss Canvasman Went into a Cactus. Dad Was Only Hitting the High Places. The Bull Tossed the Boy Through the Tent. Pa Jumped Like a Box Car. There Never Was Such a Runaway Since the Days of Ben Hur. The Zebras Turned Short and Tipped the Tally-ho Over into the Water. I Will Search for the Wildest of Red Men. They Tossed Pa Up in the Blanket. * * * * * Peck's Bad Boy With the Circus. CHAPTER I. The Bad Boy Begins a Diary--Dad Has Become Manager for a Circus--The Bad Boy Expects to Curry the Hyena and Do Stunts on the Trapeze--Ma Says Pa Will Ogle the Circassian Beauty--- Pa Buys Some Circus Clothes and Lets His Whiskers Grow. April 10, 19..--I never thought it would come to this, that I should keep a diary, because I am not a good little boy. Nobody ever keeps a diary except a boy that wants to be an angel, and with the angels stand, or a girl that is in love, or an old maid that can't catch a man unless she writes down her emotions and leaves them around so some man will read them, and swallow the bait and not feel the hook in his gills, or a truly good bank cashier who teaches Sunday school, and skips out for Canada some Saturday night, after the bank closes, and on Monday morning they find the combination of the lock on the safe changed, and when they hire a reformed burglar to open the lock the money is all gone with the cashier. Those are the only people that ever kept a successful diary. But I had to promise ma that I would keep a diary, so she could read it, or I never could have got her consent for me to go with pa on the road with a circus. All ma asks of me is to tell the truth about everything that happens to me and to pa during the whole summer, and I have consented, and I can see my finish, and pa's finish and ma's finish, and the finish of the circus that is going to take us along. Gee, but we have had a hot time at our house since pa and I got back from our trip abroad. I brought pa back in better health than he was when he went away, but he has got so accustomed to excitement that I knew something would be doing pretty soon, so I was not surprised when he told us at the breakfast table that he supposed he should have to go and travel with a circus this summer. Ma looked at pa as though she wanted to call the police and am ambulance to take him to the emergency hospital. He looked at ma and at me, speared another waffle, and said: "I know you will think I am nutty, but for almost ten years I have had a block of stock in a circus and menagerie. I went into it to help some young circus fellows, and put up quite a bunch of money, because they were honest and poor, and for a few years things went wrong, and I thought my money was gone, but for the last six years the circus has paid dividends bigger than Standard Oil, and today it stands away up among the financial successes, and the dividends on my citrus stock is better than any bank stock I have got, and it comes just like finding money. The company decided at its annual meeting to invite me to take the position of one of the managers, and I shall soon go to the winter quarters of the show, to arrange to put it on the road about the 1st of May. Now any remarks may be made, pro or con, in regard to my sanity, see?" Well, ma swallowed something crosswise down her Sunday throat, and choked, and pa swatted her on the back so she would cough it up, and when she could speak she said: "Pa, do you have to wear tights, and jump through hoops on the back of a horse, and cut up didoes, at your time of life? For if you do I can never live to witness any such performances." [Illustration: Pa Swatted Her on the Back.] Pa was calm, and did not fly off the handle, but he just said, kindly: "Mother, you have vague ideas of the duties of the owners of a circus. The owners hire performers to do stunts, and break their necks, while we manage them and take in the shekels from the Reubens who come into town on circus day. We proprietors touch the button, and the actors and animals do the rest. I shall be a director who directs, a man who sets a dignified and pious example to the men and women who adorn the profession, coming as they do from all climes, and your pa will be the guide, philosopher and friend of all who belong to the grandest aggregation of talent ever gathered under one canvas, at one price of admission, and do not fail to witness the concert which will be given under this canvas after the main performance is over." Ma looked at pa pretty savage, and said: "O, I see, you are going to be ringmaster, but what is to become of Hennery and me while you are cracking your whip around the hind legs of the fat woman, and ogling the Circassian beauty?" Pa put his hand on my head and said: "Mother, Hennery will go with me, to see that I do not get into any trouble as a circus financier and general manager of the menagerie and Wild West aggregation, and hippodrome, in the great three-ring circus, and you can stay home and give us absent treatment for what ails us, and pack the money I shall send you in bales with a hay press, and put it in cold storage till we come back in the fall. It is settled, we go to conquer, and the world will lay at our feet before the middle of August, and you will be a proud woman to own a husband who will be pointed at as the most successful amusement purveyor the world has ever witnessed, and a son who will start in at the bottom round of the circus ladder and rise, step by step, until he will stand beside the great Barnum." Ma thought seriously for a few minutes, and then she said: "O, pa, if it was anything but the circus business you and Hennery went into, like selling soap or being a bank defaulter, or something respectable, I could look the neighbors in the face, but of course if there is money in it, and you feel that the good Lord has called you to the circus field, and you will see that Hennery does not stay out nights, and Hennery will promise to see that you put on a clean collar occasionally, and you will promise me that you will not let any of those circus women in spangles make eyes at you, I will consent to your going with the circus, just this once, as the doctor has advised that you lead an active life, and I guess you will get it traveling with a circus, for it nearly killed me that time I took Hennery to see the animals, and the tent blew down, and we got separated and the sacred cow chased ma up the church steps, and Hennery and a monkey were brought home by a policeman about daylight the next morning, that time you were off fishing, and I never told you about going to the circus when you were away. So we are circus proprietors, are we? Well, it ain't so bad," and ma went upstairs to cry at our success, and pa and I went out to walk off the effects of the breaking the news to ma. [Illustration: Sacred Cow Chased Ma Up the Church Steps.] I had a long talk with pa about our changed circumstances, and asked him what I would be expected to do in the show, and he says I will fit in anywhere. He says that a boy who knows as much about everything as I think I know, but don't know a blamed thing about, will be invaluable about a show, and that going into a new business is like going to college as a freshman, as all the old circus men will haze us, and we must not expect an easy life, but one full of excitement, sleepless nights, ginger, the glare of the torchlights, the races, the flying trapeze, the smell of the sawdust and tanbark, the howling of the wild beasts, and the plaudits of the multitude of jays and jayesses, and it will be like one grand circus day spread all over the summer and fall. He says he wants me to learn the circus business from the ground up, from the currying of the hyenas with a currycomb and brush, to going up into the roof of the tent on the trapeze and falling into the net, while the audience faints with excitement. I asked pa if he wanted me to keep on playing tricks on him while we were on the road, and he said he had got so used to my tricks that he couldn't live without them, and he didn't want me to let a chance escape to make him have a good time. April 11.--Ma and pa have had several discussions about what kind of a position it is going to leave her in, among the neighbors, for pa and I to go off with a circus, and ma wanted to withdraw from the church, and board up the windows of the house, and make folks think we had gone to the seashore, but pa convinced her that we would have preaching in the main tent every Sunday and he says there is no more pious lot of people on earth than those who travel with a circus, and then ma wanted to go along. She said she could do the mending of the long socks that the women wear when they ride barebacked, but we had to shut down on ma's going with the show, cause we never could have any fun with a woman to look after. Pa says nowadays the men and women who ride on bareback horses in the ring dress in regular evening costume, the women with low-necked dresses and long trains, and the men with swallow-tail coats and patent leather shoes, and they are as polite as dancing masters. We have compromised with ma, and she is to meet the show at Kalamazoo and go with us to Kankakee and Keokuk until she is overcome by nervous prostration, when we shall have her go home. Pa thinks ma would last about two days with the show, but I guess if she took a course of treatment with peanuts and red lemonade one afternoon and evening, she would want to throw up her job, and go back home in charge of a stomach specialist. Well, pa showed up at the house in his circus clothes this afternoon, and he certainly is a peach. Pa has been letting his chin whiskers grow for about six weeks, and today he had them colored black, and he looks as though he had swallowed the blacking brush, and left the bunch of bristles outside, on his chin. He looks fierce. Then, he has got a new brand of silk hat, with a wide, curling brim, and he has had a vest made of black and blue check goods, the checks as big as the checks on a checker board, and a pair of pants that look like a diamond-back rattlesnake, and he has got an imitation diamond stud in his white shirt that looks like a paper weight. Ma wanted to know if there was any law to compel pa to dress like that, 'cause he looked as though he was a gambler or a train robber. Pa says that a circus proprietor has got to look different from anybody else, in order to inspire fear and respect on the part of the hands around the show, as well as the audiences that flock to the arena, and he asked ma if she didn't remember old Dan Rice, and old John Robinson. Ma didn't remember them, but she remembered Barnum, because Barnum lectured on temperance, and she said she hoped pa would emulate Barnum's example, and pa said he would, and then he took a watch chain with links as big as a trace chain and spread it across his checkered vest, from one pocket to the other, with a life-size gold elk hanging down the middle, and ma almost had a convulsion. Gee, but if pa wears that rig in the menagerie tent the animals will paw and bellow like a drove of cattle that smell blood. Pa is going to wear a sack coat with his outfit, so as to look tough, and he wouldn't hear to ma when she tried to get him to wear a frock coat. He said a frock coat was all right in society or among the crowned heads, but when you have to mingle with lions and elephants one minute that would snatch the tail off a coat and chew it and the next minute you are mixed up with a bunch of freaks or a lot of bareback riders or trapeze performers, you have got to compromise on a coat that will fit any climate, and not cause invidious remarks, whatever that is. I will have to stand up beside the giant once in a while to show the difference in the size of men, and at other times I will have to stand beside the midgets and look like a giant myself. We are all packed up, and in two days we start for the winter quarters of the show, to pound it into shape for the road. By ginger, I can't hardly wait to get there and see pa boss things. CHAPTER II. The Bad Boy Visits the Circus in Winter Quarters--He Meets the Circus Performers--Dad Rides a Horse and Gets Tossed in a Blanket--The Bad Boy Goes "Kangarooing"--Pa's Clothes Cause Excitement Among the Animals--A Monkey Steals His Watch. April 15.--We are now at the winter quarters of the show, in a little town, on a farm just outside, where the tent is put up and the animals are being cared for in barns, and the performers are limbering up their joints, wearing overcoats to turn flip-flaps, and everybody has a cold, and looks blue, and all are anxious for warm weather. Pa created a sensation when we arrived by his stunning clothes, his jet black chin whiskers and his watch chain over his checkered vest, and when the proprietors introduced pa to the performers and hands, as an old stockholder in the show, who would act as assistant manager during the season and pa smiled on them with a frown on his forehead, and said he hoped his relations with them would be pleasant, one of the old canvasmen remarked to a girl who rides two horses at once with the horses strapped together, so they can't get too far apart and cause her to break in two, said that old goat with the silk hat would last just about four weeks, and that he reminded the canvasman of a big dog which barked at people as though he would eat them, and at the same time wagged his tail, so people would not think he was so confounded dangerous. The principal proprietor of the circus told pa to make himself at home around the tent, and not be offended at any pleasantry on the part of the attaches of the show, for they were full of fun, and he went off to attend to some business and left pa with the gang. They were practicing riding bare-backed horses around the ring, with a rope hitched in a belt around the waist of the rider and an arm swinging around from the center pole, so if they fell off the horse the rope would prevent the rider from falling to the ground, a practice that the best riders adopt early in the season, the same as new beginners, 'cause they are all stiffened up by being out of practice. One man rode around a few times, and pa got up close to the ring and was making some comments such as: "Why, any condemned fool could ride a horse that way," when the circus gang as quick as you could say scat, fastened a belt around pa's stomach, that had a ring in it, and before he knew it they had hitched a snap in the ring, and pa was hauled up as high as the horse, and his feet rested on the horse's back, and the horse started on a gallop. Well, say, pa was never so surprised in his life, but he dug his heels into the horse's back, and tried to look pleasant, and the horse went half way around the ring, and just as pa was getting confidence some one hit the horse on the ham with a piece of board, and the horse went out from under pa and he began to fall over backwards, and I thought his circus career would end right there, when the man who had hold of the rope pulled up, and pa was suspended in the air by the ring in the belt, back up, and stomach hanging down like a pillow, his watch dangling about a foot down towards the ring, and the horse came around the ring again and as he went under pa, pa tried to get his feet on the horse's back, but he couldn't make it work, and pa said, as cross as could be: "Lookahere, you fellers, you let me down, or I will discharge every mother's son of you." [Illustration: Pa Was Suspended in the Air.] But they didn't seem to be scared, for one man caught the horse and let it out of the ring, and the man who handled the rope tied it to the center pole by a half hitch, and the fellows all went into the dressing room to play cinch on the trunks, leaving pa hanging there. Just then the boss canvasman came along and he said: "Hello, old man, what you doing up there?" And pa said some of the pirates in the show had kidnaped him, and seemed to be holding him up for a ransom, and he said he would give ten dollars if some one would let him down. The boss canvasman said he could fix it for ten, all right, and he blew a whistle, and the gang came back, and the boss said: "Bring a blanket and help this gentleman down;" so they brought a big piece of canvas, with handles all around it, and about a dozen fellows held it, and the rope man let pa down on the canvas, and unhitched the ring, and when pa was in the canvas he laughed and said: "Thanks, gentlemen, I guess I am mot much of a horseback rider," and then the fellows pulled on the handles of the canvas, and by gosh, pa shot up into the air half-way to the top of the tent, and when he came down they caught him in the canvas and tossed him up a whole lot of times until pa said: "O, let up, and make it $20." Just then the proprietor who had introduced pa to the men came in and saw what was going on, and he said: "Here, you heathen, you quit this hazing right here," and they let pa down on the floor of the ring, and he got up and pulled his pants down, that had got up above his knees, and shook himself and took out his roll, and peeled off a $20 bill and gave it to the canvasman, and he shook hands with them all, and said he liked a joke as well as anybody, and for them to spend the money to have a good time, and they all laughed and patted pa on the back, and said he was a dead game sport, and would be an honor to the profession, and that now that he has taken the first degree as a circus man he could call on them for any sacrifice, or any work, and he would find that they would be Johnny on the spot. Then he went out to the dining tent and took dinner with the crowd and had a jolly time. There was a woman trapeze performer on one side of pa at dinner, and she began to kick at once about the meals, and when the waiter brought a piece of meat to us all--a great big piece, that looked like corned beef, she said: "For heaven's sake, ain't that elephant that died all been eaten up yet?" and then she told pa that they had been fed on that deceased elephant, until they all felt like they had trunks growing out of their heads, and pa poked the meat with his fork, and thought it was elephant, and he lost his appetite, and everybody laughed. I eat some of it and if it was elephant it was all right. Well, when dinner was about over, all filled their glasses to drink to the health of pa, the old stockholder and new manager, and pa got up and bowed, and made a little speech, and when he sat down one of the circus girls was in his chair, and he sat in her lap, and the crowd all yelled, except a Spanish bull-fighter who seemed to be the husband of the woman pa sat on, and he wanted pa's blood, but the old circus manager took him away to save pa from trouble, and he glared back at pa, and I think he will stab pa with a dirk knife. We got out of the dining tent, and went to the barn, where the animals are kept all winter, and pa wanted me to become familiar with the habits of the beasts, 'cause they were to be in pa's charge, with the keepers of the different kinds of animals to report to pa. Nobody need tell me that animals have no human instincts, and do not know how to take a joke. We are apt to think that wild animals in captivity are worrying over being confined in cages, and gazed at and commented on by curious visitors, and that they dream of the free life they lived in the jungles, and sigh to go back where they were, captured, and prowl around for food, but you can't fool me. Animals that formerly had to go around in the woods, hungry half the time and occasionally gorging themselves on a dead animal and sleeping out in the rain in all kinds of weather, know when they have struck a good thing in a menagerie, with clean straw to sleep in, and when they are hungry all they have to do is to sound their bugle and they have pre-digested beefsteak and breakfast food brought to them on a silver platter, and if the food is not to their liking they set up a kick like a star boarder at a boarding house. Their condition in the show, in its changed condition from that of their native haunts, is like taking a hobo off the trucks of a freight train and taking him to the dining car of the limited, and letting him eat to a finish. People talk about animals escaping from captivity, and going back to the jungles and humane societies shed tears over the poor, sad-eyed captives, sighing for their homes, but you turn them loose at South Bend, and run your circus train to New Albany without them and they would follow the train and overtake it before the evening performance the next day, and you would find them trying to break into their cages again, and they would have to be fed. When pa and I went into the barn where the cages were, to take an account of stock, and get acquainted with our animals, they acted just like the circus men did when they saw pa's clothes. The animals were about half asleep when we went in, but a big lion bent one eye on pa, and then he rose up and shook himself and gave a roar and a cough that sounded like he had the worst case of pneumonia, and he snorted a couple of times, as though he was saying to the other animals: "Here's something that will kill you dead, and I want you all to have a piece of it, raw," and he brayed some more, and all the animals joined in the chorus, the big tiger lying down on his stomach and waving his tail, and snarling and showing his teeth like a cat that has located a mouse hole, and the tiger seemed to say: "O, I saw it first, and it's mine." The hyena set up a laugh like a man who is not tickled, but feels that it is up to him to laugh at a funny story that he can't see the point of at a banquet where Chauncey Depew tells one of his crippled jokes, and pa was getting nervous. A big grizzly bear was walking delegate in his cage, and he looked at pa as much as to say: "Hello, Teddy, I was not at home when you called in Colorado, but you get in this cage, and I will make you think the Spanish war was a Sunday school picnic beside what you will get from your uncle Ephraim," and a bob cat jumped up into the top of his cage and snarled and showed his teeth, and seemed to say: "Bring on your whole pack of dogs and I will eat them alive." Pa threw out his chest in front of a monkey cage, and a monkey snatched his watch, and then all the animals began to laugh at pa just like a lot of bad boys in school when visitors make a call. Pa went around to visit all the animals, officially, while I got interested in a female kangaroo, with a couple of babies, not more than three weeks old, and I noticed the mother kangaroo made the old man kangaroo, her husband, stand around and he acted just like some men I have seen who were afraid to say their souls were their own in the presence of their wives. The female kangaroo is surely a wonder, and seems to be built on plans and specifications different from any other animal, cause she has got a fur-lined pouch on her stomach, just like a vest, that she carries her young in. When the babies are frightened they make a hurry-up move towards ma, the pouch opens, and they jump in out of sight, like a gopher going into its hole, and the mother looks around as innocent as can be, as much as to say: "You can search me. I don't know, honestly, where those kids have gone, but they were around here not more than a minute ago." And when the fright is over the two heads peep out of the top of the pouch, and the old man grunts, as much as to say: "O, come on out, there is no danger, and let your ma have a little rest, 'cause she is nervous," and then the babies come out and run around the cage, and sit up on their hind feet and look wise. That kangaroo pouch is a success, and I wonder why nature did not provide pouches for all animals to carry their young in. I think Pullman must have got his ideas for the upper and lower berths of a sleeping car by seeing a kangaroo pouch. I am going to study the kangaroo and make friends with the old man kangaroo, 'cause he looks as though he had troubles of his own. Pa showed up without any coat, while I was kangarooing, and there was a rip in his pants, and I asked him what was the trouble, and he said he got too near the cage of a leopard that seemed to be asleep, and the traitor reached out his paw and gathered in the tail of pa's coat, and just snatched it off his back as though it was made of paper. [Illustration: A Leopard Reached Out His Paw and Gathered In the Tail of Pa's Coat.] Pa is a little discouraged about his experience in the circus the first day, but he says it will be great when we get the run of the business. He says every day will have its excitement. Tomorrow they are going to extract a tooth from the boa-constrictor, and pa and I are going to help hold him, while the animal dentist pulls the tooth, and then we scrub the rhinoceros, and oil the hippopotamus, and get everything ready to start out on the road, and I can't write any more in my diary until after we fix the snake. Gee, but he is as long as a clothesline. CHAPTER III. Pa Reproves the Fat Woman for Losing Flesh--The Bearded Lady Faints in Pa's Arms--The Bad Boy Introduced Into Animal Society--They Pull the Boa Constrictor's Ulcerated Tooth. Winter Quarters of the Only Circus, April 20.--Pa has had a hard job today. The boss complained to pa that the fat woman had been taking anti-fat, or dieting, or something, 'cause she was losing flesh, and the living skeleton was beginning to fat up. He wanted pa to call them into the office and have a diplomatic talk with them about their condition, 'cause if this thing continued they would ruin the show. So pa went to the office and sent for them, and I was there as a witness, in case of trouble. The fat woman came in first, and there was no chair big enough for her, so she sat down on a leather lounge, which broke and let her down on the floor, and pa tried to help her up, but it was like lifting a load of hay. So he leaned her against the wall and said: "Madame, the management has detailed me to censure you for losing flesh, and I am instructed to say if you do not manage to take on about fifty pounds more flesh before the show starts on the road, you don't go along. What you want to do is to eat more starchy food and sleep more at night. They tell me you go out nights to dances and drink high balls, and this has got to stop. Drink beer and eat cheese sandwiches at night, or it is all off. This show can't afford to take along no 400-pound fairy for a fat woman when the contract calls for a 500-pound mountain of flesh, see?" and pa looked just as stern as could be. The fat woman began to cry and sob, so it sounded like an engine blowing off steam, and she told pa that the cause of her losing flesh was that she was in love with the living skeleton, and that he had been paying attention to the bearded woman, and she would scratch her eyes out if she could catch her. Just then the living skeleton came in, and when he saw the fat woman sitting on the floor crying, and pa talking soothing to her and telling her he could appreciate her condition, 'cause he had been in love some hisself, the skeleton pushed pa away and tried to lift it, and said: "What is the matter with my itty tootsy-wootsy, and what has the bad old man with spinach on his chin been doing to you?" Then he turned on pa and his legs began to shake and rattle like a pair of bones in a minstrel show, and he said: "I will hold you responsible for this." Pa said he was not going to interfere in the love affairs of any of the freaks, and just then the bearded woman came in, and when she saw the living skeleton holding the hand of the fat woman, who sat on the floor like a balloon blowed up, the bearded woman gave a kick at the living skeleton which sounded like clothes bars falling down in the laundry, and she grabbed the fat woman's blonde wig and pulled it off, and then the bearded woman began to cry and she threw herself into pa's arms and began to sob on his bosom and mingle her whiskers with his. [Illustration: "I Will Hold You Responsible for This!"] Pa yelled for help, and I thought it was time for me to be doing something, so I went outside the office to the fire alarm box and touched a button, and then I run like thunder for the police, and the firemen came with the extinguishers and began to throw chemically charged water into the room, and the police dragged out the fat woman, who had fainted, and the living skeleton, whom she had pulled down into her lap, and laid them out in the ring, and then they got hold of pa and pulled him out, and the bearded woman had fainted in pa's arms and the stove was tipped over and was setting fire to the furniture and they brought the bearded woman and the fat woman to their senses by pouring water on them from a hose. Finally they were sent to their quarters, and the other owner of the show came to pa and said he hoped this would be the last of that kind of business, as long as pa remained with the show, that one of the rules was that no man in an executive capacity must under any circumstances take any liberties with any of the females connected with the show. Pa was hot, and said when women got crazy in love no man was safe, and the other owner of the show said that was all right this time, but not to let it occur again, and pa tried to explain how the bearded woman came to jump on to him and faint in his arms, but the owner said: "That is all right, but you can't hold 'em in your arms before folks," and then pa offered to whip any man who said he was in love with any bearded woman, and he pulled off his coat. Just then I came along and told the whole story, and then the crowd all had a good laugh, and pa took them all out and treated. I guess it is all settled now, 'cause the living skeleton and the fat woman have got permission to get married, the bearded lady is sweet on pa, and a girl has just joined the show, who walks a wire, and she says I am about the sweetest thing that ever came down the pike, and I guess this show business is all right, all right. April 21.--We are getting acquainted with the animals, and it is just like going into society. There is the aristocracy, which consists of the high born animals, the middle class and the low down, common herd, and when you go among the animals as strangers you are received just as you would be in society. If you are properly introduced to the elephants by the elephant keeper, who vouches for your standing and honor, the elephants take to you all right and extend to you certain courtesies, same as society people would invite you to dinner, but if you wander around and sort of butt in, the elephants are on to you in a minute and roll their eyes at you and look upon you as a common "person," and if you attempt any familiarity they look at you as much as to say: "Sir, I am not allowed to associate with any except the 400." Then they turn their backs and act so much like shoddy aristocracy that you would swear they were human. I remember when pa was first in the elephant corral, the keeper forgot to tell the big elephant who pa was, and when the keeper raised up one foot of the elephant and examined a corn, pa went up and pinched a bunch on the elephant's leg and said to the keeper: "That looks to me like a spavin," and he nebbed it hard. Well, the elephant groaned like a boy with a stone bruise on his heel, and before pa knew what was coming the elephant wound his trunk under pa and raised pa upon his tusks and was going to toss him in the air and catch him as he came down and walk on him, when pa yelled murder and the keeper took an iron hook and hooked it into the elephant's skin, and said: "Let that man down," and he let pa down easy, and the keeper some way showed the elephant that pa was one of the owners of the show, and that elephant acted just as human as could be, for he fairly toadied to pa, like a society leader that has given the cold shoulder to some one that is as good or better than they, or like an impudent employee who has insulted his employer and is afraid of losing his job. After that whenever pa and I go around the elephants they bow down to us, and I think I could take an iron hook and drive an elephant anywhere. There are all classes among the animals in a menagerie the same as human society. The lions are like the leaders of society who are well born and proud but poor. They are always invited everywhere, but never entertain, though they kick and find fault and ogle everybody and look wise and distinguished. The sacred cattle are too good to live and pose as the pious animals who do not want to associate with the bad animals and are constantly wearing an air of "I am holier than any of you," but they will reach through the bars of their cage and steal alfalfa from the Yak and the mule deer, and if they kick about it the sacred cattle look hurt and act like it was part of their duty to take up a collection, and they bellow a sort of hymn to drown the kicking. The different kind of goats in a menagerie are the butters-in, or the new rich, who get in the way of the society leaders and try to outdo them in society stunts, but they smell so that the other animals are made sick and the goats are only tolerated because animal society is afraid to offend them, for fear the leaders may some time go into bankruptcy and the goats will take their places and never let them get a smell of the good things of life. The bears are the working people of the show, and the big grizzlies are the walking delegates who control the amalgamated association of working bears, and the occupants of the other cages have got to cater to Uncle Ephraim, the walking delegate, or be placed on the unfair list and slugged. The hyenas and the jackals and the wolves represent the anarchists who are down on everybody in the show, who won't do a thing to help along and won't allow any other animal to do anything, and who seem to want to burn and slay, to carry a torch by night and poison by day, and want everything in the show to be chaos. Those animals are never so happy as when the wind and lightning strike the tent, and blow it down and kill people and create a panic, and then these anarchists sing and laugh and enjoy their peculiar kind of animal religion. The zebras and giraffes are the dudes of the show, and you can imagine, if they were human, they would play tennis and golf, drive four in hands and pose to be admired, while the Royal Bengal tigers, if they were half human, would drive automobiles at the rate of a mile a minute on crowded streets, run over people and never stop to help the wounded, but skip away with a sneer, as much as to say: "What are you going to do about it?" The hippopotamus is like the lazy fat man that groans from force of habit, sits down as though it was the last act of his life and only gets up when the bell rings for meals, and he sweats blood for fear he will lose his meal ticket and starve to death. The seals are the clean-cut Baptists of the show, who believe in immersion, and they have more brain than any animals in the show, because they live on a fish diet, though they have a pneumonia cough that makes you feel like sending for a doctor. Gee, but last night when we thought spring had come and we could start on the road pretty soon, the snow fell about a foot deep, and it was so cold that all the animals howled all night, and shivered, and went on a regular strike. We had to put blankets on them, and no one of them seemed to be comfortable except the polar bears, the arctic foxes and the fat woman. The other owners of the show thought it was a good time to take the boa constrictor and pull an ulcerated tooth, 'cause he was sort of dumpish, so pa and I helped hold the snake, which is about twenty feet long. Pa was up near the snake's head, and when the man with the forceps got hold of the tooth and gave it a yank, the confounded snake come to and began to stand on his head and thrash around, and pa dropped his hold and started to climb the center pole, but he got caught in a gasoline torch, and they had to turn a hose on pa, and he was awful scared, 'cause he always did hate snakes, but they gave the snake chloroform and got him quiet, and pa came down, and they gave him a pair of baggy trousers belonging to the clown, to go to dinner in, and pa was a sight. [Illustration: They Had to Turn the Hose on Pa.] CHAPTER IV. Pa Finds the Fat Lady a Burden--The Bad Boy Makes His First Public Appearance--He Talks Politics with the Midget--Pa Meets with Numerous Accidents. May 1.--We had the darndest time getting packed up and started on the road. How in the name of heaven we ever got half the things on the cars is more than I know, but it seems as though the circus company had a man to look after everything, and he had men under him to look after his regular share of things, so when the cars were loaded, and the boss clapped his hands, and the engineer tooted his whistle, there wasn't a tent stake or a rope, or a board seat, or anything left behind. Every man knew exactly where the things were that he was responsible for, so he could lay his hands on them in the dark, and he knew just what wagon his stuff was to go in. Gee, but you talk about system, there is no business in the world that has a system like a show on the road. Every performer was in his or her section in the sleeper, and pa and I got an end section with the freaks, the fat woman across the aisle from us. That fat woman is going to make life a burden for pa, I can see that plain enough. She is engaged to the living skeleton, and he sleeps in the upper berth, over her, and he is jealous of pa, while the fat woman has got to depending on pa to do little things for her. Of course, the first night out is always the worst on a sleeper, and the poor woman is nervous, and when the animal train, in the second section, ran on a side track beside our train of sleepers, and Rajah, the boss lion, got woke up and exploded one of his roars, within six feet of the fat woman's berth, she just gave one yell, and reared up, and came down hard in the berth. Something broke, and she went right through the bottom of the berth to the floor, doubled up like a jackknife. Pa got up and went to her berth, though I told him to keep away, 'cause he would get into trouble. First he stumbled over one of her shoes, and said he thought he had told everybody to keep their telescope valises in the baggage car, and that made her mad. Then he reached in the berth and got hold of one of her feet, and pa got the men to help and they got her out, but she seemed all squshed together. She sat up all night and wanted to lean on pa, but the skeleton kept his head over the rail of the upper berth and his snake-like eye never left pa all night. The bearded woman got up out of her berth about daylight, to go to the toilet room for a shave, or a hair cut, or something, and when she saw pa trying to soothe the fat woman and hold her from breaking in two, she screamed and slapped pa's face, and had a mess of hysterics. The fat woman grabbed a couple of handfuls of female whiskers, and was going to pull them out by the roots, when the bearded woman begged her not to pull them out, as to lose her whiskers would destroy her means of livelihood. Then the bugle blew for everybody to get up and go to the show lot, and put up the tents for the first show of the season. When we got out of the sleeper we asked where we were, and a man told pa we were at Peoria, Ill., and he wanted pa to give him a complimentary ticket for telling what town we were in, but pa looked fierce at the man and asked what kind of an easy mark he took him for, and the man slunk away. You wouldn't think they could unload those two trains of cars, about 80 in all, in a week, but when we got out the horses were hitched on the wagons, and in 15 minutes they were loaded and on the way to the lot, and pa and I got on the first wagon. Talk about system. The surveyors were there ahead of us, and had measured off the lot and pushed wire stakes in the ground where the grub tent was to be, and when the first wagon of the grub outfit arrived, which contained a big range, big enough to cook for a thousand men, stove pipes were put on, which telescoped up into the air, and in two minutes a fire was built and bacon and potatoes and coffee were cooking, local bread wagons were unloading bread on the grass, 50 men put up poles and spread the tent on, and others set up tables in the tent, and in half an hour breakfast was served to the first 500 men. Pa and I drew up to the first table, but there was a yell to "put 'em out," and we found we had sat down to the table of the negro canvasmen, and they struck because they would not associate on an equality with white trash. Gee, but pa was mad. He said he was as good as any nigger, and that made them mad and they threw boiled potatoes and scrambled eggs at pa, and we had to retire, but when pa complained to the boss canvasman, he told pa to go and eat with the freaks and try and keep in his place. [Illustration: They Threw Boiled Potatoes and Scrambled Eggs at Pa.] We got breakfast at another table, and then we went out on the lot to superintend the putting up of the big tents. The greatest thing was a wagon containing a miniature pile driver, run by steam, which was driven around outside of where the big tents were to be, and it drove down the big stakes so quick it would make your head swim, and the grounds were covered with Peoria people who wanted to see how it was done. Pa imitated the boss canvasman by walking around the lot with his coat over his arm, and a dirty shirt on, trying to look tough, and he bossed the sightseers about, and acted cross, and told a man and woman with a baby wagon to get off the lot, but pa was called down by the principal owner of the show good and plenty. Said the owner to pa: "Remember, the success of our show depends on the friendship and good will of the people who think enough of us to come out to see us set up keeping house, and that they are all our guests, and if they get in our way we should go around them, and look pleasant. We must not get the big head and show that our hair pulls, and that we are tired and cross. This is a place of amusement, and all connected with the show are expected to heal up sores, instead of causing bruises, and if you ever see an employee of this show treating a visitor unkindly, send him to the ticket wagon to get his wages, and tell him to go away quick, and stay away long." You could have lit a match to pa's face, it was so red hot, but he learned a lesson, for I saw him holding a tired mother's baby up on his shoulders, so it could see the drove of camels come up to the lot from the train, soon after. It was great to see all the tents go up as if raised by machinery, and after all were erected, and the rings were graded, and the animals in the menagerie tent all fed and watered, and the performers in the dressing-room ready for the afternoon performance, pa was the proudest man ever was. He walked all around, inspecting everything, and kicking occasionally at something that got balled up, and when the crowd came to buy tickets, he stood around the grand entrance, looking wise, and he was so good natured that he bet ten dollars he could guess which walnut shell a bean was under, which a three-card monte man was losing money at, and pa lost his ten with a smile. He said he wanted to be kind to the patrons of the show. This was my first appearance in the show business. I had to stand up beside the giant, to show how little I was, and then I had to stand up beside the midget to show how big I was compared with him. It went all right with the giant, because he was so big I was afraid of him, but I thought the midget was about my age, and needed protection, and when the crowd surged around us I said: "Don't be afraid, little fellow, I will see that no one harms you." The look he gave me was enough to freeze water. When the crowd had gone into the big show tent, what do you think, that confounded midget began to ask me how I stood on the tariff question, and he argued for free trade, whatever that is, for half an hour, and made me think of Bryan during a campaign, and then he branched off on to the Monroe doctrine, which I suppose is something connected with a rival show, and I guess he would be talking yet, only a big husky fellow came along, a fellow about 25 years old, and he stooped over and put his hand on the midget's shoulder and said: "Hello, dad," and by gosh, the midget introduced me to the big galoot as his youngest son. Wouldn't that skin you. The first day of the season was great, only all the performers had not got limbered up. One of the girls on the flying trapeze fell off into the net from the roof of the tent and broke her suspenders, so when they got her down in the ring it seemed as though everything she had on was going to shuck loose, and leave her with nothing but a string of beads, and pa went up to wrap his coat around her, and she kicked his hat off and ran into the dressing-room. The audience just yelled, and pa blushed scarlet, 'cause he saw it was a put-up job to make him ridiculous. [Illustration: She Kicked Pa's Hat Off.] During the chariot races pa had to jump like a box car to keep from being run over by a four-horse chariot driven by a one-horse girl, and the attendants dragged pa out from under a bunch of horses being ridden barebacked, like fury. Then two horses hitched together with a strap were being ridden by a woman, the strap broke and the horses spread apart, and some one yelled that she had split clear in two. Pa rushed in to help carry one half of her into the dressing-room, but she wasn't hurt at all, 'cause the peanut boy told me she was a rubber woman, and you could stretch her half way across the ring, and she would come together all right, and eat a hearty meal. Gee, but a circus is a great place to study human nature. In the evening performance at Peoria there came up a windstorm which blew down part of the menagerie tent, where the freaks were, and when the storm was over, and the tent top was pulled up again, they found pa all right. He started to crawl under the canvas, and skip out for fear of the animals, but the fat lady caught him and sat down on him. WITH THE CIRCUS CHAPTER V. The Rogue Elephant Creates a Panic and Pa Proves Himself a Hero--The Bad Boy Gets Scolded for "Being Tough"--He Finds That Audiences Like Accidents. May 6.--We had the worst time at Akron last week and pa proved himself a hero, though he was swatted good by the rogue elephant before he got his second wind and went for the animal. We have a male elephant that is almost human, 'cause he gets on a tear about once a month, like a regular ugly husband. You can't tell when his mind is in condition for running amuck, but suddenly he will whoop like a drunken man, strike his poor patient wife over the back with his trunk and grab her tail and try to pull it out by the roots, and jump up and crack his heels together like a drunken shoemaker, and bellow as though he was saying he was a bad man from Bitter Creek. Well, at Akron, the keeper of this elephant, Bolivar, had to go and see a girl that he met when the show was here last year, and settle a case of breach of promise before a justice of the peace, and the boss told pa to look after the elephant for an hour or so. So pa took a pole with a hook in it and sat down on a bale of hay to watch Bolivar. It was one of those hot days, and Bolivar stood drooping and perspiring, and wishing the show was in Alaska, and pa was kind of sleepy, like everybody in the show, when suddenly that elephant whooped, and swatted Jeanette, his wife, a couple of times, and she cried pitiful, and pa put the hook in Bolivar's hide and gave a jerk, and told him to hush up that noise, but Bolivar just reared and pitched and walked right through the side of the menagerie tent, and seemed to say to the other animals: "Come on, boys; there is going to be something doing," and the animals all set up a howl in their own language, as though they were saying: "Whooper up, old man, and don't let them monkey with you." Bolivar went out in the street and mowed a wide swath, with pa after him, hooking him all the time, but he paid no attention to pa. He put his head under the side of a street ear loaded with negroes that had come to see the show, dressed in their Sunday clothes, and tipped the car over on the side, and the negroes crawled through the windows and went uptown yelling murder, while Bolivar went in front of a grocery store where there was a pile of watermelons, and began to throw them at the people in the street, and the negroes thought an elephant was not so bad, so they came back and had a feast. Pa tried to head off Bolivar at the grocery, but Bolivar took half a watermelon and put the red side on top of pa's head, and squashed it down so the seeds and juice and pulp ran down pa's shirt and neck, and he looked as though murder had been committed, but pa wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and showed game, because he kept mauling Bolivar with the hook. Bolivar broke up a millinery store by throwing tomatoes at the women in the windows, and he went into a yard where a woman was washing and squirted the bluing water all over the woman, and all over pa, and then he chewed the clothes on the line, and drove the family over the fence. [Illustration: Bolivar Took Half a Watermelon and Put the Red Side on Top of Pa's Head.] You'd a died to see those milliners climb over a high board fence head first, and Bolivar actually seemed to laugh. Bolivar run one of his tusks through a barrel of gasoline, and it run out on the street car track, and an electric spark set it on fire, and the fire department turned out, but the engines had to all go around Bolivar, 'cause he wouldn't budge an inch, but seemed to say: "Let 'er rip, boys; this is the Fourth of July." The circus men began to come with ropes and clubs, to tie Bolivar and throw him, but he escaped into a side street and watched the engines put out the fire, and he swung around with his trunk and tusks and wouldn't let anyone come near him but pa with the hook, and he seemed to enjoy the prodding, but I guess that gave him courage to keep on doing things. The principal proprietor of the show came along, and when he saw pa with watermelon and bluing water all over him, and perspiration rolling down his face, he said to pa: "Why don't you take your elephant back to the lot, 'cause the afternoon performance is about to begin," and that made pa mad, and he said: "You go on with your afternoon performance, and I will have Bolivar there all right," and then everybody laughed, but pa knew what he was about. Pa dropped his hook and went to a hose cart and took a Babcock extinguisher and strapped it on his back and went up to Bolivar, who was tipping over some dummies in front of a clothing store, and pa said: "Bolivar, you lay down," but Bolivar threw a seven-dollar suit of clothes at pa, and bellowed, as much as to defy pa. Pa turned the cock of the extinguisher, and pointed the nozzle at Bolivar's head, and began to squirt the medicated water all over him. For a moment Bolivar acted as though he couldn't take a joke, and was going to start off again, but pa kept squirting, and when the chemical water began to eat into Bolivar's hide, the big animal weakened, and trumpeted in token of surrender, and kneeled down in front of pa, and finally got down so pa could get on his back, and pa took the hook and hooked it in the flap of Bolivar's ear, where is a tender spot, and he told Bolivar to get up and go back to the tent, and Bolivar was as meek as a lamb, and he got up, with pa on his back, and the fire extinguisher on pa's back, and marched back to the tent, through the hole he had made coming out. Thousands of people followed, and cheered pa, and when they got in the tent pa said to the principal owner of the show, who had made fun of him: "Here's your elephant, and whenever any of your old animals get on the warpath, and you want 'em rounded up, don't forget my number, 'cause I can knock the spots out of any animal except a giraffe." The crowd cheered pa again and he got down off the elephant, took off his fire extinguisher, and handed Bolivar a piece of rag carpet, and said: "Eat it, you old catamaran, or I'll kill you," and Bolivar was so scared of pa he eat the carpet, which shows the power of brain over avoirdupois, pa says. [Illustration: Pa Turned the Cock of the Extinguisher and Pointed the Nozzle at Bolivar's Head.] The regular keeper of Bolivar heard he was on the rampage, and he came back on the run to conquer him, after pa had got him back in the tent, but Bolivar looked at him with a faraway look in his eyes, as much as to say: "Seems to me I have met you somewhere before, but a new king has been crowned," and he took his old keeper by the back of his coat and threw him toward the monkey cage. The monkeys gave the keeper the laugh, and Bolivar put his trunk lovingly on pa's shoulder, and seemed to say: "Old man, you are it, from this time out." Pa looked proud, and the old keeper looked sick. The people in the show are going to present pa with a loving cup, and I guess he can run the menagerie part of the show. When the freaks heard of pa's bravery, the fat woman and the bearded lady wanted to hug pa, but pa waved them away, and said he liked the elephant business best. May 7.--I used to think that if I could belong to a circus, and go away with it when it left the town I lived in, that it would be pretty near going to heaven. I used to hope for the time when I would get nerve enough to run away, and go with a circus, and wear a dirty shirt, and be around a tent and wash off the legs of a spotted horse with castile soap, and when people gathered about me to watch the proceedings, to look tough and tell them in a hoarse voice way down my throat, sort of husky from sleeping in the wet straw with the spotted horse, that they must go on about their business, and not disturb the horse. I had thought if I should run away and go with a circus, some day, when I got far enough away from ma, that I would up and swear, and be tough, and when I came home in the fall, and the neighbor boys would come around me, I would chew tobacco and tell them of the joys of circus life. Well, maybe I will some day, but at present I am sleepy all the time. We have showed six times the last week, and traveled a thousand miles, and it seems as though there is nothing doing but putting up and taking down tents, and going to and from the cars, and you can't be tough, 'cause there is always some boss around to tell you to look pleasant if you are cross, and to tell you to change your shirt or get out of the show, and if you swear at anything you are called down. Pa and I put in a good deal of time during the afternoon and evening performances in the dressing-room, near the door leading to the main tent. That is the nearest to being in an insane asylum of any place I was ever in. The performers get ready for their several acts in bunches or families, all in one spot, and they act serious and jaw each other, and each bunch acts as though their act was all there was to the show, and if it was cut out for any reason, the show would have to lay up for the season, when in fact each one is only a cog in the great wheel, and if one cog should slip, the wheel would turn just the same. These people never smile before they go in the ring, but just act as though too much depended on them to crack a smile. When a bunch is called to go in the ring, they all look at each other as though it was the parting of the ways, and they clasp hands and go out of the dressing-room as though walking on eggs. When they get in the ring they look around to see if all eyes are upon them, and bow to people who are looking at something going on in another ring, and who don't see them, and then they go through their performance with everybody looking somewhere else. When the act is over the audience seems glad, and clap their hands because they are polite, and it don't cost anything to clap hands, and the performers turn some more flip flaps, and go running out to the dressing-room, and take a peek back into the big tent as though expecting an encore, but the audience has forgotten them and is looking for the next mess of performers, and the ones who have just been in go and lie down on straw and wonder if they can hit the treasurer for an advance on their salaries, so they can go to a beer garden and forget it all. An average audience never gets its money's worth unless some one is hurt doing some daring act. Pa suggested that they have some one pretend to be hurt in every act, and have them picked up and carried out on stretchers with doctors wearing red crosses on their arms in attendance, giving medicine and restoratives. The show tried it at Bucyrus, O., and had seven men and two women injured so they had to be carried out, and the audience went wild, and almost mobbed the dressing-room, to see the doctor operate on the injured. It was such a great success that next week we are going to put in an automobile ambulance and have an operating table in the dressing-room with a gauze screen so the audiences can see us cut off legs like they do in a hospital. Maybe we shall put in a dissecting room if the people seem to demand it. CHAPTER VI. The Bad Boy Puts Fly-Paper in the Bob Cat's Cage--The Bob Cat Causes a Panic in the Main Tent--The Midget Quarrels with the Giant--Pa is Almost Arrested for Kidnaping and the Ostrich Swallows His Diamond Stud. May 14.--This has been a week that would kill anybody, and pa and I talk of resigning, though pa feels as though he didn't want to break up the show by going away right in the middle of the harvesting of shekels from the country men, and I don't know what would happen if pa and I should both be taken sick at the same time. The boss of the menagerie got a new animal by express from Colorado when we were leaving Akron, O., and we got it in one end of a cage occupied by a happy family of rabbits, coons, a spotted leopard and a hound dog and a house cat. The new animal was a bob cat, such as Roosevelt shoots when the man has the camera ready to catch him in the act. Say, but that bob cat is a terror, and crosser than any animal we got, except the hyenas. The bob cat just walked around and snarled and spit at the happy family through the bars, and kept them awake all night on the road, and the happy family held a sort of convention and I could see by the way they all looked at me that they were passing resolutions inviting me to break up the bob cat business. The manager of the menagerie told pa he wished the confounded bob cat would escape, 'cause he was a blooming nuisance, so I thought I would help get rid of the beast, and save the show from disgrace. So when we got to Oberlin I thought that was a pious community that could stand a wild bob cat, so I put several sheets of sticky tanglefoot fly paper in the bob cat's cage and opened the door of the cage, after the crowd had gone into the main tent to the big show, and the menagerie tent was empty except the keepers. They were all asleep under the wagons, and the animals had all curled down for a nap, and the freaks were on their platform lolling around, waiting for the main show to be out so they could do their stunts over again. The bob cat got all his four feet in the tanglefoot fly paper, then he grabbed a sheet in his mouth and rolled over in a few more sheets, and when he was entirely harmless and you couldn't tell what he was, I opened the door of the cage and he went out like a rocket, and rolled over a few times in the sawdust, and then jumped on the platform with the freaks, run over the fat woman, who was laying back in a Morris chair, and left one of the sheets of fly paper on her low neck, and it stuck like a porous plaster. She yelled that she had been stabbed, and pa came along just as the bob cat jumped off the platform, and struck pa on the back, and the cat spit at pa, and pa fell over among the sacred cattle and rolled under a cow and got on his knees, when the animals all began to roar, and pa crawled behind a bale of hay, and a zebra stepped on pa's face, and pa yelled "Hey, Rube," which is a grand hailing sign of distress when circus men want to fight, and about a hundred of the canvasmen came running with tent stakes to hit people with. [Illustration: The Bob Cat Struck Pa on the Back.] Pa crawled out from the bale of hay, which he had pulled over him, and the hay stuck to the fly paper on pa, and a camel began to eat the hay, and he chewed pa's shirt until the hands pulled pa away. The bob cat escaped into the main tent, just as the Japanese jugglers were juggling in No. 1 ring, and the elephants were standing on their heads in No. 2 ring, and the flying trapeze artists were jumping from one trapeze to another, and the bob cat rushed through the Japanese, and amongst the elephants, with the fly paper all over him, and the audience fairly yelled, 'cause they thought it was a clown dressed up to do some stunt, but the Japanese left the ring in a panic, while the elephants got down off their heads and stood on their hind feet and cried like children. The audience saw that something had happened that was serious and they all rose to their feet and were going off into a panic when pa and a few brave men came and drove the bob cat up a centerpole, away up above the torches, and made speeches to the audience, and quieted them down, and the performance went on. But pa was a sight, and the head circus man told pa he would have to dress better, or forever after hold his peace, and pa said if any man could be more patient than he was, with a bob cat on his neck, a sacred cow walking on him, and a camel trying to eat his whiskers and shirt, they better hire that man. But it was all fixed up and everybody apologized to everybody, and the bob cat went on up the center pole and out on top of the canvas and escaped into Ohio, where it will probably be holding office before next fall. Gee, but the giant is a coward. When the bob cat began to run up the giant's leg, and then up his back, and then jumped from his shoulder onto the fat lady, the giant turned pale and cried, and the midget said to him: "O, you big stiff, why didn't you have sand enough to hold the kitty till the keeper came? I've a good mind to get on a stepladder and kick you," and the cowardly giant cried again, and said if the midget ever struck him he would report him to the management. Just then pa came along and asked what the row was about, and when pa found that the midget was trying to pick a quarrel with the giant, he took the midget across his knee and gave him a few spanks, and told him to quit bullying the freaks. The midget got up on a barrel and called his son, who is bigger than pa, when I stepped in between them and told the midget's son if he struck my father I would have his heart's blood, and he quailed, and then I bullied the giant, who is a coward, and now they are all afraid of me. I don't see how a big fellow like a giant can be afraid of things smaller than he is, and shy when a dog barks, and be afraid some one is going to smash him in the jaw, but pa says the size of a man don't make any difference, 'cause it is the heart that does the business. A man may be big enough and strong enough to tip over a box car, loaded with pig iron, but if his heart is one of these little ones intended for a miser, with no pepper sauce running from the heart to the arteries and things, and a liver that is white, and nerves that are trembly, and no gall to speak of, why a big man is liable to be walked all over by a nervy little man who is spunky, and gets mad and froths at the mouth. I have been having great times with the monkeys, and I guess the manager will make me superintendent of monkeys, 'cause they all seem to be stuck on me, and will do anything I tell them to. Pa says they think I am some new kind of a monkey, and they look up to me. I lead out the big monkeys that ride the goats and dogs, and have a horse race in the ring, and fasten them on the little animals, and when they ride around the ring on the dogs and goats and ponies, they keep looking at me as though they wanted my approval. There is one little monkey that sleeps nearly all the time, and I played a trick on pa with it that like to got me arrested and licked by a man who was mad. A man and woman with a baby in a little wagon were going through the menagerie, and it was crowded, and they left the baby and wagon in pa's charge, near the monkey cage, while they went to see the hippopotamus. Pa is the most accommodating man about holding babies that ever was. The baby was asleep when its folks left it in the wagon with pa, but it woke up while they were gone, and pa took it out of the baby wagon and carried it around just as he would at home, and showed it the animals, and held it up on his shoulder, and I took the little monkey and put it in the baby wagon, and it went to sleep, and I put a veil over it, and was standing by the wagon talking with a peanut butcher, when the parents of the baby came back, and the woman raised up the veil to see if the child was asleep, when the monkey woke up and put its hairy hands up to rub it eyes. The monkey looked up at the woman with beady eyes and began to chatter, and she yelled and her husband took a look at the monk, and he was mad. They could both see it was a monkey instead of a baby, and they asked where the old man with the chin whiskers was that they left the baby with, and the peanut butcher said: "What, that old guy with the checkered vest? Why, he has gone with the baby over to the lion cage, where they are feeding the lions. Don't you see him holding the baby upon his shoulder?" By ginger, I never saw two people sprint the way they did, 'cause I guess they thought pa was sure crazy, and would give the baby to the lions. But I told them the old man was all right, and would bring the baby back, and if he didn't they could have the monkey, 'cause I didn't want them to think they were going to be losers while attending our show. Then I chucked the monkey under the chin and said: "Maybe this is your baby, 'cause they change wonderfully when they get into a show." Well, I just had time to put the monkey back in the cage when I saw that couple surround pa, and the woman grabbed the baby out of his arms, and the man tackled pa around the legs below the knee, and threw pa down under the ostrich cage, and said: "You kidnaper! I am a good mind to choke the life out of you," and he squeezed pa's windpipe until pa's tongue run out, when a canvasman came along and hit the man in the ear, and he laid down near a zebra, and the zebra kicked at the man and hit pa, 'cause a zebra is crosseyed and kicks like a woman throws a stone, and no man knows where it listeth. [Illustration: The Man Tackled Pa.] Pa got up to murder the man that choked him, when the ostrich reached its head out between the bars of the cage and picked pa's big diamond stud off his shirt, big as a piece of rock candy, and swallowed it, and pa said that's the limit, and he called the manager and asked him how he was going to get his diamond stud out of the ostrich. The manager told pa to go to the dressing-room and ask the woman who has charge of the wardrobe for the ostrich stomach pump, and when he got the stomach pump the manager said the ostrich would cough up the diamond stud. Pa went off to the dressing-room to get the ostrich stomach pump, and I knew there was going to be trouble, 'cause I thought the manager was just stringing pa. Well, he went up to the woman in the dressing-room, and said he came after her stomach pump, ostrich size, and you'd a died to see the ruction. The woman looked at pa as though he had escaped from a sanitarium, and then she seemed to think he was trying to make game of her, and she said: "You old skate, do you know who you have the honor of addressing? I am the queen of this realm, and they all kow-tow to me; now you come and take your medicine," and before pa could say boo she had pulled a big clothes bag over his head and tied it around his feet, and said: "Come on, girls, we are going to have roasted missionary," and they were lighting a gasoline torch to roast pa, when the owner of the show came along and asked what was up. When the wardrobe woman told him pa had insulted her, the owner gave her $10 to buy champagne for the performers, and she released pa, and he went back to choke his diamond out of the ostrich. Pa says this life is more exciting, if anything, than staying at home, and it will either kill him or cure him of a desire to be a Barnum in about a month more. CHAPTER VII. The Circus Has a Yellow Fever Scare--The Bad Boy and His Dad Dress Up as Hottentots--Pa Takes a Mustard Bath and Attends a Revival Meeting. Well, we have had a row for your life, and all the excitement anybody can stand. We got into Indiana and have had a yellow fever scare, a quarantine that lasted one night, so nobody could sleep on our train, a riot at Evansville 'cause we took on a couple of female trapeze women that came from Honduras, via New Orleans, and a revival of religion, all in one bunch, and pa is beginning to get haggard, like a hag. The female trapeze performers, who had been expected ever since we started on the road, had been quarantined at New Orleans, where the yellow fever is raging, and finally got through the quarantine guard somewhere in Mississippi, and got to us Saturday afternoon, and some official telegraphed to the mayor that two yellow fever refugees had struck his town to join the circus, and he ordered the chief of police to hunt them out, and put them in a pest house. The Honduras females were yellow as saffron, but it was caused by the climate of Honduras, but the whole show was scared to death for fear we would all have yellow fever, and the management detailed pa and I to hide the yellow girls from the police. Pa fixed up one of the cages, with the girls blacked up as Hottentots and pa and I blacked up as an African king and prince of the blood, and we did stunts in the cage at afternoon and evening performances, and the crowd could not keep away from our cage, until pa got hot and unbuttoned his shirt and, before we knew it, everybody saw pa's white skin below where his face and neck were blacked, and while we were talking gibberish to each other a country jake got mad and he led a crowd to open the cage and make us remove our shirts to prove that we were Hottentots. When they found we were white people blacked up they wanted their money back and were going to tip over the cage, when pa saved the day by making a speech, at the evening performance, to the effect that we were all yellow fever refugees from New Orleans and the mob lit out on the run for the main tent, where they announced that there were four cases of fever in the menagerie tent, and that settled it. The mayor and police closed the show on account of yellow fever, and we couldn't get out of the tent. Pa had been quite close to the yellow girls and when he found out that yellow fever was a disease that catches you when not looking, and in 15 minutes you look like a corpse, and in four hours you are liable to be a sure enough corpse, he shook the yellow girls, and asked an old sailor what a man ought to do who has been exposed to yellow fever, and the old sailor, who has had yellow fever lots of times, told pa to strip off his clothes and take a bath of prepared mustard, and rub it in thoroughly, and then wipe it off, and take a vinegar rub, and after that sprinkle a little red pepper on himself, put on different clothes and drink about a gallon of red lemonade and he could defy yellow fever. Pa is an easy mark and he believed the old sailor, who is tattooed and makes a show of himself with the freaks, and pa took a change of clothes and a bottle of mustard and a cruet of vinegar and a bottle of red pepper and went into a dressing room and got behind a wagon and began to take the cure the sailor had prescribed. I don't know as it was right to do it, but about the time pa had got to the red pepper course and was sprinkling it on his skin pretty thick, and he was beginning to get pretty hot, and was yelling a little, I told the chief of police, who was looking around with the health officer for suspicious cases, that there was a man acting sort of queer behind the wagon that had a piece of canvas over the wheels. They both rushed in on pa and grabbed him. Gee! but pa looked and smelled like a plate of pigs' feet and the doctor said it was an unmistakable case of yellow fever, he could tell by the smell, and then pa turned pale and yellow from fright, and they wrapped him up in a piece of canvas and took him away in an emergency hospital ambulance, and the whole show at once knew that we were in for a quarantine. [Illustration: The Doctor Said it was an Unmistakable Case of Yellow Fever.] They burned up the suit of clothes pa took off and the one he was going to put on, and the ambulance drove away, while pa shook one fist at the sailor and one at me, and his skin began to shrink and smart, and he yelled, and the audience stampeded, and the show was in the dumps. We had to stay over Sunday in Evansville, and the show people were so scared the manager thought he better have religious services in the tent Sunday, so they got a revivalist preacher to preach to them, a fellow who used to preach to the cowboys out west. Sunday morning the tough fellows in the show said they wouldn't do a thing to the preacher when he came on to do his stunt. Their idea was to wait until he got well on his sermon and then begin to interrupt him and ask questions, and finally to get a blanket and toss him up a few times for luck, and then chase him out and have the circus bulldog, that chews the clown's pants, catch the minister's coat tail and just scare him plum to death. The boys said it would be the biggest picnic that ever was--a regular barbecue. The boss canvasman said he was opposed to mixing religion with the circus business, because the fellows could get all the religion they needed in the winter, when the show was laid up and he would see the boys through in anything they proposed to do to the sky pilot that was going to play his game in ring No. 1 at 10:30 the next day. Well, after I heard the circus men talk about what they would do to the preacher, I was afraid they would kill him, so when he and a helper brought a little melodeon into the ring, facing the reserved seats, I told him the boys were going to raise a rumpus and drive him out of the tent with the bulldog hanging to his coat tails. He put his hand on his pistol pocket and pulled a long, blue gun about half way out, and let it drop back down beside his leg, and he winked at me and said he guessed not, scarcely, as he had preached to crowds so tough that a circus gang was a Sunday school in comparison. Then I got on a front seat to watch the fun. About 800 of the circus hands, performers, clowns and peanut butchers, came in, snickering, and sat down on the reserved seats in front of the little pulpit, improvised from the barrels the elephants stand on, and some of them laughed and said: "Hello, Bill!" and "Ah, there!" and "Get on to his collar," and a lot of other things. The little husky preacher had a Salvation Army girl to play the melodeon, and he didn't take any notice of the remarks the boys made, except to set his jaws together and moisten his lips. Finally they were all seated, and he got up to open the services, when a big canvasman, a regular Smart Aleck, got up on a seat and said: "Pardner, how you going to open this jack pot?" The crowd laughed and the preacher pulled his long blue gun up out of his pocket, and laid it on the barrel, and then picked it up and pointed it at the big canvasman and said: "This game is going to be opened with this hand, seven of a kind, all 45 caliber, dum-dum bullets, and unless you sit down quick I will send a mess of bullets into your carcass right where your heart ought to be. If you open your mouth again before I say 'amen!' real loud at the close of the services, I will shoot all your front teeth out. Do you comprehend? If so, be seated." The big fellow dropped on to the blue seat, as though he had been hit with a piledriver, and the crowd was so tickled to have the bully's bluff called, that they cheered the preacher. Then he said, "We will now open this jack pot with singing and I shall keep one eye on the gentleman who was last up, but who is now seated pretty low down." You could have heard a pin drop. The preacher wiped his face calmly, and said: "We will now sing and I expect every man will sing, and to that end I will appoint Big Ike, who asked me how I was going to open this jack pot, to come down in front of the seats and lead in the singing, for I know by his voice, which I heard in debate, that he is a crackerjack," and the preacher took hold of the handle of the blue gun and Big Ike walked down through the rows of seats, and as the melodeon began to squawk, Ike got down in front of the audience, and some of the boys said: "Bully for you, Ike," and after scratching his head a minute Ike turned and walked towards the preacher, at the edge of the ring, and I thought there was going to be the worst fight ever was, and as the preacher reached for the gun I crawled under the seat, and peeked out between the legs of a fat man, but Ike walked up to the minister and said, as the melodeon began to cough: "Boys, this tune is on Ike." He started it and every man sang. [Illustration: After Scratching His Head a Minute, Ike Turned and Walked Toward the Preacher.] When it was ended the boys clapped and stamped for an encore, and they sang it through again, and the face of the preacher beamed with joy, and I saw there was not going to be any fight and I crawled out from under the seats. Pa came in the tent just then, with a new suit of clothes on, having been discharged from the hospital as cured of yellow fever, and I gave him my seat, and he held me in his lap. The preacher then preached a sermon that did them all good. He dwelt upon the hard life of the showman, and gave them such good advice that when it was all over and he said he wanted to shake hands with every man in the bunch, Ike marshaled them all up to the ring and introduced them, and no minister ever was more cordially congratulated, and they wanted him to go along with the show, and preach every Sunday. The preacher said he couldn't join the show, but he traveled around a good deal and he would probably be in the same town with the show several times during the summer and he would drop in on them occasionally and keep them straight. Pa was watching the crowd for the sailor who prescribed cayenne pepper for yellow fever, and when he saw the sailor come up to the minister, with tears in his eyes, and say: "Parson, I has been a bad man and killed a man once, but he was a Portuguese sailor, and he had the drop on me, the same as you did on Big Ike at the opening of these proceedings, and I had to kill him. And I begs the pardon of this old gentleman for lying to him." And then pa shook hands with the sailor and the parson, and the parson put his blue gun down his trousers leg, and said: "By the way, the bulldog you were going to let take a lunch off me, is he all right?" Then the parson and the girl went away, and the boys carried out the melodeon, and the quarantine was declared off. After dinner the boys took down the tents and put them on the train that Sunday afternoon, singing decent songs as they pulled up the stakes and rolled up the canvas, and on the train, late in the night, we could hear "Old Hundred" being sung as the cars ran through the pennyrial district of Indiana. CHAPTER VIII Pa Takes the Place of the Fat Woman with Disastrous Results--A Kentucky Colonel Causes a Row--Pa Tries to Roar Like a Lion and the Rhinoceros Objects--Pa Plays the Slot-Machine and Gets the Worst of It. This has been an eventful week with the show. We have had heat prostrations in Kentucky, nearly the whole show got drunk on 16-year-old whisky, and if it hadn't been for the animals keeping sober this show would have been pulled for disorderly conduct. Nobody knows how the row started, but pa says every man in Kentucky carries a blue gun and a bottle of red licker, and they wear white hats, so the red, white and blue business is all right, only it is a combination that is death on a circus. I think one of the ushers, at the afternoon performance, told an old colonel that he must move along quicker, when the colonel began to talk back, and say, "Who is you talkin' too, sah?" And the usher stood it as long as he could, when he took the colonel by the collar and sat him down so quick he didn't come to for a couple of minutes, and when the colonel got his senses, and found that the usher had ushered him into a seat between two gaily decorated colored women the trouble began. The colonel never forgot that he was a gentleman, for he rose up, took off his hat to the colored women, and said: "You must excuse me, ladies, but I shall have to go and kill the scoundrel who sat me down with niggers," and he got down off the seats and struck the usher with his cane, and the usher yelled: "Hey, Rube!" and all the circus people made a rush for the colonel. The colonel said, "Men of Kentucky, to the rescue," and before I could crawl under the seats the air was full of baggage, seats, tent pins and white hats, guns were fired, and blood flowed, and the police pulled everybody, and the evening performance was given up. One of the proprietors of the show got a wen on his head as big as a football from being struck by a handle of a revolver, and the colonel who started the row was knocked silly by a tray of red lemonade which the butcher smashed him with, and the colonel cried because the lemonade was all water, and he was afraid it would soak into him and cause him to warp. When the lemonade butcher apologized, and the usher told him it was all a mistake his being seated with the niggers, the colonel wept on their necks and invited the whole crowd to go to his distillery and help themselves. When we got to the next town every man in the show had a grouch and a Katzenjammer, and their hair was so sore it was murder and suicide combined to comb it. The way pa escaped injury was 'cause he had to take the place of the fat woman on the platform with the freaks, as the fat woman was overcome with the heat and had to stay in the car. The way they fixed pa up to resemble the fat woman was scandalous. They have some rubber things in the wardrobe tent that you can blow up and make a big arm, and a big leg, and a big stummick, so anybody couldn't tell the difference, and they fixed pa up with blowed up clothes of flesh colored rubber, and but for his chin whiskers you couldn't tell him from the fat woman. He said he wouldn't cut off his whiskers for anybody's circus, so they fixed a veil to cover part of his face and put the fat woman's dress on pa, and put him up beside the skeleton, the midget and the giant. Pa said he didn't want to do it, 'cause it seemed too much like fraud, but they told him the fate of the show depended on our all being willing to take any part assigned to us, and so pa sat down and began to fan himself, and tried to look flirty like a woman. The other freaks never noticed but what it was the fat woman until the show was half over. It was too much for me, and I just laffed at pa. I got up behind him and told him in a whisper that I wanted a dollar to play the slot machine, and he told me to go to thunder, and get out of there. I couldn't stand it to be insulted by my own father, so I took a hat pin out of the hat of the bearded lady and punched it into pa's blowed up rubber shirt, and pa began to sis, like a soda fountain, and the wind struck the living skeleton and blew him over like a cyclone, and by that time pa was blowing off wind in a dozen places that I had punctured, and he was scared for fear there wouldn't be anything left of him, and the giant saw the fat woman slowly fading away, and the coward had heart failure and lay down on the platform. Somebody shouted that the fat woman was all melting away, and a fellow who was watering a camel out of a bucket came to the rescue and threw the bucket of dirty water all over pa, and then I thought I better go away into the tent and see the fight, but pa was taken to the dressing room and rescued from the shrinking rubber balloons that were busted, and he said he would hunt the man that punctured his tire to his dying day, but he didn't know it was me. [Illustration: I Punctured Pa's Tires.] Gee, it looks to me as though pa has been engaged to act as the easy mark in this show. Say, they got pa to practice on roaring like a lion, so he could stand behind the cage when the lion has a sore throat and roar, and scare folks, and pa has been going around behind the cages, every evening, when the menagerie is closed, and the crowd in the main tent, making noises that have made the animals look at each other as much as to say, "Well, what do you think of that?" The rhinoceros was so disgusted at Paducah that he reached out his nose and took pa on his horn and held him up to the scorn of the other animals until pa's pants gave way and he was a sight, and he was so scared that he got out of the tent and made a run for our train, chased by the police, who thought he was a burglar that had been eat by a house dog. [Illustration: Chased by Police.] The worst thing we have had on pa was at Louisville, where we stayed over Sunday. Another fellow and I got a system on slot machines, and one day we beat the machines out of a shotbag full of nickels, and when we showed up at the tent all the fellows wanted to know how we did it, and pa said it was gambling, and we ought not to do it, but he also wanted to know how we managed to win, and when we told pa about it pa said it was no sin to beat a slot machine, 'cause it was an inanimate thing, just a machine, and anybody who could beat a nickel in the slot machine at his own game was equal to a Rockefeller. So after everybody had got excited about our nickels I told them how to beat the machine. I told them I didn't get excited and go rushing in where angels fear to tread, and feed the slot machine on good hard earned nickels of my own, but waited until the countrymen and tenderfeet had fed it on nickels until it was too full for utterance. When the machine swelled out like it was blowed up, and it kind of wheezed, like it was ready to cough up, and was only waiting for an excuse, I put a cough lozenger about the size of a nickel in the slot and turned the diaphram. The machine shuddered a minute and then had a regular hemorrhage, and coughed up a tin cupful of nickels into my hand, and the machine seemed to rest easy, and take nourishment again from the silly fellows, who thought they could beat it. Well, sir, the whole crowd was so excited they could hardly wait to find a slot machine, and finally they bought nearly all my cough lozengers, and went out into the night, and pa and I went along, 'cause pa said he understood all the slot machines were owned by Rockefeller, and he made more money on them than he did on Standard oil, and the money that he gave away to schools and churches was from his rake-off on his slot machines. Pa said it would be a good thing if someone could break up the reprehensible practice by beating the blasted machines to a finish. So pa he got a bag to bring back the nickels in, and a bunch of us went to a store where one whole side of the place was filled with slot machines, and the way the people were playing the game was scandalous. Pa watched a machine until the players had fed it so it seemed as though it would die unless it got air, and he stepped up and put in a lozenger and turned the wheel, and held the bag under the spout for the coin, but it didn't come. Some more fellows put in nickels, and the machine gave little hacking coughs and coughed up three or four nickels, but nothing that seemed at all in the nature of a financial hemorrhage, when pa took another lozenger and put it in, and by ginger the machine began to heave up nickels like it was in the trough of the sea. Pa was so excited he forgot to hold the bag, and nickels went all over the floor, and everybody made a grab for them, and pa was shoved aside, and he swore he would have the place pulled, and just then a law officer took pa in charge because he had put a cough lozenger in the slot machine, and he searched pa and found a lot more bronchial trochees, and pa was in for it on a charge of malpractice, for giving cough medicine for the stomach trouble of the slot machine, instead of pepsin tablets. They took pa in a back room and searched him some more, and found his roll, and then a man who said he was a lawyer offered to help pa, and keep him out of the penitentiary. He told pa the law of Kentucky made the crime of trifling with a slot machine the same as breach of promise, or arson, and that he would be lucky if he got off with ten years in the pen, with 30 days' solitary confinement in a Turkish bath cell, with niggers for companions. Pa turned blue and asked the lawyer if there was no way out of it, and the lawyer told him that for $120 in spot cash he would let him go, and fight the case after the show had got out of the state. A hundred and twenty-five dollars was the amount they found on pa, and he told them that inasmuch as they already had it, they better keep the money and let him go, and he would be always a living example of the terrors of gambling. So they let pa go, and all the way to the train he told us he hoped this experience would be a lesson to us not to covet the money of the rich, and as far as he was concerned, John D. Rockefeller could go plum to thunder with his money after this. Then we got to the car, and found about a dozens of the circus men who had been out to beat the slot machines, broke flat, and I had to divide my shot bag of nickels with them, that I had won before I let them into the game, before they would let me go to bed. Dad says this circus life is making me pretty tough. CHAPTER IX. The Bad Boy Feeds Cayenne Pepper to the Sacred Cow--He and His Pa Ride in a Circus Parade With the Circassian Beauties--A Tipsy Elephant Lands Them in a Public Fountain--Pa Makes the Acquaintance of John L. Sullivan. I am learning more about animals every day, and when the season is over I will be an expert animal man. Animals naturally have a language of their own, and lions understand each other, and bears can converse with bears, but in a show, all animals seem to have a common language, so they understand each other a little. I found that out when I put a paper of cayenne pepper into a head of lettuce and gave it to the sacred cow. She chewed the lettuce as peacefully as could be, and swallowed the cayenne pepper, and then stopped to think. You could tell by the expression on her face that when the pepper began to heat her up inside she wanted to swear, although she was a sacred cow. She humped herself, and shivered, and then bellowed like a calf who has been left in the barn to be weaned, while its mother goes out to pasture, and the sacred bull, her husband, he came and put his nose up to her nose, as much as to say: "What is the matter, dearie?" and she talked sacred cattle talk to him for a minute, and then the bull turned to me and chased me out of the tent. Now, as sure as you live that cow told the bull that I had given her something hot. All the animals within hearing were onto me, and they would snarl, and make noises when I came along, and act as though they wanted to make me understand that they knew I gave that cow a hot box, and they all wanted to get a chance at me. They don't like pa any better than they do me, and the big elephant seems to have been laying for pa ever since he run the sharp iron into him, the time he got on a tear and tried to run a town. When the elephants are performing in the ring, they all have an eye on pa, so everybody notices it. I knew something would happen to pa, so when the man who plays the sheik, and rides the elephant in the street parade, in a howdah, with a canopy over it, with some female houris in it, and they called for a volunteer to do the sheik act, at Steubenville, and pa offered to do the stunt, I went along as an Egyptian girl, 'cause I knew there would be something doing. The elephant eyed pa when he got up into the bungalow on top of him with the Circassian woman and me, and winked at the other elephants, as much as to say: "Watch my smoke." As he went out from the lot, on the way downtown, ahead of the bunch, all the other animals acted peculiar, and seemed to say: "He will get his before we get through this parade." The big elephant is one of the best ring performers, but he has always been steady in the street parade, with the light of Asia on his back. We got to the edge of town and stopped to let the rear wagons close up, and were in front of a saloon, where the bartender had been emptying stale beer out of the bottoms of kegs into a washtub, which was standing on the sidewalk, ready to be sold to people who buy it in pails. Well, sir, that confounded elephant got his trunk in that tub of stale beer, and he never took it out till the beer was all gone. I looked down from the pagoda and told pa the elephant was drinking again, and had drank a washtub of beer, but pa couldn't say anything, 'cause he was doing the Arab sheik act, and had to look dignified, as though he was praying to Allah. But just then the band struck up, and we started down the main street of Steubenville. The people began to cheer, 'cause our elephant began to hippity-hop, and waltz sideways across the street and back again, and I thought pa would die. In the parade one man on a horse attends to the elephants, so the sheiks don't have anything to say, and pa remained like a statue, and told me and the Circassian beauties to be calm, and trust in him and Allah. This Allah business was all right when the elephant waltzed, but when we got to the next block the beast began to stand on his hind feet, and pa and the houris rolled to the back end of the howdah, and were all piled in a heap, while I held on to the cloth of gold over the elephant's head. Pa yelled to the people on horseback to kill the elephant, and the crowd cheered, thinking it was the best performance they ever saw in a free street parade, and the animals in the cages behind were yapping as though they knew what was going on. The elephant got down on all fours, and we straightened up in the pagoda, and for a block or so the beast only waltzed around. As we got to some sort of a public square, where there were thousands of people, the stale beer seemed to be getting in its work, for the elephant looked at the people, as much as to say: "Now I will show you something not down on the bills," and, by ginger, if he didn't raise up his hind quarters and stand on his front feet, right by the side of a big fountain, and he reached in his trunk for a drink, when all of us on the pagoda clung to pa, and we all slid right off into the big basin of water. The fountain played on us, and pa was under water, with the four Circassian beauties, and when we rolled or slid down over the elephant's head, he looked at us and seemed to chuckle: "What you getting off here for, the show ain't half out." Well, the parade went on and left the elephant and the rest of us at the fountain, and to show that animals understand each other, and can appreciate a joke, every animal that passed us gave us the laugh, even the hippopotamus, which opened his mouth as big as a tunnel, and showed his teeth and acted as though he would like to exchange tanks with us. The circus people that could be spared from the wagons came to help us, and the citizens helped out the Circassian beauties who were praying to Allah, and wringing out their clothes, and I crawled up on the neck of a cast-iron swan in the fountain. Pa yelled and talked profane, and told 'em to bring a cannon and kill the elephant, which kept ducking him with his trunk, and swabbing out the bottom of the fountain basin with pa. It seemed as though he never would get through using pa for a mop, but finally the people got a rope around pa, and a keeper got an iron hook in the elephant's ear, and they pulled pa out on one side, and got the elephant away on the other side, and just then the callipoe, that ends the parade, came by us and played the "Blue Danube," and the elephant got on his hind feet and waltzed on the pavement. They put pa and the Circassian beauties in a patrol wagon and took them to the show lot, and I sat by the driver, and he let me drive the team. [Illustration: The Elephant Kept Ducking Pa and Swabbing Out the Bottom of the Fountain.] Pa had his sheik clothes rolled up around his waist, and was wringing them out, and talking awful sassy, and when we got to the lot it took a long time to convince the policemen that we were not guilty of disorderly conduct, and just then the elephant came tearing by us, with the keeper on horseback behind him, prodding him in the ham every jump with a sharp iron, and he went through the side of the tent as though he was mighty sorry he didn't kill us all. They made him get down on his knees and bellow in token of surrender, and then we all went and changed our clothes for the afternoon performance. As we passed through the menagerie tent, dripping, every animal set up a yell, as much as to say: "There, maybe you will give cayenne pepper to a pious sacred cow again, confound you," and that convinces me that animals are human. The last week has been the hardest on pa of any week since we have been out with the circus. The trouble with pa is that he wants to be "Johnny on the spot," as the boys say, and if anything breaks he volunteers to go to work and fix it, and if anybody is sick or disabled, he wants to take their place, as he says so he will learn everything about the circus, and be competent to run a show alone next year. But it was a mean trick the principal owner of the show played on pa at Canton, O. You see John L. Sullivan used to do a boxing act with this show, years ago, and everybody likes John, and when he shows up where the show gives a performance he has the freedom of the whole place, and everybody about the show is ready to fall over themselves to do John L. a service. Well, Sullivan showed up at Canton, and he went everywhere, all the forenoon, and met all the old timers, and at the afternoon performance he was awfully jolly. John was standing beside the ring when the Japanese jugglers were juggling, and he leaned against a pole. Pa came in from the menagerie tent, and he didn't know Sullivan, and when he saw Sullivan holding the pole up, pa said to the boss proprietor that the fat man who was interfering with the show ought to be called down or put out. The boss said to pa: "You go take him by the ear and put him out," and pa, who is as brave as lion, started for Sullivan, and the boss winked at the other circus men, and pa went up to Sullivan and took hold of John's neck with both hands, and said: "Come on out of here." Well, sir, we ought to have moving pictures of what followed. Sullivan turned on pa, and growled just like a lion. Then he took pa around the waist and held him up under his arm, and picked up a piece of board and slatted pa just as though pa was a child, and the audience just yelled, and pa called to the circus men for help, but they just laughed. [Illustration: John L. Slatted Pa Just as Though He Was a Child.] Pa got a chance at the fat man and he hit him in the jaw, but it did not hurt Sullivan, only made him mad. He took pa up by the collar and whirled him around until pa was dizzy, and then he started with him for the menagerie tent, and called to the boss canvasman: "Bill, come on and tell me which is the hungriest lion, and I will feed him with this cold meat." Pa yelled, 'cause he thought he was in the hands of an escaped lunatic, and the circus hands came and took him away. Then the owner told pa who Sullivan was, and pa almost fainted. But finally, after breathing hard for awhile, pa went up to Sullivan and shook his hand, and said: "Mr. Sullivan, you must excuse me. If I had known you were the great John L., I would not have licked you." Sullivan looked at pa and said: "Well, you are a wonder, old man, and you did do me up," and pa and Sullivan became great friends. Since then pa is pretty chesty, 'cause the circus men point him out to the jays as the man who whipped John L. Sullivan. CHAPTER X. The Bad Boy and His Pa Drive a Roman Chariot--They Win the Race, but Meet With Difficulties--The Bearded Lady to the Rescue--A Farmer's Cart Breaks Up the Circus Procession. Ohio was a hoodoo for the circus business, and Kentucky got the whole bunch ready for a long stay at Dwight, Ill., but the agent routed us into Pennsylvania, and pa has had nothing but a series of disasters since striking the state. Pa gave notice that when we got to his old home, at Scranton, where he lived when he was a boy, he wanted to sort of run things, so his old neighbors would see that he had got up in the world since he left the old town. So the manager gave pa about 400 free tickets to distribute among his friends, and arranged for pa to show off as the leading citizen in the show. He was offered a chance to take the place of the clown, the ring master or anybody whose duty he thought he could perform. Pa selected the place of driver of the Roman chariot with four horses abreast, in place of the Irish Roman who was accustomed to drive the chariot in the race with the female charioteer, a muscular girl who used to clerk in a livery stable at Chicago. The chariot race is a fake, because it is arranged for the girl to win, so the audience will go wild and cheer her, so she has to come bowing all around the ring. The way the job is put up is for the two chariots to start, and go around twice. On the first turn the man driver is ahead, and takes the pole, and on the second turn the girl's ahead, and she takes the pole, and on the third turn the man is ahead, and they begin to whip the horses, who seem crazy, and on the last stretch the man holds his team back a little, and the girl passes him and comes out a trifle ahead, and the crowd goes wild. Well, the master of ceremonies coached pa about the business, and told him what to do. They knew he could drive four horses, because he said he was an old stage driver, and when he got in the chariot with the Roman suit on gleaming with gold, and the brass helmet, and the cloth of gold gauntlets, and stood up like a senator, gee, I was proud of him, and when he and the female drove out of the dressing-room and halted by the door for the announcer to announce the great Ben Hur chariot race, I got into the chariot behind pa, and told him he must win the race, or the people of Scranton would mob him. For they knew these races were usually fixed beforehand, but since he was to drive one of the teams, all his friends were betting on him, and if he pulled the team and let that livery stable lady win the race, they would accuse him of giving free tickets to get them in the show and skin them out of their money. Pa said to me: "This race is going to be on the square, and you watch my smoke. Do you think I would let that red-headed dish washer beat me? Not on your life." The play is to have a little boy kiss the male driver good-by, and a little girl kiss the female driver good-by, as though they were taking their lives in their hands. I had climbed up to pa and put my arms around his neck, and kissed him, and a girl kissed the female, when the gong sounded, and both four-horse teams made a jump, before I could get out of the chariot, so I got right in front of pa and peeked over the dashboard of the chariot, and, gee, but didn't we fairly whizz by the poles, and the audience looked like a panorama. Pa got the pole and kept it, and we went around three times, and found the female chariot ahead of us, cause pa had gone around twice to her once. She turned out a little right by the band-stand, and pa run his team right inside her chariot and caught her wheel, and when he yelled to his team, her cart, team, and all were thrown right into the band, which scattered over the backs of the seats. The horses were all mixed up with the instruments, and the female driver was thrown into the air and came down in a sitting position right into the bass drum. She went right through the sheepskin, so her head and hands and feet were all of her that remained outside the drum. [Illustration: Her Cart, Team and All Were Thrown Right Against the Band.] She yelled for help and the circus hands rolled the drum, with her in it, into the dressing-room, where they had to cut the sides of the drum with an ax, to get her out, while others caught her horses and pulled the chariot out of the band, and the music stopped; but pa went on forever. He went around six times yelling like an Indian at a green corn dance, and when he thought it was time to let up, because he had missed the other chariot, he pulled so hard he broke the lines on the two inside horses and then it was a runaway for sure, and the audience stood up on the seats and yelled, and women fainted. Finally the circus hands grabbed some hurdles, and threw them across the track, near the main entrance, and when we came around the last time, two of the horses jumped the hurdles all right, but two fumbled and fell down, and there was a crash, and I didn't know anything until I felt cold water on my face that tasted sour, and colored my shirt red, and I found the lemonade butcher was bringing me to by pouring a tray of lemonade over me. When my eyes opened, I saw a sight that I shall never forget. It seems that when the horses fell down, the chariot and the other two horses and pa and I had landed all in a heap right on top of the lemonade and peanut concession, and carried it up onto a row of seats near the main entrance from the menagerie. The elephants that were to come on next were in the door waiting for their signal, and they were scared at the crash, and they came in bellowing, the keepers having lost all control of them. The audience was stampeding, and the circus men were trying to straighten things out. Pa struck on his head against a wagon wheel and his brass helmet was driven down over his face, so when he yelled to be pulled out of the helmet his voice sounded like a coon song, coming from a phonograph. It was the closest call from death pa ever had, 'cause they had to cut the helmet with a can opener to let pa out, like you open a can of lobsters. When they got the helmet opened so pa could come out, he looked just like a boiled lobster, and when the chief owner of the circus came up on a run, and asked if pa was dead, pa said: "Not much, Mary Ann; did I win?" and the manager said it was a pity they ever opened that helmet and let pa out. The man told pa he won in a walk, but the chief of police of Scranton was going to arrest pa for exceeding the speed limit. [Illustration: Pa Struck on His Head Against a Wagon Wheel.] They took pa to the dressing-room on a piece of board, and when the woman driver saw him, she got an ax, and wanted to cleave him from head to foot, but the bearded woman stepped in front of her and said: "Not on your life," and she shielded pa from death with her manly form, which pa says he shall never forget. Pa's old friends in Scranton gave him a banquet that night, but pa couldn't eat anything, cause the rim of the brass helmet cut a gash in his Adam's apple. After the chariot race the managers concluded they wouldn't let pa have any position of importance again very soon, and I made up my mind you wouldn't ever catch me in any game that pa was in; but in the circus business you can never tell what is going to happen from one day to another. On the train on the way to Wilkes Barre there was a hot box on one of the sleepers, and the car was side-tracked all night. When we arrived at the town about 40 wagon drivers that were in the car did not show up, and they had to press everybody that could drive a team into the service to haul the stuff to the lot, and pa drove four horses so well with a load of tent poles that the manager complimented pa, and that gave pa the big head. When the parade was all ready to start through town, and the drivers had not arrived, the manager asked pa if he thought he could drive the ten gray horses on the band wagon, to lead the procession, and pa said driving ten horses was his best hold, and he got up on the driver's seat, and called me to get up with him, and I hate a boy that will disobey a parent, so I climbed up and began to jolly the band about the chariot race, and I told them pa wouldn't do a thing to them this time. The manager of the show always rides ahead of the parade, with the chief of police of the town, and the band horses follow him, so it is easy enough to drive ten horses, cause all you have to do it to hold on to the 20 lines, and look savage at the crowd on the sidewalks, and the horses go right along, and the people think the driver is a wonder. So when the manager started in his buggy pa pulled up on all the lines he could hold on to, which filled his lap, and made him look like a harness maker, and he yelled: "Ye-up," and the procession moved, and the ten teams pa was driving went along all right, and pa looked as though he owned the show and the town. We got downtown, to a wide street, and there was a fire alarm ahead, or something, and the procession stopped, and the manager and chief of police disappeared, and there was a wagon load of green corn stalks right beside the lead team, which a farmer was taking to a silo, but he had stopped his team to see the parade. The three teams of pa's leaders, six horses, began to eat the corn stalks, and the camels, that were behind us, worked along up by the band wagon and began to eat, and the farmer got scared to see his corn stalks disappearing, so he drove off on a side street, and started for the silo, and by ginger, pa's team turned onto the side street and followed the wagon of corn stalks, and pa couldn't hold them, and the band played, "In the Good Old Summer Time, There Will Be a Hot Time in the Old Town." The camels kept up with the farmer's wagon, too, and the whole parade followed the band. The farmer started his horses into a run, and the team of ten horses that was driving pa started to galloping, and I looked back, and the elephants were beginning to gallop, and all the cages were coming whooping, and it was a picnic. The band stopped playing, and the players were scared, and as we were crossing a little bridge over a small stream, on the edge of town, I turned around to the band and told them to jump for their lives, and they all made a jump for the stream, and the air was full of uniforms and instruments, and they landed in the stream all right. We went on up a hill, and were in the country, and the farmer turned into a farmyard, and the band wagon followed, and the farmer jumped off the corn stalk wagon and rushed for the house, and pa's ten-horse team surrounded the wagon, and every horse was eating corn stalks, and the team was all mixed up. The camels and the elephants crowded in for the nice green lunch, and the farmer's wife came out with her apron waving, and said "Shoo," but none of the animals shooed worth a cent, and pa pulled on the lines, and yelled, while the rest of the parade came into the farm and lined up. The drivers yelled at pa to know where in thunder he was going, and pa said: "Damfino." Just then the manager and chief of police came up, and the way they talked to pa was awful. Pa couldn't explain how it was that he took the parade out in the country, and you never saw such a time. By this time the regular drivers had arrived on a special, from where we left them with a hot box, and they took possession of the teams, and we got back to the circus lot in time for the afternoon performance. I don't know what they are doing to pa, but they had him in the manager's tent all the afternoon with some doctors, who seem to be examining him for insanity. Everybody about the show thinks pa has hoodooed the aggregation, but pa says such things are always happening, and it is wrong to blame him. The farmer got paid for his corn stalks, and it is to be charged up to pa. CHAPTER XI. The Bad Boy and His Pa in a Railroad Wreck--Pa Rescues the "Other Freaks"--They Spend the Night on a Meadow--A Near-Sighted Claim Agent Settles for Damages--Pa Plays Deaf and Dumb and Gets Ten Thousand. It has come at last. Everybody about the show expects that the show has got to have a railroad wreck every season, and all hands lay awake nights on the cars to brace themselves for the shock. Sometimes it comes early in the season, and again a show goes along until almost the end of the season without a shake-up, and fellows think maybe there is not going to be any wreck, but the engineers are only waiting till everybody has forgotten about it, and then, biff, bang, and they have run into another train, or been run into, and you have to be pulled out of a window by the heels, and laid out in a marsh until the claim agents can settle with you. I always thought in reading of railroad accidents, that the railroad sent out a special trainload of doctors and nurses, to care for the injured, but the special train never has a doctor until the lawyers give first aid to the wounded in the way of financial poultices for the cripples. People in our business are on the railroads, and we work them for all there is in it; and the man that is hurt the least makes the biggest howl, and gets the biggest slice of indemnity. Some circus people spend all their salary as they go along, and live all winter on the damages they get from the railroads when the wreck comes. The night of the wreck our train was whooping along at about 90 miles an hour, on a hippity-hop railroad in Pennsylvania, and the night was hot, and the mosquitoes from across the line in New Jersey were singing their solemn tunes, and pa, who attended a lodge meeting that night at the town we showed in, was asleep and talking in his sleep about passwords and grips, and the freaks and trapeze performers in our car had got through kicking about how the show was running into the ground, when suddenly there was a terrific smash-up ahead, an engine boiler exploded, a freight car of dynamite on a side track exploded and there was a grinding and bumping of cars. Then they rolled down a bank, over and over, so the upper berth was the lower berth half the time, and finally the whole business stopped in a hay marsh, and the bilge water in the marsh leaked into the hold of our car; people screamed, and some one yelled "fire!" and I pulled on pa till he woke up. I thought pa's head was all caved in, because he talked nutty. The first thing he said was: "Say I, pronounce your name, and repeat after me," and then he said: "I promise and swear that I will never reveal the secrets of this degree," and then the conductor pulled pa's leg and said: "Crawl out of the window, old man, 'cause the train is in the ditch, the car is afire, and if you don't get out in about a minute with the other freaks, you will be a burnt offering." Pa said you couldn't fool him, 'cause he knew he was being initiated into the 20-steenth degree of the Masons, and he guessed he could tell a degree from a train wreck, 'cause the degree was a darn sight worse than a wreck, but the conductor took one of those long glass fire extinguishers and sprinkled the medicated water on the freaks in the next berth, and then turned it on pa, and pa tasted it, and thought he was at a banquet, and he said "that sauterne is not fit to drink." Then when the bearded woman yelled that the fire had almost reached her whiskers, and would nobody save her, pa began to get ready to move on, 'cause he concluded he hadn't been riding a goat after all, and he told me to hand him his pants. Pa is a man that will never go out among people, no matter how dark the night is, without his pants, and I admire him for it. Some of the circus men didn't care for dress that night, but got out just as they were, and the result was that when daylight came they had to tie hay around their legs. Our car was bottom-side up, but I found pa's pants and he got his legs in, and I buttoned him in, but I felt all the time as though I had buttoned them in the back, so the seat was in front, but the fire was crackling and pa pushed me out of a transom, and then he crawled out, and we sat down in the mud. The bearded woman came next, with her whiskers done up in curl papers, and then the fat woman got one foot through the transom, and she couldn't get it back in, and the train hands got an ax and were going to cut her leg off, and save one foot, at least, when pa got a move on him, and took the ax and broke out the side of the car, and got her out. Eight or nine men lifted her tenderly onto a stack of hay, and she wrapped it around her, 'cause she left her clothes in her berth. [Illustration: Pa Got an Ax and Cut the Fat Woman Out.] Well, it was a sight when the people were got out of our car, and they let it burn, to light up the scene, and pa and I and the boss canvasman went along the ditched train, and helped people out. The giant was in two upper berths, and he got one leg out of the transom over one berth, and one leg out of the transom over the other berth, and we pulled his legs, but he couldn't make it, so pa took an ax and made both berths into one, and got him out. The giant shook himself and started on a run across the marsh, but he mired up to his neck, and a farmer who heard the noise came to order us off his hay field for trespass, and yelled: "Here's a head of some of your performers cut off away over here," and he was going to bring it in, when the farmer found the head was alive, and he ran away from it. In an hour we had everybody out, and made beds for them by spreading out hay cocks, and nobody seemed to be hurt so very much. We heard a locomotive whistle up the road, and some one said the relief train was coming with doctors and nurses, but the show owner who was with us said: "Relief doctors, nothing. That is a train-load of lawyers and claim agents to settle with us. The doctors will not come till to-morrow. Now, everybody pretend to be hurt awful bad, and strike the sharks for $10,000 apiece, and come down to $100, if you can't do any better." It was getting daylight, and the relief train stopped, and the good Samaritans came wading into the hay marsh, bent on settling with us cheap. The first lawyer asked the principal owner how many were killed, 'cause they could figure exactly how much they have to pay for a dead one, but the live ones are the ones that make trouble for a railroad, 'cause they can kick and argue. The boss said nobody was dead, but the giant, who was mired in out of sight. The giant heard what was said, and he yelled that he was alive, and wouldn't settle for less than $20,000, but the claim agent said the giant would be dead in 15 minutes in that quicksand, so he would let him sink, and pay for him as a dead one. The giant said if they would pull him out of the mud he would settle for $100, and they pulled him out, and the rest of the injured were going to mob him for settling so cheap. One of the claim agents found the bearded woman sitting on a hay cock, combing out her whiskers, and asked what it would take to settle, and she said $10,000, and she got up and walked over to another hay cock where the Circassian beauty was drying her hair, and the claim agent looked at how spry the bearded woman walked, and he said to the boss: "I won't give that fellow with the curly whiskers a single kopeck," and the bearded woman came back and swatted the claim agent for calling her a fellow. So they compromised on $200, and she went behind the haystack and put it in her stocking, which convinced the claim agent that she wasn't a man. A near-sighted claim agent came to the haystack where the fat woman was, and the boss told her now was her time to have a mess of hysterics, so she set up a cry that scared the agent, who thought there were at least six women on the haystack, and he said: "What will all of you people up there on the haystack settle for in a lump, for I am in a hurry?" The fat woman caught on at once, and said: "We will all settle for $10,000." Then she yelled, and the agent thought her back was broke, and he offered $7,500, and she cried and said: "Make it $10,000," and the agent said: "I will go you," and he made out a check, and the fat woman had some more hysterics. I had watched the settling all around, and I told pa to be deaf and dumb when they came to him, and just point to the seat of his pants in front and buttoned up behind, and look as though he was suffering the tortures of the inquisition, and let me do the talking, and I would make the old railroad go into a receiver's hands. So pa said: "You are the boss," and he looked so pitiful that I almost cried. When the near-sighted claim agent came to pa, I told him that pa's last words were to beg to be shot, and the man looked at pa's pants, and then at his face, and said: "What hit him? That's the worst case I ever saw in a railroad wreck." [Illustration: "What Hit Him? That's the Worst Case I Ever Saw!"] I put my handkerchief to my eyes and said: "Well, when the shock came, pa was all right, as handsome a man as you would often see. I think there must have been a pile driver on the train that struck him, and changed sides with him, knocking his stomach around on the back side of him, and placing his spinal column around in front of him, where his stomach was, and causing him to lose the sense of speech. Think of a middle-aged man going through life mixed up in that manner, having to sit down on his stomach, and having his backbone staring him in the face. How does he know when he takes food in his mouth that it can corkscrew around under his arm and eventually find his stomach? How a man can be ground and twisted, and mauled, and stamped on by a reckless locomotive with a crazy engineer and a drunken fireman, rolled over by box cars, and walked on by elephants, and still live, is beyond me. As he told me before he lost the power of speech, not to be too hard on the railroad company, though some railroads would be glad to pay him $20,000, and no questions asked, he begged me, as heir to his estate, to let you off for a paltry $10,000." Pa made up the darndest face, and groaned. The agent called another agent, and they whispered together, and finally the first one came to me and asked pa's full name, and then the two of them got out a fountain pen, and they made out a check, and he said: "This is the first case in the history of railroad wrecking that the agent has not had the heart to try to beat the injured party down. This is certainly the most pitiful case that has ever been known, and if your father ever comes to his senses you can tell him he is welcome to the money." The agents shook hands with pa and I, and went away to their train, and pa winked at me, and a wrecking train came and we got on a special, and got to Pittsburg before breakfast, and pa is going to buy me a dog out of the money. Gee, but there is all kinds of money in the circus business. Pa is going to wear his pants hind side before until we get out of Pittsburg. CHAPTER XII. The Bad Boy Causes Trouble Between the Russian Cossacks and the Jap Jugglers--A Jap Tight-Rope Walker Jiu-Jitsu's Pa--The Animals Go on a Strike--Pa Runs the Menagerie for a Day and Wins Their Gratitude. I did not mean any harm when I told the Japanese jugglers that they ought to kick against having those Russian cavalrymen in the show, the fellows who ride horses standing up, in the wild-west department, 'cause I had listened to their Russian talk, and it seemed to me they were spies who were looking for a chance to do injury to the "poor little Japs." I could see that I made the Japs mad the first thing, and then I told them that pa and all the managers of the show felt sorry for the little Japs, 'cause some day the big Russians would ride right over them, and kill them right in the ring. I said that everybody thought the Japs ought to resign from the show, for fear of a clash with the Russians, or else they ought to have some grown persons to act as chaperones. You ought to have seen the look of scorn on the faces of the Jap jugglers when the interpreter told them that the circus people were afraid the Russians would hurt them. They jabbered awhile, and then the interpreter told me that the ten little Japs could whip the 20 Russians in four minutes. Probably it was none of my business, and I never ought to have repeated it, but in a circus everybody wants to know everything that is going on, so when the big leader of the Russians asked me what those brown monkeys were talking about, I told him: "Nothing particular, only they say the ten of them could lick you 20 Russians in four minutes." Gee, didn't that Russian talk kopec and damski, and froth at the mouth. Then he called his Russians together, and the talk sounded as though a soda fountain had burst. Then they all yelled: "Killovitch the monkey-ouskis." [Illustration: "Gee, But Didn't That Russian Talk Kopec and Damski."] I went and told pa there was going to be a riot between the Jap jugglers and the Russian horsemen, and probably the fight would take place when the Japs came out of the ring at the afternoon performance, and the Russians went in, right near the dressing-room. I asked pa not to mix in it, but keep away in the animal tent. Pa said, not much, he wouldn't be away, and he told all the managers, and they all got around the dressing-room to stop the muss, if one started. Well, to show how the Japs were organized, as soon as they felt there was going to be a row, they kept their eyes on the Russians all the time they were in the ring doing their pole balancing, and the little Jap up on the bamboo pole, with a fan, kept jabbering to the fellows down on the ground, and I could see that trouble was coming. When their act was over the Japs bowed to the audience, and started out where the Russians were lined up to come riding in. The big Russian said: "Look at the little monkeys," but he hadn't got the words out of his mouth before the Japs turned, and every man grabbed the tail of every other horse, and jumped up behind the Russians, and each of the ten Japs took a Russian by the neck with a jiu jitsu strangle hold, and reached out his leg and wound it around the Russian on the next horse, and in ten seconds they had unhorsed the 20 Russians. The whole 30 men were on the ground rolling in the sawdust, the Japs rolling over and under the Russians, twisting their legs and arms in an unknown manner, and making them yell for help like a mastiff that has trifled in an overbearing manner with a little bulldog, until the bulldog got mad and began the chewing act on the mastiff's fore leg. It was the worst mix-up ever was and the managers told pa to put a stop to it, and pa pulled off his coat and grabbed the first Jap he could dig out, and began to pull him, like you would take hold of the leg of a dog in a fight. Pa said: "Here, quit this foolishness, 'cause there is an armistice, and the war is over, anyway." O! O! but the Jap didn't do a thing to pa. He grabbed pa by the wrist, and he seemed to be having an epileptic fit, and pa's leg shot out so his feet hit a guy pole, and then the Jap pulled him back like he was a rubber ball on a string, and then he took pa by the elbow and held him out at arm's length, and then swung him around a few times and let go of him, and he fell down among the reserved seats which representatives of the press occupy. Pa stood on one ear on a crushed chair, with his legs over the railing, and when he came to, the newspaper men wanted to interview pa. Pa said all he remembered was that the air ship was sailing over the town, and they threw him out for ballast, and he struck a church spire and bounded onto a warehouse filled with dynamite, which exploded when he struck it, and the neighbors picked his remains up on a dustpan and emptied them in here, Then he asked if his head was on straight, and the circusmen took him away to the hospital tent. [Illustration: "O, But the Jap Didn't Do a Thing to Pa!"] The circus hands separated the Russians and Japs, or at least pulled off the Japs, and the Russians limped to the dressing-room, and their act was cut out. Unless the terms of peace between Japan and Russia include the belligerents in our show, there will be rows every day. Pa came to the car on crutches that night just before the train pulled out for Philadelphia, and wanted to know where I was during the fight. He said he rushed right in and grabbed a Jap in one hand and a Russian in the other, and bumped their heads together, and threw one of them towards the ring, and the other up among the seats, and he wanted to know if I thought he killed either or both of them. I hate a boy that will deceive his father, but I told him there was talk about two performers, one a Russian and the other a Jap, that were left at the morgue, but I didn't know anything sure about it, and pa said: "I was afraid I should hurt them, but they brought it on themselves by breaking the rules of the show against fighting during a performance," and pa rolled over and groaned in his berth, and went to sleep and snored so the freaks wanted to have a nose bag, such as horses eat out of, pulled over pa's face. The queerest thing that ever happened in the circus business in this country took place at Germantown, Pa. The teamsters went on a strike at Pittsburg, for increase in wages and shorter hours, and for two days the management had a great time. We had to get drays to haul the stuff from the train to the lot, and then our teamsters got the local draymen to join them, and when we got ready to haul the stuff back to the train nobody would do any work, and the walking delegates from the Teamsters' union just took possession of the show, and we were stuck, like an automobile when the gasoline gives out. We had got to looking at the teamsters as of no particular account when they walked out, but when they wouldn't work, they became the most important part of the show, and after the show was over the managers who had told the striking teamsters to go plumb, found that they had gone plumb, and they had to rush all over Pittsburg and find them, and grant their demands, and get them to go to work. Pa was sent out to find a bunch of them, and it cost pa over $30 to get them out of a beer garden, and back to the lot, and it was almost daylight before we got our train started for the next town. Well, at the next town we could see there was something the matter with the animals. They acted as though they had lost all interest in the success of the show, and wouldn't do any of their stunts worth a cent. The elephants went through their act carelessly, and when they were scolded or prodded with the iron hook, they got mad and wanted to fight, and when they got back from the ring to the animal tent they wouldn't eat the baled hay but threw it all over the tent, and acted riotous. The kangaroos would not do their boxing act, the horses kicked at their hay, and wouldn't eat their oats, the camels growled at their food, and scared the people who passed by where they were tied to stakes, the sacred cattle got their backs up and acted as though they, being pious, couldn't swear, but would like to hire the hyenas to swear for them; the giraffes laid down and curled their necks so they were no attraction to the show, 'cause a giraffe is no curiosity unless he stretches himself away up towards the top of the tent. The zebras rolled in the mud and spoiled their stripes, so people couldn't tell them from common mules; the grizzly bear walked his cage, and kept giving vent to bear language, and the big lion was howling all the time. The show was a failure at that town, and when we loaded the train the managers held a meeting in our car to decide what in thunder was the matter with the animals. All kinds of theories were advanced, such as poison, malaria from Indiana, and pure cussedness. After they had discussed the matter awhile, pa came in, and they asked him what he thought about it, and that tickled pa, 'cause as foolish as he looks, he helps the show out of lots of bad holes. Pa lit a cigar and put it in one side of his mouth, put his hat up on one side of his head, like he was tough, and looked wise, and said: "Fellow fakirs, I have been watching the animals all day, and while I do not say they understand enough of the ways of human beings to be posted on labor unions, and all that, I want to tell you they are on a strike, and that grizzly and that lion are the walking delegates that are stirring them up to mischief. They may not know anything about the teamsters' strike, but they know something has happened, and they are displeased at something, and they have lost respect for the employer. They are on a strike, and the very devil is going to pay to-morrow, unless the cause of the dissatisfaction is discovered, mutual concessions made, and arbitration resorted to. "Gentlemen, you hear me," said pa, and he sat down on the edge of the arm of the car seat. They gave pa the laugh, but finally told him to take charge of the strike and settle it quick, but they wanted to know what he thought animals would be dissatisfied about, as long as they got food enough to eat. Pa said: "I'll tell you. You feed the horses and other hay-eating animals on musty baled hay, bought from contractors that may have had it on hand for five years. How would you like it if you were served with breakfast food that had been stored in a warehouse until it was mildewed? A horse or an elephant has feelings. Give them baled hay, and when they are trying to pick out a mouthful that is not spoiled, you drive along with a load of nice new-mown timothy or alfalfa, and see them make a rush for that load of hay, the way my ten-horse team did the other day for that load of cornstalks. Then the sacred cattle are hot under the collar because of the fellows who use profanity. Can you imagine a sacred cow trying to be good, and set a pious example to the heathen animals, being patient when they have to listen to swearing? You buy meat that is tainted for the lions, who like fresh meat, and the jackal, that only loves bad meat, gets the only sirloin in the lot. Let me run the menagerie to-morrow, and I will have Mr. Lion, the walking delegate, declare this strike off." Well, they told pa to arbitrate the strike, and the next day he had a couple of loads of timothy hay, such as mother used to make, driven in and unloaded, and the horses, elephants, camels, and things almost set up a cheer for pa. The meat-eating animals were given a picnic of the freshest beef, with a little so decayed that it was only fit to be buried, for the hyenas and jackals, and every animal was happy. They did their turns better than ever, and the sacred cattle almost acted devilish. Now the animals have declared the strike off, and they want to lick pa's hand. The owners of the show appreciate genius, and they have raised pa's salary and given him full charge of the menagerie. CHAPTER XIII. The Circus Strikes the Quaker City--They Go on a Ginger Ale Jag--Pa Breaks Up an Indian War Dance and Comes Near Being Burned Alive--The World's Fair Cannibals Have a Roast Dog Feast. Ever since we knew the show was billed for Philadelphia for a Saturday and that we should have to stay over Sunday in that town, there has been symptoms of a revolt. Everybody connected with the show has a horror of being found dead in Philadelphia. They claim it is too dead for live people, and not very satisfactory to dead people. A performer who was with the show last year says that nobody but the newspaper people who had free tickets attended the performances, and some of them wouldn't go in the tent unless the press agent promised to set up a free lunch, with devilish ginger ale to drink, and that the press people got riotous on ginger ale. A ginger ale jag is terrible. When a man is full of ginger ale his intestines loop the loop, and tie up in knots, and gripe like cholera infantum, and unless his friends hold him he goes out into the world and wants to kill the women and children, and non-combatants. Last year our press agents filled up the members of the local press with ginger ale, and when we struck Philadelphia this time the newspapers had sworn out warrants for our show, on the charge of compounding a felony, which I suppose is the legal name for ginger ale. The way the Quakers patronize a show is to put on their gray clothes, and their big white hats and stand on the corners when the parade goes by, and never crack a smile, or act interested, and when the parade has passed they go to the circus lot and see the balloon ascension, and stand on wagon wheels and try to look over the side of the tent at the performance, and then they kick because the audience on the back seats cut off their view from the wagon wheels. Last year our show killed a Quaker, and the community is down on us. The Quaker got in the show because he owned a half inch of ground that its tents were on, and he stood right by the ring, and when the champion female rider was suspended in the air between two bareback horses, he leaned over too far inside the ring, and she kicked his hat clear up to the roof of the tent, and a female trapeze performer up there caught it and sat down on it on the trapeze. The old Quaker had heart disease and fell dead. What the Quakers complained of was that after the Quaker's remains had been removed from the ring, that the show went right on. They claimed that we ought to have shown proper respect for the dead by closing the show for 30 days, and wearing crape on our arms, but a circus is not built that way. Ordinarily it may be quiet enough in Philadelphia on Sunday, but pa found that he had more of a run for his money than at any place we have been so far. We have had a tribe of Indians with our wild west department all summer, and pa has not stood very well with the Indians since he was in charge of the show at Fort Wayne, and they all got drunk, and he had them tied up to the poles around the ring until they got sober. They have laid for pa ever since, and it was only a matter of time when they got him. Then at Pittsburg our manager picked up a company of cannibals that had got left over from the St. Louis fair, and who agreed to perform for their board and clothes, and as they don't wear any clothes to speak of, and only eat dog week days, and hope to get a human being to roast on Sunday, it seemed a pretty good bargain. Well, the Indians got permission to hold a green corn dance in a piece of woods near the circus lot, and the management got them a wagon load of corn, and they had built a fire and were roasting the corn, and dancing, and pa didn't know about it, and just after dark the Quaker who owned the woods complained to pa, who was on watch Sunday night, that his Indians had got off the reservation and were preparing to go on the warpath, and he wanted them to get off his premises. Pa said he would go right over and drive them back to the tents. I tried to get pa to let the police go and drive them off, but he said he hadn't no time to go and wake up the police, and they wouldn't get around anyway before the middle of the week. So pa took a tent stake and started for the green corn roast. The Indians were taking turns dancing and eating roasted corn, and they had a barrel of beer, and I knew enough about Indians to keep away from them when they mix beer with green corn, for it has about the same effect as committing suicide with carbolic acid. Pa put his hat on one side of his head and went right into the midst of the Indians, and grabbed a chief called "One Ear at a Time," and hit him with the tent stake, and knocked him down, and said, "Now, you git." Well, sir, that Indian had no more than struck the fire in a sitting position, and filled the air with the odor of fried buckskin, before the whole tribe jumped on pa, and they kicked him with their moccasins, and were going to murder him, while the chief who acted as the burnt offering got out of the fire, and sat down in the cold mud to cool himself. He held up his hand as a signal of attention, and he called a council of war, while the squaws sat on pa to hold him down. The council of war sentenced pa to be burned at the stake, and they tied him to a tree and began to pile sticks around him, and pa told me to go to the circus lot and give an alarm, and send the hands to rescue him. Gee, but didn't I run though, and yell an alarm big enough for a massacre. I told the hands, who were sleeping under the seats, or playing cards on the trunks that the Indians were burning pa at the stake, and some of the hands said that would serve him right, and the fellows that were playing cards said they didn't want to break up the game when they were losers, to rescue no baldheaded curmudgeon. I thought pa was a goner, sure, 'cause I could hear the Indians yell, and I thought I could smell flesh burning. Oh, but I was scared for fear they would burn pa alive. [Illustration: The Indians Tied Pa to a Tree and Began to Pile Sticks Around Him.] Just then the man who had charge of our cannibals, who each had a dog that they were looking for a place to roast, came along and I told him about the Indians' corn roast, and he ordered the cannibals to go drive the Indians away from their fire and roast their dogs. Well, it worked like a charm, and the cannibals made a rush for the Indians and drove them away just as they had lighted the fire around pa, and we were not a minute too soon. After the Indians had skedaddled for the woods, and we cut the cords that bound pa, the cannibals went to work and skun the dogs, and began to cook them, and pa looked on, until it made him squirmish, but he was so tickled at being saved from the Indians, that he tried to be a good fellow with the cannibals. I guess it would have been all right, only the cannibals got to drinking the Philadelphia beer, and then it was all off, cause roast dog wasn't good enough for them, and they wanted to roast pa. First they offered pa dog to eat, but he had swore off on dog, and passed on it, and that made the cannibals mad, and they got ready to roast pa, and I guess they would have eaten him half cooked, if it hadn't been for the performers and freaks who had missed their pet dogs, and the circus hands told them the cannibals had just gone to the woods with a mess of dogs to roast for a dog feast. Well, they were just getting a fire around pa, and he was giving the grand hailing sign of distress, when the performers, headed by the fat woman, whose peeled Mexican dog was lost in the shuffle, came in amongst the cannibals, and pa and the other dogs were rescued, in the darnedest fight I ever saw. The performers just walked right over the cannibals, and mauled them with stakes, and all the dogs that had not been killed were pulled away from the heathen, and saved. The fat woman got her dog all right, and when pa came up from the stake where they were going to burn him, and congratulated her on recovering her dog, she turned on pa and accused him of being the leading cannibal, and that he was the one who put up the whole job to steal the dogs. She jabbed him with a parasol, but pa was innocent. [Illustration: The Fat Woman Jabbed Pa with Her Parasol.] The Indians got back to the tent along towards morning, and the cannibals went back with us, and we had to feed them on wieners, which was the nearest to roast dog we could get for them at that time of night. Pa seems to get it in the neck in this show, 'cause everything that goes wrong is laid to him, and if anything goes right, somebody else gets the credit, and I think he would resign if it was not for his pride. After the trouble about the Indians and the cannibals the manager called pa up and reprimanded him for indulging the tribes in their wild orgies, and said he couldn't maintain discipline as long as pa mixed up with them and encouraged them in such things. Pa tried to explain that he was the victim instead of being the cause of the dog roast, but the manager dismissed pa by telling him not to let it occur again. Then to show the inconsistency of the manager, he ordered pa to go on ahead of the show to New York, and advertise that the cannibals in our show would give an exhibition of roasting and eating a human being, and to offer a reward for anybody that would consent to be roasted and eaten in public. Pa has gone to New York to look for somebody who will take the position of meat for the cannibals, and he is instructed to spare no expense to find such a man. He thinks he may find somebody connected with the Life Insurance scandal, who has lost all desire to live any longer, and who will gladly go into this "mutual" scheme. I don't know. This circus business is too much for me, 'cause I am losing friends all the time. Even the monkeys have got so they seem to be ashamed to be seen talking to me, and when I pass the monkey cage they turn their backs on me, as though I did not belong to their set. When a fellow gets so low that monkeys feel above him, and throw out sarcastic remarks when he goes by, it is time to change your luck some way. CHAPTER XIV. A Newport Monk Is Added to the Show--The Boy Teaches Him Some "Manly Tricks"--The Tent Blows Down and a Panic Follows--Pa Manages the Animal Act Which Ends in a Novel Manner. We have added to the show the most remarkable animal that ever was--a baboon that dresses like a man, and eats at a table, using a knife and fork, and a napkin. This baboon has been playing an engagement with the Four Hundred at Newport, dining with the crowned heads at that resort, but the confounded baboon got to be too human, and he fell in love with an heiress, and scared one of the Willie boys that was also in love with her. His friends were afraid that the baboon would cut Willie out entirely, or get jealous and injure Willie, so the manager of the Four Hundred show decided to banish the baboon, and our show sent pa to Newport to buy the baboon and bring him to our show at New York. We had the darndest time getting him away from Newport. Pa couldn't do any with him, but he took to me, 'cause he thought I was his long-lost brother, and I could do anything with him. We got him in our stateroom on the boat, and took his clothes away from him, 'cause he only wears his clothes when he is being dined and wined, and we chained him in the upper berth. He just raised the very deuce on the way down to New York. After pa and I got to sleep that baboon got my clothes, and put them on, slipped the chain over his head, jumped through the transom, and went into every berth where the transom was open, and chatted with the people who occupied the berths. There was an old man and woman from New Hampshire in one berth, and when the monk got in their berth and began to talk the Newport language, the old man thought it was me, and he said: "Now, bub, you go away to your pa." The monk went out, and got into another berth, and crawled under the bunk, and when the woman came in to go to bed, she looked under it to see if any man was there. When she saw our baboon she yelled "fire," and the officers of the boat pulled him out by the hind leg, and tore my pant leg off. Pa and I had to sit up the rest of the night with him, and when we landed him with the show at Madison Square Garden we felt relieved. [Illustration: When She Saw the Baboon She Yelled Fire.] One woman on the boat has followed us ever since to collect damages from pa, 'cause his oldest son, the monk, proposed to her. Gee, it seems to me a woman ought to know the difference between a baboon and a man, but some women will marry anything that wears clothes. The monk took to me so, Pa said I must teach him everything I could that men do, so I thought it would do no harm to teach him to chew tobacco, 'cause he could already smoke cigarettes, so I borrowed a chew from the boss canvasman, a great big chew of black plug tobacco, and the monk grabbed it, and chewed it awhile, just before the afternoon performance, and swallowed it. I knew that settled the monk, and when the audience came along by his cage, and pa was trying to get him to perform, as he did at Newport, eating dinner like a man, the monk turned pale, and his stomach ached, and he stood on his head, and held his stomach in both hands, and kicked the table over. Then he hit pa a swat with his foot, and wound his tail around pa's neck, and laid his head on pa's shirt bosom, and was seasick. Pa said: "Well, this beats everything. What did you do to him?" I told pa I had only been teaching the monk manly tricks, and pa said: "Well, you have overdone it." And then the Humane society had pa arrested for cruelty to animals. But the monk got over it, and now he tries to be a masher, and winks at women, and flirts with them just as the men do at Newport. * * * * * We thought we were smart when we held up the railroad for damages back in Pennsylvania, after the wreck, but we are getting a dose of our own medicine. At Poughkeepsie there came up a wind and rainstorm that blew the tent down right in the midst of the evening performance, and scared everybody half to death. Several people were hit by tent poles and hurt some, and it was the wildest scene I ever saw, and people who got out alive ran away in the dark, and somebody said the animals had all got loose, and some of the people never stopped running till daylight the next morning. Some run into the river, and the ambulances carried the injured to hospitals. Pa stampeded with the elephants, and never showed up till noon the next day. By that time at least 1,000 people had filed claims for damages, and all the lawyers from Albany to New York were on our trail. The managers appointed pa to settle with the injured, and the way he argued with those people was a caution. One old woman was killed, and pa tried to show her relatives that as she was old and helpless, and more or less a burden to the family, they ought to pay the show something for getting her off their hands. One tramp had his feet cut off, and pa tried to show him how much he would save in shoes the rest of his life, and that he was in big luck. We left pa at Poughkeepsie to settle the cases, and went on to New York, and we heard the people had lynched him, but he showed up in a couple of days with money left. Now all the lawyers in New York are after us with claims and they have attached most everything, and the show is up against it. What a difference it makes who wants damages. When we were working the railroad for damages, it was a cinch, and like getting money from home, but now that the people are working us for damages, for being smashed up under our tent, we look upon it as a crime, and tell them it is an act of Providence, and that the show is not to blame for a windstorm. But the lawyers can't be very pious, for they won't believe in the act of Providence racket, and we shall have to cough up all the profits of the season. Since we got settled in New York for a two weeks' stand, in Madison Square Garden, we are having the tents repaired, and don't have to put up and take down tents, and ride all night on trains. We are all stopping at hotels and getting rested, and pa is having a chance to shine. The managers think pa is trying to commit suicide, for he wants to take the place of anybody who is sick or drunk, and is the understudy of everybody. We got one act that just curdles your blood, a cage in the ring, with lions and tigers and leopards, who go through all kinds of stunts. One lion rides a horse and jumps through hoops, and lands on the back of the horse, and jumps on a staging and lets the horse go around the ring, and then jumps on again. The horse is blindfolded, so he don't know it is a lion that jumps on his back, but thinks it is a man. The tigers ride bicycles, and the leopards jump about wherever the trainer tells them to; a monkey acts as clown, and a little elephant runs a make-believe automobile. That act alone is worth the price of admission. Well, the regular trainer went to Coney Island, and got drunk, and we either had to cut out that performance, or give back the money, and the manager was wailing about it, 'cause nothing makes a circus man wail like giving back good money. Then pa said he would save the day by taking charge of the animal act. He said he had watched it every day, and knew how to do it, and he could dress up in the clothes of the regular trainer, and the animals wouldn't know the difference. Gee, but I was scared to have pa try to run that animal show, and I think everyone in the show believed it would be pa's finish. I felt like an orphan when pa came out of the dressing-room with the trainer's clothes on, though pa's stomach was so big you would think a blindfolded horse would know pa was no trainer. Well, pa went in the round cage made of bar iron, and motioned to the attendants to send the animals into the cage through the chute from the animal quarters. The first to come were two tigers that were to ride velocipedes. I trembled for pa when they went in and waved their tails and looked at pa as much as to say: "O, we won't do a thing to you." They actually looked at each other and winked; but pa motioned to the velocipedes, and looked fierce, and when they hesitated about getting on, pa said: "You won't, won't you," and he took a club filled with lead and started for the biggest tiger. He hesitated a moment, and then he jumped on the machine, and the other followed, and they raced around, and then pa made them get off and jump hurdles. Finally he motioned to a shelf for them to jump up onto, and when they hesitated he kicked one in the slats, and hit the other with the club, and they went up on that shelf too quick, but they stayed there and snarled at pa, and I was afraid they would jump on him when his back was turned. Then they brought in the blind horse and the lion, and the lion was onto pa, and he struck right off. He got up on the pedestal from which he was to jump onto the horse's back, but when the horse came around the lion wouldn't jump, and pa said: "I'll give you one more chance," and the horse went under the lion, and he wouldn't jump. So pa stopped the horse and took an iron bar and knocked the lion off onto the floor, and he growled at pa, but pa kept mauling him, and finally the lion jumped up on the pedestal and seemed to say: "Bring on your horse," and pa started the horse, and Mr. Lion made his jumps all right, and the audience cheered pa. [Illustration: Pa Kept Mauling the Lion.] All the animals went through their stunts all right, but I thought I could see they were laying for pa, and I wished he was out of the cage. The wind-up came when the lions were seated on benches, and the elephant was between them, and the tigers and leopards made a pyramid, and the monkey was clawing around pa's legs. The signal was about to be given for the animals to return through the chute, when the monkey tackled pa's legs like a football player, the elephant pushed pa over, and the lions pawed him and snarled, and the tigers took a mouthful out of pa's pants, and the leopards snatched his red coat off, and the signal was given for them to get out of the cage, and they went out like boys at recess, leaving pa in the cage with the blind horse, with not clothes enough left on him to wad a gun. He was not even scratched, however, the animals having just combined to humiliate pa. The audience cheered. Pa said "Well, wouldn't that skin you." They threw him an overcoat to put on, and he bowed like a hero, and quit the ring cage, and was met outside by the whole show management, and congratulated on having more nerve than any man alive. Pa said: "If you will give me a shotgun loaded with bird shot, I will make those animals get on their knees at the next performance, and beg my pardon. You can discharge your trainer, and I will teach them a lot of new stunts." Say, pa is a wonder, and he has already got old Barnum beat a block. CHAPTER XV. The Bad Boy Feeds the Menagerie Scotch Snuff--Pa Gets Mauled by the Sneezing Animals--Pa Takes a Midnight Ride on a Mule to Escape Punishment. Well, I s'pose I have done it now and it would not surprise me to be killed and fed to wild animals,' The manager of the show was talking to pa and me, before we left New York, about the condition of the show. Its finances were all balled up on account of settling with people who pretended to be injured when the tent blew down at Poughkeepsie, and the hands and performers are kicking because we are a month behind on salaries, and they get drunk whenever any jay will buy for them. Everybody gives passes to everybody that wants to get in the show, so the box office man has a sinecure, and people chase us from town to town for money for board, and hay and everything. All through New Jersey we showed to claim agents and creditors, and didn't take in money enough to buy meat for the animals. He said the animals had all taken cold, and lay around dormant, and didn't take any interest in the business, and the manager told pa he must think of something to wake the animals up. Pa said he would leave it to me to wake 'em up, and get some ginger into them. I told pa if I had five dollars to spend I could make every animal jump like a box car. Pa gave me the money, and I went and bought five pounds of Scotchsnuff, and divided it up into ounce packages, and started during the afternoon performance at Wilmington, Del., to wake up the animals. There is something peculiar about animals, if you try to give them anything that they think you want them to take, you can't drive it down them with a pile driver, but if you try to hide something where they can reach it, they watch you out of one eye, and when you go away they look at you as much as to say: "O, you think you are smart, don't you?" Then they will go and dig it up, and play with it, and eat it if they want to. I took my first package of snuff to the lion's cage, and he was the sickest and most disgusted looking lion you ever saw, acting like a man who has taken a severe cold, and wants to kill anybody that looks at him. The lion lay on the straw, stretched out full length, paying no attention to the crowd that passed his cage, and acting as though he wanted a hot whisky and his feet soaked in mustard water. When he was not looking I hid the package of snuff under the straw, and rattled the straw a little, and he opened his eyes and looked at me as much as to say: "You can't fool old Shadrack, for I am onto you." I walked away behind the hyena cage, and Mr. Lion got up and stretched himself, and walked to the place where I put the paper of snuff, put his foot on it and broke the paper, and then he put his nose down and sniffed a sniff that drew the whole of the snuff up into his nose and lungs, and insides generally. Gee, but you never saw such a change in a lion. The crowd of visitors were right near his cage, when he sniffed, and when he got the snuff into him, he began to heave his sides like a man who is preparing to sneeze, caught his breath a few times, and let out a sneeze that sounded like the explosion of an automobile tire. It threw cut feed all over the audience, and everybody ran away yelling that the lion busted. He kept on sneezing, and looking so astounded, as though he couldn't make out what had got into him. Pa heard the commotion and came running up to the cage to find out what ailed the lion. After I had gone around to the other cages and put snuff in all of them, I came up to the lion's cage. The lion had stopped sneezing and was roaring and jumping up and down, with his mouth open, trying to catch his breath, like a man who has taken too big a dose of fresh horse-radish. Pa said: "What have you been doing to Shadrack?" I told pa I had woke Shadrack up, and that in about a minute he would find that the whole animal kingdom had got a bellyful, and would join in the chorus. Pa tried to soothe the lion by going up to the cage and stroking his mane, but the lion looked cross-eyed and stopped prancing and gave a sneeze right at pa, which blew pa clear across the tent to where the sacred cow had just got hers. When the stuff began to work on that cow it was simply scandalous, 'cause she bellowed and cried and sneezed all at once, and pawed pa. He got up and told me I was overdoing this waking up act on the animals. By that time the cage of hyenas began to sneeze a quartette, and fight each other, and the atmosphere about their cage was full of hair and language that would be much like cussing if it could be translated into English. Pa tried to quiet the crowd and silence the hyenas by taking an iron bar and mauling them, but the hyenas just backed up against the rear of the cage and howled and sneezed at pa, and dared him to come on. [Illustration: The Lion Sneezed and Blew Pa Clear Across the Tent.] One of them caught him by the shirt sleeve and tore pa's shirt off and eat it. Pa was a sight, with no shirt on, and he ought to have gone to the dressing room and slicked, but just then the camels and the giraffes, who had inhaled their snuff, began to sneeze and beg to be killed, and pa had to go over there and quiet them. A camel is the solemnist looking beast on earth when he tries to be good natured, but when he is sick and mad, and full of snuff, he is a fiend. One such camel is enough for a man to handle, but when 14 camels are all sneezing at once, and trying to locate the person that is responsible for their trouble, it is the safest to keep away, and when pa went in amongst them, with no shirt on, and the Arab keepers had run away in fright, it was a dangerous thing to do. But pa is brave even to rashness. He went up to Mahomet, the double-humped leader of the herd, who was the leader of the sneezers, and kicked him in the slats and told him to hush up his noise. He clubbed him on the humps with a tent stake. Then there was a rebellion in Egypt, and Mahomet bit pa, and wouldn't let go, and the other camels sneezed all over pa, and had him down, walking on him with their padded feet. The circus hands had to pull pa out, and it wasn't so bad, because the crowd remained and they thought it was a part of the show, and that the animals were trained to sneeze that way. The worst case was the hippopotamus. He was so big, and had such big nostrils, that I laid about half a pound of snuff on the side of his tank, and when he snuffed it up his nose he got it all. I heard a howl from the tank and the herd, who was the leader of the sneezers, and I told pa to come on, 'cause Vessuvious was going to erupt. Pa came on the run, just as he was, and then the worst happened. I think the hippo went under water when he found the sneeze was coming, for just as pa got to the tank the water flew into the air like a torpedo had exploded under a battle-ship, and the hippo had sneezed all right and pa and the audience which had followed him were drenched and deafened by the explosion. The hippo had blown the water all out of his tank, and he lay at the bottom, on his side, sneezing little sneezes not louder than the report of a six-pound cannon, and panting for breath. Then he raised his head, got up on his feet, and opened his mouth like a gash cut in a steer by a cow catcher of an engine, and he yawned, and I guess he got the lockjaw, 'cause he kept his mouth open all the afternoon to get the air, like a soprano singer in a choir, who has been fed a cayenne pepper lozenger by the tenor, just before she gets up to sing: "A Charge to Keep, I Have." We went around and inspected the sneezing animals with the manager, and he complimented me by saying I had saved the show from becoming an aggregation of stuffed animals, only fit for a taxidermist studio, and made every animal show that he had ginger in him. He wanted me to try my snuff cure on the performers and freaks, 'cause they were getting to be dead ones. Well, before the day was over at Wilmington, Del., pa was scared worse than he ever was in all his life before. The state of Delaware is the only state that punishes criminals by tying them up and whipping them on the bare back with a cat-o'-nine-tails, and all our men had been warned to be good while they were in Delaware, 'cause if they committed any crime there was no power on earth that could save them from being publicly horsewhipped. Pa himself impressed it on the men to look out that they didn't get into any trouble. Gee, but the fear of a public whipping makes men good. Twenty years ago some hold-up men from New York robbed a bank in Delaware, and were caught, and given 50 lashes apiece on the bare back, by a big negro, and there has never been a burglary in Delaware since. We thought we would play a joke on pa, so the manager told pa that constables were looking for him to arrest him for cruelty to animals, for kicking a camel in the stomach, and hitting the camel with an iron bar, and that if pa didn't want to be publicly horsewhipped on the bare back he better skip out for Washington, D.C., where we would show in a couple of days, and wait for us. Pa was so frightened he couldn't get supper, and everybody talked about cats of nine tails, and how prisoners were cut to pieces, and every time pa saw a jay with a slouch hat he thought it was a constable after him. After dark he put on an old suit of clothes and said he was going to Washington. They told him if he went to take a train he would surely be arrested at the depot, so pa put a saddle on one of the mules, and rode out of town and rode all night, and all the next day he bought oats of farmers to be delivered at Wilmington for the circus. Finally he got out of Delaware, and the next day the farmers came in with the oats, but the show was gone, and they won't do a thing to pa if he ever shows up in Delaware again. [Illustration: Pa Rode Out of Town and Rode All Night.] Pa met us at the depot in Washington, but he was ever so changed from his long ride and anxiety over the possibility of being arrested and pilloried, and lambasted by a negro in Delaware. He said to me, with a trembling voice: "Hennery, this 'ere show business is too much for your pa. I would rather be a Mormon, in Utah, with 40 wives, and several hundred children, and long whiskers. I am a changed man, Hennery, and afraid of my shadow." CHAPTER XVI. A Senator's Son Bets the Bad Boy That Elephants Are Cowards--They Let a Bag of Rats Loose at the Afternoon Performance--The Elephants Stampede, Pa Fractures a Rib and General Pandemonium Reigns. Gee, but I must be an easy mark. I have got so I bet on a sure thing, and when a fellow bets on a sure thing he is bound to lose. It was this way. The show arrived in Washington, D. C., on a Sunday morning, and, as usual, all the boys in town came to the lot to see us put up the tents. I was around with pa and the boss canvasman, and the town boys could see I belonged to the show, and they envied me and wanted to get acquainted with me so I would let them walk around with me, and go into the tents Sunday afternoon and see the animals. There was one boy with a sort of rough rider hat on, and buckskin fringe on his pants, and everybody said he was a senator's son, but the other boys had rather be acquainted with me, because I belonged to the show, and I took pity on the senator's son and let him talk to me, without looking cross at him, or snubbing him, as I do most boys who try to butt in on me. I got to liking the senator's son and had him come in the tent, and we put in the afternoon looking at the animals. The elephants were chewing hay and looking fierce, and the senator's boy said elephants were the greatest cowards on earth, and I said, "Not on your life; the giant in our show is the greatest coward, and the behemoth of holy writ is next." The senator's son said elephants were such cowards they were afraid of mice, and we could take a trap full of mice and turn them loose in the ring and the elephants would stampede, and he would bet five dollars on it. I excused myself for a moment and told pa what the senator's son offered to bet, and pa said: "Here's $50, and you can take all the bets you can get. Why, this herd of elephants would walk on mice, and rats, too. You bet with him and tell him to bring along all the rats and mice he can find in the white house, and you can turn them into the ring Monday afternoon when the elephants do their turn, and if an elephant bats an eye I will eat his ears for mushrooms." I went back to young Mr. Senator and took his bet, and told him I had plenty more money to bet the same way, and he said the next afternoon he would come with his mice and rats, and a lot of money to bet that you couldn't hold that flock of elephants with log chains when he opened his bag of rats and mice. Well, how it got into the papers I do not know, but the next morning they all said an interesting experiment would be made the next afternoon at the great and only circus, to determine once and for all whether elephants were afraid of mice, and that a senator's son and a son of one of the proprietors of the show would conduct the experiment by turning loose a lot of mice and rats in the rings at precisely 3:30 p.m. Well, you never saw such a crowd in a circus as we had that afternoon. It seemed as though the whole population turned out, foreign ministers, negroes, society people and clerks. That senator's son and the whole family, and the neighbors, must have been up all night catching mice and rats, and it took nine boys and three servants to carry the baskets and traps and bags of mice and rats. I passed them all in and we lined up on a front seat to wait for the elephant stunt, and when the thing was ripe we were to empty the whole mess of vermin into the ring. I felt as though something was wrong 'cause I saw the new moon over my left shoulder the night before, and now I wish I had died before this thing happened. When the Japanese jugglers went out of the ring I knew that was the cue for the elephants to come in, and when the dressing room curtain was pulled aside and old Bolivar came out at the head of the herd, and they marched around the outside of the ring, clear around the tent, my heart jumped up into my throat, and I felt sick. The senator's son said: "When these rats and things begin to chase your old elephants, you won't be able to see their tails for the dust they will kick up." Then I thought of the money pa had given me to bet, and I offered to bet it all, and a negro produced funds and took all my bets like a bookmaker. Well, after doing a turn around the big ring, the trainer steered the elephants into the middle ring, and the great audience leaned forward to catch every trick the elephants did. Us boys held on to the bags that the mice and things were in, waiting for our cue. The elephants stood on their heads and hind feet, and fore feet, laid down, fired pistols, and did everything just right, without making a mistake. Finally the trainer formed the whole herd into a grand pyramid, with old Bolivar in the center, each elephant holding an American flag with his trunk, and waving it, and the audience broke out into a cheer that fairly ripped the canvas. Then I said to young Mr. Senator: "Come on with your rats, now, and I win $50." All hands picked up the baskets and bags and went to the side of the ring and emptied the whole bunch of more than 500 into the ring. The rats and mice rushed for the elephants, and then turned and made a rush for the reserved seats. Oh, dear, what a time we had. The elephants got down off that pyramid so quick it would make your head swim, and old Bolivar trumpeted in abject fear, and tried to break away, but pa came along with a tent stake and hit Bolivar over the head, and told the trainer to put the elephants back into the pyramid and hold them there till the bell rung for them to cease their stunt. The trainer couldn't do anything with them, and they bellowed and dodged mice and shied at rats, and Bolivar took his trunk and swatted pa clear across the ring. [Illustration: Bolivar Swatted Pa Clear Across the Ring.] The elephants followed Bolivar to the main entrance, each elephant trying to walk on the heels of the one ahead of him, and all the circus hands trying to head off the elephants, but they wouldn't head off. They were simply scared to death, and they broke out the side of the tent near the lemonade stand and went whooping out into the open air and freedom, while the audience yelled with joy. Young Mr. Senator said to me: "What do you think of elephants now?" I told him to take his money and he darned. The audience was getting nervous, so the band struck up "A Hot Time in the Old Town," and they were quieting down as the curtain raised and the horses for the chariot race came out. Just then a woman with red socks got up on her chair in the press seats and pulled her dress away up and yelled, "Rats!" and another woman screamed and jumped up on a seat with her clothes at half mast, and yelled that there were mice on the seats. In less than two minutes every woman in the audience, and the bearded woman, and the fat woman, were standing up on something, holding up their dresses and shaking their skirts and screaming, and when the fat woman fell into the arms of the bearded woman, in a faint, and the bearded woman dropped the fat woman, pa told the bearded woman he was ashamed of her screaming, 'cause she ought to be more of a man than that. Well, every mouse and rat in the bunch seemed to be looking for women to scream at them, and there was no use trying to run a show with such an excited audience, so pa had the band play "Good Night, Ladies," and he announced that the performance might be considered over for the afternoon. Everybody made a rush for the exits. Each woman held up her skirts and fairly galloped to get away from the mice and rats. They all got out of the tent finally, and then the managers had a meeting to find out who started the trouble, and what it was best to do about it. I was sitting alone on a front seat, thinking over the scenes of the afternoon, and wondering what the young senator's son would do with the money he had won of me, and whether he had depopulated the white house of rats and mice, so the president would notice it. I was thinking about elephants and wondering if they were cowards by nature, or had acquired cowardice by associating with mankind, when pa came along and sat down by me, a picture of despair, 'cause Bolivar had fractured one of his ribs, and the fat woman had paralyzed his knees sitting on his lap while they brought her to after she fainted when she thought a rat was climbing into her sock. Pa sighed, and said: "Hennery, I wanted an exciting life, to keep me from brooding over advancing age, and I chose the circus business, but I find it is rather too strenuous for me. Each day something occurs to try my nerves. I do not claim that you are to blame for it all, but I think I could enjoy my position with the show if you would take the first train that goes north, and leave me for awhile. What I need is rest. Go, boy, go!" I felt sorry far pa, but I put my arm around him, and I said: "Pa, do not fear. I will never desert you, until the season is over. Wherever you go, I will go, and I will keep you awake, don't fear. Now that we are going into the sunny south, where every man may have it in for you, 'cause you were a Yankee soldier, I will stay by you, and there will be things doing that will make you think the past has been a sweet dream. See, pa!" [Illustration: "Pa, Do Not Fear."] Pa sighed again, and said: "This is too much!" and he rushed off to find the elephants. CHAPTER XVII. The Bad Boy and the Senator's Son Go on an Elephant Chase--The Senator's Son Gets His Friend a Bid to Dinner at the White House--The Trained Seal Swallows an Alarm Clock. The show remained in Washington two days, 'cause it took all one day and night to catch the elephants, after the senator's boy and I turned the rats and mice loose in the ring while the elephants were forming a pyramid. Pa and all the circus hands had to go away down towards the Bull Run battlefield to round them up, and young Mr. Senator let me ride one of his ponies and he and I went along to help catch the elephants. We went out through Alexandria towards Bull Run battlefield. There we overtook pa and the boss canvasman and the elephant handler, and we met some farmers coming into Alexandria with their families, stampeding like people out west when the Indians go on the warpath. They had got up in the morning to milk the cows and found about 20 elephants in the barnyard, making the cows do a song and dance. Pa told them there was no danger at all, 'cause he would take any elephant by the tail and snap its head off, like boys snap the heads off garter snakes, and I told them that me and the senator's boy stampeded the elephants and we could drive them back to town like a drove of sheep. [Illustration: We Met Some Farmers.] The farmers thought we were great and they followed us back to the farm, where we found the herd of elephants had taken possession and were having the time of their lives. About a dozen of the big elephants had found a couple of barrels of cider in a shed and had been drinking it, and when we got there they were like section hands with jags on. Bolivar, the big elephant, was the drunkest, and when he saw pa coming with the gang of hands, with ropes and spears, he winked at the other elephants and seemed to say: "Watch me tree 'em," for he came out of the gate and bellowed, and made a charge at the gang, and pa beat them all going up crab apple trees. The senator's son saw pa up a tree, and he said: "Old gentleman, if these are your animals, or insects, or whatever they are, you ought to come down off your perch and take them to a Keeley cure, because they are intoxicated." [Illustration: Old Gentleman, You Ought to Come Down Off Your Perch.] And pa came down and took a fence rail and sharpened it with an ax, and he run it into Bolivar about a foot, and Bolivar trumpeted for surrender, and that settled the elephant strike, for pa ordered Bolivar into the road, and in five minutes the whole herd of elephants was following Bolivar back to Washington, as meek as a drunken husband being led home by his wife. Gee, what do you think? The president heard how the senator's boy and I stampeded the elephants and invited the senator's boy to bring his young friend around to the white house to supper. Well, we went. I forgot what we had to eat, I was so interested in the president's conversation. He talked about the show business as though he had been a ringmaster in a circus. He said he was in the show the day before when we stampeded the elephants, and he told us about his hunting trips in the west, until I could smell bacon cooking at the camp fire, and I could smell the balsam boughs they slept on, on the ground. When he let up a little on his talk, I braced up and asked him if he had rather shoot wild cats and bears than be president. He hedged and said both occupations worked pretty well together and he had enjoyed 'em both. Then I asked him if he was going to run for president again, and he winked at his wife, and then he asked me what made me ask the question. I told him pa wanted me to find out. I told him all the boys wanted him to run, 'cause he was a good feller, and not afraid of the cars. The president laughed and said: "Well, it's this way. The president business is a good deal like bear hunting. You get on a fresh track, either in politics or bear hunting, and follow the game with dogs, or politicians, as the case may be. The trail keeps getting fresher and by and by the game is in sight, and the dogs are nipping its hind legs, if it is a bear, or chewing big words if it is an opposing candidate, and nipping him in exposed places. You ride like mad, your clothes or your reputation torn by briars if it is a bear, or by opposition newspapers if it is a political campaign, and you wish it was over, many times, and are so tired you wish you were dead. Finally your bear or your opponent in politics is treed and the dogs are trying to climb the tree, and your bear or your political opponent is up on a limb snarling and showing his teeth at the dogs or the politicians, and then you ride up, look the ground over, wait till your heart stops beating and fire the shot at a vital part, and your bear or your political opponent comes tumbling to the ground. When he ceases to kick you put your foot on his neck and feel sorry you killed him, but you go to work and skin him and hang his hide on the fence. Then you have got to ride all night to get to camp, if it is a bear, and work harder than a man on a treadmill for four years, if it is a presidential candidate you have skun." I had sat with my mouth open while the president talked, and never said a word, but when he quit I said: "Yes, but suppose when you got your bear skun, another bear should come after you and dare you to knock a chip off his shoulder, and growl, and walk sideways with his bristles all up, would you run, or would you stand your ground?" "We better change the subject," said the president, and rose from the table, and we all got up. He patted me on the head, and said: "Tell your pa I will see him later, and in the meantime, you run your circus and I will try to run mine." The queerest thing happened that night. The senator's boy spoke of our trained seals, that catch a fish if you throw it to them and swallow it whole. He said it would be fun to take a little alarm clock and sew it up in a fish, and set the alarm at seven o'clock p. m., when the crowd is watching the seals swallow fish, and throw it to the big seal, and the alarm would go off inside him. Well, I bit like a bass, and said we would do it, so he took a little alarm clock and set it for seven o'clock. We got it into a fish, and I am ashamed to tell what happened. Gee, but that seal grabbed the fish with a clock in it, and tried to swallow it, but the brass ring caught on one of his teeth, and he was trying to get it loose when the alarm went off, and the seal jumped out of the tank and began to prance around the crowd, scaring the women, and making all the animals nervous. He stood on his head and bellowed, and all the circus hands came rushing up. Finally the alarm clock quit jingling, and they caught the seal and pulled the clock off his tooth, and just then pa came up to me and said: "What deviltry you boys up to now? Suppose that seal had swallowed that clock, and you couldn't wind it up; it might kill him. Now, go to the car, 'cause we are going to get out of this town right off. You make me tired." And pa helped to lift the slippery seal into the tank, and looked mad at his little boy, and hurt the feelings of the senator's boy. CHAPTER XVIII. The Show Strikes Virginia and the Educated Ourang Outang Has the Whooping Cough--The Bad Boy Plays the Part of a Monkey, but They Forget to Pin on a Tail. Well, I have broke the show all to pieces, just by not being able to stand grief. Everything is all balled up, the managers are sore at me, and afraid of being sent to jail, and pa thinks I ought to be mauled. It was this way: When we left Washington we cut loose from every home tie, and plunged into Virginia, and the trouble began at once. We met a lawyer on the train, on the way to Richmond, and fed him in our dining car, and got him acquainted with all the performers and freaks, and he told us that we would have to be careful in Virginia, 'cause all the white people were first families and aristocratic, and if any man about our show should fail to be polite to the white people they would be shot or lynched, but if we wanted to shoot niggers the game laws were not very strict about it, 'cause the open season on niggers run the year around, but you couldn't shoot white people only two months in the year. He said another thing that scared pa and the managers. He said that if a traveling show did not perform all it advertised the owners were liable to go to state prison for 20 years, and that each town had men on the lookout to see that shows didn't advertise what they didn't carry out. Pa and the managers held a consultation, and couldn't find that we advertised anything that we didn't have, except the ourang outang that we took on at New York, which eats and dresses like a man, 'cause that animal got whooping cough in Delaware and had to be sent to a hospital, but we heard he was well again and would join the show in a week. Pa asked the Richmond lawyer how it would be if one of the animals that was advertised was sick and couldn't perform, and he told pa the people would mob the show if anything was left out. When we got to Richmond the whole population, principally niggers, was at the lot when we put up the tents, and everybody wanted to catch a sight of Dennis, the ourang outang, and the posters all over town that pictured Dennis smoking cigarettes with a dress suit on, and eating with a knife and fork and a napkin tucked under his chin, were surrounded by crowds. It was plain that all the people cared for was to see the monk. The managers held a council of war and decided the show would be ruined if we didn't make a bluff at having an ourang outang, so it was decided that I was to be dressed up in Dennis' clothes, and put on a monkey mask, and go through his stunt at the afternoon performance. Gee, but I hated to do it, but pa said the fate of the show depended on it and if I didn't take the part he would have to do it himself, and I knew pa wasn't the build of man to play the monkey, and so I said I would do it, but I will never do it again for any show. The wardrobe woman fixed my up like Dennis, and I had seen him go through his stunt so often I thought I could imitate him, and of course there was no talking to do, but just to grunt once in awhile, the way Dennis did, and have an animal look. Well, sir, the keeper who trained the ourang outang took me in hand, and in an hour I was perfect, I had rubber feet and wore black gloves, and had a tail fastened with a safety pin, that would deceive the oldest showman in the business. When the crowd was the biggest, in the middle ring, the keeper led me out of the dressing room with a chain. The announcement was made by the barker that Dennis, the educated ourang outang, that had performed before crowned heads in Europe and sapheads in Newport, the only man-monkey in the known world, would now entertain the most select audience that had ever been under the tent. Then I was dragged into the ring and put on the platform. [Illustration: The Keeper Who Trained the Ourang outang Took Me in Hand.] They didn't put on my dress clothes at first, but had a little screen on the platform for me to go behind to dress, and I appeared first in the natural state of the ourang outang, with a suit of buffalo robe stuff that looked exactly like a big monkey. I bowed and the audience cheered, and I stood on my hands and scratched at an imaginary flea, and pa, who was leaning against the platform, whispered to me that I was making the hit of the season. Then the attendants set the table and the keeper took me behind the screen and dressed me, and the old fool forgot to put on my tail. He led me out and I sat up to the table, hitched up my cuffs, put a napkin under my chin, took a knife and fork and began to eat, just like a human being. The audience cheered, and the circus people crowded around and said I was just as good as Dennis himself. I went through the whole of Dennis' performance and never skipped a note, until a smart white man yelled: "Where is the tail of your ourang outang?" and the crowd began to be suspicious, and more than a thousand yelled. "There is no tail on your monkey." That rattled the trainer and he remembered that he had forgotten to pin the tail on me, so while I was using the finger bowl he went to the screen and got the tail and came out and was pinning it on to my dress pants, when the audience began to yell: "Fraud! Fraud! Kill the monk!" and a lot of stuff. Then pa got on a barrel the elephants had been performing on and got the attention of the audience and told them not to be unreasonable. He said the management had found by experience that after the ourang outang had been trained to eat like a man and wear men's clothes, that his tail was in the way, so at a great expense the management had caused Dennis' tail to be amputated at a New York hospital, and while we always carry the tail along, it was only used when a critical audience demanded it, but if this refined audience so desired the tail would be attached to the intelligent animal. The crowd yelled: "Pin on the tail; the tail goes with the hide," and the trainer began to pin it on. Say, I could have killed that trainer. He run that safety pin about an inch into my spine, and I jumped into the air about four feet, and I was going to use a cuss word that I learned in Philadelphia, but I had presence of mind enough to grunt just as Dennis used to, and chatter like a monkey, and the day was saved. The tail was on and I turned my back to show that it was on straight, like a woman's hat, when pa said to hurry the performance to a conclusion, because he could see that there was a spirit of unrest in the audience, and he would not be surprised any moment to see Virginia secede and go out of the union. There was nothing more for me to do except to drink my cup of after-dinner coffee, and smoke my cigarette, and quit, and I was patting myself on the back at my success and squirming around in the chair, 'cause the pin in my tail hurt my back but I never said a word. The attendant brought in the coffee and I took a couple of swallows, when I realized that somebody had put cayenne pepper into it, and I was hot under the collar, but though I was burning up inside, I never peeped, but just choked and took a swallow of water and vowed to kill the person that made the coffee. I kept my temper till the trainer handed me the cigarette and a match, and the first puff I realized that they had filled the cigarette with snuff, and after blowing out the smoke I began to sneeze, and the audience fairly went wild. I sneezed about eight times, and at every sneeze the pin in my spine hurt like thunder, but I never lost my temper, till about the seventh sneeze, when my monkey mask flew off, and then a boy about my size, right in front of me, yelled: "It ain't a monkey at all, it is a little nigger," and he threw a ripe persimmon and hit me right in the eye. I said right out in plain English: "You're a liar and I can knock the stuffing out of you." [Illustration: He Hit Me Right in the Eye.] I pulled off my dress coat and started for him, but pa grabbed me on one side and the monkey trainer on the other, and they tried to get me to return to the monkey character, and chatter, and pa put my monkey mask on me, but I struck right there, and pulled it off, and told him and the managers that I would not play monkey any more with a tail pinned to my spine, my stomach full of cayenne pepper and my nostrils full of Scotch snuff, and my face all puckered up with persimmons. The crowd yelled: "Fraud! Fraud! Kill the bald-headed old man who is the father of the monkey." and they were making a rush to clean out the show when the dressing-room door opened to let the hippodrome chariot racers out, and the way the chariots scattered the crowd was a caution. That saved us from serious trouble, for the chariots run over a lot of negroes, which pleased the audience, and they let us off without killing us. They got me back to the dressing-room and had to take a pair of pinchers to get that safety pin out of my spine, and on the way to the dressing-room some one walked on my monkey tail and pulled it off, and that was a dead loss. Pa sat by me and fanned me, 'cause I was faint, and then he said: "My boy, you played your part well, until the persimmon hit you, and then you forgot that you were an actor, and became yourself, and I don't blame you for wanting to punch that boy who called you a little nigger, and said I was your pa. After this chariot race is over we will go around in front of the seats, and find the boy, and you can do him up. Your monkey business was the feature of the show to-day." We went out and found a boy that looked like the one that sassed me, but he must have been his big brother, 'cause when I went up to him and swatted him on the nose, he gave me a black eye, and I am a sight. That evening, at the performance, we cut out the educated ourang outang, and the lawyer we met on the cars came to the show, and said we would all be arrested for not performing all we advertised, but he could settle it for a hundred dollars, and pa paid him the money, and he went out and got a jag and came in the show and was going to make trouble, when pa took him to the cage where the 40-foot boa constrictor was uncoiling itself, and the Virginian got one look at the snake and went through the side of the tent yelling: "I've got 'em again. Catch me, somebody." We got out of town before morning, and nobody was arrested, except the negroes that got run over in the chariot race. CHAPTER XIX. The Circus People Visit a Southern Plantation--Pa, the Giant and the Fat Woman Are Chased by Bloodhounds--The Bad Boy "Runs the Gauntlet." Gee, but pa is sore at me. He has been disgusted with me before, but he never had it in for me so serious as he has now. I guess the whole show would breathe easier if I should fall off the train some dark night, when it was stormy, and we were crossing a high bridge over a stream that was out of its banks on account of a freshet. It was all on account of our taking an afternoon off on a Sunday at Richmond. An old planter that used to be in the circus business before the war thought it would bring back old recollections to him and give us a taste of country life in the south if he invited all of us, performers, managers, freaks, and everything, to spend the day on his plantation, and go nutting for chestnuts and hickory nuts, pick apples and run them through a cider mill and drink self-made cider, and have a good time. We all appreciated the invitation, and after breakfast we rode out in the country to his plantation in carriages and express wagons and began to do the plantation. The fat lady and the midgets rode out together in a load of cotton, and when they got to the house they had to be picked like ducks, and they looked as though they had been tarred and feathered. The planter gave us a fine luncheon of fried chicken and corn pone, and cider, and pa acted as the boss of the circus folks, while the planter and his family, with about 100 negroes, passed things around. They all seemed to be interested in seeing how much stuff the giant and the fat lady could hold without putting up sideboards to keep the food from falling off. If pa hadn't told the negroes not to feed the fat lady and the giant any more, there would have been two circus funerals next day. I got acquainted with a boy that was the planter's son, and while the rest were eating and drinking the boy showed me a pack of hounds that are kept for trailing criminals and negroes who have looked sassy at white women. The trouble with negroes is that they all look alike, and if one commits a crime they can prove an alibi, 'cause every last negro will swear that at the time the crime was committed the suspected man was attending a prayer meeting, so they have to have hounds that can be taken to the place where the crime was committed, and they find the negro's track, and they follow it till they tree him. The hounds do not bite the negro, like we used to hear about, but they just follow him till he is treed, and then they bark, as much as to say: "Ah, there, Mr. Nigger, you just stay where you are till the sheriff comes to fetch you," and Mr. Negro just turns pale and stays on a limb till the sheriff comes with his lynching tools. When the sheriff pulls a gun the negro confesses right there, and the deputy sheriff brings the rope. I asked the boy if the hounds would trail a white man without hurting him, and he said if you put anise seed on their shoes the hounds will trail 'em all right, so we put up a job to have some fun. The boy gave me some anise seed, and told me to put it on the shoes of anybody I wanted trailed, and after they got out in the woods he would put the hounds on the trail, and the people would have to get up trees, or have their pants chewed, but the dogs would not hurt anybody. Well, it made me laugh to think about it. I went to pa and told him his shoes were all covered with red Virginia dust, and I took my handkerchief and dusted them off, and made him hold up his foot like a horse that is being shod. Then I put a handful of anise seed around the sole, and in his shoes. He said it was mighty kind in me to do it. Then I went to the giant, and brushed the dust off his shoes, and put two handfuls of anise seed in them, and he said I was a nice boy. I told the fat woman about the dust on her telescope valises, and I rubbed it off, and gave her feet a dose of anise seed that ought to have paralyzed a pack of hounds. She wanted to hug me and let me kiss her, but I said I passed, and she said she would do as much for me some time. About this time the planter took the lead, and they all went across a pasture into the woods, and began knocking nuts off the trees. All through the woods there were signs: "No Tresspassing," and "Beware of the Dogs," but the planter said to never mind the signs. I told the boy to let the dogs loose on the trail in about half an hour, and I went along with the folks, and I told pa I had seen a pack of bloodhounds that would eat people alive, and if he heard hounds barking to run like a whitehead and climb a tree. I got with the giant, who is a coward in his own right, and told him the only trouble about these great plantations in the south was the wild dogs that inhabited the mountains, that would not hesitate to attack a man if they got good and hungry, but there was no danger to him, because he was a good sprinter, and could outrun a jack rabbit. The giant wanted to go back to the house, 'cause he said he didn't want to run no foot race with hounds, and he had seen the sign to beware of the dogs. I never ought to have done it, 'cause the fat woman looks as though she was built a purpose for apoplexy, but I told her as a friend, not to load herself down with nuts, but to travel light, so if the wild dogs came down to raid the plantation she could crawl in a hole out of sight till the dogs had eaten some of the men. She came near fainting right there, before the dogs got busy. There were about 20 negroes throwing clubs at the nuts, and everybody was having a big time. The trapeze performers were squirreling up among the limbs, when suddenly, in the distance came the bay of the pack of bloodhounds, and every negro turned pale, and got ready to climb a tree. The planter stopped to listen, and when one of the managers of the show asked him what was the matter, he said: "You can search me, sah. If that is my pack of hounds a crime has been committed, and the sheriff has started the pack on the trail of the criminal, sah, because the dogs are never turned loose, except for business." Then the planter yelled to the niggers, and said: "If any of youall are guilty of crime, you best get scarce, or pick out your tree, and get up it mighty sudden, 'cause the hounds haven't been fed lately." Every colored man picked a tree, and the hounds kept coming, finally showing up jumping the fence, and entering the woods, and the planter cut a club to beat off the dogs. Pa looked as innocent as John Wanamaker's picture addressing a Sunday school, the giant saw the dogs and started for a tall tree, and the fat lady said she couldn't find any hole big enough to hide in, and "the idea," if there were not men enough to protect a lady. Well, I never expected to see anything so fine as the way those hounds run with their noses to the ground, scattered in three packs one pack on the trail of each of the three whose shoes I had doctored. When they got near us they broke up and went around everywhere that pa and the giant and the fat lady had walked, and fell over each other, but finally one pack went to the tall tree where the giant had climbed to the first limb, and stood on their hind legs and barked a salute to him. He trembled so I was afraid he would fall off, but he wound his arms and legs around the tree, and began to cry. The planter told him whatever crime he had committed it was all up with him. The part of the pack that was on pa's trail began to close in on pa, and I said: "Pa, if you don't want to be dog meat, it is up to you to climb, and you better get a move on, or I shall be an orphan mighty quick, 'cause the dogs are starving." Pa made a couple of quick jumps, and grabbed a limb of a hickory tree, and was pulling himself up and repeating prayers, when the leading dog reached up his nose and smelled pa's shoes, when the intelligent animal gave a bark and a yell to the other dogs, as much as to say: "That's the identical cuss. Eat him alive." He grabbed about a double handful of the cloth of pa's clothes right below where his suspenders button on and held on, and shook pa real hard, but the cloth was tough and didn't tear. Pa suddenly seemed to be endowed with superhuman strength, for he drew himself up on the limb and raised the dog from the ground, and all the pack came around the tree and set up a howl that scared pa so the perspiration rolled off him, and he had a chill so he shook like the ague. Pa yelled to the planter, who was holding up the fat lady and said: "Here, Mr. Confederate, I am not a union prisoner, and I want you to unlock your dog's jaws, and free me, 'cause I can't hold up a 90-pound dog by my suspenders much longer. If this is southern hospitality, I don't want to be entertained no more." The planter leaned the fat lady against a tree, and took the dog by the hind legs and pulled him off. [Illustration: "Here, Mr. Confederate, I Am Not a Union Prisoner."] The planter yelled to the negroes to come down and help handle the dogs, but just then the boy who started the dogs on the trail, at my request, came up whistling, with a dog whip in his hand, and all the dogs surrounded him, and he made them lay down and roll over. All of the scared people came down from their perches in the trees, and surrounded the boy and the dogs, and the dogs panted and lolled, as though they had been having a nice run for their money. The old planter asked his boy how the dogs had happened to get loose, and that fool boy told the whole thing, how I had asked him to let the pack run, and how I had put anise seed in the shoes of pa, the giant and the fat lady. Then you ought to have seen what they did to me. The planter said they usually had a lynching when the dogs made a run, but that was impossible in this case, so he suggested that they make me run the gauntlet. I didn't know what running the gauntlet was, but after pa had told me he should disown me from that moment, I said I was willing to run any gauntlet, so they all cut switches and formed in two lines, and let me run down between them. I thought it would be fun, but when I started and every last man gave me a cut across the end of my back with a hickory switch, I yelled murder, and run between the giant's legs and tackled him like football I toppled him over against the next man, and that man hit the giant in the stomach, and everybody began to fight, and the festivities broke up. [Illustration: I Yelled Murder and Ran Between the Giant's Legs.] I went to the house with the boy and the dogs, and we set the dogs on a mess of cats, and treed everything alive on the plantation. Finally the whole crowd came back to the house and had another lunch, with mint julep and champagne, and then everybody was hugging some one, and crying on each other's neck, and swearing that the war was over, and that the north and the south were one and inseparable, and the two together could whip the whole world. Pa somehow saw double. I was standing alone, smarting from the switching I got, when pa came up to me and said: "I want you two boys to understand that I don't want any more experiments played on me. I can take a joke us well as anybody, but when you set a hundred dogs on my trail, I am no gentlemen, see? Now we will go back to the show." CHAPTER XX. The Bad Boy Goes After a Mess of White Turnips for the Menagerie--He Feeds the Animals Horseradish, but Gets the Worst of the Deal. You can learn something new and interesting every day in a circus, and a boy, particularly, can store his mind with useful knowledge, that will be valuable to him in after years. Gee, but I have learned some things that I could never have learned in college, 'cause at college you only learn things that have to be verified by actual experience in business. Pa says one year in the circus will be better for me than ten years in a reform school. But I learned something yesterday that made such an impression on me that I will not be able to sit down comfortably before the season is over. You see, it was this way. Once a week it is the custom to feed all the animals that are vegetarians a mess of ground white turnips, 'cause it opens up the pores, and makes the animals feel good, like a politician who goes to French Lick springs, and has the whisky boiled out of him. After the animals have eaten the turnip mush, they become agreeable, and will rub against the keepers, and eat out of your hand. I had been with pa a dozen times to find a place where we could get a few barrels of turnips ground up fine, and so yesterday, when the boss animal keeper was sick, and turned his job over to pa, pa told me to go out in town, at Lynchburg, Va., and get a couple of washtubs full of ground turnips, and have the stuff sent in to the menagerie tent in time for the afternoon performance. I got a boy to go with me. We hunted all the groceries and couldn't find turnips enough to make a first payment, but we found a place where they grate horseradish and bottle it for the market, and I ordered two washtubs full of horseradish grated nicely, and sent to the tent, but I made the man bill it as ground turnips. The boy and I played all the forenoon, and when the man started with the ground horseradish for the tent, we went along, and I introduced the man to pa, and pa O. K.'d the bill, and sent him to the treasurer after the money. I was going to get on a back seat and watch the animals eat, but pa said: "Here, you boys, get out those pans and portion out the turnips and pass 'em around just as the crowd comes in, 'cause after the animals have had a mess of cut feed they are better natured, and show off better." I was pretty leery about feeding the animals horseradish, and would have preferred to have some one else do it, who did not care to live any longer, but I said: "Yes, sir," just like that, and touched my hat to pa, and he said to the boss canvasman: "There's a boy you can swear by." The boss canvasman said: "You are right, old man, but if he was mine, I would kill him so quick it would make your head swim," and he and pa went off laughing, but I think they laughed too soon. Well, we took a spud and put about a quart of horseradish in each pan, and put the pans in front of each animal, and you ought to have seen them rush for the supposed turnips, like a drove of cattle after salt. The boy and I got up on the platform with the freaks, to be in a safe place, and watch the animals, and see how they digested their food. The first animal to open up the chorus was the hippopotamus, 'cause we gave him about four quarts of horseradish on account of his mouth, and he swallowed it at one mouthful. First he looked as though he felt hurt, and stopped chewing, and seemed to be thinking, like a horse that wakes up in the night with colic, and raises the whole family to sit up with him all night and pour things down his neck out of a long-neck bottle. The hippo held his breath for about a minute, and then he opened his mouth so you could drive a wagon in, and gave the grand hailing sign of distress, and said: "Wow, wow, wow," as plain as a man could. Then he rolled over into his tank and yelled "murder," and wallowed around, and stood on his head, till one of the keepers went in the cage to try to soothe him. He chased the keeper out, and the crowd that had just begun to come in fell back in terror. There was quite a crowd around the camels watching them peacefully chew their cuds, as they do at evening on the dessert, and the Arabs who had charge of the camels were standing around, posing as though they were the whole thing, when the old black, double-hump camel got his quart of horseradish down into one of his stomachs, as he was kneeling down on all fours. He yelled: "O, mamma," and got up on all his feet, and kicked an Arab off a prayer rug, and bellowed and groaned. Then the rest of the herd of camels seemed to have swallowed their dose, and they made Rome howl. This scared the people over to where the sacred cattle were trying to set a pious example to the rest of the animals by their meek and lowly conduct. [Illustration: The Camel Kicked an Arab Off a Rug.] The sacred cow got her horseradish first, and I could see she was trying to hold it without giving the snap away, till her husband, the bull, got his. Well, it was pitiful, and I made up my mind I would never play a joke on the sacred cattle again, 'cause it seems like sacrilege. The bull finally got his horseradish down, and he was the most astonished animal I ever saw. He swelled up, and then bellowed until the cow looked as though she would sink through the ground, saying; "Excuse me, dear, but I am not to blame, because I, too, have a hot box." The bull acted just as human as could be, 'cause he looked mad at her, and was going to gore her to death, when pa and some of the hands came up and hit him with a tent stake, and swore at him, and he quit fighting his wife, just like a man. Pa wanted to know what in thunder was the matter with the animals, and wanted to know if I had fed them the turnips, and I told him they had all been fed, and just then the giraffe, whose neck was so long the horseradish did not reach a vital spot as quick as it did with the hippo, began to yell for the police and dance around. Finally he stood on his head and neck, with his heels against a cage, and coughed like he had caught pneumonia. Pa said to the boss canvasman: "Well, what do you think of that?" The zebras had their inning next, and after they had swallowed their rations of horseradish, they never said a word, but began to run around like dancing the lancers, and when they got to going it looked like a kaleidoscope, and the six zebras looked like a million. Pa said: "I never saw such a sight since I used to drink, but I have either got the jim-jams, or something awful has happened to this menagerie." The educated hog got a double dose, and he squealed and couldn't pick out the right card, and then the llamas got busy on their portion of horseradish, and they cried in Spanish, and stood on their hind legs and shed tears. Pa got so rattled he looked ten years older than he did when the afternoon performance opened. The manager of the big show came in to know why the elephants had not been sent into the dressing-room, to be got ready for the grand entree. Just then the elephants began to eat their horseradish, and when they were driven into the big tent they were complaining about something being wrong inside of them, and as they came by the lemonade stand they seemed to be yelling "Fire!" Then they all stopped at the stand and began to drink the lemonade out of the barrels, which seemed to put out the fire. The animals quieted down a little, and pa went into the big tent to consult the manager, and I thought it was a shame that the lions and hyenas and tigers couldn't have any fun, so I went to the table where the meat was laid out ready to feed them, and cut a hole in each piece of meat and put in a double handful of horseradish, and just then the feeder came along and began to throw the meat in the cages. Gee, but those carnivorous animals are bad enough even if you give them nice boiled sirloin steak, and they fight enough over it, at any time, but when they began to chew and tear the meat, and get horseradish hot from the griddle, they didn't do a thing. The audience thought the animals would kill everybody. The big lion got his meat down, but it didn't set well, and he turned a somersault, and snarled, and pulled the bars of the cage, while the grizzly bear rolled up in a ball and rolled over in his cage till the men had to hold on to the wheels to keep the shebang from going over. The hyenas, who are always mad, went on a tear that could be heard in all the tents. Pa and the managers came back into the menagerie tent with the animal keeper, who had been sent for, and they began to try to find out what ailed the animals, and the animal keeper asked what pa had been feeding them, and pa said he had given them their ground turnips. "Turnips, indeed," said the keeper, as he took up some of the turnip and tasted of it, and he handed a handful to pa. Pa tasted it, and pa had a hot box, and the managers tasted of it, and they said: "No wonder." Then they asked pa where he got it, and pa said he sent me to order it, and then they all said: "That settles it." [Illustration: Pa Tasted of It.] I thought I would go 'way and jump in the river, but pa said: "Hennery, come here, my angel," and he spit on his hands and picked up a barrel stave. I went right up to pa, as innocent as could be, just as any dutiful son should, and right there before the animals and freaks pa--well, that's the reason I am not sitting down very much these days. So long. CHAPTER XXI. The Bad Boy and His Pa Inject a Little Politics Into the Show--Rival Bands of Atlanta Citizens Meet in the Circus Tent--A Bunch of Angry Hornets Causes Much Bitter Feeling. I expect that next year I shall be one of the managers of this show, 'cause they tell me I have got the greatest head of any boy that has ever traveled with the show. We haven't been having a very big business in the south, because the negroes haven't money enough to patronize shows, and a lot of the white people are either too high-toned or else they are politicians and want a pass. The managers and heads of departments held a meeting to devise some way to get both classes interested, and everybody was asked to state their views. After they all got through talking pa asked me what I thought would be the best way to get the people excited about the show, and I told him there was no way except to inject a little politics into it. I said if they would give me $50 or so, to buy Chinese lanterns, and about a hundred complimentary tickets to give away, pa and I could go to Atlanta a couple of days ahead of the show and we could organize a Roosevelt club among the negroes, and a Bryan club among the white fellows, and at the evening performance we could have the two clubs march into the main tent, one from the main entrance, and one from the dressing room, with Chinese lanterns, and one could yell for Roosevelt and the other for Bryan, and advertise that a great sensation would be sprung at the evening performance. I said the tent wouldn't begin to hold the people. Every one of the managers and heads of departments said it would be great stuff. Pa was the only one that kicked. He said the two processions might get into a fight, but I said what if they did, we wouldn't be to blame. Let 'em fight if they want to, and we can see fair play. So they all agreed that pa and I should go to Atlanta ahead, and organize the political processions, and, say, we had such a time that the circus came near never getting out of the town alive. We overdid the thing, so they wanted to lynch me, and pa wanted to help. The way it was was this way: Pa was to organize the white men for Bryan, and I was to organize the negroes for Roosevelt, and we went to work and bought 600 Chinese lanterns, and pa stored his half of the lanterns in a barn on the circus lot and I stored mine in another barn owned by a negro that I gave five dollars to be my assistant, with a promise that he should have a job traveling with the show, to milk the sacred cow. I told this negro what the program was, and that I wanted 200 negroes who had an ambition to be politicians, and hold office, and I would not only pass them into the show free, but see that they got a permanent office. What we had got to do, I said, was to stampede the white procession, that would be led by pa, and the way to do it was for every negro in my party to skirmish around in the woods and find a hornet's nest, and bring it to our barn, and fit it into one of the Chinese lanterns, and fix a candle on top of the nest, while the hornets were asleep. Then when we met the Bryan procession we were to shout and wave our lanterns, and if necessary to whack the white men over the head with the lantern with the hornets' nest, and the hornets would wake up and do the rest. The negro wanted to know how I could prevent the hornets from stinging our own men, and I told him that we had been in the hornet business all the season and never had one of our own men stung. I said we took some assafoetida and rubbed it on our clothes and faces, and the hornets wouldn't touch us, but just went for the other fellows to beat the band. Say, negroes are easy marks. You can make them believe anything. But if I ever get to be president I am going to appoint my negro assistant to a position in my cabinet, 'cause he is the greatest political organizer I ever saw. He rounded up over 200 cotton pickers and negro men who work in the freight depots once in a while and started them out after hornets' nests. He gave them some change to get a drink, and promised them free passes into the show next night, and the next morning they showed up with hornets' nests enough to scare you. They put them in a dark place in the barn, so the hornets wouldn't get curious and want to come out of the nests before they got their cue. That afternoon we fitted them into the Chinese lanterns, and tied sticks on the lanterns and fixed the candles, and when night came there were more negroes than I could use, But I told them to follow along, and the door tender would let them in, and all they need to do was to yell for Teddy when I did, and so we marched to the main tent about the time the performance got to going. I saw pa with his gang of white men go into the dressing room at about the same time. The manager had timed it for us to come in about 8:30, into the main tent, when the elephants were in their pyramid act, so my crowd of negroes stopped in the menagerie tent half an hour waiting to be called. I wish I wasn't so confounded curious, but I suppose I was born that way. I took one of the Chinese lanterns that was not lighted and just thought I would like to see what the hyenas and the big lion, who were in the same cage, with an iron partition between them, would do if a Chinese lantern was put in the cage, so I got the fellow that watches the cage to open up the top trap door, and I dropped a Chinese lantern with a hornets' nest in it right between the two hyenas. Gee, but you ought to have seen them pounce on it, and bite it and tear it up, and then the hornets woke up, and they didn't do a thing to that mess of hyenas. The hyenas set up a grand hailing sign of distress, and howled pitiful, and the lion raised up his head and looked at them through the bars as though he was saying, in a snarling way, "What you grave robbers howling about? Can't you keep still and let the czar of all the animals enjoy his after dinner nap?" Just then the hyenas kicked what was left of the hornets' nest under the bars into his side of the cage, and he put his foot on it and growled, and about a hundred hornets gave him his. He gave an Abyssinian cough that woke all the animals, and then the hornets scattered and before I knew it the zebras were dancing a snake dance and all of them were howling as though they were in the ark, hungry, and the ark had landed on Mount Ararat. Just then one of the assistant managers beckoned to me to lead in my procession and we lighted the candles in our Chinese lanterns. I didn't stop to see how the animals got along with the hornets, but I couldn't help thinking that if one hornets' nest could raise such a row, what would a hundred or so do when we got to going in the other tent? Oh, if I had only died when I was young, I never would have witnessed that sight. The band played, "There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night," and pa's crowd of white trash marched around the big outside ring shouting, "Bryan! Bryan! What's the matter with Bryan!" and the audience got up on its hind legs and yelled--that is the white folks did--and then we marched around the other way, and yelled, "Teddy is the stuff! Teddy is the stuff!" and the negroes in the audience yelled. Then my crowd met pa's crowd right by the middle ring, where the elephants had formed the pyramid that closes their act, and the Japanese jugglers were in the right-hand ring, and a party of female tumblers, with low-necked stockings, were standing at attention in the left-hand ring. There was no intention of having a riot, but when pa yelled, "What's the matter with Bryan?" a negro in my crowd yelled, "That's what's the matter with Bryan," and he hit pa over the head with his Chinese lantern, loaded with a warm hornets' nest as big as a football, which had taken fire from the candle. Pa dropped his lantern and began to fight hornets, and then all the white trash in pa's bunch rushed up and began to whack my poor downtrodden negroes with their Chinese lanterns. Of course, my fellows couldn't stand still and be mauled, and the candles had warmed our hornets' nests so the hornets were crawling out to see what was the trouble. Then every negro whacked a white man with a hornets' nest and the audience fairly went wild with excitement. [Illustration: He Hit Pa Over the Head with His Chinese Lanterns.] The hornets got busy and went for the elephants and the Japanese jugglers, and they stampeded like they never met a hornet before. [Illustration: The Stampeded Like They Never Met a Hornet Before.] The female tumblers found hornets on their stockings, and everywhere, and they gave a female war whoop and rushed for the dressing room. The elephants got stung and they came down off their pyramid and went out to the menagerie tent trumpeting, and switching their trunks. The negroes and the white politicians were getting into a race war, so the circus hands rushed in and separated them, and my negroes found that the fetty I had them rub on themselves did not keep the hornets from stinging them, so they stampeded. Then the hornets began to go for the audience, and the women yelled murder and pulled down their dresses to cover their shoes, and the men got stung and the whole audience stampeded into the open air. Then I met pa, and he was a sight, and I never got stung once. The managers tried to get the band to play some tune that would soothe and hold the audience till an explanation could be made, but somebody had thrown a hornets' nest under the band seats and the horn players got stung on the lips so they couldn't play, and the band all lit out for a beer garden. Before I realized it the show was over, and a detective that detects for the show had me collared and brought me up before a meeting of the managers. Pa was the prosecuting attorney, and told them that I didn't run my politics fair, 'cause I had brought in a lot of ringers. The managers asked me how the hornets' nests came to be in the Chinese lanterns. I told them they would have to ask the negroes for how was I to know what weapons they had concealed about their persons, any more than pa was responsible if his politicians carried revolvers. They said that looked reasonable, but they believed I knew more about it than anybody, but as we had to pack up the show and make the next town they wouldn't lynch me till the next day. Pa got me to put cold cream on his stings, and then he said, "Hennery, you are the limit." CHAPTER XXII. The Show Does Poor Business in the South--Pa Side Tracks a Circus Car Filled with Creditors--A Performance Given "For the Poor," Fills the Treasury--A Wild West Man Buncoes the Show. Gee, but this show has been up against it the last week. We haven't made a paying stand anywhere. The show business is all right when you have to turn people away, or let them in on standing room. Then you can snap your fingers at fate, and drink foolish water out of four-dollar bottles of fizz that has the cork trained so it will pop out clear to the top of the tent, and make a noise that makes you think you own the earth, but when you strike the southern country where the white men have not sold their cotton and the negroes have not been paid for picking it, the audience looks like a political caucus in an off year, when there is nobody with money enough to stimulate the voters. When the audiences are small, and half the people in attendance get in on bill-sticker's passes, and you can't pay the help regularly, but have to stand them off with promises, you are liable to have a strike any minute. The people you owe for hotel bills, and horse feed, and supplies, follow you from one town to another, threatening to attach the ticket wagon and levy on the animals. It takes diplomacy and unadulterated gall to run a show. We are playing now to get back into the northern states, but we have to leave an animal of some kind in the hands of a sheriff every day, which has been all right so far, 'cause we have steered the sheriffs on to elephants that have corns so they are no good except to eat, one zebra that was made up by a painter, who painted stripes on a white mule, and one lion that was so old he will never sell at forced sale for enough to pay for the beef tea the sheriff will have to feed him. When creditors in a town get too mad and threaten to attach things, we invite them to go along with us for a few days, and get their money when we strike a paying stand, and we agree to furnish them a Pullman car and all they can eat. That is rather tempting to country people, so we had a full car load of creditors with us for a week, and we gave them plenty to drink, so they had the time of their lives, but they didn't get their money. After going with us all through Georgia, they held an indignation meeting in the car, and between high balls and cheese sandwiches they got sleepy, and we side tracked their car in the woods at a station in Mississippi, where there was a post office, saw mill and a cotton gin. I guess they are there yet unless Mr. Pullman's lost car experts have found the car and driven them out with fire extinguishers. Pa came pretty near being left in that car with the creditors in Mississippi. He was helping to entertain the guests, and jollying them up to believe they would get their money when we got to Memphis the next day, when he noticed the car had been sidetracked, and he knew that was the way we were going to dispose of the creditors. He thought some one would tell him when to get off, but he was sitting up with a landlady from some place in Georgia that we owed a lot of money for feeding the freaks, and she was threatening that if she didn't get her money she would have the heart's blood of some one. So pa was afraid to leave for fear she would stab him. But when the car stopped on the siding, pa took off his coat and hat and yawned, and said he guessed he would turn in, and she let him go to his berth, and he got out on the platform, and just then the second section of our train came along, and stopped for water, and pa crawled into an animal car and laid down in the straw with the sacred cow. She bellowed all night 'cause the sacred bull, her husband, had been attached for debt at Vicksburg, but when pa got in the car in his shirt sleeves and humped his shoulders up on account of the cold, the cow thought maybe she had been unnecessarily alarmed, and maybe pa was her husband. So she quit bellowing, and laid down and chewed her cud till daylight. Then when she saw that pa was another person she got mad and chased him up into the rafters of the car, and he had to ride there until the train got to Memphis. The hands rescued pa, but he got away from the creditors all right. [Illustration: The Sacred Cow Chased Pa Up Into the Rafters of the Car.] We made a new lot of creditors at Memphis, and they proposed to go along with us, but we shook them off. Gee, but we made a killing in Memphis, and don't you forget it. We had handbills on all the wagons in the parade, telling the people that the proceeds of the afternoon and evening performance would be given to deserving persons, in charity, and the intention was to use the money to pay off the hands. My, but how the people turned out. The tents were all full, and we had more money than we have had in a month before, and after the performance at night the mayor and some prominent citizens waited on the management and asked when and where we were going to distribute the money to the deserving persons. The managers appointed pa to stand off the committee. Pa said he had noticed, in walking about the city, a beautiful park in the center of the town, and he told the committee that his idea was to have the deserving people gather at the park the next morning, which was Sunday, and wait there until the managers of the show could count the money, and prepare to distribute it, honestly and impartially, with the advice of the local committee. That seemed all right, and the committee notified the citizens to meet in the park at nine o'clock the next morning, and receive the money the citizens had so kindly contributed to such a noble cause, and they went away. Our show has got out of a good many tight places, but we never got out of a town so quietly and unostentatiously as we got out of Memphis during that early Sunday morning. There was not noise enough made getting our stuff to the train to wake up a policeman, and before daylight the different sections of the train had crossed the big bridge into Arkansas, and were on the way to the Indian Territory. Pa and the other managers were on the platform of the last car of the last section, as it pulled out across the river, at daylight, and even that early it seemed as though the whole colored population of Memphis was on the way to the park, to secure good positions, so they could receive their share of the money. As the train got to the middle of the river, and safe into Arkansas, the whole management breathed a sigh of relief. The boss canvasman said: "It is like getting money from home," and pa said: "It is like taking money from the tin cup of a blind organ grinder," and the treasurer of the show said, as he put the day's receipts in the safe in the business car: "It looks good to me." Then they all turned in to sleep the happy hours away, that beautiful Sunday on the way to Indian Territory and Oklahoma. Well, sir, you can never make me believe that money obtained dishonestly will stay by a person, or do him any good, and that was demonstrated in the case of our show the next day. We got acquainted with an old showman who was out of luck, who used to run a wild west show, but got busted up, and as he didn't care where he went, we took him with us on the train, and all day Sunday he talked about his show experiences, and finally he said if we had any horses with our show that could run races, we could make a barrel of money at Guthrie, where we were to make our next stand. He said the Indians and half breeds all had Indian ponies that they thought could beat any horses that ever wore shoes, and that they would bet every cent they had on their ponies, and as they had just been paid their annuities by the government, they had money in bales, and we could get it all, if we had horses that were any good, and money to back them. His idea was to give out that owing to some accident we could not give an afternoon performance, and just get out the horses and bet the Indians to a standstill, and win all their money, and give a free evening show as a sort of consolation to the Indians. Well, it looked good to pa, and he talked to the other managers, and the result was when we got to Guthrie we had made up our minds that as money was what we were after, the easiest way was to get it by racing our horses. So when we got settled in Guthrie, and got the tent up, we announced that part of the show was in a wreck down the road in Arkansas, and we should have to abandon the afternoon performance, but in the meantime there would be a little horse racing on the side, if anybody in Oklahoma had any horses they thought could run some. Well, I thought there were Indians and ponies and squaws enough before the announcement was made, but in less than two hours more than a thousand ponies were being brought in, and we got our chariot racers, and our bareback hippodrome horses, and they were being led around and admired, and we all laughed at the little runts of Indian ponies, and the Indians got mad and backed their ponies. Pretty soon the races began in the vacant lot just outside the town. The old showman we had brought up from Memphis was made master of ceremonies, 'cause he could talk Choctaw, and Comanche, and other Indian jargon, and things got busy. The Indians wouldn't run their ponies more than an eighth of a mile, or a quarter, and we consented, because the poor little things didn't look as though they could run a block, they were so thin, and sleepy. Pa was afraid the humane society would have us arrested for cruelty to animals. All our fellows were provided with money, and they flashed rolls of bills in the faces of the Indians, and finally Mr. Indian would reach down under his clothes and pull out a roll, and wet his thumb and peel off big bills, and before we knew it we were investing a fortune in the racing game. Then the racing began, and the horses were sent off at the drop of a hat, or the firing of a pistol. I was given some money to bet with the little Indians, 'cause pa said we wanted to get every dollar in the tribe, for if we didn't get it the Indians would spend it for fire water. The first race was between one of our best runners and a sleepy little spotted pony, and when the hat was dropped the pony made a few jumps and was off like a rabbit, and our horse couldn't see him for the dust, and our horse was distanced. The next race resulted the same, and all day long we never won a race, and the Indians took our money and put it in their pants and never smiled. The old showman we had befriended seemed crushed. [Illustration: The Pony Was Off Like a Rabbit.] When our money was nearly all gone to the confounded Indians, and the sun was going down, he went up to pa and said: "Uncle, what does this all mean? I thought your horses could run." Pa said: "Damfino, I never was no horse racer, nohow." When our money was all gone, and our horses were nearly dead from fatigue, the managers all got together in the big tent for a consultation on finances, and it was the saddest sight I ever saw. Pa tried to be cheerful, and he said: "Well, we will give the evening performance, and when the Indians are all in the tent we can turn out the lights and turn the boys loose on them, and maybe they will find some of the money in their breech clouts." "You don't mean to rob them, do you?" said the boss canvasman, and pa said: "No, no; far from it. We will borrow it of them. It is no harm to borrow from an Indian." Just then the treasurer came in with an empty tin box he had carried the money out in, and he said there would be no use of having an evening performance, 'cause the Indians had taken their ponies and squaws and money and gone towards the setting sun, and pa said: "Where is that old showman?" and the treasurer said: "He has gone with them. He is their legal adviser, and went down to Memphis to rope us into the game." CHAPTER XXIII. The Circus Has Bad Luck in Indian Territory--A Herd of Animals Turned Out to Graze Is Stampeded by Indians--They Go Dashing Over the Plains, and the Circus Tent Follows, Picked Up by a Cyclone. No more horse racing for this circus. The managers held a meeting at Guthrie, Okla., after we had lost our money horse racing with the Indians, and pa said the consensus of opinion was that we better stick to the legitimate show business, and not try to work in any side lines. Pa says he made a speech at the managers' meeting, in which he showed that the business man who attended strictly to the business which he knew all about, would make money, while the man who knew about dry goods, but worked in a millinery store or a stock of tinware, got it in the neck. He would either get stuck on the head milliner, or buy a stock of tinware that would not hold water. So a resolution was passed to the effect that hereafter no temptation could be great enough to get our show to go into anything outside of the business, no matter how good it looked as a get-rich-quick affair. So we gathered up our show and played a whole week in Oklahoma, and had full houses all the time, and made money enough to redeem our animals that had been attached by creditors. We have paid up our debts, and we got out of Oklahoma with flying colors. If we had gone right on to Kansas we would have shown sense, but some cowboys from the Indian Territory told pa and the other managers that if we would take the show to the Indian Territory we couldn't get cars enough to haul the money away, as the Indians had got round-shouldered and bow-legged carrying the money they had made grazing cattle, and the territory was full of cowboys that had money to burn, and they hadn't seen a circus since the war. Well, it seemed a shame to go by the Indian Territory, and allow those poor Indians to break their backs carrying money around, and so we sent a carload of bill pasters into the territory and billed towns that would hold us about a week, and we figured that we would clean up enough money to last us all a life-time. I wish I didn't have to write about the result, 'cause we are broke up so we can't look pleasant to have our pictures taken. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday morning that we arrived at Muskoka, and soon after daylight we had our tents pitched. As we had all day Sunday to rest, pa suggested that it would be a good idea to take all our animals that eat grass out on the grazing ground on the edge of the town and let them fill up on the nice blue grass that was knee-high all over the country. So after breakfast we detailed men to take charge of the different animals, and herd them out in the tall grass. It was a beautiful sight to see those rare animals, gathered from all over the world, eating grass together, in perfect peace, in this new country. The animals that we thought would stand without hitching, like the elephants, were cared for by their attendants, but the animals that might wander from their own fireside, were picketed out, or held by long ropes, the deer, the buffalo, the zebras, the sacred cattle, the elk, the yaks, the camels and that kind, were tied with long lariats, and held by the men detailed by the managers. For a couple of hours the animals just gorged themselves, after they had kicked up their heels a spell and rolled in the grass. Then one of the elephants got up on his hind feet and held up two toes, like boys in school hold up two fingers when they want to go in swimming, and the elephant started for a creek and went in the water, and the whole herd followed, and they spattered each other, and ducked and rolled around just like school boys. The whole population of the town, whites and Indians, came to the bank of the river to watch the fun. Pa was holding his elk by a rope and one of the managers had a rope around the neck of a giraffe: the treasurer and the ticket taker was leading the zebras, and everybody was busy with some kind of animal, and I had a rope around an antelope, and some of our men on horseback were herding the buffaloes. It didn't seem as though anything wrong could happen. The elephants wouldn't come out of the creek, so the boss canvasman went over to where there were about 500 cowboys and Indians on horseback, and asked them to ride into the creek and drive the elephants out where the rest of the animals were, on the prairie. Gee, but that was the greatest mistake he could have made. The men on horseback didn't want any better fun, so they made a charge, in line of battle, just like Sheridan's cavalry, down the bank, into the creek, yelling and waving lariat ropes, and snapping whips and the elephants got out of that creek in a hurry. The cowboys threw lassoes over the hind feet of the elephants, and tried to hold them, and the elephants bellowed, and dragged the cowboys and their ponies right amongst the other animals, and in about a minute, as the boss canvasman said when he came to, and they were picking the cactus thorns out of him: "Hell was just plumb out for noon." The buffaloes smelled the Indians, and they started to stampede, like they used to do when they lived on the plains, and all the animals followed, dragging the men who had hold of their ropes, and away we all went over a rise of ground, the zebras in the lead and the elephants fetching up the rear, the cowboys and Indians behind, yelling and ki-i-ing, and more than 500 Indian dogs barking. Well, pa was the foolishest man in the lot, 'cause he had tied the lariat rope that he held his elk by, around his belt, and when the elk went over the hill pa was only hitting the high places, and he was yelling for me to head off his elk. But I was busy trying to keep up with my antelope, which was scared worse than any animal in the race. When the antelope and I overtook the boss canvasman, who was digging his heels into the ground trying to hold his zebra, I thought it was a good time to say something pleasant, so I said: "This is a lovely country we are passing through," but I never heard his reply, 'cause just then the zebra jumped over a big cactus and the boss canvasman went into it, and stayed there, yelling for a piece of ice, while the zebras that were dragging the treasurer and the ticket taker passed us. I yelled to the treasurer and told him I should have to have my salary raised if I was expected to keep up with my antelope, but he told me where to go to get an increase of salary, some place in Arkansas--maybe Hot Springs. [Illustration: Dad Was Only Hitting the High Places.] [Illustration: The Boss Canvasman Went Into a Cactus.] Then my antelope heard the Indians and cowboys coming behind, and he got his second wind, and I never did touch the ground no more, and I must have looked like a buzzard sailing through the air. When my antelope got up to where pa was trying to keep up with his elk. I told pa he better let go his elk and get the cowboys and Indians to ride around ahead of the stampede and head them off. Pa said he couldn't let go of his elk 'cause the rope was tied to his belt, but for me to hit the ground somewhere ahead and let go of that jack rabbit I was chasing, and tell the cowboys to head off the stampede. So when I lit again I let go the rope, and the antelope got ahead of everything, and I wished I had bet on him. When the cowboys and Indians got up to me I delivered the message from pa, and they divided and went around the flanks of the stampeders, and in another mile they headed them off in a nice pasture, and kept riding around the animals so they couldn't get away. They soon had the whole bunch under control, and we all got together to see if anybody was hurt. Well, pa was the worst sight of all If his belt had broke he never would have lost his pants, 'cause more than a million cactus thorns had gone through and pinned them on. We had to cut them off, and pull out the thorns with pincers, one at a time, and pa yelling murder for every thorn. The boss canvasman was in the same fix, and everybody that tried to hold an animal was pinned together with thorns, and they had gravel up their trousers from sticking their heels into the soil. Everybody was mad and they threatened to lynch pa when they got back to the tent for suggesting letting the animals out to graze. We started back to town, the cowboys and Indians driving the animals, and the zebras and giraffes kicking up and acting as though they had got out of school on account of the death of a dear teacher, like schoolboys. Before we got to town a wind came up so strong that we had to walk edgewise to go against it, and finally we met the tent coming out to meet us, 'cause a cyclone had taken it bodily and was blowing it all over the prairie. And when we got to town the animals in the cages, that can't eat grass, were having an indignation meeting, and howling awful. Pa was the first man to get back to the lot, and he asked me what I thought he better do, and I told him he better get in the porcupine cage, 'cause he looked, with the cactus thorns sticking out of him, like the father of all porcupines. He said I thought I was smart, and he asked me if I was hurt any, and I told him all I could find was a stone bruise on my spine where I struck a prairie dog house. Well, we got the animals into a livery barn, and it took us almost the whole week to have the tent hauled back and sewed together, and we had to pay the cowboys and Indians more than the animals were worth to bring them back, and let them into the show free. The managers had a meeting and resolved to get out of the Indian Territory and into Kansas just as quick as possible. CHAPTER XXIV. Pa Is Sent to a Hospital to Recuperate--The Bad Boy Discourages Other Boys from Running Away with the Circus--He Makes Them Water the Camels, Curry the Hyenas and Put Insect Powder on the Buffaloes. This is the first time since we started out with the circus in the spring that pa and I have not been two "Johnnies on the spot," ready for anything that the managers told us to do. Oklahoma, though, and the Indian Territory, have been too much for pa, and they sent him on to Kansas City to recuperate in a hospital for a week, while the show does Kansas to a finish, and makes a triumphal entry into Missouri. I wonder how the show will get along without us for a week, 'cause they sentenced me to go along with pa, so I could be handy to hold his hands when the doctors are pulling cactus needles out of his hide. I guess pa was willing enough to jump Kansas in the night from what he told us once. He said when he was a young man he and a railroad brakeman got busted at Topeka, and they had an order book printed, and went all over Kansas taking orders for Osier willows, which they warranted to grow so high in two years they would make fences for the farms that no animals or blizzards could get over or through, and make shade for the houses and the whole farm. It was the year when the Osier willow craze was on and every farmer on the plains wanted to transform his prairie into a forest. Pa says the farmers fought with each other to sign orders, and some paid in advance, so as to get the willow cuttings in a hurry. Well, pa and the railroad man canvassed Kansas, and sold more than forty thousand millions of Osier willow cuttings, and put in the whole winter. In the spring, when it was time to deliver the goods, they went into the river bottoms and cut a whole lot of "pussy willow" cuttings, delivered them to the farmers and got their money, and went away. When the pussy willow cuttings died in their tracks, or grew up just plain pussy willows that never got high enough to hide a jack rabbit, the farmers of Kansas loaded their guns and waited for pa and the brakeman to come back to Kansas, but they never went back. The brakeman became president of a great railroad, but when he has to go across the continent in his special car, he dodges Kansas, and goes across by the northern or southern route. Pa has so far dodged the farmers, but money wouldn't have hired him to stay with the circus and meet those farmers that they sold the willow gold bricks to. And yet, when I bunco anybody around the show, pa takes me one side and tells me that honesty is the best policy, and to never lie, 'cause my character as a man will depend on the start I make as a boy. He don't want me to go through life regretting the past, and being afraid of the cars for fear some act of my younger days will become known and queer me. I guess pa knows how it is hisself. Well, if there is one thing I am proud of, it is that I have always been good. When I grow up to be a man, prosperous in business, and belonging to a church, and married, and have children growing up around me, I can put on an innocent face and a bold front, and point to my past with pride, if I should go to live among strangers, where nobody took the papers, and the people were not on to me. Pa says as long as your conscience is clear, and your pores open, life is one glad, sweet song. Well, I don't know, but if pa's conscience is clear, he must have strained it the way they do rain water, to get the wigglers out, or else he has used an egg to settle his conscience, the way they settle coffee. If his pores are open, he has opened them in the old way, with a corkscrew. But, with all I have had to contend with in the way of a frightful example from pa, I am not so worse. How many boys of my age, do you suppose, could put in a season with a circus and have all the facilities I have had to go wrong, and come out as well as I have? The way the freaks just doted on me would have turned the heads of most boys, but when I found out that all of them, from the fat woman and the bearded woman, to the trapeze performers, ate onions three times a day, I said: "Nay, nay, Hennery will camp with the animals, whose smell is natural, and not acquired." Say, do you know I have saved hundred of boys this summer from ruin, 'cause in every town there are lots of boys who want to run away from home and go off with a circus, and 'cause I belonged to the show they all came to me, and pa appointed me to discourage the boys, and drive them away from the show. I know in Virginia all the boys wanted to run away, and but for me the state wouldn't have boys enough to grow up and shoot the negroes. But when I found boys who wanted to skip away from home, I would give them a job, and they would have slept in the straw with the horses, and eaten at the second table after the negroes had been fed, if they could only shake their comfortable homes and loving friends and join a traveling circus. Well, I always gave such boys a job watering the camels, and after they had carried water from daylight till dark, and had seen it disappear down a camel, and the camels grumbling because they didn't bring water faster, the boys would ask me how long it look to fill up a camel, anyway. I would tell them that if they kept right at work, the camels ought to be filled up full along in the fall. The boys would reluctantly resign. Our camels have been the making of hundreds of boys by their tank-like capacity to hold water. One boy at Richmond, Va., got it on me by getting a section of fire hose and hitching it to a hydrant, and letting the water run into a trough at the camel stand in the menagerie, and before I knew it the camels had filled up until they were swelled four times as big as they ought to be. Then they laid down, and couldn't march in the grand entree, and pa sent for a plumber to have the camels fixed with faucets. That boy was a genius, and we kept him and put him into the lemonade privilege. You can fill a camel with a hydrant all right, but if you bring the water in pails he will beat the game. I remember one boy at Wilmington, Del., who insisted on going along with the show, 'cause his mother made him work after school, and my heart was touched, 'cause I know how a boy hates to work after school, so I gave him a job sprinkling insect powder on the buffaloes, that were scratching themselves against the tent poles so much that I felt they had something alive concealed about their persons. That boy started in with his can of insect powder on a buffalo calf, and then he filled the cow's hair full of the powder, and when he started on the bull, the bull took a sniff of the powder on the cow, and got it up his nose, and he held his head up kind of scared like, and turned his upper lip wrong-side out, and began to paw the ground. Then he made a charge on that boy, and tossed him through the tent, and I looked through the hole, and saw the boy scratching gravel towards town. If he is not running yet, he is probably doing chores for his mother both before and after school. [Illustration: The Bull Tossed the Boy Through the Tent.] I have discouraged most of the boys who wanted to run away and go with the show, by giving them a curry comb and brush and telling them they could have a permanent job currying off the hyenas. Most boys would look sort of dubious about it, but would think it was up to them to be game, and they would take the curry comb and brush all right. I would take them to the cage, and tell them to just talk soothing to the hyenas through the bars, and when the hyenas began to get tame and act as though it would give them pleasure to be curried off, and laid down and rolled over, and purred like a cat that wanted to be scratched, and acted as though they would eat out of one's hand, the boys might call me, and I would have the cage opened and they could go in and curry them off. Well, it would kill you dead to see a fool boy side up to a hyena cage and try to hypnotize a hyena by kind words and a pious example, saying soothing words like: "Soo, boss," or "O, come off now, and be a good fellow," and see the hyena snarl and show his teeth like an anarchist that a multi-millionaire might try to tame so he would take a roll of money out of his hand without biting the hand. I have had boys stand in front of a hyena cage with a curry-comb and brush all day, trying to get on good terms with the hyenas, and occasionally the hyenas would forget to snarl and the boy would think the animals were beginning to weaken, and the boy would work up closer to the cage, and say: "Pretty pussy," and hold out his hand and say: "Good fellow." Then the whole cageful of hyenas would make a rush for him, howling, snapping and scratching, with their bristles up, and the boy would fall backwards over a sacred cow. About this time I would come along and ask the boy if he had got the hyenas curried, 'cause if he had, I wanted him to curry the grave robbers--the jackals. Then the boy would reluctantly give up his tools, and say if I wanted the hyenas and jackals curried off I could do it myself. I would tell them they would never do for the circus business, 'cause faint heart never won fair hyena. Then they would go home and sell their mother's copper boiler to get money to pay their way in the show. Gee, but I have saved lots of boys from a circus fate. Pa has an awful time in the hospital, 'cause twice a day the doctors strip him and pull a mess of cactus thorns out of him, and he yells and don't talk very pious. The doctor told me I must try and think of something to divert pa's mind from his suffering. So I got some telegraph blanks and envelopes, and I have written messages from the show managers, twice a day. The morning message would tell about the business of the day before, and how they missed pa. Then I would add something like this: "The farmers around Olathe are all inquiring for you," or "The farmers around Topeka wish you were here, 'cause they want to give you a reception," or "About 200 farmers at Parsons think we ought to let them in free, on account of being old friends of yours." The last one broke pa all up. The message said: "Many farmers from Atchison are going to come with us to Kansas City to confer with you on an old matter of business." Pa jumped like a box car off the track, and wanted the doctors to send him to a hospital at St. Louis, and he told the doctors the reason, but they cheered him up by saying that if any mob came to the hospital after him, they would hide him in the pickling vat, and make the mob believe he was dead. That is the way it stands now. But pa is not so darn happy as I have seen him, though I try to do all I can to keep his mind off his trouble. I tell him as long as his conscience is clear, he is all right, but he says: "But, Hennery, that's the trouble; it ain't clear. Well, let us have peace, at any price." [Illustration: Pa Jumped Like a Box Car.] CHAPTER XXV. Pa Breaks in the Zebras and Drives a Six-in-Hand Team in the Parade--The Freaks Have a Narrow Escape from Drowning. Pa is stuck on the zebras. I do not know what there is about a zebra unless it is the wail paper effects of his exterior decoration that should make a man leave all the other animals and cleave unto the zebra, but pa has been putting in his leisure time all summer breaking the zebras to harness, and driving them single and double in the ring Sundays. Everybody about the show knew pa was going to spring some surprise on us. I have tried to reason pa out of his unnatural infatuation for zebras, but you might as well talk to a rich old man who gets stuck on a chorus girl, and gives her all his money, and has to go and live at the poor house. A zebra always looks to me like a joke that nature has played. Who, but nature, would ever think of laying out a plan for a zebra, and painting it in stripes, like a barber's pole, and yet we must admit that few human artists could paint a million zebras and get the stripes on as perfect as nature does with her eyes shut. The mule and the zebra are distant relatives, 'cause lots of mules have a few stripes on their legs, but the zebra is the eldest son who is aristocratic and inherits the stuff, while the mule is the younger son who never gets a look in for the money, but has to work for a living. So it is no wonder to me that the mule kicks. The zebra is the dude of the family, and the mule looks up to him, when he ought to kick his slats in, and rub out his stripes with a mule shoe eraser. While pa was in the hospital at Kansas City he formed a plan to paralyze the town by driving six zebras to a tally-ho coach, in the parade, and the reporters interviewed pa, and the papers were full of it, and the people were wild with excitement, and everybody wanted to see a six-in-hand zebra team, driven by Alkali Ike, one of the greatest western stage drivers that was ever held up by road agents. Pa was to be Alkali Ike. The show struck Kansas City Sunday morning, and the management was scared at what pa had advertised to do, and they all wanted to call off the zebra stunt, but pa said if they cut it out the people would mob the show, so all day Sunday we hooked up the six zebras, and the hands led them around the tent with a mule with a bell on ridden in the lead. They seemed to go pretty well, but I could see pa's finish when he got out on the streets with that crazy team. Pa wanted all the freaks to ride on the tally-ho, and he had invited nine newspaper fellows to ride with him. Pa thought the zebra team would follow the bell mule ahead, like a 20-mule borax team would. Well, Monday morning the parade started, and along about the middle of the parade, just ahead of the calliope, was pa and his six zebra team, his freaks and reporters, and pa handled the ribbons like a pirate. The fat woman sat on the driver's seat with pa, for ballast, and the rest of the freaks were sandwiched in between the reporters. We went along all right for half a mile, the circus hands walking beside the zebras, to kill them if they tried to jump over a house, while I rode the bell mule. If I had been planning the zebra business, I would have picked out a level town to try it on, but Kansas City is all hills and ravines, and going up hill the zebras' tally-ho had to be pushed by a couple of elephants, 'cause the zebras wouldn't pull the load, and going down hill we had to lock the wheels, and slide down. When we got on the main street, where the crowd filled both sides, almost up to the team, and the people began to cheer, the zebras began to waltz and kick, and try to jump over each other, but the hands got them untangled, and we worried along, though pa was pale, and looked like a man smoking a cigar while sitting on an open powder keg. The fat woman grabbed pa every little while, and screamed that she wanted to get off and walk, but pa told her to hush up and try to be a man. Well, as we were going down hill, by a park, near the Midland hotel, that confounded calliope had got right up behind the tally-ho, and the organist cut her loose, with the tune: "A Life on the Ocean Wave." Every zebra jumped into the air, the brake footpiece escaped pa's foot, and the tally-ho run on to the heels of the wheel zebras, and it was all off. There never was such a runaway since the days of Ben Hur. Pa had presence of mind enough to make the fat lady get down off the seat, and he put his feet on her to hold her down, the crowd yelled, and our zebras run into the cage ahead, containing the behemoth of Holy Writ, and knocked off a hind wheel, and every wagon ahead was either tipped over or disabled. The people fairly went wild, thinking the runaway was a part of the show. The giant fainted from fright, 'cause he always was a coward; the bearded woman threw her arms around a reporter, and scratched his face with her whiskers, while the Circassian girl got her white wig caught In the branch of a tree and lost it, and she was as bald as an ostrich egg. Pa took out the whip and larruped the zebras, to put some new stripes on them. [Illustration: There Never Was Such a Runaway Since the Days of Ben-Hur.] When we passed the camels they thought they were in the race, and they buckled in to keep up, and the chariot horses got the best of the drivers and they joined in. My mule kept up all right, and we went down the hill on to the level ground that runs to the Missouri river. When we got to the river the zebras turned short and tipped the tally-ho over into the water and the whole bunch on the coach was floundering in the muddy water; but there happened to be a sandbar under the water, so nobody was drowned, though we had to bail out the fat woman, she swallowed so much of the muddy river. The giant was senseless and two reporters got astride of him, thinking it was a rail, and drifted ashore, while pa laid on his back and floated like a duck, and when we got him out we found he had a life-preserver under his coat, and he said he put it on because he had a hunch that those zebras would make for running water if they ever got beyond control. Well, the crowd followed down to the river, and everybody was rescued, and the rest of the parade went over the route, and in the afternoon the tent was so full there were thousands standing up. [Illustration: The Zebras Turned Short and Tipped the Tally-ho Over Into the Water.] When pa came into the main tent with the zebras, in the grand parade around the ring, the crowd gave him three cheers, which probably caused the management to refrain from discharging him on the spot. Pa is like a cat, 'cause he always falls on his feet all right and he thinks the zebra tally-ho in the parade was the feature that caused the crowd to visit the show; but he says he will never drive zebras again, on account of the excitement. The fat woman talks of having pa arrested for breaking one of her ribs when he held her down with his feet; but pa says his feet did not sink into her more than a foot or so, and he couldn't have hit a rib, nohow. Well, I'm glad to be back in the show, 'cause there is more going on than there was in the hospital, where I put in a week while the doctors were pulling the cactus pin feathers out of pa that grew out on him in Indian Territory. Gee, but if I had to leave the circus business and go back to school, I know I should die of lonesomeness. I got a chance to talk with pa at supper, and asked him if he was really crazy, as the hands say he is, and how he liked zebras, anyway, and he said: "Hennery, zebras are just people, they stampede just like politicians and bankers, and business men generally, and never know enough to let well enough alone. The mule is the only draft animal that always pulls straight and gets there right side up." If I was going to run a circus for easy money, and a picnic, I wouldn't have any menagerie connected with it, 'cause the animals make more trouble than all the rest of the show. They are just like a lot of children in a reform school, they don't want to work, and they are just looking for a chance to fight when your back is turned, or to escape. They don't know where they would go if they did escape, but they don't want anybody over them, to teach them morals, though when meal time comes the reform school boys and the menagerie animals eat like tramps, because the food is so good, and then kick because it isn't better. If your performers in the circus proper do not suit you can discharge them, and if they are sick you can leave them in a hospital, and go on with the show, and forget about them until they show up in a week or two, pale as ghosts, and weak as cats, and demand back salary; but your animal has to be taken along and petted, and when you give him medicine to save his life, he will try to bite your hand off. And yet you can't help getting stuck on the animals, and a man gets stuck on the kind of animal that is most like him. The grizzly old granger, who never buttons the collar of his shirt, and whose Adam's apple looks like a hen's head, will stay by the camels, hours at a time, the pious church man feels at home among the sacred cattle, the strong-arm holdup man will linger by the grizzly bear, the prize-fighter will haunt the lions' den, the garroter will gaze lovingly at the tigers, the sneak thief seems to love the hyenas, and the big game hunters watch the deer and elk. Some of us who have brains love the monkeys, they are so human. CHAPTER XXVI. The Rings Are So Muddy the Performers Have to Wear Rubber Boots--The Freaks Present Pa with a Big Heart of Roses--The Show Closes and the Bad Boy Starts West with His Pa in Search of Attractions for the Coming Season. Well, Missouri is the state to teach a circus humility, and we have taken the thirty-third degree in the last ten days. It has rained nine days and a half out of a possible ten days, and the mud is something we never dreamed of before. The wagons have been mired in the mud on the way from the train to the lot every day in the streets of cities big enough to have street cars and electric lights. The cities have one or two main streets paved, but the rest of the streets are just virgin soil, and you have got to swim to get to the paved streets. When you start away for the lot, it is like Washington crossing the Delaware. And yet the people come from miles around to see the show, and everybody rides a web-footed mule, that can wallow in the mud. They hitch the mules to fences outside the tent, and while the performance is going on the mules bray in concert and drown the band. Pa has been wild ever since we struck Missouri, and no wonder, 'cause everybody seems to lay everything in the way of weather on him. Every place we show the lot is one sea of mud, and when we get the rings made they seem like a chain of lakes, and in galloping around the rings the horses splash mud and water clear to the reserved seats. The riders of the horses have to come out in rubber hunting boots and when they get on the horses we have to pull their boots off and hold them until the act is over, then the riders sit on the horses and pull the boots on and get down in the mud of the ring and bow to the audience. The woman riders are the worst to wear rubber boots, 'cause they fall down in the mud and spoil their dresses and kick scandalous, The trapeze performers have to be carried out of the dressing room on stretchers, and hoisted up to the net, 'cause they can't do stunts up on the trapeze with wet feet, and we have worked ourselves to death getting things in shape. The confounded elephants just glory in the mud, and the minute they get in the ring they all lay down and roll in the mud and water, so when they are ready to do their act they look like walking mud pies. The freaks are awful to handle, the giant being the only one that can wade through and look pleasant, and the fat woman would make you weary, she has to be carried back and forth to the platform by half a force of hands. Pa has had shawl straps and coffin handles fastened to her clothes, so there will be something to grab hold of to move her around. I don't think that another year we will have any fat woman, 'cause pa says it costs more to get this 500-pound female from one place to another than all the rest of the show. He thinks that people who visit the show don't care much about a fat woman anyway, but just guy her and ask her what kind of breakfast food she lives on. He thinks if we had three reasonably fat women that weighed about 200 pounds apiece, it would give better satisfaction and they would be easier to handle; but when she heard what pa said and felt that she was going to be shook next year she began to cry, and it was like turning on water in a bathtub. Pa had to pet her and then the bearded woman got jealous. At Jefferson City there came a cold wave and everything was froze stiff, and you could skate in the rings, and the management decided to get to St. Louis and send the show to winter quarters, and organize for next season. So we have had a time closing up for the season, and sending the animals to the barns on our farm up north, and discharging and paying off the performers and bidding everybody good-by. We have bought presents for everybody, and it has been a picnic. Pa had a big heart, with roses all around it, made of a horse collar, covered with flowers, which came from the freaks, and the performers remembered him with presents, and pa gave everybody something, and everybody got together in the main tent and made speeches. The manager thanked everybody and promised that next year we would have the greatest show on earth. He said the management had decided that what we lacked this year was a wild west show, as the people everywhere seemed to dote on busting broncos, and roping cattle, and chasing buffaloes and seeing Indians and rough riders chase up and down the arena. He felt that in justice to our rough-riding president, it was proper to have a wild west show that would make things hum next year. He said he took pleasure in informing the people of the show that pa had been commissioned to go out west at once and secure the Indians and cowboys, horses that buck and bounce off the riders, cattle that would stand it to be lassoed and thrown down for the amusement of the public, buffaloes that would bellow and act like old times on the plains, stage coaches and robbers, and he promised that next year they would have no cause to be ashamed of the show. He said pa was authorized to spare no expense to round up a wild west show second to none. The performers and hands cheered the manager, and then they yelled for pa for a speech. Pa got up on the tub that the elephants stand on, and said that it was true what the manager said about a wild west show, and that he was proud of the confidence reposed in him. He should be glad to take an expedition and go out into the far west and beard the wild west Indian in his tepee and engage Indians by the hundred to come with us next year. He would pierce the wilderness of the west in search of the wildest red men and would hunt the cowboy in his lair and secure those who could make the most trouble for cattle and horses and shoot up an audience if necessary to keep the peace, and he would buy buffaloes enough so every performer could ride one if he wanted to. He said while we had this year had some attempts at a wild west department in our show, it was only a tame imitation of what we would have next year, and he wanted them all to pray for him, that he might come out of the wild far west without being killed. He said he should take Hennery along with him as a mascot, and if the worst came he could trade me to an Indian tribe for ponies, or leave me as a hostage with some tribe until he returned the Indians at the close of next season. Pa closed his remarks by hoping that nothing had occurred during the past season that would cause anybody to have it in for him, 'cause he had tried to be impartial in his cussedness, and while he felt that he had been considered an interloper in the profession at first, he had found that everybody looked upon him later in the season as the main guy in the show, and that all had felt at liberty to give it to him in the neck on every proper occasion and he felt that he had taken his medicine like a thoroughbred. [Illustration: I Will Search for the Wildest of Red Men.] They gave three cheers for pa, and then they brought in the blankets and tossed everybody up until they lost everything out of their pockets and yelled that they had enough, and they wound up by tossing pa up in the blanket until he could see stars. They were going to give the fat woman a hoist, when the boss canvasman gave the signal to take down the tents, and all was in a hubbub for about 15 minutes. [Illustration: They Tossed Pa Up in the Blanket.] When everything was down and everybody went to the train, after joining hands around the middle ring and singing "Old Lang Sine," pa and I and the managers went to a hotel to organize our expedition to the far west in search of talent for a wild west show that shall be the greatest ever put under canvas. After all had gone away, and only pa and I and the managers were left, it seemed, as we thought over the incidents of the past season, as though there had been an earthquake and the whole show had been blotted out of existence. Pa choked up and was going to cry, and I got my throat full of something so I could not speak, and the managers began to wipe their eyes, and pa saved the day by saying: "Oh, what's the use, let's order up some highballs," and when they came, with a red lemonade for me, pa said: "Well, here's to the people that crowd around the ticket wagon and fight to get the first ticket when the window is open, and go away after the show and say it is the greatest show ever." "Hey Rube!" said the manager, and we drank standing, and pa went out and bought tickets for Cheyenne, and some beads, to give to the Indians we shall visit in the west. 
10396	----	Proofreading Team ANDY THE ACROBAT Or Out With the Greatest Show on Earth BY PETER T. HARKNESS Author of CHIMPANZEE HUNTERS, CIRCUSES--OLD AND NEW, HOW A GREAT SHOW TRAVELS, ETC. 1907 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. EXPELLED II. HOOP-LA! III. DISASTER IV. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION V. THE CIRCUS VI. CIRCUS TALK VII. A WARM RECEPTION VIII. "COASTING" IX. GOOD-BYE TO FAIRVIEW X. A FIRST APPEARANCE XI. SAWDUST AND SPANGLES XII. AN ARM OF THE LAW XIII. ON THE ROAD XIV. BILLY BLOW, CLOWN XV. ANDY JOINS THE SHOW XVI. THE REGISTERED MAIL XVII. A WILD JOURNEY XVIII. A FREAK OF NATURE XIX. CALLED TO ACCOUNT XX. ANDY'S ESCAPE XXI. A FULL FLEDGED ACROBAT XXII. AMONG THE CAGES XXIII. FACING THE ENEMY XXIV. ANDY'S AUNT XXV. A BEAR ON THE RAMPAGE XXVI. A CLEVER RUSE XXVII. A ROYAL REWARD XXVIII. "HEY, RUBE!" XXIX. A FREE TROLLEY RIDE XXX. WITH THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH XXXI. CONCLUSION ANDY THE ACROBAT CHAPTER I EXPELLED "Andrew Wildwood!" The village schoolmaster of Fairview spoke this name in a tone of severity. He accompanied the utterance with a bang of the ruler that made the desk before him rattle. There was fire in his eye and his lip trembled. Half of the twenty odd scholars before him looked frightened, the others interested. None had ever before seen the dull, sleepy pedagogue so wrought up. All eyes were fixed on a lad of about sixteen, seated in the front row of desks. The name called out applied to him. It had been abbreviated so commonly, however, that its full dignity seemed to daze him for the moment. Andrew Wildwood slowly arose, his big, fearless eyes fixed dubiously on the schoolmaster. "Yes, sir," he said. "Step forward, sir." Andy Wildwood did so. He was now in full view of the other scholars. Mr. Darrow also arose. He thrust one hand behind his long coat tails, twirling them fiercely. From the little platform that was his throne he glared down at the unabashed Andy. In his other hand he flourished the long black ruler threateningly. He pointed a terrible finger towards two desks, about four feet apart, at one side of the room. The desk nearest to the wall had its top split clear across, and one corner was splintered off. "Did you break that desk?" demanded the pedagogue. Andy's lips puckered slightly in a comical twist. He had a vivid imagination, and the shattered desk suggested an exciting and pleasurable moment in the near past. Some one chuckled at the rear of the room. Andy's face broke into an irrepressible smile. "Order!" roared the schoolmaster, bringing down the ruler with a loud bang. "Young man, I asked you: did you break that desk?" "Yes, sir, I'm afraid I smashed it," said Andy in a rather subdued tone. "It was an accident." "He was only fooling, teacher!" in an excited lisp spoke up little Tod Smith, the youngest pupil in the school. "He broke the desk, but--say, teacher! he did it--yes, sir, Andy did the double somersault, just like a real circus actor, and landed square on both feet!" The eyes of Andy's diminutive champion and admirer sparkled like diamonds. A murmur of delight and sympathy went the rounds of the schoolroom. Mr. Darrow glared savagely at the boy. He brandished the ruler wildly, sending an ink bottle rolling to the floor. As a titter greeted this catastrophe, he lost his temper and dignity completely. Springing down from the platform, he made a swoop upon Andy. The latter stood his ground, and there was a shock. Then Andy was swayed to and fro as the schoolmaster grasped his arm. "Young man," spoke Mr. Darrow in a shaking tone, "this is the limit. An example must be made! Last week you tore down the schoolhouse chimney with your ridiculous tight rope performances." "And wasn't it just jolly!" gloated a juvenile gleesome voice in a loud whisper. The schoolmaster swept the room with a shocked glance. It had no effect upon the bubbling-over effervescence of his pupils. Every imagination was vividly recalling the rope tied from the schoolhouse chimney to a near tree. Every heart renewed the thrills that had greeted Andy Wildwood's daring walk across the quivering cable. Then the culminating climax: the giving way of the chimney, a shower of bricks--but the young gymnast, safe and serene, dangling from the eaves. "Last week also," continued the schoolmaster, "you stole Farmer Dale's calf and carried it five miles away. You are complained of continually. As I said, young man, you have reached the limit. Human patience and endurance can go no farther. You are demoralizing this school. And now," concluded Mr. Darrow, his lips setting grimly, "you must toe the mark." A hush of expectancy, of rare excitement, pervaded the room. The schoolmaster swung aloft the ruler with one hand. He swung Andy around directly in front of him with the other hand. Andy's face suddenly grew serious. He tugged to get loose. "Hold on, Mr. Darrow," he spoke quickly. "You mustn't strike me." "How? what! defiance on top of rebellion!" shouted the irate pedagogue. "Keep your seats!" he roared, as half the school came upright under the tense strain of the moment. The next he was struggling with Andy. Forward and backward then went over the clear recitation space. The ruler was dropped in the scrimmage. As Mr. Darrow stooped to repossess it, Andy managed to break loose. Dodging behind the zinc shield that fronted the stove, he caught its top with both hands. He moved about presenting a difficult barrier against easy capture. Andy looked pretty determined now. The schoolmaster was so angry that his face was as red as a piece of flannel. He advanced again upon the culprit, so choked up that his lips made only inarticulate sounds. "One minute, please, Mr. Darrow," said Andy. "You mustn't try to whip me. I can't stand it, and I won't. It hasn't been the rule here, ever. I did wrong, though I couldn't help it, and I'm sorry for it. I'll stand double study and staying in from recess and after school for a month, if you say so. You can put me in the dark hole and keep me without my dinner as long as you like. I have lots of good friends here. I'd be ashamed to face them after a whipping--and I won't!" "Yes, yes--he's right!" rang out an earnest chorus. "Silence!" roared the schoolmaster. "An example must be made. I shall do my duty. Andrew Wildwood--Graham! what do you mean, sir?" The scholars thrilled, as a new and unexpected element came into the situation. Graham, quite a young man, and double the weight of the schoolmaster, had arisen from his seat. He walked quietly between Mr. Darrow and Andy, quite pushing back the former gently. "The lad is right, Mr. Darrow," he said, in his quiet, drawling way. "I wouldn't punish him before the scholars if I were you, sir." "What's this? You interfere!" flared out the pedagogue. "Don't take it that way, Mr. Darrow," said Graham. "You are displeased, and justly so, sir, but boys will be boys. Andy is the right kind of a lad, I assure you, only in the wrong kind of a place. They did the same thing with me when I was young. If they hadn't, I wouldn't be here spelling out words of two syllables at twenty-eight years of age." Andy's eyes glistened at the big scholar's friendliness. A murmur of approbation ran round the room. Silently the pedagogue fumed. The disaffection of the occasion, mild and respectful as it was, disarmed him. He regarded Andy with a despairing look. Then he straightened up with great dignity. "Take your seat, sir!" he ordered Andy severely, marching back to his own desk. "Yes, sir," said Andy humbly. "Pack up your books." Andy looked up in dismay. The fixed glint in the schoolmaster's eye told him that this new move meant no fooling. "Now you may go home," resumed Mr. Darrow, as Andy had obeyed his first mandate. Andy kept a stiff upper lip, though he felt that the world was slipping away from him. A picture of an unloving home, a stern, hard mistress who would make use of this, his final disgrace, as a continual club and menace to all his future peace of mind, fairly appalled him. He arose to his feet, swinging his strapped up books to and fro airily, but there was a dismal catch in his voice as he turned to the teacher's desk, and said: "Mr. Darrow, I guess I would rather take the whipping." "Too late," pronounced the relentless schoolmaster in icy tones. And then, as Andy reached the door amid the gruesome silence and awe of his sympathetic comrades, Mr. Darrow added the final dreadful words: "You are expelled." CHAPTER II HOOP-LA! Andy Wildwood passed out of the village schoolhouse an anxious and desolate boy. The brightest of sunshine gilded the spires and steeples of the village. It flooded highway and meadows with rich yellow light, but Andy, swinging his school books over his shoulder, walked on with drooping head and a cheerless heart. "It's pretty bad, it's just the very worst!" he said with a deep sigh, as he reached a stile and sat down a-straddle of it. Andy tossed his books up into the hollow of a familiar oak near at hand. Then he fell to serious thinking. His gaze roving over the landscape, lit on the farmhouse of Jabez Dale. It revived the recent allusion of the old schoolmaster. "I didn't steal that calf," declared Andy, straightening up indignantly. "Graham, who boards over at Millville, told us boys how Dale had sold a cow to a farmer there. He said they took her away from her calf, and the poor thing refused to eat. She just paced up and down a pasture fence from morning till night, crying for her calf. We got the calf, and carried it to its mother. I'll never forget the sight, and I'll never regret it, either--and what's best, the man who had got the cow was so worked up over its almost human grief, that he paid Dale for the calf, too, and kept it." The memory of the incident brightened up Andy momentarily. Then, his glance flitting to the distant roof of a small neat cottage in a pretty grove of cedars, his face fell again. He choked on a great lump in his throat. "Ginger!" he whistled dolefully, "how can I ever face the music over there!" The cottage was Andy's home, but the thought had no charm or sweetness for the lone orphan boy whom its roof had grudgingly sheltered for the past five years. Once it had belonged to his father. He had died when Andy was ten years old. Then it had passed into the legal possession of Mr. Wildwood's half-sister, Miss Lavinia Talcott. This aunt was Andy's nearest relative. He had lived with her since his father's death, if it could be called living. Miss Lavinia's favorite topic was the sure visitation of the sins of the father upon his children. She was of a sour, snappy disposition. Her prim boast and pride was that she was a strict disciplinarian. To a lad of Andy's free and easy nature, her rules and regulations were torture and an abomination. She made him take off his muddy shoes in the woodshed. Woe to him if he ever brought a splinter of whittling, or a fragment of nutshell, into the distressingly neat kitchen! Only one day in the week--Sunday--was Andy allowed the honor of sitting in the best room. Then, for six mortal hours his aching limbs were glued to a straight-backed chair. There, in parlor state, he sat listening to the prim old maid's reading religious works, or some scientific lecture, or a dreary dissertation on good behavior. She never allowed a schoolmate to visit him, even in the well-kept yard. She restricted his hours of play. And all the time never gave him a loving word or caress. On the contrary, many times a week Miss Lavinia administered a tongue-lashing that suggested perpetual motion. Mr. Wildwood had been something of an inventor. He had gotten up a hoisting derrick that was very clever. It brought him some money. This he sunk in an impossible balloon, crippled himself in the initial voyage of his airship, and died shortly afterwards of a broken heart. Andy's mother had died when he was an infant. Thus it was that he fell into the charge of his unloving aunt. It seemed that the latter had loaned Mr. Wildwood some money for his scientific experiments. As repayment, when he died, she took the cottage and what else was left of the wreck of his former fortune. Even this she claimed did not pay her up in full, and she made poor Andy feel all the time that he was eating the bread of charity. Andy's grandfather had been a famous sailor. Andy had read an old private account among his father's papers of a momentous voyage his grandfather had made to the Antarctic circle. He loved to picture his ancestor among the ship's rigging. He had an additional enthusiasm in another description of his father's balloon venture. Andy wished he had been born to fly. He seemed to have inherited a sort of natural acrobatic tendency. At ten years of age he was the best boy runner and jumper in the village. The first circus he had seen--not with Miss Lavinia's permission--set Andy fairly wild, and later astonished his playmates with prodigious feats of walking on a barrel, somersaulting, vaulting with a pole, and numerous other amateur gymnastic attainments. For the past month a circus, now exhibiting in a neighboring town, had been advertised in glowing prose and lurid pictures on big billboards all over the county. Juvenile Fairview was set on fire anew with the circus fever. Andy's rope-walking feat and double somersault act from desk to desk that morning had resulted, getting him into the trouble of his life. It furthermore had interrupted other performances on the programme listed for later on that very day. Andy's head had been full of the circus since he had seen its first poster at a cross-roads. He could never pass a heap of sawdust without cutting a caper. In the spelling contest, he had stupefied his fellow students by nimbly rattling over such words as "megatherian," "stupendous," "zoological aggregation," and the like. One of his sums covered the number of yards a clown could cover in a given time on a handspring basis. He had shocked the schoolmaster by handing in an essay on "The Art of Bareback Riding." Andy had tried every acrobatic trick he had seen depicted in the glowing advance sheets announcing the circus. To repeated efforts in this direction his admiring schoolmates had continually incited him. He had tried the double somersault in the schoolroom that morning. Andy had made a famous success of the experiment, but with the direful result of smashing a desk, and subsequent expulsion. Thinking over all this, Andy realized that the beginning and end of all his troubles was his irrepressible tendency towards acrobatic performances. "And I simply can't help it!" he cried in a kind of reckless despair. "It's born in me, I guess. Oh, don't I hope Aunt Lavinia turns me out, as she has often threatened to do. Say, if she only would, and I could join some show, and travel and see things and--live!" Andy threw himself flat on the green sward. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to a rapture of thought. Gay banners, brightly comparisoned horses, white wildernesses of circus tents, tinselled clowns, royal ringmasters, joyful strains of music floated through his active brain. It was a day dream of rare beauty, and he could not tear himself away from it. An idle hour went by before Andy realized it. As echoing voices rang out on the quiet air, he got to his feet rubbing his eyes as if they were dazzled. "Recess already," Andy said. "Well, I'll lay low until it's over. I don't want to meet the boys just now. Then I'll do some more thinking. I suppose I've got to decide to go home. Ugh! but I hate to--and I just won't until the very last moment." Andy went in among the shrubbery farther away from the road, but he could not hide himself. An active urchin discovered him from a distance. He yelled out riotously to his comrades, and they all came trooping along pell-mell in Andy's direction. Their expelled schoolmate and favorite greeted them with a genial smile, never showing the white feather in the least. His chums found him carelessly tossing half-a-dozen crab apples from hand to hand. Andy was an adept in "the glass ball act." He described rapid semicircles, festoons and double crosses. He shot the green objects up into the air in all directions, and went through the performance without a break. "Isn't Andy a crackerjack?" gloated enthusiastic little Tod Smith. "Oh, say, Andy, you won't disappoint us now, will you?" "What about?" inquired Andy. "The rest of it." "The rest of what?" "Your show. You know you promised--" "Oh, that's all off!" declared Andy gloomily. "I've made trouble enough already with my circus antics, I'm thinking." "Don't you be mean now, Andy Wildwood!" broke in Ned Wilfer, a particular friend of the expelled boy. "Old Darrow has given us a double recess. We have a good forty minutes to have fun in. Come on." The speaker seized Andy's reluctant arm and began pulling him towards the road. "Got the horse?" he asked of a companion. "Sure," eagerly nodded the lad addressed. "I got him fixed up, platform, blanket and all, before school. He's tied up, waiting, at the end of father's ten-acre lot." "Yes, and I've got the hoop all ready there, too," chimed in Alf Warren, another schoolboy. "See here, fellows," demurred Andy dubiously, "I haven't much heart for frolic. I'm expelled, you know, and there's Aunt Lavinia--" "Forget it!" interrupted Ned. "That will all right itself." Andy consented to accompany the gleeful, expectant throng. They had arranged the night before to hold an amateur circus exhibition "on their own hook." One boy had agreed to provide the "fiery steed" for the occasion. Alf Warren was to be property man, and donate the blazing hoop. They soon reached the corner of the ten-acre lot. There, tethered to a stake and grazing placidly, was a big-boned, patient-looking horse. Across his back was strapped a small platform made of a cistern cover. This had been cushioned with a folded buggy robe. Alf Warren dove excitedly into a clump of bushes. He reappeared triumphantly holding aloft a big hoop. It was wound round and round with strips of woolen cloth which exuded an unmistakable and unpleasant odor of kerosene. "Say! it's going to be just like the circus picture on the side of the post office, isn't it?" chuckled little Tod Smith. Ned Wilier took down the fence bars and led the horse out into the road. Andy pulled off his coat and shoes. He stowed them alongside a rock near the fence. Then he produced some elastic bands and secured his trousers around the ankles. His eyes brightened and he forgot all his troubles for the time being, as he ran back a bit. "Out of the way there!" shouted Andy with glowing cheeks, posing for a forward dash. He made a quick, superb bound and landed lightly on the horse's back. Old Dobbin shied restively. Ned, at his nose, quieted him with a word. Andy, the centre of an admiring group, tested the impromptu platform. He accepted a short riding whip handed up to him by Alf Warren with a truly professional flourish. Andy stood easy and erect, one hand on his hip. All that seemed lacking was the sawdust ring and a tinselled garb. "Ready," announced Andy. All of the group except Ned Wilfer started down the road in the wake of Alf Warren. The latter carried the hoop in one hand, some matches in the other. The mob rounded the highway, purposely selected because it curved, and disappeared from view. "Everything all right, Andy?" inquired Ned, strutting about with quite a ringmaster-like air. "Yes, if the horse will go any." "Oh, he'll get up full speed, once started," assured Ned. It was fully five minutes before an expected signal reached them. From far around the bend in the road there suddenly echoed vivid shouts and whistlings. "Start him up," ordered Andy. Ned led the horse a few rods and got him to running. Then, dropping to the rear, he kept pace with the animal, slapping one flank and urging him up to greater speed. He fell behind, but kept on running, as Andy, guiding the horse by the long bridle reins, occasionally gave him a stimulating touch of the light whip he carried. Five hundred feet covered, old Dobbin seemed to enjoy the novelty of the occasion, and kept up a very fair gait. Rounding the curve in the road and looking a quarter-of-a-mile ahead, Andy could see his schoolmates gathered around a tree stump surmounted by Alf Warren, holding the hoop aloft. Just here, too, for the space of a mere minute Andy could view the schoolhouse through a break in the timber. A swift side glance showed the big scholar, Graham, lounging in the doorway. Just approaching him from the direction of the village was the old schoolmaster, Mr. Darrow. "He has been up to see Aunt Lavinia, that's the reason of the double recess," thought Andy, his heart sinking a trifle. Then, flinging care to the winds for the occasion, he uttered a ringing: "Hoop-la!" Andy felt that he must do justice to the expectations of his young friends. He swung outward on one foot in true circus ring fashion. He swayed back at the end of the bridles. He tipped thrillingly at the very edge of the cushioned platform. All the time by shouts and whip, he urged up old Dobbin to his best spurt of speed. At the schoolhouse door Mr. Darrow gazed at the astonishing spectacle with uplifted hands. "Shocking!" he groaned. "Graham, there goes the most incorrigible boy in Fairview." "Yes," nodded Graham with a quaint smile, as Andy Wildwood flashed out of sight past the break in the timber--"he certainly is going some." "He'll break his neck!" "I trust not." CHAPTER III DISASTER Old Dobbin pricked up his ears and kept royally to his task as he seemed to enter into the excitement of the moment. Andy had practiced on the animal on several previous occasions. Lumps of sugar and apples had rewarded Dobbin at the end of the performances for his faithful services. He seemed now to remember this, as he galloped along towards the waiting group down the road. Sometimes Andy had made the horseback somersault successfully. Sometimes he had failed ignominiously and tumbled to the ground. Just now he felt no doubt of the result. The padded cushion cover was broad and steady. He kept the horse close to the inner edge of the road. The tree stump upon which Alf Warren stood just lined it. By holding the hoop extended straight out, the horse's body would pass directly under this. Nearer and nearer steed and rider approached the point of interest. The spectators gaped and squirmed, vastly excited, but silent now. About one hundred feet away from the tree stump, Andy shouted out the quick word: "Ready." At once Alf Warren drew the match in his free hand across his coat sleeve. It lighted. He applied the ignited splinter to the edge of the hoop. The oil-soaked covering took fire instantly. The blaze ran round the circle. The hoop burst into a wreath of light, darting flames. Andy fixed a calculating eye on hoop and holder. "Two inches lower," he ordered--"keep it firm." The horse seemed inclined to swerve at a sight of the fiery hoop. Andy soothed Dobbin by word and kept him steady with the bridle reins. Everything seemed working smoothly. Andy moved to the extreme rear edge of the platform and poised there. Five feet away from the hoop he dropped the riding whip. Then he flung the reins across the horse's neck. With nerve and precision Andy started a forward somersault at just the right moment. He felt a warm wave cross his face. As he made the complete circle he knew that something was wrong. "Ouch!" suddenly yelled out Alf. A spurt of flame had shot against his hand that held the short stick attached to the hoop. Alf let go the hoop and dropped it. As Andy came down, righted again on the platform, one foot struck the narrow edge of the hoop. He was in his stocking feet, and the contact cut the instep sharply. It threw Andy off his balance. He tried to right himself, but failed. He tipped sideways, and was forced to jump to the ground. The hoop fell forward against the horse's mane. With a wild neigh of terror and pain the animal leaped to one side, carrying away a section of rotten fence. The blazing hoop now dropped around its neck. A shout of dismay went up from the spectators. Alf, nursing his burned fingers, looked scared. Andy glanced sharply after the flying horse and spurted after it. At that moment the school bell rang out, and the crowd made a rush in the direction of the building. Alf Warren lagged behind. "Go ahead," directed Andy, "I'll catch Dobbin." Ned Wilfer at that moment dashed up to Andy's side. "I'll stay and help you," he panted. "Don't be tardy, don't get into trouble," said Andy. Dobbin was making straight across a meadow. The kerosene soaked rags had pretty well burned out. They smoked still, however, and in the breeze once in a while a tongue of flame would dart forth. Dobbin passed a haystack, then another. He was momentarily shut out from Andy's view on both occasions. At his second reappearance Andy noticed that the animal had got rid of the hoop. Dobbin now slackened his pace, snorted, and, laying down, rolled over and over in the stubble. The horse righted himself as Andy came up with him, breathless. "So, so, old fellow," soothed Andy. "Just singed the mane a little, that's all." He patted the animal's nose and seized the bridle to lead Dobbin back to the pasture from which he had started. "Oh, gracious!" exclaimed Andy, abruptly dropping the bridle quicker than he had seized it. Forty feet back on the course Dobbin had come, the second haystack was all ablaze. There the horse had thrown off the fire hoop, or it had burned through at some part and had dropped there. It had set the dry hay aflame. As Andy looked, it spread out into a fan-like blaze, enveloping one whole side of the stack. Andy was dumb with consternation. However, he was not the boy to face a calamity inactively. His quick eye saw that the stack was doomed. What troubled him more than that was the imminent danger to half-a-dozen other stacks nearly adjoining it. "All Farmer Dale's hay!" gasped the perturbed lad. "Fifty tons, if there's one. If all that goes, what shall I do?" Andy took in the whole situation with a vivid glance. Then he made a bee-line dash for a broken stack against which rested a large field rake. It was broad and had a very long handle. Andy ran with it towards the blazing heap of hay and set to work instantly. "This won't do," he breathed excitedly, as an effort to beat out the spreading flames only caused burning shreds to fill the air. These threatened to ignite the contiguous stacks. Once the first of these was started they would all go one after the other. They were out of the direct draught of the light breeze prevailing. What cinders arose went straight up high in the air. The main danger threatened from the stubble. Creeping into this from the base of the haystack in flames, little pathways of fire darted out like vicious serpents. Andy made for these with the rake. He beat at them and scraped the ground. He stamped with his stockinged feet and pulled up clumps of stubble with his hands. The trouble was that so many little fires started up at so many different spots. Finally, however, the ground was a mass of burned-out grass for twenty feet clear around the centre of the blaze. The haystack was sinking down a glowing mass, but now confined itself and past spreading out. Andy flung himself on the ground fairly exhausted. His hands and face were somewhat blistered, and he was wringing wet with perspiration. He looked pretty serious as he did "a sum out of school." "That stack held about two tons and a-half," he calculated. "I heard a farmer at the post-office say yesterday that he was getting eight dollars in the stack for hay. There's twenty dollars gone up in smoke. Where will I ever get twenty dollars?" Andy became more and more despondent the longer he thought of the dismal situation. He stirred himself to action. With the rake he heaped together the brittle filaments of burned hay. "It can't spread any now," he decided finally. "It's dying down to nothing. Now then, what's next?" Andy took a far look in all directions. The fire had burned so rapidly and clear in the crisp light air that it did not seem to have been observed in the village. Andy wondered, however, that some of the Dales had not discovered it. He stood gazing thoughtfully at the Dale homestead about a quarter-of-a-mile away. A great many impulsive, disheartening and also reckless projects ran through his mind. "It's an awful fix to be in," ruminated Andy with a sigh of real distress. "If ever it was up to a fellow to cut stick and run, it's up to Andy Wildwood at this minute. Expelled from school, burning up a man's haystack and then--Aunt Lavinia! The rest is bad enough, but when I think of her it sends the cold chills all over me. Ugh!" Andy looked for Dobbin. It was some time before he discovered the innocent partner of his recent disastrous escapade. The old horse was half-a-mile distant, placidly making along the roadway for home. Andy rubbed his head in distress and uncertainty. He had a hard problem to figure out. Suddenly his eyes snapped and he straightened up briskly. "I won't crawl," he declared. "'Toe the mark' is Aunt Lavinia's great motto. 'Face the music' is mine. I won't turn tail and play the sneak. I've destroyed some property. Well, the first honest thing to do is to try and make good. Here goes." Andy started for the road. He reached the spot where he had left his coat and shoes. Donning these he went to a little pool in the brush, washed his face and hands, and made a short cut for Farmer Dale's house. Andy's heart was beating pretty fast as he entered the farm yard, but he marched straight up to the front door. Andy knocked, first timidly, then louder. There was no response. CHAPTER IV A BUSINESS PROPOSITION "Nobody at home," said Andy to himself. He walked around the house to find all the windows closed and locked. "That's the reason no one came to the fire," he resumed. "There's somebody, though." Andy started in the direction of the barn. He had caught the sound of some one chopping or hammering there. He came upon a hired hand splitting some sawed hickory slabs to whittle down into skewers. "Mr. Dale's folks all away?" inquired Andy. "Reckon they are, youngster," answered the man. "Will they be gone long, do you think?" "Mr. Dale won't. He drove the family over to Centreville. The circus is there, you know." "Yes," said Andy--longingly. "Took them early, so they could look around town. They're going to stay all night with some relations, Mr. Dale isn't, though. He ought to be back by this time. He's due now. Was talking of carting a couple of loads of hay over to Gregson's this morning." Andy's heart sank at this. He did not tell the man about the fire. Backing away gloomily, he went out into the road again. Every point in the landscape suggested some section of his morning's misfortunes. Andy craned his neck as he took in a distant view of the old school-house. He made out a female figure approaching it. Andy recognized the green bombazine dress of Miss Lavinia Talcott. She carried a baggy umbrella in her hand. Andy from experience knew that its possession by the old maid was generally a sign that she was on the war-path. "She's hunting for me," thought Andy. "I suppose I've got to face the music some time, but I'll not do it just now, I've got some business to attend to, first." Andy hurried down the Centreville turnpike. He walked along briskly, more to get out of possible range of Miss Lavinia than with any other distinct motive in mind. Still, Andy had "business" in view. That burned down haystack haunted him. Somehow he must square himself with Mr. Dale, he said. He fancied he had found a way. Andy did not pause until he was fully a mile down the highway. He felt safe from interruption now, and sat down on an old log and mused in a dreamy, drifting sort of a way. The sound of approaching wagon wheels disturbed him in the midst of a depressing reverie. "It's Mr. Dale," said Andy, getting up from the log and viewing the approaching team. "I wanted to see you, Mr. Dale," he spoke aloud as the carry-all came abreast of him. "Oh, hello, you, Wildwood," spoke the farmer with a grin. "Playing hookey, eh?" "No, sir," answered Andy frankly. "I was expelled from school this morning." "Do tell me now!" said Dale. "Want a lift?" "No, sir," answered Andy, "I just wanted to take up a minute of your time. I'm sorry, Mr. Dale, I don't suppose you think any too much of me already, and when I tell you--" "Hey? Ha! ha!" chuckled Dale. "Think I'm sore on you because of that calf business? Not at all, not at all. Why, I got double price for the critter, see?" "There's something else," announced Andy seriously. "The truth is, Mr. Dale, I burned down one of your haystacks about an hour ago." "What! You burned one of my haystacks? Which one--which one?" demanded Dale, growing pale with excitement. "The little one to the north-east of the field," explained Andy. "I should think it held between two and three tons." Farmer Dale dropped the lines and jumped down into the road from the wagon, whip in hand. All his jubilant slyness deserted him. He began to get frightfully worked up over Andy's news. "Wait a minute," pleaded Andy. "Don't get excited till I explain. I managed to save the other stacks. It was all an accident, but I want to pay the damage. Yes, I'll pay you, Mr. Dale." "You'll have to, you bet on that!" snorted the farmer wrathfully. "I'll go to your aunt right off with the bill." "Don't do it, Mr. Dale," advised Andy. "She preaches lots about honesty and responsibility and all that, but she's mighty close when it comes to the dollars. She wouldn't pay you a cent, no, sir, but I will. That hay is worth about twenty dollars, I reckon, Mr. Dale?" "Well, yes, it is," nodded the farmer. "Good timothy is scarce, and that was a prime lot." "I've got no money, of course," went on Andy, "but I thought this: couldn't you give me some work to do and let me pay it out in that way? I'll do my level best to--" "Oh! that's your precious proposition, is it?" snarled Mr. Dale, switching the whip about furiously. "No, I couldn't. The hand I've got now is idle half the time. See here, Wildwood, arson is a pretty serious crime. You'd better square this thing some way. In fact you've got to do it, or there's going to be trouble." "I know what you mean," said Andy--"you'll have me arrested. You mustn't do that, Mr. Dale--I feel bad enough, I'm in a hard enough corner already. I want to do what's right, and I intend to. I owe you twenty dollars. Will you give me time to pay it in? Will you take my note--with interest, of course--for the amount?" "Will I--take your note--interest? ha! ha! oh, dear me! dear me!" fairly exploded Dale in a burst of uproarious laughter. "Secured," added Andy in a business-like tone. "Secured by what?" demanded Dale eagerly. "I can't tell you now. I will to-night, or to-morrow morning." "You don't mean old ball bats, or your mud scow in the creek, or that kind of trash?" inquired Dale suspiciously. "No, sir, I mean tangible security," declared Andy. "You don't seem to carry much of it around with you," suggested Dale bluntly, casting a sarcastic eye over Andy's well-worn clothes. "Perhaps not," admitted Andy, coloring up. "I can give you security, though. What I want to know is this: If I can place good security in the hands of a trusty person, will you give me--say--three months to pay you off in? If I don't, the person will sell the security and pay you in full." "Why don't you put the security in my hands?" asked the farmer shrewdly. "Because I have done some damage up at the schoolhouse. I want to pay for that, too. You will be satisfied with the security and the person holding it, Mr. Dale. I will let you know all about it before ten o'clock to-morrow morning." Farmer Dale surveyed Andy with a long, curious stare, whistling softly to himself. His hot temper was subdued, now that he saw a prospect of payment for the burned hay. "You talk straight off the reel, Wildwood," he said. "I believe you're honest. Go on with your little arrangement, and let's see how it pans out. I shan't make any move until after ten o'clock to-morrow morning." "Thank you, Mr. Dale," said Andy. "I won't disappoint you." Andy started to move away from the spot. "Hold on," interrupted Dale. "Tell me how it happened." Andy gave an unbiased account of the morning's occurrences. "Ha! hum!" commented the farmer. "No end of scrapes because you're a lively lad and can't help it. See here, Wildwood, do you know what I would do if I were in your place?" "No, what's that, Mr. Dale?" asked Andy. "I'd join the show--yes, I would!" declared the farmer energetically. "I tell you I believe circus is born in you, and you can't help it. You don't have much of a life at home. You're not built for humdrum village life. Get out; grow into something you fancy. No need being a scamp because you're a rover. My brother was built your sort. They pinned him down trying to make a doctor of him, and he ran away. He turned up with a little fortune ten years later, a big-hearted, happy fellow. No one particularly knew it, but he'd been with a traveling minstrel show for those ten years. Now he's settled down, and I'd like to see a finer man than Zeb Dale." "Thank you," said Andy, "I'll think of what you say." Farmer Dale jogged on his way. Andy faced towards Centreville. It seemed as if something was pulling him along in that direction. CHAPTER V THE CIRCUS At the first cross-roads a field wagon containing a farmer, his wife and half-a-dozen children whirled into Andy Wildwood's view. A merry juvenile chorus told Andy that they were bound for the circus. "Trace loose, mister," he called out as he noticed the trailing strap. "Whoa," ordered the driver, halting with a jolt, and Andy adjusted the faulty harness and smiled back cheerily at an eager little fellow in the wagon who inquired if he was going to the show, too. "Jump in, youngster, if ours is your way," invited the farmer. Andy promptly availed himself of the offer. He sat with his feet dangling over the tailboard. The farther he got from Fairview the less he thought of the manifold troubles and complications he was leaving behind him there. Andy did not intend to run away from home. He had business in view which demanded his presence in Fairview the next day. He was, however, resolved to go to Centreville. He would at least see the outside of the circus, and could put on the time until evening. It was only six miles from Fairview to Centreville, and they soon came in sight of the county seat. Andy caught more and more of the circus fever as they progressed. At every branch road a new string of vehicles joined the procession. They passed gay parties of ruralites on foot. Andy leaped down from the wagon with a "Thank you" to his host, at the first sight of the mammoth white tents over on the village common. This was the second day of the circus at Centreville. It was scheduled to remain one more day. Its coming was a great event for the town, and the place was crowded with pleasure-seekers. Andy reached the principal street just as the grand pageant went by. It was a spectacle that dazzled him. The music, the glitter, the pomp, the fair array of wild animals made him forget everything except that he was a boy enjoying a rare moment of existence. It was the inner life of the circus people, however, that attracted Andy. It was his great ambition to be one of them. He was not content to remain a spectator of the outside veneer of show life. He wanted to know something of its practical side. Andy did not dally around the ticket seller's booth, the side shows or the crowded main entrance of the show. Once, when a small circus had visited Fairview, he had gotten a free pass by carrying buckets of water to the cook's tent. He had now a vague hope that some such fortunate chance might turn up on this new occasion. Andy soon discovered, however, that the present layout was on a far different scale to the second-class show he had seen at Fairview. It was a city in itself. There were well-defined bounds as to the circus proper. Ropes strung along iron stakes driven into the ground kept curious visitors at a distance. The performers' tent, the horse tents, the cook's quarters and the sleeping space of the working hands were all guarded, and intruders warned to keep their distance. Everything was neat and clean, and a well-ordered system prevailed everywhere. The savory flavor of roasting meat made Andy desperately hungry. He saw a fat, aproned cook hastily gathering up some chips near a chopping block. Andy offered to split him some fresh wood, but received only an ungracious: "Get out! No trespassers allowed here." Andy wandered about for a long time. He greatly envied a lad about his own age who, adorned with a gilt-braided jacket, was walking a beautiful Arabian steed up and down. While he was staring at the circus boy, two popcorn boys connected with the show ran into him purposely and tripped him up. They went off with a laugh at his mishap. Andy concluded he was getting in the way as a gruff, grizzled old fellow with a bludgeon ran forward and yelled to him to make himself scarce. "I wish I could get into the show," murmured Andy "There seems no way to work it, though," he added disconsolately. "I wonder if they'd let me stay here? When that canvas flaps I can see right into the main tent." Andy was right near the canvassed passageway leading from the performers' tent to the main one. If no one disturbed him he could have occasional glimpses of what was going on inside, and that was better than nothing. Fate, however, was against him. He heard quick breathing, and turning saw the big watchman rapidly making for him, club uplifted. "Trying to get in under the canvas, eh?" roared the man. "Not I--I wouldn't steal anything, not even a sneak into the show," declared Andy. He retreated promptly, but in doing so tripped over a guy rope and went flat. Andy got up, his mouth full of fine shavings, but grasping something his hand had come in contact with and had clutched in his fall. He ran out of range of the watchman, who brandished his stick at the lad threateningly. At a safe distance Andy inspected his find. "Only a handkerchief," he said, "and a rather mussy one at that. But there's something knotted in it. I wonder what it is?" It was a large dark-colored silk handkerchief. It had an odor of resin, and two of its corners were knotted. Untying one knot, Andy disclosed a mysterious device resembling two hard rubber shoe horns, joined in the centre by a concave piece of metal. He could not possibly imagine its use or value. Then Andy laughed outright. The other knot undone revealed a small rabbit's foot. "Not much of a find," he ruminated. "Queer kind of plunder, though. Wonder who owns it, and what that fandangle thing is?" Andy pocketed the find and was about to move away from the spot, when the flap of the performers' tent moved apart. A man came out, all arrayed in tights and spangles for the circus ring. He wore a loose robe over his show costume and big slippers on his feet. His hair was nicely combed and his face powdered up for the performance. He looked very anxious and excited. Andy at once saw that he was looking for something in great haste and suspense. The man walked all around outside of the performers' tent, eagerly scanning the ground. Then he enlarged the scope of his survey and search. "Hey, Marco!" sang out another man, sticking his head past the flap of the tent. "Time to get in line." "Wait a minute," retorted the other. "I've lost something, and I won't go on till I find it." The speaker looked positively distressed as he continued a disappointing search. A sudden idea struck Andy, and he drew the handkerchief and its belongings from his pocket. Just then the circus performer nearly ran against him. He looked up and made a forward jump. He seized the handkerchief and the two odd objects it contained with a fervent cry that astonished the bewildered Andy. "Give them to me," he exclaimed eagerly. "They're mine. Where did you find them? Boy, you've saved my life!" CHAPTER VI CIRCUS TALK Andy knew that the circus actor's vehement statement was an exaggeration, still there was no doubting the fact that he was intensely pleased and grateful. "I found those things in the handkerchief over near the dressing tent," explained Andy. "I must have dropped them there, or they got kicked out under the flap in hustling the baggage around," cried the man. "Here, kid." The speaker made a motion towards his side, as if reaching for a vest pocket. "I forgot," he laughed. "I have my ring togs on. Come along, I'll borrow some coin for you." "Oh, no," demurred Andy, "I don't want any pay." "Don't?" propounded the man in astonishment. "I want to do something for you. I'm the Man with the Iron Jaw, and that hard rubber device is what I hold in my mouth when I go up the rope, see?" "And that rabbit's foot?" insinuated Andy, guessing. "Hoodoo. Don't grin, kid. If you were in the profession you'd understand that a fellow values a charm that has carried him safe over Fridays, thirteenths, rotten trapezes and cyclones. We're a superstitious bunch, you know, and I'm no wiser than the rest. Why see here, of course you want to see the show, don't you?" "I just do," admitted Andy with alacrity--"if it can be arranged." "Come with me." "Yes, sir." Andy readily followed after his gymnastic acquaintance. A word at the door flap of the performers' tent admitted them without challenge. Andy took a keen, interested look around. Near two stands holding silver starred boxes was a performer in costume, evidently the conjurer of the show. Beyond him, seated daintily on a large white horse, was a pretty woman of about thirty, waiting her call to the ring. A great-muscled fellow sat on a stool surrounded by enormous balls and dumb bells--the "Strong Man" of the circus. A trick elephant was being fed by its keeper at once side of the tent. Nearby was a young man dressed as a jockey, holding the chains leading to the collars of a dozen performing dogs. Andy had a good memory. He knew from her resemblance to the posters he had seen, that the lady on the white horse was Miss Stella Starr, "the dashing equestrienne." She seemed to be on good terms with everybody, particularly with Andy's new acquaintance. "Who is your friend, Marco?" she asked, as the man passed by her. He explained, with a great many excited gestures. Then he beckoned to Andy as the equestrienne smiled pleasantly at him. "You bunk right there, kid," said Marco, stowing Andy behind a pile of seat planks that lined the side of the canvassed passageway joining the performers' tent with the main one. Andy promptly climbed up on top of the heap of boards. The curtain that separated the two circus compartments was festooned at one side. Just beyond was the orchestra. Andy could look over their heads and past them, with a perfect view of the performing ring. He gave himself up so completely to the enjoyment of the grand privilege accorded him, that for one engrossing, bewildering hour he seemed in a dreamland of rare delight. Everything went smoothly and neatly. The various acts were new, and cleverly performed. When it came to Stella Starr's turn, Andy witnessed a second exhibition of the superstitious folly of these strange circus folk. The equestrienne sharply halted the man who led her horse forward for a dash into the ring. "Back him--instantly," she called out. "Right foot first over the dead line. I wouldn't start on a left foot _entree_ for the whole day's proceeds." The imperious mandate was obeyed, and Andy raptly witnessed some bareback riding that made his heart quicken and his eyes flash with pleasure and admiration. Miss Stella Starr had two acts. When she retired from the ring, kissing her little hands prettily to the applauding audience, the manager turned her horse again facing the curtain in the canvassed passageway. The equestrienne sank gracefully to a rest on the flank of the big white horse, patting him affectionately, while some hands began rolling great tubs into the ring. These were to form a pyramid, up one side of which and down the other the white horse was to pass. Suddenly, as Andy's interest was divided between the ring and the equestrienne, a sharp crack rang out. It was accompanied by a swishing, ominous, tearing sound. An uneasy murmur swayed the audience. The manager ran out into the ring, swiftly glanced at the centre pole, and drawing a whistle from his pocket gave three piercing blasts. "It's a wind storm," Andy heard some one remark. A second gust swayed the centre pole. The great spreads of canvas bulged and flapped. The audience arose in their seats. Andy saw the manager seize a great megaphone near the band stand. He shouted: "Preserve order. There is no danger. Keep your seats. It is only a passing gust of wind. Play! play!" he shouted frantically to the band. "Take care!" shouted the man, Marco, with a look through the outside flap, "she's coming again!" A sudden tumult fell on the air. Shrieks, yells, a great babel arose from the audience. The centre pole creaked and swayed dangerously. Then, with a sharp rip the canvas roof over Andy's head was wrenched from place and went sailing up into the air. A heavy wooden cross-piece running between two supports had been torn loose at one end. The rope securing it whipped about and struck Andy in the face. He dodged, and was about to leap to the ground, when a sharp cry from Stella Starr announced a new peril. The free end of the heavy cross piece was descending with the force of a driven sledge hammer. She was directly within range. Andy saw her danger, jumped erect, grabbed at the rope whipping about, and pulled it towards himself. As the equestrienne shrank to the neck of the trembling horse upon which she sat, the timber just grazed her spangled hair. It struck the ground and tore loose above. Its other end hit the pile of seat planks with a crash. Andy felt them topple. He tried to steady himself, to jump aside. He was caught in the tumble and went headlong to the sawdust, the planks falling on top of him. CHAPTER VII A WARM RECEPTION Andy Wildwood was knocked senseless. When he came back to consciousness he found himself lying on a mattress in a little space surrounded by canvas. It was one of the circus dressing rooms. He sniffed camphor, and one side of his head felt stiff and sore. Putting up his hand Andy discovered strips of sticking plaster there. "Was I hurt?" he asked, sitting up. "Circus doctor says not badly," promptly answered Marco, who stood by the mattress. "How is it, kid? No bones broken?" "Oh, no," answered Andy readily, getting to his feet. "Say, what happened? The wind storm--" "Gone over. It's sunshine outside now. A few hanks of thread will fix the rips. The show went on all right after the squall. But say, you're a daisy. That timber--oh, here she is to talk for herself." Miss Stella Starr put in an appearance just here. She was neatly dressed in street costume. Her eyes were very bright, and there was a grateful smile on her womanly face as she grasped both of Andy's hands. "You are a good boy," she said with enthusiasm. "Bring me a stool, Marco, I want to talk with him." Andy flushed with embarrassment, as the little lady went on to insist that but for his quick foresight and energy she might have missed her salary, lying in a hospital for many a long day. She was very anxious as to Andy's injuries, and looked greatly relieved to find them trifling. "Just a lump under the ear and a cut on one cheek," reported Andy indifferently. "They're worth having to see you ride, Miss." "There, Marco!" cried the equestrienne brightly, "that is the handsomest compliment I ever received." "The kid's a mascot," pronounced Marco in his heavy, earnest way. "He found my lost traps, and he maybe saved your life. What can we do for you, now?" Andy shook his head vaguely. His bright face clouded. The human sympathy of his new friends had warmed his heart. It chilled, as he thought of Fairview and what awaited him there, especially Aunt Lavinia. The quick witted equestrienne read his face like a book. "See here, boy," she said, laying her gloved hand winningly on Andy's sleeve, "what is your name?" and as Andy told her she added; "And what is your trouble?" "Do I look as if I had trouble?" inquired Andy with a forced smile. "Don't try to fool Mrs. Jones, Wildwood," advised Marco. "She's our keenest. Has a boy at school nearly as old as you, haven't you, Mary?" "Jones? Mary?" spoke Andy in some wonder. "I thought the lady's name was Stella Starr." "On the posters and in the ring, yes," laughed the equestrienne. "Come, Andy, make a clean breast of it. Have you gone circus-crazy, and run away from home?" "No ma'am, but I'd like to." "Oh, dear! I guess you boys are all alike," commented the equestrienne. "Why do you wish to leave home?" "It's a long story," said Andy, with a sigh. "Tell it, Wildwood," spoke Marco. "We will be glad to listen." "Yes, indeed," assented Stella Starr. "I am interested in you, Andy. You have been of great service to us. Let us help you, if we can." Andy told his story. Stella Starr laughed merrily at his mild escapades. Marco's big eyes opened widely as Andy made plain the fact that he was a very fair amateur acrobat. "Why, the kid is up to the trained average, if he can do all those things," he declared. Stella Starr studied Andy silently for a few minutes. Then she said: "Andy, I believe you are a good, truthful boy. I am sorry for you. You deserve a better home. I don't believe you will ever have it with your aunt." "Half-aunt," muttered Marco. "I do not consider you owe her any particular duty. You are not happy with her?" "No, ma'am, never," said Andy. "And I believe you would be happy with us." "Yes, I would," said Andy, with emotion. "I love the life here." "Very well, go back to Fairview just as you have planned. Arrange your affairs just as a clear conscience dictates to you. If fate leads you back here, come to me directly. I will speak to the manager and ask him to take you on with the show." Tears of longing and gratefulness came to Andy's eyes. He could not stop them. "You are good, kind people," he said in a muffled tone. "If I never see you again I shall never forget you." Stella Starr kissed Andy on the cheek in a motherly way. Marco followed the boy outside. He thumped him on the back with the farewell words, uttered with emphasis: "Cut for it, kid. Take my advice--it's good. You've got the making of a first-class ringer in you. Don't waste your ability in that humdrum town of yours." Andy started for Fairview in a daze. So much had happened since morning that he could recall it all only in a series of long mental pictures. The kindness and suggestions of his new-found friends kept him thinking deeply. It was nearly dusk when Andy entered Fairview. He steered clear of old comrades and familiar haunts. When he reached home it was by way of the rear fence. A light shone in the little kitchen. His aunt was bustling about in a brisk, jumpy way that told Andy she was full of excitement and bottled-up wrath. "Here goes, anyway," he said finally, vaulting the fence and reaching the woodshed. Andy took up a good armful of wood, marched right up to the back steps and through the open doorway. He placed his load behind the kitchen stove. "You graceless wretch!" were Miss Lavinia's first words. She had a cooking fork in her hand and with it she jabbed the air viciously. "Go up stairs instantly," she commanded next. "I'm not sleepy, and I'm hungry," said Andy respectfully enough, but firmly. He walked over to the set table and picked up two biscuits from a plate. "Put those down, you put those down!" screamed Miss Lavinia. "Will you mind me?" Andy pocketed the biscuits. He was taking wise precautions in view of past experiences with his termagant relative. The boy stood his ground, and his aunt stamped her foot. Then she reached behind the stove and took up a stick used as a carpet beater. Armed with this she advanced threateningly upon Andy. "Don't strike me, Aunt Lavinia," said Andy quickly. "I am getting too big for that. I won't stand it!" "You scamp! you disgrace!" shouted his irate relative, still advancing upon him. She beat at Andy, who snatched the stick from her hand, broke it in two and threw it out through the open doorway. "I will go to my room if you insist upon it," said Andy now. "I don't see the need of treating me like a dog, though." "Don't you?" screamed Miss Lavinia. "Oh, you precious rascal! Here I've worked my fingers off to keep you respectable, and you go and disgrace me shamefully. Go to your room, Andy Wildwood. We'll attend to this matter of yours in the morning." "What matter?" demanded Andy. "Never mind, now. Do as I say. There's a rod in pickle for you, young man, that may bring you to your senses this time." Andy preferred loneliness up stairs to nagging down stairs. He left the kitchen and reached his own room. He lit a candle and sat down on the bed. There was a sharp click at the door almost immediately. His aunt had stolen silently up the stairs and had bolted him in. "As if that would keep me if I wanted to get out very bad!" thought Andy, with a glance at the frail door. "Oh, but I'm tired of all this! I've made up my mind. I shall leave Fairview." Andy went to a shelf, felt in an old vase, and took out a key. He fitted it to the lower drawer of the bureau in the room. It was full of old clothes and papers that had belonged to his father. Finally Andy unearthed a little wooden box, and lifted it to the light. It held a lot of trinkets, and from among them Andy selected a large silver watch and chain. He also took out a small box. It was made of some very dark smooth wood, and its corners and center were decorated with carved pieces of gold and mother of pearl. "The watch and chain are solid silver," murmured Andy. "The box was given to father by his father. It is made of some rare wood that grows in the South Sea islands. The gold on it is quite thick. I am sure the bare metal on those things is worth more than thirty dollars." Andy carefully stowed the watch and little box in an inner pocket. Then he lay down on the bed to think, but without removing any of his clothing. He silently munched the biscuits. His face cleared as reflection led to determination. Andy planned to leave the house as soon as it was closed up for the night and Aunt Lavinia was asleep. "I can't stand it," he decided. "She says I'm a burden to her. I've got a show to enjoy myself and maybe make some money. Yes, it's Centreville and the circus by morning." Andy was more tired out than he had fancied. He fell asleep. As he woke up, he discovered that heavy footsteps tramping up the stairs had aroused him. He had caught the echo of lighter feet. There was rustling in the narrow entry outside. Andy sprang up and listened intently. "Aunt Lavinia and some one with her," he reflected. "I wonder who it can be?" Just then a gruff voice spoke out: "Is the boy in that room, Miss Lavinia?" "Yes," said Andy's aunt. "Then have him out, and let's have this unpleasant duty over and done with." CHAPTER VIII "COASTING" The key turned in the lock. Andy's candle had remained lighted. As the door was pushed open Andy saw a big portly man standing behind his aunt. "Put on your clothes, Andy Wildwood," began Miss Lavinia. "I've got them on," answered Andy. "What do you want?" "Ask me that," broke in the man, stepping into view. "Sorry, Andy, but it's me that wants you. You know who I am." "Yes," nodded Andy, staring hard. He recognized the speaker as Dan Wagner, the village constable. Instantly the truth flashed over Andy. He turned to his aunt with a pale, stern face. "Are you going to let this man take me to jail?" he demanded. "Yes, I am," snapped Miss Lavinia. "You've gone just a little too far this time, Andy Wildwood." "What have I done that's so bad?" inquired Andy indignantly. "What is the charge against me?" "That's so, Miss Lavinia," observed the constable with a laugh. "There's got to be a specific charge, as I told you." "Charge!" sniffed Miss Lavinia scornfully. "I'll make a dozen of them. He's a bad, disobedient boy--" "When did I ever disobey you?" interrupted Andy, calmly keeping his temper. "Oh, you! He's got himself expelled from school." "That's no crime, 'cordin' to the statoots," declared the constable. "I don't care!" cried the angry spinster. "My duty is to keep this boy from going to ruin. You do yours. I explained it all to the judge. He said that if I, as his guardian, swore Andy was an incorrigible, unmanageable boy, he would send him to the parental school at Byron till he was reformed." Andy grew white to the lips. He fixed such a glance on his aunt that she quailed. "Shame on you!" he burst forth. "You my guardian! What did you ever guard for me, except too little clothes and victuals? I'm never out of the house after dark. I never refuse to do your hardest work. I even scrub for you. Well, I won't any longer. I have made up my mind to go away." "You hear that? you hear that?" cried Miss Lavinia. "He's going to run away from home!" "Home!" retorted Andy scornfully. "A fine home this has been for me--snapped at, found fault with, treated like a charity pauper. Do your duty, Mr. Wagner. But I warn you that no law can send me to the reform school. This woman is not my legal guardian. She is not rightfully even a relative. I have friends in Fairview, I tell you, and they won't see me wronged. I wonder what my poor dead father would say to you for all this?" Miss Lavinia gave a shriek. She fell into a chair and kicked her heels on the floor and went into hysterics. The constable looked in a friendly way at Andy. He liked the lad's pluck and independence. He recalled, too, how Andy had once led him to a quiet haystack, where he had slept himself sober instead of risking his position and making a public show of himself on the streets of Fairview. "See here, Miss Lavinia," he spoke, "I don't fancy treating Andy like a criminal. If I take him with me now I'll have to lock him up with two chicken thieves and a tramp. They're no good company for a homebred boy." "He deserves a lesson," declared Miss Lavinia. "He shall have it, too!" "Let him stay here till morning, then I'll come after him." "He won't be here. Didn't you hear him say he was going to run away from home?" "Haven't you got some safe place I can lock him up in?" suggested Wagner. "I've got to make you safe and sound, you know," observed the officer quite apologetically to Andy. "Yes, there is," reported Miss Lavinia after brief thought. "You wait a minute." She went away and returned with a bunch of keys. The constable beckoned to Andy to follow her, and he closed in behind. A steep, narrow staircase led to an attic room at the extreme rear of the house. This, as Andy knew, was his aunt's strong room. It had a heavy door secured by a padlock, and only one window. As Miss Lavinia unlocked the door and the candle illuminated the interior of the apartment, the constable observed grimly: "I reckon this will keep him safe and sound." Andy said nothing. He had made up his mind what he would do, and considered further talk useless. The apartment was littered up with chests, barrels and old furniture. In one corner was a pile of carpets. Andy walked silently over to these, threw himself down, and found himself in darkness as the door was again stoutly padlocked on the outside. "If anybody cared for me here it might be different," he observed. "As they don't, I must make friends for myself." In about half an hour Andy went to the window, It was a small one-pane sash. Looking out, he could trace the reflection from a light in his aunt's room on the shrubbery. Finally this light was extinguished. Andy waited a full hour. He heard the town bell strike twelve. The lad took out his pocket knife, opened its big blade, and in a few minutes had pried off the strip lining the sash. He removed the pane and set it noiselessly on the floor. As he stuck his head out through the aperture Andy looked calculating and serious. It was fully thirty feet to the ground, and no friendly projection offered help in a descent. It was furthermore a question if he could even squeeze through the window space. Andy had nothing to make a rope of. The old pieces of carpet could not be utilized in any way. If he could force his body through the window head first, it was a dive to go feet first on a dangerous drop. Andy investigated the aperture, experimented, took in the situation in all its various phases. Finally he decided what he would do. He had unearthed a long ironing board from a corner of the room. He pulled a heavy dresser up to the window, and opened one of its drawers a few inches. By slanting the ironing board, he managed to get its broad end out through the window. Then he dropped it flat, with its narrow end held firmly under the projecting drawer. Andy got flat on the board, squirmed along it, and just managed to squeeze through the window space. At the end of five minutes he found himself extended outside on the board. A touch might throw it out of position and drop him like a shot. Very carefully he arose to his feet and backed against the clapboards of the house. Andy felt sideways and up over his head. He soon located what he knew to be there--two lightning rod staples. The rod itself had rusted away. The staples had been used to hold up a vine. This drew bugs, Miss Lavinia declared, and had been torn down. Andy hooked his finger around one of the staples. He got one foot on the window sill clear of the board. The other foot he lifted in the air. Stooping and getting a hold on the side of the ironing board, Andy gently slid it out from its holding place and upright. He brought it and himself erect. Moving up his hand, he transferred its grasp to the second iron staple higher up the side of the house. Now Andy rested the board on his toes. He clasped it like a shield against his body, its broad end nearest his face. Beyond its edge he took a keen glance. The moon shone brightly. The nearest object it showed was a high, broad-branched thorn apple tree. It stood about twelve feet from the house, and its top was perhaps as far below his foothold. "It's my only show," said Andy. "I've got to coast it, or get all torn up." He let go his hold of the staple. Instantly he had a hand firmly grasping either side of the ironing board Andy dropped to a past-centre slant. Giving his feet a prodigious push against the window sill, he shot forward and downward. For an instant Andy sailed through the air. He feared he might dive short of the tree. He hoped he would land flat. The latter by luck or his own precision he did. The board struck the tree top. There was a sliding swish, a vast cracking of branches. His weight dropped one end of the ironing board. It landed against a big branch, and Andy found himself safely anchored in the tree top. CHAPTER IX GOOD-BYE TO FAIRVIEW Looking back at the attic window, Andy Wildwood wondered how he had ever made the successful descent. Any boy lacking his sense of athletic precision would have scored a dangerous fall. Andy now slowly worked his way down thrown the branches of the tree. He got a few sharp scratches, but was vastly pleased with himself when he landed safely on the ground. "Good-bye to Fairview!" he spoke with a stimulating sense of freedom, waving his hand across the scene in general. "I may not come back rich or famous, but I shall have seen the world." Andy did not turn in the direction of Centreville. He felt of the pocket containing his father's watch and the little box, and then headed straight for Millville. That was where the big scholar, Graham, lived. It was five miles away. Graham boarded with the farmer who had bought Mr. Dale's cow and calf. Andy had kept Graham in mind ever since he had agreed to pay for burning up the hay stack. It was about two o'clock when he reached his destination. The night he and his school companions had restored the little calf to its frantic mother, Andy had seen Graham in the window of his room in the old farmhouse. Andy now looked up at the window of this room. It was open. A trellis ran up its side. The house was dark and silent. He scaled the trellis and rested a hand on the window sill. "Mr. Graham," he called out softly. Then he repeated the call several times, gradually raising his voice. There was a rustle of bed clothes, a droning mumble. Andy called again. "What is it? who is there?" questioned Graham's tones. "It's me," said Andy. "Don't be disturbed. Just listen for a minute, will you?" "Eh! Is that Andy Wildwood?" exclaimed Graham. "Yes," answered Andy. A white-robbed figure came to the window and sat down in a chair there. Graham rubbed his eyes and stared wonderingly at the strange midnight visitor clinging to the window sill. "Why, what's the trouble, Andy?" he questioned in a tone of surprise. "It's trouble, yes, you can make sure of that," responded Andy with a little nervous catch in his voice. "I'm having nothing but trouble, lately. There's so much of it around here that I've concluded to get out of it." "How get out of it?" demanded Graham. "I've left home--for good. I want to leave a clear record behind me, so I've come to you. You don't mind my disturbing you this way, I hope?" "No--no, indeed," answered Graham promptly. "Run away, eh?" "Yes, I've got to. Aunt Lavinia has had me arrested; she wants to send me to reform school." "Why," exclaimed Graham indignantly, "that's a burning shame!" "I thought so. The constable was around last evening. He locked me in the attic for safe keeping, but I got free, and here I am, on my way to--to--on my way to find work." "Do you mean circus work?" guessed Graham quickly. "Why, yes, I do. I don't mind telling you, for you have always been a friend to us smaller boys." "Always will be, Andy." "I believe that. We all like you. It's this way: I think I have a chance to join a show, and I want to, bad. I shall be paid something. When I am, I want to send it to you." "To me? What for, Andy?" "Well, I smashed the desk and pulled down the chimney at the schoolhouse, you know." "Yes." "I calculate that damage amounts to about ten dollars. I burned down a haystack belonging to farmer Dale yesterday. Twenty dollars, he says. I've agreed to pay him, and I want you to see the school trustees to-day and explain to them that I'll pay for the desk and the chimney. I told Mr. Dale I would give him my note. I can't just now, but I will mail one, signed, to you." "Will Dale accept it?" asked Graham. "Yes, if I secure it." "Secure it, how?" "That's why I came to see you," explained Andy. "I've got in my pocket a silver watch and chain and a box ornamented with gold. They were left to me by my father. I want you to take the articles. Explain to Mr. Dale and the school trustees about them--that you are to hold them for the benefit of my creditors, see?" "That's quite business-like, Andy." "I will certainly send you some money. As soon as I do, divide it up with the school and Mr. Dale. I will keep you posted as to my whereabouts, but keep it a secret. Will you do all this for me?" "Gladly, Andy." "Here are the things," continued Andy, handing over the contents of his pocket. "And thank you." "Don't mention it. You're all right, Andy," declared Graham in a warm, friendly way. "I shan't encourage you to run away from home, but I won't try to stop you. Have you got any money?" "Why, no," answered Andy. "You wait a minute, then." Graham took the watch and the box and retired from the window. As he returned he pressed a folded piece of paper between Andy's fingers. "Take that," he said. "What is it?" asked Andy. "It's a five-dollar bill." "Oh, Mr. Graham--" "No nonsense, Andy. I know from practical experience what it is to start out in the world penniless. I have the money saved up for two years' board and schooling. I won't miss that little amount until way along next fall. You will have paid it back long before that, I'll warrant." "You bet I will--and you're awful good to me!" declared Andy heartily. "Just one more word, Andy," resumed Graham earnestly. "If you are determined to be a circus tumbler, be the best or nothing. If you like enjoyment, made it good, clean fun. I'm not afraid of you. I'm only giving the advice of a fellow older than you, who has learned that it pays to be right and do right in the long run." When Andy once more stood in the road with his royal friend's "Good luck, old fellow!" still echoing in his ears, his heart was very full. "It's mighty good of him," murmured Andy, safely stowing away the five-dollar bill. "I'll deserve his good opinion, see if I don't!" Andy walked on a mile or two further. Climbing a fence he made a snug bed alongside a convenient haystack. The sun was shining brightly when the lad awoke, refreshed and full of spirit and hope. He somehow felt as though he was beginning the most eventful day of his life. Andy turned his face in the direction of Centreville. He had no idea of going direct there, however, that day. He did not know how many people from Fairview might have seen him there the day previous. He did know that if Aunt Lavinia was determined to pursue him, the first thing she would think of was his circus predilections. Andy planned cautiously and with wisdom. From watching the circus posters he knew it's route. Centreville was in another county from Fairview. But Clifton, the next point of exhibition, was in another state. "That suits me," he murmured. Andy had an idea that once safely over the state line the law could not reach him so readily as on home territory. He knew the neighboring towns pretty fairly, and he fixed on Clifton as his destination. Clifton was about eight miles from Centreville. Andy decided he would go there and put in the time until next morning. At midnight the show would pull up stakes at Centreville. He would be on hand to welcome its arrival at Clifton. "Then I will see Miss Starr and Mr. Marco," he thought. "If the circus manager will only take me on, I'll fall into great luck." Andy got to Clifton about noon. He changed the five-dollar bill, buying a cheap but big dinner, for he was nearly famished. He learned where the circus was to exhibit, and went to the spot. Some workers were already there, digging trenches, distributing sawdust and the like. Andy volunteered to help them. It would be good practice in the way of experience, he told himself. Until four o'clock in the afternoon he was quite busy about the place. He had heard so much circus talk during his free labors that his mind was more full of the show than ever. Andy had heard one of the workers describe to a new hand all the excitement, bustle and novelty attending a jump from one town to another. He strolled about the place but grew restive. Just before dusk he bought some crackers and cheese, filled his pockets with the eatables, and started down the road leading towards Centreville. Andy met an advance guard of the circus about two miles out of Clifton. Some wagons carried the cooking camp outfit. A little farther on he was met by some menagerie wagons. "They'll come in sections," ruminated Andy. "The big tent people won't make a start till after the evening performance. I won't risk going any farther. There's an open barn near the road. I'll take a little snooze, and wake up in time to join the procession of big loads." Andy secured his little cash reserve in a marble bag. He ate some lunch and made for the open structure he had observed. It was an old doorless barn near a hay press. A great many bales were stack up at one side. Climbing among these Andy found a cozy boxed in space, carried some loose hay to it, and composed himself for sleep. "Twenty cents a day is pretty economical living," he reflected, as he studied the stars visible through a chink in the roof. "I wonder what the circus people pay a beginner?" Wondering about this, and a variety of similar themes, Andy dozed, but was suddenly awakened by the sharp snap of a match and a brief flare. He got up and peered over the edge of the bales of hay that enclosed his resting place. The moon was shining brightly. Outlined at the open doorway of the barn was a man. He leaned against a post, had just lit a cigar, and was looking intently down the road in the direction of Centreville. Some wagons rattled by and the man drew inside the barn out of view. Andy made out that he was well-dressed and very active and nervous in his manner. "That man is waiting for some one," decided Andy, getting interested--"yes, and he belongs to the show, I'll bet." Andy reasoned this out from the facility with which the man hummed out a tune he had heard the circus orchestra play. The man paced restively to and fro. He went out into the road and looked far down it. He returned to the barn and resumed his impatient pacing to and fro. Nearly an hour went by in this fashion. Andy began to consider that he had become curious without much reason. He was about to drop back again to his cozy bed when he heard the man utter an exclamation of satisfaction. He rubbed his hands and braced up, and as a new figure turned from the road spoke in a cautious but distinct tone. "That you, Murdock?" "It's me, sure enough, Daley," came the reply. "S--sh--don't use my name here. You know--" "All right. No one likely to hear us in this lonely spot, though," spoke the newcomer addressed as Murdock. "Well, what have you to report?" questioned Daley eagerly. "It's all right." "You've fixed it?" "Snug and sure. The show will have a big sensation to-night not down on the bills." The listening Andy heard the man called Daley utter a gratified chuckle. "Good," he said. "And there'll be a vacancy on the Benares Brothers' team to-morrow," added Daley, "so give me the twenty dollars." CHAPTER X A FIRST APPEARANCE Andy pricked up his ears with a good deal of animation. The jubilant statement of the fellow called Murdock did not sound honest. "I'm taking your word for it," spoke Daley. He had drawn something from his pocket, evidently a roll of bills, for as he extended it Murdock said eagerly. "Twenty dollars?" "Yes. Tell me how you fixed it." "Why," answered Murdock with a cruel laugh, "you was laid off as one of the Benares Brothers up at the show on account of drinking, wasn't you?" Daley moodily nodded his head. "They put on Thacher in your place. You and him are probably the only two men in the profession who can do the somersault trapeze act with old Benares. That puts you out of a job, for you're no good single." "I guess that is right. Thacher takes the bread out of my mouth, sink him!" "You say, 'twenty dollars' if I fix Thacher so he can't act well," declared Murdock in a cold-blooded way that made Andy shiver, "he won't act for a spell after to-night, I'm thinking." "Come to the point--what did you do?" "Why, after doing their regular stunt on a separate trapeze, Thatcher somersaults and catches a bar swing from centre. He hangs by his knees and Benares swings from aloft and catches his hands in his dive for life. Well, the minute Thacher lands on the centre trapeze to-night down he goes forty feet head-first. It's broken limbs or nothing, for I cut the bar free first thing after the afternoon performance. It's held in place now by only two little pieces of thread that a child's finger could break." "Um!" remarked Daley. "I guess I'll cut for it. They think I'm a hundred miles away. It mustn't be known that I was this near the circus or they'd suspect me. I presume they'll be wiring for me to come back now." "Oh, sure. They won't suspect me, either. I sneaked in the big tent and fixed the trapeze when no one was about. See here, Daley, if you do get your job back you'd ought to give me an extra ten." "I'll see about it," said Daley. The two worthies walked from the place. Andy watched them cross fields away from the main road and away from both Clifton and Centreville. Little thrills of horror ran all over the boy. This was his first view of the dark, plotful side of circus life, and it appalled him. "Why," he exclaimed, "it may be murder. Oh, those wretches! The Benares Brothers. I saw them yesterday. I remember the dive for life. I had to hold my breath when one man made that somersault, away up at the top of the tent. It was more than thrilling when he caught the other trapeze with his knees. It was curdling when his partner made his dive for life. One second over time, one miss of an inch, and it looked sure death. And now that trapeze has been tampered with, and--" The excited Andy did not finish the sentence. He forgot all his own plans and the possible danger of arrest at Centreville. He jumped down from the hay bales and dashed out of the barn. Andy sped along the highway circus-ward at the top of his speed. The situation had appealed to him in a flash. The two plotters had talked in plain English. There was no misunderstanding their motives and acts. Andy had a vivid picture in his mind--the big circus tent four miles away. He could recall just where the Benares Brothers act came on the programme. "It was about ninth down the list yesterday afternoon," he mused, softly. "They begin the show about eight o'clock. It's now about nine. I calculate the Benares Brothers come on this evening at about a quarter to ten. Four miles. I can run that in half an hour. Yes, I shall be in time." Andy pressed his arms to his sides, took breath to conserve his staying powers, and maintained a steady, telling pace. The lights of Centreville began to show nearer. He heard a town bell strike the half-hour as he came in sight of the grounds and the illuminated big tent of the show. The band inside was blaring away. The side shows were not doing much business. Some were getting ready for the removal. There were not many people around the main entrance. Andy, quite breathless, rushed up to the ticket taker there. "I want to go in for just a minute," he said--"I must see the manager." "Cut for it--no gags go here," retorted the man rudely. "It's pretty important. Here," began Andy. Then he paused in dismay. "Oh dear!" he spoke to himself, "I never put on my coat, that I used as a pillow back in that barn." In the hurry and excitement of the occasion Andy had left the coat among the hay bales. Just before arranging his bed he had stowed the marble bag containing the balance of Graham's five dollars in a pocket of the garment. He could not therefore pay his fare into the show. Only for an instant, however, was Andy daunted. He suddenly realized that he could get more promptly to the manager or the ringmaster from the rear. He ran around the big white mountain of canvas till he reached the performers' tent. Patrolling outside of it was a club-armed watchman. "Please let me in," said Andy hurriedly. "I want to see the manager, quick." "Yes, they all do. G'wan! Games don't go here." "No, no, I'm not trying to dead-head it," cried Andy. "Please call Mr. Marco or Miss Starr. They know me--" "G'wan, I tell you. I'm too old a bird to get caught by chaff. Get--now." The watchman struck Andy a sharp rap over the shoulders. Andy was in desperation. He was started to run around to some other of the minor tents, when a shifting slit in the canvas gave him a momentary view of the interior of the big circus tent. "Oh," cried Andy, wringing his hands, "the very act is on--the Benares Brothers! I must act at once!" Andy made a rush, intent on getting under the canvas at all hazards. He checked himself. If he succeeded in eluding the watchman outside, he would have difficulty in getting to the manager. He might be captured inside at once. He stood staring at the tent top in extreme anxiety and suspense. Shadows aloft enlightened him as to-what was going on. The Benares Brothers were mounting aloft. He made them out bowing gracefully, pulled up on the toe coils. He saw their outlines, trapeze-seated. The orchestra struck up a new tune. The act was about to commence. "I must stop them--I will warn them!" panted Andy with resolution. "If I got to the manager he might not understand me or believe me. It might be too late--there is not a minute to spare." Andy was quivering with excitement, his eyes flashing, his face flushed. He ran towards a guy rope, sprang up, caught at it, and hand over hand rapidly ascended it. Where it tapped the lower dip of the upper canvas, he transferred his grasp. A seam was here, held together by hook and ring clear to the gap at the centre pole. This seam, Andy discerned, ran right over to the trapezes. Andy scaled the course of the seam with the agility of a monkey, hooking the rings with his fingers and pulling himself up. The canvas quivered, shook and gave, but he did not heed that. He came to the open gap around the centre pole, seized the bound edge of the canvas, and gazed down. Ten feet across was old Benares, just getting ready for some evolutions. Directly under Andy was the trapeze holding the man he supposed to be Thacher. Over his head swung a smaller trapeze. Andy lay flat along the sloping canvas and stuck his head further down. "Mr. Thacher! Mr. Thacher!" he shouted. "Eh, why, hello! Who are you?" In wonderment the trapezist gazed up at the earnest, agitated face gazing down at him. At that juncture there was an ominous rip. Andy's weight it seemed had pressed too forcibly down upon a rotted section of the canvas. A strip about a foot wide tore free, binding and all, from the edge nearest the centre pole. It split six feet sheer. Andy's feet went over his head, but he kept a tight grip on the end of the strip. Dangling in mid air sixty feet above the saw-dust ring, Andy swung in space dizzy-headed, his first appearance before the circus public. CHAPTER XI SAWDUST AND SPANGLES Andy stared down at a sea of faces. They seemed far away. The circus manager had stepped briskly out into the ring. In great wonderment he stood gazing aloft. The audience swayed, and a general murmur filled the air. Many pointed upwards. Some arose from their seats, craning their necks in excitement. The orchestra dropped the music to low, undecided notes. Puzzled spectators wondered if the strange appearance above was part of some new novelty change in the programme. Andy clung to the dangling strip of canvas for dear life. The trapezist, Thacher, stared at him in profound astonishment. He was about to speak, to demand an explanation, when there was a second ripping sound. "Look out!" cried Thacher sharply. Andy saw what was happening. The canvas strip that had torn free lengthwise was now splitting its breadth. In another moment a mere filament of cloth would hold Andy suspended. He must act, and act quickly, or take a plunge sixty feet down. Andy did not lose his presence of mind. Just the same as if he was on the rafters of the old barn at home, or practicing on a rope strung from two high tree tops, as had been many a time the case, he calculated his chances and set his skill at work. He ventured a brief swing on the frail strip of canvas. As it finally tore free in his hand, Andy dropped it. He had got his momentum, however. It was to swing sideways and down. The next instant Andy was at the side of Thacher. One hand caught and held to a rope of the trapeze. There Andy anchored, resting one knee on the edge of the performing bar. "You're a good one!" muttered the trapezist in wonder. "Don't get rattled, now." "Not while I've got my grip. Say," projected Andy, "I'm sorry to interrupt the performance, but it's a matter of life or death." "Eh?" uttered Thacher in a puzzled way. "What's up?" "Do you know a man named Murdock?" "Ring man, fired last week. Yes. What of it?" "Do you know a man named Daley?" "Fired, too--for drinking. I took his place on this team." "They hate you. They have plotted to disable you. The trapeze yonder--Murdock has cut the ropes, secured the bar with thread, and the slightest touch will send a performer to the ring with broken limbs." "What! Are you crazy or fooling? Doped the rigging? Why, that's murder, kid!" "They have done it just the same. Listen." Faster than he had ever talked before Andy told of the conversation he had overheard in the old hay barn. He hurriedly recited his failure in reaching the manager. He told of his rapid ascent of the top canvas. The present denouement had resulted. Under his face rouge Thacher showed the shock of vivid emotions. The murmur below was increasing. The manager was looking up impatiently. Old Benares, across on his trapeze, regarded his partner in bewilderment. Suddenly Thacher shot out some words towards him. It was a kind of circus gibberish, mixed with enough straight English to enlighten Andy that his story was being imparted to Old Benares. "You must get me out of this," said Andy. "The audience is becoming restive." Thacher extended his hand, the back showing, in the direction of the orchestra. The band, at this signal, struck up a quick, lively tune. "Get clear on the bar," directed Thacher rapidly, giving Andy more room. "Say," he added, in some surprise at Andy's cleverness, "you seem at home all right. Performer?" "Oh, no--only a little amateur practice." "It's given you the right nerve. Now then, you can't get up again, you've got to go down. Want to do it gracefully?" "Sure," smiled Andy, perfectly calm and collected. The situation rather delighted him than otherwise. He had supreme confidence in his companion, and felt that he was in safe hands. "Are you grit for a swing?" pursued Thacher. "Try me," said Andy. Thacher called over some further words to old Benares. The latter at once swung down from his trapeze, holding on by his knees, both hands extended towards his partner. "Do just as I say," directed Thacher to Andy. "Let me get you under the arms. Double your knees up to your chin. Can you hold yourself that way?" "Yes," assented Andy. "Now!" spoke Thacher sharply. The next instant the performer had dropped Andy in his clasp. He had slipped an ankle halter to one of his own limbs. This alone held him. Head downward, he lightly swung Andy to and fro. Andy rolled up like a ball ready for the next move. All this had consumed less than two minutes. Now the audience believed Andy's sensational appearance a regularly arranged feature of the performance. The oddity of a boy in ordinary dress coming into the act, as Andy had done, excited the profoundest interest and attention. The manager in the ring below stood like one petrified, puzzled beyond all comprehension. The orchestra checked its music. An intense strain pervaded. The audience swayed, but that only. There was a profound silence. "One, two, three," said Thacher, at intervals. "Come," answered old Benares. At the end of a long, swift swing of his body, Thacher let go of Andy, who spun across a ten feet space that looked twenty to the audience below. Andy felt a light contact, old Benares' double grip caught under his arms. The act was the merest novice trick analyzed by an expert, but it set the audience wild. A prodigious cheer arose, clapping of hands, juvenile yells of admiration. The band came in with a ringing march. Old Benares righted himself, Andy with him. "Su-paarb!" he said. "Can you hold on alone--one little minute?" "Sure," said Andy. The trapezist reached up and untied the descending rope, secured it to the bar, and shouted to those standing below. Two ring hands ran out into the sawdust, caught the other end, and held it perfectly taut. "Can you slide down it?" asked Benares. Andy's eyes sparkled. "Say, Mr. Benares," he replied, "if I wasn't rattled by all that crowd, I could do it head first. I've done the regular, one leg drop, fifty times." "You are admirable--an ex-paart!" declaimed old Benares. "Who are you, anyway?" "Only Andy Wildwood. Do you think I could ever do a real circus act?" "Do I think--hear them yell! You have made a hit. Good boy. Be careful. Go." Andy essayed an old rope performance he had seen done once, and had many times practiced. This was to secure one leg around the rope, throw himself outwards, fold his arms, and wind round and round the rope, slowly descending. The orchestra caught the cue, and kept time with appropriate music. A second hush held the audience. Without a break, Andy descended the forty odd feet of cable. Nearing its end, he caught at the rope to steady himself. Then he gracefully leaped free of it to the sawdust, and made a profound bow to the audience amid wild thunders of applause. CHAPTER XII AN ARM OF THE LAW The circus manager followed Andy, as the latter darted past the band stand and into the passageway leading to the performers' tent. His face was a blank of wonderment. The ringmaster joined him, and so did one or two others as he hurried after Andy. They found the latter holding to a guy rope, Andy's head was spinning. The reaction from intense excitement made him weak and breathless for some moments. The audience was still in a pleasant flutter of commotion over the unique act that had caught their fancy. The Benares Brothers went on with their performance, They cut out "the dive for life," but they made up for it by some dazzling aerial evolutions that thrilled the spectators, and everybody seemed satisfied. Five minutes later they joined the group crowding around Andy. The manager had just finished questioning the lad as to details of the remarkable story he had told. His face was stern and angry as he uttered some quick words to the ringmaster. Then the latter, taking a weighted coiled-up toe rope in his hand, went out into the ring. From where he was Andy could see this flung aloft. It caught across the bar of the "doped" trapeze. At a touch this latter came hurtling to the ground. Old Benares, watching also, trembled with intense anger. "It is infamoos!" he declared. "Where should my partner be, but for this boy?" The ringmaster examined the loosened trapeze bar. Just as Andy had stated, two slight threads alone had held it to the supporting ropes. Thacher laid a friendly, grateful hand on Andy's shoulder. He was too full of emotion to speak. Andy looked up and smiled brightly. "Good thing I was around, wasn't it?" he said carelessly. "Oh, there's Mr. Marco." The Man with the Iron Jaw came up to the group at this juncture. "You, Andy Wildwood!" he said. "I heard of the trapeze. So it is you again? Come with me. No, don't keep him," continued Marco to Thacher in a hurried way that made Andy curious. "You can see him again. Come, lad." "What's the trouble, Mr. Marco?" asked Andy. Marco did not answer. He kept hold of Andy's arm and led him to the rear. About to enter the performers' tent he dodged back. "Keep close to me," he directed in a tone of suppressed excitement. "Quick, Wildwood--out this way. Hurry, now." He had darted towards the bottom of the canvas strip siding the passageway. Lifting this up, he thrust Andy under it. Crawling after him and arising to his feet, he again grasped Andy's arm. Headed for the open space the main entrance faced, Marco suddenly jerked Andy to one side. He now made swiftly for some small tents abutting the performers' tent. "Hey! hi! hello!" some one had yelled out at them, and Andy saw two skulking forms making towards them. A third figure joined them. Andy discerned evident pursuit in their manner and actions. "Keep with me. Run in," directed Marco. He had thrust Andy into one of the little tents the boy recognized as a dressing room. Marco dropped the flap and stood outside. "Where's the boy gone to?" puffed out a labored voice. "Gracious!" exclaimed Andy, under cover, but with a gasp of sheer dismay. "I understand now." Andy recognized the tones of this last speaker. They belonged to Wagner, the village constable of Fairview. "He's in that little tent," spoke another voice. "Surround it," ordered Wagner. "Here, you stand aside. The boy I've been looking for all day is in that tent. I want him." "Hold on," retorted Marco. "This is private circus property." "Yes, and I'm a public officer, I'd have you know!" said Wagner. "No use. Don't interfere with the course of justice, or you'll get into trouble." There was no light in the tent. The many flaring gasoline torches outside, however, cast a radiance that enabled Andy to pretty accurately make out the situation. He traced two shadowy figures making a circuit of the tent. He could see Marco push back Wagner. The latter was unsteady of gait and voice. Andy theorized that he had been commissioned by his aunt to pursue him. Wagner had come down to Centreville with two assistants. Their expenses were probably paid in advance, and they had made a kind of individual celebration of the trip. "I've been looking for that boy all day," now spoke Wagner. "I know you have," answered Marco, standing like a statue at the door of the tent. "He's a fugitive from justice. I'm bound to have him. I'm an arm of the law." "What's he done?" inquired Marco. "He's nearly broken his poor old aunt's heart." "I didn't ask about his aunt's heart. What's he done?" "Oh, why--hum, that's so. Well, he's been expelled from school because of his crazy circus capers." "Indeed. I'm a circus man. Do you observe anything particularly crazy about me?" demanded Marco. "Say, my friend, you get out of this. I'm Marco, the Man with the Iron Jaw. It won't be healthy for me to tackle you, and I will if you make yourself obstreperous. You won't get that boy until you show me convincingly that you have a legal right to do so." "Legal right? Why!" cried Wagner, drawing out a paper, "there's my warrant." "Let me look at it, please. Oh," said Marco, examining the document. "Issued in another county. We're pretty good lawyers, us show folks, and I can tell you that you will have to get a search warrant issued in this county before you dare set a foot in that tent." The Fairview constable was nonplussed. Marco was right, and Wagner knew it. He threshed about, fumed and threatened, and finally said: "All right. I guess you know the law. We may have no right to enter that tent without a local search warrant, but the minute we get the boy outside we can take him on sight." "You won't have the chance," observed Marco. "We'll see. Hey," to his two assistants, "keep a close watch. I'm going for a local search warrant. Don't let Andy Wildwood leave that tent. The minute he does, nab him. Mister, I hereby notify you that these two men are my regularly appointed deputies." "All right," nodded Marco calmly. "Watch out, boys. I won't be gone half-an-hour." At that moment a waddling man came up smoking an immense pipe. "Ha," he said to Mr. Marco, "I vant mine drums." "Wait a minute, Snitzellbaum," directed Marco. Marco held the newcomer at bay until Wagner had disappeared in the direction of the town. Then, leaning over, he whispered in the ear of the rotund musician. "Ha! ho! hum! vhat? ho--ho! ha--ha!" "Hush!" warned Marco, with a quick glance at the constable's deputies patrolling up and down. "Will you do it?" "Vill I--oh, schure! Ha-ha! ho-ho! Mister Marco, you are von chenyus." "Want your drum, eh?" spoke Marco in a loud tone. "Well, go in and get it." Andy knew something was afoot from what he observed. He hoped it was in the line of preventing his return to Fairview. In about five minutes the fat German came out of the tent, lugging his big bass drum with him. "I put him on dot vagon," he puffed. "Good night, Mr. Marco. Vat dey do mit dot poy in dere, hey?" "Oh, I'll attend to him," declared Marco. Another half-hour went by. At its end Wagner came hurrying up to the spot. He had a companion with him, a keen-eyed, shrewd-faced fellow, evidently a local officer. "I have a search warrant here," said the latter. "All right," nodded Marco accommodatingly, "go on with your search." "Told you I'd get that boy," announced Wagner, with a chuckle lifting the flap of the tent. "Say! How's this? Andy Wildwood is gone!" CHAPTER XIII ON THE ROAD "Come oud!" said Hans Snitzellbaum. "I'm glad to," answered Andy Wildwood. He took a long, refreshing draught of pure air, and stood up and stretched his cramped limbs with satisfaction. When the Man with the Iron Jaw had whispered to the fat musician outside the dressing tent guarded by Wagner's assistants, he had asked him to get Andy out of the clutches of the constable. The fat sides of Hans Snitzellbaum shook with jollity, and his merry eye twinkled at the hint conveyed by Andy's staunch friend. When Hans came inside the tent, a whispered word to Andy was sufficient to make the young fugitive understand what was coming. Hans removed the top head of his big bass drum. Andy snuggled along the rounded woodwork of the instrument, and the drum head was replaced. The double load was a pretty heavy one for the portly musician to handle, but all went well. He got away from the dressing tent without arousing the suspicions of the constable's assistants. The drum was hoisted to the top of a moving wagon at some distance. Andy was rather crowded and short of breath, but he lay quiet and serene as the wagon started up. They must have traveled four miles before the musician's welcome invitation to "come oud" followed a second removal of the drum head. Andy looked about him. They were slowly traversing the main road leading from Centreville to Clifton. There was bright moonlight, and the general view was interesting and picturesque. Ahead and behind a seemingly interminable caravan was in motion. Chariots, cages, vehicles holding tent paraphernalia, a calliope, ticket wagons, horses, mules, ponies, seemed in endless parade. Performers and general circus employees thronged the various vehicles. That in which Andy now found himself was a wagon with high, slatted sides, piled full of trunks, mattresses, seat cushions and curtains. The fat musician reclined in a dip in the soft bedding; his bulky body had formed. Over beyond him lay a sad-faced man in an exhausted slumber, looking so utterly done out and ill that Andy pitied him. A boy about Andy's own age, and two men whose attire and general appearance suggested side show "spielers," or those flashily dressed fellows who announce the wonders on view inside the minor canvases, lay half-buried among some gaudy draperies. The two men lay with their high silk hats held softly by both hands across their breasts. The circus tinge was everywhere. One of them in his sleep was saying: "Ziripa, the Serpent Queen. Step up, gentlemen. Eats snakes like you eat strawberry shortcake. Eats 'em alive! Bites their heads off!" As the wagon jolted on Hans comfortably smoked a pipe fully four feet long. His twinkling little eyes fairly laughed at Andy as the latter stepped out of the drum. "Hey, you find him varm, hey?" he asked. "I'd have smothered if I hadn't kept my mouth close to that vent hole," explained Andy. "Is it all right for me to show myself now?" "Yaw," declared the fat musician. "You see dot sign?" He pointed back a few yards. Andy recognized the four-armed semaphore set where a narrow road intersected the highway they were traversing. "Oh, yes," said Andy quickly, "that shows the State line." "Yaw, dot vas so. No one can arrest you now, Marco says, and Marco vas like a lawyer, hey?" "Will I see Mr. Marco soon again?" asked Andy. "For sure dot vas. He toldt me vot to do. Vhen we reach dot Cliftons, you vill go mit Billy Blow. He vill takes care of you till morning. Den you goes to dot Empire Hotel und sees Miss Stella Starr." "Oh, I understand," exclaimed Andy brightly and hopefully. "And who is Billy Blow, please?" "Him," explained Hans, pointing to the sleeping man with the sad, tired face--"dot is Billy Blow, the clown." "Eh, what--clown? Not the one who rides the donkey and tells such funny stories?" "Oh, yaw," declared the musician in a matter-of-fact way. Andy was naturally surprised. He could hardly realize that the person he was looking at could ever make up as the mirth-provoking genius who was the life and fun of the big circus ring. "Poor Billy!" said Hans, shaking his head solemnly. "First his vife falls from a horse. She vas in dot hospitals. Den his little poy, Midget, is sick. Poor Billy!" Andy suddenly remembered something. He craned his neck and looked steadfastly along the road. "I want to leave the wagon when we get a little further along," he said. "I likes not dot," answered Snitzellbaum. "Maybe you gets in droubles, so?" "No, it's when we reach an old barn," explained Andy. "I left something there earlier in the evening. I won't be a minute getting it." In about half-an-hour, as they approached the hay barn where Andy had overheard the conversation between Daley and Murdock, he slipped down from the wagon. He ran ahead, went up among the hay bales, found the coat containing the marble bag holding his little stock of money, and speedily rejoined the musician. Hans finished his pipe and sank into a doze. Andy could not sleep. He had gone through too much excitement that day to readily compose himself. He lay listening dreamily to the jolty clatter of the wagons, the shouts of the drivers, and the commotion of the animals in the menagerie cages. Meanwhile he was thinking ardently of the next day. It would decide his fate. He felt hopeful that the show would take him on from the fact that Miss Stella Starr had required his presence the next morning. "Hey," spoke a sudden voice, "give us a chaw, will you?" Andy with a start turned to face the boy he had noticed asleep. The latter had rudely knocked his shoulder. He had looked mean to Andy while slumbering. He looked tough as he fixed his eyes on Andy, wide open. "I don't 'chaw,'" said the latter. "Teeth gone?" sneered the other. "No, that's why I don't care to lose them," retorted Andy. "Huh! Say, Snitzellbaum, loan me a little tobacco, will you?" The speaker had nudged the musician. The latter eyed him with little favor. "You vas a kid," he observed, stirring up. "Vhen you grow up, maybe. Not now." The boy let out a string of rough expletives under his breath. Then fixing his eye on Andy curiously, he demanded: "Who's the kindergarten kid? Trying to break into the show?" "I may," answered Andy calmly. "Oho!" chuckled the other, with a wicked grin--"we'll have some fun with you, then." "Maybe not," broke in the musician. "Dot poy has a pull." "Oh, has he?" snorted the other. "Yaw. Maybe you don't know, hey, Jim Tapp? You hear about dot cut trapeze? Aha! It vas dis poy who discovered dot in time." "Eh!" ejaculated young Tapp, with a prodigious start. "Yes," he continued very slowly, viewing Andy with a searching, hateful look. "I heard of it. Says Murdock put up the job to break Thacher's neck." "Dot vas so." "How does he know it?" "He overheardt dose schoundrels tell dot." "Maybe he's lying." "Did dot cut trapeze show if he vas, hey?" "Then he's a spy. Sneaking in on gentlemen's private affairs. Bah!" cried Tapp, with a venomous stare at Andy, "I wouldn't train with you two at a hundred per week!" He crawled over to the edge of the wagon preparatory to leaving the vehicle and seeking more congenial company. "Hey, you, Jim Tapp," observed Snitzellbaum, "you vas a pal of Daley, hey? You see him? Vell, you tell him ve hang him up by dose heels, und Murdock mit him, vonce ve catch dem. See you?" Tapp disappeared over the edge of the wagon into the road. "Mein friend," remarked the musician to Andy, "you vatch oud for dot poy." Andy Wildwood recalled the solemn warning before the next day was over. CHAPTER XIV BILLY BLOW, CLOWN Billy Blow, the clown, woke up just as the wagon reached the tent site at Clifton. It was nearly midnight. His sleep did not seem to have refreshed him much. He got down from the vehicle like a man half-awake, and as if the effort hurt him. He had to shake himself to get the stiffness out of his limbs. "Dis vos dot poy I told you aboud, Billy," said the musician. "Oh, yes, yes," answered the clown in a preoccupied way, with a quick look at Andy. "I'll take him under my wing until Marco comes along. This way, kid. I've some baggage to look after. Then we'll bunk." Andy bade Hans Snitzellbaum adieu with reluctance. He liked the bluff-hearted old German with his fatherly ways. "Goot py for dot bresent times," said the fat musician. "Vhen I sees you mit dose tumblers, I gives some big bang-bang, boom-boom, hey?" "I hope you will," responded Andy with a cheery laugh. He followed Billy Blow. The latter finally found the wagon he was after. He bundled its contents about and got a small wooden box and a big wicker trunk to one side. "Wish you'd mind these till I see if I can't make quick sleeping quarters," Blow said to Andy. "Yes, sir, I'll be glad to," answered Andy willingly, and the clown hurried off in his usual nervous fashion. Andy was kept keenly awake for the ensuing hour. It did not seem to be night at all. The scene about him was one of constant activity. Andy caught a glimpse of real circus life. Its details filled him with wonderment, admiration and keen interest. The scene was one of constantly increasing hustle and bustle. There was infinite variety and excitement in the occasion. For all that, there was a system, precision and progress in all that was done that fascinated Andy. The boy was witnessing the building of a great city in itself within the space of half-a-dozen hours. The caravan wound in, section by section. The wagons moved to set places as if doing so automatically, discharged their cumbersome loads, and retired. First came the baggage train, then the stake and chain wagons, the side shows, paraphernalia, and the menagerie cages. The circus area proper had been all marked out, the ring graded, sawdust-strewn, and straw scattered to absorb dampness. The blacksmiths' wagons, cooks' caravan and the minor tents all removed to the far rear. The naphtha torches were set every twenty feet apart to illuminate proceedings. Workers were hauling on the ground great hogsheads of water. Near the dining tents half-a-hundred table cloths were already hanging out on wire clothes lines to dry. Some men were washing small tents with paraffin to season them against the weather. Finally the great forty-horse team lumbered up with its mighty load. The boss canvasman with half-a-hundred assistants began the construction of "the main top," or performing tent, holding fifteen thousand people. Andy, absorbed in every maneuver displayed, was completely lost in the deepest interest when a voice at his side aroused him. "Tired waiting?" asked Billy Blow. "Oh, no," answered Andy, "I could watch this forever, I think." "It would soon get stale," declared the clown, with a faint smile. "Give us a hand, partner--one at a time, and we'll get my togs and ourselves under cover." Andy took one handle of the box, the clown the other. They carried it to the door of one of twenty small tents near the cook's quarters. They brought the wicker trunk also, and then carried box and trunk inside the tent. Andy looked about it curiously. A candle burned on a bench. Beyond it was a mattress. Near one side, and boxed in by platform sections as if to keep off draughts, was a second smaller mattress. On a stool near it sat a thin-faced, lady-like woman. She was smiling down at a little boy lying huddled up in shawls and a comforter. "This is my boy, Wildwood," spoke Billy Blow. "New hand, Midge--if he makes good." The little fellow nodded in a grave, mature way at Andy. According to his size, he resembled a child of four. That was why they called him Midget. Andy learned later that he was ten years old. He had an act with the circus, going around the ring perched on the shoulders of a bare-back rider. He also sometimes had a part with "the Tom Thumb acrobats," doing some clever hoop-jumping with a trick Shetland pony. He seemed to be just recovering from a fit of sickness. His face, prematurely old, was pinched and colorless. "Our Columbine in the Humpty Dumpty afterpiece," was the way the clown introduced the lady. "I don't know how to thank you for all your trouble, Miss Nellis." "Don't mention it, Billy," responded the woman. "Any of us would fight for it to help you or the kid, wouldn't we, Midge?" "I don't know why," answered the lad in a weary way. "I ain't much good any more." "Now hear that ungrateful boy!" rallied Miss Nellis. "Billy, the doctor says his whole trouble was poisoned canned stuff, bad water and a cold. He's broken the fever. Here's some medicine. Every hour a spoonful until gone, and doctor says he'll be fit as ever in a day or two." "That's good," said the clown, a lone tear trickling down his cheek. "I wish I could afford the hotel for the lad, instead of this rough-and-tumble shack life, but my wife's hospital bills drain me pretty well." "Never mind. Better times coming, Billy. Don't you get disheartened," cheered the little woman. "Remember now, don't miss that medicine." Miss Nellis went away. Andy heard poor Billy sigh as he adjusted the larger mattress. "There's your bunk," he said to Andy. "Marco will see you early in the morning." Andy took off his coat and shoes and lay down on the rude bed. He watched Midget tracing the outlines of a picture with his white finger in a book Miss Nellis had brought him. Andy saw the clown go over to a stool and place a homely, old-fashioned watch and a spoon and medicine bottle Miss Nellis had given him upon it. Then Blow came back to the big mattress and sat down on it. He bent his face in his hands in a tired way. Every minute he would sway with sleepiness, start up, and try to keep awake. "The man is half-dead for the want of sleep, worn out with all his worries," thought Andy. "Mr. Blow," he said aloud, sitting up, "I can't sleep a wink. This is all so new to me. I'll just disturb you rustling about here. Please let me attend to the little fellow, won't you, and you take a good sound snooze? Come, it will do you lots of good." "No, no," began the clown weakly. "Please," persisted Andy. "Honest, I can't close my eyes. Now don't you have a care. I'll give Midget his medicine to the second." Andy felt a glow of real pleasure and satisfaction as the clown lay down. He was asleep in two minutes. Andy went over to the stool. "I'm going to be your nurse," he told Midget. "Suppose you sleep, too." "I can't," answered the little fellow. "I've been asleep all day. Wish I had another book, I've looked this one through a hundred times." "I could tell you some stories," Andy suggested. "Good ones." "Will you, say, will you?" pleaded the clown's boy eagerly. "You bet--and famous ones." Andy kept his promise. He ransacked his mind for the brightest stories he had ever read. Never was there a more interested listener. Andy talked in a low voice so as not to disturb the clown. Midget seemed most to like the real stories of his own village life that Andy finally drifted into. "That's what I'd like," he said, after Andy had told of some boyish adventures back at Fairview. "Oh, I'm so tired of moving on--all the time moving on!" "Strange," thought Andy, "and that's just the kind of a life I'm trying to get into." Midget became so animated that Andy finally got him to tell some stories about circus life. All that, however, was "shop talk" to the little performer, but Andy learned considerable from the keen-witted little fellow, who appeared to know as much about the ins and outs of show life as some veteran of the ring. He enlightened his auditor greatly in the line of real circus slang. Andy learned that in show vernacular clowns were "joys," and other performers "kinkers." A pocket book was a "leather," a hat a "lid," a ticket a "fake," an elephant a "bull." Lemonade was "juice," eyes were "lamps," candy peddlers were "butchers," and the various tents "tops," as, for instance: "main top," "cook top," and the side shows were "kid tops." Finally little Midge went to sleep. Andy woke him up each hour till daybreak to take his medicine. After the last dose Andy went outside to stretch his limbs and get a mouthful of fresh air. He saw men still tirelessly working here and there. Some were housing the live stock, some unpacking seat stands, some fixing the banners on the main tent. Andy did not go far from the clown's tent. It was fairly dawn. Happening to glance towards the chandelier wagon he came to a dead stand-still, and stared. "Hello!" said Andy with animation. "There's that Jim Tapp, and the man with him--yes, it's the fellow, Murdock, I saw with Daley in the old hay barn." As he stood gazing Tapp caught sight of him. He started violently and spoke some quick words to his companion, pointing towards Andy. "That's the man who cut the trapeze," murmured Andy. "I'll rouse the clown and tell him. He's a dangerous man to have lurking around." "Hey! hey!" called out Tapp at just that moment. Both he and his companion started running towards Andy. There was that in their bearing that warned Andy they meant him no good. Andy did not pause. "Stop, I tell you!" shouted the man, Murdock. Andy made a bee-line for the clown's tent. As he neared it he glanced back over his shoulder. Tapp was still putting after him. His companion had stooped to pick up an iron tent stake from the ground. This he let drive with full force. It took Andy squarely between the shoulders, and he dropped like a shot. CHAPTER XV ANDY JOINS THE SHOW The breath seemed clear knocked out of Andy's body. The shock of the blow from the stake deprived him of consciousness. Andy opened his eyes in about two minutes. He found himself lying on the ground, half-a-dozen circus employees gathered around him. "Help me up," said Andy in a confused way. "I mustn't miss giving Midge his medicine." "Eh--the clown's boy?" spoke one of the men sharply. "Oh," said Andy, regaining his senses more completely, "have I been here long?" "About two minutes." "Then Midge is all right--oh, dear!" Andy, trying to arise, gasped and tottered weakly. The man who had addressed him seemed to be a sort of boss of the others. He held Andy firmly as he said: "Belong with Billy Blow? All right, we'll take you to his tent. But, say--what did those fellows knock you out for?" "Did you see the fellows?" inquired Andy. "I was way over near the big bunk top. I heard some one holler, saw you running. Two fellows were after you. One let drive that stake. It took you between the shoulders like a cannon ball. An ugly throw, and a wicked one. Wonder it didn't fetch you for good." "One of the fellows was a boy named Jim Tapp," said Andy. "That rascal, eh?" spoke the man. "Thought he'd quit us. Was going to. Borrowed all he could, and salary tied up on an attachment." "The other was a man named Murdock. He's the fellow who cut the trapeze on Benares Brothers last night." "What!" cried the man, with a jump. "Hey, men--you hear that? Go for both! Get them! They're wanted for these crooked jobs." Those addressed started on a chase, pursuant to directions of their leader who had seen Murdock and Tapp run away as he came up to the prostrate Andy. The man himself helped Andy to the clown's tent. Their entrance aroused Billy Blow, who sprang up quickly as he noticed that Andy walked in a pained, disabled fashion. He was quite another man for his long, refreshing sleep. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked. Andy's companion explained. The clown expressed his sympathy and indignation in the same breath. He urged that the show detectives be aroused at once. "I heard Harding say last night he'd spend a thousand dollars, but he'd get Daley and Murdock behind the bars for attempted murder," declared the clown. The man who had assisted Andy went away saying he would consult with Mr. Giles Harding, the owner of the circus, at once. "You see, Murdock ventured here to find out how his wicked plot succeeded, never suspecting that he was found out," theorized the clown. "That fellow, Tapp, was always his crony. They're a bad lot, you can guess that from the stake they threw at you. No bones broken? Good! Hurts? I'll soon fix that. Strip, now." "All right." The clown had felt all over Andy's back as the latter sat down on the bench. Now he made Andy take off his coat and shirt. Then he produced a big bottle from his wicker trunk. "Ever hear of the Nine Oils?" he asked, as he poured a lot of black, greasy stuff out of the bottle into the palm of his hand. "No," said Andy. "This is it," explained the clown, beginning to rub Andy's back vigorously. "You've got quite a bruise, and I suppose it pains. Just lay down. When I get through, if the Nine Oils don't fix you up, I'll give you nine dollars." The clown rubbed Andy good and hard. Then he made him lie down on the big mattress. The Nine Oils had a magical effect. Andy's pain and soreness were soon soothed. He fell into a doze, and woke up to observe that Marco was in the tent conversing with the clown. "Hi, Wildwood," hailed Andy's friend. "Having quite a time of it, aren't you?" Andy got up as good as ever. His back smarted slightly--that was the only reminder he had of Murdock's savage assault. Billy Blow had been telling Marco about Andy's latest mishap. Marco was greatly worked up over it. He said the attempted trick on old Benares's partner had become noised about, and if the two plotters were arrested and brought anywhere near the circus, they stood a good show of lynching. "I'll step down with you to the hotel about ten o'clock, Wildwood," said Marco. "Miss Starr has some word for you." Andy simply said "Thank you," but his hopes rose tremendously. He accompanied Marco to the big eating tent and at the man's invitation had breakfast. The food was good and everything was scrupulously clean. Marco got a big tin tray, and he and Andy carried a double breakfast to Billy Blow's tent. The clown had got rested up and was bright and chipper, for little Midge seemed on the mend, and was as lively as a cricket. The little fellow ate a hearty meal, and then expressed a wish for an airing. Marco borrowed one of the wagons used by some performing goats, and Andy rode Midge around the grounds for half-an-hour. At about eight o'clock Andy went to the principal street of the town. He bought himself a new shirt and a cap. Going back to the clown's tent he washed up, and made himself generally tidy and presentable for the coming interview at the Empire Hotel. Andy had a full hour to spare before the time set for that event arrived. He took a stroll about the circus grounds, meeting jolly old Hans Snitzellbaum, and Benares and his partner, Thacher. His part taken in the impromptu arenic performance of the evening previous had become generally known. Andy was pointed out to the watchmen and others, and no one hindered him going about as he chose. Andy viewed another phase of show detail now. It was the picturesque part, the family side of circus daily life. He saw women busy at fancy work or sewing, their children playing with the ring ponies or petting the cake-walking horse. Some of the men were mending their clothes, others were washing out collars and handkerchiefs. What element of home life there was in the circus experience Andy witnessed in his brief stroll. He was on time to the minute at the Empire Hotel. A bell-boy showed him up to the ladies' parlor on the second floor. Miss Stella Starr was listening to some members of the circus minstrel show trying over some new airs on the piano. The moment she saw him she came forward with hand extended and a welcome smile on her kindly face. She made Andy feel at home at once. She insisted on hearing all the details of his experience since the evening he had saved her from disaster during the wind storm. "I think now just as I thought night before last, Andy," she said finally. "You do not owe much of duty to that aunt of yours. I think I would fight pretty hard to get away, in your place, with the reform school staring me in the face. Well, Andy, I have spoken to Mr. Harding." "Can--can I join?" asked Andy, with a good deal of anxiety. "Yes, Andy. I had a long talk with him about you, and--here he is now." A brisk-moving, keen-faced man of about fifty entered the parlor just then. "Mr. Harding, this is the boy, Andy Wildwood, I told you about," said Miss Starr. "Oh, indeed?" observed the showman, looking Andy all over with one swift, comprehensive glance. "They tell me you can do stunts, young man?" "Oh, a little--on the bar and tumbling," said Andy. "Well, I suppose you don't expect to star it for awhile," said Harding. "You must begin at the bottom, you know." "I want to, sir." "Very good. I will give you a card to the manager. He will make you useful in a general way until we have our two days' rest at Tipton, I'll look you up then, and see if you've got any ring stuff in you." Andy took the card tendered by the showman after the latter had written a few words on it in pencil. Andy made his best bow to Miss Starr. He was delighted and fluttered. He showed it so much that the showman was pleased out of the common. "Come back a minute," he called out. "My boy," he continued, placing a friendly hand on Andy's shoulder, "you have made a good start with us in that Benares matter. Keep on the right side always, and you will succeed. Never swear, quarrel or gamble. Assist our patrons, and be civil and obliging on all occasions. The circus is a grand centre of fraternal good will, properly managed, and the right circus stands for health, happiness, virtue and vigor. Its motto should be courage, ambition and energy, governed by honest purpose and tempered by humanity. I don't want to lecture, but I am giving you the benefit of what has cost me twenty years experience and a good many thousands of dollars." "Thank you, sir, I shall not forget what you have told me," said Andy. For all that, Andy's mind was for the present full only of the pomp and glitter of his new calling. One supreme thought made his heart bubble over with joy: At last he had reached the goal of his fondest wishes. Andy Wildwood had "joined the circus." CHAPTER XVI THE REGISTERED MAIL Andy hurried back to the circus grounds the happiest boy on earth. He went straight to the clown's tent. Billy Blow was making up for the morning parade. Dressed up as a way-back farmer, he was to drive a hay wagon, breaking into the procession here and there along the line of march. Finally, when he had created a sensation, he was to drop his disguise and emerge in his usual popular ring character. While Billy was putting the finishing touches to his toilet he conversed with Andy, congratulating him on his success in getting a job with the show. "Wait about half-an-hour till the parade gets off the grounds," he advised Andy. "Scripps, the manager, will be busy till then. You'll find him in the paper tent." Andy knew what that was--the structure containing the programmes and general advertising and posting outfits of the show. He had noticed it earlier in the day. A wagon inside the tent, with steps and windows, comprised the manager's private office. Little Midge was sitting up playing with some show children who had brought in a lot of toys. Andy went outside with Billy. "See here," said the clown, as he hurried off to join the parade. "Tell Scripps that you bunk with me. Any objection?" "I should say not." "You're welcome. The general crowd they'd put you with is a bit too rough for a raw recruit. Just stand what they give you till we reach Tipton. You've got friends enough to pull you up into the performers' rank. We'll fix you out there." "Thank you," said Andy. He strolled about with a happy smile on his face. Prospects looked fine, and Andy's heart warmed as he thought of all the good friends he had made. "They're a nice crowd," he thought--"Miss Starr, Marco, the Benares Brothers, the clown. How different, though, to what I used to think! It's business with them, real work, for all the tinsel and glare. It's a pleasant business, though, and they must make a lot of money." There was a shrill, whistling shriek from the calliope wagon. The various performers scampered from their dressing rooms at the signal. Each person, vehicle and animal fell into line in the morning caravan with a promptness and ease born of long practice. Soon there was a fluttering line of gay color, rich plush hangings, bullion-trimmed uniforms, silken flags and streamers. Zeno, the balloon clown, eating "redhots," i.e. peanuts, led the procession, bouncing up and down on a rubber globe in the advance chariot. The bands began to play. The prancing horses, rumbling wagons, screaming calliope, frolicking tumblers, tramp bicyclists weaving in and out in grotesque costumes, often on one wheel, the Tallyho stage filled with smiling ladies, old Sultan, the majestic lion, gazing in calm dignity down from his high extension cage--all this passed, a fantastic panorama, before Andy's engrossed gaze. "It's grand!" decided Andy--"just grand! A fellow can never get lonesome here, night or day. I'm going to like it. Now for the manager. Hope I don't have any trouble." When Andy came to the paper tent he found a good many people inside. There were several performers and canvas men on crutches or bandaged up. There were village merchants with bills, newspaper men after free passes and persons seeking employment. They were called in turn up the steps of the wagon that constituted the manager's office. Mr. Scripps was a rapid talker, a brisk man of business, and he disposed of the cases presented in quick order. Andy saw four or five dissipated looking men discharged at a word. The applicants for work were ordered to appear at Tipton, two days later. Several were after an advance on their salary. Some farmers appeared with claims for foraging done by circus hands. Finally Andy got to the front and tendered the card Mr. Harding had given him. "All right," shot out Scripps sharply, giving the lad a keen look. "You're the one who blocked the game on Benares? Good for you! We'll remember that, later." Scripps glanced over a pasteboard sheet on his desk, first asking Andy his name and age, and writing his answers down in a big-paged book. "Half-a-dollar a day and keep, for the present," he said. "All right," nodded Andy--"it's a start." "Just so. Let me see. Ah, here we are. Report to the Wild Man of Borneo side top at twelve." "Yes, sir." "Hammer the big triangle there till two. Then--let me see again. Know how to ride a horse?" "Oh, yes," replied Andy eagerly. "All right, at two o'clock report for the jockey ring section at the horse tent. They'll hand you a costume." Scripps wrote a number on a red ticket and handed this to Andy--his pass as an employee. Just then a newcomer bundled up the steps unceremoniously, a red-faced, fussy old fellow. "Mail's in," he announced. "Give me the O.K." Scripps fumbled in a drawer of his desk and brought out a rubber stamp and pad. "Mind your eye, Rip," he observed, casting a scrutinizing look over the intruder. "Which eye?" demanded the old fellow. "The one that sees a bottle and glass the quickest." "H'm!" grumbled Ripley, or "Rip Van Winkle," as he was familiarly known by the show people. "My eyes are all right. Don't fret. I've been twenty years with this here show, man and boy--" "Yes, yes, we know all about that," interrupted Scripps. "You're seasoned, right enough. Don't leave the rig to come home without a driver, though, and money letters aboard, as you did last week. Here is a new hand. Break him in to keep his time employed." Ripley viewed Andy with some disfavor. Evidently he regarded him as a sort of guardian. Andy, however, silently followed him outside. Ripley soon reached a close vehicle, boarded up back of the seat and with two doors at the rear. A big-boned mottled horse, once evidently a beauty, was between the shafts. As Andy lifted himself to the seat beside Ripley, the latter made a peculiar, purring: "Z-rr-rp, Lute!" He did not even take up the reins. The horse, with a neigh and a frisky dance movement of the forefeet, started up. "Right, left, slow, Lute. Turn--now go"--Ripley gave a dozen directions within the next five minutes. He was showing off for Andy's benefit. The latter was, in fact, pleased. The animal obeyed every direction with a precision and intelligence that fairly amazed the boy. Finally getting to a clear course outside the circus tangle, Ripley took up the reins. He set his lips and uttered two sharp whistles, ending in a kind of hiss. Andy was very nearly jerked out of his seat He had to hold on to its side bar. For about five hundred yards the horse took a sprint that knocked off his cap and fairly took his breath away. "Say, he's great!" Andy exclaimed irrepressibly, as Ripley slowed down again. "I guess so," nodded the latter, aroused out of his crustiness by Andy's enthusiasm. "That Lucille was famous, once. Past her prime a little now, but when her old driver has the reins, she don't forget, does she?" Ripley took a turn into a side street and finally halted, giving Andy the reins. "Got to order something," he said. Andy saw him enter a store, but only to leave it by a side door and cross an alley into a saloon. Ripley tried to appear very business-like when he came back to the wagon, but Andy caught the taint of liquor in his breath. Twice again the circus veteran made stops in the same manner. He became quite chatty and confidential. Ripley explained to Andy that he went regularly for the circus mail at each town where the show stopped. "Postmasters kick, with five hundred strangers calling for their mail," he explained, "so we always forward a list of the employees. This mail, just before pay day, when the crowd is usually hard up, brings a good many money letters from friends. That rubber stamp you saw the manager give me O.K.'s all the registered cards at the post office. Once the wagon was robbed. The looters made quite a haul. Not when I was on duty, though." At a drug store Ripley got several packages and some more at a general merchandise store. Finally they reached the post office, and Ripley drove around to a sort of hitching alley at its side. "Come with me to see how we do things," he invited Andy. "Bring along those two mail bags." Andy had already noticed the bags. One was quite large. It was made of canvas, with a snap lock. The other was of leather, and smaller in size. Swinging these over his shoulder, Ripley entered the post-office. He showed his credentials from the circus, and was admitted behind the letter cases of the places. Andy watched him receive over a hundred letters and packages, receipting for the same on registry delivery cards. This lot he placed in the small leather bag. The ordinary mail lay sorted out for the circus on a stamping table. This went into the big canvas pouch. The circus newspaper mail was ready tagged in a hempen sack. Ripley carried this out to Andy. "Toss it in the wagon," he ordered, following with the letter pouches. Andy opened the back doors of the wagon and tossed in the newspaper bag. "Say, back in a minute," observed Ripley, depositing his own burdens on the front wagon seat. Andy stood watching him. Ripley rounded a corner in the alley where a wooden finger indicated a side entrance to a hotel bar. Ripley's failing was manifest, and Andy decided that he did, indeed, need a guardian. The wagon stood on a space quite secluded from the street. Near the entrance to the alley several men were lounging about. Andy carried the leather pouch with him as he went around to the open doors at the rear of the wagon. He climbed in, and stowed the newspaper bag and what packages they had already collected in a tidy pile. Ripley had indicated that there was quite a miscellaneous load to pick up about town before they returned to the circus. Andy was thus employed when the rear doors came together with a sharp snap. They shut him in a close prisoner, for they were self-locking, on the outside only. Andy, in complete darkness, now groped back to the doors. He heard quick, suppressed tones outside. The vehicle jolted. Some one had jumped to the front seat. A whip snapped. Old Lute started up with a bound, throwing Andy off his footing. "Send her spinning!" reached him in a muffled voice from the front seat. "Jump with the bag when we turn that old shed," answered other tones. "Why, say! There's only one mail bag." "I saw them bring out two. I am dead sure of it." "And this is only common letters." "How do you know?" "Jim Tapp described them--'get the leather one,' he says. 'It's got the money mail in it.'" "Then where is it?" "The kid must have it." "Inside the wagon?" "Yes." "Whoa." With a sharp jerk the horse was pulled to a halt. Andy heard the two men on the seat jump to the ground. He knew that their motive was robbery. He knew further that this was another plot of bad Jim Tapp, the friend and associate of criminals. In another minute the men would open the wagon doors, pull him out, perhaps assault him, take the registered mail and fly. Andy had only a second to act in. He theorized that the wagon, following the alley, was now probably halted in some secluded side lane. To escape the clutches of the would-be robbers was everything. Andy, having no weapon of defence, was no match for them. "If the rig once reaches the crowded streets, I'm safe," thought Andy. Then he carried out a speedy programme. Forming his lips in a pucker, as he had seen Ripley do, Andy uttered two sharp whistles, then a clear, resounding hiss. "Thunder!" yelled a voice outside. "Ouch!" echoed a second. The horse had given one wild, prodigious bound at hearing the familiar signal. The vehicle must have grazed one of the thieves. Its front wheels knocked the other down. "My! I'm in for it," instantly decided Andy. For, swayed from side to side, he realized that the circus wagon was dashing forward at runaway speed. CHAPTER XVII A WILD JOURNEY Andy Wildwood found himself in a box, in more ways than one. Judging from the sounds he had heard, the men bent on securing the registered mail pouch had been baffled. The old circus horse had started on a sudden and surprisingly swift sprint. From the feeling of turns, jerks and swings, Andy decided that within four minutes the rig had left the post-office fully half-a-mile to the rear. "I've started the horse all right," said Andy. "Old Ripley's signal has acted like a charm. How to stop the animal, though. That is the present question?" Andy ran at the two rear doors of the wagon. He steadied himself, arms extended so as to touch either side of the box. Then he gave the doors a tremendous kick with the sole of his shoe. The doors did not budge. He felt over their inner surfaces where they came together. The lock was set in the wood. They could be opened only from the outside. The wagon box had one aperture, Andy discovered. This was a small ventilating grating up in one corner above the seat. He sprang up on the newspaper bag. This brought his eyes on a level with the grating. It was about four by six inches, with slanting slats. Andy could see down at the horse and ahead along the road. He grew excited and somewhat uneasy as he looked out. Lute was a sight for a race track. Her head down, mane flowing, tail extended, she was covering the ground with tremendous strides. Farther back on the route Andy had felt the wagon collide with curbs and with other vehicles. Once there was a crash and a yell, and he felt sure they had taken a wheel off a rig they passed. Now, however, they appeared to be quite clear of the town proper. The road ahead was a slanting one. A steep grade fully half-a-mile long led to a stone bridge crossing a river. It was so steep that Andy wondered that Lute did not stumble. The wagon wheels ground and slid so that the vehicle lifted at the rear, as if its own momentum would cause a sudden tip-over. "We'll never reach the bottom of the hill," decided Andy. "My! we're going!" He shouted out words of direction to the horse he had heard Ripley employ. Lute did not hear, at least did not heed. Andy remembered now that in stopping the horse Ripley had used the reins. He held his breath as, striking a rut, the wagon bounded up in the air. He clung for dear life, with one hand clutching the ventilator bars as the vehicle was flung sideways over ten feet, threatening to snap off the wheels, which bent and cracked on their axles at the terrific strain. Contrary to Andy's anticipations they neared the bottom of the hill without a mishap. Suddenly, however, he gave a shout. A new danger threatened. The bridge had large stone posts where it began. Then a frail wooden railing was its only side protection. The roadway was not very broad. Two full loads of hay could never have passed one another on that bridge. "There's a team coming," breathed Andy. "We'll collide, sure. Whoa! whoa!" he yelled through the grating. "No use. It's a smash, and a bad one." Andy fixed a distressed glance on the team half-way across the bridge. A collision was inevitable. Lute, striking the level, only increased her already terrific rate of speed. Andy took heart, however, as she swerved to one side. The intelligent animal appeared to enjoy her wild runaway, and wanted to keep it up. Apparently she aimed to keep precisely to her own side of the road and avoid a collision. The driver of the team coming had jumped from his seat and pulled his rig to the very edge of the planking. All might have gone well but for a slight miscalculation. As Lute's feet struck the bridge plankway, she pressed close to the right. The wagon swerved. The front end of the box landed squarely against the stone post. The shock was a stunning one. It tore the wagon shafts, harness and all, clear off the horse. With a circling twist the vehicle reversed like lightning. The box struck the wooden rail. This snapped like a pipe stem. Lute, dashed on like a whirlwind, the driver of the other team staring in appalled wonder, the box slid clear of the plankway and went whirling to the river bed fifteen feet below. Andy was thrown from side to side. Then, as the wagon landed, a new crash and a new shock dazed his wits completely. He was hurled the length of the box, his head fortunately striking where the newspaper bag intervened. Judging from the concussion, Andy decided that the wagon box had landed on a big rock in the river bed. There it remained stationary. He struggled to an upright position. One arm was badly wrenched. His face was grazed and bleeding. "If I don't get out some way," he panted, "I'll drown." It looked that way. He felt a great spurt of water, pouring in rapidly when the ventilator dipped under the surface. Then, too, the crash had wrenched the box structure at various seams. Water was forcing its way in, bottom, sides and top. From ankle-deep to knee-deep, Andy stood helpless. Then, locating the door end of the vehicle, he drew back and massed all his muscle for a supreme effort. Shoulders first Andy posed, and then threw himself forward, battering-ram fashion. He felt he must act and that quickly, or else the worst might be his own. CHAPTER XVIII A FREAK OF NATURE The doors at the rear of the wagon box gave way as Andy's body met their inner surface with full force. He stood now on a slant, his body submerged to the waist. The box had crashed on top of one big flat rock in the river bed, and had tilted on this foundation against another upright rock. But for this it might have gone clear under water or floated down stream, and Andy might have been drowned. All through his stirring runaway experience Andy had kept possession of the registered mail pouch. It was still slung from his shoulder as he gazed around him. He was careful lest he disturb the equilibrium of the wreck. He found out now that the door hinges had been knocked clear off and the frame badly wrenched in its fall. "Hello! hello!" shouted an excited voice overhead. "Hello yourself," sang back Andy, looking up. The driver of the team into which the runaway had so nearly dashed stood looking down from the bridge planking. His eyes stared wide as Andy suddenly appeared like a jack-in-the-box. "Was you in there?" gulped the man. "I was nowhere else," answered Andy. "Say, mister, where's that horse?" "Oh, he's all right. See him?" The man pointed along the other shore of the river bank. Lute had crossed the bridge. She had now taken herself to some marshy grass stretches, and was grazing placidly. Andy was about twenty feet from the shore. He could nearly make it by jumping from rock to rock, he thought. At one or two places, however, the current ran strong and deep, and he saw that he might have to do some swimming. "See here," he called up to the man on the bridge, "have you got a rope?" "Yes," nodded the man. "Long enough to reach down here?" "I guess so. Let's try. Wait a minute." He went to his wagon. Shortly he dropped a new stout rope used in securing hay loads. It had length and to spare. Andy tied the mail pouch to its end. Then he groped under water in the wagon box. He managed to fish out the various parcels it held, including the newspaper bag. These he sent up first. Then the man at the other end braced the cable against a railing post. Andy came up the rope with agility. He stamped and shook the water from his soaked shoes and clothing. The mail bag he again suspended across his shoulders. "Hi, another runaway!" suddenly exclaimed his companion. Andy traced an increasing clatter of a horse's hoofs and wagon wheels to a rig descending the hill at breakneck speed. "No," he said. "It's Ripley." "Who's he?" "The man who drove that wagon. Stop! stop!" cried Andy, springing into the middle of the bridge roadway and waving his arms. The rig came up. It was driven by a man wearing a badge. Andy decided he was some local police officer. Ripley was fearfully excited and his face showed it. "What did you do with that wagon?" sputtered Ripley, jumping to the plankway. Andy pointed down at the river bed and then at the distant horse. Briefly as he could he narrated what had occurred. Ripley nearly had a fit. He instantly realized that whoever was to blame for the runaway, it was not Andy. "Where's the mail?" he asked. "There's the newspaper bag," said Andy; "here's the registered mail pouch. Those thieves took the other bag of mail." "They did? Do you hear, officer? Get after them quick, won't you? Never mind us. Describe them, kid." "How can I, when I never saw them?" said Andy. Ripley groaned and wrung his hands. He was in a frenzy of distress and indecision. "See here," spoke the officer to him. "You had better go after that horse. Your wagon isn't worth fishing up. Got all there was in it, lad?" "Yes, sir," answered Andy. "Very well, bundle that bag and those packages in here, and come with me. It's good you held on to that registered stuff." Ripley started after the runaway horse. The officer hurried townwards, questioning Andy closely. He stopped at the post-office and made some inquiries among the crowd loitering about its vicinity. Then he drove to the town hall, went into his office, jumped in the buggy again, and they proceeded toward the circus. "I've got a vague description of your two men," he told Andy, "but that isn't much, with so many strangers in town. You think they are partners of that Rapp, whom the circus people know?" "Tapp--Jim Tapp," corrected Andy. "Yes, they mentioned his name." "The circus detectives ought to handle this case, then," said the village officer. "I'd better see them right away." The manager of the show regarded Andy in some wonderment as he and the officer unceremoniously entered his presence. His excitement increased as Andy recited his story. "I warned Ripley," he exclaimed. "Well, he shan't play the spoiled pet any longer. As to you, Wildwood, you deserve credit for your pluck. I'll have a talk with you when we get to Tipton. Too shaken up to do a little general utility work, till I can arrange for something better?" "Not at all, sir," answered Andy promptly. Andy saw that he had made a good impression on the manager. The latter was pleased with him and interested in him. Andy waited outside the tent. Soon the village officer and two of the circus detectives sought him out. These latter questioned him on their own behalf. "Daley, Murdock and Tapp are in this," one of them remarked definitely. "They haven't got much, this time. The next break, though, may be for the ticket wagon. They've got to be squelched." Andy put in a busy, pleasant day. He was getting acquainted, he was becoming versed in general circus detail. For an hour he hammered the huge triangle in front of a side show, as directed. At the afternoon rehearsal he was one of twenty dressed like jockeys in the ring parade. Afterwards Andy was making for the clown's tent, when a fat, red-faced, perspiring fellow, aproned as a cook, hailed him. "Belong to show?" he asked, waving a frying pan. "Sure, I do," answered Andy, proudly. "Help me a little, will you?" "Glad to. What can I do?" "Open these lard and butter casks and carry them in. I haven't time. There's a hatchet. My stuff is all burning up inside." A hissing splutter of his ovens made the cook dive into his tent. Andy picked up a chisel dropped by the cook. He opened six casks standing on the ground and carried them inside. The cooking odor pervading the place was very pleasing. The cook's assistants were few, some of the regulars were absent, Andy guessed from what he heard the cook say. The latter was rushed to death, and jumping from stove to stove and utensil to utensil in a great flutter of excitement and haste for he was behind in his work. Andy caught on to the situation. In a swift, quiet way he anticipated the cook's needs. He dipped and dried some skillets near a trough of water. He sharpened some knives. He carried some charcoal hods nearer to a stove needing replenishing. After awhile the cook began to whistle cheerily. His perplexities were lessening, and he felt good humored over it. "Things in running order," he chirped. "You're a game lad. Hold on a minute." The cook emptied out a smoking pan into which he had placed a mass of batter a few minutes previous. "Don't burn yourself--it's piping hot," he observed, tendering Andy a tempting raisin cake, enough for two meals. "Oh, thank you," said Andy. "Thank you, lad. Whenever you need a bite between meals, just drop in." Andy came out of the tent passing the cake from hand to hand. He caught a newspaper sheet fluttering by, wadded it up, and surmounted it with the hot cake. "That's better," he said. "My, it looks appetizing. Beg pardon," added Andy, as rounding a tent he ran against a boy about his own age. At a glance he saw that the stranger did not belong to the show. He was poorly dressed, but clean-faced and bright-eyed, although he limped like a person who had walked too far and too long for comfort. "My fault," said the stranger. "I've done nothing but gape since I came here. Say, this circus is a regular city in itself, isn't it?" "Yes," answered Andy. "Stranger here?" The boy nodded. He studied Andy's face quite anxiously. "Look here," he said, "you look honest. Some lemonade boys I asked sent me astray with all kinds of wrong information. You won't, will you?" "Certainly not," said Andy. "What's the trouble?" "Is it hard to get a talk with the circus manager?" "Why, no." "Is it hard to join the show?" "I have just joined," said Andy. "Is that so?" exclaimed the stranger, brightening up. "Was it hard to get in?" "Not particularly. What did you expect to do?" "Anything for a start," responded the other eagerly. "Only, my ambition is to be an animal trainer." Andy became quite interested. "Why that?" he inquired. "Because it seems to be my bent. My name is Luke Belding. I'm an orphan. Been brought up on a stock farm, and know all about horses. And say," added the speaker with intense eagerness, "if they'll take me on I'll throw in a great curiosity." He held out what looked like a wooden cage covered with a piece of water-proof cloth. "Got it in there, have you?" asked Andy. "Yes. I've trained it, and it's cute. Honest, it's better as a curiosity, and to make people laugh, than a lot of the novelties they have in the side, tents." "Why," said Andy, with increasing interest, "what may it be, now?" "Well," answered Luke, "it's a chicken." "Oh. Two-headed, three-legged, I suppose, or something of that sort?" "Not at all. No," said Luke Belding, "this is something you never saw before. It's a chicken that walks backward." CHAPTER XIX CALLED TO ACCOUNT Andy burst out laughing,--he could not help it. "That's strange," he said. "A chicken that walks backward?" "Yes," answered Luke Belding, soberly. "Really does it?" "Oh, sure. All the time. I've got it here. I'll show you." Luke made a move as if to remove the cloth cover from the box under his arm, but Andy stopped him. "Hold on," he said. "Come with me till I get rid of this cake, and then you shall show me." "H'm!" observed Luke, smacking his lips with a longing look at the cake, "it wouldn't take me long to get rid of it!" "Hungry?" insinuated Andy. "Desperately. I'd be almost tempted to sell a half-interest in the chicken for a good square meal." "You shall have one without any such sacrifice," declared Andy. "Come along." They found the clown's tent empty. "Billy Blow is probably giving Midget an airing," said Andy, half to himself. "Who's Billy Blow?" inquired Luke. "The clown." "Do you know a real live clown? Say, that's great!" said Luke. "Must keep a fellow laughing all the time." "I thought so until yesterday," answered Andy. "But no--they have their troubles, like other people. This poor, sorrowful fellow has his fill of it. He don't do much laughing outside of the ring, I can tell you. There, we'll enjoy the cook's gift together." Andy drew up the bench and handed Luke fully three-quarters of the toothsome dainty. It pleased him to see the half-famished boy enjoy the feast. Luke poked a good-sized piece of the sake under the cage cover. There was a gladsome cluck. "Two of us happy," announced Luke, with a smile that won Andy's heart. Andy decided that his new acquaintance was the right sort. Luke had a clear, honest face, and there was something in his eye that inspired confidence. "Now, then," said Andy, as his companion munched the last crumb of the cake, "let's see your wonderful curiosity." "I'll do it," replied Luke with alacrity. "Find me a little stick or switch, will you?" Andy went outside to hunt for the required article. As he returned with a stake splinter he observed that Luke had uncovered and set down the cage, which was a rude wooden affair. Near it, with a pertly cocked head and magnificently red feathers, stood a small rooster. Luke took the stick from Andy's hand. "Walk, Bolivar!" he ordered. Andy began to laugh. It was a comical sight. The rooster went strutting around the tent backwards as rapidly and steadily as a normal chicken. It was ludicrous to watch it proceed, pecking at the ground and turning corners. "Now, then, Bolivar!" said Luke. He used the stick to direct the rooster, which kept time first with one foot and then the other to a tune whistled by its owner, ending with a triple pirouette that was superb. "Well, that's fine!" commented Andy with enthusiasm. "How did you ever train it?" "Didn't," responded Luke frankly--"except for the dancing. I've done that with crows and goats, many a time. See here," and he picked up the chicken and extended its feet. "Why," cried Andy, "it was born with its claws turned backwards!" "That's it," nodded Luke. "See? A regular freak of nature. Odd enough to put among the curiosities?" "It certainly is," voted Andy. "The circus wouldn't use it, though--just a side show." "I don't care," said Luke, "as long as I get started in with the show. Can you help me?" "I'll try to," declared Andy. "Wait here. I want to find Billy Blow and tell him about this." Andy went about the circus grounds until he discovered the clown. Billy was quite taken with the chicken, and finally decided to try and place the boy with his freak. He and Luke went away together. When he came back the clown was alone. He told Andy that one of the side shows had agreed to try Luke and his wonderful chicken for at least a week for the food and keep of both. Andy went on with the jockey riders in the evening performance. The last performance at Clifton was the next forenoon. He had only a glimpse of Marco and others of his acquaintance meantime, with everything on a rush. "You see, Tipton is a regular vacation for us folks," Billy Blow explained to him. "Country around isn't populous enough for more than one day's performances, and then only when the county fair is on. We rest two days, and play Saturday. Then is your chance. There's a good deal of shifting and taking on new hands. We'll watch out for you. You'll see some fun, too. All the new aspirants have been told to show up at Tipton." "Are there many?" "About five to every town we've played in," declared Billy. "They all want to break in, and it's policy to give them a show." Andy was sent off by the manager to the superintendent of the moving crew about noon. There was considerable lifting to do. Andy was tired when, about six o'clock in the evening, he climbed up on a loaded wagon for the well-earned ride to Tipton. He had met one of the circus detectives that morning, who told him they had so far discovered no trace of Jim Tapp, or his colleagues, or the stolen mail bag. They got to Tipton about eight o'clock in the evening. Andy was "told off" to help in the construction work the next morning, and had now twelve hours of his own time. He was hungry, and knowing that it would be difficult to get much to eat until late, when the cook's quarters had been re-established, he left the wagon as it reached the principal street in Tipton. Andy went to a restaurant and got a good meal. He decided to stroll about a bit, and then join the clown in his new quarters. Andy had been to Tipton before. His aunt had some acquaintances there. He walked up and down the principal street, looking in the store windows, and studying the country people who had come to visit the county fair. Suddenly Andy drew back into the shadow of a doorway. Leaning against a curb hitching post was a person who enchained his attention. "It's Tapp--Jim Tapp," said Andy. "I'd know that slouch of his shoulders anywhere." The person under his inspection was swinging a light bamboo cane and smoking a cigarette. He wore a jet black moustache and a jet black speck of a goatee. Moustache and goatee were unmistakably of the variety Andy had seen a circus fakir selling for twenty-five cents, back at Clifton. Their wearer kept his back to the lighted windows, so that his face was in partial shadow. He also kept taking sidelong glances up and down the curb, as if expecting some one. Andy watched him for fully five minutes, made up his mind, and at last stealthily glided up behind him. Seizing both the fellow's arms, he whirled him around face to face, let go of him, and with two quick movements of one hand tore the false moustache and the false goatee from his face. His surmises were correct. It was Jim Tapp. The latter gave Andy a quick, startled glance. "Wildwood!" he said, and switched his cane towards Andy's face. "No, you don't!" cried Andy, grasping his arms again. "Jim Tapp, the circus people want you." "Let go. Nobody wants me. I've done nothing." "Call Benares Brothers, the stake your partner hit me with, the stolen mail bag, nothing?" demanded Andy. "You'll come along with me or I'll call the police." Tapp glanced sharply about. So far nobody seemed to particularly notice them. He threw out his own arms and grasped Andy in turn. Thus interlocked, he threw out a foot. Andy was taken off his guard. He went toppling, but he never let go of his antagonist. Both landed with a crash on the board sidewalk. There was a vacant lot just next to a brilliantly lighted store. As they took a roll, they landed nearly at the inner edge of the walk. "There!" panted Andy, "you won't trip me again." He was the stronger of the two, and got Tapp on his back. Sitting astride of him, Andy caught both hands at the wrists. "Let go!" panted Tapp. "Say, don't draw a crowd. I'll go with you." "You'll go with a policeman," declared Andy, glancing along the walk. "There'll be one here soon, for the crowd's coming." "Fight! fight!" yelled three or four urchins, dashing up to the spot. Others came hurrying along from inspecting the store windows. "What's the row?" demanded a man. "Fair fight. Let him up. Give him a chance," growled a low-browed fellow, also approaching. "What is it? what is it?" inquired a fussy old lady, craning her neck towards the combatants. "Say," ground out Tapp, vainly endeavoring to free himself, "let me up. It will pay you. Say, I can tell you something great." "Can you?" smiled Andy calmly. "Tell it to the police." "Hold on," proceeded Tapp. "I'm not fooling. I know something. I can put you on to something big." "How big?" insinuated Andy, disbelievingly. "I can, I vow I can! I'm in dead earnest. Say, Wildwood, nobody knows it but me--you're an heir--" "Eh? Bosh! I guess your heir is all hot air. Ah, here comes the policeman--oh, gracious! My aunt!" Andy Wildwood let go his hold of Jim Tapp. With startled eyes, in sheer dismay he stared at a woman approaching them, her curiosity aroused by the crowd. It was his aunt, Miss Lavinia Talcott. CHAPTER XX ANDY'S ESCAPE Jim Tapp gave a great wriggle as Andy involuntarily let go his hold of the young rascal. His ferret-like eyes twinkled and followed the glance of Andy's own. Tapp was too keen a fellow not to observe that Andy was startled and unnerved by the unexpected appearance of some one on the scene. He probably caught the words spoken by Andy: "My aunt," and presumably identified Miss Lavinia Talcott as the cause of the boy's disquietude. Further, Jim Tapp knew that Andy had run away from home and had been sought for by the police. As it turned out later in Andy Wildwood's career, Jim Tapp knew a great deal more than all this put together. In fact, he knew some things of which Andy never dreamed. Andy had been completely driven off his balance at the sight of his aunt. It was natural that she should be at Tipton. She went there quite often. Loneliness at home and the variety of the county fair at Tipton had probably induced her to make the present visit. Instantly Andy thought of but one thing--to escape recognition. Still, the minute he let go of Tapp his presence of mind returned, and he was sorry he had lost his nerve on an impulse. It would have been quite an easy thing to roll and force his antagonist over the sidewalk edge. Now, however, Tapp had wriggled past his reach. Andy made one grab for him, prostrate on the planks now, missed, rolled along, and dropped squarely over the inner edge of the walk five feet down into the vacant lot below. "She didn't see me," he panted--"I'm sure she didn't. Too bad, though! I had that fellow, Tapp, tight. Why should I lose him, even now?" Andy ran under the sidewalk for about ten feet. He rounded a heap of sand and glided up a slant where an alley cut in. There he paused, hidden by a big billboard. Peering past this barrier he could view the crowd he had just left. "Thief--stop thief!" fell in a frantic yell on his hearers. To his surprise it was Jim Tapp who uttered the call. He was flinging about in great excitement. As a police officer ran up, Andy saw him pointing into the vacant lot. He also evidently told some specious story to the officer. The latter jumped into the lot, and two or three followed him. Andy saw that he was in danger of discovery, and directed a last glance at the crowd on the sidewalk. He saw his aunt's bobbing bonnet retreating from the scene. He also saw Jim Tapp, apparently following her. He did not dare to go in the same direction. Andy dodged down the alley and came out on the next street. He looked vainly for the two persons in whom he was interested. He failed to locate them, and then proceeded in the direction of the circus grounds. He was very thoughtful, and in a measure worried and uneasy. "Tapp is pretty smart," soliloquized Andy. "He's mean, too. If he noticed that I was flustered and afraid of Aunt Lavinia seeing me, and guesses who she is and connects my running away from home with her, he would tell her where I am just out of spite. Wonder if she could have me arrested here, in another State?" Andy was too tired to stay awake over this problem when he located the clown's new quarters. Before he retired, however, he got word to the circus manager that Jim Tapp was evidently following the circus, and had been seen in Tipton that very evening. The next morning Andy was too busy to give the matter of his aunt's near proximity much thought. He worked with a gang hoisting the main tent until nearly noon. "Hi, Wildwood!" hailed a friendly voice, as Andy was leaving the cook's tent an hour later. The speaker was Marco. He made a few inquiries as to how Andy was getting along. Then he said: "I saw Miss Stella Starr this morning. You know the manager, of course?" "Mr. Scripps--yes," nodded Andy. "Well, about two o'clock they're going to line up the amateurs in the performance tent. You be there." "All right," said Andy. "Benares and Thacher will be on hand. You'll see some fun. Afterwards they'll put you through some stunts in dead earnest. It's your chance to get in on the tumbling act. Would you like that?" "I should say so--if I can do it good enough." "Well, try, anyhow. If you're not up to average, Benares will train you. He's taken a fancy to you, and he'll help you along. Some of the tumblers leave us here, and they're shy on a full number. If they take you, stick hard for ten dollars." "A month?" said Andy. "No, a week." "Gracious!" exclaimed Andy, "that's too good to come out true." "Stick and strive, Wildwood--the motto will win," declared Marco. When Andy went to the performers' tent at two o'clock, he found over fifty persons there. In its centre a balancing bar had been put up. An old circus horse stood at one side. Some low trapezes were swung from a post. A number of the circus people were lounging on benches in one corner of the tent. In another corner on other benches some twenty persons, mostly boys, were gathered. "Here, you're not on show yet," spoke Benares, the trapezist, pulling Andy beside him as he passed along. "Your turn will come after they get rid of those aspirants yonder." CHAPTER XXI A FULL-FLEDGED ACROBAT The circus manager sat in a chair at the edge of a little sawdust ring that had been marked out for the occasion. The ringmaster stood near him, in charge of the ceremonies. "Now, then, my friends," observed this individual in a sharp, snappy way, "you people want a chance to get on as performers. That's good. We are always looking for fresh talent. Show your paces. Who's first?" A big, loutish fellow with an ungainly walk stepped forward. He was wrapped up in a tarpaulin. As he let it drop it was like a transformation scene. It seemed that some of the mischievous candy peddlers had got hold of him. They had induced him to appear for trial in costume. He wore a pair of tights three sizes too small for him. They had powdered his hair with fine sawdust and daubed his face with chalk and dyes. They had stuffed out his stockings until his calves resembled sticks of knotted wood. The manager nearly fell over in his chair with repressed laughter. The audience was one vast chuckle. "Well, sir," spoke up the ringmaster, with difficulty keeping a straight face, "what can you do?" "I'd like to be a clown," grinned the victim. "A clown, sir. Good. Let's see you act." The fellow capered into the ring. One stocking came down, letting out a quart of sawdust. One tight split up to the knee as he made a jig step that brought the tears to the eyes of Billy Blow, who, with his boy, had come to witness the show. Then the fellow sang a funny song. It was funny. His voice was cracked, his delivery dolorous. He began to shuffle at the end of it. "Faster, faster, sir!" cried the ringmaster, snapping his whip across the bare limb exposed. "Faster, I tell you!" "Ouch!" yelled the aspirant. "Come, sir, faster. I say faster, faster, faster! Purely ring practice, my friend. We do this to all the clowns, you know." With the pitiless accuracy of a bullwhacker the ringmaster pursued his victim. The whip-lash landed squarely every time, biting like a hornet. The aspirant was now on the run. "Stop! Don't! Help!" he roared. "I don't want to be a clown!" and with a bellow he ran out of the tent, followed by the hooting candy peddlers. "Well, who are you?" demanded the ringmaster of two colored boys who stepped forward. "Double trapeze act, sir," said one of them. "Oh, here you are. Let's see what you can do." The ringmaster set free the temporary trapeze rigging. These aspirants did quite well, singly. When they doubled, however, there was trouble. The one swinging from the hands of the other lost his grip. He caught out wildly, grabbed at the shirt sleeve of his partner to save himself. This tightened the garment at the neck. Then it gave way, buttons and all. Both tumbled to the ground. They began upbraiding one another, came to blows, and the ringmaster sent them about their business, saying the show could not encourage prize fighters. The programme continued. There was an ambitious lad who was quite a wonder at turning rapid cartwheels. Another did some creditable pole balancing. One old man wanted to serve as a magician. All had a chance, but their merit was not distinguished enough to warrant their engagement. Most of the crowd filed out when the last of the amateurs had done his "stunt." Benares then stepped up to the ringmaster and beckoned to Andy. At his direction Andy threw off his coat and hat, and old Benares led the horse Andy had noticed into the main tent. It was a steady-paced, slow-going steed. The ringmaster got it started around the ring. "Do your best now, Wildwood," whispered Marco, who with the clown and the manager had followed into the main tent. Andy was on his mettle. He made a run, took a leap and landed on the platform on the horse's back just as he had done a hundred times back at Fairview. "Very good," nodded the ringmaster, as Andy rode around the ring, posing, several times. "Try the spring plank next," suggested the manager. The single and double somersault were Andy's specialty. The apparatus was superb. He was not quite perfect, but old Benares patted him on the shoulder after several efforts, with the words: "Fine--vary fine." Andy did some creditable twisting on the trapeze, the manager and the ringmaster conversing together, meantime. "Report to me in the morning," said the latter to Andy at last. Marco followed the manager as he left the tent. He came back with a pleased expression of face. "It's all right, lad," he reported. "You're in the ring group as a sub. He tried to chisel me down, but I insisted on fair pay, and it's ten dollars a week for you." Andy was delighted. That amount seemed a small fortune to him. No danger now of not being able to pay back to Graham the borrowed five dollars and his other Fairview debts. Benares took him in hand after the others had left. He gave him a great many training suggestions. He led him into the regular practicing tent and showed him "the mecanique." This was a device with a wooden arm from which hung an elastic rope. Harnessed in this, a performer could attempt all kinds of contortions without scoring a fall. Benares also showed Andy how to make effective standing somersaults by "the tuck trick," This was to grasp both legs tightly half-way between the knees and ankles, pressing them close together. At the same time the acrobat was to put the muscles of the shoulders and back in full play. The combined muscular force acted like a balance-weight of a wheel, and enabled that neat, finished somersault which always brought down the house. "You ought to try the slack wire, too, when you get a chance," advised Benares. "We'll try you on the high trapeze in the triple act, some time. Glad you're in the profession, Wildwood, and we'll all give you a lift when we can." Andy felt that he had found some of the best friends in the world, and was a full-fledged acrobat at last as he left the circus tent. CHAPTER XXII AMONG THE CAGES "Hi! Hello--stop, stop." "Oh, it's you, Luke Belding?" Andy, passing through the circus grounds, turned at an eager hail. The owner of the chicken that walked backwards came running after him. He caught Andy's arm and smiled genially into his face. "Well," spoke Andy, surveying Luke in a pleased way. "You look prosperous." In fact Luke did present signs of a betterment over his first forlorn appearance on the circus scene. He wore a new jacket and a neat collar and necktie. His face had no trouble in it now. He presented the appearance of a person eminently satisfied with the present and full of hope and animation for the future. "Prosperous?" he declaimed volubly--"I guess I am. Square meals, a sure berth for a week, jolly friends--and, oh, say! you're one of the true ones." "Am I?" smiled Andy--"I'm glad to hear you say so." "Billy Blow is another. He got me on at a side show. They give me my keep, ten per cent, on what photographs I sell, and togged me out respectable looking, gratis." "Good for you," commended Andy heartily. "And what of the famous chicken?" "In capital trim. Say, that wise little rooster seems to know he's on exhibition. There's some monkeys in our tent. He steals their food, fights them, cuts up all kinds of antics. Boss says he thinks he will be a drawing card. I've got him to turn a somersault now. Come on." "Come where?" "I want to show you. See there. Isn't that grand, now?" Luke led Andy into the tent where the side show was. A big frame covered with cheese cloth took up the entire width of the place. Upon this a man with a brush was liberally spreading several quarts of glaring red and yellow paint. "Greatest Curiosity In The World--Remarkable Freak of Nature--The Famous Bolivar Trick Rooster, Who Walks Backwards"--so much of the grand announcement to the circus public had been already painted on the sign. "They're bound to give you a chance, anyhow," observed Andy. "And I must say I am mighty glad of it." "And see here," continued Luke animatedly. "Come on, old fellow. Easy, now. Ah, he wants a lump of sugar." Luke had approached a very strongly-built cage. Its occupant was one of the largest and ugliest-looking monkeys Andy had ever seen. It bristled and snarled at Andy, but as Luke opened the cage door leaped into his arms, snuggled there, and began petting his face with one paw. Luke gave the animal a lump of sugar, coaxed it, stroked it. Then he took it over to where an impromptu slack wire was strung between two posts, and set the monkey on this. The animal went through some evolutions that were so perfect an imitation of first-class human trapeze performance, that Andy was fairly astonished. "The people here give me great credit on that," announced Luke with happy eyes, as he put the monkey back in his cage. "They were just going to kill him when I came here" "Kill him--what for?" asked Andy. "Oh, he was so savage. He bit off an attendant's finger, and maimed two smaller monkeys. He wouldn't do anything but sulk and show his teeth all day long. I got at him. When he first grabbed my hand in his teeth I just let it stay there. Never tried to get it away or fight him. Just looked him in the eyes sort of reproachfully, and began to boo-hoo. Oh, I cried artistic, I did. Say, that monkey just stared at me, dropped my hand and began to bellow at the top of his voice, too. Then he got sorry and licked my hand. A lump of sugar sealed the compact. Why, he's the smartest animal in the show. You see what he did for me. The people here are delighted. It's made me solid with them." Luke introduced Andy to the "Wild Man," a most peaceable-looking individual out of his acting disguise. His wife was the Fat Woman, who did not act as if she was very much afraid of her supposed savage and untamable husband. "I want you to do something for me," said Luke, presently. "Will you?" "I'll try," answered Andy. "I'd like to go through the menagerie. You see I'm not regular, so, while I have the run of the small tops, they won't pass me in at the big flaps." Andy walked over with his new acquaintance to the menagerie. The watchman at the door admitted them at a word from Andy. The trainers, keepers and manager were busy about the place, feeding the animals, cleaning the cages and the like. Luke's eyes sparkled as if at last he found himself in his element. He petted the camels affectionately, and talked to the elephants in a purring, winning tone that made more than one of them look at him as if pleased at his attention. The lion cages were Luke's grand centre of interest. He stood watching old Sultan, the king of the menagerie, like one entranced. Luke began talking to the beast in a musical, coaxing tone. The animal sat grim as a statue. Luke thrust his hand into his pocket. As he withdrew it he rested his fingers on the edge of the cage. The lion never stirred, but its eyes described a quick, rolling movement. "Look out!" warned Andy--"he's watching you." "I want him to," answered Luke coolly. "But--" Luke continued his animal lullaby, he kept extending his hand. Straight up towards the lion's face he raised his arm fearlessly, now inside the danger line fully to the elbow. "Hi! Back! Thunder! He'll eat you alive!" yelled a trainer, discovering the lad's venturesome position. "S-sh. Good old fellow. Purr-rr. So--so." Old Sultan bristled. Then his corded sinews relaxed. He lowered his muzzle. Andy stroked it gently. The animal sniffed and snuffed at his hand. He began to lick it. Just then the trainer ran up. He gave Luke a violent jerk backwards, throwing him prostrate in the sawdust. With a frightful roar Sultan sprang at the bars of the cage, glaring apparently not at Luke, but at the trainer. "Do you want to lose an arm?" shouted the latter, angrily. "You chump! that animal is a man-eater." "I'm only a boy, though, you see?" said Luke, arising and brushing the sawdust from his clothes. "He wouldn't hurt me." "Wouldn't, eh? Why--" "He didn't, all the same. Did he, now? Say, mister, I'm a side show actor just now, but some day I'll work up to the cages here. Bet you I can make friends with your fiercest member." "Bah! you keep away from those cages." "How did you dare to do that?" asked Andy, as the boys came out of the menagerie. "Why, I'll tell you," explained Luke. "I love animals, and most times they seem to know it. Once a lion tamer summered at our farm on account of poor health. He told me a lot of things about his business. One thing I tried just now. I've got a lot of fine sugar flavored with anise in my pocket. When I tackled Sultan I had my hand covered with it. Any wild animal loves the smell of anise. You saw me try it on their champion, and it worked, didn't it?" "You are a strange kind of a fellow, Luke," said Andy studying his companion interestedly. "That so?" smiled Luke. "I don't see why. You fancy tumbling. I'm dead gone on the cages. We both have our especial ambitions--say, I haven't caught your name yet." "Andy." "All right, Andy. Going to use your full name on the circus posters, or just Andy?" "The circus posters are a long way ahead," smiled Andy. "But if I ever get that far I think I'll use my right name--Andy Wildwood." "Eh? What's that? Andy Wildwood!" exclaimed Luke. Andy was amazed at a sharp start and shout on the part of his companion. "Why, what now--" he began. "Andy Wildwood? Andy--Wildwood?" repeated Luke. He spoke in a retrospective, subdued tone. He tapped his head as if trying to awaken some sleeping memory. "Got it now!" he cried suddenly. "Why, sure, of course. Knew the name in a minute." Luke seized and pulled at a lock of his hair as if it was a sprouting idea. "You came from Fairville," he resumed. "Fairview." "Then you're the same. Yes, you must be the fellow--Andy Wildwood, the heir." CHAPTER XXIII FACING THE ENEMY The young acrobat stared hard at Luke Belding. He wondered if the embryo lion tamer was crazy--or had he not heard him aright? Instantly Andy's mind ran back to the encounter with Jim Tapp on the streets of Tipton the evening previous. This made the second time, then, within twenty-four hours that an allusion had been made to the fact that he was "an heir." Andy knew of no reason why a sudden mystery should come into his life. The coincidence of the double reference to the same thing, however, namely, an alleged heirship, struck him as peculiar. "Heir," he spoke in a bewildered tone--"me an heir?" "Yes," said Luke. "Heir to what?" "Why--oh, something, I don't know what. But the thing you're heir to is there." "Where?" persisted Andy. "I don't know that, either--Fairview, I reckon." "Nonsense. I've got nothing at Fairview excepting a lot of debts. I wish you'd explain yourself, Luke. There can't be anything to your absurd statement." "Can't there?" cried Luke excitedly. "Well, you just listen and see--" "Oh, Wildwood--been looking for you," interrupted some one, just there. Andy looked up to recognize Marco. The latter nodded to Luke, and proceeded to lead Andy away with him. "Hold on," demurred Luke. "You'll have to excuse your friend just now," said Marco. "Very important, Wildwood," he added. "What is it, Mr. Marco?" inquired Andy. Marco showed two folded sheets of writing paper in his hand. "Your contract with the circus," he explained. "There's a bad hitch in this business. Hope to straighten it out, but we'll have to get right at it. Come to Billy Blow's tent. I want to have a private talk with you." Andy traced a seriousness in Marco's manner that oppressed him. Instantly all his mind was fixed on the matter of the contracts. "I'll see you a little later, Luke," he said to his young friend. "All right," nodded Luke. "I've got a good deal to tell you. But it will keep." When they reached the clown's tent Marco sat down on the bench beside Andy. "Business, Wildwood," he spoke, briskly tapping the papers in his hand. "I wanted to get you fixed right, and started right in to get a contract from Mr. Scripps." "Is that it?" asked Andy. "Yes, and favorable in every way--your end of it, and the circus end is all right. But there's another end. That is it. I reckon you'd better get the gist of the trouble by reading it over." Marco separated one of the written sheets and passed it to Andy. "Oh, dear!" cried the latter in dismay the moment his eyes had taken in the general subject matter of the screed before him. "That settles it." Andy's face ran quickly from consternation to utter gloom. The document before him was a legally-worded affair awaiting a signature. It stated that "Miss Lavinia Talcott, guardian relative of Andrew Wildwood, minor, hereby agreed to hold the circus management free from any blame, damage or indemnity in case of accident to the said Andrew Wildwood, this day and date a contracted employee of said circus management." "She'll never sign it!" cried Andy positively. "How did they come to bring her name into this business, anyhow?" "Hold hard. Don't get excited, Wildwood," advised Marco. "Business is business, even if it is unpleasant sometimes. You've got the facts. Don't grumble at them. Let's see how we can remedy things." "They can't be remedied," declared Andy forcibly. "Why, Mr. Marco, I wouldn't meet my aunt for a hundred dollars, and I couldn't get her to sign any such a paper if it meant a thousand dollars to me." Marco stroked his chin thoughtfully and in perplexity. "Then the jig's up," he announced definitely. "You see, Wildwood, we've had all kinds of trouble--suits, judgments, injunctions--along of fellows getting hurt in the show. One man lost an ear in the knife-throwing act. He recovered two thousand dollars damages. Another sprained an ankle. Had to pay him eight dollars a week for six months. Now they put the clause in the contract holding the circus harmless in such matters. Where it's a minor, they insist further that parent or guardian also sign off all claims." "But I have neither," said Andy. "Miss Lavinia is only a half-aunt." "Well, Miss Starr explained just how matters stood to Mr. Scripps. He hasn't got time to quibble over your aunt. Her signature fixes it--otherwise you're left out in the cold." Andy was never so dispirited in all his life. He sat dumb and wretched, like a person suddenly finding his house collapsed all about him, and himself in the midst of its ruins. "Look here, Wildwood," said Marco kindly, arising after a reflective pause, "you think this thing over. You're a pretty smart young fellow, and you'll disappoint me a good deal if you don't find some way out of this dilemma." Andy shook his head doubtfully. He sat dejected and crestfallen for a full hour. Then he left the circus grounds, evading friends and acquaintances purposely. He went away from the town, reached meadows and woods, and finally threw himself down under a great sheltering tree. Andy thought hard. There was certainly a check to his show career unless he secured the sanction and cooperation of his aunt. Judging from existing circumstances, Andy utterly despaired of moving his unlovable, stubborn-minded relative towards any action that would favor him. Especially was this true after he had defied her authority and run away from home. "If Mr. Harding's circus won't take me without this restriction, why should any other show?" mused Andy. "Oh, dear! Just as things looked so bright and hopeful, to have this happen--" The boy gulped, trying hard to keep back the tears of vexation and disappointment. Then he became indignant. He got actually mad as he decided that he was a victim of rank injustice. He arose under the spur of violent varied emotions, pacing the spot excitedly, wrestling with the problem that threatened to destroy all his fond youthful ambitions. Gradually his mind cleared. Gradually, too, a better balance came to his thoughts. He went logically and seriously over the situation. Daylight was just going as Andy arrived at a heroic decision. "There's only one way," he said slowly and firmly. "It looks hopeless, but I'm going to try. Yes, make or break, I'm going to face Aunt Lavinia boldly." Andy Wildwood started in the direction of Tipton. CHAPTER XXIV ANDY'S AUNT Andy went straight to an old dwelling house in a retired part of the town. He had been there twice before when younger, and remembered that an old couple named Norman lived there. The Normans were distant relatives of his Aunt Lavinia. She had other acquaintances in Tipton, but, Andy recalled, usually made the Norman home her headquarters, paying them some small sum for board and lodging whenever she visited them. The old ramshackly house stood far back from the street. Its front fence was broken down, and Andy crossed the lot from the side. There was no light downstairs except in the kitchen at the rear. An upstairs middle room, however, seemed occupied, for chinks of light came through the half-closed outside shutters. The slats of these were turned upwards, to catch light in the daytime and shut out a view from street and garden. Just beneath this window was a door and steps. The latter had nearly rotted away, and the door was nailed up and out of use. A framework formed of hoop poles rose up from the steps. Once green vines had enclosed these. At present, however, only a few dead strands clung to the original framework. The half-open top of this framework was not three feet under the window sill of the lighted room. Across it lay some fishing poles and nets, also some old garden tools, it apparently being used as a catch-all for useless truck about the place for a long time past. "I'll assume that aunt is in that room," thought Andy, halting near the hoop-pole framework and looking up at the window. "She always has the middle room here. Yes, she is there, and a man with her. Maybe I'd better skirmish around a little, instead of running the risk of being nabbed before I can have an explanation. I want a little private talk with aunt, alone, if I can get it." Andy bent his ear. He caught no words, only the sound of human voices. His aunt's high, strained tones were unmistakable. He seized one of the supporting poles of the framework. It rattled and quivered, yet he believed it would hold him if he proceeded carefully. It was no trick at all for Andy to make a quiet and rapid ascent. He perched across the top of the framework and raised his head. Andy saw his aunt closing up a packed satchel on a chair. She had her bonnet on, as if just going out. At the hallway door was a man taking his leave. He was excessively polite, hat in hand, and making a most respectful bow. "Well!" commented Andy, fairly aghast. Andy recognized the man instantly. He was the individual he had seen in the hay barn. He was Daley's companion, the man who had "doctored" the Benares Brothers' trapeze in the circus at Centreville. In a flash Andy fancied he understood the situation, the motive of this fellow's presence here and now. "Jim Tapp found out my aunt," theorized Andy rapidly. "He, this fellow, and the mail thieves are all in a crowd. Murdock here has probably come to tell my aunt that he knows where I am. She may have made a bargain to pay him well if he will kidnap me, or in any way get me back to Fairview. It's a fine fix to be in!" concluded Andy bitterly. He was for getting back to the ground, going to the circus, turning in the contract, giving up all hopes of show life, and getting to a safe distance before his enemies could capture him. "No, I won't!" resolved Andy a second later, acting on a new impulse. "At least, not right away. I'll turn one trick on my enemies, first. The circus detectives want this scoundrel, Murdock, bad. I'll get down, follow him, and have him arrested the first policeman we meet." Andy, bent on a descent, paused. Murdock was speaking. "Are you going back home to Fairview to-night, Miss Talcott?" he asked. "Yes," snapped Andy's aunt in her usual quick; sharp way. "Then I will call on you at Fairview." "If you want to," was the ungracious answer. "No, no," softly declared the oily rogue--"if you want me to, madam. This is your business, Miss Talcott." "Oh," observed Andy's aunt snappily, "you're working for nothing, I suppose?" "I'm not," frankly answered Murdock. "I'm working for a fee. What I get, though, is so small compared with what you may get--" "Very well," interrupted Miss Lavinia, "when you have this matter in a clear, definite shape, I shall be ready to listen to you." "Good evening, then, madam." "Evening," retorted Andy's aunt with a curt nod, going on with her packing. Andy rested his hand against the house to get a purchase and leap to the ground. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed abruptly. One of the hoop poles bent nearly in two, throwing him off his balance. Andy caught at the window sill, and his body slipped to one side. He tried to drop, found himself impeded, and held himself steady, looking down. His rustling about had made something of a racket. As he was seeking to determine what had caught and held the side of his coat, one of the wooden shutters was thrust violently open. Its edge struck his head. He dodged aside. Then he sat staring, the full light from within the room showing him to its occupant as plain as day. "Um!" commented Miss Lavinia, simply. "Some one was there. And you, Andy Wildwood!" Andy was taken aback. His aunt was not particularly startled. She rather looked stern and suspicious. She did not grab him, or call for help, or seem to care whether he came in or stayed out. "Yes, it's me, Aunt," said Andy, a good deal crestfallen and embarrassed. "You see, I wanted to see you--" "Then why didn't you come like a civilized being! The house has doors. Tell me, do you intend to come in?" "If you please, aunt." "You may do so." "Thank you," fluttered Andy. He now discovered that his coat had caught in half-a-dozen fish hooks attached to an eel line all tangled up in the framework. It took him fully two minutes to get free. Andy climbed over the window sill and stood fumbling his cap. His old awe of his dictatorial relative was as strong as ever within him. "Can't you sit down?" she demanded, sinking to a chair herself and facing him steadily. "How long have you been outside there?" "Only a few minutes," answered Andy. "Did you see anybody in this room beside myself?" "Yes, ma'am--a man." "And eavesdropping, I suppose?" insinuated Miss Lavinia. "I heard him say 'good night,'" "Um!" commented Miss Lavinia. That closed the subject for the present. She had always known Andy to be a truthful boy, and his reply seemed to satisfy her and relieve her mind. Andy wondered what he had better say first. The fixed, set stare of his stern, uncompromising relative made him nervous. "See here, aunt," he blurted out at last, "I've never seemed to do anything right I did for you, and you don't care a snap for me. I don't see why you keep hounding me down and wanting me back home." "I don't." "Eh?" ejaculated Andy. "No, I don't," declared Miss Lavinia. "You don't want me back at Fairview?" "I said so, didn't I?" snapped Miss Lavinia. "Then--then--" "See here, Andy Wildwood," interrupted his aunt in a tone of severity, "you have been a disobedient, ungrateful boy. You deserve to be locked up. I've tried to have you. I am so satisfied, however, on reflection, that you will have a bad ending anyhow, that I have decided to wash my hands of you." "Glory!" uttered Andy to himself, in a vast thrill of delight. "Have you joined the circus?" continued Miss Lavinia. "They won't have me--" "Why not?" "Without your sanction. They want you to sign away any claims as to damages, if I get hurt. I knew you wouldn't do that." "You are mistaken, Andy Wildwood--I will do it." "It's too easy to be true!" breathed Andy, in wild amazement. "You--you will sign such a paper?" he stammered. "Didn't I say so? Let me understand. You wish to cut loose from home and friends for good, do you? You don't want to ever return to Fairview?" "Not till I'm rich and famous," answered Andy. "H'm! Very well. What have I got to sign?" "That's it," said Andy, with eager hand drawing a written sheet from his pocket. Miss Lavinia opened the document, read it through, went to the table, took a fountain pen from her reticule, signed the paper, returned it to Andy. "I'm dreaming! it's a plot of some kind!" murmured Andy, lost in wonderment. Miss Lavinia took out her pocket-book. "Andy Wildwood," she said, her harsh features as mask-like as ever, "here are ten dollars. It is the last cent I will ever give you. When you leave here you sever all ties between us. I have only one stipulation to make. You will not disgrace me by having anything to do with anybody in Fairview." "That's all right," said Andy. "I'll agree, except that I've got to write to Mr. Graham on business." "What business?" Andy explained in full. If he had been more versed in the wiles of the world, less astonished at his aunt's strange compliance with his dearest wishes, he would have noticed a keen suspiciousness in the glance with which she continually regarded him. "I must insist that you do not write even to Graham," she remarked. "About what you owe--I will pay that. Yes, I'll start you out clear. You won't write to Graham?" "No," said Andy slowly--"if you insist on it." "I will settle the five dollars you owe Graham," promised Miss Lavinia, "I will pay the bill of damages at the school and to Farmer Dale, and send you the receipts. Does that suit you?" "Why--yes," answered Andy in a bewildered tone. "You take that pen and a sheet of paper. Write an order on Graham to deliver to me those old family mementos you pawned to him. Also, give me your address for a few weeks ahead." Andy did this. "And now, good night and good-bye," spoke his aunt. "I hope you'll some day see the error of your ways, Andy Wildwood." Miss Lavinia did not offer to shake hands with Andy. She nodded towards the door to dismiss him, as she would have done to a perfect stranger. "Good-bye, Aunt Lavinia," said Andy. "You're thinking a little hard of me. But you've done a big thing in signing that paper, and I'll never do anything to make you ashamed of me. Ginger! am I afoot or horseback? Permission to join the show! Ten dollars! Oh my head is just whirling!" These last sentences Andy tittered in a vivid gasp as he went down the stairs and once more reached the outer air. He hurried from the vicinity, fearful that his aunt might change her mind and call him back. "I don't understand it," he mused. "I can't figure it out. That paper fixes it so she can't stop me joining the show, nor force me back to Fairview. Then what is she having dealings with Murdock for?" Andy could not solve this puzzle, and did not try to do so any further. Within an hour the two precious documents were "signed, sealed and delivered," and Andy Wildwood entered on his career as a salaried circus acrobat. CHAPTER XXV A BEAR ON THE RAMPAGE "Hoop-la!" All a-spangle, to the blare of quick music, the great tent ablaze with light, the rows of benches crush-crowded with excited humanity, Andy Wildwood left the spring-board. For a second he whirled in midair. Then, gracefully landing on the padded carpet, he made his bow amid pleased plaudits and rejoined the row of fellow tumblers. "You've caught the knack," spoke the ringmaster encouragingly. "Be careful on the double somersault, though." "It's just as easy to me," asserted Andy. He proved his words when his turn came again. He was breathless but all aglow, as he and his seven fellow acrobats bowed in a row and retired to the performers' tent. Andy was delighted with himself, his comrades, his environment--everything. In fact, a constant glamour of excitement and enjoyment had come into his life. This was the second day after his strange interview with his aunt. It was the last evening performance of the show at Tipton. Andy had been away from the circus for two days. The morning after handing in the contracts, the manager had selected him to accompany the chief hostler and four of his assistants on a trip into the country. The show was to make a long jump after closing the engagement at Tipton. While Mr. Harding joined a second enterprise he owned in the West, the present outfit was to take up a route in the South. Many of those connected with the show were to leave. This cut the working force down. They had too many horses, and with a string of fifty of these the chief hostler started out to sell off the same. The expedition continued a day and a half. When Andy came back, he found himself in time for two rehearsals. That evening he made his first appearance in public as a real professional. Outside of the charm of being seen, appreciated and applauded by others, Andy loved the vigorous exercise of the spring-board. The mechanical athletic and acrobatic equipments of the show were superb. He made up his mind he could about live among the balancing bars and trapezes, if they would let him. One disappointment Andy met with that somewhat troubled him. When he came back from the horse-selling expedition, he found that Luke Belding had left the show. Billy Blow told Andy that Luke had been to his tent a dozen times to see him. That morning early, before Andy's return, the side show Luke was with had packed up and shipped by train to join a show going east. "So I'll never find out what I'm heir to," smiled Andy. "Oh, well, of course it was some absurd guess of Luke's. It's funny, though. That fellow, Jim Tapp, had the same delusion. By the way, Aunt Lavinia seems to have been in earnest. Nobody appears to be looking for me to go back to Fairview. I am free to do as I choose. Now, then, to make a record." Sunday was passed at Tipton. Of the better class in the show, nearly all the lady performers and some of the men went to church, and Andy went also. In the afternoon Billy Blow went the rounds of some friends, and took Andy with him. It revealed a new phase of circus life, the domestic side, to Andy. There was no "shop talk." The boy passed a pleasant hour among several very charming family circles. Next day everybody pitched into genuine hard work. The circus train had been sent for, and occupied a long railroad siding. Andy was amazed at the system and order of the proposed transit. The train was on a big scale. The manager had a car to himself. The star performers were cared for in luxurious parlor coaches. Even the minor employees were well-housed, and feeding arrangements for man and beast were perfect. In order to reach their destination, which was Montgomery, a central southern city, the train made many shifts from one railway line to another. This took time, and necessitated many unpleasant stoppages and waits. It was the second day of the trip when they were side-tracked at a little way station. Here it was given out they would remain from noon until midnight, awaiting a fruit express which would pick them up and deliver them at terminus. Billy Blow, his Boy Midget, and Andy had a compartment in a tourists' car. When the long stop was announced, Andy was glad to get a chance to stretch his limbs. He interested himself for more than an hour watching the menagerie men attend to the animals. They were fed and watered, their quarters neatly renovated, while a veterinarian went from cage to cage examining them professionally and treating those that were sick or ailing. Big Bob, the star bear of the show, had in some way run a great sliver into one paw. This had festered the flesh, and bruin, bound with stout ropes, had been brought out of his cage on a wheeled litter, and laid on the grass for careful treatment. Andy watched the skilful doctoring of the big, bellowing fellow with curiosity. Then he strolled off into a stretch of timber to enjoy a brief walk. He reached a deliciously cool and shady nook, and threw himself down at the mossy trunk of a tree to rest in the midst of fresh air, peaceful solitude and merrily singing birds. Andy was lost in a soothing day dream when a great rustle made him sit up, startled. A dark object passed close by him in and out among the bushes. It was of great size, and was making its way fast and furiously. "I declare!" cried Andy, springing to his feet, "if it isn't the bear. Now how in the world did he get loose?" Andy stood for a moment staring in wonder after the disappearing animal. It was certainly Big Bob. The animal was fully familiar to Andy. The beast wobbled to one side as it ran, and this the boy discerned was due to the sore paw. He was a fugitive, and his escape had been discovered. Andy could surmise this from shouts and calls in the distance, back in the direction of the circus train. Big Bob had a bad reputation with the menagerie men. At times placid and even good-natured, on other occasions he was capricious, savage and dangerous. Even his trainer had narrowly escaped a death blow from one of the animal's enormous paws when the brute was in one of its tantrums. The bear was lumbering along as if bent on getting a good start against pursuit. He chose a sheltered route as if instinctively cunning. Andy, acting on a quick impulse, started after the bear. The route led up a hill. Big Bob scaled a moderately steep incline and disappeared over its crest. Andy, reaching this, glanced backwards. From that height he could look well over the country. The belated train was in sight. From it, armed with pikes and ropes, a dozen or more menagerie men were running. The alarm had spread to the settlement of houses near by. Andy saw several men armed with shotguns and rifles scouring adjacent wood stretches. "I won't dare to tackle the bear, but I'll try and run him down till he gets tired," thought Andy. He remembered many a discussion of the menagerie men over the real danger and loss involved in the escape of an animal. The fugitive rarely did much damage except to hen roosts, beyond scaring human beings. The trouble was that armed farmers, pursuing, thought it great sport to bring down the fugitive with a shot. Big Bob was worth a good deal of money to the show. The principal aim of the menagerie men, therefore, was to prevent the slaughter of an escaped animal. Down the hill bruin ran and Andy after him. Then there was a country road and Big Bob put down this. Andy could easily outrun the fugitive, but this was not his policy for the present. The disabled foot of the animal diminished his normal speed. Andy believed that bruin would soon find and harbor himself in some cozy nook. At a turn in the road Andy noticed that there was a house a few hundred feet ahead. Beyond this several other dwellings were scattered about the landscape. "I don't like that," mused Andy. "It may mean trouble. I'd rather see the old scamp take to the open country. Wonder if I can head him off?" Andy leaped a field fence. He doubled his pace, got even with Big Bob, then ahead of him. He snatched up a pitchfork lying across a heap of hay, and bolted over the fence to the road again. Extending the implement, he stood ready to challenge the approaching fugitive, and, if possible, turn bruin's course. Big Bob did not appear to notice Andy until about fifty feet distant from him. Then the animal lifted his shaggy head. His eyes glared, his collar bristled. With a deep, menacing roar the bear increased his speed. He headed defiantly for the pronged barrier which Andy extended. Big Bob ran squarely upon the pitchfork. Its prongs grazed the animal's breast. Andy experienced a shock. He was forced back, thrown flat, and the next minute picked himself up from the shallow ditch at the side of the road into which he had fallen. "Well," commented Andy, staring down the road, "he's a good one!" Big Bob had never stopped. He was putting ahead for dear life. Andy watched him near the farm house. The animal turned in at a road gateway. He ran rapidly up to an open window at the side of the house. Its sill held something, Andy could not precisely make out what at the distance he was from the spot. He fancied, however, that it was dishes holding pies or some other food, put out to cool. Big Bob arose erect on his hind legs, his fore feet rested on the window sill. His great muzzle dipped into whatever it held. At that moment from inside the farmhouse there rang out the most curdling yell Andy Wildwood had ever heard. CHAPTER XXVI A CLEVER RUSE The boy acrobat scrambled up from the roadside ditch, seized the pitchfork, and dashed along in the direction Big Bob had taken. A glance showed the audacious animal still at the window of the farmhouse, though now under it. Bruin had swept the contents of the window sill to the ground with one movement of his great paw. He was now discussing the merits of the dishes he had dislodged with a crash. Andy ran around to the other side of the house. From within occasional hysterical shrieks issued. They were mingled with distracted sobs. At another open window Andy halted. He could look into a middle apartment crossing the entire house. Crouching in a corner was a young woman. Her eyes were fixed in terror on the window at which the bear had appeared. In her arms was a child, crying in affright. An older woman stood at a telephone, twisting its call bell handle frantically. "Don't be afraid," said Andy. "It's a harmless old bear escaped from the circus down at the tracks." The two women regarded him mutely, too scared to believe him. Andy heard the telephone bell ring. "Quick! quick!" cried the woman at the instrument. "Send help. A big bear! We'll be devoured alive!" "No you won't," declared Andy in a shout, making around the house. He hardly knew what to do next, but he kept his eyes open. He hoped for some discovery among the truck littering the yard that would suggest a way of getting Big Bob again on the run. "Capital--the very thing," cried Andy suddenly. He dropped the pitchfork and whipped out his pocket knife. In two seconds he had severed a forty-foot stretch of clothes line running from a hook on the house to a post. Then Andy ran to the kitchen door. Hanging at its side was a big piece of raw beef. It was evidently from an animal recently slaughtered, for it was still moist and dripping. Andy tightly secured one end of the clothes line about it. He ran to the side of the house. Big Bob was just finishing a repast on some apple pie. Andy gave the meat a fling. It struck the bear in the face. Big Bob raised his head. He sniffed and licked his lips. He made an eager, hungry spring for the meat, which had rebounded several feet. "Come on," said Andy, sure now that his bait was a good one, and that his experiment would succeed. "I've got you, I guess." Andy started on a run, paying out the rope. Just as Big Bob was about to pounce upon the toothsome spoil, Andy gave it a jerk. He gauged his rate of progress on a close estimate. Along the trail sped bruin. Andy put across the fields. He heard a bell ring out. Glancing back at the farmhouse, he saw a human arm reaching through an open window. It pulled at a rope leading to a big alarm bell hanging from the eaves. Looking beyond the farmhouse he also saw three or four men in a distant field, summoned by the bell, now rushing in its direction. "I'll get Big Bob beyond the danger line, anyhow," decided Andy. "No, you don't!" The fugitive had pounced fairly on the dragging beef. Andy gave it a whirling jerk. Bruin uttered a baffled growl. "Come on," laughed Andy. "This is jolly fun--if it doesn't end in a tragedy." Andy ran under the bottom rail of a fence. He made time and distance, for the bear did not squeeze through so readily. Andy put through a brushy reach beyond. Big Bob began to lag. He limped and panted. "If I can only tucker him out," thought Andy. He kept up the race for fully half-an-hour. As he reached the edge of a boggy stretch, Andy saw, directly beyond, the top of a house poking up among a grove of fir trees. Andy's eyes were everywhere as he neared the building. Its lower part was so tightly shuttered and closed up that he decided at once it was an empty house. Getting nearer, however, he discovered that the door at the bottom of the stone cellar steps was open. Andy glanced back of him. Big Bob, with lolling tongue, was lumbering steadily on his track, perhaps twenty feet to the rear. "I'll try it," determined Andy. He ran down the steps, halted in the dark cellar, pulled in the meat and flung it ahead of him. Then stepping to one side he prepared to act promptly when the right moment arrived. Big Bob came to the steps, cleared them in a spring and ran past Andy. The latter dodged outside in a flash. He banged the door shut, shot its bolt, sank to the steps and swept his hand over his dripping brow. "Whew!" panted Andy. "But I've made it." Andy felt that he had done a pretty clever thing. He had gotten the fugitive safely caged behind a stout locked door. The cellar had several windows, but they were high up, and too small for Big Bob to ever squeeze through. "I don't believe there is anybody at home," said Andy, getting up to investigate. "I'm going to find out. Gracious! I have--there is." Andy was terribly startled, almost appalled. At just that moment a frightful yell rang out. It proceeded from the cellar into which he had locked the bear. A sharp crash followed. Andy, staring spellbound, saw one of the side windows of the cellar dashed out. Through the aperture, immediately following, there clambered a man. He was hatless, a big red streak crossed his cheek, his coat was in ribbons down the back. White as a sheet, chattering and trembling, he scrambled to his feet, gave one affrighted glance back of him, and shot for the road like a meteor. Bang! bang! bang! "Oh, dear!" cried the distressed Andy. "What's up now?" CHAPTER XXVII A ROYAL REWARD Bang! bang! Five sharp reports rang out from the cellar. Then came a roar from Big Bob. Then a second frantic man appeared at the smashed window. One sleeve was in ribbons. He carried a smoking pistol. Without ado, like his predecessor he ran for the road. Glancing thither, Andy saw the two running down it, one after the other, like mad. Andy hardly knew what to make of it all. The two men did not look like farmers. He went around the house, and hammered at the front door. No response. Every window on the lower floor was tightly shuttered. Finally he came back to the smashed window. At first he could see nothing much beyond it. Then, his eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, he was able to make out the cellar interior quite clearly. His anxiety as to Big Bob was immediately relieved. If five bullets had been fired at the bear, they had made no more impression than peas from a putty blower. The serene old animal was leisurely devouring the juicy bait that had lured him to his present prison. "He's safe for a time, anyhow," decided Andy. "I can't quite make out the situation here. It looks to me as if those two men don't exactly fit to the premises. They are certainly not farmers, nor tramps. Maybe they had sneaked in the cellar for a nap, or to steal, leaving the door open, and Big Bob tackled them." Andy made further unsuccessful efforts to arouse the house. He was sure now that there was nobody at home. He sat down on its front steps to think. Finally he noticed that a wire ran from the barb wire fence in front into the house. "They've got a telephone here, as they have at most of these farmhouses," he decided. "That ought to help me out. If I could only get to the inside." Andy took another rambling tour about the house. Finally he discovered a window an inch or two down from the top in the second story. His natural aptitude for climbing helped him out. With the aid of a lightning rod he soon reached the window, lowered it further, stepped into a bedroom, and descended a pair of stairs. Looking around the little front hall, he made out a telephone instrument on the outside wall. Andy promptly turned the handle of the call bell. He placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello," came the instantaneous response "this is Central." "Central--where?" asked Andy. "Brownville." "Are you anywhere near the way station where the circus train is sidetracked?" inquired Andy. "Certainly. We're the station town." "Can you reach any of the circus folks?" "Reach them?" responded the distant telephone operator animatedly. "The woods are full of them. They say the whole menagerie has escaped, and they're hunting for the animals everywhere. What do you want?" "I want to talk with some one connected with the show--and--quick." "All right I've just got to call to the street. Wait a minute." Soon a new voice came over the telephone: "Hello." "Who is that?" asked Andy promptly. "Brophy." "Oh, the chief hostler? Say, Mr. Brophy, this is Andy Wildwood." "The acrobat?--where are you?" "Tumbler, yes. Listen: I've found and caged Big Bob." "What's that?--Say, where?" Even over the wire Andy could discern that the man at the other end of the line was manifestly stirred up. "Let me tell you," spoke Andy. "I've got the animal shut up in a cellar. For how long or how safe, I can't tell. You had better tell the trainer, and get some people here with the things to secure the bear." "I'll do it," called back Brophy. "Try and keep those crazy farmers from finding him. There's a hundred of them out gunning." "All right. Listen." Andy described his present location. He wound up by saying he would stay within call--- telephone 26--until the capturing crew put in an appearance. Andy sat down in an easy chair in the hall a good deal satisfied with himself. However, he felt a trifle squeamish at the thought of the tenant of the premises returning and finding him there. A growling grunt came to his ears. Andy, tracing it, came to an open doorway leading down under the front stairs to the cellar. This he closed and locked, although he saw that the stairs were too crooked and narrow to admit of Big Bob ascending to the upper portion of the house. Andy simply rested. There was no further call on the telephone. Finally he arose abruptly to his feet. The sound of wagon wheels came from the front of the house. A minute later footsteps echoed on the steps. A key grated in the front door lock. The door swung open. "Hi--Hello! Who are you?" sang out a brusque, challenging voice. The minute the newcomer entered the hall his eyes fell on Andy. They became filled with dark suspicion. He was a powerfully-built, intellectual-looking man. Andy believed he was the proprietor of the premises, although he did not resemble a farmer. This man kicked the door shut behind him. He made a pounce on Andy and grabbed his arm. "Let me explain "--began Andy. "How did you get in here?" retorted the man, his brow darkening. "By an open window--I was waiting--" "Let's have a closer look at you," interrupted the newcomer. Dragging Andy with him, the speaker threw open the parlor door. That room was lighter, but as he crossed its threshold he uttered a wild shout. He stood spellbound, staring about the apartment. Andy stared, too. The room was in dire disorder. A cabinet had all its drawers out. The floor was littered with their former contents. A stout tin box was overturned, its fastenings were all wrenched apart. "Robbed!" gasped the man. "Ha, I see--you are a burglar," he continued, turning fiercely on the astonished youth. "Not me," dissented Andy vigorously. "Yes, you are. All my coins and curios gone! Why, you young thief--" "Hold on," interrupted Andy, resisting the savage jerk of his captor. "Don't you abuse me till you know who I am. Yes, your place has been burglarized--I see that, now." "Oh, do you?" sneered the man. "Thanks." "Yes, sir. I saw two men come out of the cellar here an hour ago. I didn't understand then, but I do now." "From the cellar? Well, we'll investigate the cellar." "Better not," advised Andy. "At least, not just yet." "Well, you're a cool one! Why not?" "Because there's a bear down there." "A what?" cried the man, incredulously. "A bear escaped from the circus. Say, I just thought of it. Have the burglars taken much?" "Oh, you're innocent aren't you?" flared out the man. "I certainly am," answered Andy calmly. "Did they take much? My hobby is rare coins. With the missing curios, I guess they've got about two thousand dollars' worth." "Would the stuff make quite a bundle?" asked Andy. "With the curios--I guess! Five pound candlesticks. Two large silver servers. The coins were set on metal squares, and would make bulk and weight." "I have an idea--" began Andy. "No, let me explain first. Please listen, sir. You will think differently about me when I tell you my story." "Go ahead," growled his captor. Andy recited his chase of the bear and its denouement. Then he added: "If those two men were the burglars, they got in by way of the cellar. They came out through the cellar window. I theorize they came down into the cellar with their plunder. They disturbed the bear, and Big Bob went for them. When I saw them they were empty-handed. I'll bet they dropped their booty in their wild rush for escape." "Eh? I hope so. Let's find out." The man appeared to believe Andy. He released his hold on him. Just as they came out on the front porch Andy spoke up: "There are the circus people. They'll soon fix Mr. Bear." A boxed wagon had driven from the road into the yard. It held six men. The chief animal trainer jumped down from the vehicle, followed by the head hostler. Four subordinates followed, carrying ropes, muzzles, pikes, and one of them a stick having on its end a big round cork filled with fine needles. "I'm glad you've come," said Andy, running forward to meet them. "Big Bob is in there," he explained to the trainer, pointing to the cellar. "You're a good one, Wildwood," commended the trainer in an approving tone. "How did you ever work it?" Andy explained, while the trainer selected a muzzle for the bear and armed himself with the needle-pointed device. Then he went to the cellar door. "Shut it quick after me," he said. "Come when I call." Andy ran around to the broken window as soon as the trainer was inside the cellar. He watched the man approach Big Bob. The bear snarled, made a stand, and showed his teeth. One punch of the needle-pointed device across his nostrils sent him bellowing. A second on one ear brought him to the floor. The trainer pounced on him and adjusted the muzzle over his head. Then he deftly whipped some hobbles on his front paws. He yelled to his assistants. They hurried into the cellar and soon emerged, dragging Big Bob after them. The owner of the place had stood by watching these proceedings silently. While the others dragged the bear to the boxed wagon the trainer approached him. "If there's any bill for damages, just name it," he spoke. "I'll tell you that mighty soon," answered the man. He dashed into the cellar and Andy heard him utter a glad shout. He came out carrying two old satchels. Throwing them on the ground he opened them. They were filled with coins and curios. The man ran these over eagerly. He looked up with a face supremely satisfied. "Not a cent," he cried heartily. "No, no--no damages. Glad to have served you." "All right. Come on, Wildwood," said the trainer, starting for the wagon. "One minute," interrupted the owner of the place, beckoning to Andy. He drew out his wallet, fingered over some bank bills, selected one, and grasped Andy's hand warmly. "You have done me a vast service," he declared. "But for you--" "And the bear," suggested Andy, with a smile. "All right," nodded the man, "only, the bear can't spend money. You can. I misjudged you. Let me make it right. Take that." He released his grasp of Andy's hand momentarily, to slap into his palm a banknote. "Now, look here--" began Andy, modestly. "No, you look there!" cried the man, pushing Andy towards the wagon. "Good bye and good luck." Andy ran and jumped to the top of the wagon, which had just started up. Settling himself comfortably, he took a look at the banknote. His eyes started, and a flush of surprise crossed his face. It was a fifty dollar bill. CHAPTER XXVIII "HEY, RUBE!" "From bad to worse," said the Man With the Iron Jaw. "Correct, Marco," assented Billy Blow dejectedly. It was three weeks after the start of the southern tour of the circus. Marco, the clown, Midget, Miss Stella Starr, Andy and about a dozen others were seated or strolling around the performers' tent about the middle of the afternoon. Every face in the crowd looked anxious--some disheartened and desperate. Bad luck attended the southern trip of the show. They had reached Montgomery in the midst of a terrific rain storm. Two animal cars had been derailed and wrecked on the route. Three days later a wind storm nearly tore the main top to tatters. Some of the performers fell sick, due to the change of climate. Others foresaw trouble, and joined other shows in the north. The season started out badly and kept it up. The attendance as they left the big cities was disastrously light. They had to cut out one or two towns here and there, on account of bad roads and accidents. Now the show had reached Lacon, and after more trouble found itself stalled. To be "stalled," Andy had learned was to be very nearly stranded. No salaries had been paid for a full fortnight. Some of the performers had gotten out executions against the show. Aside from this, on account of the absence of many attractions advertised in the show bills, disappointed audiences were showing an ugly spirit. The show was tied up by local creditors, who would not allow it to leave town until their bills were paid. To make matters worse, Sim Dewey, the treasurer of the show, had run away with eleven thousand dollars two days before. This comprised the active capital of the show. Not a trace of the whereabouts of the mean thief had been discovered. All these facts were known to the performers, and over the same they were brooding that dismal rainy afternoon, awaiting the coming of the manager. "Here he is," spoke an eager voice, and Mr. Scripps bustled into the tent. He rubbed his hands briskly and smiled at everybody, but Andy saw that this was all put on. Lines of care and anxiety showed about the plucky manager's eyes and lips. "Well, my friends," he spoke at once. "We've arrived at a decision." "Good," commented Marco. "Let's have it." "I have had a talk with the lawyers who hold the executions against the show, I have suggested four nights and two matinees at half-price, papering four counties liberally. We'll announce only the attractions we really have, so there can be no kicking. What is taken in the treasurer is to hand over to the sheriff. He is to pay fifty per cent on claims against us. The balance, minus expenses, is to go for salaries. I should say that we can pay each performer a full half salary. There's the situation, friends. What do you say?" "Satisfactory," nodded Marco. "Billy Blow?" "I've got pretty heavy expenses, with a wife in the hospital," said the clown in a subdued tone, "but I'll try and make half salary do." "Miss Starr?" The kind-hearted equestrienne smiled brightly. "Take care of the others first, Mr. Scripps," she said. "While I have these, we won't exactly starve." Miss Stella Starr shook the glittering diamond pendants in her pretty pink ears. "Thank you," bowed the manager, choking up a trifle. "Andy Wildwood?" "I'm a mere speck in the show," said Andy, "but I'll stick if there isn't a cent of salary. It's the last ditch for my good, true friends, Mr. Scripps." The manager turned aside to hide his emotion. "Friends," he resumed an instant later, "you break me all up with this kind of talk. You're a royal, good lot. I've wired Mr. Harding that he must help us out. Stick to your posts, and no one shall lose a dollar." There was not a dissent to his proposition as he completed calling the list of performers. Andy's action shamed some into coming into the arrangements. The manager's words encouraged others. While some few answered grudgingly, the compact was made unanimous. "There's a crowd of hard roughs trying to make trouble," concluded Mr. Scripps. "Leave that to the tent men. Give the best show you know how, try and please the crowds, and I guess we'll win out." Every act went excellently at the evening performance up to about the middle of the programme. Andy did his level best. He won an encore by a trick somersault old Benares had taught him. Billy Blow was at his funniest. He had the audience in fine, good humor. Little Midget over-exerted himself to follow in his father's lead. Marco was a pronounced success. Miss Stella Starr made one of her horses dance a graceful round to the tune of "Dixie," and the audience went wild. Andy, in street dress, came into the canvas passageway near the orchestra as the trick elephants were led into the ring. The manager nodded to him. Andy saw that he was pleased the way things were going. For all that, he observed that Mr. Scripps kept his eye pretty closely on a rough crowd occupying seats near the entrance. They seemed to be of a general group. They talked loudly and passed all kinds of comments on the various acts. Finally one of their number shied a carrot into the ring, striking the elephant trainer. The latter caught his cue instantly at a word from the ringmaster. He picked up the vegetable, made a profound bow to the sender, juggled it cleverly with his training wand, one-two-three, and turned the tables completely as the smart baby elephant caught it on the fly. Cat calls rang out derisively from a lot of boys, directed at the group of rowdies from the midst of whom the carrot had been thrown. Then a man arose unsteadily from that mob and stumbled over the ring ropes. The ringmaster, his face very stern and very white, stepped forward to intercept him. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Man insulted me. Going to lick him," hiccoughed the rowdy, his eyes fixed on the elephant trainer. "Leave the ring," ordered the ringmaster. "Me? Guess not! Will I, boys?" he demanded of his special crowd of cronies. "No, no! Go on! Have it out!" A good many timid ones arose from their seats. The ringmaster scented trouble. Stepping squarely up to the drunken loafer, his hand shot out in a flash and caught the fellow squarely under the jaw. He knocked him five feet across the ropes, where he landed like a clod of earth in a heap. Instantly there was an uproar. The orchestra stopped playing. The manager ran forward and put up his hand. "We will have order here at any cost," he shouted. "Officer," to the guard at the entrance, "call the police." With wild yells some fifty of the group from which the drunken rowdy had come sprang from the benches. They jumped over the ropes, crowding into the ring and making for the manager. Half-a-dozen ring men ran forward to repel them. Fists brandished, and cudgels, too. The circus men went down among flying heels. Then arose a cry, heard for the first time by the excited Andy--never later recalled without a thrill as he realized from that experience its terrific portent. "_Hey, Rube_!" It was the world-wide rallying cry of the circus folk--the call in distress for speedy, reliant help. As if by magic the echoes took up the call. Andy heard them respond from the farthest haunts of the circus grounds. From under the benches, through the main entrance, under the loose side flaps, a rallying army sprang into being. Stake men, wagon men, cooks, hostlers, candy butchers, came flying from every direction. Every one of them had found a weapon--a stake. Like skilled soldiers they grouped, and bore down on the intruders like an avalanche. Women were shrieking, fainting on the benches, children were crying. The audience was in a wild turmoil. Some benches broke down. The scene was one of riotous confusion. Suddenly a shot rang out. Then Andy had a final sight of crashing clubs and mad, bleeding faces, as some one pulled the centre-light rope. The big chandelier came down with a crash, precipitating the tent in semi-darkness. So excited was Andy, that, grasping a stake, he was about to dash into the midst of the conflict. The manager pushed him back. "Get out of this," he ordered quickly. "Look to the women and children. Our men will see to it that those low loafers get all they came for." "Wildwood," spoke Marco rushing up to Andy just here, "they have cut the guy ropes of the performers' tent. I must get to my family. Look out for Miss Starr. Here she is." CHAPTER XXIX A FREE TROLLEY RIDE The young acrobat turned in time to see the performers' tent wobble inwards. Miss Starr, quite flustered, ran rapidly to escape being caught in its drooping folds. Following her, looking worn out and anxious, carrying Midget in his arms, was Billy Blow. "Get them out of this!" cried Marco, holding up the flap of the canvas passage way. "Here, let me take him," directed Andy. "You're not equal to the heavy load." He removed Midget from the clown's arms, and led the way to the outer air. Yells and shots sounded from the main tent. Outside there was a swaying, excited mob. Andy evaded them, leading the way to the street lining the circus grounds at one side. "Look there," suddenly exclaimed the clown in a gasping tone. The main tent was on fire. A mob was trying to pull down the menagerie tent. "Hi!" yelled the leader of a gang of boys rushing past them and halting, "here's some show folks." "Pelt them!" cried another voice. "They won't pay my father his feed bill." An egg flittered towards the fugitives. It struck Miss Starr on the back, soiling her pretty dress. Andy ran back, Midget held on one arm. He let drive with his free hand and knocked the egg thrower head over heels. This was the signal for a wild riot. The crowd of young hoodlums pressed close on Andy, and he retreated to the others. "Take him, Miss Starr," he said quickly, placing Midget in her arms. "Hurry to the lighted street yonder." A rain of stones came towards them. Andy ran back at the crowd. In turn he sent four of them reeling with vigorous fisticuffs. Then he rejoined his friends. A trolley car stood at one side of the street. The boys had yelled for help from others of their kind and their numbers increased dangerously. The motorman of the trolley car had neglected his duty and joined a gaping crowd at a corner. Riot and enmity to the circus people was in the air. Andy formed a speedy decision. "Quick!" he ordered, "get into that car." A brickbat knocked off his hat. A second smashed a window in the car as Miss Starr and the others got aboard. Two big fellows pounced upon Andy. He met one with a blow that laid him flat. With a trick leap he landed his feet against the stomach of the other, sending him reeling back, breathless. Andy made a jump over the front railing of the car. Another deluge of missiles struck the car. He noticed that his friends were safely aboard. Andy noticed, too, that the crank handle of the motor box was in place. "Anywhere for safety from that mob," he thought. Grr-rr-whiz-z! The car started up. Shouts, missiles, running forms pursued it. Andy stopped for nothing. He put on full speed. As he turned a sharp corner, Andy caught sight of a mass of light flames shooting upward. A crowd was in pursuit of the car. Shouts, shots and the roars of the animals in the menagerie caused a wild din. His inclinations lured him back to the scene of the excitement. His duty, however, seemed plain; to follow out Marco's instructions and convey his charges to a place of safety. At a cross street some one hailed the car. Andy simply shot ahead the faster. Soon they reached the limits of the town. Andy bent his ear, and caught the distant clang of the trolley wagon. He had stolen a car, and they were in pursuit. The general temper was adverse to the circus folks. Andy kept the car going. Miss Starr came to the front door of the car and stepped out on the platform beside Andy. "Brave boy," she said simply. "Miss Starr, what are your plans?" he asked. "Anything to get away from this horrid town," she said. "I am not afraid but what our tent men will teach that mob a lesson. They always do, in these riots. I have seen a dozen of them in my time. The police, too, will finally restore order. As to the show, though--the southern trip is over." "Then you don't want to go back to Lacon?" "Why should we? Our traps are probably burned, or stolen. If not, they will be sent on to us on direction. The show can't possibly survive. Billy and his boy couldn't stand the strain of any more trouble. No," sighed the equestrienne, "it is plain that we must seek another position." Andy again heard the gong of the repair wagon. He thought fast. Putting on renewed speed, he never halted until they had covered about four miles. Here was a little cluster of houses. He stopped the car. "Come with me, quick," he directed his friends, entering the car and taking up Midget in his arms. Andy had been over this territory the day previous doing some exigency bill-posting service. He led the way down a quiet street. After walking about four squares they reached railroad tracks and a little station. This was locked up and dark within. On the platform, however, was a box ready for shipment, with a red lantern beside it. "I hope a train comes soon," thought Andy quite anxiously, as he caught the echo of the repair wagon gong nearer than before. "There's a whistle," said little Midget. "That's so," responded Andy, bending his ear. "Going north, too. I hope it's a train and I hope it comes along in time." "In time for what?" inquired Midget. Andy did not reply. He could estimate the progress of the pursuing wagon from gong sounds and shouts in the distance. He traced its halt, apparently at the stranded car. Then the gong sounded again. Andy glanced down the street they had come. Two flashing, wobbling lights gleamed in the distance, headed in the direction of the railway station. "They've guessed us out," said Andy. "Of course they can only delay us, but that counts just now. If the train--" "She's coming!" sang out Midget in a nervous, high-pitched voice. Andy's nerves were on a severe strain. A locomotive rounded a curve. The trolley wagon was still a quarter-of-a-mile distant. The engine slowed down to a stop, the repair rig with flying horses attached less than a square away. The baggage coach door opened. A man jumped out and started to put the box aboard. "Hold on--through train," he yelled at Andy. "That's all right. Quick, get aboard," he urged his companions. Andy glanced from the windows of the coach they entered as the train started up with a jerk. He saw the trolley wagon dash up to the platform. A police officer and some company men jumped off. "Just in time," murmured Andy with satisfaction, as the station flashed from view. The coach was nearly empty. He found a double seat. Miss Starr uttered a great sigh of relief. Poor Billy Blow sank down, thoroughly tired out. Midget laughed. "I hope it's a long ride," he said. "I'm afraid," spoke Miss Starr, "it won't be, Midge. See," and she opened a little purse, showing only a few silver coins. "I have some money in a bank in New York, but that does not help us at the present moment." "I sent all I had to my poor wife," announced the clown dejectedly. "That's all right," broke in Andy cheerily. "Here's a route list," and he picked up a timetable from the next seat. "Can you tell me where this train is bound for?" he inquired politely of a gentleman occupying the opposite seat. "Baltimore." "That sounds good," said Miss Starr. "There was a show there last week. The season's broken, we can't hope for a star engagement, but we might get in for a few weeks." "I haven't the money to chase up situations all over the country," lamented the clown. "Don't worry on that score," put in Andy briskly. "You people find out where you want to go. I'll take care of the bills." "You, Andy?" spoke Miss Starr, with a stare. "Yes, ma'am. You see, I've got my savings--" "Ho! ho!" laughed Billy Blow bitterly. "Savings! Out of what? You haven't drawn one week's full salary since you joined us." "Remember the needle and thread you loaned me on the train when we were going south, Miss Starr?" asked Andy. "Why, yes, I think I do," nodded the equestrienne. "Well, I wanted it to sew up a fifty dollar bill for safe-keeping. Here it is." Andy with his knife ripped open a fob pocket and produced the bank note in question. "Our common fund," he cried, waving it gaily. "Mr. Blow, designate your terminus. We'll not be put off the train, while this lasts." Billy Blow choked up. He directed one grateful glance at Andy. Then he snuggled Midget close, and hid his face against him. Miss Starr put a trembling hand on Andy's arm. A bright tear sparkled in her eye. "Good as gold!" she said softly, "and true blue to the core!" "Thank you. I think I'll get a drink of water," said Andy, covering his own emotion at this display of others by a subterfuge. He went to the end of the car. At the moment he put out his hand for the glass under the water tank, a person from a near seat put out his also. "Excuse me," said Andy, as they joggled. "Certainly--you first," responded a pleasant voice. "Hello!" almost shouted Andy Wildwood, starting as if from an electric shock. "Why, Luke Belding!" "Eh? Aha! Andy Wildwood. Well! well! well!" It was the ambitious lion tamer of Tipton--Luke the show boy, the owner of the famous chicken that walked backwards. They shook hands with shining faces, forgetting the water, genuinely glad at the unexpected reunion. "What are you ever doing here?" asked Andy. "Me?" responded Luke, drawing himself up in mock dignity, yet withal a pleased pride in his eye. "Well, Wildwood, to tell you the truth I've got up in the world." "Glad of it." "And I am on my way to join the Greatest Show on Earth." CHAPTER XXX WITH THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH "The Greatest Show On Earth?" repeated Andy wonderingly. "You don't mean--" "I do mean," nodded Luke vigorously. "The one--the only. Is there more than one? I'm on my way to join it." "You're lucky," commented Andy. "And ambitious, and tickled to death!" cried Luke effusively. "My! When I think of it, I imagine I'm dreaming. And say--I'm a capitalist." "Well!" smiled Andy. "Yes, sir--see?" and Luke spun round, exhibiting his neat apparel. "I'm an independent gentleman." "You do look prosperous," admitted Andy. "Living on my royalties." "Royalties? How's that?" "You remember the chicken?" "That walked backwards. I'll never forget it." "Well, sir," asserted Luke, "it took. When we left you, we struck a brisk show. Big business and the chicken a winner from the start. Another side showman offered me a big salary, and my boss got worried. He agreed to pay me ten per cent gross receipts for Bolivar. I knew he had a brother who was chief animal trainer with the Big Show. I took him up on condition that he got me a place there. He wrote to his brother, and I'm his assistant. On my way to Baltimore now. The show is on its way through Delaware." "Wait here a minute," spoke Andy, and he went back to his friends. Andy told them of meeting Luke, and the whereabouts of the Big Show. Just then the conductor came into the car, and they had to make a rapid decision. "Let us get to Baltimore, anyway," suggested the clown. "It's nearer home--and my wife." Andy paid their fares. Miss Starr briefly told the conductor of their mishaps at Lacon. Her eloquent, sympathetic eyes won Midget a free ride. Andy got pillows for his three friends, and some coffee and pie from the adjoining buffet car. He saw them comfortably disposed of for the night; and then went back to Luke. They sat down close together, two pleased, jolly friends. Andy interested Luke immensely by reciting his vivid experiences since they had parted. "By the way, Luke," he observed at last, "there's something I missed hearing from you at Tipton. Remember?" "Let's see," said Luke musingly. "Oh, yes--you mean about your being an heir?" "That's it." Luke became animated at once. "I've often thought about that," he said. "You know I was all struck of a heap when you first told me your name!" "Yes." "And asked if you was Andy Wildwood, the heir? Do you remember?" "Exactly." "Well, it was funny, but early on the day I came to the circus I was tramping it along a creek. About three miles out of town I should think, I lay down to rest among some bushes. Ten minutes after I'd got there a boat rowed by some persons came along. They beached it right alongside the brush. Then one of them, a boy, lifted a mail bag from the bottom of the skiff." "A mail bag--- a boy?" repeated Andy, with a start of intelligence. "Did you hear his name?" "Yes, in a talk that followed. The man with him called him Jim." "Jim Tapp," murmured Andy. "He called the man Murdock." "I thought so," Andy said to himself. "They put up that mail robbery." "They cut open the bag and took out a lot of letters," continued Luke. "A few of them had money in them. This they pocketed, tearing up the letters and throwing them into the creek. There was one letter the boy kept. He read it over and over. When they had got through with the letters, he said to the man that it was funny." "What was funny?" asked Andy. "Why, he said there was a letter putting him on to 'a big spec.,' as he called it. He said the letter told about a secret, about a fortune the writer had discovered. He said the letter was to a boy who would never know his good luck if they didn't tell him. He said to the man there was something to think over. He chuckled as he bragged how they would make a big stake juggling the fortune of the heir, Andy Wildwood." "I don't understand it at all," said Andy, "but it is a singular story, for a fact." "Well, that's all I know about it. The minute I heard your name, of course I recalled where I had heard it before." "Of course," nodded Andy thoughtfully. After that the conversation lagged. Luke soon fell asleep. For over two hours, however, Andy kept trying to figure out how he could possibly be an heir, who had written the letter, and to whom it had been addressed. The next day they arrived at Baltimore. A morning paper contained a dispatch from Lacon. The circus men had nearly killed half-a-dozen of the mob of roughs. The police had restored order, but fire and riot had put the show out of business. Miss Starr wired to the town in Delaware where the Big Show was playing. Luke had gone on to join it. By noon she received a satisfactory reply. Then she telegraphed to Lacon about their traps, directing the manager where to send them. That evening, after a long talk over their prospects, the four refugees took the train for Dover. The next morning Miss Starr, Billy, Midget and Andy went to the headquarters of The Biggest Show on Earth. Andy had a chance to inspect it while waiting for Bob Sanderson, the assistant manager, who was a distant relative of Miss Stella Starr. Its mammoth proportions fairly staggered him. Its details were bewildering in their system and perfection. Alongside of it, the circus he had recently belonged to was merely a side show. Sanderson was a brisk, business-like fellow. He soon settled on an engagement for Miss Starr and Billy and Midget for the rest of the season. "I don't think I can use the boy, though," he said, glancing at Andy. "Then you can't have us," said the equestrienne promptly. "Bob, you and I are old friends, but not better ones than myself and Andy Wildwood. He stood by us through thick and thin, he makes a good showing in the ring. Why, before the Benares Brothers left us, they were training him for one of the best acts ever done on the trapeze." "Is that so?" spoke Sanderson, looking interested. "The Benares Brothers joined us only last week. Here, give me five minutes." "Miss Starr, you mustn't let me stand in your way of a good engagement," said Andy, as the assistant manager left the tent. "It's the four of us, or none," asserted the determined little lady. Sanderson came bustling in at the end of five minutes. "All right," he announced brusquely, "I'll take the boy on." "You'll never regret it," declared Stella Starr positively. CHAPTER XXXI CONCLUSION "Bravo!" "Clever!" Amid deafening applause, old Benares and Thacher retired from the sawdust ring, bowing profusely with a deep sense of pride and satisfaction. Between them, hands joined in the group of three, Andy Wildwood imitated their graceful acknowledgment of the plaudits of the vast concourse in the great metropolitan amphitheatre. "Wildwood," declared Thacher, as they backed towards the performers' room, "you've made a hit." "It is so!" cried old Benares, with sparkling eyes. "We are a three now--The Three Benares Brothers." Andy was dizzy with exultation and delight. It was the first night of the Biggest Show on Earth in New York City. For a week he had been in training for the fantastic trapeze act which had won thunders of approbation. The Benares Brothers had appeared in the amphitheatre dome on a double trapeze. After several clever specialties, the ringmaster suddenly stepped forward. He lifted his hand. The orchestra stopped playing. Raising a pistol, the ringmaster directed it aloft. Bang! Crash! went the orchestra, and from a box suspended over the trapezes the bottom suddenly dropped out. Following, an agile youthful form shot down through space. Quick as lightning the Benares Brothers swung by their feet, joined hands in mid-air, and the descending form--Andy Wildwood--catching at the wrists of Thacher, was swung back in a twenty foot circle. Crash! again the orchestra. Andy was flung through space across to old Benares, a plaything in mid-air, Benares catching at the feet of Thacher, Andy tailing on in a graceful descent, thrilling the delighted audience. The act was not so difficult, but it was neat, rapid, unique. Andy Wildwood felt that at last he was a full-fledged acrobat. The manager came back to compliment him. Billy Blow looked delighted. Miss Stella Starr said: "Andy, we are all proud of you." The next morning's papers gave him special notice. Luke Belding whispered to him to demand double salary. Andy walked from his boarding house the next morning feeling certain that he had made very substantial progress during his sixty days of circus life. He was passing a row of houses on a side street when a cab drove up to the curb. Andy casually glanced at the passenger as he crossed the sidewalk. Then he gave a great start. "It can't be!" he ejaculated. Then he added instantly: "Yes, I'd know him among a thousand--Sim Dewey." The man entered an open doorway, and Andy ran after him. He heard the fellow ascend a pair of stairs and knock at a door. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Vernon." "Gracious!" exclaimed Andy--"Aunt Lavinia!" Here was a stirring situation. There could be no mistake. Despite a false moustache and a pair of dark eyeglasses, Andy had recognized the defaulting cashier of the disbanded circus. Beyond dispute he had recognized the welcoming tones above as belonging to his aunt, Miss Lavinia Talcott. "It's like dreaming," mused Andy. "All this happening together, and here in New York City! Why, what ever brought Aunt Lavinia here? Where did she ever get acquainted with that scamp?" Andy felt that he had an urgent duty to perform. Here was a mystery to explore, a villain to capture. He went softly up the stairs. The place was a respectable boarding house, he concluded. Stealing softly past a door, he went half-way up a second pair of stairs. Not five feet away from an open transom, Andy could now look into a room containing three persons. A motherly, dignified old woman sat in a big arm chair. Near her was Andy's aunt, smiling and simpering up at Dewey. The latter, dressed "to kill," was bowing like a French dancing master. Dewey sat down. The chaperone, who seemed to be the landlady, did not engage in a brief conversation that ensued within the room. At its conclusion Andy saw his aunt hand Dewey a folded piece of paper. The defaulting circus cashier gallantly bowed over her extended hand and came out of the room. "Hold on, Mr. Sim Dewey," spoke Andy, down the stairs in a flash, and seizing Dewey's arm on the landing. "Eh? Hello--Wildwood!" "Yes, it's me," said Andy. "A word with you, sir, as to what business you have with my aunt. Then--the stolen eleven thousand dollars, if you please." Dewey had turned deadly white. He glared desperately at Andy, and tried to wrench his arm free. "Shall I arouse the street?" demanded Andy sternly. "It's jail for you--" Crack! The treacherous Dewey had slipped one hand behind him. He had drawn a slung shot from his pocket. It struck Andy's head, and he went down with a sense of sickening giddiness. "Stop him!" shouted Andy, half-blinded, crawling across the landing. Dewey made a leap of four steps at a time. "Out of my way!" he yelled at some obstacle. "Hold on, mister!" Andy arose to his feet with difficulty. He clung to the banister, descending the stairs as a frightful clatter rang out. A boy about his own age, coming up the stairs, had collided with Dewey. Both tripped up and rolled to the front entry. The boy got up, unhurt. Dewey, groaning, half-arose, fell back, and lay prostrate, one limb bent up under him. Andy was still weak and dizzy-headed, but he acted promptly for the occasion. He saw that Dewey had broken a limb, and was practically helpless. He glanced out at the driver of the cab. He was an honest-faced old fellow. Andy ran out to him and spoke a few quick words. With Dewey writhing, moaning and resisting, this man, Andy and the strange boy carried him to the cab. Andy directed the boy to get up with the driver, He got inside the cab with Dewey. A hysterical shriek rang out at the street doorway. Andy saw his aunt wildly wringing her hands. The maiden lady was held back from pursuing the cab by the landlady. Within ten minutes the cab delivered Dewey at a police station, and Andy told his story to the precinct captain. They found in a secret pocket on the defaulting cashier certificates of deposit to the amount of ten thousand dollars, issued in a false name. The amount was a part of the stolen circus funds. In another pocket was discovered a draft for three thousand dollars, made over to the same false name by Miss Lavinia Talcott on the bank at Fairview. The police at once locked the prisoner up in a cell, sent for a surgeon, and asked Andy to telegraph to Mr. Giles Harding, the circus owner, at once. When Andy came out of the police station, he found the boy who had assisted him waiting for him. He was a bright-faced, pleasant-mannered lad, but his appearance suggested hard luck. Andy gave him a dollar, and got his name. It was Mark Hadley. Andy was at once interested when the boy told him that his dead father had been a professional sleight-of-hand man in the west. Mark Hadley had come to New York on the track of an old circus friend of his father. This man, it turned out, was a relative of Dewey, masquerading now under the name of Vernon. The man had told him that Dewey could help him out. He did not know where Dewey was living, but understood he was about to marry a lady living at the boarding house where Mark had gone, to meet the fellow in a most sensational manner, indeed. Andy invited Mark to call upon him later in the day, gave the youth his present address, and proceeded back to the boarding house to find his aunt. The hour that followed was one of the strangest in Andy's life. There were reproaches, threats, cajolings, until Andy found out the true state of affairs. It was only after he had proven to his humiliated and chagrined aunt that Dewey was a villain, that Miss Lavinia broke down and confessed that she had been a silly, sentimental woman. It seemed that the letter Jim Tapp and Murdock had secured was from Mr. Graham, back at Fairview. Graham had discovered in a secret bottom of the box Andy had left with him, a paper referring to a patent of Andy's father. As time had brought about, this paper entitled the heirs of the old inventor to quite large royalties on a new electrical device which had come into practical use after Mr. Wildwood's death. The plotters had gone at once to Miss Lavinia. Her cupidity was aroused. She quieted her conscience by giving Andy ten dollars at Tipton, and deciding to take charge of the royalty money "till he was of age." This was her story, told amid contrite tears and shame as Andy proved to her that Dewey was after her three thousand dollars, and would have escaped with it only for his decisive action. Murdock had introduced her to Dewey. The latter had pretended to be in love with her, had promised to marry her, and that day had induced the weak, silly old spinster to trust him with her little fortune. "I have been a wicked woman!" Miss Lavinia declared. "I will make amends, Andy. You shall have your rights. Come home with me." "Not till my engagement is over, aunt," replied Andy, "and then only for a visit, if you wish it. I love the circus life, and I seem to find just as many chances there to be good and to do good as in any other vocation." Miss Lavinia was given back her three thousand dollars the next day, and Sim Dewey was sent to prison on a long term. Mr. Harding came on to the city the following day. He recovered all except a trifle of the stolen circus money. That evening he sent a sealed envelope by special messenger to Andy. It contained five one hundred dollar bills--Andy's reward for capturing the embezzling circus cashier. The next afternoon Andy invited five of his special friends and several of his acquaintances to a little dinner party. Miss Starr, Billy Blow the clown, Midget, old Benares, Thacher, Luke Belding and Mark Hadley were his guests of honor. Andy had found a starting place in the circus for Mark, whose ambition was to become a great magician. They were a merry, friendly party. They jollied one another. They saw nothing but sunshine in the sawdust pathway before them. "You are a grand genius!" declared old Benares to Andy. "My friends, one thought: in six weeks up from Andy the school boy, to Andy the acrobat." "Hold on now, Mr. Benares," cried Andy, smilingly. "That was because of my royal, good friends like you." "And your own grit," said Marco. "You assuredly deserve your success." And the other circus people agreed with Marco. For the time being Andy heard nothing more of Tapp, Murdock and Daley. The days passed pleasantly enough. He did his work faithfully, constantly adding to his fame as an acrobat. Between Andy and Luke Belding a warm friendship sprang up. Luke had much to tell about himself. As time passed the lad who loved animals had many adventures, but what these were I must reserve for another volume, to be named, "Luke the Lion Tamer; or, On the Road with a Great Menagerie," In that we shall not only follow brave-hearted Luke but also Andy, and see what the future held in store for the boy acrobat. "Andy, are you glad you joined the circus?" questioned Luke, one day, after a particularly brilliant performance in the ring. "Glad doesn't express it," was the quick answer. "Why, it seems to be just what I was cut out for." "I really believe you. You never make work of an act--like some of the acrobats." "It must be in my blood," said Andy, with a bright smile. "Anyway, I expect to be Andy the Acrobat for a long while to come." And he was. THE END. 
21232	----	The Hawthorns; a Story about Children by Amy Walton __________________________________________________________ This is a nice little book, which would certainly appeal to its intended audience of eleven- or twelve-year-old little girls. Its background is distinctly late Victorian, but nevertheless a modern child would find nothing it could not relate to other than the more pleasant general atmosphere of those days. Amy Walton has written a sequel to this book, "Penelope and the Others," also published on the Athelstane website. NH __________________________________________________________ THE HAWTHORNS; A STORY ABOUT CHILDREN BY AMY WALTON CHAPTER ONE. EASNEY VICARAGE. Quite close to the nursery window at Easney Vicarage there grew a very old pear-tree. It was so old that the ivy had had time to hug its trunk with strong rough arms, and even to stretch them out nearly to the top, and hang dark green wreaths on every bough. Some day, the children had been told, this would choke the life out of the tree and kill it; that would be a pity, but there seemed no danger of it yet, for every spring the pear-tree still showed its head crowned with white blossoms, and every summer the pears grew yellow and juicy, and fell with a soft "splosh!" on the gravel path beneath. It was interesting to watch that, and it happened so often, that it was hard to imagine a windsor pear without a great gash where the sharp stones had cut into it; it was also natural to expect when you picked it up that there would be a cunning yellow wasp hidden somewhere about it, for all the little Hawthorns had always found it so except the baby, and she was too small to have any experience. Five little Hawthorns, without counting the baby, had looked out of the nursery window and watched the pear-tree blossom, and the sparrows build their nests, and the pears fall; but by the time this story begins, four of them, whose names were Penelope, Ambrose, Nancy, and David, were schoolroom children, and learnt lessons of Miss Grey down-stairs. They had no longer much time for looking out of the window, and the nursery was left in the possession of Dickie and Cicely the baby. Dickie, whose real name was Delicia, was three years old--a great girl now she thought--but she was still fond of kneeling up in the window seat and flattening her little nose against the glass. She could not see very much. Through the branches of the pear-tree a little to the left appeared the church tower, and a glimpse here and there of grey and white tombstones in the churchyard. Straight in front of her there was a broad lawn sloping down to a sunk fence, and beyond that a meadow with tall elms in it, and after that another meadow where cows were feeding, and that was all. In the spring the meadows turned to gold and silver with the buttercups and daisies, and the rooks cawed noisily in the elms; but in the summer it was all very green and very quiet. Particularly at lesson time, when the "others" were busy with Miss Grey, and Dickie must not make a noise because baby was asleep. Then there was only Andrew to be seen in the distance, bending over his barrow or rake or spade; but he never looked up to the nursery window, and this was not surprising, for Andrew had a great deal to do. He worked in the garden, and fed the chickens, and took care of Ruby the horse, and sometimes drove the wagonette into Nearminster; he also rang the church bell, and was parish clerk. Perhaps it was because he had so much on his mind that he was of a melancholy disposition, and seldom disposed for conversation with the children. They thought it a pity sometimes that neither the nursery nor the schoolroom window looked out to the front of the house, for it was only a little way back from the street; not that there was much going on in the village, but still you could hear the "clink, clink" from the blacksmith's forge opposite, and see anyone passing the white gate which led out into the road. The vicarage was an old house; many and many a vicar had lived in it, and altered or added to it according to his liking, so that it was full of twists and turns, inside and out, and had wonderful nooks and corners, and strange cupboards under the stairs. Pennie, who was eleven years old, and a great hand at "making up," thought a good deal about those old bygone vicars, and founded some of her choicest romances upon them. There was one particular vicar, a tablet to whose memory was placed in the chancel just opposite the Hawthorns' seat in church. "Godfrey Ablewhite, sometime vicar of this parish," etcetera. It seemed to Pennie, as she sat staring up at this during her father's sermons, that she saw plainly what sort of man this Godfrey Ablewhite had been. He was broad and strong, and rode a tall white horse, and had doubtless built those large stables at the vicarage, because he was fond of hunting. From this she would go on to adorn his character with many daring feats of horsemanship, and by the time the sermon was over there was another story ready to be eagerly listened to by the other children--and, indeed, believed also, for they had an infinite trust in Pennie. This was partly because she was the eldest, and partly because she "made up" so well, and had such good ideas about games and plans. No one could make a better plan than Pennie if she put her mind to it, and this was a valuable faculty, for toys were not plentiful at Easney Vicarage, and the children had to find their own amusements. These, fortunately, did not depend upon anything to be bought in shops, for there was only one in the village, and that was the post-office too. There you could get bacon, and peppermint drops, and coarse grey stockings; but for anything more interesting you had to drive to Nearminster, ten miles away. Mother went over there sometimes, and took each child with her in turn, but even then there was a serious drawback to buying much, and that was want of money. Some children would doubtless think living at Easney a very dull affair. No shops, nothing new to play with, and very little new to wear. Pennie _did_ get a little tired sometimes of always wearing serge in winter and holland in summer; but neither she nor her brothers and sisters ever found their lives dull. They would have been astonished at the idea. There were so many interesting things to do. For instance, there was a large family of pet beasts and birds, some living in the barn in cages, and some free. Snuff the terrier was the most intimate and friendly of these last, and Methuselah the tortoise the greatest stranger. The children regarded him with respectful awe, for he passed so much of his life hidden away in the cold dark earth, that he must know many strange and wonderful things which went on there; but, like all people of really wide experience, he was singularly modest and retiring in his behaviour, and appeared on the border the first mild day in spring after his disappearance, with no fuss at all, and as if he had done nothing remarkable. Pennie's jackdaw, a forward bird, who hopped about with an air of understanding everything, was one day found perched on the tortoise's shell with the evident intention of making some searching inquiries. Methuselah, however, had very prudently drawn in his head, and Jack was both baffled and disgraced. Next to the animals in point of interest came the Wilderness. This was a part of the garden shut off from the rest by a shrubbery, and given up to the children as their very own. Here they messed and muddled to their hearts' content, carried out a great many interesting designs, and reared quantities of mustard and cress; once they each had a garden, but Nancy, Ambrose, and David had lately struck out the bold idea of joining their plots of ground and digging a well. It was a delightful occupation, and when the hole got deep it was pleasant to see how the small frogs and other slimy reptiles crawled about at the bottom; but, after much heated labour, there were no signs of water. Interest flagged then, and the well was deserted, until the ever-ready Pennie suggested the game of Joseph and his brethren, and it became a favourite amusement to lower Dickie down in a basket amongst the frogs and newts. Dickie was both small and brave, two very necessary qualities for her part, for the basket was narrow, and wobbled about a good deal in its descent; but she was used to perilous positions, and had a soul above fear. The Wilderness was certainly very interesting; nevertheless at a certain time in the summer it was completely forsaken, and that was when the hay was down. Then everyone must help to get it in; and there could be no lessons done, for even Miss Grey was in the hay-field. Then the excited children, with flushed faces, worked as hard as though the whole matter depended on them alone, and even Dickie, with tiny rake and sturdy legs planted wide apart, did brave service. Then the maids, with sun-bonnets tilted well forward on their foreheads, came out to toss a little hay, and giggle a great deal, and say how hot it was; then the surly Andrew threw sour looks of scorn at them, and the vicar, casting aside his black coat, did more real work than anyone. Then mother came into the field with Cicely in her arms, and was welcomed with acclamations, and forthwith seated on a royal throne of hay; then, under her watchful eyes, the ambitious Ambrose worked feverishly, and threw his arms and legs about like an excited spider. Then Nancy laughed at him, and David pushed him down, and Pennie covered him with hay; and it got into his eyes and down his throat and he choked and kicked, and mother said: "That will do, children!" Then tea was brought out and laid under the great oak-tree, and everyone's face was very red, and everyone was very thirsty. And then the cool evening came stealing on, and a tiny breeze blew, and the hay smelt sweet, and the shadows lengthened, and it was bed-time just as things were getting pleasant. Each time all this happened it was equally delightful, and it seemed a pity when the field stood bare and desolate after the hay was carried, shorn of its shadowy grass and pretty flowers; yet there was consolation too in the size of the stack which the children had helped to make, and which they always thought "bigger than last year." Soon after this autumn came and made the orchard and woods and lanes interesting with apples and nuts and blackberries; and then, after the apples and nuts had been stored away, and the blackberries made into jam, it was time to look forward to the winter. Winter brought a great deal that was very pleasant; for sometimes he came with snow and ice, and the children would wake up to find that in the night he had quietly covered everything out-of-doors with a sparkling white garment. Then what could be more delicious than to make a snow man or a snow palace? Pennie, who was a great reader, and always anxious to carry out something she had read about, inclined towards the palace; but the others had less lofty minds. It quite contented them to make a snow man, to put one of Andrew's pipes in his mouth and a battered hat on his head, and stick in bits of coal for his eyes. "Isn't he lovely?" Nancy would exclaim when all these adornments were complete. "Zovely!" echoed Dickie, clapping red worsted mittens ecstatically. "I think he's rather vulgar," Pennie said doubtfully on one of these occasions with an anxiously puckered brow; "and besides, there's nothing to make up about him. What can you pretend?" The snow man certainly looked hopelessly prosaic as Ambrose tilted his hat a little more to one side. "Guy Fawkes?" suggested David, having studied the matter solidly for some minutes. "No," said Pennie, "not Guy Fawkes--he's so common--we've had him heaps of times. But I'll tell you what would be splendid; we'll make him a martyr in Smithfield." The boys looked doubtful, but Nancy clapped her hands. "That's capital," she said. "You know," continued Pennie for the general information, "they burned them." "Alive?" inquired Ambrose eagerly. "Yes." "How jolly!" murmured David. "Jolly! jolly! jolly!" repeated Dickie, jumping up and down in the snow. "Why were they burned?" asked Ambrose, who was never tired of asking questions, and liked to get to the bottom of a matter if possible. "_Why_, I am not quite sure," answered Pennie cautiously, "because I've only just got to it; but I _think_ it was something about the Bible. I'll ask Miss Grey." "Oh, never mind all that," interrupted the practical Nancy impatiently; "we'll make a splendid bonfire all round him and watch him melt. Come and get the wood." "And we'll call him `a distinguished martyr,'" added Pennie as she moved slowly away, "because I can't remember any of their real names." Pennie was never satisfied to leave things as they were; she liked to adorn them with fancies and make up stories about them, and her busy little mind was always ready to set to work on the smallest event of the children's lives. Nothing was too common or familiar to have mysteries and romance woven round it; and this was sometimes a most useful faculty, for winter was not always kind enough to bring snow and ice with him. Very often there was nothing but rain and fog and mud, and then mother uttered those dreadful words: "The children must not go out." Then when lessons were over, and all the games exhausted, and it was still too early for lights, the schoolroom became full of dark corners, and the flickering fire cast mysterious shadows which changed the very furniture into something dim and awful. Then was Pennie's time--then, watching her hearers' upturned faces by the uncertain light of the fire, she saw surprise or pity or horror on them as her story proceeded, and, waxing warmer, she half believed it true herself. And this made the tales very interesting and thrilling. Yet once Pennie's talent had an unfortunate result, as you shall hear in the next chapter. CHAPTER TWO. THE "GARRET." The children all thought that Pennie's best stories were about a certain lumber-room in the vicarage which was called the "Garret." They were also the most dreadful and thrilling, for there was something about the garret which lent itself readily to tales of mystery and horror. The very air there was always murky and dim, and no sunlight could steal through the tiny lattice window which came poking out from the roof like a half-shut eyelid. Dust and cobwebs had covered the small leaded panes so thickly that a dusky gloom always dwelt there, and gave an unnatural and rather awful look to the various objects. And what a strange collection it was! Broken spindle-legged chairs, rickety boxes, piles of yellow old music-books and manuscripts, and in one corner an ancient harp in a tarnished gilt frame. Poor deserted dusty old things! They had had their day in the busy world once, but that was over now, and they must stay shut up in the silent garret with no one to see them but the spiders and the children. For these last came there often; treading on tiptoe they climbed the steep stairs and unlatched the creaky door and entered, bold but breathless, and casting anxious glances over their shoulders for strange things that might be lurking in the corners. They never saw any, but still they came half hoping, half fearing; and they had, besides, another object in their visits, which was a great great secret, and only known to Pennie, Nancy, and Ambrose. It was indeed a daring adventure, scarcely to be spoken of above a whisper, and requiring a great deal of courage. This was the secret: They had one day succeeded in forcing open the rickety lattice, which was fastened by a rusty iron hasp, and looked out. There was a steep red-tiled piece of roof covered with little lumps of lichen which ended in a gutter and a low stone balustrade; there were tall crooked chimneys, and plenty of places where cats and children could walk with pleasure and safety. Soon it was impossible to resist the temptation, and one after the other they squeezed themselves through the narrow window, and wriggled cautiously down the steep roof as far as the balustrade. It scraped the hands and knees a good deal to do this, and there was always the danger of going down too fast, but when once the feet arrived safely against the stone coping, what a proud moment it was! Standing upright, they surveyed the prospect, and mingled visions of Robinson Crusoe, Christopher Columbus, and Alexander Selkirk floated across their brains. "I am monarch of all I survey," said Pennie on the first occasion. And so she was, for everything seen from that giddy height looked strange and new to her, and it was quite like going into another country. The old church tower with the chattering jackdaws flying round it, the pear-tree near the nursery window, the row of bee-hives in the kitchen-garden, the distant fields where the cows were no bigger than brown and white specks, all were lifted out of everyday life for a little while. No one had forbidden this performance, because no one knew of it, and the secrecy of it added to the mystery which belonged to everything in the garret. It was not difficult to keep it hidden from the elders, for they did not go into the lumber-room from year's end to year's end; so the spiders and the children had it all to themselves, and did just as they liked there, and wove their cobwebs and their fancies undisturbed. Now, amongst Pennie's listeners when she told her tales of what went on in the garret after nightfall, Ambrose was the one who heard with the most rapt attention and the most absolute belief. He came next to Nancy in age, and formed the most perfect contrast to her in appearance and character, for Nancy was a robust blue-eyed child, bold and fearless, and Ambrose was a slender little fellow with a freckled skin and a face full of sensitive expression. He was full of fears and fancies, too, poor little Ambrose, and amongst the children he was considered not far short of a coward; it had become a habit to say, "Ambrose is afraid," on the smallest occasions, and if they had been asked who was the bravest amongst them, they would certainly have pointed out Nancy. For Nancy did not mind the dark, Nancy would climb any tree you liked, Nancy could walk along the top of a high narrow wall without being giddy, Nancy had never been known to cry when she was hurt, therefore Nancy was a brave child. Ambrose, on the contrary, _did_ mind all these things very much; his imagination pictured dangers and terrors in them which did not exist for Nancy, and what she performed with a laugh and no sense of fear, was to him often an occasion of trembling apprehension. And then he was _so_ afraid of the dark! That was a special subject of derision from the others, for even Dickie was bolder in the matter of dark passages and bed-rooms than he was. Ambrose was ashamed, bitterly ashamed of this failing, and he made up his mind a hundred times that he would get over it, but that was in the broad daylight when the sun was shining. As surely as night came, and he was asked perhaps to fetch something from the schoolroom, those wretched feelings of fear came back, for the schoolroom was at the end of a long dark passage. Nancy, who was always good-natured, though she laughed at him, would give him a nudge on such occasions if she were near him, and say: "Never mind, _I'll_ go;" but Ambrose never accepted the offer. He went with a shiver down his back, and a sort of distended feeling in his ears, which seemed to be unnaturally on the alert for mysterious noises. He always made up his mind before he got to the passage to check a wild desire to run at full speed, and walk through it slowly, but this resolve was never carried out. Before he had gone two steps in the darkness there would be a sense of something following close behind, and then all was over, and nothing to be seen but a panic-stricken little boy rushing along with his hands held over his ears. How foolish! you will say. Very foolish, indeed, and so said all the other children, adding many a taunt and jeer. But that did not do poor Ambrose any good, and he remained just as timid as ever. Nevertheless there were moments of real danger when Ambrose had been known to come gallantly to the front, and when he seemed to change suddenly from a fearful, shrinking boy into a hero. Such was the occasion when, alone of all the children, who stood shrieking on the other side of the hedge, he had ventured back into the field to rescue Dickie, who by some accident had been left behind among a herd of cows. There she stood bewildered, holding up her little pinafore full of daisies, helpless among those large horned monsters. "Run, Dickie," shouted the children; but Dickie was rooted to the ground with terror, and did not move. Then Ambrose took his courage in both hands, and leaving the safe shelter of the hedge, ran back to his little sister's side. As he reached her a large black cow with crooked horns detached herself from the herd, and walked quickly up to the children lashing her tail. Ambrose did not stir. He stood in front of Dickie, took off his straw hat and waved it in the cow's face. She stood still. "Run back to the others, Dickie," said Ambrose quietly, and, Dickie's chubby legs recovering power of movement, she toddled quickly off, strewing the ground with daisies as she went. Covering her retreat, Ambrose remained facing the cow, and walked slowly backwards still brandishing his hat; then, one quick glance over his shoulder assuring him of Dickie's safety, he too took to his heels, and scrambled through the gap. That was certainly brave of Ambrose; for though Farmer Snow told them afterwards, "Thuccy black coo never would a touched 'ee," still she _might_ have, and for the moment Ambrose was a hero. The children carried home an excited account of the affair to their father, penetrating into his very study, which was generally forbidden ground. "And so it was Ambrose who went back, eh?" he said, stroking Dickie's round head as she sat on his knee. "Yes, father," said Pennie, very much out of breath with running and talking, "we were all frightened except Ambrose." "And why weren't you frightened, Ambrose?" "I was," murmured Ambrose. "And yet you went?" "Yes. Because of Dickie." "Then you were a brave boy." "A brave boy, a brave boy," repeated Dickie in a sort of sing-song, pulling her father's whiskers. "Now I want you children to tell me," pursued the vicar, looking round at the hot little eager faces, "which would have been braver--not to be frightened at all, or to go in spite of being frightened?" "Not to be frightened at all," answered Nancy promptly. "Do you all think that?" "Yes," said Pennie doubtfully, "I suppose so." "Well," continued the vicar, "I _don't_ think so, and I will tell you why. I believe the brave man is not he who is insensible to fear, but he who is able to rise above it in doing his duty. People are sometimes called courageous who are really so unimaginative and dull that they cannot understand danger--so of course they are not afraid. They go through their lives very quietly and comfortably, as a rule, but they do not often leave great names behind them, although they may be both good and useful. "Others, again, we are accustomed to consider cowards, because their active, lively imagination often causes them to see danger where there is none. These people do not pass such peaceable lives as the first; but there is this to be remembered: the same nature which is so alive to fear will also be easily touched by praise, or blame, or ridicule, and eager therefore to do its very best. It is what we call a `sensitive' nature, and it is of such stuff very often, that great men and heroes are made." The children listened very attentively to what their father said, and if they did not understand it all they gathered enough to make them feel quite sure that Ambrose had been very brave about the cow. So they treated him for a little while with a certain respect, and no one said "Ambrose is afraid." As for Ambrose himself, his spirits rose very high, and he began to think he never should feel afraid of anything again, and even to wish for some great occasion to show himself in his new character of "hero." He walked about in rather a blustering manner just now, with his straw hat very much on one side, and brandished a stick the gardener had cut for him in an obtrusively warlike fashion. As he was a small thin boy, these airs looked all the more ridiculous, and his sister Nancy was secretly much provoked by them; however, she said nothing until one evening when Pennie was telling them stories. The children were alone in the schoolroom, for it was holiday time. It was just seven o'clock. Soon Nurse would come and carry off Dickie and David to bed, but at present they were sitting one each side of Pennie on the broad window-seat, listening to her with open ears and mouths. Nancy and Ambrose were opposite on the table, with their legs swinging comfortably backwards and forwards. All day long it had been raining, and now, although it had ceased, the shrubs and trees, overladen with moisture, kept up a constant drip, drip, drip, which was almost as bad. The wind had risen, and went sighing and moaning round the house, and shook the windows of the room where the children were sitting. Pennie had just finished a story, and in the short interval of silence which followed, these plaintive sounds were heard more plainly than ever. "Hark," she said, holding up her finger, "how the Goblin Lady is playing her harp to-night! She has begun early." "Why does she only play when the wind blows?" asked Ambrose. "She comes _with_ the wind," answered Pennie, "that is how she travels, as other people use carriages and trains. The little window in the garret is blown open, and she floats in and takes one of those big music-books, and finds out the place, and then sits down to the harp and plays." "What tune does she play?" asked David. "By the margin of fair Zurich's waters," answered Pennie; "sometimes she sings too, but not often, because she is very sad." "Why?" inquired Ambrose, ruffling up his hair with one hand, as he always did when he was getting interested. Pennie paused a moment that her next remark might have full weight; then very impressively and slowly she said: "She has not _always_ been a Goblin Lady." This was so unexpected, and suggested so much to be unfolded, that the children gazed speechless at Pennie, who presently continued: "Once she was a beautiful--" "Is she ugly now?" hastily inquired David. "Don't, Davie; let Pennie go on," said Ambrose. "I want to know just one thing," put in Nancy; "if it's dark when she comes, how does she see to read the music?" "She carries glowworms with her," answered Pennie; "they shine just like the lamps in father's gig at night, and light up all the garret." "Now, go on, Pennie," said Ambrose with a deep sigh, for these interruptions were very trying to him. "Once she was a beautiful--" "A most beautiful lady, with long golden hair. Only she was very very proud and vain. So after she died she could not rest, but has to go flying about wherever the wind will take her. The only pleasure she has is music, and so she always tries to get in where there is anything to play. That is why she goes so often to the garret and plays the harp." "Why doesn't she go into the drawing-room and play the piano?" asked Nancy bluntly. Nancy's questions were often very tiresome; she never allowed the least haze or uncertainty to hang over any subject, and Pennie was frequently checked in the full flow of her eloquence by the consciousness that Nancy's eye was upon her, and that she was preparing to put some matter-of-fact inquiry which it would be most difficult to meet. "There you go, interrupting again," muttered Ambrose. "Well, but why doesn't she?" insisted Nancy, "it would be so much easier." "Why, of course she can't," resumed Pennie in rather an injured voice, "because of the lights, and the people, and, besides, she never learnt to play the piano." "I wish I needn't either," sighed Nancy. "How nice to be like the Goblin Lady, and only play the harp when one likes!" "I should like to see her," said Ambrose thoughtfully. "You'd be afraid," said Nancy; "why, you wouldn't even go into the garret by daylight alone." "That was a long time ago," said Ambrose quickly. "I wouldn't mind it now." "In the dark?" "Well, I don't believe you'd go," said Nancy. "You might perhaps go two or three steps, and then you'd scream out and run away; wouldn't he, Pennie?" "Why, you know he _was_ brave about the cow," said Pennie, "braver than any of us." "That was different. He's quite as much afraid of the dark as ever. I call it babyish." Nancy looked defiantly at her brother, who was getting very red in the face. She was prepared to have something thrown at her, or at least to have her hair, which she wore in a plaited pig-tail, violently pulled, but nothing of the sort happened. Nurse came soon afterwards and bore away David and Dickie, and as she left the room she remarked that the wind was moaning "just like a Christian." It certainly was making a most mournful noise that evening, but not at all like a Christian, Ambrose thought, as he listened to it--much more like Pennie's Goblin Lady and her musical performances. Pennie had finished her stories now, and she and Nancy were deeply engaged with their dolls in a corner of the room; this being an amusement in which Ambrose took no interest, he remained seated on the table occupied with his own reflections after Nurse had left the room with the two children. Nancy's taunt about the garret was rankling in his mind, though he had not resented it openly as was his custom, and it rankled all the more because he felt that it was true. Yes, it _was_ true. He could not possibly go into the garret alone in the dark, and yet if he really were a brave boy he ought to be able to do it. Was he brave, he wondered? Father had said so, and yet just now he certainly felt something very like fear at the very thought of the Goblin Lady. In increasing perplexity he ruffled up his hair until it stood out wildly in all directions; boom! boom! went the wind, and then there followed a long wailing sort of sigh which seemed to come floating down from the very top of the house. It was quite a relief to hear Nancy's matter-of-fact voice just then, as she chattered away about her dolls: "Now, I shall brush Jemima's hair," Ambrose heard her say to Pennie, "and you can put Lady Jane Grey to bed." "I ought to be able to go," said Ambrose to himself, "and after all I don't suppose the Goblin Lady _can_ be worse than Farmer Snow's black cow." "But her head's almost off," put in Pennie's voice. "You did it the last time we executed her." "If I went," thought Ambrose, continuing his reflections, "they would never, never be able to call me a coward again." He slid off the table as he reached this point, and moved slowly towards the door. He stood still as he opened it and looked at his sisters, half hoping they would call him back, or ask where he was going, but they were bending absorbed over the body of the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey, so that two long flaxen pig-tails were turned towards him. They did not even notice that he had moved. He went quickly through the long dimly-lighted passage, which led into the hall, and found that Mary was just lighting the lamp. This looked cheerful, and he lingered a little and asked her a few questions, not that he really wanted to know anything, but because light and human companionship seemed just now so very desirable. Mary went away soon, and then he strolled a few steps up the broad old staircase, and met Kittles the fluffy cat coming slowly down. Here was another excuse for putting off his journey, and he sat down on the stairs to pass a few agreeable moments with Kittles, who arched his back and butted his head against him, and purred his acknowledgments loudly. But presently, having business of his own, Kittles also passed on his way, and Ambrose was alone again, sitting solitary with his ruffled head leaning on one hand. Then the church clock struck eight. In half an hour it would be bed-time, and his plan not carried out. He must go at once, or not at all. He got up and went slowly on. Up the stairs, down a long winding passage, up some more stairs, and across a landing, on to which the nursery and the children's bedrooms opened. He stopped again here, for there was a pleasant sound of Dickie and David's voices, and the splashing of water; but presently he thought he heard Nurse coming out, and he ran quickly round the corner into a little passage which led to the foot of the garret stairs. This passage was dimly-lighted by a small low window, which was almost covered outside by the thickly growing ivy. Even in the daytime it was very dusky, and now it was quite dark, but Ambrose knew the way well, and he groped about with his hands until he came to the steep carpetless steps. And now his heart began to beat very quickly, for he felt that he was in the region of mystery, and that anything might happen at any moment. The wind had dropped, and there was no sound at all to be heard, though he strained his ears to the utmost for some signs of the presence of the Goblin Lady. "Perhaps," thought he, "she has finished playing and gone away again with the wind." This was an encouraging idea, and though his knees trembled a good deal, he went on bravely until he came to the place where the stairs took a sudden sharp turn; but here he saw something which brought him to a standstill again, for underneath the garret door at the top there was a faint gleam of light. "That's the glowworms," thought Ambrose, "and she's there still." His spirits sank. _Could_ he go on? It must be now or never. With a tremendous effort he went quickly up the remaining steps, stood on tiptoe to unlatch the door, and pushed it open. It swung back with a creak upon its rusty hinges, and a cold wind rushed in Ambrose's face, for the window was open. The room was faintly lighted, not with glowworms, but by the pale rays of a watery moon, which made some of the objects whitely distinct, and left others dark and shadowy. Standing motionless on the threshold, Ambrose turned his eyes instinctively to the corner where the harp was dimly visible. There was certainly no one playing it, but as he looked he heard a faint rustle in that direction. What was it? Again it came, this time louder, with a sound like the flapping of feathers. Could it be the Goblin Lady? But Pennie never said she had wings. Unable to go either backwards or forwards, Ambrose remained rooted to the spot with his eyes fixed on the mysterious corner. Rustle, rustle, flap, flap, went the dreadful something, and presently there followed a sort of low hiss. At the same moment a sudden gust of wind burst through the window and banged the door behind him with a resounding clap. Panic-stricken he turned and tried to open it, but his cold trembling fingers could not move the rusty fastening. He looked wildly round for a means of escape, and his eye fell on a bright ray of moonlight resting on the lattice window. He rushed towards it, scrambled up on to a box, from thence to the window-ledge, and thrust himself through the narrow opening. If the thing came after him now, he could go no further than the balustrade, unless he jumped down into the garden, "and that would kill me," he thought, "Pennie has often said so." He stood on the rough tiles, holding on to the iron window frame with one hand; behind him the dark garret, where the thing still flapped and rustled, and before him the sloping roof, the tall chimneys, the garden beneath, partly lighted up by the moon. He could see the nursery window, too, in an angle of the house, brightly illumined by the cheerful fire within. Dickie and David were snugly in bed now, warm and safe, and Nurse was most likely searching everywhere for him. If they only knew! "If ever I get back," he said to himself, "I never _will_ try to be brave again; it's much better to be called a coward always." He had hardly come to this conclusion before, with a tremendous whirring noise, something came banging up against the shut part of the window from within the garret. Ambrose gave one wild scream, let go his hold, and went rolling over and over quicker and quicker, down--down--down. CHAPTER THREE. GOBLINET. He remembered nothing more until he woke up that night in his own little bed with a very confused feeling that something dreadful had happened, though he could not think what it was. There was a light in his room, which was strange too, and presently he saw that Nurse was sitting there with her spectacles on, nodding sleepily over a book. What could it mean? He clasped his head with both hands, and tried to remember; but it was startling to find that there was a wet bandage round it, and inside it there was a dull throbbing ache, so he soon gave up trying and lay quietly with his eyes fixed on Nurse, and the funny shadow she made on the wall. At last she gave a most tremendous nod, which knocked off her spectacles, and then she gathered herself up and opened her eyes very wide. Presently she came to the bed with a glass in her hand and leant over Ambrose to see if he was awake; he drank what she gave him eagerly, for he was thirsty, and as he lay down again he said with an effort: "I think I've had a very bad dream, Nurse, and my head _does_ ache so." "Well, you're safe and sound now, my lamb," she answered, patting his shoulder soothingly; "just you turn round and go to sleep again." Still puzzled Ambrose closed his eyes, and wondered vaguely for a few minutes why Nurse called him "lamb." She had not done it since he had the measles, so he supposed he must be ill; but he did not feel at all equal to asking questions about anything, and was soon fast asleep again. But this was the beginning of many weary days and nights for poor little Ambrose. When the doctor came the next day he looked gravely at Mrs Hawthorn. "The child is in a high fever," he said, "and has had, I should think, some great nervous shock. Great care and quiet are needed. Let him sleep as much as possible." But that was the difficulty, for, as time went on, Ambrose seemed less and less able to sleep quietly at night. As evening drew on the fever and restlessness increased; he could not bear to be left alone a moment, and often in the night he would start up and cry out trembling: "Take her away." "She is coming." "Don't let her catch me." It was most distressing for everyone and puzzling too, for no one could imagine what it was that had frightened him in the garret, or how he came to be there at all at that time in the evening. It was evidently a most terrible remembrance to him, for he could not bear the least reference to it, and to question him was a sure way to give him what he called "bad dreams." So in his presence the subject was dropped; but Mrs Hawthorn and Nurse did not cease their conjectures, and there was one person who listened to their conversation with a feeling of the deepest guilt. This was Pennie, who just now was having a most miserable time of it, for she felt that it was all her fault. If she had not told those stories about the Goblin Lady it never would have happened, although it certainly was Nancy who had put the garret into Ambrose's head. Nancy was the only person she could talk to on the subject, but she was not any comfort at all. "Don't let's think about it," she said. "I knew you made it up. I daresay he'll get better soon." Poor Pennie could not take matters so lightly; it was a most dreadful weight on her mind, and she felt sure she should never have another happy minute till she had confessed about the Goblin Lady. But she was not allowed to see Ambrose, and she could not bring herself to tell anyone else about it. Once she nearly told mother, and then something stuck in her throat; and once she got as far as the study door with the intention of telling father, but her courage failed her and she ran away. She would creep to Ambrose's door and listen, or peep round the screen at him while he was asleep, and her face got quite thin and pointed with anxiety. Every morning she asked: "Is he better, mother? May I go and sit with him?" But the answer always was: "Not to-day, dear. We hope he is better, but he has such bad nights." Pennie was very wretched, and felt she could not bear it much longer. She was in the nursery one morning looking listlessly out of the window, when her attention was caught by a conversation going on between Nurse and Mrs Hawthorn, who was sitting there with Cicely in her arms. "I know no more than that baby, ma'am," said Nurse emphatically, as she had said a hundred times before, "why or wherefore Master Ambrose should take such a thing into his head. It's easy to frame that he should get scared--when once he was up there in the dark, for he's a timid child and always has been. But what _took_ him there all alone? That's what _I_ want to know!" "I cannot understand it," said Mrs Hawthorn; "but it makes him so much worse to ask him questions that we must leave it alone until he is stronger. We cannot be too thankful that he was not killed." "Which I never doubted for one moment that he was, ma'am, when I found him," continued Nurse; "he was lying all crumpled up and stone-cold, for all the world like Miss Nancy's dormouse when she forgot to feed it for a week." On this theme Nurse was apt to become very voluble, and there were few things she liked better than describing her own feelings on the occasion. Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand entreatingly: "Do not talk of it, Nurse," she said; "I cannot bear it." And then they went on to discuss other matters. Now all this while Pennie had been trying to make up her mind to speak. There was a fly just in front of her on the window-pane, and as she watched it crawling slowly along she said to herself: "When it gets as far as the corner I will tell mother." But alas! before the fly had nearly completed his journey Mrs Hawthorn rose to leave the nursery. As she passed Pennie she stopped and said: "Why, Pennie, my child, it is not like you to be idle. And you look mournful; what's the matter?" "I think Miss Pennie frets after her brother, ma'am," observed Nurse. "Well, then," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I have something to tell you that I am sure you will like. The doctor thinks Ambrose much better to-day, and if you are very quiet and discreet I will let you go and have tea with him this afternoon at five o'clock." "Oh, mother, mother," cried Pennie, "how lovely! May I really?" "Yes; but you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will not speak of anything that has to do with the garret or his accident." Pennie's face fell. "Very well, mother," she said in a dejected tone. "If you can't feel sure, Pennie," said her mother observing the hesitation, "I can't let you go." "I won't, really, mother," repeated Pennie with a sigh--"truly and faithfully." But she felt almost as low-spirited as ever, for what was the good of seeing Ambrose if she could not make him understand about the Goblin Lady? She remained at the window pondering the subject, with her eyes fixed on the grey church tower, the top of which she could just see through the branches of the pear-tree. It reminded her somehow of her father's text last Sunday, and how pleased she and Nancy had been because it was such a short one to learn. Only two words: "Pray always." She said it to herself now over and over again without thinking much about it, until it suddenly struck her that it would be a good thing to say a little prayer and ask to be helped out of the present difficulty. "If I believe enough," she said to herself, "I shall be helped. Father says people always are helped if they believe enough when they ask." She shut her eyes up very tight and repeated earnestly several times: "I _do_ believe. I really and truly do believe;" and then she said her prayer. After this she felt a little more comfortable and ran out to play with Nancy, firmly believing that before five o'clock something would turn up to her assistance. But Pennie was doomed to disappointment, for five o'clock came without any way out of the difficulty having presented itself. "I suppose I didn't believe hard enough," she said to herself as she made her way sorrowfully upstairs to Ambrose's room. Just as she thought this the study door opened and her father came out. He was carrying something which looked like a large cage covered with a cloth. Pennie stopped and waited till he came up to her. "Why, whatever can that be, father?" she said. "Is it alive? Where are you taking it?" "It is a little visitor for Ambrose," he answered; "and I'm taking him upstairs to tea with you both. But you're not to look at him yet;" for Pennie was trying to peep under the cloth. When they got into Ambrose's room she was relieved to find that he looked just like himself, though his face was very white and thin. He was much better to-day, and able to sit up in a big arm-chair with a picture-book. But nevertheless before Nurse left the room she whispered to Pennie again that she must be very quiet. There was no need for the caution at present, for Pennie was in one of her most subdued moods, though at any other time she would have been very much excited to know what was inside the cage. "Now," said the vicar when he was seated in the arm-chair, with Ambrose settled comfortably on his knee, "we shall see what Ambrose and this little gentleman have to say to each other." He lifted off the covering, and there was the dearest little brown and white owl in the world, sitting winking and blinking in the sudden light. Ambrose clasped his little thin hands, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "Oh, father," he cried, "what a darling dear! Is he for me? I always _did_ want to have an owl so!" He was in such raptures when he was told that the owl was to be his very own, that when the tea was brought in he could hardly be persuaded to touch it. Pennie, too, almost forgot her troubles in the excitement of pouring out tea, and settling with Ambrose where the owl was to live. "The nicest place will be," at last said Ambrose decidedly, "in that corner of the barn just above where Davie's rabbits are. You know, Pennie. Where it's all dusky, and dark, and cobwebby." "I think that sounds just the sort of place he would feel at home in," said their father; "and now, would you like me to tell you where I got him?" "Oh, yes, please, father," said Ambrose, letting his head drop on Mr Hawthorn's shoulder with a deep sigh of contentment. "Tell us every little scrap about it, and don't miss any." "Well, last night, about nine o'clock, when I was writing in the study, I wanted to refer to an old book of sermons, and I couldn't remember where it was. I looked all over my book-cases, and at last I went and asked mother, and she told me that it was most likely put away in the garret." Ambrose stirred uneasily, and Pennie thought to herself, "They said I wasn't to mention the garret, and here's father talking about it like anything." "So I took a lamp," continued Mr Hawthorn, "and went upstairs, and poked about in the garret a long while. I found all sorts of funny old things there, but not the book I wanted, so I was just going down again when I heard a rustling in one corner--" Pennie could see that Ambrose's eyes were very wide open, with a terrified stare as if he saw something dreadful, and he was clinging tightly with one hand to his father's coat. "So I went into the corner and moved away a harp which was standing there, and what do you think I saw? This little fluffy gentleman just waked up from a nap, and making a great fuss and flapping. He was very angry when I caught him, and hissed and scratched tremendously; but I said, `No, my friend, I cannot let you go. You will just do for my little son, Ambrose.' So I put him into a basket for the night, and this morning I got a cage for him in the village, and here he is." Mr Hawthorn looked down at Ambrose as he finished his story: the frightened expression which Pennie had seen had left the boy's face now, and there was one of intense relief there. He folded his hands, and said softly, drawing a deep breath: "Then it was not the Goblin Lady after all." "The Goblin Lady! What can the child mean?" said the vicar looking inquiringly at Pennie. But he got no answer to his question, for Pennie's long-pent-up feelings burst forth at last. Casting discretion to the winds, she threw her arms vehemently round Ambrose, and blurted out half laughing and half crying: "I made it up! I made it up! There _isn't_ any Goblin Lady. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I made it every bit up!" The two children sobbed and laughed and kissed each other, and made incoherent exclamations in a way which their puzzled father felt to be most undesirable for an invalid's room. He had been carefully warned not to excite Ambrose, and what _could_ be worse than this sort of thing? Perfectly bewildered, he said sternly: "Pennie, if you don't command yourself, you must go out of the room. You will make your brother ill. It is most thoughtless of you. Tell me quietly what all this means." With many jerks and interruptions, and much shamefacedness Pennie proceeded to do so. Looking up at her father's face at the end she was much relieved to see a little smile there, though he did not speak at once. "You're not angry, are you, father?" said Ambrose doubtfully at last. "No, I am not angry," replied Mr Hawthorn, "but I am certainly surprised to find I have two such foolish children. I don't know who was the sillier--Pennie to make up such nonsense, or Ambrose to believe it. But now I am not going to say anything more, because it is quite time for Ambrose to go to bed, so Pennie and the owl and I will say good-night." What a relief it was to hear the dreaded subject spoken of so lightly. Pennie felt as though a great heavy weight had been suddenly lifted off her mind, and she was so glad and happy that after she had left Ambrose's room she could not possibly walk along quietly. So she hopped on one leg all down a long passage, and at the top of the stairs she met Nurse hastening up to her patient: "You look merry, Miss Pennie," said she. "I hope you haven't been exciting Master Ambrose." "Why, yes," Pennie couldn't help answering. "Father and I have both excited him a good deal; but he's much better, and now he'll get quite well." And Pennie was right, for from that night Ambrose improved steadily, though it was some time before he became quite strong and lost his nervous fears. The first visit he paid, when he was well enough to be wheeled into the garden in a bath-chair, escorted by the triumphant children, was to see his new pet, the owl. There he was, hanging in his cage in the darkest corner of the barn. Ambrose looked up at him with eyes full of the fondest affection. "What shall we call him, Pennie?" he said. "I want some name which has to do with a goblin." Pennie considered the subject with her deepest frown. "Would `Goblinet' do?" she said at length; "because, you see, he is so small." "Beautifully," said Ambrose. So the owl was called "Goblinet." CHAPTER FOUR. DAVID'S PIG. By the time Ambrose was quite well again, and able to run about with the others and play as usual, the holidays were over; Miss Grey came back, and lessons began. It was late autumn; hay-time had passed and harvest, and all the fields looked brown and bare and stubbly. The garden paths were covered with dry withered leaves, which made a pleasant sound when you shuffled your feet in them, and were good things for Dickie to put into her little barrow, for as often as she collected them there were soon plenty more. Down they came from the trees, red, brown, yellow, when the wind blew, and defied the best efforts of Dickie and Andrew. There were very few flowers left now--only a few dahlias and marigolds, and some clumps of Michaelmas daisies, so the garden looked rather dreary; but to make up for this there was a splendid crop of apples in the orchard, and the lanes were thickly strewn with bright brown acorns. And these last were specially interesting to David, for it was just about this time that he got his pig. David was a solid squarely-built little boy of seven years old, with hair so light that it looked almost grey, and very solemn blue eyes. He spoke seldom, and took a long time to learn things, but when once that was done he never forgot them; and in this he was unlike Nancy, who could learn quickly, but forget almost as soon. Miss Grey always felt sure that when once David had struggled through a lesson, whether it were the kings and queens of England, or the multiplication table, that he would remember it if she asked him a question weeks afterwards. But then it was a long time before he knew it--so long that it often seemed a hopeless task. Nevertheless, if David was slow he was certainly sure, and people had a habit of depending upon him in various matters. For instance, when Nurse wanted to intrust the baby for a few moments to any of the children during her absence from the nursery, it was never to the three elder she turned, but to David, and her confidence was not misplaced. Once having undertaken any charge or responsibility, David would carry it through unflinchingly, whether it were to amuse the baby, or to take care of any of the animals while their various owners were away. It would have been impossible to him to have forgotten to feed the dormouse for a week as Nancy did, or to have left Sappho the canary without any water, which Pennie to her great agony of mind was once guilty of doing. David's animals never missed their meals, or were neglected in any way; he was particularly proud of his sleek rabbits, which, together with a family of white rats, lived in the barn, and certainly throve wonderfully, if numbers mean prosperity. The biggest rabbit was called Goliath, and it was David's delight to hold him up by the ears, in spite of his very powerful kicks, and exhibit his splendid condition to any admiring beholder. But though Goliath was handsome, and the white rats numerous, their owner was not quite satisfied, for his fondest wish for some time past had been to possess a pig. A nice little round black pig, with a very curly tail; he would then be content, and ask nothing further of fortune. He thought of the pig, and hoped for the pig, and it would not be too much to say that he dreamed of the pig. When he passed a drove of them in the road, squeaking, pushing, grunting, and going every way but the right, he would stand in speechless admiration. His mind was a practical one, and did not dwell merely on the pleasure of owning the pig itself, but also on the prospect of fattening, selling, and realising money by it. "You'd never be able to have it killed," said Nancy, who was his chief confidante, "after you got fond of it, and it got to know you; you'd as soon kill Goliath." "I shouldn't have it killed," answered David. "I should sell it to the farmer." "Well; but _he'd_ have it killed," pursued the relentless Nancy. This was unanswerable. "Never mind. I want a pig, and I shall save up my money," said David sturdily. David's bank was a white china house which stood on the nursery mantel-shelf; it had a very red roof with a hole in it, and into this he continued for some time to drop all his pennies, and halfpennies, and farthings with great persistency, and a mind steadily fixed on the pig. After all, however, he got it without spending any of his savings, and this is how it happened:-- One fine morning at the end of September the children were all ready for their usual walk with Miss Grey--all, that is, except Dickie, who, being still a nursery child, went out walking with Nurse and baby. The other four, however, were ready, not only as regards hats and jackets, but were also each provided with something to "take out," which, in their opinion, was quite as indispensable. Penelope therefore carried a sketching book, Ambrose a boat under one arm, and under the other a camp-stool in case Miss Grey should be tired, Nancy two dolls and a skipping-rope, and David a whip and a long chain. At the end of this was the terrier dog Snuff, choking and struggling with excitement, and giving vent to smothered barks. Snuff would willingly have been loose, and there was indeed not the least occasion for this restraint, as it would have been far easier to lose David than the dog; he knew well, however, that children have their little weaknesses in these matters, and submitted to his bondage with only a few whines of remonstrance when the company had once fairly started. His patience was a good deal tried on this occasion, as well as that of the children, for it seemed as though Mrs Hawthorn never would finish talking to Miss Grey in the hall. At last, however, she said something which pleased them very much: "I want you to go to Hatchard's Farm for me, and ask about the butter." Now Hatchard's Farm was the place of all others that the children delighted to visit. It was about two miles from Easney, and the nicest way to it was across some fields, where you could find mushrooms, into a little narrow lane where the thickly growing blackberry brambles caught and scratched at you as you passed. This lane was muddy in winter, and at no time in the year did it appear so desirable to Miss Grey as to the children; but it was such a favourite walk with them that she generally yielded. The only other way of getting to the farm was by the high-road, and that was so dreadfully dull! After scrambling along the lane a little while, you saw the red-brown roofs of the barns and outbuildings clustering round the house itself, and almost hiding it, and soon a pleasant confusion of noises met your ear. Ducks quacked, hens cackled, pigeons perched about on the roofs kept up a monotonous murmur; then came the deep undertones of the patient cows, and as you neared the house you could generally hear Mrs Hatchard's voice in her dairy adding its commanding accents to the medley of sounds. It certainly was a delightful farm, and David had long ago determined that when he grew up he would have one just like it, and wear brown leather gaiters like Farmer Hatchard's. He would also keep pigs like his--quite black, with very short legs and faces, and tightly curled tails. But some time must pass before this, and the next best thing was to go as often as possible to see them, and ask all manner of questions of the farmer or his men. There was no one in the great wide kitchen when the party arrived on this occasion, and Miss Grey sat down to wait for Mrs Hatchard, while the children made their usual tour of admiring examination. They had seen every object in the room hundreds of times before, but how interesting they always were! The high-backed settle on each side of the fire was dark with age, and bright with the toil of Mrs Hatchard's hands; the heavy oak rafters were so conveniently low that the children could see the farmer's gun, a bunch of dips, a pair of clogs, a side of bacon kept there as in a sort of storehouse. At the end of the room opposite the wide hearth was the long narrow deal table, where the farmer and his men all dined together at twelve o'clock, for they were old-fashioned people at Hatchard's Farm; and behind the door hung the cuckoo clock, before which the children never failed to stand in open-mouthed expectation if it were near striking the hour. On all this the sun darted his rays through the low casement, and failed to find, for all his keen glances, one speck of dust. Miss Grey sat in the window-seat looking absently out at the marigolds and asters in the gay garden, when she felt a little hand suddenly placed in hers, and, turning round, saw David, his face crimson with suppressed excitement: "Come," he said, pulling her gently, "come and look here." He led her to the hearth, and pointed speechless to something which looked like a small flannel bundle in a basket. As she looked at it, it moved a little. "Well, Davie," said she, "what is this wonderful thing? Something alive?" David had knelt down close to the bundle and was peering in between the folds of the flannel with an expression of reverent awe. He looked up gravely. "Don't you see," he said slowly in lowered accents, "it's a little baby pig!" Stooping down Miss Grey examined it more closely, and found that it was indeed a little black pig of very tender age, so closely covered up in flannel that only its small pointed snout and one eye were visible. "Do you suppose it's ill?" inquired David. "I daresay it is," answered Miss Grey; "we'll ask Mrs Hatchard about it presently." The other children had gathered round, all more or less interested in the invalid pig; but presently, Pennie having suggested that they should go and see the new little calf, they ran out of the kitchen in search of fresh excitement. "Come along, Davie," said Ambrose, looking back from the door; "come out and see the other pigs." "No," said David decidedly, "I shall stop here." He took his seat as he spoke on the corner of the settle nearest the pig, with the evident intention of waiting for Mrs Hatchard's arrival; he was not going to lose a chance of inquiring closely into such an important subject. And at last Mrs Hatchard came bustling in, cheerful, brisk, and ruddy-faced as usual, with many apologies for her delay. Miss Grey plunged at once into business with her, and the patient David sat silently biding his time for the fit moment to put his questions. "Won't you run out, little master?" said the good-natured farmer's wife, noticing the grave little figure at last. "There's the calves to see, and a fine litter of likely young pigs too." "No, thank you," said David politely. "I want to know, please, why you keep this one little pig in here, and whether it's ill." "Oh, aye," said Mrs Hatchard, coming up to the basket and stooping to look at the occupant, which was now making a feeble grunting noise. "I'd most forgot it. You see it's the Antony pig, and it's that weakly and dillicut I took it away to give it a chance. I doubt I sha'n't rear it, though, for it seems a poor little morsel of a thing." "How many other little pigs are there?" asked David. "Why, there's ten on 'em--all fine likely pigs except this one, and they do that push and struggle and fight there's no chance for him." "Why do you call it the Antony pig?" pursued David with breathless interest. "Well, I don't rightly know why or wherefore," said Mrs Hatchard; "it's just a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in the litter." "Do you think Farmer Hatchard knows?" inquired David. "Well, he might," said Mrs Hatchard, "and then again he mightn't. But I tell you what, Master David, if yonder little pig lives, and providin' the vicar has no objections, I'll give him to you. You always fancied pigs, didn't you now?" David was still leaning fondly over the basket, and made no reply at first. It took some time to fully understand the reality of such a splendid offer. "Come, Davie," said Miss Grey, "we must say good-bye and go and find the others." Then he got up, and held out his hand gravely to Mrs Hatchard. "Good-bye," he said. "Thank you. I hope you'll accede in rearing the Antony pig. I should like to have it very much, if father will let me." David went home from the farm hardly able to believe in his own good fortune, but according to his custom he said very little. The matter was discussed freely, however, by the other children, and it was so interesting that it lasted them all the way back. Would the pig live? they wondered, and if it did, would their father let David have it? Where would it live? What would David call the pig if he did get it? This last inquiry was put by Ambrose, and he felt quite rebuked when his brother replied scornfully, "Antony, of course." But there was some demur on the part of the vicar when he was informed of the proposed addition to his live stock. "I don't like to disappoint you, my boy," he said, "but you know Andrew has plenty to do already. He has the garden to look after, and the cows, and my horse. I don't think I could ask him to undertake anything more." Poor little David's face fell, and his underlip was pushed out piteously. He would not have cried for the world, and none of the children ever thought of questioning what their father said; so he stood silent, though he felt that the world without the Antony pig would be empty indeed. "Do you want it very much, Davie?" said the vicar, looking up from his writing at the mournful little face. "Yes, father, I do," said David, and with all his resolution he could not choke back a little catching sob as he spoke. "Well, then, look here," said his father; "if you will promise me to take entire charge of it, and never to trouble Andrew, or call him away from his work to attend to it, you shall have the pig. But if I find that it is neglected in any way, I shall send it back at once to Farmer Hatchard. Is that a bargain?" "Oh, yes, indeed," cried the delighted David; and he ran out to tell the result of his interview to the anxious children waiting outside the study door. So David was to have the pig; and, with the assistance of Ambrose and a few words of advice from Andrew, he at once began to prepare a habitation for it. Fortunately there was an old sty still in existence, which only wanted a little repairing, and everything was soon ready. But the rearing of the Antony pig still hung trembling in the balance, and some anxious weeks were passed by David; he called to inquire after it as often as he possibly could, and, to his great joy, found it on each occasion more lively and thriving--thanks to Mrs Hatchard's devoted care. And at last the long-wished-for day arrived. Antony was driven to his new home with a string tied round his leg, in the midst of a triumphal procession of children, and David's joy and exultation were complete. There was certainly no danger of his neglecting his charge, or of asking anyone to assist him in its service; never was pig so well cared for as Antony, and as time went on he showed an intelligent appreciation of David's attentions not unmixed with affection. Perhaps in consequence of these attentions he soon developed much shrewdness of character, and had many little humorous ways which were the pride of his master's heart. The two were fast friends, and seemed to understand each other without the need of speech, though David had been known to talk to his pig when he believed himself to be in private. As for the _selling_ part of the plan, it seemed quite to have faded away, and when Andrew said with a grin: "Well, young master, t'pig 'ull soon be ready for market noo," David got quite hot and angry, and changed the subject at once. On rare occasions Antony was conducted, making unctuous snorts of pleasure, into the field to taste a little fresh grass and rout about with his inquisitive nose; but the garden was of course forbidden ground. Therefore, when he was once discovered in the act of enjoying himself amongst Andrew's potatoes, the consternation was extreme. It was Nancy who saw him, as she sat one morning learning a French verb, and staring meanwhile absently out of the schoolroom window. Her expression changed suddenly from utter vacancy to keen interest, and her monotonous murmur of "J'ai, Tu as, Il a," to a shout of, "Oh, Davie, there's Antony in the garden!" "Nancy," said Miss Grey severely, "you know it is against rules to talk in lesson time. Be quiet." "But I can't really, Miss Grey," said Nancy, craning her neck to get a better view of the culprit; "he's poking up the potatoes like anything. Andrew _will_ be so cross. You'd better just let us go and chase him back again." The excitement had now risen so high that Miss Grey felt this would really be the best plan, for attention to lessons seemed impossible, and soon the four children were rushing helter-skelter across the garden in pursuit of Antony. With a frisk of his tail and a squeak of defiance he led the chase in fine style, choosing Andrew's most cherished borders. What a refreshment it was, after the tedium of French verbs and English history, and what a pity when Antony, after a brave resistance, was at length hustled back into his sty! Whether the door was insecure, or not too carefully fastened after this, remains uncertain; but it is a fact that these pig-chases came to be of pretty frequent occurrence, and always happened, by some strange chance, during school hours. The cry of, "Pig out!" and the consequent rush of children in pursuit, at last reached such a pitch that both Miss Grey and the much-tried Andrew made complaint to the vicar. Miss Grey declared that discipline was becoming impossible, and Andrew that there would not be a "martal vegetable in the garden if Master David's pig got out so often." Then the vicar made a rule to this effect: "If David's pig is seen in the garden again, it goes back that same day to Farmer Hatchard." The vicar's rules were not things to be disregarded, and his threats were always carried out. David and Ambrose might have been seen with a large hammer and nails very busy at the pig-sty that afternoon, and Antony's visits to the garden ceased, until one unlucky occasion when David was away from home, and it fell out in the following manner:-- In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, lived Pennie's godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days, taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was an occasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of the thing than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unity was rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to their proper behaviour. She was fond of saying, "In _my_ time young people did so and so," and of noticing any little failure in politeness, or even any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a great square house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished, and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks, which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully with her own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon the children, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeed so many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means an unmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however, though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraid of the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, and always looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it was to go to Nearminster. And now the time had come round again, and it was David's turn to go, but there was one drawback to his pleasure, because he must leave the pig. Who could say that some careless hand might not leave the door of the sty open or insecurely fastened during his absence? Then Antony's fate would be certain, for Andrew was only too eager to carry out the vicar's sentence of banishment, and was on the watch for the least excuse to hurry the pig back to the farm. After turning it over in his mind, David came to the conclusion that he could best ensure Antony's safety by placing him under someone's special care, and he chose Nancy for this important office. "You _will_ take care of him, won't you?" he said, drawing up very close to her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, "and see that his gate is always fastened." Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in the _Pilgrim's Progress_; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon in delicate sea-green, and said rather absently: "Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie." "No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it," said David, bungling dreadfully over the long word in his anxiety--"you _more_ than the others." "All right," said Nancy with her head critically on one side. "I want you to promise three things," went on David--"to keep his gate shut, and to give him acorns, and not to let Dickie poke a stick at him." "Oh, yes, I'll promise," said Nancy readily. "Truly and faithfully?" continued David, edging still closer up to her; "you won't forget?" "No, I really won't," said Nancy with an impatient jerk of her elbow; "don't you worry me any more about it." "I took care of your dormouse when _you_ went," continued David, "and didn't forget it once. So you ought to take care of my pig, it's only fair." "Well, don't I tell you I'm going to?" said Nancy, laying down her paint-brush with an air of desperation. "I sha'n't do it a bit more for your asking so often. Do leave off." "You'll only be away three days, Davie," said Pennie, looking up from her book; "we can manage to take care of Antony that little while I should think." "Well," said David, "Nancy's got to be 'sponsible, because I took care of her mouse." "If I were you," said Ambrose with a superior air, "I wouldn't use such long words; you never say them right." "I say," interrupted Pennie, putting down her book, "what do you all like best when you go to Nearminster? I know what _I_ like best." "Well, what is it?" said Ambrose; "you say first, and then Nancy, and then me, and then David." "Well," said Pennie, clasping her knees with much enjoyment, "what I like best is going to church in the Cathedral in the afternoon. When it's a little bit dusky, you know, but not lighted up, and all the pillars look misty, and a long way off, and there are very few people. And then the boys sing, and you feel quite good and just a little bit sad; I can't think why it is that I never feel like that in our church; I suppose it's a cathedral feeling. That's what I like best. Now you, Nancy." "Why," said Nancy without the least hesitation. "I like that little Chinese mandarin that stands on the mantel-piece in Miss Unity's sitting-room, and wags its head." "And _I_ like the drive back here best," said Ambrose, "because, when we're going there's only Miss Unity to see at the end; but when we get here there are all the animals and things." "I don't call that liking Nearminster. I call it liking home," said Nancy. "Now, it's your turn, David." "I don't know what I like best," said David solemnly. "I only know what I like least." "What's that?" "Miss Unity," said David with decision. "Should you call her very ugly?" inquired Ambrose. "Yes, of course, quite hideous," replied Nancy indistinctly, with her paint-brush in her mouth. "Well, I'm not quite sure," said Pennie; "once I saw her eyes look quite nice, as if they had a light shining at the back of them." "Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a candle inside?" suggested Nancy. "You're always so stupid, Nancy!" said Ambrose scornfully. "I know what Pennie means about Miss Unity; _I've_ seen her eyes look nice too. Don't you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude to her? I've never been so afraid of her since that." The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, David sitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own little trunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, and the end of the reins--so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman; but this delightful position did not make him forget other things. Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, he lifted a solemn finger. "Remember!" he said. Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, and good-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out of sight. "That was like Charles the First," said Pennie; "don't you remember just before they cut off his head--" "Oh, don't!" said Nancy; "pray, don't talk about Charles the First out of lesson time." CHAPTER FIVE. MISS UNITY. It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, but she had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish for any other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time when everything had not been so quiet and still round her--when she was one of a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo with their little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one those voices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and Miss Unity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with the memories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were all just alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside her door. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would have been irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o'clock sounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, would pull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, "A fine morning, ma'am," or "A dull morning," as the case might be. At eleven o'clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the light part of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price of vegetables; after which, girt with a large linen apron, and her head protected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherished china. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietly to herself during these operations; but no one could have understood her, for she only uttered the fag-ends of her thoughts aloud. The Chinese mandarin which Nancy admired was the object of Miss Unity's fondest care; some bygone association was doubtless connected with him, for she seldom failed to utter some husky little sentences of endearment while she lingered over his grotesque person with tender touches of her feather brush. So the day went on. After her dinner, if the weather were fair, she would perhaps deck herself with a black silk mantilla and a tall bonnet with nodding flowers, and go out to visit some old friend. A muffin, a cup of tea, and perhaps a little cathedral gossip would follow; and then Miss Unity, stepping primly across the Close, reached the dull shelter of her own home again, and was alone for the rest of the evening. At ten o'clock she read prayers to Bridget and the little maid, and so to bed. The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year--once by Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's visit to Nearminster, and once by Miss Unity's visit to Easney. These were important events to her, anticipated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she was really fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usual habits was, besides, a positive torture to her. Then there were the children! Troublesome little riddles Miss Unity often found them, impossible to understand; and it is a question whether she or they were the more uncomfortable when they were together. For she had an idea, gathered from some dim recollection of the past, that children needed constant correction and reproof; and she felt sure Mary Hawthorn neglected her duty in this respect, and was over-indulgent. So, being a most conscientious woman, she tried to supply this shortcoming, and the result was not a happy one. She was ill at ease with all the children, but of Dickie she was fairly frightened, for Dickie had disgraced herself at her very first introduction. Seeing Miss Unity's grim face framed by the nodding bonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with a sweet smile, "Ugly lady!" There was no disguising it, for Dickie's utterance had the clearness of a bell, and a horrified silence fell on the assembly. "Don't be naughty, Dickie," said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; "say, `How do you do?' directly." But Miss Unity had straightened herself up and turned away with an odd look in her eyes. "Don't scold the child, Mary," she said; "she's not naughty, she's only honest." From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeed her features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When her feelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kind feelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened in her life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort of prison, and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did not know her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross--she was only lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing could have passed off better than the Hawthorns' visit on this particular occasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never feared the unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children. He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of his knocking down the china, or treading on the cat's tail, or on the train of Miss Unity's gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, however hard she tried to be good, and was, besides, very restive under reproof and ready to answer pertly. On the whole Miss Unity liked to have the grave little David with her better than the other children, though she sometimes felt when she found his solemn and disapproving gaze fixed upon her. David on his side had his opinions, though he said little, and he had long ago made up his mind that he did not like Miss Unity at all. So he was sorry to find, when the day came for leaving Nearminster, that she was going back to Easney with them instead of making her visit later in the year. It would not be nearly as pleasant as driving alone with his father and mother, he thought; for now he could not ask questions on the way, unless he talked to Andrew, and he was always so silent. When the wagonette came round there were so many little packages belonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away, and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that there was much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number of oddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling and distracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a good quarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity's property; while David looked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father's capacity. "That's all, I think," said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as he emerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours; "there's not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shall manage." As he spoke Bridget came out of the house carrying a waterproof bundle, bristling with umbrellas and parasols. "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, "is that to go? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?" "She wouldn't like to go without 'em, sir," replied Bridget. "Where _shall_ you put them, father?" asked David in quite an excited manner. That was indeed a question, but it was at length solved by Mr Hawthorn deciding to walk, and the wagonette was ready to proceed, David sitting in front as usual. After several efforts to make Andrew talk he fell back for amusement on his own thoughts, and in recognising all the well-known objects they passed on the road. Presently they came to a certain little grey cottage, and then he knew they were halfway home. It had honeysuckle growing over the porch, and a row of bee-hives in the garden, which was generally bright and gay with flowers; just now, however, it all looked withered and unattractive, except that on one tree there still hung some very red apples, though it was the beginning of November. That reminded David of Antony, who had a great weakness for apples. He smiled to himself, and felt glad that he should see his pet so soon. After this cottage there was a long steep hill to go up, and here Ruby the horse always waited for Andrew to get down and walk. David might really drive now, and even flick at Ruby's fat sides with the whip, which was pleasant, but did not make the least difference to his speed. When they had reached the top of the hill, the little square tower of Easney church could just be seen, and the chimneys of the vicarage, but though they looked near, there were still nearly four miles to drive. Now it was all downhill, and Ruby pounded along at an even trot, which seemed to make a sort of accompaniment to David's thoughts-- To market, to market, To buy a fat pig; Home again, home again, Jig a jig, jig! it said, over and over again. "I wonder whether Antony will know me!" thought David. Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrew getting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to the front door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and Dickie were assembled to welcome the return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity's belongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchful eye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried away towards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and see him first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered with fruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which had fallen. "He's _so_ fond of 'em!" thought he, as he put it in his pocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt so delightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on more slowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had a strangely empty look about it. "He's eating," said David encouragingly to himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to go any nearer. Then he called gently: "Choug, choug, choug." No sign of life. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bear the uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty. Empty! Yes, quite empty--Antony's straw bed was there, and the remains of some food in his trough, but no Antony! David stood staring at the desolate dwelling for some minutes, hardly able to believe his eyes; then with a thrill of hope he said to himself: "He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;" and he turned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a small dejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face and lagging step. It was Nancy--grief in every feature, and guilt in every movement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now, and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching his fists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she was crying. "Oh, Davie," she said. "I am so sorry." "Where's Antony?" said David in a muffled voice without looking at her. "He's gone." "Where?" "Back to the farm." "Why?" "Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he must obey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said she couldn't interfere--" Nancy stopped and gasped. "Then," said David sternly, "you didn't fasten his gate." "Oh, I _thought_ I did," said Nancy, beginning to sob again in an agonised manner; "but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, and he must have pushed it open. I am so sorry." "That's no good at all," said David with a trembling lip; "Antony's gone." "I'll give you anything of mine to make up," said Nancy eagerly--"my bantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten." "I don't want anything of yours," said David, "I want my own pig." Nancy was silent, except for some little convulsive sobs. Presently she made a last effort. "Please, Davie," she said humbly, "won't you forgive me? I _am_ so sorry." David turned round. His face was very red, but he spoke slowly and quietly: "No," he said, "I won't forgive you. I never mean to. You promised to take care of Antony, and you haven't. You're _very_ wicked." Then he went away and left Nancy in floods of tears by the empty sty. Everyone sympathised with David at first, and was sorry for his loss, though perhaps no one quite understood what a great one it was to him; but there was another feeling mingled with his grief for Antony, which was even stronger, and that was anger towards his sister. David had a deep sense of justice, and it seemed hard to him that he alone should suffer for Nancy's wrong-doing. When he saw her after a time as merry and gay as though Antony had never existed, he felt as hard as stone, and would neither speak to her nor join in any game in which she took part. She ought to be punished, he thought, and made to feel as unhappy as he did. Poor little Davie! he was very miserable in those days, and sadly changed, for his once loving heart was torn with grief and anger, which are both hard to bear, but anger far the worse of the two. So he moped about mournfully alone, and no one took much notice of him, for people got tired of trying to comfort him and persuade him to forgive. Even his mother was unsuccessful: "You ought to forgive and forget, Davie," said she. "I _can't_ forget Antony," replied David, "and I don't want to forgive Nancy. I'd rather _not_." "But she would be the first to forget any wrong thing you did to her," continued Mrs Hawthorn. "Nancy _always_ forgets," said David, "wrong things and right things too." Mrs Hawthorn was silenced, for this was strictly true. "I don't know what to make of David," she said to her husband afterwards. "I would ask you to let him have the pig back, but I don't think he ought to have it while he shows this unforgiving spirit." "Let him alone," said the vicar. "Leave it to time." So David was left alone; but time went on and did not seem to soften his feelings in the least, and this was at last brought about by a very unexpected person. One morning Miss Unity, who had now been staying some time at Easney, went out to take a little air in the garden: it was rather damp under foot, for it had rained in the night, but now the sun shone brightly, and she stepped forth, well protected by over-shoes and thick shawl, with the intention of taking exercise for exactly a quarter of an hour. From the direction of the Wilderness she heard shouts and laughter which warned her of the children's whereabouts, and she turned at once into another path which led to the kitchen-garden. "How Mary does let those children run wild!" she said to herself, "and Pennie getting a great girl, too. As for Miss Grey, she's a perfect cipher, and doesn't look after them a bit. If they were _my_ children--" But here Miss Unity's reflections were checked. Lifting her eyes she saw at the end of the narrow path a low shed which looked like a pig-sty; by it was a plank, raised at each end on a stone, so as to form a rough bench, and on this there crouched a small disconsolate figure. It was bent nearly double, and had its face buried in its hands, so that only a rough shock of very light hair was visible; but though she could not see any features Miss Unity knew at once that it was David mourning for his pig. Her first impulse was to turn round and go quickly away, for she had gathered from what she had heard of the affair that he was a very naughty, sulky little boy; as she looked, however, she saw by a slight heaving movement of the shoulder that he was crying quietly, and her heart was stirred with sudden pity: "It's a real grief to the child, that's evident, though it's only about a pig," she said to herself, and, yielding to another impulse, she walked on towards him instead of going back. But after all it was a difficult situation when she got close to him, for she did not know what to say, although she felt an increasing desire to give him comfort. At any rate it was useless to stand there in silence looking at that little bowed head; would it be better to sit down by him, perhaps? she wondered, casting a doubtful eye on the decidedly dirty plank. Miss Unity was delicately particular, and her whole soul recoiled from dirt and dust, so it was really with heroic resolution that she suddenly folded her nice grey gown closely about her and took a seat, stiffly erect, by David's side. When there she felt impelled to pat his head gently with two long fingers, and say softly: "Poor little boy!" David had watched all Miss Unity's movements narrowly through a chink in his fingers, though he kept his face closely hidden, and when she sat down beside him he was so surprised that he stopped crying. He wondered what she was going to say. She would scold him, of course, everyone scolded him now, and he set his teeth sullenly and prepared to defend himself. Then the unexpected kind words fell on his ear, and he could not help bursting into fresh tears, and sobbed as if his heart would break. It was partly for Antony, partly for Nancy, partly for himself, that he was crying; he was so tired of being naughty, and he wanted so much to be made good again. Miss Unity was sadly perplexed by the result of her efforts; she seemed to have made matters worse instead of better, and she sat for some minutes in silent dismay by the side of the sobbing David. But having begun she felt she must go on, and taking advantage of a little lull she presently said: "Was it a nice pig, David?" "B-b-beautiful." "And you miss it?" This was so evident a fact that David seemed to think it needed no answer, and Miss Unity continued: "It's sad to lose anything we know and love. Very hard to bear. It's quite natural and right to be sorry." David took his hands away from his face, which was curiously marked by dirty fingers and tears, and lifted a pair of blurred blue eyes to Miss Unity. He was listening, and she felt encouraged to proceed: "But though it's hard, there is something else that is much worse; do you know what that is?" "No," said David. "To be angry with anyone we love," said Miss Unity solemnly; "that is a very bitter feeling, and hurts us very much. All the while we have it in our hearts we can't be happy, because anger and love are fighting together." David's eyes grew rounder and larger. Could this really be Miss Unity? He was deeply impressed. "And they fight," she went on, "until one is killed. Very often love is stronger, but sometimes it is anger that conquers, and then sad things follow. In this way, David, much evil has happened in the world from time to time." Miss Unity paused. She felt that she was getting on very well, and was surprised at her own success, for David had stopped crying, and was staring at her with absorbed interest. She went on: "When once we let anger drive love quite out of our hearts all manner of bad things enter; but we don't often succeed in doing it, because love is so great and strong. Do you know why you're so unhappy just now?" "Because I've lost Antony," said David at once. "Yes, that is one reason, but there is a bigger one. It is because you are angry with Nancy." David hung his head. "You're fond of Nancy, Davie? I've heard your mother say that you and she are favourite playfellows." "No," said David, "not now. She promised to shut Antony's gate--and she forgot." Miss Unity stopped a moment to think; then she said: "Would you be happier, David, if Nancy were to be punished?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because it would be fair." "Well--you know it's Nancy's birthday soon, and she has to choose what present I shall give her?" David nodded his head. He knew it very well; and not only that, he knew what Nancy was going to choose, for she had confided to him as a great secret that her heart was set on a kitchen-range for the doll's house. "When she chooses, would you like me to say: `No, Nancy. Because you were careless and forgot David's pig I shall give you nothing this year?'" Miss Unity waited eagerly for the answer. How she hoped it would be "No." She had not been so anxious for anything for a long time. But David raised his head, gazed at her calmly, and said quite distinctly: "Yes." Miss Unity sighed as she got up from her lowly seat. "Very well, David," she said, "it shall be so; but I am sorry you will not forgive your sister." She went sadly back to the house, thinking to herself: "Of course _I_ could not persuade where others have failed. It was foolish to try. I have no influence with children. I ought to have remembered that." But she was mistaken. That night when she was dressing for dinner there was a little knock at her door, very low down as though from somebody of short stature. She opened it, and there was David. "If you please," he said, "I've come to say that I'd rather you gave Nancy the kitchen-range--I mean, whatever she chooses for her birthday." "Then you've forgiven her?" asked Miss Unity excitedly. "Yes," said David. "Good-night, because it's bed-time. Nurse said I was to go back directly." He held out his hand, and also raised a pursed-up mouth towards Miss Unity, which meant that he wished to be kissed. Feeling the honour deeply she stooped and kissed him, and her eyes followed the little square figure wistfully as it trotted down the passage to the nursery; when it disappeared she turned into her room again with a warmer feeling about her heart than she had known for many a day. Three days after this was Nancy's birthday, and although the kitchen-range did not appear she hopped and skipped and looked so brimful of delight that David could not help asking: "What are you so pleased about?" "Come with me," was Nancy's reply, "and I'll show you Miss Unity's birthday present. It's the best of all." She hurried David into the garden, and up to the pig-sty--empty no longer! There was Antony as lively as ever, and ready to greet his master with a cheerful grunt! "There," she said, in the intervals of a dance of triumph, "I and Andrew fetched him home. Father said we might. I asked Miss Unity to ask him to have him back for a birthday present. And she did. She was so kind; and I don't think she's ugly now at all." Nor did David; and he never said again that the thing he liked least at Nearminster was Miss Unity, for he had a long memory for benefits as well as for injuries. CHAPTER SIX. ETHELWYN. "Oh, dear me!" said Pennie, looking at herself in the glass over the nursery mantel-shelf; "it _is_ ugly, and _so_ uncomfortable. I wish I needn't wear it." "It," was Pennie's new winter bonnet, and certainly it was not very becoming; it was made of black plush with a very deep brim, out of which her little pointed face peered mournfully, and seemed almost swallowed up. There was one exactly like it for Nancy, and the bonnets had just come from Miss Griggs, the milliner at Nearminster, where they had been ordered a week ago. "Do you come and try yours on, Miss Pennie," said Nurse as she unpacked them, "there's no getting hold of Miss Nancy." So Pennie put it on with a little secret hope that it might be a prettier bonnet than the last; she looked in the glass, and then followed the exclamation with which this chapter begins. "I don't see anything amiss with it," said Nurse, who stood with her head on one side, and the other bonnet perched on her hand. "They're as alike as two pins," she added, twirling it round admiringly. "They're both just as ugly as they can be," said Pennie mournfully; "but mine's sure to look worse than Nancy's--it always does. And they never _will_ stay on," she added in a still more dejected voice, "unless I keep on catching at the strings in front with my chin." "Oh, well, Miss Pennie," said Nurse, "your head will grow to it, and you ought to be thankful to have such a nice warm bonnet. How would you like to go about with just a shawl over your head, like them gypsies we saw the other day?" "_Very much indeed_," said Pennie, who had now taken off the bonnet and was looking at it ruefully. "There was one gypsy who had a red handkerchief, which looked much prettier than this ugly old thing." "You oughtn't to mind how things look," returned Nurse. "You think too much of outsides, Miss Pennie." "But the outside of a bonnet is the only part that matters," replied Pennie. She was quite prepared to continue the subject, but this was not the case with Nurse. "I've no time for argufying, miss," she said as she put the bonnets carefully back into their boxes. "I'm sure my mistress will like them very much. They're just as she ordered them." And so the subject was dismissed, and Pennie felt that she was again a victim. For, as Nurse had said, Pennie _did_ care a great deal about outsides, and she thought it hard sometimes that she and Nancy must always be dressed alike, for the same things did not suit them at all. Probably this very bonnet which was such a trial to Pennie would be a suitable frame for Nancy's round rosy face, and look quite nice. It was certainly hard. Pennie loved all beautiful things, from the flowers in the garden and fields to the yellow curls on Cicely's ruffled head, and it often troubled her to feel that with pretty things all round her she did not look pretty herself. So the winter bonnet cast quite a gloom on her for the moment, and although it may seem a small trial to sensible people it was a large one to Pennie. How often she had sighed over the straight little serge frocks which she and Nancy always wore, and secretly longed for brighter colours and more flowing lines, and now this ugly dark bonnet had come to make things worse. It would make her feel like a blot in a fair white copybook, to walk about in it when the beautiful clean snow covered the earth. What a pity that everything in the world was not pretty! Pennie's whole soul went out towards beauty, and anyone with a pretty face might be sure of her loving worship and admiration. "All is not gold that glitters, Miss Pennie," Nurse would say, or, "Handsome is that handsome does;" but it made no impression at all; Pennie continued to feel sure that what looked pretty _must_ be good, and that a fair outside meant perfection within. She stood thoughtfully watching Nurse as she put the bonnets away. It _would_ be nice to wear a scarlet handkerchief over your head like that gypsy. Such a lovely colour! And then there would be no tormenting "caught back" feeling when the wind blew, which made it necessary to press the chin firmly on the strings to keep that miserable bonnet on at all. And besides these advantages it would be much cheaper, for she had heard her mother say that Miss Griggs' things were _so_ expensive; "but then," Mrs Hawthorn had added, "the best of them is that they _do_ last." Pennie thought that decidedly "the worst" of them, for she and Nancy would have to wear those bonnets for at least two winters before they showed any signs of wearing out--indeed, they had been made rather large in the head on purpose. But it was of no use to think about it any more now, so with a little sigh she turned away and went back to her dolls, prepared to treat the ugly one, Jemima, with even more than usual severity. Jemima was the oldest doll of the lot, made of a sort of papier-mache; her hair was painted black and arranged in short fat curls; her face, from frequent washing and punishment, had become of a leaden hue, and was full of dents and bruises; her nose was quite flat, and she had lost one arm; in her best days she had been plain, but she was now hideous. And no wonder! Poor Jemima had been through enough trials to mar the finest beauty. She had been the victim at so many scenes of torture and executions that there was scarcely a noted sufferer in the whole of the History of England whom she had not, at some time or other, represented. To be burnt alive was quite a common thing to Jemima, and sometimes, descending from the position of martyr to that of criminal, she was hanged as a murderer! In an unusually bloodthirsty moment Ambrose had once suggested _really_ putting out her eyes with red-hot gauffering-irons, but this was overruled, and Jemima's eyes, pale blue and quite expressionless, continued to stare placidly on the stake, gibbet, or block, as the case might be. It was a relief to Pennie just now to cuff and scold Jemima, and to pet the Lady Dulcibella, who was a wax doll with a lovely pink and white complexion, and real golden hair and eyelashes. She had everything befitting a doll of her station and appearance--a comfortable bed with white curtains, an arm-chair with a chintz cushion, private brushes and combs, and an elegant travelling trunk. Her life altogether was a contrast to Jemima's, who never went to bed at all, and had no possessions except one ragged old red dress; nevertheless, it is possible that Dulcibella with all her elegance would have been the more easily spared of the two. Nancy soon joined Pennie, and the little girls became so absorbed in their play that they were still busy when tea-time came; they hurried down-stairs to the schoolroom, for Miss Grey was particular about punctuality, and found that David and Ambrose were already seated, each with his own special mug at his side; mother was in the room too, talking to Miss Grey about an open letter which she held in her hand. Mrs Hawthorn always paid the children a visit at schoolroom tea, and they generally had something wonderful to tell her saved up for this occasion--things which had occurred during their walk, or perhaps exciting details about the various pet animals. Sometimes she in her turn had news for them, and when Pennie saw the open letter she changed her intention of saying that the bonnets had come home, and waited quietly. Perhaps mother had something interesting to tell. Pennie was right, for Mrs Hawthorn presently made an announcement of such a startling character that the new bonnets sank at once into insignificance. "Children," she said, "a little girl is coming to stay with you." Now such a thing had never happened before, and it was so astonishing that they all stared at their mother in silence with half-uplifted mugs, and slices of bread and butter in their hands. Then all at once they began to pour forth a torrent of questions:-- What is she like? Where does she live? How old is she? What is her name? Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand. "One at a time," she said. "If you will be quiet you shall hear all about it. This little girl lives in London. Her mother is a very old friend of mine, though you have never seen her, and I have asked her to let her little daughter come here for a visit. She is about Pennie's age, and her name is Ethelwyn." "What a long one!" said Nancy; "must we call her all of it?" "I think it's a beautiful name," said Pennie. "Almost as good as `Dulcibella.' And then we might call her `Ethel,' or `Winnie,' they're both pretty." "Well, you can settle that afterwards," said their mother. "You must wait and see what she likes best to be called. And that reminds me to say that I hope my children will be hospitable to their guest. Do you know what that means?" "I know," said Ambrose, gulping a piece of bread and butter very quickly in his haste to be first. "Let _me_ say. It means taking care of people when they're ill." "Not quite right," said Mrs Hawthorn. "You are thinking of `hospital,' which is a different thing, though both words come from the same idea; can you tell, Pennie?" "It means being kind, doesn't it?" said Pennie. "It means something more than that. What do you say, Davie?" "Always to give her the biggest piece," said David, with his eyes thoughtfully fixed on the pile of bread and butter. Nancy was then appealed to, but she always refused to apply her mind out of lesson hours, and only shook her head. "Well," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I think Davie's explanation is about the best, for hospitality does mean giving our friends the best we have. But it means something more, for you might give Ethelwyn the biggest piece of everything, and yet she might not enjoy her visit at all. But if you try to make her happy in the way _she likes best_, and consider her amusement and comfort before your own, you will be hospitable, and I shall be very pleased with you all. I expect, however, she will be chiefly Pennie and Nancy's companion, because, as she has no brothers and sisters, she may not care about the games you all play together. She has not been used to boys, and might find them a little rough and noisy." Pennie drew herself up a little. It would be rather nice to have a friend of her very own, and already she saw herself Ethelwyn's sole support and adviser. The children continued to ask questions until there was nothing else to be learnt about Ethelwyn, and she was made the subject of conversation after their mother left the room, and until tea was over. They made various plans for the amusement of the expected guest. "I can show her my pig," said David. "And the rabbits and the jackdaw and the owl," added Ambrose. "Oh, I don't suppose she'll care at all about such common things as pigs and rabbits," said Pennie rather scornfully, for the very name of Ethelwyn had a sort of superior sound. "Then she'll be a stupid," said Ambrose. "Owdacious," added David. "Davie," said Miss Grey, "where did you hear that word?" "Andrew says it," answered David triumphantly; "he says Antony grows owdacious." A lively argument followed, for David could not be brought to understand for some time why Andrew's expressions were not equally fit for little boys and gardeners. Ethelwyn was for the time forgotten by everyone except Pennie, who continued to think about her all that evening. Indeed, for days afterwards her mind was full of nothing else; she wondered what she was like, and how she would talk, and she had Ethelwyn so much on the brain that she could not keep her out of her head even in lesson time. She came floating across the pages of the History of England while Pennie was reading aloud, and caused her to make strange mistakes in the names of the Saxon kings. "Ethelbert, not Ethelwyn, Pennie," Miss Grey would say for the twentieth time, and then with a little impatient shake Pennie would wake up from her day-dreams, and try to fix her mind on the matter in hand. But it was really difficult, for those kings seemed to follow each other so fast, and to do so much the same things, and even to have names so much alike, that it was almost impossible to have clear ideas about them. Pennie's attention soon wandered away again to a more attractive subject: Ethelwyn! it was certainly a nice name to have, and seemed to mean all sorts of interesting things; how small and poor the name of Pennie sounded after it! shortened to Pen, as it was sometimes, it was worse still. No doubt Ethelwyn would be pretty. She would have long yellow hair, Pennie decided, not plaited up in a pig-tail like her own and Nancy's, but falling over her shoulders in a nice fluffy way like the Lady Dulcibella's. Pennie often felt sorry that there was no fluffiness at all about her hair, or that of her brothers and sisters; their heads all looked so neat and tight, and indeed they could not do otherwise under Nurse's vigorous treatment, for she went on the principle that anything rough was untidy. Even Dickie's hair, which wanted to curl, was sternly checked, and kept closely cropped like a boy's; it was only Cicely's that was allowed at present to do as it liked and wave about in soft little rings of gold. Pennie made her plans and thought her thoughts, and often went to bed with Ethelwyn's imaginary figure so strongly before her that she had wonderful dreams. Ethelwyn took the shape of the "Fair One with the Golden Locks," in the fairy book, and stood before her with yellow hair quite down to her feet--beautiful, gracious, smiling. Even in the daylight Pennie could not quite get rid of the idea, and so, long before she had seen her, the name of Ethelwyn came to mean, in her romantic little mind, everything that was lovely and desirable. And at last Ethelwyn came. It was an exciting moment, for the children were so unused to strangers that they were prepared to look upon their visitor with deep curiosity. They were nevertheless shy, and it had occurred to David and Nancy that the cupboard under the stairs would be a favourable position from which to take cautious observations when she arrived. Ambrose, therefore, and Pennie were the only two ready to receive their guest, for Dickie was busy with her own affairs in the nursery; they waited in the schoolroom with nervous impatience, and presently the drawing-room bell rang twice, which was always a signal that the children were wanted. "That's for us," said Pennie. "Come, Ambrose." But Ambrose held back. "_You_ go," he said. "Mother doesn't want me." And Pennie, after trying a few persuasions, was obliged to go alone. But when she got to the door and heard voices inside the room she found it difficult to go in, and stood on the mat for some minutes before she could make up her mind to turn the handle. She looked down at her pinafore and saw that it was a good deal crumpled, and an unlucky ink-spot stared at her like a little black eye in the very middle of it; surely, too, Nurse had drawn back her hair more tightly than usual from her face. Altogether she felt unequal to meeting the unknown but elegant Ethelwyn. It must be done, however, and at last she turned the handle quickly and went into the room. Mrs Hawthorn was sitting by the fire, and in front of her stood a little girl. Her hair _was_ fluffy and yellow, just as Pennie had thought, and hung down her back in nice waves escaping from the prettiest possible quilted bonnet (how different from that black plush one upstairs!) This was dark blue like her dress, and she carried a dear little quilted muff to match. Her features were neat and straight, and her large violet eyes had long lashes curling upwards; there was really quite a striking likeness between her face and the Lady Dulcibella's, except that the cheeks of the latter were bright pink, and Ethelwyn was delicately pale. Pennie noticed all this as she advanced slowly up the room, deeply conscious of the crumpled pinafore and the ink-spot. "This is Pennie," said her mother, and Ethelwyn immediately held out her hand, and said, "How do you do?" in rather a prim voice and without any shyness at all. "Now I shall give Ethelwyn into your care, Pennie," continued Mrs Hawthorn. "You may take her into the garden and show her the pets, or if she likes it better you may go upstairs and play with your dolls. Make her as happy as you can, and I shall see you all again at tea-time." The two little girls left the room together, and Pennie led the way silently to the garden, giving furtive glances now and then at her visitor. She felt sure that Ethelwyn would be surprised and pleased, because mother had said that in London people seldom had gardens; but her companion made no remark at all, and Pennie put the question which had been a good deal on her mind: "What do you like to be called?" "My name's Ethelwyn," said the little girl. "Yes, I know," said Pennie. "Mother told us. But I mean, what are you called for short?" "I'm _always_ called Ethelwyn. Father and mother don't approve of names being shortened." "Oh!" said Pennie deeply impressed. Then feeling it necessary to assert herself, she added: "_My_ name's Penelope Mary Hawthorn; but I'm always called Pennie, and sometimes the children call me Pen." Ethelwyn made no answer; she was attentively observing Pennie's blue serge frock, and presently asked: "What's your best dress?" "It's the same as this," said Pennie, looking down at it meekly, "only newer." "Mine's velveteen," said Ethelwyn, "the new shade, you know--a sort of mouse colour. Nurse says I look like a picture in it. Do you always wear pinafores?" Before Pennie had time to answer they had arrived at the Wilderness, and were now joined by Nancy and the two boys, who came shyly forward to shake hands. "These are our gardens," said Pennie, doing the honours of the Wilderness; "that's mine, and that's Dickie's, and the well belongs to the others. They dug it themselves." Ethelwyn looked round, with her little pointed nose held rather high in the air: "Why don't you keep it neater?" she said. "What an untidy place!" It was a blow to Pennie to hear this, but the truth of it struck her forcibly, and she now saw for the first time that to a stranger the Wilderness might not be very attractive. There were, of course, no flowers now, and Dickie had tumbled a barrowful of leaves on to the middle of Pennie's border, which was further adorned by a heap of oyster shells, with which David intended some day to build a grotto. It looked more like a rubbish heap than a garden, and the close neighbourhood of the well did not improve it. There was only one cheerful object in the Wilderness just now, and that was a little monthly rose-bush in Dickie's plot of ground, which, in spite of most unfavourable circumstances, bore two bright pink blossoms. After glancing scornfully round, Ethelwyn stooped and stretched out her hand to pick the roses; but Pennie caught hold of her dress in alarm. "Oh, you mustn't," she cried; "they're Dickie's." Ethelwyn looked up astonished. "Who's Dickie?" she said; "what does he want them for?" "It isn't `he,' it's `she,'" said Nancy; "she's the youngest but one, and she's saving them for mother's birthday." "Wouldn't it be a joke," said Ethelwyn laughing, "to pick them? She'd never know where they'd gone." Pennie could not see anything funny in this idea at all, but she remembered what Mrs Hawthorn had said about making their guest happy in her own way, and she felt obliged to answer: "If you want to do it _very_ much you may." She was sorry to see that Ethelwyn immediately pulled both the little roses off the tree, but tried to excuse her in her own mind. She did not understand, perhaps, how much Dickie wanted them. Such a pretty graceful creature as Ethelwyn _could_ not do anything purposely unkind. Nancy, however, not the least dazzled by Ethelwyn's appearance, was boiling with anger. "I call that--" she began; but Pennie nudged her violently and whispered: "She's a visitor," and the outspoken opinion was checked. David, too, turned the general attention another way just then; he came gravely up to Ethelwyn and inquired: "Do you like animals?" "Animals?" said Ethelwyn; "oh, you mean pets. Yes, I like them sometimes." "Then I'll show you my pig," said David. "A pig!" exclaimed Ethelwyn in rather a squeaky voice of surprise; "what a nasty, dirty thing to have for a pet! Don't you mean _pug_?" "No, I don't," said David; "I mean pig." "But it's not a common sort of pig at all," put in Pennie hastily, for she saw her brother's face getting crimson with anger, "and it's beautifully clean and clever. It shakes hands." "We've got lots of animals," added Ambrose, "only you must come round to the barn to see them." "Well," said Ethelwyn as the children all moved away, David rather sulkily, with hands in his pockets, "I _never_ heard of a pig as a pet. I don't believe it's a proper sort of pet at all. Now, _I've_ got a little tiny toy terrier at home, and he has a collar with silver bells. I _had_ a canary, but Nurse left its cage on the window-ledge in a high wind, and it blew right down on the pavement from the very tip-top of the house, so it died." "Oh," cried Nancy, horror-stricken, "how dreadful! Weren't you sorry?" "Not very," said Ethelwyn coolly. "You see I'd had it a long time, and I was rather tired of it, and I often forgot to feed it." The animals were now visited, and introduced by their respective owners, but without exciting much interest in Ethelwyn, for whatever she saw it always appeared that she had something far better at home. Even Antony's lively talents failed to move her, and, though she _could_ not say she had a nicer pig herself, she observed calmly: "Ah, you should see the animals in the Zoological Gardens!" And to this there was no reply. Then she was taken to swing in the barn, and this proved a more successful entertainment, for as long as the children would swing her Ethelwyn was content to be swung. When, however, Nancy boldly remarked: "It's someone else's turn now," she was not quite so pleased, and soon said in a discontented voice: "I'm tired of this. Let's go indoors and see your playthings." Here it was the same thing over again, for she found something slighting to say even of the Lady Dulcibella, who was sitting prepared to receive visitors in her best pink frock. "Can she talk?" asked Ethelwyn. "_My_ last new doll says `papa,' `mama.'" Then her eye fell on the luckless Jemima, who, in her usual mean attire, was sitting in the background with her head drooping helplessly, for it had been loosened by constant execution. "Oh," cried Ethelwyn, pouncing upon her with more animation than she had yet shown, "here's a fright!" She held the doll up by its frock, so that its legs and one remaining arm dangled miserably in the air. "It's only Jemima," said Pennie. She was vexed that Ethelwyn had seen her at all, and there was something painful in having her held up to the general scorn. Ethelwyn began to giggle. "Why do you keep a guy like that?" she said. "Why don't you burn it?" "Well, so we do," replied Nancy, "very often. We burnt her only last week." "She was Joan of Arc," explained Pennie. "Only make-believe, you know. Not real flames." Ethelwyn stared. "What odd games you play!" she said. "I never heard of them. But I know one thing: if she were mine I'd soon put her into real flames." The rest of the day went on in much the same way, and the children found it more and more difficult to amuse their guest. It was astonishing to find how very soon she tired of any game. "What shall we do now?" was her constant cry; and it grew so tiresome that Nancy and the boys at last went off to play together, and left her entirely to Pennie. And this arrangement grew to be a settled thing, for it really was almost impossible to play the usual games with Ethelwyn; there was no sort of check on her overbearing ways, because "she was a visitor," and must do as she liked. Now, she was a very poor hand at "making up," and did not understand "Shipwrecks" or "Desert Islands" in the least; but this would not have mattered if she had been willing to learn. Joined, however, to complete ignorance on those subjects, she had a large amount of conceit, and seemed to think she could do everything better than anyone else. For instance, if they were going to play "Shipwrecks"--"I'll be captain," she would exclaim at once. This had always been Ambrose's part, and he rather prided himself on his knowledge of nautical affairs, gathered from a wide acquaintance with Captain Marryat's stories. He gave it up politely to Ethelwyn, however, and the game began. But in two minutes she would say: "I'm tired of being captain; I'd rather be Indian savages." Indian savages was being performed with great spirit by Nancy, but the change was made, and the game went on, until Ethelwyn cast an envious eye upon Dickie, who, with a small pail and broom, was earnestly scrubbing at the carpet, under the impression that she was a cabin-boy washing the deck of a ship. "_I_ should like to be cabin-boy," said Ethelwyn. But here the limit of endurance was reached, for Dickie grasped her little properties tightly and refused to give up office. "_Me_ will be cabin-boy," was all she said when Pennie tried to persuade her. "You see she's so little," said the latter apologetically to Ethelwyn, "there's no other part she _can_ take, and she likes the pail and broom so." "Oh, very well," said the latter carelessly, "then I don't care to play any more. It's a very stupid game, and only fit for boys." Things did not go on pleasantly at Easney just now, and the longer Ethelwyn stayed the more frequent became the quarrels; she had certainly brought strife and confusion with her, and by degrees there came to be a sort of division amongst the children. Pennie and Ethelwyn walked apart, and looked on with dignified superiority, while the others played the old games with rather more noise than usual. Pennie tried to think she liked this, but sometimes she would look wistfully after her merry brothers and sisters and feel half inclined to join them; the next minute, however, when Ethelwyn tossed her head and said, "How vulgar!" she was quite ashamed of her wish. She wondered now how it was that she had been able to play with the boys so long without disagreement before Ethelwyn came. Of course these quarrels were all their fault, for in Pennie's eyes Ethelwyn could do no wrong; if sometimes it was impossible to help seeing that she was greedy and selfish, and even told fibs, Pennie excused it in her own mind-- indeed, these faults did not seem to her half so bad in Ethelwyn as in other people, and by degrees she thought much more lightly of them than she had ever done before. For Ethelwyn had gained a most complete influence over her, partly by her beauty, and partly by her coaxing, flattering ways. It was all so new to Pennie; and, though she was really a sensible little girl, she loved praise and caresses overmuch; like many wiser people, she could not judge anyone harshly who seemed to admire her. So she was Ethelwyn's closest companion in those days, and even began to imitate what she considered her elegant manners. She spoke mincingly, and took short little stiff steps in walking, and bent her head gracefully when she said, "Yes, please," or "No, thank you." The new plush bonnet was a misery to her, and she sighed to be beautifully dressed. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE CHINESE MANDARIN. This uncomfortable state of things had been going on for nearly a fortnight, and Ethelwyn's visit was drawing to a close, when one morning there came a letter from Miss Unity. It contained an invitation to Pennie to stay three days at Nearminster, and ended with these words: "If my god-daughter has her little friend still with her, I shall be glad to see her also, if she would like to come." Now it happened that this suggestion of Miss Unity's came at a wonderfully convenient moment; for it had been arranged already that Ethelwyn's governess should meet her at the Nearminster station in three days' time, and take her back to London. She would now go from Miss Unity's house instead of from Easney, and Mrs Hawthorn was not at all sorry to think that the children would be separated a little earlier than was first intended. So, with many cautions not to be troublesome, not to talk in bed, and not to touch the china, she told the little girls that they were to go to Nearminster. The news quickly spread through the family, and caused a deep but secret joy to the other children, for they were very tired of Ethelwyn; nevertheless they restrained any expression of their pleasure until the day of departure, when they gathered at the white gate to see the wagonette pass. The little girls were feeling even more dignified and grown-up than usual, for it was a great event to drive over to Nearminster quite alone; therefore it was all the more trying to be greeted by a derisive song: "Hurray, hurray, hurray! Ethelwyn is gone away!" screamed the shrill voices, even Dickie doing her best to swell the chorus. It was so loud that it sounded a long way up the road; and Ethelwyn's favourite remark, "How very vulgar!" did not disguise it in the least. The first day at Nearminster was fine and bright, and the children found plenty to entertain them. It was all new to Ethelwyn; and to Pennie, although she knew them so well, every object had an ever fresh interest. They went into the market with Miss Unity in the morning, and watched her buy a chicken, fresh eggs, and a cauliflower, which she carried home herself in a brown basket. Then in the afternoon Bridget was allowed to take the children into the town that they might see the shops, and that Pennie might spend her money. For she had brought with her the contents of her money-box, which amounted to fivepence-halfpenny, and intended to lay out this large sum in presents for everyone at home. It was an anxious as well as a difficult matter to do this to the best advantage, and she spent much time in gazing into shop-windows, her brow puckered with care and her purse clutched tightly in her hand. Ethelwyn's advice, which might have been useful under these circumstances, was quite the reverse; for the suggestions she made were absurdly above Pennie's means, and only confusing to the mind. "I should buy that," she would say, pointing to something which was worth at least a shilling. Pennie soon left off listening to her, and bent her undivided attention to the matter--how to buy seven presents with five pence halfpenny? It might have puzzled a wiser head than Pennie's; but at last, by dint of much calculation on the fingers, she arrived with a mind at rest at the following results:-- An india-rubber ball for the baby, a lead pencil for father, a packet of pins for mother, a ball of twine for Ambrose, a paint-brush for Nancy, a pen-holder for David, and a tiny china dog for Dickie. Ethelwyn was very impatient long before the shopping was done. "Oh, spend the rest in sweets," she said over and over again in the midst of Pennie's difficulties. But Pennie only shook her head, and would not even look at chocolate creams or sugar-candy until she had done her business satisfactorily. In the evening she amused herself by packing and unpacking the presents, and printing the name of each person on the parcels, while Miss Unity read aloud. It was not a very amusing book, and Ethelwyn, who had spent all her money on sweets and eaten more of them than was good for her, felt cross and rather sick and discontented. She yawned and fidgeted, and frowned as openly as she dared, for she was afraid of Miss Unity; and when at last bed-time came, and the little girls were alone, she expressed her displeasure freely. "I can't bear stopping here," she said. "It's a dull, ugly old place, I think I wish I was back in London." "Well, so you will be the day after to-morrow," replied Pennie shortly. She did not like even Ethelwyn to abuse Nearminster, and she was beginning to be just a little tired of hearing so much about London. Unfortunately for Ethelwyn's temper the next day was decidedly wet--so wet that even Miss Unity could not get out into the market, and settled herself with a basket of wools for a morning's work. Through the streaming window-panes the grass in the Close looked very green and the Cathedral very grey; the starlings were industriously pecking at the slugs, and the jackdaws chattered and darted about the tower as usual, but there was not one other living thing to be seen. "Dull, horribly dull!" Ethelwyn thought as she knelt up in the window-seat and pressed her nose against the glass. It was just as bad inside the room; there was Miss Unity's stiff upright figure, there was her needle going in and out of her canvas, there was the red rose gradually unfolding with every stitch. There was Pennie, bent nearly double over a fairy book, with her elbows on her knees and a frown of interest on her brow. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, no one to talk to. Ethelwyn gaped wearily. Then her idle glance fell on the clock. Would it _always_ be twelve o'clock that morning? And from that it passed to the Chinese mandarin, which stood close to it. He was a little fellow, with a shining bald head and a small patch of hair on each side of it; his face, which was broad, had no features to speak of, and yet bore an expression of feeble good-nature. Ethelwyn knew that the merest touch would set his head nodding in a helpless manner, and she suddenly felt a great longing to do it. But that was strictly forbidden; no one must touch the mandarin except Miss Unity; and, though she was generally quite willing to make him perform, Ethelwyn did not feel inclined to ask her. She wanted to do it herself. "If she would only go out of the room," thought the child, "I'd make him wag his head in a minute, whatever Pennie said." Curiously enough Bridget appeared at the door just then with a message. "If you please, ma'am," she said, "could Cook speak to you in the kitchen about the preserving?" Now was Ethelwyn's opportunity, and she lost no time. She went quickly up to the mantel-piece directly Miss Unity closed the door, and touched the mandarin gently on the head. "Look, Pennie! look!" she cried. Pennie raised her face from her book with an absent expression, which soon changed to horror as she saw the mandarin wagging his head with foolish solemnity. Ethelwyn stood by delighted. "I'll make him go faster," she said, and raised herself on tiptoe, for the mantel-piece was high. "Don't! don't!" called out Pennie in an agony of alarm; but it was too late. Growing bolder, Ethelwyn gave the mandarin such a sharp tap at the back of his head that he lost his balance and toppled down on the hearth with a horrible crash. There he lay, his poor foolish head rolling about on the carpet, and his body some distance off. Hopelessly broken, a ruined mandarin, he would never nod any more! For a minute the little girls gazed speechlessly at the wreck; there was silence in the room, except for the steady tick-tack of the clock. Then Ethelwyn turned a terrified face towards her friend. "Oh, Pennie!" she cried, "what _shall_ I do?" for she was really afraid of Miss Unity. Pennie rose, picked up the mandarin's head, and looked at it sorrowfully. "Mother _told_ us not to touch the china," she said. "But can't we do anything?" exclaimed Ethelwyn wildly; "couldn't we stick it on? He's not broken anywhere else. See, Pennie!" She put the mandarin on the mantel-piece and carefully balanced the broken head on his shoulders. "He looks as well as ever," she said; "no one would guess he was broken." "But he _is_," replied Pennie; "and even if he _can_ be mended I don't suppose he'll ever nod like he used to." "Are you going to _tell_ her we broke him?" asked Ethelwyn after a short pause. Pennie stared. "_We_ didn't break him," she said; "it was you, and _of course_ you'll tell her." "That I sha'n't," said Ethelwyn sulkily; "and if you do, you'll be a sneak." "But you'll _have_ to say," continued Pennie, "because directly he's touched his head will come off, and then Miss Unity will ask us." "Well, I shall wait till she finds out," said Ethelwyn, "and if you tell her before I'll never never speak to you again, and I won't have you for my friend any longer." "I'm not going to tell," said Pennie, drawing herself up proudly, "unless she asks me straight out. But I _know_ you ought to." As she spoke a step sounded in the passage, and with one bound Ethelwyn regained her old place in the window-seat and turned her head away. Pennie remained standing by the fire, with a startled guilty look and a little perplexed frown on her brow. Miss Unity's glance fell on her directly she entered; but her mind was occupied with the cares of preserving, and though she saw that the child looked troubled she said nothing at first. "If Ethelwyn would _only_ tell," thought Pennie, and there was such yearning anxiety in her face as she watched Miss Unity's movements that presently the old lady observed it, and looked curiously at her through her spectacles. "Do you want anything, Penelope?" she asked, and as she spoke she stretched out her hand to the mantel-piece, for the mandarin was a trifle out of his usual place. She moved him gently a little nearer the clock; Pennie's expression changed to one of positive agony, and the mandarin's head fell immediately with a sharp "click" on to the marble! Clasping her hands, Pennie turned involuntarily towards Ethelwyn. Now she _must_ speak. But Ethelwyn was quite silent, and did not even turn her head. It was Miss Unity's voice which broke the stillness. "Child," she said, "you have acted deceitfully." She fixed her eyes on Pennie, who flushed hotly, and certainly looked the very picture of guilt. _Of course_ Ethelwyn would speak now. But there was no sound from the window-seat. Pennie twisted her fingers nervously together, her chest heaved, and something within her said over and over again: "I didn't do it--I didn't do it." She had quite a struggle to prevent the little voice from making itself heard, and her throat ached with the effort; but she kept it down and stood before Miss Unity in perfect silence. The latter had taken the broken head in her hand, and was looking at it sorrowfully. "I valued this image, Penelope," she went on, "and I grieve to have it destroyed. But I grieve far more to think you should have tried to deceive me. Perhaps I can mend the mandarin, but I can't ever forget that you have been dishonest--nothing can mend that. I shall think of it whenever I see the image, and it will make me sad." The little voice struggled and fought in Pennie's breast to make itself heard: "I didn't do it, I didn't do it," it cried out wildly. With a resolute gulp she kept it down, but the effort was almost too great, and Miss Unity's grave face was too much to bear. She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Then hurrying upstairs she plunged her head into the side of the big bed where she and Ethelwyn slept together, and cried bitterly. Unjustly accused, disappointed, betrayed by her best friend-- the world was a miserable place, Pennie thought, and happiness impossible ever again. There was no one to take her part--Ethelwyn was deceitful and unkind; and as she remembered how she had loved and worshipped her, the tears flowed faster. How could she, _could_ she have done it? Then looking back, she saw how wilfully she had shut her eyes to Ethelwyn's faults, plain enough to everyone else. That was all over now: she had broken something beside the mandarin that day, and that was Pennie's belief in her. It was quite gone; she could never love her the least little bit again, beautiful and coaxing as she might be; like the mandarin, she had fallen all the lower because she had once stood so high. Then Pennie's thoughts turned longingly towards home. Home, where they were all fond of her, and knew she was not a deceitful little girl. She was very sorry now to remember how she had neglected her brothers and sisters lately for her fine new friend, and how proud and superior she had felt. "Oh," she cried to herself in a fervour of repentance, "I never, never will care so much about `outsides' again! Insides matter much the most." The next day passed sorrowfully for Pennie, who felt a heavy cloud of undeserved disgrace resting upon her. Whenever she saw Miss Unity glance at the empty space on the mantel-piece, she felt as guilty as though she really had broken the mandarin, and longed for an opportunity of justifying herself. But there was no chance of that; the day went on and Miss Unity asked no questions, and behaved just as usual to the little girls--only she looked rather sad and stern. As for Ethelwyn, when she was once quite sure that Pennie would not "tell," her spirits rose, and she was lavish of her thanks and caresses. She pressed gifts upon her, and kisses, and was anxious to sit quite close to her and hold her hand; but Pennie was proof against all this now. It had no effect upon her at all, and she even looked forward with a feeling of positive relief to the next day, when she would say good-bye to the once-adored Ethelwyn. And the time came at last; smiling, nodding, and tossing her yellow hair, Ethelwyn got into the train which was to take her away from Nearminster, and Pennie stood at Miss Unity's side on the platform, gazing seriously after her from the depths of the plush bonnet. In her hand she held almost unconsciously a large packet of sweets which Ethelwyn had thrust into it just before entering the carriage; but there was no smile on her face, and when the train had rolled out of sight, she offered the packet to Miss Unity: "Please, take these," she said; "I don't want them." That same afternoon Mrs Hawthorn and Nancy were to drive in from Easney and fetch Pennie home, and she stationed herself at the window a good hour before they could possibly arrive, ready to catch the first glimpse of Ruby's white nose. When, at length, after many disappointments, caused by other horses with white noses, the wagonette really appeared, she could hardly contain herself for joy, and was obliged to hop about excitedly. She was so glad to see them. There was mother, and there was Nancy, dear old Nancy, in the black plush bonnet, which was now a far more pleasant object to Pennie than the smart blue one she had lately envied. Now the carriage was stopping, and Nancy was lowering one stout determined leg to the step, clutching mother's umbrella and a doll in her arms. Pennie stayed no longer, but rushed down-stairs into the hall and opened the door. It might have been a separation of years, instead of three days, from the warmth of her welcome, and Nancy said presently with her usual blunt directness: "What makes you so glad to see us?" Pennie could not explain why it was, but she felt as if she had never really been at home during Ethelwyn's visit to Easney, and was now going back again--the real old Pennie once more. So she only hugged her sister for reply, and both the little girls went and sat in the window-seat together, while their mother and Miss Unity were talking. But soon Nancy's observant glance, roving round the room, fell on the empty space beside the clock. "Why!" she said in a loud voice of surprise, "where's the mandarin?" For she was very fond of the funny little image, and always expected to see him wag his head when she went to Nearminster. Everyone heard the question, and for a minute no one answered. Then Miss Unity said gravely: "There has been an accident, Nancy. The mandarin is broken. I fear you will never see him nod his head again." "Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Nancy. "Who did it?" Then turning to her sister with an alarmed face, "Was it you?" "I _hope_ not," said Mrs Hawthorn, leaning forward and looking earnestly at Pennie. In fact everyone was looking at her just then--Miss Unity with sorrow, Mrs Hawthorn with anxiety, and Nancy with fear. How delightful it was to be able at last to stand straight up, and answer triumphantly with a clear conscience, "No!" At that little word everyone looked relieved except Miss Unity, and her face was graver than before as she said: "Then, Pennie, why didn't you say so?" "You never asked me," said Pennie proudly. Miss Unity's frown relaxed a little; she bethought herself that she really never had asked the child; she had taken it for granted, judging only by guilty looks. "If it was not you, Pennie," she said gently, "who was it?" "I can't tell that," said Pennie, "only _I_ didn't." "Then," exclaimed Nancy eagerly, "I expect it was that mean Ethelwyn." Miss Unity took off her spectacles and rubbed them nervously; then she went up to Pennie and kissed her. "I am sorry I called you deceitful, Pennie," she said, "but I am very glad to find I was wrong. When I look at the mandarin now, I shall not so much mind his being broken, because he will remind me that you are a good and honourable child." Now the cloud was gone which had made Pennie's sky so dark, and all was bright again; the drive back to Easney, which she always enjoyed, was on this occasion simply delightful. Though the afternoon was dull and foggy, and there was a little drizzling rain, everything looked pleasant and gay from under the big umbrella which she and Nancy shared together; the old woman at the halfway cottage smiled and nodded as they passed, as though she knew that Pennie felt specially happy, and when they got to the white gate, there were Ambrose and David waving their caps and shouting welcome. How delightful to be at home again--without Ethelwyn! Pennie rushed about, hugging everybody and everything she happened to meet, animals and human beings alike, till she became quite tiresome in her excess of joy. "There, there, Miss Pennie, that'll do. Leave the child alone now, you'll make her quite fractious," said Nurse, rescuing Cicely from a too-energetic embrace. Pennie looked round for something fresh to caress, and her eye fell on the Lady Dulcibella sitting in her arm-chair by the dolls' house. There was a satisfied simper on her pink face, as though she waited for admiration; she held her little nose high in the air, and one could almost hear her say, "How very vulgar!" Pennie turned from her with a shudder, and picked up Jemima, who was lying on the floor flat on her face. "Why, Pennie," exclaimed Nancy, opening her eyes very wide, "you're _kissing Jemima_!" "Well," replied Pennie, giving the battered cheek another hearty kiss, "I feel fond of her. She's the oldest of all, and very useful I think she ought to be kissed sometimes." CHAPTER EIGHT. HOW DICKIE WENT TO THE CIRCUS. "Has you ever seen a circus, Andoo?" "Aye, missie." "When has you seen it?" "Years ago, little missie--years ago. When I was a fool." "Is you fool now, Andoo?" "Maybe, missie, maybe," (with a grim smile); "but I surely was then." Dickie dismissed the subject for the moment, and turned her attention to the little green barrow full of sticks which she had just wheeled into the potting shed. There was a pleasant mingled scent of apples, earth, and withered leaves there; from the low rafters hung strings of onions, pieces of bass, and bunches of herbs, and in one corner there was a broken-backed chair, and Andrew's dinner upon it tied up in a blue checked handkerchief. Bending over his pots and mould by the window in his tall black hat, and looking as brown and dried-up as everything round him, was Andrew himself, and Dickie stood opposite, warmly muffled up, but with a pink tinge on her small round nose from the frosty air. She was always on good terms with Andrew, and could make him talk sometimes when he was silent for everyone else; so, although she very seldom understood his answers, they held frequent conversations, which seemed quite satisfactory on both sides. Her questions to-day about the circus had been called forth by the fact that she had seen, when out walking with Nurse, a strange round white house in a field near the village. On asking what it was, she had been told that it was a tent. What for? A circus. And what was a circus? A place where horses went round and round. What for? Little girls should not ask so many questions. Dickie felt this to be unsatisfactory, and she accordingly made further inquiries on the first opportunity. She laid her dry sticks neatly in the corner, and grasping the handles of her barrow, stood facing Andrew silently, who did not raise his grave long face from his work; he did not look encouraging, but she was quite used to that. "Did 'oo like it, Andoo?" she inquired presently with her head on one side. "Well, you see, missie," replied Andrew, "I lost the best thing I had there, through being a fool." "Tell Dickie all about it," said Dickie in a coaxing voice. She turned her little barrow upside down as she spoke, sat down upon it, and placed one mittened hand on each knee. "Dickie kite yeddy. Begin," she said in a cheerful and determined manner. Andrew took off his hat, and feebly scratched his head; he looked appealingly at the little figure on the barrow as though he would gladly have been excused the task, but though placid, the round face was calmly expectant. "I dunno as I can call it to mind," he said apologetically; "you see, missie, it wur a powerful time ago. A matter of twenty years, it wur. It was when I lost my little gal." "Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked Dickie. "Blessed if I know," said Andrew, shaking his head mournfully; "but wherever she be, she ain't not to call a _little_ gal now, missie. She wur jest five years old when I lost her, an' it's twenty years ago. That'll make her a young woman of twenty-five, yer see, missie, by this time." "Why did 'oo lose 'oor 'ittle gal?" pursued Dickie, avoiding the question of age. "Because I wur a fool," replied Andrew frowning. "Tell Dickie," repeated the child, to whom the "little gal" had now become more interesting than the circus; "tell Dickie all about 'oor 'ittle gal." "Well, missie," began Andrew with a sigh, "it wur like this. After her mother died my little gal an' I lived alone. I wasn't a gardener then, I was in the cobblin' line, an' sat all day mendin' an' patchin' the folks' boots an' shoes. Mollie wur a lovin' little thing, an' oncommon sensible in her ways. She'd sit at my feet an' make-believe to be sewin' the bits of leather together, an' chatter away as merry as a wren. Then when I took home a job, she'd come too an' trot by my side holdin' me tight by one finger--a good little thing she was, an' all the folks in the village was fond of her, but she always liked bein' with me best--bless her 'art, that she did." Andrew stopped suddenly, and drew out of his pocket a red cotton handkerchief. "Why did 'oo lose her?" repeated Dickie impatiently. "It wur like this, missie," resumed Andrew. "One day there come a circus to the village, like as it might be that out in the field yonder, an' there was lots of 'orses, and dogs that danced, an' fine ladies flyin' through hoops, an suchlike. Mollie, she wanted to go an' see 'em. Nothing would do but I must take her. I can see her now, standin' among the scraps of leather, an' the tools, an' the old boots, an' saying so pleadin', `Do'ee take Molly, daddie, to see the gee-gees.' So, though I had a job to finish afore that night, I said I'd take her, an' I left my work, an' put on her red boots--" "Yed boots?" said Dickie inquiringly, looking down at her own stumpy black goloshes. "Someone had giv' me a scrap of red leather, an' I'd made her a pair of boots out of it," said Andrew; "they didn't cost me nothin' but the work--so I put 'em on, an tied on her little bonnet an' her handkercher, an' we went off. Mollie was frighted at first to see the 'orses go round so fast, an' the people on their backs cuttin' all manner of capers, just as if they wur on dry ground. She hid her face in my weskit, an' wouldn't look up; but I coaxed her a bit, an' when she did she wur rarely pleased. She clapped her hands, an' her cheeks wur red with pleasure, an' her blue eyes bright. She wur a pretty little lass, Mollie wur." Andrew stopped a minute with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Dickie, and yet as though he scarcely saw her. She hugged herself with her little crossed arms, and murmured confidentially, "Dickie will go to the circus too." "There wur a chum of mine sittin' next," continued Andrew, "an' by and by, when the place was gettin' very hot, an' the sawdust the horses threw up with their heels was fit to choke yer, he says to me, `Old chap,' he says, `come out an' take a glass of summat jest to wet yer whistle.' "`I can't,' says I, `I've got my little gal to look after. I can't leave her.' But I _was_ dry, an' the thought of a glass of beer was very temptin', `no call to be anxious over that,' says he; `you won't be gone not five minutes, an 'ere's this lady will keep an eye on her fur that little while, I'm sure.' `Certingly,' says the woman sitting next, who was a stranger to me but quite respectable-lookin'. `You come to me, my dearie!' and she lifted Mollie on to her knee an' spoke kind to her, an' the child seemed satisfied; an' so I went." Andrew coughed hoarsely but went on again after a minute, speaking more to himself than Dickie--who, indeed, did not understand nearly all he had been saying. "When I got into the `Blue Bonnet' there wur three or four more of my chums a-settin' round the fire an' havin' a argyment. `'Ere,' says one, `we'll hear what Andrew Martin's got to say to it. He's a tough hand at speakin'--he'll tell us the rights on it.' An' before I knew a'most I wur sittin' in my usual place next the fire, with a glass of beer in my hand. I wur pleased, like a fool, to think I could speak better nor any of 'em; an' I went on an' on, an' it wasn't till I heard the clock strike that I thought as how I'd left my little gal alone in the circus for a whole hour. I got up pretty quick then, for I thought she'd be frighted, but not that she could come to any harm. So I went back straight to where I left her with the woman, an'--" "What does 'oo stop for?" said Dickie impatiently. "She wur _gone_, missie!" said Andrew solemnly, spreading out his hands with a despairing gesture--"gone, an' the woman too! I've never seen my little gal since that day." "Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked Dickie. "Lost, missie! lost!" said Andrew shaking his head mournfully. "I sha'n't never see her no more now. Parson he was very kind, an' offered a reward, an' set the perlice to work to find her. 'Twarn't all no good. So I giv' up the cobblin' an' went about the country doin' odd jobs, because I thought I might hear summat on her; but I never did, an' after years had gone by I come ere an' settled down again. So that's how I lost my little gal, an' it's nigh twenty years ago." At this moment Nurse's voice was heard outside calling for Dickie, and Andrew's whole manner changed at the sound. He thrust the red handkerchief into his pocket, clapped his hat firmly over his eyes, and bent towards his work with his usual cross frown. Dickie looked up with a twinkling smile as Nurse came bustling in. "Andoo tell Dickie pitty story," she said. "Ho, indeed!" said Nurse with a sharp glance at Andrew's silent figure. "Mr Martin keeps all his conversation for you, Miss Dickie, I think; he don't favour other people much with it." On their way to the house Dickie did her best to tell Nurse all she had heard from Andrew; but it was not very clear, and left her hearer in rather a confused state of mind. There was something about a 'ittle gal, and red boots, and a circus, and something that was lost; but whether it was the red boots that were lost, or the little girl, was uncertain. However, Nurse held up her hands at proper intervals and exclaimed, "Only fancy!" "Gracious me!" and so on, as if she understood perfectly; and when Dickie came to the last sentence this was really the case, for she said in a decided voice: "Dickie will go to the circus too." "No, no," replied Nurse; "Dickie is too little to go--she will stay at home with poor Nursie and baby." It seemed to Dickie that they always said she was too little when she wanted to do anything nice, but if ever she cried or was naughty they said she was too big: "Oh, fie, Miss Dickie! a great girl like you!" If she was a great girl she ought to go to the circus; and she repeated firmly, "Me _will_ go," adding a remark about "Andoo's 'ittle gal," which Nurse did not hear. At dinner-time there was nothing spoken of but the circus; the children came in from their walk quite full of it, and of all the wonderful things they had seen in the village. Outside the blacksmith's forge there was a great bill pasted, which showed in bright colours the brilliant performance of "Floretta the Flying Fairy" on horseback; there was also a full-length portrait of Mick Murphy the celebrated clown. Even more exciting were the strange caravans and carts arriving in the field where the large tent had already been put up; and Ambrose had caught sight of a white poodle trimmed like a lion, which he felt quite sure was one of the dancing-dogs. The circus was to stop two days--might the children go to-morrow afternoon? There was a breathless silence amongst them whilst this question was being decided, and mother said something to Miss Grey in French; but after a little consultation it was finally settled that they were to go. Dickie had listened to it all, leaving her rice-pudding untasted; now she stretched out her short arm, and, pointing with her spoon at her mother, said: "Dickie too." But Mrs Hawthorn only smiled and shook her head. "No, not Dickie," she said; "she is too young to go. Dickie will stay at home with mother." Now the vicar was not there--if he had been he would probably have said, "Let her go;" and Dickie knew this--it had happened sometimes before. So now, although she turned down the corners of her mouth and pushed up one fat shoulder, she murmured rather defiantly: "Dickie will ask father." The next day was Saturday--sermon day, and the vicar was writing busily in his study when he heard some uncertain sounds outside, as though some little animal were patting the handle of the door--the cat most likely-- and he paid no attention to it, until he felt a light touch on his arm. Looking down he saw that it was Dickie, who, having made her way in, stood at his elbow with eager eyes and a bright flush of excitement on her cheeks. "Please, father," she said at once, "take Dickie to see the gee-gees." The vicar pushed back his chair a little and lifted her on to his knee. He would have liked to go on with his sermon, but he always found it impossible to send Dickie away if she once succeeded in getting into his study. "What does Dickie want?" he asked rather absently. "Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees," she repeated in exactly the same tone as at first. The vicar took up his pen again and made a correction in the last sentence he had written, still keeping one arm round Dickie. But this divided attention did not please her; she stuck out two little straight brown legs and said reflectively: "Dickie got no yed boots." "No, no," said the vicar with his eyes on his sermon; "Dickie's got pretty black boots." "Andoo's 'ittle gal got yed boots," pursued Dickie. "Andrew's little girl! Andrew hasn't got a little girl," said her father. For answer Dickie pursed-up her lips, looked up in his face, and began to nod very often and very quickly. "Where is she, then?" asked the vicar. Dickie stopped nodding, and, imitating Andrew as well as she could, shook her head mournfully, spread out her hands, and said: "Lost! lost!" "You funny little thing!" said the vicar, laying down his pen and looking at her. "I wonder what you've got into your head. Wouldn't Dickie like to run upstairs now?" But she only swung herself backwards and forwards on his knee and repeated very fast, as if she were saying a lesson: "Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees." There was evidently no chance of getting rid of her unless this question were answered, and the sermon must really be finished. The vicar looked gravely at her and spoke slowly and impressively: "If Dickie is a good little girl, and will go upstairs to the nursery directly, and _stay there_, father will ask if she may go and see the gee-gees." Dickie got down and trotted away obediently, for she thought she had gained her point; but alas later on, when mother was appealed to, she was still quite firm on the subject--Dickie must _not_ go to the circus. The four other children were enough for Miss Grey to take care of, and Nurse could not be spared--Dickie must stay at home and be a good little girl. Stay at home she must, as they were all against her; but to be a good little girl was quite another thing, and I am sorry to say it was very far from her intention. If she were not taken to the circus she would be as naughty a little girl as she possibly could. So when she had seen the others go off, all merry and excited, leaving her in the dull nursery, she threw herself flat on her face, drummed with her feet on the floor, and screamed. At every fresh effort which Nurse made to soothe her the screams became louder and the feet beat more fiercely, and at last the baby began to cry too for sympathy. Dickie was certainly in one of her "tantrums," and Nurse knew by experience that solitude was the only cure, so after a while she took Cicely into the next room and shut the door. For some time Dickie went on crying, but presently, when she found that Nurse did not come back, the sobs quieted down a little, and the small feet were still; then she lifted her face up from the floor with big tears on her cheeks and listened. Hark! what was that funny noise? Boom boom! boom! and then a sort of trampling. It was the circus in the field close by, and presently other strange sounds reached her ear. She looked at the door leading into the bed-room--it was fast shut, and Nurse was walking up and down, singing to the baby in a low soothing tone. Dickie got up from the floor and stood upright with sudden resolve shining in her eyes: she would go to the circus in spite of them all! Fortune favours the disobedient sometimes, as well as the brave, and she met no one to ask where she was going on her journey through the passages; when she came to the top of the stairs she saw that the hall was empty and silent too--only the dog Snuff lay coiled up on the mat like a rough brown ball. He had not been allowed to go to the circus either. She went slowly down, holding by the balusters and bringing both feet carefully on to each step; as she passed him Snuff opened one bright eye, and, watching her, saw that she went straight to the cupboard under the stairs, where the children's garden coats and hats were kept. There they hung, five little suits, each on its own peg, and with its own pair of goloshes on the ground beneath. Dickie's things were on the lowest peg, so that she might reach them easily and dress herself without troubling anyone. She struggled into the small grey coat, tied the bonnet firmly under her fat chin, and sat down on the lowest stair to put on the goloshes. Snuff got up, sniffed at her, and gave a short bark of pleasure, for he felt quite sure now that she was going into the garden; but Snuff was wrong this time, as he soon found when he trotted after her. Dickie had wider views, and though she went out of the garden door, which stood open, she turned into a path leading to the front of the house and marched straight down the drive. Through the white gate they went together, the little grey figure and the little brown one, and along the village street. It was more deserted than usual, for everyone was either in the circus or gaping at the outside of it, and Dickie and her companion passed on unquestioned. Soon they reached the field where the tent and some gaily-painted caravans stood; but here came an unexpected difficulty. Which was the circus? Dickie stood still and studied the question with large round eyes, and her finger in her mouth, Snuff looking up at her wistfully. Nearest to them there was a large travelling caravan, with windows and curtains, and smoke coming out of a funnel in the roof; its sides were brightly decorated with pictures of horses, and of wonderfully beautiful ladies jumping through hoops, and there was also a picture of a funny gentleman with red patches on his face. This must be the circus, Dickie decided at last, and she proceeded to climb up the steps in front, closely followed by Snuff. The door was a tiny bit open, and she gave it a push and looked in. Things never turn out to be much like what we have expected, and it was so in Dickie's case, for what she saw was this: A small room with a low bed in one corner, and a black stove, and pots and dishes hanging on the walls; a cradle with a baby in it, and by the cradle a pleasant-faced young woman sitting in a wicker chair sewing busily--so busily that it was quite a minute before she raised her eyes and saw the little grey-coated figure standing at the door with the dog at its side. "Well, little dear," she said, "an' what do you want?" Dickie murmured something, of which only the word circus was distinct. "Is mammy at the circus?" asked the woman smiling; but Dickie shook her head decidedly. "Why, bless your little 'art," said the woman, getting up from her chair, "I expect you've lost your folks. You come in and stay a-longer me till the circus is done, and then we'll find 'em. Jem 'ull be 'ome then. I'd go myself, but I can't leave the little un here." Dickie began to pout in a distressed manner when the woman took her up in her arms; this was not the circus after all. But just as she was making up her mind to cry, her attention was caught by something lying on the baby's cradle, and she held out her hand for it and said "Pitty!" It was a tiny roughly-made scarlet leather boot, rather faded and worn, but still bright enough to please Dickie's fancy. She chuckled to herself as the woman gave it her, and muttered something about "Andoo's 'ittle gal;" and presently, tired with her great adventure and made drowsy by the warmth of the little room, she dropped off to sleep on the woman's knee, with the boot hugged tightly to her bosom. "Pretty dear! What a way her folks will be in!" said the woman to herself, and she laid Dickie softly on the bed and covered her with a shawl. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ They were indeed "in a way" at the vicarage. When the circus party came back they found everyone in a state of most dreadful anxiety, and the whole house in confusion. Dickie was missing! Every crevice and corner was searched, and every place, likely and unlikely, that a child could be in. No Dickie. Could she possibly have gone into the village alone? It was getting dusk; there were strange people and tramps about--it was an alarming thought. Andrew must go at once and inquire at every cottage. Andrew went, lantern in hand, and chin buried in his old grey comforter. "Had anyone seen Miss Dickie and the dorg that arternoon?" No; no one had seen little missie. Always the same answer until he got to the circus field, where knots of people still lingered talking of the performance. Amongst these he pushed his way, making the same inquiry, sometimes, if they were strangers, pausing to give a description of Dickie and Snuff; and at last the answer came from a thin man with a very pale face, who was standing near the entrance to the tent: "Right you are, gaffer. The little gal's all serene. My missus has got her in the caravan yonder." Guided by many outstretched and dirty fingers, Andrew made his way up the steps and told his errand to the woman within. There was Dickie, sleeping as peacefully as though she were tucked up in her own little cot; Snuff, who was curled up at her feet, jumped up and greeted Andrew with barks of delight, but even this did not rouse her. "There," said the woman, lifting the child gently, "you'd better take her just as she is, shawl an' all; it's bitter cold outside, an' you'll wake her else." She laid Dickie in the long arms stretched out to receive her, and as she did so the shawl fell back a little. "She's got summat in her hand," said Andrew, glancing at the little red boot. "So she has, bless her," said the woman; "you'll mind an' bring that back with the shawl, please, mister. I set store by yonder little boot." Andrew stared hard at the woman. "The vicar'll be werry grateful to you for takin' care of the little gal," he said. "What might be yer name, in case he should ax' me?" "My name's Murphy," she answered, "Molly Murphy; my husband's Mr Murphy, the clown, him you see in the playbills." Still Andrew stood with his eyes fixed on her face; then he looked from her to the little boot clutched so tightly in Dickie's fat fist. "Might you 'appen to have the feller one to this?" he asked. "Surely," answered the woman. "Once they was mine, an' now I'm keeping 'em against my little gal's old enough to wear 'em." She held out the other red boot. "Is there--is there," asked Andrew hesitating, "two big `M's' wrote just inside the linin'?" "Right you are," answered the woman; "an' it stands fur--" "It stands fur `Molly Martin,'" said Andrew, sitting suddenly down on the edge of the bed with Dickie in his arms. "Oh, be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands! I set every stitch in them little boots myself', an' you're the little gal I lost twenty years ago!" It really did turn out to be Andrew's little girl, grown into a young woman and married to Mr Murphy the clown. The whole village was stirred and excited by the story, and Andrew himself, roused for the moment from his usual surly silence, told it over and over again to eager audiences as he had to Dickie, only now it had a better ending. The children at the vicarage found it wonderfully interesting--more so than one of Pennie's very best, and the nice part about it was that it had been Dickie who discovered Andrew's little girl. Indeed, instead of being scolded for disobedience as she deserved, Dickie was made into a sort of heroine; when she was brought home sound asleep in Andrew's arms, everyone was only anxious to hug and kiss her, because they were so glad to get her back again, and the next day it was much the same thing. The children were breathless with admiration when the history of the red boot was told, and Dickie's daring adventure, and Mrs Hawthorn was scarcely able to get in a word of reproof. "But you know," she said, "that though we're all glad Andrew's daughter is found, still it was naughty and wilful of Dickie to go out by herself. She knew she was doing wrong, and disobeying mother." "But if she hadn't," remarked David, "most likely Andrew never would have found his little girl." "Perhaps not," said Mrs Hawthorn; "but it might not have ended so well. Dickie might have been hurt or lost. Good things sometimes come out of wrong things, but that does not make the wrong things right." Still the children could not help feeling glad that Dickie had been disobedient--just that once. And then another wonderful thing to think of, was that Andrew was now really related to the clown, whose appearance and manners they had all admired so much the day before. That delightful, witty person, whose ready answers and pointed pleasantries made everyone else seem dull and stupid! He was now Andrew's son-in-law. It appeared, however, that Andrew was not so grateful for this advantage as he might have been. "Aren't you glad, Andrew," asked Nancy, "that Molly married the clown?" "Why, no, missie," he answered, scraping his boot on the side of his spade, "I can't say as I be." "Why not? He must be _such_ a nice man, and _so_ amusing." "Well," said Andrew, "it's a matter of opinion, that is; it's not a purfesson as _I_ should choose, making a fool of myself for other fools to laugh at. Not but what he do seem a sober, decent sort of chap, and fond of Molly; so it might a been worse, I'll not deny that." A sober, decent sort of chap! What a way to refer to a brilliantly gifted person like the clown! "An' they've promised me one thing," continued he as he shouldered his spade, "an' that is that they'll not bring up the little un to the same trade. She's to come an' live a-longer me when she's five years old, an' have some schoolin' an' be brought up decent. I don't want my gran-darter to go racin' round on 'orses an' suchlike." "Then you'll have a little girl to live with you, just as you used to," said Pennie. "And her name will be Mollie too," said Ambrose. "But you won't take her to the circus again, I should think?" added David. "Andoo's 'ittle gal had yed boots," said Dickie, and here the conversation finished. THE END. 
16991	----	[Illustration: This is my Book] [Illustration: "JERRY KEPT FASCINATED EYES ON THAT CHALKY WHITE FACE." "The Circus Comes to Town." (See Page 128)] The Circus Comes to Town BY LEBBEUS MITCHELL AUTHOR OF "_One Boy Too Many_" and "_Here, Tricks, Here!_" [Illustration] CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS --- NEW YORK OTHER LEBBEUS MITCHELL BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY ARE ONE BOY TOO MANY & HERE, TRICKS, HERE! THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY _PRINTED IN U.S.A._ [Illustration: Contents] Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. "ASK YOUR MOTHER FOR FIFTY CENTS" 1 II. THE BLACK HALF-DOLLAR 18 III. THE WIDTH OF AN ELEPHANT'S TAIL 37 IV. JERRY LEARNS THAT O-U-T SPELLS OUT 49 V. THE GREEN ELEPHANT BUYS AN AUDIENCE 65 VI. THE CHILDREN THAT CRIED IN THE LANE 80 VII. TICKETS TO PARADISE 97 VIII. THE CROCODILE TEARS OF CELIA JANE 112 IX. CLOWN OF CLOWNS 127 X. "GREAT SULT ANNA O'QUEEN" 142 XI. A BOY NAMED GARY 157 XII. THE DIZZY SEAT OF GLORY 171 XIII. "--AND ELEPHANTS TO RIDE UPON" 188 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN CHAPTER I "ASK YOUR MOTHER FOR FIFTY CENTS" The apple seemed to Jerry Elbow too big to be true. He held it out at arm's length to get a good squint at its bigness and its redness. Then he turned to look wonderingly after the disappearing automobile with the lady who had tossed him the apple for directing her to the post office. A long trail of dust rose from the unpaved street behind the motor car. Next he addressed himself to the business of eating the apple. He rubbed it shiny against his patched trousers, carefully hunted out the reddest spot on it, and took a big, luscious bite. Instead of chewing the morsel at once, he crushed it against his palate just to feel the mellowness of it and to get the full flavor of the first taste of juice. Then he chewed vigorously. He started on to Mother 'Larkey's where he had made his home for nearly three years, ever since Mr. Mullarkey, dead this year now, had found him by the roadside one dark night. He had just started to take a second bite when a shout stopped him. "Hi, Jerry! What you got?" Instinctively Jerry hid the apple behind him, for it was Danny Mullarkey's voice that he had heard. "Jerry's got something to eat!" Danny called over his shoulder to some one out of sight. "Come on, kids!" Jerry hastily swallowed the piece of apple in his mouth and bit off the very largest chunk he could. He knew by long and bitter experience how little would be left for him after the Mullarkey brood had all nibbled at it. Danny, who was past nine, reached him before Jerry could gulp down that mouthful and take another bite, as he had intended to do. Chris and Nora followed at Danny's heels, with Celia Jane, as usual, far in the rear. "Save me a bite, Jerry!" called Celia Jane. "Give me a bite of your apple, Jerry," coaxed Danny. "Me, too," echoed Chris. "It looks awful nice," observed Nora. "Where'd you get it?" Jerry explained and handed her the apple first because she had not asked for a bite. Nora bit off a small piece and was passing it on to Celia Jane, who ran panting up to them, when Jerry stopped her by urging: "Take a bigger bite than that, Nora. I want you to." "Not till after you've had your turn again," replied Nora, who was nearly eight and was celebrated in the Mullarkey household for a finer sense of fair play than any of the others possessed. Celia Jane was greedy and bit off so big a chunk that she could not cram it into her mouth, despite her heroic efforts to accomplish that feat. "That ain't fair, Celia Jane," reproved Nora. "Mother told you never to do that again." "That's _two_ bites!" cried Danny. "Take it out and bite it in two." Celia Jane's mouth was too full for utterance. She held out the apple to Danny, then freed her mouth of its embarrassment of riches and proceeded to bite it in two. "Here, Chris," invited Danny, "take your bite next." Jerry became immediately suspicious at such unaccustomed politeness on Danny's part and he was not at all surprised when Danny, once the remainder of the apple was again in his hands, took to his heels. "Save me a bite!" cried Celia Jane, swallowing the morsel in her mouth so quickly that she came near to choking, and tagged after her older brother as fast as she could run. "Danny!" cried Jerry. "That's no fair!" He started to run after the vanishing apple, but was quickly passed, first by Chris and then by Nora, who called back to him: "Maybe I can save the core for you, Jerry." Bitterness arose in Jerry's soul. He knew that he couldn't catch up with Danny, but he kept on running. That old, odd feeling that he did not belong to the Mullarkeys, though living with them, came over him again, and he had already begun to slow down his pace when he was brought to a full and sudden stop by a picture blazoned on a billboard. He stared spellbound, without even winking. Of all delectable things, it was the picture of an elephant! A purple elephant jumping over a green fence, its trunk raised high in the air until it almost touched the full, red moon at the top of the poster. The elephant had such a roguish and knowing look in his small eyes and such a smirk on his funny little mouth that Jerry began to smile without being the least bit conscious that he was doing so. The smile kept spreading in complete understanding of the look on the elephant's face and he probably would have laughed aloud had not the picture somehow made him think of something, he couldn't just remember what. A dim idea seemed to be trying to break into his mind but couldn't find the right door. In his effort to puzzle out what it was the elephant made him think of, Jerry entirely forgot the large red apple and the perfidy of Danny. "What're you lookin' at?" called Danny, who had stopped half a block farther on when he no longer heard Jerry's pursuing footsteps. Jerry did not answer. Instead, he squatted down on the grassy bank between the sidewalk and the billboard and feasted his eyes on that delightfully extravagant elephant which seemed almost to wink at him. Jerry half expected to see the elephant grab the moon and balance it on the end of his trunk, or toss it up into the sky and catch it again as it fell. "Come on, Jerry, if you want the core," called Danny again. "That's all that's left." "Don't want the core," said Jerry. "It was my apple. The lady gave it to me." He didn't even look at Danny but kept staring at the very purple elephant and the very red moon almost on the tip-end of his trunk. He just wouldn't let Danny Mullarkey know that it made any difference to him whether Danny and Chris and Nora and Celia Jane liked him very much or not. No, and he wouldn't feel so terribly bad if Mother 'Larkey and little Kathleen didn't like him, either. "You ain't lost your tongue, have you?" cried Danny. "Maybe the cat's got it," said Celia Jane, following as usual her elder brother's lead and laughing at her own wit. "What you starin' at so hard, Jerry?" called Chris. Jerry disdained to reply or to let his enraptured gaze wander for a moment from the dazzling poster. Curiosity soon got the better of Chris and he started to walk back. "El'funt!" shouted Chris, when he was near enough to see the poster. His shout started the whole Mullarkey brood galloping towards the billboard. "The circus!" cried Danny, from the superior experience of his nine years. "The circus is coming to town!" He threw himself on the grass by Jerry and pressed the uneaten apple core into his hand. "I don't want it," said Jerry. "Aw, take it, Jerry. I didn't mean to eat so much of it, honest I didn't. I just wanted to tease you." He closed Jerry's fingers around the core. "It doesn't say the circus is coming," Nora observed, pointing to some lettering in one corner of the poster. Nora was nearly eight years old and proud of her ability to read print, if the words weren't too big,--an ability shared by none of the others except Danny. "It does, too!" contradicted Celia Jane, wrinkling up her nose preparatory to crying with disappointment if the circus were not coming. "There's some writin' on it." "What does it say, Danny?" eagerly asked Jerry, going close to the billboard as though that might help him to make out what was printed on it. "Ain't it coming?" "Read it quick, Danny! Please! I can't wait!" cried Celia Jane. Thus besought, Danny read somewhat haltingly, for the "writin'" was in queerly formed letters, these words which are known to all children: Ask your mother for fifty cents To see the elephant jump the fence, He jumped so high he hit the sky And never came down till the Fourth of July. "Is that all?" asked Celia Jane, very much disappointed. "Didn't I just read it to you?" was Danny's rejoinder. "Then the circus ain't comin', is it?" said Chris. "It don't say so," replied Nora. "It don't say whether it's comin' or whether it ain't." "It doesn't say it's a _circus_," said Danny. "It might be just an 'ad' for--for any old thing." "For a menajeree?" asked Celia Jane. "Or chewin' gum?" suggested Chris. "Or something," affirmed Danny decisively. Jerry forgot to be disappointed about the circus not coming, for he was bothered about what it was that the picture of the elephant made him almost think of. He tried and tried with all his might to think what it was, but didn't succeed. Then something almost like faint music seemed to hum in his ears and his lips unconsciously formed a word, "Oh, queen," he murmured. "Oh, what?" said Danny sharply, turning to him. "I didn't know I said anything," replied Jerry. "I didn't mean to." "You did," said Celia Jane. "You said, 'Oh, queen.'" "What does that mean, 'Oh, queen'?" asked Danny. "I--I don't know," replied Jerry. "What did you say it for then?" Jerry felt that he was being treated unfairly when he wasn't conscious of having said anything and he didn't answer. He was sorry that the humming almost like music wouldn't come back,--it was so comforting. "If you don't know what 'Oh, queen' means, what did you _say_ 'Oh, queen' for?" persisted Danny. "I don't know," Jerry replied, at a loss. Then he brightened, "I might have heard it, sometime." "Maybe it was somebody's name?" suggested Nora. "I don't know." "It's an Irish name, if it's got an O in front of it, and you said 'O'Queen'," Celia Jane stated. "Did you ever know an Irish man or Irish woman by the name of 'O'Queen'?" questioned Danny. "I don't know," repeated Jerry, his lips twisting in real distress at not being able to think what could have made him say a thing like that. "You don't know anything, do you?" asked Danny in the teasing, affronting tone he sometimes adopted with Jerry. "I do, too," affirmed Jerry, his lips tightening. "You don't know how old you are," said Celia Jane, following Danny's lead. "Do you know what your name is?" asked Danny. "Jerry Elbow," replied Jerry, hot within at this making fun of his name which always seemed to give Danny so much enjoyment. "Jerry _Elbow_," said Danny, putting so much sarcasm into pronouncing the name as to make it almost unbelievable that it could be a name. "What kind of a name is that--Elbow! Might as well be Neck--or Foot." "It's just as good as Danny Mullarkey!" declared Jerry. "There's nothing the matter with your name, Jerry," interposed Nora. "Eat the core of your apple," she continued, pointing at it, forgotten, but still clutched tightly in his fist. "I don't want the old core," said Jerry and threw it against the billboard. Celia Jane ran after it, grabbed it eagerly, wiped it off on her skirt and popped it into her mouth. "Celia Jane!" called Nora, "Don't you eat that core after it's been in the dirt." But Celia Jane had quickly chewed and swallowed it. "It's gone," she said. "Besides, it wasn't dirty enough to amount to anything." Jerry had returned to contemplation of the elephant jumping the fence, when a youthful voice called from across the street, "Look at it good, kid. I guess it's about all of the circus you'll see." Jerry and the Mullarkey children turned and faced the speaker. It was "Darn" Darner, the ten-year old son of Timothy Darner, the county overseer of the poor, and a more or less important personage, especially in his own eyes. You had to be very particular how you spoke to "Darn" unless you wanted to get into a fight, and unless you were as old and as big as he was you had no desire to fight with him. He was especially touchy about his name. He had been "Jimmie" at home but once at school he had signed himself, in the full glory of his name, J. Darnton Darner, perhaps to do honor to his grandfather, after whom he had been named. Thereafter "Darn" was the only name that he was known by outside of the classroom and his own home. He had fights innumerable trying to stop the boys calling him by that name, but it persisted until at length he came to accept it. You could call him "Darn" or shout "Oh, Darn!" and nothing would happen, but if, in your excitement, you grew too emphatic and said "_Darn!_" or "Oh, _Darn_!" you might have to run for the nearest refuge, or take a pummeling from his fists. So now Jerry answered very politely. "It looks good," he said. "Is the circus coming?" asked Danny. "Of course it is. What do you suppose they've put up the posters for?" "It don't say so here," said Nora. "All it says is--" Darn interrupted. "Where've you kids been? That old poster has been up for a week. Two new ones were pasted up to-day--one at Jenkins' corner and the other on Jeffreys' barn. It's Burrows and Fairchild's mammoth circus and menagerie and it's coming a week from Thursday." "Are you going, Darn?" asked Danny. "Am I going?" repeated that youth. "I should say I am going--in a box seat." "Is it a big circus?" asked Chris. "It's one of the biggest there is," replied Darn, "with elephants and clowns and a bearded lady and everything. I'll tell you all about it the next day." Without more ado, he began to whistle and continued on his way. When he was out of sight, Jerry turned back to the billboard, and the Mullarkey children lined up at his side and stood in silent contemplation of the delights forecast in the picture. They felt a new respect for that elephant. "I don't suppose we can go," said Chris at length in a voice that invited contradiction. His remark was met by silence and they continued to stare at the elephant. Jerry was puzzled. "What does it want you to ask your mother for fifty cents for?" he asked Danny. "To buy a ticket for the circus, of course." "Will she give you fifty cents?" Danny seemed struck by some sudden thought; whether or not his question had inspired it Jerry was unable to tell. After pondering for a time, Danny set out towards home on a run without having answered the question. "Where're you goin'?" asked Chris, with a tinge of suspicion in his voice. "I'm goin' to ask mother and see." "That's no fair!" cried Chris. "You can run the fastest and 'll get to ask her first." "She can't give fifty cents to all of us," replied Danny and kept on running. "Danny Mullarkey! You're a mean old thing!" called Nora. Already Chris was racing after Danny; the contagion soon spread and first Nora and then Celia Jane were running with all their might after their brothers. Jerry started to run after them, but it was a half-hearted run and he brought up a very laggard rear. He never tried to get anything for himself that the clannish Mullarkey brood had in their possession, or to which they could with any shred of justice lay claim. If he did, he knew by experience that they would all unite against him--all except Mother 'Larkey, who, trying to earn money to support them all, could not always know what was going on under her tired, kindly eyes, much less the things that took place behind her back. And baby Kathleen, who was too little to feel the claims of the Mullarkey blood and who loved everybody. But Jerry was sure he had never seen a circus and he _did_ want to go to this one and see the elephant jump the fence. He felt very friendly to that elephant and well acquainted with it. The roguish look in its eyes, in the picture, made it seem a very nice sort of elephant and he knew he would like it. But he also knew that Mother 'Larkey found it very hard to make both ends meet since her husband died--he had often heard her say so--but there might be a possible chance that she would have several fifty-cent pieces, so he started again to run after the other children, keeping close enough to be in time if Mrs. Mullarkey _should_ happen to be distributing fifty-cent pieces among her brood and there _should_ happen to be an extra one for him. Even though she were not his mother, she _might_ give it to him, she had already done so many things for him. CHAPTER II THE BLACK HALF-DOLLAR Jerry's progress was brought to a sudden halt and he was sent sprawling to the ground by running full tilt into a man who tried to turn the same corner at the same time Jerry did, but from the opposite direction. The impact was so swift and so hard that Jerry was whirled clear around and fell on his face, striking two small pieces of board lying near the sidewalk and loosening a plank in the sidewalk itself. "Oh!" gasped the man's voice. Before Jerry could stir he heard a clink as of metal falling on board. He half turned on his back and looked dazedly up at the man, who was pressing both hands into the pit of his stomach. His face was very red. He spoke to Jerry hesitatingly, as though he could not get his breath. 'Are you--hurt--much?" "N-no, I guess not," Jerry replied, sitting up and feeling of a bruised place on his arm. "You just about knocked the breath out of me," said the man in a more natural voice and one which Jerry now recognized as belonging to Harry Barton, the clerk at the corner drug store. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton. If I'd of seen you--" "You wouldn't have run into me," finished Mr. Barton. "Of course not. There are a lot of things we wouldn't do if we could see what the results were going to be. Why, bless me, it's Jerry Elbow! Well, I guess there wasn't much harm done this time. You seemed to be in quite a hurry. Have I delayed you?" "Yes, sir, I was in a hurry," Jerry answered. "Danny was running to ask Mother 'Larkey for fifty cents to see the circus." "And what were you running for?" Jerry started to get up as he replied. "To see if she had fifty cents for Da--" He stopped speaking and stopped getting up at the same time. A glint of silver on the sidewalk back of Mr. Barton caught his eye. It was a half-dollar! Jerry sank to a sitting posture and gazed in rapt wonder at this answer to an unsaid prayer. "You _are_ hurt!" cried Mr. Barton solicitously and stooped to help Jerry up. "Where does it pain you?" "It's fifty cents!" cried Jerry, his lips unsealed at last, and he scrambled eagerly for the coin. "Well, there's nothing very painful in that, is there?" laughed Mr. Barton. Jerry rose, clutching the dirty half-dollar tightly, a light of joyful anticipation in his eyes. "There's not much need of asking what you will spend it for," observed the drug clerk. "For a ticket to the circus!" cried Jerry, his eyes sparkling at the thought of future delights. "I guessed it the first time," said Mr. Barton. "I thought I heard something metallic fall on the sidewalk when you ran into me, but I had such hard work getting my breath back that I forgot all about it." Such a harrowing thought now popped into Jerry's mind that unconsciously he closed his fingers entirely around the precious half-dollar. What if it were Mr. Barton's! Perhaps he had knocked it out of Mr. Barton's pocket when he ran into him. He had heard the clink of its fall just after the collision, as he lay on the ground. After a short but sharp struggle with himself, Jerry looked up and held out the money to Mr. Barton. He tried to smile, but was conscious that the twisting of his lips didn't look much like a smile. "It's yours, I guess, Mr. Barton." "Mine!" exclaimed the surprised drug clerk. "You saw it first." "Yes, but I heard it fall just after I ran into you. I must of knocked it out of your pocket. I didn't have no half-dollar." "No more did I," replied Mr. Barton. "You didn't!" exclaimed Jerry, and joy came unbidden back into his eyes and there was a very different feel to his lips. He knew that it was a real smile this time. "Not this late in the week," Mr. Barton informed him. "It's too long after pay day for me to have that much money. I've got just thirty-five cents." He drew some small coins out of his pocket. "Yes, it's all here. The half-dollar must have been lying on one of the boards that you struck in falling. Let's see it." He took the money and examined it. "It was almost covered with dirt," he said. "So was one end of both boards. Hello! That's a funny black mark on the other side. Looks as though somebody had smeared it with black paint." "That doesn't hurt it any, does it?" asked Jerry in trepidation. "Not a bit! It's good for a ticket to the circus." "If I hadn't of run into you, I wouldn't get to go," observed Jerry. "That's so," responded Mr. Barton. "I wouldn't let any one know you found the money. Just sneak off to the circus when it comes and buy your ticket. Danny would find some way to get it away from you if he knew you had it." "I guess mebbe he would," Jerry responded. "You just keep it to yourself and enjoy the circus," Mr. Barton advised him and went on to the store. Jerry trudged slowly back toward Mrs. Mullarkey's, thinking intently. The gloom that pervaded the house was so deep that Jerry perceived it as soon as he opened the door. Danny sat glowering by the window; Celia Jane was weeping unashamed, while Chris and Nora were trying not to show their disappointment. So Mother 'Larkey had not yet been able to make both ends meet--those troublesome, refractory ends that made her life a continual round of hard work--and there were no fifty-cent pieces for the children to buy tickets with to see the elephant jump the fence. Jerry hugged himself just to feel the half-dollar in his blouse pocket and a glow of exultation ran over his body at the thought that he was going to get to see the circus. Mrs. Mullarkey, looking tired and worn, was ripping apart the dress for Mrs. Green that she had just finished at noon. Baby Kathleen sat at her feet, playing with the old rag doll that had once been Nora's and was now claimed by Celia Jane. Jerry entered the room slowly and took a seat on the chair without a back. He said nothing at all and finally Mother 'Larkey looked up at him. "Why don't you ask for fifty cents, too?" she inquired. "Don't you want to see the circus?" "Yes'm," replied Jerry, "but I ain't got no mother." "What difference does that make?" she asked, in a voice sharper than she was accustomed to use in speaking to Jerry. "Haven't I done everything a mother could--" "Yes'm," Jerry interrupted hastily, for he didn't want her to think he thought _that_. "But it said to ask your _mother_ for fifty cents and I ain't got none to ask." "Sure and you haven't, you blessed boy," said Mother 'Larkey. "If I had it to give, you wouldn't need a mother to ask it of. I wish I could send all of you to the circus and go myself." "We never get to go no place," muttered Danny gloomily. "It costs money to go to places," his mother explained, "and there's no money in the house. It's all I've been able to do to put enough food in your hungry mouths to keep soul and body together and to get enough clothes to keep you looking decent and respectable. I was counting on some money from Mrs. Green to-day, to buy a little meat for supper and get some more cough medicine for Kathleen, but she wasn't satisfied with the dress and I've got to do part of it over before she will pay me." "Is Kathleen's cough medicine all gone?" Jerry asked, suddenly feeling hot and uncomfortable. "Yes, and she ought to have some more right this minute. Summer coughs are bad things for babies." Jerry went to Kathleen and she welcomed him by raising her arms and gurgling at him. He put his face gently against hers and she patted his head and tugged at his hair. And all the time Jerry felt guiltier and guiltier and the half-dollar in his pocket seemed to become bigger and heavier. He was relieved when he heard Celia Jane, recovered from her crying, asking: "Did you ever see a circus, Mother?" "Yes, once. Dan took me to see one in the city right after we were married. If he was living, he would find a way to take you all and him liking the fun and the noise and the crowd and all." "Some day I'll be big enough to earn lots of money and take us all to the circus," asserted Danny. "And Jerry, too." "Sure and you will," his mother said. "And now, if you children will pick me some gooseberries, I'll make you a gooseberry pie for supper." Jerry did not join the rest in the scamper for cups and a pan nor follow them out into the back yard. He patted Kathleen's head and then went into the kitchen when he had heard the screen door slam and knew the Mullarkey children were all out of the house. He took down a bottle from the shelf by the table and slipped quietly out to the street. When he was out of sight of the house he looked to see if the half-dollar were still in his pocket. The sight of it made him recall vividly all the joys that he would miss if he didn't get to see the circus. He took the coin out of his pocket and looked at it and the longer he looked the slower grew his pace. Then he thought of Kathleen and the summer cough that Mother 'Larkey said was bad for babies, and his lips suddenly closed in a firm, straight line. He clutched the half-dollar tightly in one hand, the bottle in the other, and set out as fast as his legs would carry him. He did not dare waste a moment for fear the temptation to change his mind would prove too great to be resisted. Not once did he slacken speed till he reached the corner drug store. Speechless for lack of breath, he passed the bottle over the counter to Mr. Barton. "Well, Jerry, what is it this time?" asked the clerk. Jerry panted a moment before he could reply. "Some more of--that cough medicine--for Kathleen." "That won't take long," said Mr. Barton. "All I've got to do is to pour it from a big bottle into this little one." He disappeared behind the prescription case, but was back long before Jerry's pulse had had time to slow down to its customary beat. "There you are," he said. "Forty-five cents." Jerry passed over the precious half-dollar. The pang of regret at the thought of circus delights, once so nearly his, now beyond his reach, he resolutely forced out of his mind every time he caught himself thinking about it. He tried to whistle to help forget the circus, but to his surprise not a sound issued from his lips. They were too dry to whistle. Then he suddenly heard the drug clerk exclaim: "Gee whillikens! This is the identical half-dollar you found this afternoon! I can tell it by the black mark on it." "Yes, it is," Jerry admitted in a forlorn tone. "So you told about finding it--" "No, I didn't," interrupted Jerry, "but Kathleen was all out of cough medicine and Mother 'Larkey didn't have no money." "I see. Then you told what--" "No, I just got the bottle and brought it here." Mr. Barton whistled. "Jerry, you're some boy, and there's my hand on it." Jerry felt himself flushing as he took the proffered hand which shook his warmly. "Grit!" exclaimed Mr. Barton. "Pure grit. That's what I call it, if anybody should ask you. And you won't get to see the circus at all." "I guess Kathleen's cough is more important than the circus," replied Jerry. "Summer coughs are bad for babies." "You're right there, but I'm mighty sorry you can't go. I know how my two boys will feel if they have to stay away." He rang up the forty-five cents and returned a nickel to Jerry. "There, I guess you've earned the right to spend the nickel on yourself." "Give me a nickel's worth of cough drops--the kind with honey in 'em," said Jerry. "You don't want cough drops, Jerry. Here's some good candy. It's got lots of lemon in it." "Kathleen likes the cough drops with honey in 'em," explained Jerry. "She doesn't cough so bad after eating one of them." "Well, you beat my time, Jerry! You must like Kathleen an awful lot." "I do," admitted Jerry in a low voice, as a customer entered the store. He took the bag of cough drops and darted out through the door, but not too quickly to overhear Mr. Barton saying to the man who had entered: "That boy's got enough sand to supply all the contractors in town. Plucky as they make 'em." Jerry was not quite sure that he understood what Mr. Barton meant about the sand, but his saying that he was plucky made him feel glad and uncomfortable at the same time. Somehow it didn't seem quite so hard to have given up seeing the circus. He wouldn't mind not seeing the elephant jump the fence--well, not so very much. He could look at the billboard poster all he wanted to and that would be almost as good. He started home on a run but soon slackened his speed, and the nearer he got the slower became his pace. He didn't want Danny to know that he had bought something for Kathleen, for Danny called him "Kathleen's pet" as it was and he didn't like to be laughed at. Perhaps he could sneak in without any of them seeing him and put the bottle back on the shelf and no one would know how it got full. The Mullarkey children were still picking gooseberries and Mother 'Larkey was still in the living room sewing on Mrs. Green's dress. Jerry tiptoed carefully into the kitchen, replaced the bottle, stuffed the cough drops into his blouse pocket and went into the living room, where he squatted down by Kathleen. Hardly had he done so when the voices of the other children coming back to the house were heard. "Gooseberries all picked?" sighed Mrs. Mullarkey. "Then I must be getting supper." When she left the room, Jerry fished a cough drop out of his pocket and gave it to Kathleen. She smiled in delight at sight of it and at once popped it into her mouth, cooing at Jerry. "Mother, why didn't you make Jerry help pick gooseberries?" asked Danny, as soon as he entered and caught sight of Jerry. "He can't have any pie, can he, Mother?" said Celia Jane. "Why, he was out with you," replied Mrs. Mullarkey. "He just this minute came in." "He wasn't near the gooseberry patch," Danny informed her. "He didn't pick a single gooseberry," Celia Jane interpolated. "Nora," appealed their mother, "you always tell the truth. Didn't Jerry help you?" "I didn't see him, Mother. Ask Jerry." "Did you help them, Jerry? Not that it makes any difference; you'll get just as big a piece of pie as any of them." "No'm, I didn't," replied Jerry. His lips parted again as though he wanted to say more but closed without a word. "You're such a willing worker, I thought Danny was just trying to get even for something," said Mother 'Larkey. "Where'd you go, Jerry?" asked Chris. "Yah! Tell us that," demanded Danny. "I just thought I'd run over to the drug store," replied Jerry. "What did you want to go there for?" Jerry said nothing. "I bet he found a penny and bought himself some candy," cried Celia Jane, falling into the habit that many older people have of judging others by themselves. "Tandy," said Kathleen, struck by that word, and she pulled the remnant of the cough drop out of her mouth and displayed it proudly. "Jerry, you ate all the rest yourself!" accused Celia Jane. "Greedy, greedy, greedy!" "Oh, did um buy some tandy for um's 'ittle Tatleen?" mocked Danny. "I want some," said Celia Jane. "Mother, make Jerry give me some candy." "It was cough drops for Kathleen," said Jerry. "Where'd you get the money?" Danny demanded sharply. "Found it after you ran home first to ask for fifty cents to see the circus," Jerry explained. "Gee, I never find nothing!" ejaculated Danny. "How much was it?" Jerry did not reply immediately and Celia Jane, watching him sharply, was at once full cry right on his trail. "I bet it was a whole lot more'n five cents an' he bought something for himself. How much did you find, Jerry?" "It was half a dollar," Jerry stated, thus brought to bay. "Half a dollar!" exclaimed Danny and Chris. "Why, that's fifty cents!" Celia Jane cried. "Enough to buy a ticket to the circus!" Danny added. "Where is it? Let's see it." "It's all gone," Jerry told his tormentors. "Fifty cents! And you spent all of it at once!" wailed Celia Jane. "That must of bought a whole lot of candy," said Danny. "Fork out. No fair holding any back." Jerry produced the small paper bag of cough drops and gave it to Mother 'Larkey. "They're cough drops with honey in 'em for Kathleen," he said. "I ain't eaten one of them." "Give me one, Mother," pleaded Celia Jane. "They're for Kathleen," replied her mother. "She needs them and you don't." "Jerry's Kathleen's pet! Jerry's Kathleen's little honey cough-drop boy!" chanted Danny. "Jerry's done more for Kathleen than her own brothers and sisters have ever done, unless it's Nora," declared Mrs. Mullarkey. "It's no wonder she loves him best." "That's not fifty cents' worth of cough drops," Danny accused. "Where's the rest of the money? Make him tell, Mother." Kathleen saved him the necessity of replying. "Toff meddy," she gurgled, looking up at the shelf where the bottle was kept. "Tatleen want toff meddy." "It's all gone, Kathleen," her mother said soothingly. "No," said Kathleen, shaking her head and pointing up at the bottle. "Mercy sakes! It's full!" cried Mrs. Mullarkey. "I could have sworn I emptied it this morning." Then she looked at Jerry, a sudden softening coming over her face and into her eyes. "Jerry, you went and spent every cent of that half-dollar on Kathleen, didn't you?" "You said there wasn't any money in the house," Jerry defended himself, "and that Kathleen needed more medicine because summer coughs are bad for babies." "The Lord love you, Jerry, I'm not scolding you. It's more apt to be crying I am at the big heart of you. It's as big as my Dan's was. You're more like him in heart and disposition than any of his own children, unless it's Nora. That's why I can't ever let them take you away, ever." "Who wants to take Jerry away?" It was Nora's startled voice that asked. Jerry's heart stood still. Had the man with the red scar on his face found him at last? He looked up at Mother 'Larkey, his lips starting to twist. "Nobody's going to take him away!" said Mrs. Mullarkey almost fiercely. "Just let anybody try it!" "Why didn't you tell us you had fifty cents?" asked Danny. "I bet you was going to spend it all for yourself for a ticket to the circus." "Mr. Barton told me not to tell," replied Jerry. "He said you'd get it away from me if you knew I had found it and for me to go to the circus all by myself." "And you gave that up just for Kathleen?" queried Mrs. Mullarkey. "I guess Kathleen's cough is much more important than any old circus," said Jerry. Mother 'Larkey thereupon gathered Jerry up in her arms and kissed him. CHAPTER III THE WIDTH OF AN ELEPHANT'S TAIL Jerry tried all the next day and the next to think what it was that the picture of the elephant jumping the fence almost made him remember, but it just wouldn't come and finally he gave up trying. After playing with Kathleen until Mother 'Larkey put her in the crib for her afternoon nap, he wandered out towards the woodshed from behind which he heard the voices of Danny and Celia Jane. On the way an idea popped all of a sudden into his mind. The dazzling splendor of it first brought him to a dead halt and then set him running breathlessly to join the Mullarkey children. He found them all gathered about Danny, hungrily watching him eat a green apple. "Couldn't we play circus!" he exclaimed, in eager excitement at the idea that had come to him. "We could if we wanted to," replied Danny, in that superior, ardor-dampening way of his. Jerry felt his enthusiasm for the idea oozing out of his bare toes. "I--Don't we want to, Danny?" "Oh, yes, let's!" cried Nora eagerly. "I'm tired of ante-over and run-sheep-run and pump-pump-pull-away--" "And hidin'-go-seek and tree-tag," interrupted Celia Jane. She turned to Jerry. "How do you play circus?" "You just--just _play_ it," he answered. "'Maginary you're an el'funt jumpin' a fence and all." "I'll be the el'funt!" cried Danny. "I want to be the el'funt," objected Chris. "The el'funt's mine," Jerry asserted and he closed his lips tightly. Danny didn't have any right to that elephant. "I saw it first," he added. "I said 'I'll be the el'funt' first, didn't I?" asked Danny. "Jerry orter have first choice," said Nora, the conciliator, "seein' it was him thought of playin' circus." "I guess I can jump the highest, can't I?" Danny asked in a tone that said as plain as day that that settled the matter. "It's my el'funt!" insisted Jerry. "You always take first choice," Chris complained. "You could take turns about being el'funt," Nora suggested. Jerry wanted with all his soul to play that sublime elephant jumping the fence and he summoned up all his courage. "I won't play," cried he, with a suspicious quiver of his lips. "I won't! I won't!" "I'll let you be el'funt part of the time," Danny promised, "just to keep you from cryin'." "I ain't goin' to cry," returned Jerry hotly. "I ain't!" "We can't have a circus with just a el'funt," said Celia Jane. "Of course, we can't," said Danny decisively and turned to Jerry. "What else'll we have?" "Couldn't we have more'n one el'funt?" Jerry asked hopefully. "What'd we want with more'n one el'funt?" Danny queried in scorn. "I guess one el'funt's enough for one circus. Anyway, we want something besides el'funts." "What?" asked Jerry. "I ain't never seen a circus." "No more have I," replied Danny. "Can't you 'maginary something?" asked Celia Jane. "We could ''maginary things'," interposed Nora, "but they might not be in a circus." "There's more'n one circus picture up," said Jerry. "Darn Darner said there was one at Jenkins' corner and one on Jeffreys' barn. P'raps they'll tell us what's in a circus." "Of course," said Danny. "It's funny I didn't think of that. It's usually me who thinks of everything. I'll be the first one at Jenkins' corner," and he was off at a run. Thereupon they all followed at full speed. Any other rate of progress was too slow for them. Jerry ran as hard as he could, leaving Celia Jane behind and keeping right at Nora's side. It was more than a quarter of a mile to Jenkins' corner and Jerry felt that his legs were ready to give out and send him sprawling in the street before he got there, but he kept running just the same. Celia Jane tagged along, far in the rear, and called to Jerry to wait for her, but a boy couldn't stop and wait for a girl without Danny's making fun of him, so, as much as Jerry would have liked to rest, he kept pantingly on. He was glad to plump down flat on the ground in front of the billboard and rest till Nora and Celia Jane arrived. "Whoopee! I'll be the clown!" exclaimed Chris, pointing to the poster which showed trapeze performers turning somersaults in the air, a clown playing ringmaster to a dancing white pony and a girl walking a tight rope. "I'll be the dancin' pony!" cried Celia Jane. "I'll be the rope-walker," Nora said. "And what'll I be?" asked Jerry plaintively, feeling left entirely out in the cold. "Why didn't you speak up and grab onto something before they were all taken?" asked Danny. "You've got a tongue, ain't you?" "He could swing up in the air hanging by his hands," Celia Jane suggested. "We ain't got no net like they have in the picture to catch him if he falls," Nora objected. "That would be too dangerous for us kids to try," Danny stated. "Maybe the picture on Jeffreys' barn will suggest something." Again they were off at a run. It was not far to the barn, where they all squatted on the ground, nonplussed at the picture of half a dozen funny little animals balancing toy balloons on their noses. "What are they?" Jerry asked. "They're some kind of a fish," returned Danny promptly. "Fish nothing!" exclaimed Chris. "Who ever saw a fish with hair on it? They're some kind of animal." "They've got fins," retorted Danny. "I'd like to know what kind of animals's got fins. Tell me that." "I don't know," Chris confessed, "but what kind of fish has hair?" "This kind," said Danny authoritatively. "Mebbe it's half fish and half animal," Jerry ventured. "Who ever heard--" Danny began but was interrupted by Nora. "It tells under the picture what they are," she said. "Trained s-e-a-l-s, seals. That's what rich women get their coats from." "Then Jerry can be a trained seal," said Danny. "He can have a ball of carpet rags for a balloon to balance on his nose." "I don't think I could," Jerry protested. "I know it would fall off." "Not if you practise enough," returned Danny. "Besides, that's all that's left for you. I guess if one seal can throw it to another and that seal catch it on its nose like it does in the picture, you ought to be able to _balance_ it on _your_ nose. All you'll have to do is to lie on your stummick on the ground and throw back your head." So it was decided that Jerry should play the part of a trained seal in their circus. Mother 'Larkey got out a ball of carpet rags, when they reached home, for Jerry to balance on his nose in place of a balloon, and gave Danny an old green wrapper, just ready to be cut up into carpet rags, out of which to make his elephant costume. She made Chris a clown costume out of a piece of old white skirt upon which she sewed large dots of red and blue cloth. The two following days were busy ones for Jerry if not quite so happy as for the Mullarkey children. He had made up his mind, after practising until his back, chest and neck ached from throwing his head back to balance the ball of carpet rags on his nose, that he didn't like trained seals and wasn't going to care to be one at the circus. Chris's clown costume was finished and looked very much like a white union suit miles too big for him. Nora had become quite proficient at walking the tight rope, stretched between two poles in the yard about ten feet apart and two feet from the ground, _if_ she remembered to keep one end of her balancing pole touching the ground all the time. Mrs. Mullarkey had decided that Celia Jane didn't need any costume to play the part of the dancing pony except her good, white dress that she probably wouldn't ruin this time as all she had to do was to dance. Danny was having more than a peck of trouble. His elephant costume had all sorts of queer mishaps. He wanted to make it all himself, even to the sewing, and he couldn't sew for sour apples, as Nora very readily told him. Two small palm-leaf fans, fastened to an old cap of his father's so that they flopped with every movement, served as the elephant's ears, while out of an old brown coat sleeve Danny had fashioned what passed for an elephant's trunk. He fastened it with a string to the visor of the cap. Danny was stuffing the leg of an old pair of blue trousers with straw, flattening it out until it bore a faint resemblance to the paddle-shaped tail of a beaver. "What is that you're making?" Jerry asked. "Why, that's the el'funt's tail!" said Danny. "Anybody could tell that." He held it proudly up, displaying it in all its blue glory. "El'funts' tails are small like a rope," Jerry remarked. Danny laughed derisively. "Much you know about it! I guess a el'funt's about the biggest animal in the world and it wouldn't have a little ole tail like a rope." "They are little, like a rope," Jerry insisted. "How do you know they are?" asked Danny. "Just tell me how you know anything about it." "I don't know, but I know," Jerry said, feeling all his obstinacy aroused by Danny's air of conscious superiority. "There, you just said you didn't know," Celia Jane interposed, going to her elder brother's aid, as she always did in a dispute with Jerry. "I didn't neither," asseverated Jerry. "You said you didn't know," insisted Celia Jane. "I don't know how I know," said Jerry, "but I know el'funts have little tails--like a rope." "Have you ever been to a circus?" asked Chris. "Not that I remember." "Have you ever seen a el'funt?" pursued Danny. "N-n-no, but it kind of seems as if I almost had." "I guess you'd know if you had seen a el'funt, wouldn't you?" "Y-y-yes," responded Jerry doubtfully. "Then if you ain't ever been to a circus or seen a el'funt, I guess you don't know what you are talking about." "El'funts' tails are little, like a rope," Jerry insisted. "Like a cow's tail?" asked Celia Jane. Jerry nodded assent. "Only they haven't so much hair on the end," he added. "A el'funt's a hundred times as big as a cow, I guess," interposed Danny, "an' it wouldn't have a little tail like a cow. I guess I know more about it than you do. I'm older, ain't I?" "Yes," Jerry admitted, "but they are little." Nora now interposed. "Why don't you go see the picture of the elephant jumpin' the fence and find out?" she asked. "Of course," said Chris. "The picture'll show whether they're small like a rope or great big ones." "I'll beat you there," challenged Danny, as he dropped the flat, beaver-like elephant's tail and darted at a run out of the woodshed, followed by the others. As they lined up in front of the gaudy, delectable poster, there came a simultaneous gasp of amazement from all of them. "Why, it ain't got no tail at all!" exclaimed Celia Jane. True enough, there was no tail in evidence, as the elephant seemed to be headed straight towards them. Jerry flushed as they all turned and looked accusingly at him. "Yah!" exclaimed Danny. "Mr. Smarty Know-it-all didn't know so much, after all!" "Mebbe you just can't see it, but it's there," suggested Nora. "That's so," Danny reluctantly admitted. "A el'funt's so big that when you stand right in front of it, its tail might not show at all, no matter how big it was." "A little tail wouldn't," Jerry said quickly. "A big one wouldn't either," Celia Jane asserted, taking sides against Jerry. "A el'funt's enough bigger to hide its tail." "If it was very big it would show," said Jerry. "The el'funt I play is goin' to have a tail all right," Danny informed the children collectively. "I ain't goin' to all the work of makin' a tail and then not wear it. I guess a el'funt's got some kind of a tail, anyway." CHAPTER IV JERRY LEARNS THAT O-U-T SPELLS OUT The first and, as it turned out, the last performance of their circus took place that afternoon. Jerry felt a thrill of expectancy as they began to don their costumes. Once he thought he almost heard again that low, cheerful strumming that had seemed to beat upon his ears when he first saw the poster of the elephant jumping the fence. He said nothing about it and soon lost all recollection of the rollicking strains in the anticipation of the circus joys that he was about to behold. Chris and Danny got into their costumes in the woodshed while Celia Jane went into the house and put on her white dress, the one she wore on Sundays. Mrs. Mullarkey had decided that Nora didn't need any special costume to be a rope-walker and that all Jerry needed to be a trained seal was a sort of apron made out of a gunny sack to protect his clothes while he crawled about on his stomach. He did not put this on at once but watched Danny getting into the skin of the elephant, wishing with all his heart that he might be the elephant, even if its tail was big and flat instead of being small like a rope. It might have proved a mirth-provoking elephant to others had there been others present to see it, but to Jerry's eager imagination there was nothing laughable about it. The green wrapper hung most loosely about Danny's small, slim figure, great folds almost touching the ground, while the brown trunk and the blue, beaver-like tail waggled and wiggled about until they met between the front and hind legs of the elephant. There was something about that awkward elephant that made Jerry feel all friendly inside and struck the chord of envy in his heart. He was not at all inclined to laugh when the cap with the very floppy palm-leaf-fan-ears attached fell off, as Danny started to gallop around the woodshed on all fours to see if the costume was all right. Celia Jane now came dancing out of the house in her white frock, her hair loose and flowing for the pony's mane, while pinned to the back of her dress, at the waist line, was her mother's switch to represent the pony's tail. The strands of gray in the black hair did not match with the brown of the pony's mane, but that presented no difficulties to the imagination of the circus performers. "Come on!" Celia Jane called. "Let's play circus. I'm all ready." "Wait a minute, can't you?" complained Danny. "I guess I'm the head of this circus. I've got the biggest part and I ain't quite ready. Just hold your horses." "Whoa!" cried Celia Jane. "I'm just one pony. Get up!" She flapped her side with one hand, as though urging a horse to quicken his pace, and galloped out back of the woodshed where the circus "tent" had been set up and began prancing and dancing and preening about. Jerry was torn between desire to watch her graceful whirling and pirouetting and to keep fascinated eyes on the green elephant. He just had to stay and see if the elephant's ears fell off again. But Danny was equal to the occasion and tied the cap on with a piece of string. "Celia Jane, you just come back here," he called. "I guess the elephant has to enter the circus ahead of the horse. Horses always get scared of el'funts unless they're behind where they can see them. How do you expect us to parade if you're there already?" "All right," replied Celia Jane and came prancing back into the woodshed, "but hurry." "I'll be first," said Danny, "an--" "An' I'll be second!" cried Chris. "I'm third!" Nora and Celia Jane exclaimed together. Jerry said nothing. He knew where his place would be,--the very tail end of the parade. "Boom!" sang out Danny and again, "Boom!" "What's that for?" asked Chris. "It's the music so that the people will know the circus is about to begin," replied Danny. "They always have music for the parade an' everything. Darn Darner said so." "Let's sing then," suggested Nora. "Sing what?" queried Danny crossly, seeing a threat to diminish his importance in the circus. "We might sing 'Heigho, the cherry-o,'" said Celia Jane. "'I Went to the Animal Fair' will be much more appropriate," Nora suggested. "All right, sing," consented Danny, "but the crowd's gettin' restless; I can hear them stampin' and whistlin'!" "I'll start it," said Nora. "All ready." Thus the parade started and entered the main circus tent, which consisted of a pole in the center, with no canvas at all, to the strain of, I went to the animal fair; The birds and the beasts were there; The little raccoon, by the light of the moon, Was combing his auburn hair. The monkey he got drunk, Ran up the elephant's trunk, The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees And what became of the monkey-monkey-monk? Jerry tried to sing, too, but he had a very hard time, for he couldn't crawl as fast as the others walked and the carpet-rag balloon wouldn't stay balanced on his nose but kept rolling off to the ground. The rest of the parade was halfway around the ring (marked by a circle of sawdust which Danny had made after sawing wood energetically for half a day to get enough sawdust) when the trained seal had just reached the main entrance. "Run and catch up with the parade," came Danny's voice through the circus music. "We can't have the parade split in two that way." The trained seal jumped up on his hind feet carrying the balloon under a forefoot, and ran until he caught up with Celia Jane; then he plumped down on his stomach again. Jerry was very hot and flushed and the muscles of his back and neck ached. He tried desperately to balance the ball of carpet rags on his nose, but it kept rolling off, and Jerry had to scramble after it and the parade was soon away ahead again. In desperation, he held the balloon on his nose with one hand and tried to creep ahead with but one arm and his legs as motive power. His progress was slower than ever. He could see Danny--or, rather, the elephant--stalking majestically ahead to the strains of "I Went to the Animal Fair," his trunk and his tail wobbling about until they met under his body, and the palm-leaf ears flopping with every step. Jerry felt hurt and out of sorts as he panted from the exertion of trying to crawl on one arm. He had suggested playing circus and he ought to have been allowed to play the part of the elephant. There was no fun in being a trained seal balancing a balloon on its nose, as there was in being a green elephant with floppy ears and wobbly tail and trunk. It would serve that greedy Danny just right if he should refuse to play in his old circus. Jerry saw that he was again falling far in the rear and tried to scramble on faster. Then, of course, the balloon fell off and Jerry was almost in tears as he jumped after it. Then the music of the parade came to a sudden end. The rest of the performers were at the main entrance, having marched clear around the ring while Jerry had not covered much more than half the distance. "Can't you hurry any?" asked Danny. "You're spoilin' the circus all the time, 'way behind like that." "I can't crawl as fast as you can walk," answered Jerry, in a voice that threatened to break into a sob. "I guess a trained seal had orter crawl as fast as a man can walk," said Danny, "or how could they have them in circuses?" "I'm comin' as fast as I can," returned Jerry. "I wish you'd just try bein' a trained seal for a time and see how fast you can crawl on your stummick." Jerry rose to his hands and knees, holding the ball of carpet rags in his teeth, and progressed much faster. "Who ever heard of a trained seal carryin' a balloon in his teeth?" Danny protested. "I guess his teeth would go through the balloon and let all the air out." "Let's not have no trained seal," pleaded Jerry. "It ain't no fun." "We got to have a trained seal," replied Danny. "You be it then," suggested Jerry, "an' let me be the el'funt. You said I could part of the time." "I'm going to be the el'funt," proclaimed Danny. "The circus ain't even begun yet." "I won't be a trained seal, so I won't," said Jerry, at last catching up with the parade. "The balloon won't stay on my nose and my neck hurts and I've cut my hand on a piece of glass or a splinter or something till it bleeds." He held up one hand with a little trickle of blood on it. "I want to be something else. I won't play if I've got to be a trained seal any more." "All right," Danny acquiesced, after a moment's thought, "you can be the audience. We need an audience to clap their hands and holler so's we'll know the crowd likes us and we're doin' all right. This circus can get along without no trained seal." "I don't want to be the audience," replied Jerry dismally, seeing that, as the audience, he would have nothing to do with the circus. Nora now put in a word. "Let's count out," she said, "and the one who's counted out will be the audience." "I guess not," replied Danny emphatically, but after Celia Jane had whispered something in his ear, he considered a moment, looked at Jerry and then whispered something to Nora. Nora looked at Jerry and counted on her fingers rapidly. Then she counted on her fingers again, after a quick glance at Danny. She nodded to Danny, who said: "All right, whoever's counted out will be the audience. You count out, Nora." Starting with Danny and pointing to a child in rotation with each word, Nora chanted and counted: "'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All good children go to heaven. O-u-t spells out.'" Her finger was pointing at Jerry. "Jerry's out!" cried Celia Jane, skipping about. "He's the audience!" "I won't be no audience," said Jerry. "You'll have to be," asserted Danny, "you was counted out." "I won't be! I won't play!" cried Jerry. He threw down his carpet-rag balloon, took off the gunny-sack apron, tossed it on top of the balloon and ran to the house. "Cry baby!" shouted Danny after him, but Jerry did not even wait to refute that charge, for he knew he was in danger of proving it if he remained out there a moment longer. Jerry felt the hot tears start to come as the screen door slammed after him. He dashed them angrily out of his eyes and ran up the stairs to the room he shared with Danny and Chris. If Mother 'Larkey had been at home and not away sewing for Mrs. Moran, he would have gone to her in his bitter disappointment, sure of finding comfort in her arms as he had so many times. It was not fair for Danny to take the part of the elephant away from him and not even let him play it for a teeny little while, as he had promised he would. For two cents he would run away as he had from the man with the--the scarred face. He looked quickly around, half-fearful, as always, that _that_ man might have learned where he was and be lurking around the corner ready to pounce upon him. The room was empty and he took a long breath. He would run away if it weren't for Mother 'Larkey and for little Kathleen who always cried when he even said anything about running away. He heard the screen door slam shut after a time and Nora's gentle footsteps coming up the stairway. He turned his back to the door. "Jerry," pleaded Nora's coaxing voice, "come on out and play. Danny didn't mean anything." Jerry did not answer. He did not even look around. "Danny wants you to play with us," continued Nora. "Won't you?" "No," Jerry replied at length. "Why won't you?" "He didn't play fair." "I'll count over again, Jerry, so's I'll be the--" The voice stopped and then continued chokily, "--the audience." Jerry knew what it cost her to say that, but he hardened his heart. "I don't want to play no more," he said. "Please do, Jerry. I'm sorry I didn't play fair, Jerry." "I won't," pouted Jerry. "He said I could be the el'funt some of the time." "Mebbe he'll let you after while, after he's tired of playin' it," suggested Nora, without any great fervor of conviction in her voice. "I'll ask him to." With that Nora left the room. He wondered if she could persuade Danny to let him be the elephant part of the time. He might play then, if Danny coaxed him to. He heard the screen slam after Nora and waited, listening for it to go slam-bang much louder. That would mean that Danny was coming to let him play elephant. Danny always let the door go shut slam-bang. He waited a long time and then he heard the shouting of the children. They were playing circus without him! Danny wouldn't let him be the elephant. Very well, if they didn't want him around and wouldn't let him play with them, he would run away. Danny would be sorry then. Perhaps he would be killed on a railway track or something and Danny would cry over his dead body, he'd be so sorry he didn't let him be the elephant. That thought comforted him and he began gathering up the things he wanted to take with him. There was the fur cap that Mother 'Larkey had made for him out of an old muff of hers, the winter before. He couldn't leave that behind, nor yet the overcoat which she had made for him out of an old coat of her husband's just after Mr. Mullarkey had died. The other things he didn't care much about. Yes, after all, he would take the ragged, fuzzy cloth dog that Kathleen had insisted on giving him. The dog had lost an ear, a forepaw and one eye; still he cherished it because Kathleen had given it to him of her own free will, something that Danny nor Chris nor Celia Jane nor even Nora had ever done. He would wear the cap and overcoat, even if it was summer; then he wouldn't get so tired carrying them. He put on the fur cap, pulling it well down over his ears, and slipped into the overcoat. Slowly he took up the woolly dog and started down the stairs. Then he remembered the red mittens which a lady had brought him at Christmas, and returned to get them. He put them on carefully, smoothing them over his hands, and then went downstairs and out by the front door, prepared for any kind of weather. He was going to run away again, as he had from that man with the scarred face. He heard the children shouting at their play and decided he would first watch them a minute and perhaps let Danny know what he had driven him into doing. He went down the alley which led past the woodshed, behind which the circus performance was going on, and stopped to watch with his face wedged between two pickets of the fence. Nora was walking the rope slowly. She was doing it very well as long as she kept one end of the balancing pole on the ground, but when she got halfway across the rope, the end of the pole was so far behind that she couldn't steady herself with it. She tried to drag it up even with her and in so doing lost her balance and had to jump to the ground. As she straightened up, she saw Jerry's face between the palings. "There's Jerry!" she called to Danny. "Thought you would play, after all," Danny remarked. "I'm not," said Jerry. "He's got his cap on!" laughed Celia Jane. "What've you got your cap on for, Jerry?" "And your overcoat?" said Nora. "And your mittens?" chimed in Chris. "You ain't cold, are you?" "I'm running away," Jerry responded, addressing no one in particular. He tried to say it indifferently as though it were a matter of everyday occurrence, this running away, but in spite of himself a note of pride crept into his voice. None of them had ever run away. "Running away!" gasped Celia Jane in an awed voice. "Oh, Jerry, don't!" pleaded Nora. Danny stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. "I'm running away," Jerry repeated and sat down on the ground by the fence where he had an unobstructed view of the circus. CHAPTER V THE GREEN ELEPHANT BUYS AN AUDIENCE The Mullarkey children regarded Jerry for a long time without a word. Jerry, knowing that for once he had Danny at a disadvantage, wanted to prolong that pleasant sensation. "I'm running away," he repeated, without stirring from the fence. "What'll mother do?" Danny asked from underneath the elephant's trunk and Jerry knew from the earnestness of his voice that Danny was scared. "What do you want to run away for?" "Because," replied Jerry. "That's no reason," Chris stated. "What'll become of you?" Danny asked, drawing closer to the fence, the elephant's beaver-like blue tail dragging forlornly on the ground. "I dunno," Jerry replied carelessly. "You won't find many folks who'd bring you home like father did and keep you," Danny pursued. "I'm going to run away," was all that Jerry replied. "What'll you do for something to eat?" demanded Chris, in a tone that showed admiration for a boy not afraid to run away, even if he wasn't a Mullarkey. "I dunno," said Jerry, "but I'll find a way." "Come on an' play, Jerry," coaxed Danny, "an' you can be the el'funt the next time we play circus." "I want to be the el'funt this time," said Jerry. "You can't be this time, because you're too little for the costume to fit you," Danny told him. "It'll have to be cut down an' made over for you. It's a little too big for me an' it's awfully hard work actin' as a el'funt would when your skin's so loose it gets in the way of your feet when you walk." Jerry hadn't thought of that but it looked reasonable to him. He hesitated and Danny, seeing his advantage, was quick to push it. "Besides, mother wouldn't like it if you ran away. She'd think I was to blame when I'm not at all. I never even once thought of your runnin' away. You thought of it yourself, now didn't you?" "Yes," Jerry admitted. "Mother'd think I had done something to you when I ain't, have I?" Danny appealed. "You wouldn't let me play--" Jerry began but was interrupted by Danny's saying quickly: "You can next time we play circus, when I've had a chance to make the el'funt skin over for you." That did not seem inducement enough for Jerry and he decided to continue his interrupted running away. He rose and turned slowly away from the fence and tried to imitate Darn Darner's off-hand style of leave-taking. "Well, so long, fellows," he called nonchalantly over his shoulders, "I must be on my way." "Good-by, Jerry," said Nora. "Oh, Jerry! Don't go!" pleaded Celia Jane. "You stay an' be audience for this circus," said Danny quickly, "an' I'll give you one of my tops." Jerry returned to the fence. "The one with the red on it?" he asked. "No, the other one." "It's broken," Jerry objected. "An' I'll give you two fishhooks," Danny hurriedly promised, "an' a line an' pole, an' a horseshoe nail." "The rusty one!" cried Jerry, in a tone that was sarcastic. Danny hesitated, swallowed quickly and responded, "No, the shiny one." "I don't want no fishin' pole an' all," said Jerry; "an' the broken top an' the shiny horseshoe ain't enough." "I'll give you my toy pistol," said Danny. "The trigger's gone," Jerry objected, "an' a pistol ain't no good without a trigger." "The golf ball I found in the weeds," Danny offered. "I don't know how to play golf." "Aw, be reasonable, Jerry. I can't give you what you want. I bought it with the money I got for mowin' old man Barnes's yard for a month." "I'll be the audience for your white rabbit," Jerry bargained, "an' I won't run away." "You want too much," Danny objected. "'Tain't as if I could get another rabbit right away." "An' then Mother 'Larkey won't think you made me run away," pursued Jerry, pressing home his advantage. "I won't say nothin' to her nohow about that." Danny did not reply at once and Jerry spoke again. "You can keep your top an' your shiny horseshoe nail, too." "You won't say nothin' to mother a-tall?" Danny weakened. "No," Jerry assured him. "Cross your heart, hope to die an' spit?" "Cross my heart, hope to die an' spit," repeated Jerry, suiting the action to the word. "All right, you can have the ole rabbit. You'll have to feed it, though. I wouldn't raise my finger to feed it, not if it was starvin' to death. I'd got kinda sick of always havin' to feed it whenever I wanted to do something else, anyway." "All right, I'll be the audience," Jerry promised, "but the rabbit's mine." "Then go in the house and put away your cap an' coat an' mittens, so's mother won't suspect nothin'. An', Chris, don't you dare ever tell, nor you, Nora, nor you, Celia Jane. I'll get even with you if it takes to my last livin' day if you do." "We won't ever tell," his brother and sisters assured him. Jerry flew back to the house, and put away his winter clothes and the cloth dog Kathleen had given him, and then dashed out to the circus ground and climbed upon an old barrel which Danny and Chris had turned upside down for a seat. He kicked his heels against its sides and whistled as best he could as a sign of the audience's impatience for the circus to begin. "We'll begin all over again," announced Danny and marshaled his three fellow performers back to the woodshed and led them forth in parade to the strains of "I Went to the Animal Fair." Jerry duly applauded the parade and waited for the real performance. Then the green elephant rose up on his hind legs and with one front leg pushed his trunk to one side while the voice of Danny Mullarkey announced, "Ladies and gents, I'm pleased to make you acquainted with Flora, the lady tight-rope walker, who will now walk the tight rope for you an' I hope you'll like her." This time, by dragging one end of her balancing pole on the ground as she walked forward on the rope, Nora, or, as the circus-master called her, Flora, managed to walk the ten feet to the opposite post without falling off. Jerry, rejoicing over the possession of the white rabbit, applauded her generously. "The el'funt will now jump the fence," came the voice of Danny, issuing from the mouth of the green elephant. "Hey, you kids! Get the boards for the fence," he called to Chris and Celia Jane, who had sat down on the ground while Nora walked the rope. With a front foot, the elephant put his trunk in place and took a curious little huddled run on all fours up to the very low fence made of two boards, together not more than ten inches high, which Chris and Celia Jane held for him, and then half rose on his hind legs and leaped over the fence, palm-leaf-fan-ears flopping and brown trunk and blue tail wobbling. No elephant jumping up into the sky and balancing the moon on the end of his trunk was this, truly, but, Jerry thrilled at the first jump, imagining what it might have been. "Whee!" trumpeted the elephant as he turned back and jumped the fence again. He seemed to develop a very passion for wheeing and jumping the fence, returning to the charge again and again. Jerry clapped his hands and kicked the sides of the barrel in approval and laughed at the ungainly antics of the jumping elephant, but by dint of the frequent repetition of the jumping he began to become disappointed that Danny didn't jump higher. He grew tired of the performance before Danny wearied of jumping the fence. "It's my turn now!" Chris called, after Danny had jumped for the twelfth time. "Come on, Celia Jane." They dropped the fence and, as there was nothing for the green elephant to jump unless he could clear the tight rope, two feet from the ground, Danny perforce gave way to the dancing pony and the clown. Chris was trying to crack an old whip which he and Danny had made by braiding three strands of leather, with a "cracker" at the end, and Celia Jane was dancing gracefully about the ring, her tail switching and her mane blowing, when the unexpected voice of Darn Darner from the alley brought the circus to a sudden halt. "Hullo! What do you kids think you're doin'?" he asked, in the gruff voice which he adopted when he wanted to be particularly disagreeable. Jerry squirmed around on the barrel until he could see Darn. "We're playin' circus," he answered with a feeble, placating smile, before the others had recovered from their surprise. "Yah! You call _that_ a circus? Chris can't even crack the whip." "I can, too, sometimes," Chris disputed. "I'll show you how to do it," Darn offered, clambering over the fence. "Here, give me the whip!" He took it out of Chris's surprised and reluctant fingers and began circling it over his head and giving it a sudden jerk. It didn't crack at first, but soon he got the knack of it and cracked it loudly as close to Celia Jane's ears and ankles as he could come without touching her. "Giddap!" he commanded the dancing pony. "Show your paces." That time he tried to crack the whip too near Celia Jane and the end of the lash wound around her leg. "Oh! Oh!" cried the dancing pony, hopping about on one leg. "That hurt! It ain't no fair makin' it crack so close an' I won't play no more." Half crying from the pain, Celia Jane ran to the house, followed by Nora. "I didn't mean to hurt you," Darn called to Celia Jane. "The whip must be a little too long, or I wouldn't have sized up the distance wrong." He turned to Danny. "What do you think you are?" "I'm a el'funt," said Danny proudly, "an' I jump the fence like the circus el'funt." "An el'funt!" cried Darn, turning his eyes up to the sky. "And he calls that an' el'funt!" "It is a el'funt," protested Jerry. Darn Darner laughed derisively. "You can 'maginary it's a el'funt," Chris explained. "It would take some imagination," was Darn's only comment on that. "What's wrong with it?" asked Danny. "I bet you couldn't do any better." "What's wrong with it!" exclaimed Darn. "Ask me what's right with it. Everything's wrong with it." "It looks like the picture of the el'funt--almost," defended Jerry. "It looks as much like that as I do like a giraffe." Danny turned his back on Darn and the latter exclaimed: "What's that blue pants leg for, hangin' down from your coat tail?" "Why--why--that's the el'funt's tail," Danny replied reluctantly. "My gorry!" cried Darn, giving way to shrieks of laughter so that he had to sit down on the ground and double up with the paroxysms of mirth. "_An el'funt's tail!_ Oh, my gorry!" and again he rocked back and forth, holding his sides. Then he was attacked by a fit of coughing and finally, when he got his breath, he said: "Don't you kids know nothing of national history? Hain't you ever seen a picture of an el'funt? Its tail is nothing like that a-tall." "How's it different?" Danny asked in a very meek voice. "It's small and round, like a rope," Jerry interposed quickly. "Of course it is," was Darn's comment. "I told him so!" exclaimed Jerry. "But how'd I know that you knew," asked Danny, aggrieved, "when you didn't know how you knew?" "I don't know," was all the explanation that Jerry could give. "All I can say is, you'd better study national history, Danny, and learn how the four-footed friends of man are made," remarked Darn. "How do _you_ know el'funts' tails are small and round?" asked Chris. "Because I'm no dumb-head and learn things." "I ain't no dumb-head," protested Chris and at the same time Danny asserted: "Chris ain't no dumb-head." Jerry saw the green elephant's front feet double up and he jumped down from the barrel, a little bit scared. "He is, too," said Darn, "and so are you. Jerry Elbow there's got more sense than both of you put together, even if he ain't got no father and mother." "I haven't either," said Jerry. "I jest somehow knew one thing Danny didn't about el'funts' tails. Danny knows lots more'n I do." "I guess you'd better take that back about Chris bein' a dumb-head," threatened Danny, scowling from under the elephant's trunk. "An' you'd better take it back about Danny's bein' one," remarked Chris. "I won't any such thing," retorted Darn. "We'll make you," challenged Danny, all his Irish fighting blood up. "I'd like to see the kid could make me do anything I didn't want to," and Darn doubled up his fists and flung them out in the air at an imaginary adversary. "I'll show you," Danny boasted and quickly divested himself of the elephant's skin. "Take a board," cautioned Chris, "an' then you can keep him from runnin' in on you." Chris followed his own advice and Darn, seeing himself attacked from two sides, one of his foes armed, decided he would live to fight another day and scrambled over the fence. "Yah!" he cried in derision from the alley. "Dumb-heads! Dumb-heads! Oh, Chris, you blue-eyed beauty, turn around and do your duty! Blue-eyed beauty!" He dodged just in time to avoid the board which Chris, incensed at that most horrible of epithets--for his eyes were blue--had hurled at him with all his might. "Ole Danny dumb-head! Blue-eyed beauty! Ole Danny dumb-head! Blue-eyed beauty!" chanted Darn, thrusting his face between two palings of the fence and sticking out his tongue. Then Danny picked up a board and, flanked by Chris, advanced to the fence, whereat Darn took to his heels, shouting, "Blue-eyed beauty! Ole Danny dumb-head!" as loud as he could. At the end of the alley he turned and shouted, "A pants' leg for an el'funt's tail! Oh, my gorry!" When he disappeared from sight, the three boys surveyed the elephant's skin lying on the ground. "Let's not play any more," said Danny. "I'm tired of the ole circus, anyway," replied Chris. They went into the house, Jerry slowly following them. Even he could not 'maginary the old green wrapper and the stuffed brown coat sleeve and blue trouser leg into an elephant any more. CHAPTER VI THE CHILDREN THAT CRIED IN THE LANE The days slipped by and none of the children played circus again. Jerry thought of it often and would have liked to be the elephant just once, but he never said anything. That made him dream all the more about the real circus which was coming and wish that he could see it. He was very careful not to put his longing into words, so he wouldn't remind Mother 'Larkey of the ends that wouldn't meet and make her feel badly. One day she came across the old green wrapper elephant skin in the woodshed. "Why don't you children play circus any more?" she asked Danny. "El'funts don't look like that," he asserted, pointing disdainfully at the discarded costume. "Their tails are small like a rope." "Are they now?" she asked. "And how might you be after knowing that?" "National history says so," Danny replied in a very decisive tone. Mrs. Mullarkey gave one of those low, fleeting laughs that always made Jerry feel so good inside and which had become so rare of late. "Yes, I guess national history would be after telling about the elephant's tail as long as it deals with elephants and eagles and donkeys and camels and all." Jerry felt there must be something funny in what Mother 'Larkey said, because her nose went all crinkly, and he smiled in sympathy anyway, although he didn't understand. But playing circus no longer appealed to the Mullarkey children. Darn Darner had had a blighting influence on the power of their imaginations, and Danny in the elephant costume would have been to them now only a little boy in an old green wrapper much too large for him, dragging about a stuffed blue trouser leg for a tail,--a very ridiculous spectacle. Jerry realized that there would never be a next time and that he would never play the elephant. A few days before the circus was to come to town Jerry and the Mullarkey children were returning from the woods by the creek, where they had gone to see what the prospects were for a good yield of hazel and hickory nuts in the fall, and had just entered the edge of town when they saw Darn Darner approaching. They had not set eyes on him since the day he broke up their circus and they were doubtful as to how he would behave towards them. "Just pretend as though nothing had never happened," Nora suggested. "Yes, that's best," Danny agreed. "Let him speak first." They watched Darn's nearer approach without seeming to do so. They tried to keep talking and laughing so he wouldn't think they were the least little bit afraid of him, but Jerry and Celia Jane first fell silent and then Chris and Nora, and finally Danny, so that when they met Darn they were as quiet and subdued as a funeral party. "Hello!" said Darn, as they were in the act of passing. "Where you kids been?" "Hullo, Darn," replied Danny. "We just been out in the woods." "There's goin' to be lots of hazelnuts in the fall," Nora informed him, in a voice which she tried to make genial. "And hickory nuts too," added Jerry, feeling that such good news would help keep Darn in his present state of good humor and from thinking about what had happened at their circus. "That don't interest me much just now," Darn remarked. "I'm goin' to the circus. We're goin' to have reserved seats, a dollar and a half apiece. There ain't no better to be had." "A dollar an' a half for one seat!" exclaimed Celia Jane. "I thought it cost only fifty cents to see the circus." "That's just to get in and set on an ole board without any back to it," Darn informed her. "We're goin' to have reserved seats in the boxes, with chairs to sit on." "A fifty-cent seat would suit me all right," observed Danny. "An' me, too," echoed Chris and Nora and Celia Jane and Jerry. "Are you kids goin' to see the circus unload?" asked Darn. "Will they let you get close enough to see?" questioned Danny in turn. "Of course. They can't keep you from lookin', I guess." "No, I guess not." Danny answered his own question as though it had been asked by Chris. "Anybody knows he could look." "Could you see the el'funt?" Jerry asked timidly. "You could if you had eyes," replied Darn loftily. "Where're they goin' to unload?" Danny queried. "On the sidetrack by Smith's house, just back of the depot, at five o'clock in the morning. I'm goin' to see them unload." "So'm I!" cried Danny. "An' me, too!" asserted Chris. "An' me, too!" Jerry hurried to make that statement so that Danny could not say he couldn't go because he had not chosen to go when there was a chance. "No, you're not," Darn asserted with a sudden frown. "I am, too!" cried Jerry. Then after a moment he asked plaintively, "Why ain't I?" "I guess you ain't got nothin' to say about whether Jerry goes or not," Danny interposed quickly. "He can go if he wants to." "No, he can't," contradicted Darn. "Why can't he?" Nora asked. "They don't let anybody in the poor farm go to the circus," was Darn's unexpected reply. "That's not got nothin' to do with Jerry!" cried Danny hotly. "I guess he ain't in no poor farm." "He's goin' to be, though," pursued Darn calmly, in that restrained, superior, informative manner which sometimes can be so maddening. "I ain't either, am I, Danny?" Jerry appealed dolefully. "No, you ain't," Danny assured him. "Darn's jest tryin' to make you cry. Don't you let him scare you." "Jerry Elbow's goin' to the poor farm before the circus gets here," stated Darn. "I ain't!" cried Jerry in a shaky voice. "I won't go! So there!" "They'll take you," Darn informed him, "and you won't have anything to say about it." "Mother 'Larkey won't let them take me, will she, Danny?" asked Jerry in a voice that was becoming shrill and high from fear. "No, she won't," asserted Danny. "Darn Darner, you jest let Jerry be. You ain't got no right to scare a orfum boy like that." "We won't let them take you," comforted Celia Jane, suddenly affectionate, and put her arm about Jerry's neck. Darn stepped directly in front of Jerry and stared coolly down at him until Jerry was so uncomfortable that he couldn't raise his eyes from the ground. "You're goin' to the poor farm Wednesday morning," he said calmly, "because Mrs. Mullarkey's too poor to keep you any longer. She can't make enough to keep her own kids." Jerry felt suddenly very little and all alone in a big cold world. Fear had entered his heart. He felt that Mrs. Mullarkey not only hadn't been able to make both ends meet but that she was never going to be able to do it. He some way knew that Darn Darner was telling the truth and that soon he would be torn away from the only home he could remember. His lips twisted and he felt the hot tears filling his eyes. Yet he denied Darn's statement with all his soul. "They won't! They shan't take me! I'll run away first!" "Much good that would do you," commented Darn unsympathetically. "It'd be easy enough to find you." "How do you know they're goin' to take Jerry away?" asked Chris. "He don't know it!" cried Nora. "He's jest tryin' to scare us." "No, I ain't," denied Darn. "My father's overseer of the poor in this county and I guess I heard him tell mamma last night that he was goin' to take Jerry to the poor farm Wednesday morning. He said Mrs. Mullarkey had agreed as to how she'd hafta let him take Jerry because her insurance money from Mr. Mullarkey was all gone and she couldn't make enough to support her own kids." "It ain't so!" blustered Jerry, but all the time terribly frightened. He tried to think of something to say that would show he was not afraid of Darn Darner, who was always picking on little boys. "You shan't go!" Celia Jane cried, tears running down her cheeks. She flung both arms around Jerry's neck and squeezed him passionately. "What will Kathleen do without Jerry?" asked Nora in a choked voice. Jerry looked up and saw that she was quietly weeping, too. They believed it! Believed that Mother 'Larkey would let them take him away! He had been somewhat comforted by their stout assertions that Darn's words were false, but now--! He was stunned. Then his lips twisted and twitched and the tears that had been forming in his eyes spilled silently over. "Don't get scared, Jerry," Danny tried to comfort him. Then he turned to the tormentor. "_Darn_ you, Darn, why can't you let him be!" There it was! Just what Jerry wanted to show Darn he couldn't scare him. His oozing courage flamed up in a final flare of desperation. Through his tears and the choke in his throat he cried: "_Darn_ Darn Darner! Darn! Darn! Darn! _Darn_ Darn Darner!" "That's about enough from you, Jerry Elbow!" shouted Darn. He gave Jerry a resounding slap in the face. "No kid like you can call me that without takin' the biggest lickin' he ever got." "No, you don't!" cried Danny and quick as a flash he rushed at Darn and began pounding him over the head and shoulders with his fists. Chris and Nora went to Danny's aid and the three pairs of fists caused Darn to duck and run a short distance. Jerry slumped down into the dust of the road, weeping bitterly, and Celia Jane flopped down by him, hugging him tight and mingling her tears with his. Danny and Chris and even the usually gentle Nora, but for once with all her gentleness vanished, gave vent to their feelings against Darn by making a chant out of his name. "_Darn_ Darn Darner! Darn! Darn! Darn! _Darn_ Darn Darner! Darn! Darn! Darn!" Into that chant boiled over all their pent-up dislike for him which had been simmering under cover for so long. Darn started back towards them, angry through and through, but stopped as they rushed to meet him, fists doubled up ready for battle. He had fought many boys bigger than himself, but he fled before the numerical strength of the present enemy, flinging back over his shoulder from a safe distance, "Blue-eyed beauty! Ole Danny dumb-head! Blue-eyed beauty! Ole Danny dumb-head! Yah! You'll _hafta_ go to the poor farm if you want to see Jerry Elbow after Wednesday." Upon hearing Darn's words Jerry stretched out at full length in the road and his voice rose in a quavering wail of anguish. Celia Jane emitted a thinner, shriller wail. Nora came back to comfort them and was caught by the contagion so that she too plumped down in the road and wept. Danny and Chris, being boys, were ashamed to give vent to their emotions in a similar way and stood looking down at the huddled forms in the road. Chris, after a time, found himself weeping in sympathy and openly rubbed away the tears with his shirt sleeve. Even Danny swallowed hard and dabbed at his eyes. "Well, I'll be horn-swoggled!" exclaimed a startled, mystified voice back of the children. Jerry opened his eyes on a blurred picture of Danny and Chris turning suddenly about and of Nora springing to her feet. A man was just getting out of a two-seated buggy. All sound of his approach had been drowned out by the vociferous lamentations of Jerry and Celia Jane, which still continued. "What's the trouble here?" asked the man in a deep, pleasant voice that carried even through the clamor into Jerry's consciousness. He raised his head and looked up through swollen and tear-drenched eyes at the man. "They're g-goin' to take Jerry Elbow to the p-p-poor farm Wednesday morning," Danny stutteringly explained. "Then you must be the Mullarkey children," observed the man, speaking to the group. "I'm Danny," said Danny, and Chris identified himself. "Then this must be Jerry Elbow," the man remarked, stooping to pick Jerry up. Jerry flung his arms about the man's neck and clung there desperately. "Yes, sir, he's Jerry," Nora explained, as Celia Jane got up out of the road and brushed the dust from her dress. "My name's Tom Phillips," said their new friend. "I knew your father, Dan Mullarkey, very well. He told me once how he found you by the roadside one stormy night far from any house, Jerry Elbow." Jerry felt comforted in the strong arms of Mr. Phillips and at the pleasant, deep quality of his voice. He stopped crying except for the long, shuddering sobs that always came at intervals after he had cried so hard. "Who said anything about taking you to the poor farm?" he asked Jerry. "D-D-Darn," Jerry sobbed out. "Darn!" said Mr. Phillips, puzzled. "I say darn, too, but who was it?" "It was Darn Darner," Danny told him. "Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Phillips. "That scalawag!" "He said his father said so," Nora explained. "That will have to be looked into," Mr. Phillips remarked. "Now you children climb into the buggy and I will take you home. I want to have a talk with your mother." "She's not to home," said Chris. "Mebbe she'll be back," observed Nora, looking at the sun. "It's gettin' on towards supper time." "We'll see," was Mr. Phillips' only comment as he placed Jerry on the front seat and helped Celia Jane in beside him. Danny and Chris and Nora, in the meantime, had climbed into the back seat. Mr. Phillips clucked to the horses and they trotted off into town. Jerry felt greatly comforted to be riding home with this big, pleasant man, and the cruel edge of Darn's words began to wear off. He felt that this new friend's words, "That will have to be looked into," meant almost as much as though he had said, "I'll see that nothing of the sort happens." His body was still shaken, at longer and longer intervals, by shuddering sobs, but when the Mullarkey home was reached, they had subsided and he was enjoying the unaccustomed buggy ride. Mrs. Mullarkey was home, and she came running out to see why her children were being brought back in a buggy. "Who's hurt," she asked anxiously, "that you're bringing them home in a buggy?" "None of them is hurt, Mrs. Mullarkey," Mr. Phillips assured her quickly, and helped the children out. "I'm Tom Phillips. I knew your husband quite well. I found these children crying in the road because Mr. Darner's young scalawag of a son had told them that Jerry Elbow was to be taken to the poor farm." "Oh, Jerry, you blessed child!" crooned Mother 'Larkey, taking Jerry in her arms. "And you to find it out from some one else when I'd been trying for this week past to get up courage enough to tell you." "Mother!" cried Nora in a shocked voice. "It's true, then?" asked Mr. Phillips. "Yes," replied Mrs. Mullarkey, drawing Jerry tightly to her. "I don't want to let you go, Jerry, but Dan's insurance money is all gone and how I am to make enough to keep the bodies and souls of all you children together I don't know. I love you as though you were my own, you're that sweet and gentle." Jerry began crying again, but softly this time, because he knew Mother 'Larkey wouldn't let him go if she could help it. She kissed him and turned to Mr. Phillips. "Mr. Darner told me I'd sooner or later have to let some of my own children go there or be adopted out, if I didn't consent to Jerry's going. I'm at the end of my string." "I see," observed Mr. Phillips gently. "I didn't know just how Dan Mullarkey left you fixed, but I can do something to help you. Darner can be made to listen to reason and I can bring some influence to bear upon him. I don't see why the county can't let you have as much as it would cost it to keep Jerry at the farm. I belong to the same lodge as Dan did and we'll help you some there. I'll find something for Danny to do. He can be earning a little money in the summer time and help you out that way." "You're an angel if ever there was one in this world, Mr. Phillips," said Mrs. Mullarkey. "If the county will allow me for Jerry's keep, I'll take better care of him than he'd get at any institution and it would help me in keeping the brood together." "I'll see what I can do," said Mr. Phillips. "Then Jerry won't hafta go?" Celia Jane questioned. "I hope not," he replied. "Keep a stiff upper lip, Jerry!" "I--I'll try," Jerry promised, already feeling certain that the danger which threatened him had passed. "I'll come back in a day or two," said Mr. Phillips, "and let you know what I have been able to do." Jerry watched him from over Mother 'Larkey's shoulder as he drove off. He thought he had never seen a man who looked so big and strong and as though he could make people do just as he wanted them to. CHAPTER VII TICKETS TO PARADISE On Wednesday Mr. Phillips reported that while the matter of allowing Mrs. Mullarkey to keep Jerry had not been decided, he would not be taken to the poor farm on that day at least and he thought it could be arranged that he shouldn't go there at all. Consequently it was with a joyous heart that Jerry awoke early on the morning of the great day that the circus was to reach town. He had slept fitfully all night, thinking of the circus and fearing that he might not wake up in time. Mrs. Mullarkey had promised to call him, but for once Jerry had waked up himself. He heard a stir downstairs and called to Mother 'Larkey that he was up. He roused Chris, who in turn called Danny, but Danny was a sound sleeper and merely turned on his side. Chris and Jerry then rolled him over and pulled the covers off and finally pummeled the sleeper into a state of semi-consciousness. "It's time for the circus to unload," they told him. "We're all dressed, ready to go." Danny opened one swollen, sleepy eye, "Aw, it's not time yet," he muttered drowsily and went back to sleep. "All right, let him be," said Chris in disgust. "We ain't got time to wake him. We'll miss the unloadin' if we do." So Jerry and Chris tiptoed carefully downstairs, for they knew Mrs. Mullarkey had gone back to bed, and ran through the dim light of dawn to the railway station. The circus train was in and the unloading had already begun. Nearly all the small boys in town seemed to be perched on fences, roofs, and in trees, watching the proceedings. The circus men were tired and cross and made the children keep out of the way. Jerry was dreadfully excited and exhilarated upon seeing four elephants on the opposite side of the train, and his delight knew no bounds when one of them was hitched to a heavy circus wagon on a car and pulled it down a board incline to the road. The funny, awkward animal walked right along as though the wagon were as light as a feather. Many of the boys complained because the sides of the wagons in which the wild animals were kept were closed, but not so Jerry. As long as he could feast his eyes on the elephants he was content. He had but a passing glance for the humpbacked camels and the two long-necked giraffes until after the elephants had been taken away. When the train had been unloaded and the last wagons were hauled away, the troop of small boys--and many older ones and grown men as well--followed them out to the circus ground. Already one big tent and several smaller ones had been erected and the elephants and the other animals were not to be seen. There was a delightfully circusy smell of oils and sawdust and hay and animals pervading the air. Then through it all came another smell that made Jerry and Chris and many of the boys and men sniff. It was the smell of bacon and eggs frying. The cooks were preparing breakfast for the circus troupe. "I'm hungry," said a man back of Jerry to the two boys with him. "We'd better get home. Mother will be waiting breakfast for us." They left the circus grounds reluctantly, the two boys stopping every now and then to look back. That inviting odor of frying bacon and eggs was a clarion call to breakfast to scores of the onlookers, and the crowd fairly melted away until not more than a dozen boys were left, among whom Jerry saw Darn Darner. "I'm awful hungry," said Chris, after they had wandered around half an hour longer. "Let's go home. I guess we've seen about all there is to see." Jerry protested. "Let's wait a while longer an' mebbe they'll bring the el'funts out." "Mebbe they will," said Chris and seemed straightway to forget all about his hunger. They went about the tents again and once caught sight of the elephants and camels in the second largest tent, as one of the canvasmen came out and held back the flaps. He was followed by another man with a thick, black beard, who wore something that flashed in his shirt front. "Gee, look at the size of that diamond!" exclaimed Darn Darner's voice back of Jerry. The man looked sharply about. Jerry thought he seemed very much surprised and was afraid he might be angry because he and Chris were so close to the tent. He started to go away, but upon hearing the man speak he stood rooted to the spot. "What in the world has become of all the small boys?" the black-bearded man had asked the other. "There were hundreds about a few minutes ago. Don't they know they can get to see the circus if they want to carry water for the elephants?" "I guess the boys in this town never saw a circus before, Mr. Burrows," replied the canvasman. "Here, you," Mr. Burrows called to Darn. "Want to earn a ticket to the circus?" "No," said Darn loftily. "I've got a reserved box seat." He turned and walked off. "What did I tell you, Sam?" laughed Mr. Burrows. "There's money in this jay town and we're going to get a bunch of it." Jerry stepped hastily forward, a light of joy dancing in his eyes, with Chris treading on his heels. "Please, mister," said Jerry eagerly, "we'll carry water for the elephants." "We want to see the circus," added Chris. "You're too little to carry water," said Sam. "Where're all the bigger kids?" "They've gone home to breakfast," replied Chris. "Please, mister, we can carry water. I'm big enough." "Yes, I guess you're big enough," said the man with the diamond in his shirt, "but the elephants are awful thirsty and it will take you a long time. Sam, you see if you can find some other boys to help you." Sam departed instantly. "Where'll we get the water?" asked Chris. "From that house across the road. You'll have to pump it. Your brother there had better go home; he's too little to carry water." "No, I ain't, mister," said Jerry eagerly. "I'm awful strong for my age." "How old are you?" asked the man. "I don't know," Jerry confessed. Then, fearful of losing this opportunity to see the circus, he continued, "I guess I'm almost seven or mebbe eight." "You don't know how old you are!" exclaimed the man. "You look much younger than seven or eight." "He's not my brother," Chris explained. "He's a orfum my father found when he was alive. My brother's at home with mother and my sisters. We couldn't wake him up. But Jerry's awful strong." "A orfum, hey? And awful strong?" said the man and seemed to be studying over something in his mind. "Have you ever seen a circus?" he asked. "No, sir," they both assured him and Chris continued: "Mother did once, just after she was married to father. She wished she could bring us all to the circus but she didn't have money enough." "H'm," said the man. "I used to be a orfum myself and I know how you feel." "Did you?" asked Jerry, and he smiled up at the man, unafraid, with a sort of fellow feeling. "I sure did," the man smiled down at Jerry. "I got to see my first circus through carrying water for the elephants." At this moment Sam returned with four other boys, all older than either Jerry or Chris. "I never saw boys so shy of a circus before, Mr. Burrows," he said. "They've melted away as though the circus were a plague. But I guess we can get along with these." "All right, Sam," replied Mr. Burrows, "but I want you to pump the water and let the boys do the carrying. These two boys," and he put a hand on Jerry's head and one on Chris's shoulder, "have never seen a circus. They'll help carry water and be sure that they get a matinee ticket apiece." "All right, sir," replied Sam. "Come on, boys." "Let these two carry a pail between them," continued Mr. Burrows, "I don't want them breaking their backs." Jerry felt an unusual warmth go surging through him. He was going to carry water for the elephants and get a ticket to the circus, after all! He was gladder than ever that he had bought the cough medicine for Kathleen with the black half-dollar. He looked up at Mr. Burrows, and it was such a look as a friendless dog might give to a man who had just petted it and given it something to eat. "Thank you, mister, for lettin' me carry water for the el'funts," said Jerry. "That's all right," replied the man. "Here, there's a dime for peanuts. Have a good time." Jerry was too surprised to take the dime and Mr. Burrows pressed it into his hand and went back into the tent before Jerry had recovered. "The boss must have taken a fancy to you!" said Sam to Jerry. "Well, them elephants is awful thirsty and we've got to get to work. Come on." Jerry, envied of all the boys, put the dime in his blouse pocket. He seemed to be treading on air instead of the solid earth as he followed Sam to another part of the ground where the boys were given large pails. He felt in his blouse pocket every now and then to make sure that he really had a dime and also that it had not grown wings and flown out of his pocket, or made a hole in it and dropped out. It was always there and his feeling of exhilaration at his good fortune kept up, despite the hard work of carrying that pailful of water from the pump across the street to the back of the second biggest tent, where he and Chris emptied it into a kind of a tub. There were half a dozen of the tubs to be filled, and before the third one was full Jerry's arms and back ached, but he gritted his teeth and kept on. He would show them that he wasn't too little to carry water for the elephants. Under the ache in his arms and back, his exhilaration at the possession of the dime and the prospect of a ticket to the circus wilted but did not die. When the fourth tub was about full he sat down on the pump platform while Sam filled their pail with water. "El'funts must drink a nawful lot of water," he said. "Gettin' tired, ain't you?" asked Sam. "No, I could carry water all day, I guess. It makes my back ache some because I ain't used to it." "You kids have made more trips than the other boys," said Sam, "and I ain't going to fill your pail clear full any more. Don't try to go so fast with it. There's plenty of time." "We want to carry enough for two tickets," said Jerry quickly. "Chris wants to see the circus, too, don't you, Chris?" "You bet," replied Chris. "You'll get a ticket apiece, all right, as long as I'm on the job," said Sam, giving them the pail not much more than half full of water. "That's a whole lot easier to carry," Jerry assured Sam, as they started for the tub. It seemed to Jerry that he and Chris had been carrying water for hours by the time the last tub was full. He felt almost starving. The sun seemed to be 'way up and he was so tired and hot that he was about ready to drop; but he found that when the work was done and Sam gave each boy a ticket it wasn't very late, after all. "It's just nine o'clock," said Sam, "and you kids'd better scoot home and get some breakfast. Just show your mothers them tickets if they scold you for stayin' so long and I guess they'll hush right up. The matinee starts at 2:15, but if you want to see the menagerie, you'd better come about half-past one or right after the parade." Those magic pieces of paper, which Jerry and Chris held tightly in their hands for fear of losing them, made them forget their hunger and weariness and they set off for home at full speed. They raced breathless into the house and found that Mrs. Mullarkey and Nora had finished washing the breakfast dishes. "Look, mother!" cried Chris, panting for breath after almost every word, "we've got tickets for the circus for helpin' carry water for the el'funts!" "Oh, how nice!" said Mrs. Mullarkey. "They will be tickets to paradise to you. Now you'll get to see the circus, after all. But you must be about starved." "We are, almost," Jerry admitted. "Gee, my arms ache," Chris remarked. "You boys had better rub each other's backs with liniment while I get your breakfast," Mother 'Larkey said, getting a bottle down from the cupboard. "Did Danny get a ticket, too?" Celia Jane asked. "No," said Chris. "Why, where is Danny?" inquired his mother. "I don't know," replied Chris. "He was asleep when we left. We tried to wake him but he wouldn't get up." "Land's sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Mullarkey. "He must still be upstairs, fast asleep! I heard you calling him and then heard you tiptoeing downstairs and out of the house and thought he was with you." She went to the foot of the stairs and called and the sleepy voice of Danny answered: "All right. Is it time for the circus to unload?" "It unloaded hours ago," she replied, "and Chris and Jerry have got back with each of them a ticket to the circus for helping carry water for the elephants." "Why didn't you call me!" wailed Danny. "Chris and Jerry called you," answered his mother. "I heard them and heard you answer. It's your own fault for being such a sleepyhead." It didn't take Danny long to dress and get downstairs, his hair all tousled and his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Let's see your tickets," he demanded. Chris let him see his, but kept a possessive hold of one end. There it was: BURROWS AND FAIRCHILD'S MAMMOTH CIRCUS AND MENAGERIE ADMIT ONE COMPLIMENTARY "That's a ticket, all right," Danny remarked. "Was that all you had to do to get it--carry water for the el'funts?" "Yes," replied Chris, "but it took hours and hours. I'm sore all over." "So'm I," said Jerry. "Why didn't you make me wake up?" "We called you and pounded you and turned you over," Chris replied, "but you went back to sleep." "Why didn't you kick me or pull me out of bed?" Danny asked. "Then mebbe I'd've got a ticket, too." "Mebbe you can, anyway," said Celia Jane. "The el'funts'll want a drink at noon." "I'll go out and see," said Danny and was hurrying off at once, but Mrs. Mullarkey made him wait for breakfast. He bolted the oatmeal and bread and raced out of the house. "I'm glad I'm not a sleepy-head like Danny," said Chris. "So'm I," echoed Jerry. CHAPTER VIII THE CROCODILE TEARS OF CELIA JANE Jerry could hardly wait until time for the parade. He and Chris were both too excited to play; they stayed in the house most of the time and questioned Mother 'Larkey about what she had seen at the circus the time her husband had taken her to one in the city. She was busy sewing on a dress for Mrs. Johnson which was wanted by Saturday night and was at length obliged to send them out of doors with orders to stay out until dinner was ready. They soon exhausted each other's conversation relative to circuses and their knowledge and guesses about what they would see, and fell silent. And the minutes dragged their slow length out towards eleven o'clock. They could smell the mush and potatoes frying for their early dinner when Danny returned from the circus ground. They knew at once that he hadn't succeeded in getting a "ticket to paradise", as Mother 'Larkey had called their circus passes, nevertheless Chris asked: "Did you get a ticket?" "No," replied Danny, sitting down dejectedly. After a while they knew he didn't intend to say any more. Jerry waited as long as he could and then asked in turn: "Didn't the el'funts want any water for dinner?" "No," stated Danny glumly. That little word "No" seemed to be all that Danny cared to say about his experience, and the following silence lasted fully ten minutes. Danny was the first to break it. He did so after apparently awakening to the fact that dinner was preparing. He sniffed the penetrating odor of frying potatoes and mush that had got a little burned, and sat up. "Gee, but I'm hungry," he said and sniffed again. "Wasn't there anything you could do for a ticket?" Chris asked. "No. The man said the early bird got the worm at the circus as well as in the garden." After a time Jerry woke to the fact that Danny was looking at him out of the corners of his eyes in a peculiar, questioning manner that made him feel uneasy. He turned his glance away. "I'll give you both my tops an' the shiny horseshoe nail an' baseball for your circus ticket," Danny proposed. Jerry's hand flew protectingly to the pocket of his blouse. "No!" he cried loudly. "I won't! I earned it myself!" "Well, I ain't tryin' to take it away from you, am I?" Danny asked, aggrieved. "I jest offered you some of my things for it. There ain't no law against offerin' to trade, I guess. I'll teach you to skate and let you use the skates I got at Christmas if you will. An' I'll feed your white rabbit for you." "No," said Jerry, edging away from him, ready to run to the house if Danny should try to grab the ticket. "I earned the ticket and I'm a-goin' to see the circus." "Dinner's ready, children," called Mrs. Mullarkey. "You'll have to hurry to get a good place to see the parade." Jerry was ready to start without having anything to eat. He was too excited to be hungry, but Mother 'Larkey made him eat so he "wouldn't get too faint to enjoy the circus." It was a race between the boys to see who would finish first. Chris won. Danny, who confessed to being hungry, ate twice as much as Jerry and Chris. "Now you children keep together at the parade," admonished Mrs. Mullarkey, as they were ready to start. "You can follow the parade out to the circus grounds for the free show outside, but Danny, you keep with Nora and Celia Jane and see that they get home all right." Jerry didn't see how the circus could be much more fascinating than the parade with all its cages open so you could see the animals. And with the clowns, too, especially the one with the donkey, going through such laughable antics. But he was a little disappointed that the elephants didn't jump a fence or do anything like that during the parade. However, the beautiful ladies in gorgeous raiment who rode in the little houses strapped to the elephants' backs made him forget about their fence-jumping proclivities. When the parade was over, Jerry and the Mullarkey children, together with a hundred or more small boys and girls, followed the steam-throated calliope through the principal street of the town out to the tents, fascinated by the loudness of the music and the escape of jets of steam as the player fingered the keys. It seemed to Jerry that there couldn't in all the wide world be such heavenly music. Celia Jane and Chris shared his enthusiasm, but Nora confessed to liking a fiddle better and Danny asserted that the music of the trombone was easier on the ears. The free exhibition on the little platform outside the side-show tent had all the fascination of the unknown for Jerry and Chris and Celia Jane and Nora, but not for Danny, who had been to the vaudeville theater twice and who knew that this outside sample never could come up to the glories to be revealed inside for fifty cents, or a dollar and a half for reserved seats in the boxes, and was critical. The dancing girl in short skirts and the man with the beard which fell to his feet and the very red-faced snake charmer merely whetted his appetite for what was to come, while to Jerry and the rest of the Mullarkey children it was a substantial part of the feast itself. The free show seemed to Jerry not to have much more than started when the raucous voice of the ballyhoo announced: "This, ladies and gents, concludes the free show. The main show will not begin for half an hour, thirty minutes--just time enough to see the side show, the world's greatest congress of freaks and monstrosities. See the sword-swallower from India to whom a steel sword is no more than a string of spaghetti to an Italian. Kelilah, the famous dancer of the Nile, whose graceful contortions have delighted the eyes and moved the hearts of kings. See Major Wee-Wee, the smallest man in the world, no bigger than a two-year-old baby, and Tom Morgan, the giant who stands seven feet three inches in his stocking feet. They are all there--every kind of human freak from the living skeleton to the fat woman who weighs four hundred pounds. The price is the same to one and all--twenty-five cents, only a quarter of a dollar. This way and get your tickets for the side show. There is just time to take in all its wonders before the big show in the main tent begins." The promise of all these delights proved irresistible to Jerry and Chris and they left the children and were almost first in line, but the ticket taker refused them admittance. "Those tickets are not good to the side show," he said. "They admit you to the main tent." Stunned at this disaster, Jerry and Chris slunk under the ropes at the entrance and rejoined Danny and Nora and Celia Jane. They stood in silence as the crowd surged around the ticket seller for the side show and watched the people stream through the door. Never had the lack of "twenty-five cents, only a quarter of a dollar", meant so much to any small boy as it meant to Jerry and Chris. Some of the people were already going into the main tent, passing up the glories of the side show. Jerry wondered if they, too, didn't have the necessary quarter of a dollar. "It would be just grand to see all them freaks," sighed Celia Jane. "If I could only see just half the circus." Jerry, his ticket still in his hand, looked up and saw Danny glancing covetously at it. "What'll you take for your ticket?" he asked eagerly. "I'll give you anything of mine you want." "I won't trade," replied Jerry, stuffing the ticket into his blouse pocket. "I'm a-goin' to see the circus." Danny made the same proposition to Chris but Chris also refused. There was nothing of Danny's that could compensate Jerry or Chris for missing the circus, especially when they were right there on the ground with their tickets in their hands. After the crowd had disappeared--part into the side show, part into the main tent, some to their homes and some to wander about the grounds--Jerry and Chris were debating whether they should go into the big tent at once or wait until time for the main performance, when they observed Danny, who had edged away from them, talking in a low voice to Celia Jane. From the motion of Celia Jane's head and the entreating position of Danny's hands, they knew she was refusing some request of his. If they had not just then become absorbed in watching some circus employee leading two big, fat, white horses out of a tent they would have seen Celia Jane's negative shakes of the head become weaker as Danny's attitude became more and more commanding, and all that occurred afterward might never have happened. But they didn't look around. When the horses had disappeared, Jerry spoke: "They might start early," he said. "Let's go in now, Chris." "All right, let's," Chris replied. They turned to tell the other Mullarkey children good-by and saw that Celia Jane was crying. Her shoulders shook and she seemed to be in the utmost despair. "What's the matter with Celia Jane?" Chris asked. "I don't know," said Nora. "What ails her, Danny?" "I don't know," Danny asserted quickly. "What're you cryin' for, Celia Jane?" "I want to see the circus," sobbed Celia Jane. She raised her face and there were tears running down it. "You ain't got no ticket, have you?" asked Danny. "Nor fifty cents?" "N-n-no," sobbed Celia Jane. "Then there ain't no chance at all of your gettin' in, is there?" "I ain't never seen no circus," moaned Celia Jane. "Come on, Jerry," said Chris; "let's go in now, so's we won't miss anything if they start early." At that Celia Jane started crying harder than ever and Jerry stood still, a curious something making his heart beat faster and his throat growing all choky. "Let's go home, Celia Jane," proposed Nora, in a soothing tone. "Mebbe next time we can go. They might let us carry water for the elephants and earn a ticket to the circus, even if we are girls." "I want to see it now," sobbed Celia Jane. Jerry began to feel sort of shuddery inside and his mouth puckered up the way it did when he felt like crying. He was awfully sorry that Celia Jane didn't have a ticket too. He knew he would be crying out of sympathy if Celia Jane kept on that way, and started towards Chris, who had gone halfway towards the entrance to the tent and then had stopped to wait for him. His joy at the thought of what he was going to witness was clouded through the fact that Celia Jane could not see and enjoy it too. He walked very slowly towards Chris and looked back at Celia Jane. "Oh, J-J-Jerry!" cried the weeping girl, "I-I-I want to see the circus too." At that appeal Jerry felt as though his heart had stopped beating and was sinking down into his bare feet. He winked hard to keep the tears from coming. He just couldn't bear to see Celia Jane so heartbroken about not being able to see the circus. "You can have my t-t-ticket," he said slowly and pulled the treasured bit of blue cardboard out of his pocket. There were tears in his eyes but he walked slowly to Celia Jane, holding out the ticket to her. "Oh, Jerry!" cried Celia Jane. "Will you really give it to me of your own free will?" Jerry couldn't speak at first. He nodded his head, but Celia Jane just took one end of the ticket between her fingers. "Do you give it to me, Jerry?" she asked, in a voice in which there was no trace of weeping. Yet the tears stood on her face. "Yes," said Jerry at last and let go of the ticket. "You can have it, Celia Jane." "Then I give it to Danny," said Celia Jane and straightway handed the ticket to Danny, who snatched it and ran to the entrance of the main tent. Jerry was so surprised at the treachery of Celia Jane after her recent evidences of affection and at the suddenness of it all that he could not even cry out,--could do nothing but stare after Danny. He saw the precious bit of pasteboard taken from Danny's outstretched hand by the ticket-taker and dropped into a box and then saw Chris give up his ticket and go in. "Celia Jane!" he heard Nora cry, "I'm going to tell mother what you did to Jerry. You'll catch it." "Danny!" Jerry at last found his voice, and it rose in a forlorn wail. "The ticket is mine! Danny!" Jerry had forgotten how easily Celia Jane could make the tears come whenever she liked, no matter if she didn't really want to cry. He would show that Celia Jane that she had gone too far this time. He didn't know what he would do, but turned to go to her. As he did so, a crowd of persons going to the circus passed between them and when they had passed he saw Celia Jane running for home with Nora following at a slower pace. "Why, what's the matter, little boy? Why are you crying?" he heard a man ask. Jerry felt the hot tears of bitter disappointment coming and he did not want all those persons to see him crying. So he turned and ran blindly around the big tent; when he was alone he flung himself down on the ground and sobbed out his grief, with face pressed into the grass. Never, never, never would he forgive Celia Jane for her perfidy,--nor Danny either for taking the ticket, when he knew that it had been given to Celia Jane because Jerry thought she was really crying because she wanted to see the circus. He would really run away this time. He would run away without going back to tell Mother 'Larkey and Kathleen and Nora good-by. Now he would not get to see the elephants jumping the fence, nor the trapeze performers, nor the dancing pony. Even the trained seals took on a halo of enchantment now that the magic ticket that was to open all those joys to him was irrevocably gone. His sobbing rose in a renewed outburst, but even as he sobbed he felt something shake his foot very slightly. He stopped sobbing so hard. There was no further shaking of his foot and he again gave himself up to the bitterness of his grief. Then there came a tug at his foot; it was shaken harder than before and then pulled. Very much startled, Jerry sat up and found himself staring into a pair of twinkling yet sympathetic eyes and a face which was just as white as chalk, with very, very red lips. It was a man, and he wore a white skullcap over his head and a white, loose sort of gown with blue dots all over it. It was Whiteface, the clown, sitting on his heels right there in front of him! That very surprising individual suddenly turned a handspring, and without standing up, kicked his heels together straight up into the air and then sat down in front of Jerry, leaned his head on his elbow and smiled with twinkling eyes, without uttering a word. CHAPTER IX CLOWN OF CLOWNS Jerry was so surprised that he almost forgot that he had been cheated out of his ticket to the circus, and he stopped crying except for a long shuddering sob every now and then, though the tears stood on his cheeks. The clown looked at him long and steadily; finally he made a little squeaky noise with his mouth, and then opened his lips as though laughing, but did not utter a sound. His mouth seemed to keep broadening in a hearty laugh until Jerry thought it would really touch his ears. It was such a good-natured grin and his eyes twinkled so that Jerry smiled ever so little. At that little smile the clown's silent laugh suddenly disappeared and with that funny little squeak in his mouth, which Jerry knew meant joy in spite of its being nothing but a squeak, he jumped suddenly to his feet and turned a series of handsprings around in a circle, kicking his heels in the air and ending up just where he started, directly in front of Jerry, squatting down on the ground, with elbow on knee, chin in hand, looking intently into Jerry's eyes. The clown's lips were very sober in spite of the general laughableness of his face, but as he kept looking at Jerry a smile started right at the corners of his mouth and then disappeared. That smile seemed to be waiting for encouragement, for after a time it started up again and followed the clown's lips almost to the center of his mouth. It didn't get quite that far, however, but raced quickly back to the corners of his mouth, as though in disappointment, and disappeared. Then a remarkable change came over the clown's face. The corners of his mouth began to droop and his eyes to close. Jerry thought he was going to cry. His shoulders hunched forward until the clown was the most forlorn looking object Jerry had almost ever seen. The corners of his mouth kept going down and down until they nearly touched his chin. Jerry kept fascinated eyes on that chalky white face with the very, very red lips. It was the drollest expression of grief he had ever seen, and a smile began to play about his own lips. That tentative smile on Jerry's part brought another sudden and remarkable change over the clown's countenance. He began that silent laugh again and it grew and it grew until the face was all a huge grin. Jerry found himself grinning out of pure, contagious sympathy. Then the clown laughed harder than ever, still without making a sound, and held his sides as though he had laughed so hard that they ached. He emitted one short, little staccato laugh and stopped suddenly, as if he were waiting to see if Jerry liked the sound before continuing with it. Jerry did like it and laughed out loud himself. The clown's face was all changed at that laugh of Jerry's and became so comically still and sorrowful that Jerry laughed harder. Then the clown started laughing out loud, holding his sides until it became a laughing duet between them. Jerry was happy again. He had forgotten all about Danny's perfidy and the tears of Celia Jane and the stolen "ticket to paradise." The clown's features suddenly fell calm and he jumped to his feet and pirouetted on his heels with little graceful leaps in the air, as though he were light as a feather and going to take flight. Jerry was sure that that was the clown's way of rejoicing at having made him laugh. Then the clown was suddenly sitting in front of Jerry again. "So you've found the secret," he remarked in a very human and pleasant voice. "What secret?" asked Jerry. The clown whispered in his ear, "The secret of laughter." "The secret of laughter?" repeated Jerry wonderingly. "Shush!" warned Whiteface, looking cautiously about. "Don't let anybody know you've found it till it's had time to get used to you. It might like somebody else better and leave you for that somebody else, though I don't see how the secret of laughter could like anybody better than you. You're such a brave little boy." "What will the secret of laughter do?" Jerry asked in a low tone. "It will make you happy," replied Whiteface. "Nothing is as bad as you think it is if only you can keep the secret of laughter at your side. It will make you forget your sorrow and laugh and laugh till the sorrow slinks away." "Never to come back?" asked Jerry. The clown's mouth drooped again and his shoulders sunk forward. "That's the tragedy of it," he said. "Sorrow takes such a firm hold on us sometimes, especially when one is grown up, that it comes back even after the secret of laughter has driven it away. But it is different with children; with them the secret of laughter almost always drives sorrow away for good and all and leaves them happy." "How can it make them happy?" asked Jerry. "By making them forget." "Forget what?" pursued Jerry, puzzled. "What made them cry," responded the clown, "as you have." Then his face clouded and his white, chalky brows frowned. "You have forgotten, haven't you?" he asked eagerly. "Y-y-yes," replied Jerry, "almost." "Almost!" exclaimed Whiteface, very much disappointed. "Then it has come back if you haven't forgotten it altogether. I wonder what it can be if the secret of laughter can't drive it away?" He looked up so questioningly that Jerry responded at once. "It's Celia Jane." It was the clown's turn to be surprised. "Celia Jane!" he exclaimed. "Cupid starts in so young nowadays!" "It was not Cupid," said Jerry, who had no more idea than the man in the moon who or what Cupid might be. "No?" said the clown. "That's good! What did Celia Jane do?" "She cried." "Was that what you were crying for--because Celia Jane cried?" "No," Jerry answered. "I gave her my ticket to the circus which I got for carryin' water for the el'funts." "Ah!" said the clown. "She cried to get your ticket so she could see the circus herself. I see." "No! She gave my ticket to Danny," pursued Jerry, and his grief was coming back so rapidly that he felt his lips begin twisting again. "And Danny went to the circus in your place?" questioned the clown. "And the crocodile tears of Celia Jane made you shed so many real ones!" "Celia Jane always does what Danny wants her to," continued Jerry. "It was very naughty of her!" said the clown. "And Danny should be spoken to." "Will you speak to him?" asked Jerry. "Then mebbe he'll give me my ticket back." "I don't know Danny," replied the clown, "but I'll probably think up a way to get you into the circus even if you don't have a ticket." "Oh, can you?" cried Jerry excitedly. He got to his feet and in his eagerness put an arm over Whiteface's shoulder. "I'm sure I can if I think very hard," returned the clown. "You will think _very_ hard, won't you? Please." "Oh, awfully hard," replied Whiteface. "But don't you worry. The secret of laughter made your grief slink away for good. But I must know your name. It will help me to think." "Jerry Elbow," replied Jerry promptly. "Well, Jerry Elbow," said the clown, "now I'll think. You may watch me think, but don't say anything, as I might get to thinking your thoughts, and if our thoughts get crossed there's no telling what would happen." "I won't," Jerry promised. The clown put his chin in his hand, palm out so that his thumb and forefinger half encircled his face, and began slowly rolling his head from side to side. Then with the forefinger of his other hand he tapped the top of his head slowly several times. "Think!" he commanded his own head. "Here's a very small boy that you can make very happy. Think of a way to do it. Think!" Jerry sat down again and watched him eagerly, holding on to himself to keep from speaking and getting their thoughts mixed up. Every emotion pictured on the clown's mobile face was reflected on Jerry's. When the clown brightened as though he felt the thought coming that would provide a means for getting Jerry into the circus, Jerry's face likewise brightened. But when Whiteface slumped down into the most discouraged attitude in the world, Jerry knew that that idea wouldn't do and the corners of his own mouth drooped and, unconsciously, he rested his chin in the palm of his hand just as the clown did and despair made him huddle down in a heap. All of a sudden the clown made a clicking noise with his tongue and his figure began to straighten up and his face to lighten until it was all smiles. Jerry bounded to his feet. He forgot all about Whiteface's caution not to speak and cried: "Have you got it? Did the thought come?" "Yes!" cried the clown. "I'll buy you a ticket!" "Will you?" exclaimed Jerry. "_Will_ you?" "Yes, here's the money," and Whiteface reached for his pocket. His hand kept sliding down his loose, blue-spotted, white costume, but did not enter into any pocket. "Can't you find your pocket?" asked Jerry fearfully. "I had one this morning," replied the clown solemnly, "and there was money in it--enough to buy you a ticket to the circus and more, but now I don't seem to be able to find it. You don't see a pocket on me, do you, Jerry Elbow?" Jerry went close and walked all about the clown. There was not a sign of a pocket and he began to feel dreadfully disappointed. "There ain't no pocket," he said sorrowfully. "Then there must be some pocket. If there ain't no pocket, there must be a pocket somewhere. If you had said there is no pocket it would be so. Look again." Jerry looked carefully, more and more sorrowfully. "There _is_ no pocket," he said at last in a voice that was trembly, all ready to cry. "That's funny," said the clown. "I know there was one this morning because I used some of the money that was in it." He sank into thought for a moment and then looked suddenly at Jerry. "I know why we can't find a pocket!" cried he. "While I was thinking very hard of a way to get you into the circus and almost had the thought, you said, 'Have you got it? Did the thought come?' Now, didn't you?" The appalling truth burst upon Jerry. He had spoiled Whiteface's thought by interrupting and their thoughts had got mixed. "I didn't know I was going to," he said. "I tried so hard not to." "And didn't you think that it would take only fifty cents to buy a ticket?" asked the clown. "Yes," Jerry miserably admitted. "That's it!" exclaimed the clown. "That's what mixed my thoughts all up with yours. I was trying to think of a way to get you in without any money. Then, when our thoughts got mixed, I began thinking of the ordinary way of getting into a circus by buying a ticket." "Can't you think again?" Jerry pleaded in a very contrite voice. "I will keep still this time. I _will_!" Just as he spoke a band inside the tent started playing. It was so near him that he was startled, and jumped. "The circus is about to begin," said the clown. "The band is playing for the parade. I must think quickly so you won't miss any of it." There was no need of warning Jerry not to say anything this time. He would have said nothing if he had seen the clown turn into an elephant. It was an awful hard thought to think, for the clown stretched out on the ground right close to the tent and looked under the canvas. Then he rolled over, sat up and wagged his head solemnly at Jerry. "I've got it!" he cried and bounded to his feet and jumped clear over Jerry's head. "I didn't say nothing this time!" boasted Jerry. "I didn't say nothing this time!" "No," said the clown, "you didn't and our thoughts didn't all get mixed up." "Will I get in before it starts?" asked Jerry. "Yes, or my name's not Jack Robinson," said the clown. "Is that your name?" asked Jerry. "Only to-day," replied the clown. "To-morrow it may be Tom, Dick or Harry." "Robinson?" questioned Jerry. "Or Smith or Kettlewell," replied the clown, smiling. "Now you must do just what I tell you to and do it quickly." "I will," promised Jerry. "Shut your eyes. Are they shut?" "Yes," said Jerry, closing them so tight that he saw funny little green and red and purple streaks of light. "Keep them shut. Don't open them once till I tap you on the back twice. Then you count to twenty, and if I don't tap you on the back again, open your eyes and you will be in the circus. Then you walk right ahead till you come to the first row of seats where there will be a lot of children and you just pick out any empty seat you see and sit there. Do you understand?" "Yes," replied Jerry. "Eyes shut," commanded the clown. "Come with me." He led Jerry quite a distance away from the tent, Jerry thought, and then had him sit down on the ground so that the clown was directly behind him. "Now," said Whiteface, "you are going to be carried into the circus, but don't open your eyes till I tap twice on your back and you have counted to twenty." "I won't," promised Jerry. "If you see me in the circus," said the clown, "you can speak to me if you want to. No, don't open your eyes." For Jerry, in his eagerness to assure Whiteface that he would speak to him if he saw him in the circus, was about to look up at him. For fear that he yet might do so, he shut his eyes tighter, till they hurt, and covered them with both hands. "Lean over," whispered the clown, "close to the ground." As he did so, Jerry felt his forehead brush something that felt exactly like the canvas of a tent. "Now," said the clown, "good-by till you speak to me in the circus." "Good-by," whispered Jerry in a daze of delight and mystery. He heard a swishing sound and then felt the clown push him along on the ground. A moment later he felt two thumps on his back and he started in to count. He reached twenty without feeling another thump and opened his eyes. He was in the circus tent! CHAPTER X "GREAT SULT ANNA O'QUEEN" Jerry knew that he was in the circus tent although he had not expected it to be anything like that. A band was playing and hundreds and hundreds of persons, mostly children, were sitting on boards, each one raised a little higher than the others, and whistling and clapping their hands. And clear around the tent were other sections of seats, all filled with men and women and children. Eyes wide open with wonder at the smell and the bigness of the tent and the paraphernalia used by the performers, Jerry rose to his feet. He looked back of him, but only the canvas side of the tent met his gaze. Whiteface, the clown, had entirely disappeared! The lively air the band was playing seemed to get right inside of Jerry, for his heart began to pound fast and his eyes were dancing. He was going to see the circus! The clown had got him in without a ticket! He saw many boys and girls and older persons, too, hurrying to find places on the board seats and he joined the throng. He remembered that Whiteface had told him to take any seat there he could find and he sat down in one in the second row between a boy a good deal older than himself and a man with a black mustache. He had hardly got seated when, from the farther side of the tent, there entered a gorgeous carriage drawn by a pair of milk-white horses. When the carriage got around in front of him, Jerry saw that it contained Mr. Burrows, the man who had let him carry water for the elephants even if he was too young, but he didn't pay much attention to him, for there was such a variety of different things to absorb his attention,--beautiful women in richly colored garments on horses and on sober, humpbacked camels, and even in little houses on the elephants, just as he had seen them in the street parade. There was the sword-swallower and the fat lady, the giant and the dwarf, and so many other things that Jerry couldn't remember them all. When the last of them had passed out at the other side of the tent, he became aware of a smell that was most enticing, quite different from the smell of the circus,--the sawdust and the animals and the crowd. He had just identified it as the smell of freshly roasted peanuts when a boy in a white coat in the aisle asked if anybody there wanted freshly roasted peanuts for five cents, only a half a dime. Jerry did, and after watching other small boys buying bags of the delicacy, he fished out the dime from his blouse pocket and gave it to the boy, who handed him back a bag of peanuts and a nickel. Jerry had just cracked his first peanut shell and was munching the two nuts in it when he suddenly became aware that the circus was going on. In fact, there was so much going on that he could not see it all. He watched the trapeze performers for a minute, swinging and turning somersaults and throwing each other about in the air, and then his eyes wandered to the acrobats going through the most surprising contortions on a platform. He hadn't seen half enough of that when his attention was captured by the form of a woman sliding down a wire that went clear to the top of the tent and she was not holding on to the wire at all! She was hanging from it by her teeth! He expected to see her dash into the crowd of people when she reached the end of the wire, but two men stopped her. Fast and furiously the circus stunts were performed. Men in shaggy trousers on horses threw ropes about each other and picked up handkerchiefs from the ground while their horses were running lickety-split. They just leaned over in the saddle until Jerry thought they were falling off, and picked up the handkerchiefs. And there was a tight-rope walker. It was a woman with no skirts on at all, and the rope was way up much higher than a man's head and she didn't touch the ground with her balancing pole at all. Nora could never walk the rope like that. And the dancing ponies and the trained seals and the dog that wound in and out among the spokes of a buggy wheel and all the other acts thrilled Jerry and made him almost dizzy, they came so fast; but best of all he liked the clowns with their funny faces and droll antics. He did not pick out Whiteface the first time the clowns came out, there were so many of them and they looked so much alike with their white faces and red mouths. But just after the dancing horses had left the tent and the clowns swarmed in again, Jerry saw one of them stop and look up at the boys above him. He had a bulldog under his arm. Jerry, unmindful of those about him, stood up and shouted: "Whiteface! Here I am!" The clown turned to him, made that funny clicking noise in his mouth and bowed. "Jerry Elbow," said the clown and clapped his hands. "It's Jerry!" exclaimed Danny's startled voice somewhere among the hundreds of boys and grown-ups back of Jerry. Then Danny added in an awed voice, "The clown spoke to him!" Jerry suddenly sat down, for all eyes were directed towards him. He didn't look around for Danny and Chris, for he was too confused to face all those pairs of eyes. Four or five of the other clowns gathered about Whiteface, looked up at Jerry and clapped their hands, too. Jerry shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Whiteface and the other clowns were all doing something there right in front of him. Whiteface was placing his bulldog down on the ground and Jerry kept fascinated eyes on him. He never could tell afterwards what the other clowns did then except that as they left to go to another part of the circus, one of them, who wore the biggest and longest and flattest shoes Jerry had ever seen, stepped on his own foot and couldn't get off! Another clown had to help him off his own foot! But everything that Whiteface did Jerry saw and remembered, for he knew that Whiteface was playing just for him alone. The bulldog stood perfectly still until Whiteface held out a stick; then the clown jerked upon the strap which he held in his right hand, one end of which was fastened to the dog's collar, and the dog jumped right over the stick! Next time Whiteface raised the stick much higher, but when he signaled to the dog by jerking on his collar that it was time for him to jump, the dog jumped over the stick again. Jerry heard the crowd laughing and applauding. He thought no one could help laughing at the ludicrous expression on the clown's face as he looked up at the spectators every time the dog jumped the stick. Jerry did not awake to the fact that the bulldog was a stuffed toy one, and not a real dog, until the clown took it by the tail and struck another clown on the back with it. The gasp of astonishment that came from many small throats told Jerry that others had thought it a real dog, too. He joined in the laughter at the easy manner in which the clown had fooled them. The look that Whiteface turned on Jerry sent a warm glow surging over his body. He liked Whiteface and was happy in the knowledge that Whiteface liked him. He watched the clown fasten the life-size toy bulldog to the back of his costume. How he did it, Jerry could not tell, but the mock terror depicted on Whiteface's features when he found the bulldog with what seemed to be a death-grip on the seat of his clothes caused Jerry and the rest of the children to shriek with laughter. With that look of mock terror on his face, the clown started to run to get away from the dog, and he ran and cavorted and leaped so ludicrously that many eyes besides Jerry's followed him all the way around the arena until he disappeared through the entrance. Then Jerry found that there were several acts going on, of which he had missed much. When they had finished, another clown came along with a big head that looked like some kind of a bird's head. It was way up in the air on a long neck with a wide yellow bill that every now and then opened and showed a red tongue. Almost in front of Jerry, the clown stopped, bent down his bird-head sidewise and suddenly gave a loud kiss to a little girl sitting on the end of the first row. The little girl gave a shriek of surprise and terror and jumped from the seat and ran up the aisle back of Jerry, amid a roar of delight from the crowd. The girl hid her face and refused to go back to the front row, despite the coaxing of her mother. Jerry offered to let her have his seat. He wasn't afraid of the clowns. Then the boy next to him got up and the woman and the girl took their seats while Jerry and the boy sat down in the front row, Jerry at the very end. He would be close enough to touch Whiteface the next time he came around. He had forgotten all about Danny and Chris and the trick Celia Jane had played on him. He was so happy that he would willingly have shared with them the pleasure of seeing the circus and getting acquainted with Whiteface, if that had been possible. He wished Kathleen and Nora and Mother 'Larkey could see it. Never in all his life had he been so excited and so happy. He wanted more and more. If only the circus would never end!--Anyway, not until he was too tired to stay awake one second longer. Suddenly the band struck into a different air,--one that set Jerry's pulse to beating even faster. It was like an echo from the past; he had heard it before. It was the music he had thought he heard when he stood before the circus poster of the elephant jumping the fence! Unconsciously Jerry began saying something softly under his breath. And the elephants were coming! Several clowns were running ahead. Among them Jerry espied Whiteface, and in his excitement rose to his feet, as they came closer and closer. As the band played on, words seemed to be coming of themselves to Jerry's tongue, and in a sort of rhythmical chant he was repeating in time to the music as the elephants got directly in front of him: "Great Sult Anna O'Queen, in the jungle, Carryin' water for the ellifants, Great Sult Anna O'Queen, in the jungle Carryin' water for the ellifants." Jerry was aware that he was crooning, but did not know that he had risen to his feet and was repeating those two lines of verse out loud. The band suddenly stopped playing, and in the ensuing silence the childish treble of Jerry's voice was heard by every one in that section of seats saying: "Great Sult Anna O'Queen, in the jungle, Carryin' water for the ellifants." He had hardly finished the words when the leader in the line of elephants turned small, beady eyes towards Jerry, lifted up its trunk and trumpeted aloud. Jerry was not frightened at all by that cry, but held out his arms toward the elephant, crying, "Up! Up! Sult Anna!" as though that were the most natural thing in the world to do and he had been doing it all his life. The elephant trumpeted again and lumbered heavily towards the tier of seats where Jerry stood, lowered its trunk and curled it about Jerry's body. A great gasp went up from the people about Jerry and then some women and men cried out and a girl screamed. "It's mad! It's run amuck!" some one cried, and in an instant there was an uproar of terror as the people left their seats and surged back to higher tiers where they hoped the elephant could not reach them. "It's Jerry! It's Jerry!" came an agonized scream which Jerry, from his seat high in the air on the elephant's trunk, recognized as the voice of Chris. "He'll be killed!" cried Danny's remorseful voice, high and shrill above the uproar. "And it's all my fault!" "Up! Up! Sult Anna!" commanded Jerry, and laughed aloud and waved his arms. Why were all those people afraid? Sult Anna wasn't going to hurt him! All the clowns had come running about the elephant. "It's Jerry Elbow!" exclaimed Whiteface. "It's Gary!" cried a woman's voice from the palanquin on the elephant's back. Jerry looked at her. She was a very pretty woman in a most wonderful sparkling dress, and she leaned forward, extending her arms towards him. Jerry heard the strident voice of the elephant-tender commanding Sult Anna to lower him and the man started to jab the elephant in the trunk, but Whiteface shouted: "Don't touch the elephant! She knows the boy!" "He's not hurt at all!" cried an amazed voice in the crowd. "Take your seats! There is no danger!" Whiteface called to the frightened and huddled mass at the top tiers of seats. Then the band struck into a lively air and circus attendants and spectators ran up to the elephants. Among those who arrived early were Danny and Chris, frightened but curious, and Mr. Burrows. The performance was going on in other parts of the big tent and the spectators there seemed already to have forgotten the incident, but the unreserved seat section still seethed with interest, apprehension and curiosity. "What's all this fuss?" asked Mr. Burrows, puffing from the speed with which he had hurried to the scene. "We can't have the performance held up this way and the people frightened." "As the elephants came along," explained Whiteface, "a boy was singing some of the words of my elephant song, and Sultana, I believe, recognized him. She trumpeted twice, reached out her trunk and carried him high into the air. He kept crying, 'Up! Up! Sultana!' She has not hurt him at all." Mr. Burrows looked up at Jerry, still sitting on the elephant's trunk. "Why, bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "It's the orphan boy who helped carry water for the elephants this morning!" "Robert, it's Gary!" again cried the beautiful lady in the palanquin on the elephant's back. Jerry looked up at her and found her weeping. He wondered why she was crying and who Gary might be. "The other elephants are getting restless," said Mr. Burrows. "Get the boy down, Bowe, and take him with you to the dressing rooms. The act must go on." Whiteface went up to the elephant and began talking to her gently, patting her shoulder. Her keeper approached and ordered her to put Jerry down. "Down, Sult Anna, down!" cried Jerry. Hardly were the words out of his mouth when Jerry was literally placed by the elephant in the arms of Whiteface. "Who are you?" asked the clown of Jerry, looking long into his eyes. "He's Jerry Elbow," said Danny who, with Chris, had edged in close to the little crowd surrounding the elephant. "He's a orfum and lives with us." "When did his parents die?" "He ain't got no parents," replied Danny. "Have you, Jerry?" "No," said Jerry. "Robert, help me down!" called the beautiful lady on the elephant. Whiteface set Jerry down and with two of the elephant keepers went to Sultana's side and caught the woman as she half slid, half jumped from her high seat. As soon as she touched the ground, the lady ran to Jerry and he found himself gathered convulsively in her arms. "Oh, Gary, my son! Don't you know me? I am your mother!" CHAPTER XI A BOY NAMED GARY Jerry looked long into the face of the lady. It was all pink and white and her lips were very red. Her hair was a golden brown and it was long and thick and hung down her back. "Are you my mother?" asked Jerry wistfully. He would like very much to have a mother as beautiful as this. "Oh, yes, I am! I am!" cried the lady and clasped Jerry close to her breast. "Helen," said Whiteface, "you mustn't let your hopes get too high." "He is an orphan," observed Mr. Burrows, "his brother here said so," and he pointed at Chris. "He's not my brother," interposed Chris quickly. "Father found him before he died and brought him home." "Then it is Gary! It is!" exclaimed the beautiful lady. "As if I wouldn't know him--his eyes, his hair and his lips! Or as if Sultana could be mistaken. What is your name, dear; do you remember that?" "Jerry Elbow," replied Jerry. "What is yours?" Whiteface asked Chris. "Chris Mullarkey," he replied. "How long has Jerry been with you?" "Three years," put in Danny. "He was only three and a half then," said the woman, "and probably couldn't say his name very plainly. He couldn't at the time he was stolen. Gary L. Bowe would sound very much like Jerry Elbow to any one who didn't know." "You're right," said Whiteface. "I believe he is our boy." Jerry looked up at the clown and such an expression of delight came over his face at the idea of the clown being his father that Whiteface's voice went all husky and he took Jerry in his arms. "Do you remember anything about your parents?" he asked. "Seems as though there was a man with a white face," replied Jerry. "That would be you, Robert," said the woman named Helen. "Are you my father?" Jerry asked, putting an arm timidly about the clown's shoulder. "Of course he is!" cried Mr. Burrows, blowing his nose until it made a formidable sound. "Bowe, you take your wife and child into the dressing tent, so the circus can go on. Sultana is getting restless." Whiteface took Jerry up in his arms and his new-found mother clung to his hand as they started to leave the arena, tears still in her eyes. She stopped to call to Danny and Chris to follow them. Sultana lifted up her trunk and trumpeted. As they tramped along, the spectators craning their necks to get a better view, Jerry heard Mr. Burrows saying in a loud voice to the audience in the section where he had sat: "Ladies and gentlemen, there is no occasion for alarm. The elephant, Sultana, recognized in the boy, Jerry Elbow, the son of our famous clown, Robert Ellison Bowe, who was stolen from the circus in a neighboring State three years ago by a disgruntled employee. The police of the country had been searching for him and Mr. Bowe had spent thousands of dollars in the effort to find him. What money and mind and trained detective intelligence failed to do, the retentive memory of the elephant, Sultana, has accomplished and, thanks to her, a grieving father and mother are reunited with their long-lost son. The performance will now continue and you will see what a great degree of intelligence is possessed by these pachyderms in the tricks which they will now perform for your gratification." And how the people shouted and applauded at that! "Bow to them. They are cheering for you," said Whiteface to Jerry. "They are glad you have been found." Jerry waved his hands to them and bowed and a patter of hand-clapping ran along the audience as they passed until they reached the entrance. Chris suddenly cried, "Danny! Look at them el'funts! They're standin' on their heads! Lookee!" Jerry just had to see that and he squirmed around in Whiteface's arms. "They're funny!" he laughed. "Which one is Sult Anna?" "She's the one at the table," replied his mother, "ringing the bell for a waiter to bring her something to eat." "Can el'funts do that?" Jerry asked amazed. "Much more than that, Gary," she responded. "I guess el'funts know more'n some people," Danny remarked. Jerry craned his neck to see the elephants. "Are they going to jump the fence now?" he asked. Whiteface burst into a joyous laugh. "Helen, I told you my idea for a circus poster would fetch the children!" he said. "They don't jump a fence," he explained to Jerry. "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Jerry. "The picture shows them doing it!" "They don't really, Gary," said his mother. "The picture was just drawn that way to fit the old nursery rhyme about the elephant's jumping up to the sky." "Then it ain't so?" Jerry asked, terribly disappointed. "No," replied Whiteface, "but they do other things more remarkable than that." "What?" asked Jerry. "I want to see them." "Of course you do," said his father. "You want to see all the circus and you shall to-night, and Mrs. Mullarkey and Celia Jane, too." "All of it?" questioned Jerry. "The little man no bigger than a two-year-old baby and the sword-swallower and all?" "And all," replied Whiteface. "The menagerie and the side show and the main performance." "Will Nora and Kathleen see it all, too?" "Who are Nora and Kathleen?" his mother asked. "Why, they're Danny's sisters!" he replied. "Didn't you know that?" "You hadn't mentioned them before," said Whiteface, "but they'll see it, too. Are there any more in the Mullarkey family?" "No," answered Jerry, "just Danny and Chris and Nora and Celia Jane and Kathleen and Mother 'Larkey." By that time they had reached a part of another tent which was all screened off into small rooms, into one of which Whiteface and the lady carried Jerry, followed by Danny and Chris, who, torn between their desire to see the elephants perform and their curiosity about Jerry's new-found father and mother and their desire to obey the beautiful lady, had kept close at their heels. "Now," said Mrs. Bowe, seating herself on a bench and taking Jerry on her lap, addressing Danny as the oldest, "tell me all you can about Gary." "Father found him one night along a country road, cryin' in a fence corner, and brought him home," said Danny, "an' he's lived with us ever since. That's all." "How long ago was that?" she questioned. "It was when I was five an' a half," replied Danny. "How old are you now?" Whiteface asked. "Eight and more'n a half." "Three years ago," said Mrs. Bowe. "That was only a few months after he was stolen. How did he happen to be alone in a country road?" "I don't know," replied Danny. "Perhaps your mother knows," suggested Whiteface. "I don't think so," Danny replied. "Father always said it was a mystery. It was very late at night--almost midnight, I guess." "We must see her, Robert, and thank her for taking care of Gary." "Yes," said Whiteface, "she kept him after her husband's death--with five children of her own. She must have liked him very--" "She does," Chris interrupted eagerly. "We all do," Danny stated. "How could you help it?" asked Mrs. Bowe. "Now, Gary, can you tell me anything about what happened to you? Think hard." "Yes," said his father. "We left you in the dressing room with one of the girl acrobats while we were on and when we came back you were gone. The girl had been called out for a few minutes and got back just as we did. We hunted all over the circus for you and got the police to help us." "Do you remember any one taking you away?" asked the beautiful lady who was now his mother. "No'm," replied Jerry. "Say, Mother, Gary," pleaded her low, beautiful voice close to his ear. "No, Mother," Jerry repeated obediently. "Try to think awfully hard," said Whiteface; "was there a man with a big mark across his forehead--" "A red mark?" interrupted Jerry eagerly. "Yes!" cried his mother. "Robert, it was John Rand! I knew it was that low creature." "I feared it," said the clown. "What did he do to you, Gary? Was he kind to you?" asked his mother. Jerry seemed to see in a flash a man with a red mark across his forehead cuffing him over the head and twisting his arm till he cried out from the pain. "I'll pull your arm right out if you ever tell any one you ain't my brat," a coarse, thick voice seemed to be saying in his ear, "or if you ever let on as how I ever hurt you in anyway at all." Jerry cowered down in his mother's arms and hid his face against her breast. He did not answer her questions. His heart was galloping with fear. The man with the red scar might come back. "Why don't you answer, Gary?" asked the clown gently. "Don't you remember?" Jerry felt the lady who was his mother holding him tighter in her arms and then she gave a sudden start. He did not answer. He was afraid to. "Robert!" she cried. "His heart is beating as though it would burst! The memory of that beast must frighten him terribly." "He can never hurt you again, Gary," Whiteface assured him. "You will always be with us from now on and we won't let him ever come near you again. Did he ever hurt you?" Jerry, remembering now vividly what the man had done to him, became more frightened than ever and, instead of answering, began to cry. "We must not hurry him into confidence," said Whiteface. "Oh, my boy!" wailed the elephant lady. "How terribly you must have suffered when my heart was aching so to know you were safe and to comfort and love you!" She kissed him passionately and squeezed him so hard that his breath went entirely out of his body for a moment. "Has Gary ever told you anything about the man who stole him?" asked Whiteface of Danny. "No," he replied, "but Jerry ran away from him." "How do you know that?" "He said he had when he was going to run away from us." "Why was he going to run away from you?" Danny swallowed rapidly but didn't answer. "Because Danny wouldn't let him be el'funt in our play circus," Chris explained for his brother. Mr. Bowe took Chris' words up so quickly that Jerry thought his father was angry with Chris. "Wouldn't let him be the elephant!" he exclaimed. "Why did Gary want especially to be the elephant?" "I don't know," Chris answered. "Remember, if you can," urged Whiteface. "It will help me to prove to every one that Gary is our boy." "I guess it was because he knew something about el'funts," Danny ventured. "He knew that el'funts' tails are small and round like a rope, but he didn't know how he knew." "I see," said the clown. "That is an important fact. I'm glad you told me." "An' he said 'O Queen' when he saw the picture of the el'funt jumping the fence!" cried Danny excitedly. "Just the same as he did at the circus when the band stopped playin' an' before the el'funt picked him up." "He didn't know he said it," Chris added, "an' he couldn't tell Danny what he meant by it, could he, Danny?" "No," Danny replied. "That clinches it!" exclaimed Whiteface, and took Jerry from his mother's arms. "Don't you cry any more, Gary-boy. Nobody shall hurt you again. O'Queen was what you used to call Sultana, the elephant--'Sult Anna O'Queen,' as though that were her name. It was the way you said a part of one line in my elephant song: 'Great Sultana, Oh, Queen of the jungle!" "Carryin' water for the ellifants," said Jerry, through his tears. "Do you remember any of the chorus?" Jerry thought hard, but finally shook his head. Whiteface then started to repeat the chorus: "'Ho, ye drowsy drones! The Queen is a-thirst; A penny for him who brings a pail first. Hurry and scurry--'" Jerry suddenly found that he did remember what came next and interrupted his father: "'--an' go at a prance!'" "That's it!" cried Mrs. Bowe. "'Run to the spring,'" quoted Mr. Bowe and Jerry finished: "'--an' back at a dance. Bringing water for the ellifants!'" Jerry felt so proud of himself for having remembered so much that he forgot all about the man with the red scar and being afraid of him. "I 'membered it, didn't I, Whiteface?" "Yes," answered the clown, "you did, and it proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are my lost little son and you've got the right to call me father." "Father," said Jerry experimentally, trying to see how it sounded. And then "Father!" he cried exultantly. "And not mother, too?" asked the elephant-lady in a reproachful tone. "And Mother!" cried Jerry, sliding out of his father's arms and running to her. He climbed upon her lap and buried his face on her shoulder and gave her neck a very hard hug, just to show how much he was going to love her. "Oh, you are my own darling, loving Gary!" she cried in a voice that was tearful, but very joyful through the tearfulness, while she almost squeezed the breath out of Jerry again. "And now we must go at once and thank kind, good Mrs. Mullarkey for caring for our boy." "Yes," said her husband. "The circus is out and we will have time before the evening performance." "Mother 'Larkey will be awful glad to see the circus," Jerry remarked. "She ain't seen none since just after she was married. An' so will Nora and Celia Jane." CHAPTER XII THE DIZZY SEAT OF GLORY "You boys wait here while Helen and I get ready," said Whiteface, "and then we'll pay our respects to Mrs. Mullarkey and Nora and Celia Jane and Kathleen." "You won't go out of the tent, will you, Gary?" asked the elephant-lady. "No'm," Jerry promised, and then at the look of disappointment and longing on her face, cried, "No, Mother!" He ran and gave her a good-by hug. "I'll wait right here." When Jerry and Danny and Chris were left alone, there was an abashed silence at first, broken after a minute by Chris' remarking: "Gee, ain't it excitin', Jerry! Findin' your father and mother an' being lifted up in a el'funt's trunk an' your father a clown in the circus and all?" "Yes," smiled Jerry with satisfaction. "He's the greatest clown ever lived." "I guess that's so," Danny stated judicially and also apologetically, for he wished to make up with Jerry for getting his circus ticket away from him. "It is so!" cried Jerry emphatically. "That's what I meant, Jerry--I mean, Gary." A silence fell and then Danny continued: "I wish I'd never of asked Celia Jane to cry and get your ticket away from you." Jerry said nothing, as he remembered how Danny had tricked him, and Danny, after shifting about uneasily, added as though in justification of his action: "If I hadn't of, you'd probably never of met your father. He couldn't of spoken to you if he hadn't seen you before you got into the circus." That impressed Jerry as a point of view that might be true and somehow he didn't feel angry at Danny and Celia Jane any more. He was too happy at having a clown for his father to hold resentment. "Mebbe not," was all he said, but Danny took those words as meaning that Jerry wasn't going to stay mad. "How'd you get in?" he asked eagerly. "Whiteface thought of a way that didn't cost any money," replied Jerry. "What kind of a way was that?" Danny was all eagerness for information of that sort. "I don't know," said Jerry. "He thought of something an' told me to keep my eyes shut an' I didn't see what he done." "Didn't you open 'em jest once?" demanded Danny. "I would of and then mebbe we could of got into other circuses that way." "It might of mixed our thoughts, like when I said something when he told me not to," Jerry observed. "What d'you mean, mixin' your thoughts?" Jerry was saved by the entrance of Mr. Burrows from trying to explain just what he did mean by that, for he hadn't understood very well himself. The circus man was smiling all over as he approached Jerry and seemed just as pleased that Jerry had found his parents as Jerry was himself. "Well, well, well," he said, holding out a hand which Jerry accepted in the same amicable spirit in which it was offered, "so you're the son of Robert Bowe! We were good friends before you were stolen and I hope will be again when you get reacquainted with me. Maybe your father and mother will be satisfied to stay with the circus now that you have been found." "Was they goin' to leave the circus?" asked Danny in an awed voice. "So they said," answered Mr. Burrows, "but now I guess they'll stay." "Go away an' not be a clown no more?" Jerry asked this new-old friend, as one man to another. "Go away and not be a clown any more," Mr. Burrows asserted. Just then a man and woman entered and came straight to Jerry. Why, it was Jerry's mother and a strange man! Mrs. Bowe didn't look the same in an ordinary blue dress and without the paint on her cheeks and lips and yet Jerry had recognized her almost at once; perhaps it was her golden-brown hair, or, more likely, the joy which sparkled in her eyes and lighted up her face. "I didn't go away once, Mother," he said. She smiled at him and the strange man spoke. "I knew you wouldn't," he said. Jerry was dumfounded and so must Danny and Chris have been, for they gasped. The voice that issued from the lips of the strange man was the voice of Whiteface, the clown, the new-found father of Jerry! Jerry's thoughts were paralyzed for a minute and he could only stare up at Robert Bowe, ordinary citizen, in stupefaction. So that was what his father looked like when he didn't have the clown costume on, with his face all chalked and his lips rouged! Just a common, ordinary, everyday, plain man, like--like Dan Mullarkey was, or Tom Phillips or Darn Darner's father. He was not very tall and not very big, and his face was rather long and there was quite a sprinkling of gray in his hair. Jerry was so terribly disappointed in his father that, after that long stare, he gazed away and would not look up at him again. He winked his eyes to keep the tears from coming. "What is it, Jerry?" asked Mrs. Bowe. "Tell mother." Jerry tried to think of something to say that wouldn't hurt his father's feelings or his mother's, but couldn't, and he stood there in misery and disappointment, his lips quivering and twisting and the tears gathering on his eyelashes. It was Danny who voiced the emotions that Jerry was experiencing. "You look different," he said. "Only your voice sounds the same." "Bless my soul!" cried Mr. Burrows, and laughed heartily. "The boy's disappointed that his father's just a man and not a clown." "Is that it, Jerry?" asked his mother, falling to her knees and gathering him close to her breast. "He ain't Whiteface," Jerry mourned softly in her ear. Mr. Bowe laughed at that, and it was such a good-humored, infectious chuckle of mirth that Jerry at last looked up at his very disappointing father, and the twinkle in his father's eyes and the engaging, twisty smile that played about his lips comforted Jerry. This father of his wasn't so ordinary looking, after all! But a clown is so much more interesting than just an everyday father. "You'll see Whiteface often enough," he promised Jerry, "to satisfy even you." "Nora won't," said Jerry, "nor Kathleen nor Celia Jane." "The boy's right!" exclaimed Mr. Burrows. "Dress up as the clown to see the woman who's cared for Gary and I'll have Sultana got ready for you to ride on. The boy's a better press agent than the one I pay to advertise the circus. I announced that Sultana had found your stolen child and told the newspaper men all about it. You and your wife ride on Sultana through the town, and you'll be followed by all the children at the circus and those who are not here, and the circus will get such an advertising as it never had before. And it will make Gary happy, too." "Will it, Gary?" asked his father. "Yes!" cried Jerry, thrilled at the thought of riding through the town on an elephant, with his father and mother. "It'll be better 'n a circus." "Robert Bowe, disappear!" commanded Robert Bowe. That surprising father of Jerry's wagged his head solemnly with such a comical look that Jerry shrieked with delight as Mr. Bowe turned a handspring that carried him through the curtains into another part of the tent. Mr. Burrows went out laughing, to have Sultana brought around, and Jerry waited impatiently for Whiteface to reappear. His most blissful dreams had been exceeded this wonderful day, and now the most wonderful part was still to come. He was too excited to pay very close attention to what his mother said, and Danny and Chris seemed to have been struck dumb by this dazzling height of glory that was about to befall "Orfum" Jerry Elbow, who had suddenly been transformed into Gary L. Bowe, son of a clown and of an elephant-lady. Suddenly there sounded the delightful clicking that Whiteface made with his mouth and Jerry's eyes almost popped out of his head in his eagerness for Whiteface to reappear. He watched the curtain where his everyday father had disappeared, without daring to wink his eyes for fear Whiteface would get in without his seeing him. As he watched, he felt himself being lifted in a pair of strong arms and twisted his head around to see who it might be. It was Whiteface! He had got back without Jerry's seeing him! Yet Jerry was sure he hadn't winked his eyes, not even once. "Away we go to the Mullarkey house! Away we go to the Mullarkey house!" chanted Whiteface, whirling around and around, as he carried Jerry on his shoulder out of the tent to where Sultana and an elephant keeper were awaiting them. Jerry's mother followed close, smiling at his delight. From the corner of his eye, Jerry saw Danny and Chris walking slowly behind her. The keeper put up a little ladder against the elephant's side and Whiteface ran lightly up it and deposited Jerry on a cushioned seat that ran around the little house on Sultana's back that he called a howdah. Then he helped Mrs. Bowe up and sat down by her. The keeper had taken the ladder away when Jerry again saw Danny and Chris looking up at him in envy. There was plenty of room in the little house for them. He turned to his father. "Is Great Sult Anna O'Queen's back strong enough for her to carry Danny and Chris, too?" The most surprised look spread over Whiteface's features and the beautiful lady remarked: "Gary has your kind, thoughtful nature." "I think Great Sult Anna O'Queen's Irish back is strong enough to carry Danny and Chris. I'll ask her. First though, we'd better find out how much they weigh?" "How much do you weigh, Danny?" Jerry called down. "I don't know," replied Danny. "If you don't weigh too much, mebbe you and Chris can ride, too." "Us ride on a el'funt!" exclaimed Danny. "Why, why, I don't weigh much, do I, Chris?" "No," replied Chris eagerly. "You're not big enough to weigh much and I'm littler than you are." "I think I can tell near enough," said Whiteface; "Danny weighs about sixty pounds and Chris about forty. That makes one hundred pounds and I weigh one hundred and sixty-five. Helen, how much do you weigh?" "A hundred and twenty pounds," she answered. "I never can remember that. That makes two hundred and sixty-five and one hundred and twenty is three hundred and eighty-five pounds and there's Gary. He must weigh thirty pounds--say four hundred and fifteen pounds altogether." Whiteface jumped from the little house on Sultana's back to her head, sat down on top of that, leaned over and whispered something in the elephant's ear. Jerry stood up so he could see better, and as he did so the elephant's ear, which Whiteface had lifted up, wiggled and flopped out of the clown's hand. "She says four hundred and fifteen pounds is not too much on this occasion," Whiteface announced and directed the keeper to help Danny and Chris up to Sultana's back. But Danny and Chris didn't need any help in running up the ladder. Then Mr. Burrows approached and tossed a bit of paper up to Mrs. Bowe. "That's a pass for a box at the circus to-night for Mrs. Mullarkey and all her family," he said. "Is one pass good for all of them?" asked Jerry, as Danny caught the precious bit of paper and handed it to Mrs. Bowe. "Yes," laughed Mr. Burrows, "it is when it's got the name of Edward J. Burrows on it. Just tell her to show that to the ticket seller and he'll give her the seats." Then Whiteface, still sitting on top of the elephant's head, told the keeper he was ready and Sultana started. It took Jerry and Danny and Chris quite a while to become accustomed to the manner in which the palanquin joggled about on Sultana's back, but they were getting used to it when the elephant reached the street close to the entrance of the main tent where the people were streaming out from the performance. There was a shout from the small boys in the crowd who immediately swarmed about Sultana and tagged on in the rear as she ambled patiently down the street. They looked enviously at Jerry and Danny and Chris and raised such a hubbub that every child they passed and many of the grown persons, too, fell in line. The story of how the elephant had recognized the lost boy and picked him right up out of the audience passed rapidly from mouth to mouth, with the result that no one left the ever lengthening procession that followed the elephant. Jerry took turns with Danny and Chris in directing the elephant keeper how to get to Mrs. Mullarkey's. Jerry would not have missed one joggle or sway of that ride for worlds. He saw Darn Darner in the crowd following them, and he was glad that such a stuck-up boy should see what a high place in the world Jerry Elbow had reached and be envious of him. He even waved to Darn to make sure that Darn knew that he saw him. "Hello, Jerry!" cried Darn in a loud voice, so that everybody would know he knew Jerry, and swaggered up close to the elephant. "How does it seem to be ridin' on an el'funt?" "Fine!" Jerry exclaimed ecstatically. "Don't you wish you was up here?" Danny asked in a voice that was not nearly so friendly as Jerry's had been. "Anybody would, I guess," was Darn's reply. "Well, you ain't," said Danny. "You're down there breathing the dust we make." "There's the house!" cried Jerry. "Which one?" asked Whiteface from his seat on the elephant's head. "The one with the paint all wore off," Danny explained. "There's Nora and Celia Jane!" cried Chris. "I see them!" Jerry exclaimed and called his mother's attention to them. They were standing by the gate, watching the strange procession approach. "Hello, Celia Jane! I'm ridin' on a el'funt!" Jerry cried shrilly to make her hear. Celia Jane both heard and saw and she seemed glued to the gate-post with surprise. Her mouth opened as though she were going to speak and remained open, without a word coming out. Nora turned and fled into the house crying: "Mother! Mother! Jerry's ridin' by on a el'funt from the circus!" A moment later the keeper halted Sultana in front of the gate, and that fact unglued Celia Jane from the gate-post and caused words at last to flow from her opened mouth. "Mother! They're stoppin' here!" she cried, in turn running to the house. She kept her eyes turned back on the elephant and ran into Nora, who was pulling Mrs. Mullarkey, with Kathleen in her arms, out through the door. Whiteface now commanded Sultana to help him down, and she raised her trunk, wrapped it around his body and lowered him to the ground. The crowd of boys and girls who had pushed up as close as they could made way for him, while Jerry and his mother climbed down the ladder the elephant trainer placed for them, followed by Danny and Chris. "Mother!" called Celia Jane. "There's Danny on the el'funt and Chris too!" "For land sakes!" cried Mrs. Mullarkey. "Nothing has happened to any of the children, has there?" "We're all right, Mother 'Larkey!" Jerry assured her. "Nothing at all, madam," said Whiteface approaching her, "except that Jerry Elbow has found his parents." Mrs. Mullarkey stared at Whiteface, too astounded to speak. "An' his name ain't Jerry Elbow," cried Danny. "It's Gary L. Bowe." "An' the el'funt knew him in a whole crowd of people," Chris added, "an' picked him up with its trunk." "The people thought the elephant was mad at first," said Darn Darner, who had approached as close as he could get to the clown. "The el'funt picked him up in its trunk?" gasped Celia Jane, her eyes growing bigger and bigger. "An' we're all goin' to the circus to-night!" Danny informed them. "All of us!" Celia Jane got breath enough to utter. "Me, too?" Nora asked. "Yes, all of you!" laughed Jerry. "And Kathleen, too." "I wanta see serka," cried the baby. "And so you shall," said Whiteface, so close that Kathleen drew whimpering away from his white, chalky features. "It's all true, Mrs. Mullarkey." "Don't be afraid of Whiteface, Kathleen," called Jerry. "He's father." At last Mrs. Mullarkey found her voice, but at the queer, choking sound she made, Jerry looked up and saw tears running down her face. "I can't tell you how _glad_ I am that you have found your father and mother, Jerry," she said. "Mr. Darner is here now and, after all, he was going to take you away--this very day. And Celia Jane--" She couldn't finish, but put Kathleen down and covered her face with her apron, rocking her body back and forth. Jerry looked towards the house and saw at the living-room window the face of a man,--a large, heavy face that seemed to scowl out at the crowd. CHAPTER XIII "--AND ELEPHANTS TO RIDE UPON" Jerry's new-found mother went quickly to Mother 'Larkey and placed a comforting arm about her shoulder. "_I_ am Mrs. Bowe, Gary's mother," she said, "and oh, how can I ever thank you for loving him and giving him a home? I never can repay you." "That we can't, Mrs. Mullarkey," Whiteface interposed. "But what is this about taking Gary away? And Celia Jane?" "Let's go into the house first," suggested Mrs. Bowe. "We have too big an audience here." She led the way, her arm still about Mrs. Mullarkey's shoulder. Jerry and his father followed, though Jerry turned at the door to have another look at Sultana and the admiring throng of children gathered about her. Nora and Celia Jane, who had lapsed into tongue-tiedness after learning that they were all going to see the circus that night, now started slowly into the house, Kathleen clinging to Nora's hand to keep from falling. But their eyes were turned back towards Sultana until they passed through the door. Danny and Chris were also of two minds whether to follow the great clown or remain outside with the elephant, but their mother's statement that Mr. Darner had come to take Jerry away and was even then in the house finally drew them as a magnet, their eyes also directed towards Sultana until they stumbled through the door. Jerry saw Darn Darner's father sitting by the living-room window and came to a stop. Mr. Darner was a dour, heavy-set man with a coarse, bristling gray beard. He glared at Whiteface through thick glasses. "What does all this hullabaloo mean?" he asked Mrs. Mullarkey, in a gruff voice. "It means," said Whiteface, answering for her and advancing towards Mr. Darner, Jerry's hand held tightly in his, "that Jerry Elbow has found his parents and the people have followed us here to show how glad they are." "You his father? A clown in a circus?" asked Mr. Darner. "Yes, I am his father and I am a clown in a circus," replied Whiteface. "Mr. Darner is the County Overseer of the Poor," Mrs. Mullarkey explained. "He's been at me to give Jerry up and let him take him to the poor farm ever since my Dan died." "It's for your own good and your children's--and Jerry's, too, if you weren't too blind to see it," the Overseer stated. "After Dan's insurance money was all gone--and a good part of it went to finish paying for this house," Mrs. Mullarkey continued, "I couldn't make enough to keep the children decently. Mr. Darner's kept telling me that if I didn't let him take Jerry to the poor farm, I'd break down sooner or later and have to send my own children there or let them be adopted out. Mr. Phillips thought he could help--" "Phillips is always butting into things that are none of his business," growled Mr. Darner. "But this afternoon Mr. Darner came to take Jerry and I just couldn't hold out any longer--I haven't the money or the strength. And he wants Danny to go to a place in the country to work for his board and wants me to let Celia Jane be adopted by a family in Hampton who are looking for a girl. He thinks I ought to see if Celia Jane won't suit them." "Mother! Take me away from home!" wailed Celia Jane aghast. "I'm at the end of my string," Mrs. Mullarkey's discouraged voice continued. "I've never been able to make both ends meet since Dan died." "She couldn't make them meet so's to give us money to buy tickets to the circus," Jerry explained corroboratively to his father. "You'll have to come to it eventually, Mrs. Mullarkey," warned the County Overseer. "This is a good chance for Celia Jane. The Thompsons are well fixed; they'll give her a fine home and a good education." Celia Jane at that sat down on the floor and let her body relax into a limp bundle. "I won't go!" she sobbed. "I won't leave mother! What would I do without mother?" Jerry was very much distressed at Celia Jane's misery and he looked pleadingly up at his clown-father; that extraordinary man knew without a word having been spoken that Jerry expected him to fix things so that Celia Jane could stay with her mother. Whiteface spoke at once. "Don't cry, Celia Jane. Nobody is going to take you away. Both ends are going to meet now. You're all going to stay here with your mother." "You talk big," grumbled Mr. Darner. "Now to come down to brass tacks. Who's--" "As long as I have any money, Mr. County Overseer," said Whiteface, "or as long as I have the power to make any, the Mullarkey household will not be broken up." "Of course it won't, Robert," chimed in Jerry's mother in a crisp voice, as she raised Celia Jane from the floor and comforted her. "You always know just what to do." Jerry's father continued: "We are going to take Gary with us now, but we are going to try to repay Mrs. Mullarkey a little for all she has done and suffered for our boy. I have some money saved up and make a good salary. I want you to go to Mr. Burrows, one of the proprietors of the circus, and satisfy yourself on that point and that I am a man of my word. While you are doing that we can arrange with Mrs. Mullarkey. We want to be alone with her. I'll see you again before to-night's performance." Mr. Darner stood up. "I do not doubt your desire or ability in the matter," he said, "and, as you wish it, I will consult Mr. Burrows. Nobody can be gladder than I am that things have turned out this way. I don't like breaking up families and taking children out to the farm, though some people say that I do. I have to do a lot of things that go against the grain. I've wanted to do what was best for you, Mrs. Mullarkey." "We are sure you meant things for the best, Mr. Darner," said Jerry's mother. "Good-by." Mrs. Mullarkey was looking so hard at Jerry's parents that she did not return Mr. Darner's "Good afternoon" as he left the house or seem even to have heard it. "It can't be true, what you just said," she at length articulated in a choked voice. "Such things don't happen to us." "It is true," Jerry's mother assured her. "We shall not forget what you have done for Gary," said Whiteface. "I calculate that I owe you at the least one thousand dollars for taking care of him--" "A thousand dollars!" gasped Danny. "Why, that's as much as father's insurance! I didn't know anybody could get that much money unless they died!" Mrs. Mullarkey said nothing; her lips were trying to smile though the tears still stood in her eyes. "Besides which," continued the clown, "Helen and I will help you look out for the children and we want you to call on us any time that you may be in trouble." "We do, indeed," said Jerry's mother. "You cannot work so hard and take care of your children the way you want to. If you only lived near us--" "Helen," interrupted Jerry's father, "I've been thinking, now that we are going to settle down in business, it would be a wise thing for Mrs. Mullarkey to sell her place here and move to Carroll with us. Then we'll know how they are getting on and can look after the children some. I'll help her dispose of the place here and buy one in Carroll, if she would like such an arrangement." "Would you, Mrs. Mullarkey?" asked Jerry's mother. It took her such a long time to answer that Jerry looked up and saw her lips were twisting. She was crying inside so that you couldn't hear her. Jerry knew how that hurt--to cry when you didn't dare cry out loud. He had often done it in the night, before he ran away, so the man with the big red scar wouldn't hear him. He left his mother and Kathleen, climbed up on Mother 'Larkey's lap, put one arm about her neck and with his other hand patted her wet cheek. "An' then Kathleen won't cry for me," he coaxed, "'cause I'll be right there an' can run over any time, couldn't I, Mother?" "Yes, of course you could, dear." "There, you see," he continued. "I should love to," Mrs. Mullarkey replied at last to Mr. and Mrs. Bowe. "It would be such a relief to have some one I could go to for advice about the children. It's not that they're wayward or bad, but Danny is hot-headed like his father and thoughtless. I'm sure, he didn't mean to steal Jerry's ticket to the circus--" "Why, mother!" exclaimed Danny. "I didn't steal it! He gave it to Celia Jane of his own free will and she gave it to me, didn't you, Celia Jane?" "Yet it was stealing," replied his mother, "for you put Celia Jane up to it. Nora told me all about it and Nora never tells what is not true." "You gave your ticket to Celia Jane, didn't you, Jerry--I mean, Gary?" appealed Danny. "Yes," Jerry replied hesitantly. "There, you see, Mother, I didn't steal it," Danny defended himself. "Because you put Celia Jane up to getting Jerry's ticket for you," continued his mother, "you must stay home to-night and--" "Not go to the circus!" exclaimed Danny. "When it don't cost nothin'!" "And Celia Jane can keep you company. I've told you again and again that you couldn't impose upon Jerry just because he's not a Mullarkey." "Stay home from the circus!" wailed Celia Jane, appalled, and then she burst into a flood of tears. Jerry was sure they were not crocodile ones this time, for her body shook with the sobs of anguished disappointment. He wanted Celia Jane to see the circus and Danny, too, and he knew Danny was sorry. "Mebbe I wouldn't never have seen Whiteface--Father," he said to Mother 'Larkey, "if Danny hadn't gone into the circus." "That is true," Whiteface corroborated. "I found him crying outside the tent and told him he could speak to me inside if he recognized me. He did recognize me and that was undoubtedly one of the things that led to the discovery of his identity." "Danny likes me," Jerry added. "He fought Darn Darner when he said they was goin' to take me to the poor farm." "So do I l-l-like you, J--J--Jerry," sobbed Celia Jane. "--I--I'm sorry I--" A fresh outburst of sobbing prevented further speech. Jerry's heart was touched at her grief and his own lips began to twist. "I want Danny and Celia Jane to see the circus, too, Mother 'Larkey," Jerry protested. "I ain't mad at them any more." "Please let them come," urged Jerry's mother. "I am so happy that I can't bear to think of them being so terribly disappointed. And Gary's pleasure would be spoiled knowing they were here at home while the rest of you were at the circus." "It does seem hard-hearted," Mrs. Mullarkey relented, "but Danny knows he can't pick on Jerry and not suffer for it. They can go to the circus, but I'll leave it to them what they shall do as a reminder that they mustn't pick on Jerry again. Danny, what will you do?" Danny hesitated a moment and then said without a tremor: "Jerry can have all my marbles and I'll feed his white rabbit for him all summer." "Not _all_ your marbles?" queried Jerry, knowing what a pang it must have cost Danny voluntarily to decide to part with all his agates and glassies and pee-wees and commies and steelies. "Yes," said Mrs. Mullarkey, "every last one. Now, Celia Jane, stop your crying and tell us what you will do." "I'll sweep the kitchen every day and do dishes without grumbling," Celia Jane sniffled, while Danny was off upstairs at a run. "That will remind you to be more careful," said Mrs. Mullarkey, "and remember you are to work willingly, without any grumbling." "I will, Mother," sobbed the girl. "And now," Jerry heard his father saying, "it is time for us to be going back to the circus and of course Helen wants Gary with her now. We'll keep him with us for three weeks and then, when we play Hampton, I'll bring him back here for the rest of the summer. When our season closes we'll come for him and take him to Carroll." "And we hope you will decide to move there, too, Mrs. Mullarkey," said Mrs. Bowe. "I will if Mr. Bowe thinks it will be best for the children," she replied. "I do think it so," said Whiteface. "To-morrow I'll mail you a check for one hundred dollars and the rest of the thousand I'll send to you as you want it. We'll arrange that when I bring Gary back. I have nothing with me now, as I haven't any pocket in these clothes." "I have," said Mrs. Bowe and took several bills from her bag and pressed them into Mrs. Mullarkey's hands. "I can't thank you," said Mother 'Larkey. "I don't know how." "You've loved Gary, Mrs. Mullarkey. He wouldn't love you so much if you hadn't. That is more thanks than I want. We owe more than thanks to you. Tell them good-by, Gary. We must start." Jerry was awfully glad that he had found his parents and that he was going with them and was much excited at the thought of traveling with the circus for three whole weeks and getting real well acquainted with Great Sult Anna O'Queen, but his throat grew all lumpy at the thought of leaving kindly Mother 'Larkey, loving Kathleen and gentle Nora and Chris and--yes, and Danny and Celia Jane, too. Mrs. Mullarkey gathered him up in her arms and kissed him. "Good-by, Jerry. You've brought good fortune to this family and put food into the mouths of my children and clothes on their backs when I couldn't see where they were to come from. You must love your mother hard for all the time she has been without you--and your father, too." "I will," Jerry promised and squeezed her neck very hard and kissed her. Just then Danny came tumbling breathlessly downstairs and thrust a little cloth sack, which was very heavy, into Jerry's hand. "Here are my marbles," he said. "All thirty-two of them." "I don't want them," said Jerry. "Take them with you, Jerry," Mother 'Larkey urged him. "It will help Danny to remember some things which he mustn't forget." Jerry consulted his mother's eyes. She nodded her head and he took the marbles. Then he shook hands with Danny and Chris and Nora and kissed and hugged Kathleen, leaving Celia Jane till the last, because she was still sobbing. Celia Jane did not feel entirely forgiven because Jerry seemed to avoid her and she abased herself before him. "I--I'm s-s-sorry, Jerry. I'll n-n-never do it again. You ain't mad at m-m-me any m-m-more, are you, Jerry?" "No, I ain't mad at you," Jerry assured her. "Then will you m-m-marry me when we are g-g-grown up, Jerry?" Jerry flushed uncomfortably at that and felt that Celia Jane was taking an unfair advantage of him, so he did not answer. "W-w-will you, J-J-Jerry?" Celia Jane besought him. "No," said Jerry at length. "Why w-w-won't you?" Jerry felt himself flushing still more hotly from head to foot, partly at the smile he saw his father and mother exchange and partly at Celia Jane's importunity. "Because," he said. "I'll g-g-give you my silver ring if you will, Jerry." "No," said Jerry more firmly. "Why won't you, J-J-Jerry?" "Yes, Gary," interposed his father with a dancing, twinkling light in his eyes, "why can't you promise it to oblige the lady?" "'Cause," Jerry informed him gravely, "when I grow up I'm goin' to marry Kathleen." Jerry was somewhat dumfounded at the burst of laughter which followed his announcement. They did not know, he thought, that Kathleen had given him her old, adored rag dog of her own free will. "The darling!" cried Mother 'Larkey, after she had stopped laughing. "But there is plenty of time to change your mind yet." "Then you must be very kind to Kathleen, always," said Jerry's mother. "He has been," said Mrs. Mullarkey. Kathleen looked up at Jerry and gurgled. "Never mind, Celia Jane," consoled Nora. "He'll be in the family, anyway." Celia Jane was greatly cheered by that consolation and brightened visibly, much to Jerry's relief. She kissed him good-by, throwing both arms tightly about his neck in her impetuous fashion. It was with a sad and yet singing heart that Jerry followed his father and mother out to Sultana,--sad at leaving behind all that had made his life and his world the past three years, and singing at the thought of the new world and the new life he was about to enter into, with a father and mother of his very own, a circus twice a day, every day in the week but Sunday, and elephants to ride upon. [Illustration] [Transcriber's Note: All punctuation normalized.] 
21546	----	[Illustration: He jumped through a hoop covered with paper _Frontispiece. See page 92_] _Kneetime Animal Stories_ NERO THE CIRCUS LION HIS MANY ADVENTURES BY RICHARD BARNUM Author of "Squinty, the Comical Pig," "Mappo, the Merry Monkey," "Tum Tum, the Jolly Elephant," "Chunky, the Happy Hippo," "Sharp Eyes, the Silver Fox," etc. _ILLUSTRATED BY_ _WALTER S. ROGERS_ NEW YORK BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES By Richard Barnum Large 12mo. Illustrated. SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG. SLICKO, THE JUMPING SQUIRREL. MAPPO, THE MERRY MONKEY. TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT. DON, A RUNAWAY DOG. DIDO, THE DANCING BEAR. BLACKIE, A LOST CAT. FLOP EAR, THE FUNNY RABBIT. TINKLE, THE TRICK PONY. LIGHTFOOT, THE LEAPING GOAT. CHUNKY, THE HAPPY HIPPO. SHARP EYES, THE SILVER FOX. NERO, THE CIRCUS LION. TAMBA, THE TAME TIGER. BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers New York Copyright, 1919, by Barse & Hopkins _Nero, The Circus Lion_ VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I NERO HAS SOME FUN 7 II NERO GOES HUNTING 16 III NERO IS SHOT 27 IV NERO IN A CAVE 36 V NERO IN A TRAP 45 VI NERO IN A CIRCUS 55 VII NERO LEARNS SOME TRICKS 67 VIII NERO MEETS DON 75 IX NERO SCARES A BOY 87 X NERO RUNS AWAY 97 XI NERO AND BLACKIE 107 XII NERO AND THE TRAMP 113 ILLUSTRATIONS He jumped through a hoop covered with paper _Frontispiece_ PAGE Nero saw what he had thought was a log of wood open a big mouth 18 He licked the place where his paw hurt 38 Nero looked out through the bars of his cage 62 His keeper rode in the cage with him 82 Then the trainer put his head in the lion's mouth 100 Nero sat on his hind legs on the table 122 NERO, THE CIRCUS LION CHAPTER I NERO HAS SOME FUN Far off in the jungle of Africa lived a family of lions. Africa, you know, is a very hot country, and what we, in this land, would call a forest, or woods, is called a "jungle" there. In the jungle grew many trees, and the ground was covered with low vines and bushes so that animals, creeping along, could scarcely be seen. That was why the animals liked the jungle so much; they could roam about in it, play and get their meals, and the black hunters and the white huntsmen who sometimes came to the jungle, could not easily see to shoot the lions, elephants and other beasts. There were five lions in this jungle family, and I am going to tell you the story of one of them, named Nero. Nero was a little boy lion, about two years old, but please don't think he was a baby because he was only two years old. Lions grow much faster than boys and girls, and a lion of two years is quite large and strong, with sharp claws and sharper teeth. Nero lived with his father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Lion, and his brother Chet and his sister Boo, in a cave in the African jungle. The cave was among the rocks, and not far from a spring of water where the lions went to drink each night. They drank only at night because that was the safest time; the hunters could not so easily see the shaggy lions with their big heads, and manes larger than those of a horse. Nero was the largest of the three lion children, and he was called Nero because that always seems to be the right name for some one large and strong. Chet, who was Nero's brother, got his name because, when he was a little baby lion cub, he used to make that sound when he cried for his dinner. As for Boo--well, I must tell you in what a funny way she got her name, and then I'll go on with the story of Nero. When Boo, who was Nero's sister, was a little baby lion, she was sitting in the front of the jungle cave one day, waiting for her mother to come back. Mrs. Lion had gone out a little way into the jungle to get something to eat. All of a sudden Boo, who up to then had no name, heard some one coming along the jungle path, stepping on twigs and tree branches and making them crack. By this sound the little girl lion cub knew some one was coming. "That must be my mother," thought Boo. "I'll just hide behind this piece of rock, and then I'll jump out and make believe to scare her. It will be lots of fun." So Boo hid behind the rock near the front door of the cave-house, and, when the noise came nearer, the little girl lion jumped out and cried: "Boo!" or something that sounded very much like it. But the little girl lion had made a mistake. Instead of her mother who was coming along the jungle path, it was a big prickly hedgehog with sharp quills all over his back, and when Boo put out her paw she was stuck full of stickery quills. The quills in a hedgehog's back are loose, and come out easily. "Boo! Boo!" roared the little lion cub girl, but this time she was crying instead of trying to make believe scare some one. The hedgehog, however, was very much frightened--almost all the jungle animals were afraid of the lions--and this hedgehog ran away. But the little girl lion's paw hurt her very much, and when a little later, Mrs. Lion came back, with something to eat, and found out what had happened, she said Boo had been very foolish. And when Mr. Lion heard the story, and Nero and Chet had been told about it, they all said that "Boo" would be a very good name for the little sister lion. "I don't care what you call me," said Boo, speaking in lion talk of course. "I don't care what my name is, if you'll only get these hedgehog stickers out of my paw." Then they pulled the hedgehog spines out of the little girl lion's paw, and she washed it in cool water at the spring, which made her foot feel better. For two years the lion cubs, Nero, Chet and Boo, had lived with their father and mother in the jungle cave. They learned how to tread softly on the leaves and twigs of the jungle path, so as to make no noise. They learned how to creep quietly down to the spring at night to get a drink, so that the hunters would not hear them. All about them, in the jungle, lived other wild animals. There were several families of lions in that same part of the forest, and very often a herd of elephants would pass by, tramping and crashing their way through the jungle. The lions never bothered the elephants. "Where are you going, Nero?" asked his mother of the lion boy cub one day, as she saw him starting out from the jungle cave. "Where are you going?" "Oh, just out to have some fun," he answered. "I'm going to play with Switchie." "Switchie," was the name of another lion boy cub, who lived in the cave next to Nero's. He was about a year older than the lion chap about whom I am going to tell you in this story. Switchie was called that because he switched his tail about in such a funny way. "So you are going to play with Switchie, are you?" asked Mrs. Lion, as she looked at a place where a sharp stone had cut her foot, though the sore was now getting better. "Well, if you go to play with that lion boy don't get into mischief." "What's mischief, Ma?" asked Nero. "Mischief is trouble," his mother answered, speaking in lion talk, just as your dog or your cat speaks its own kind of language. "So don't get into trouble. Don't go to the spring now to get a drink, for the hunters may be watching, and may shoot you with an arrow, or with a queer lead stone, from a thing called a gun, which is worse. So don't get into mischief." "I won't," promised Nero, and he meant to keep his word, but then he didn't count on Switchie. That chap was a bold little lion cub, larger than Nero, and always up to some trick. "Hello, Nero!" growled Switchie, when he saw his friend coming along the jungle path. "Hello!" growled Nero. Now please don't imagine, just because these lions growled, that they were cross. They weren't anything of the sort. That was just their way of talking. Your dog barks and growls, and that is his way of speaking. Your cat mews and sometimes growls or "spits," and often purrs, especially when you tickle her ears. And a lion always growls when he talks. When he is angry he roars--that's the difference. And, I almost forgot, lions can purr, too, only it sounds like a buzz saw instead of the way your cat purrs. But then a lion's throat is very big, and so his purr has to be big also. "Want to have some fun?" asked Switchie, as Nero lay down in the jungle shade. "That's what I came over for," Nero answered. "Only my mother said I wasn't to get into any mischief." "Oh, no, we won't do anything like that!" replied Switchie. "We'll just go along in the jungle and have some fun. I know where there is some soft grass, and we can roll over and over in that and scratch our backs." "Fine!" said Nero. "We'll go there." So Switchie led the way along another jungle path to a place where very few trees grew. In the midst of these few trees was a grassy place. That is, it had been green and grassy once when it was raining, which it does for several months at a time in the jungle. But the rains had stopped, the hot sun had come out from behind the clouds and dried the grass up, so that it was now like hay. "And it's just fine to roll in. It scratches your back just hard enough," said Switchie, making his tail, with the tuft of hair on the end, swing about in a funny way. "I like to have my back scratched," said Nero. So the two boy lions went to have some fun and roll in the dried grass. It was just as if you had gone to roll and tumble on the hay in Grandpa's barn. The lion boys leaped about, jumped over one another, made believe bite one another and played tag with their paws. As Switchie had said, the dried, curled grass tickled their backs just enough when they rolled over and over in it. But at last Switchie said: "Say, aren't you thirsty?" "Yes," answered Nero, "I am." "Then let's go to the spring and get a drink," went on Switchie. "Oh no! My mother said I wasn't to go to the spring in the daytime!" exclaimed Nero. "There may be hunters there, waiting to shoot us." "Oh, I don't believe there are," said Switchie. "I'll tell you what we can do. My mother didn't tell me not to go to the spring, so I'll walk on ahead until we come to it. Then I can look and see if there are any hunters. If there aren't you can come out of the jungle and get a drink. Won't that be all right?" "Yes, I guess it will," said Nero. "Mother wouldn't want me not to have a drink. All she's afraid of are the hunters." "Then come on!" growled Switchie. "We'll go to the spring, and we'll have some fun on the way." So the two boy lions walked along the jungle path to the spring where all the animals drank. On the way they fell down and rolled over and cuffed one another with their paws--the way all lions do to have fun. Nero was having a very good time, and he never gave a thought about not minding his mother. At last Switchie and Nero came close to the spring. "Now you stay behind this bush until I look out and see if there are any hunters," said Switchie. "All right," answered Nero. Carefully the older lion boy peeped through the bushes. There was no one at the spring except some little monkeys, getting a drink, and as soon as they saw the lion boy away they scampered, chattering, for the monkeys were afraid of the lions. "Everything is all right!" called Switchie to the hiding Nero. "There are no hunters! Come on and get a drink." Nero was very thirsty, after having played and had fun in the hot jungle sun, and he very much wanted a drink. So he rushed down to the spring, which was quite a large one, and began to lap up the water, just as your dog or cat drinks milk from a dish. "Isn't this fun?" growled Switchie, as he stopped drinking for a moment. "Aren't we having fun, Nero?" "Lots of fun!" answered the other lion cub. And just then something happened. There was a rattle of the dried leaves in the jungle back of the spring. Something very hard hit Nero in the side, and a voice cried: "There! I'll teach you to drink from my edge of the spring! Take that!" And the next moment Nero felt himself sliding down the slippery bank of the spring, and into the water he went with a big splash! CHAPTER II NERO GOES HUNTING The first thought of Nero, the little lion cub boy, as he felt himself falling into the spring of water, was that Switchie had played a joke and pushed him in. "And when I get out I'll push _him_ in," thought Nero. But that was all he had time to think, just then, for his head went away under the water--as the spring was deep--and Nero had to think of getting out. So he splashed and scrambled his way to shore, clawing and spluttering and half choking, for lions are not good swimmers. Indeed few animals of the cat family are, and lions belong to the cat family, you know, as do tigers and jaguars. So, with his eyes and nose and mouth full of water, Nero scrambled to shore, a very wet and bedraggled lion boy indeed. On the shore he saw Switchie standing looking at him. Switchie was nice and dry. "What did you do that for?" growled Nero to Switchie, as soon as our friend had shaken some of the water off his shaggy, tawny-yellow coat. "I'll fix you for that! Fun is all right, but you know I don't like jumping into the water, however much I like a drink from the spring. Now I'm going to push you in!" and Nero started to run toward Switchie. "Hey! Wait a minute!" cried Switchie, raising his paw to push Nero away if the younger lion cub should come too near. "I didn't do anything to you." "Yes, you did!" growled Nero. "You pushed me into the water!" "No, I didn't!" answered Switchie. "I was taking my second drink, when I heard a noise, and I looked up and saw you sliding down into the water. But I didn't push you in." "Who did, then?" asked Nero, looking around, quite fiercely for a little lion boy. "Who did? If I find out, I'll push him in! If it was one of the monkeys--" "Oh, it wasn't any of them," said Switchie quickly. "They won't come near the spring when we lions are drinking." "But it was some one!" said Nero. "I heard some one say I couldn't drink on his edge of the spring, and then I was pushed in. Who did it? I want to know that!" "I did it!" said a grumbling sort of voice, and up out of the spring came something which, at first, looked like a log of wood. It was dark, and had knobs, or warts, on it, as has the trunk of a tree. "Who--who are you?" asked Nero, in surprise. "Are you a log of wood that can speak?" "Look out! Gracious no! That's a crocodile!" cried Switchie. "I forgot about their being here. Come on! Run!" And as Nero saw what he had thought was a log of wood open a big mouth with many sharp teeth in it, the little lion boy ran after Switchie, who scampered off along the jungle path as fast as he could go. "What's the matter? What was that thing which looked like a log floating in the water?" asked Nero, when he and Switchie stopped to rest in the shadow of a big tree. "That's a crocodile, I told you!" said Switchie. "They are very big and strong, and if they get hold of your soft and tender nose, when you are drinking at the pool, they can pull you under water and drown you. You want to be careful about crocodiles." "Well, I will," said Nero. "Only I didn't know about them before. Was it the crocodile who knocked me into the water?" "Yes," answered Switchie, "it was. A crocodile has a long and very strong tail, with knobs and sharp ridges on it. They can knock you into the water with their tail, and then they bite you. I didn't know there were crocodiles at our spring, or I wouldn't have gone there in the daytime for a drink. At night it's all right, for then they can't see you so plainly." [Illustration: Nero saw what he had thought was a log of wood open a big mouth. _Page 18_] "Well, this one saw me all right," said Nero. "My side is sore where he knocked me into the spring." "It's lucky your nose isn't sore where he might have bitten you," growled Switchie. "That was a mean crocodile! We had just as good right to drink on that side of the spring-pool as he had!" "Well, maybe we had," said Nero. "But he was stronger than I, and so he knocked me in. Now I'm all wet!" And so Nero learned one of the first lessons of the jungle, that it is the strongest and fiercest animals that have the best of it. The elephants of the jungle, which are the largest animals, crash their way through, afraid of nothing except the men hunters. And the lions, when the elephants are not near, are the real kings of the jungle. Few animals stay to drink at the spring when the lion roars, to say he is coming. But this was in daylight and Switchie and Nero were only lion cubs, so, I suppose, the crocodile was not afraid of them. And, being big and strong, he just knocked Nero into the water, and claimed that as his side of the pool, though he had no right to. "Come on," said Switchie to Nero, after they had gone a little way further through the jungle and back from the spring. "Come on; I know how we can have some more fun." "No, I've had enough for to-day," said Nero. "I'm going home and lie down in the cave. My side hurts where the crocodile struck me with his tail." "Oh, come on! Play tag!" begged Switchie. "No," said Nero. "I'm going home." And home he went. As soon as his mother saw him, wet and muddy as he still was, Mrs. Lion said: "Well, Nero, what happened to you? Did you get into mischief?" "I don't know, Ma," answered Nero. "But I got in the spring!" "There! I told you to keep away from the water hole in the daytime!" said Mrs. Lion. "I knew something would happen if you played with that Switchie. That lion cub will get into trouble some day. He is too bold!" "A crocodile knocked me into the water," explained Nero. "It wasn't Switchie's fault." "It was the fault of both you lion boys for going where you ought not to," said Nero's mother. "Now you see what happened. But I'm sorry your side is hurt. Go into the cave and lie down. I'll bring you a nice piece of goat meat to eat, and get some soft grass to make you a bed. You'll be all right in a few days, but after this--mind me!" "I will," promised Nero. The soft grass, which his mother pawed into a bed for him with her sharp claws, felt very comfortable to his sore side. And the goat's meat, which lions eat when they can get it, tasted very good. Nero soon became dry and then he went to sleep. When he awakened his brother Chet and his sister Boo were in the cave looking at him. "Mother says you got into mischief!" exclaimed Boo. "Tell us all about it, Nero." So Nero did, and when his story was ended Chet said enviously: "I wish I had been there. If I had, I'd have scratched that crocodile with my claws!" "You couldn't have hurt him that way," said Mr. Lion, who came into the cave just then. "Crocodiles have a very hard, thick skin on their backs and tails, much harder and thicker than our skin, and even that of an elephant. You can't hurt a crocodile by scratching his back. The only way to hurt them is to turn them over, and while you are trying to do that they'll knock you about with the big tail. So keep away from the crocodiles, children." "I will," said Nero, and Boo and Chet said the same thing. "Now hurry and get well," said Nero's father to him, as the lion boy lay in the cave. "You are growing large and strong, and soon you will have to learn to go hunting." "What's hunting?" asked Nero. "It is learning how to get your own things to eat," said his father. "When you were little, your mother and I hunted the goats and other animals that we have to eat. But now you are getting big enough to go hunting for yourself. Only I must give you a few lessons." "Can't I learn to hunt, too?" asked Chet. "And I?" Boo wanted to know. "Yes," said their father. "After I teach Nero I'll teach you. One at a time. The jungle is full of danger, and I can teach only one of you at a time how to be careful. So get good and well and strong, Nero, and soon I'll take you on a hunt." Nero thought he would like this, so he stayed quietly in the cave for a day or two, until his side, where the crocodile had struck him with the sharp-ridged tail, felt much better. One day, about a week after Nero had been tossed into the spring, he noticed his father sharpening his claws on the bark of a tree. "What's he doing that for?" Nero asked his mother. "To get ready for the jungle hunt to-night," answered Mrs. Lion. "I heard him say something about taking you, so perhaps you had better sharpen your claws, also." "I will," answered Nero, and he did, making the bits of bark fly as he pulled it from a tree in the jungle, not far from the cave where he lived. When it began to get dark, which it does very early in the big African forest, as the thick trees shut out the light of the sun, Nero said to his mother: "Aren't we going to have any supper?" "Not to-night--that is, not right away," said Mr. Lion. "You are going to hunt for your supper, Nero." "But I am very hungry," returned the little lion boy, who was growing bigger and stronger every day. "Then you will hunt all the better," growled his father. "There is nothing like being hungry to make a good hunter-lion. Come, now is the time I have long waited for--to teach you to hunt in the jungle. Your mother and Chet and Boo are going to have supper with Switchie and his folks. You and I are going to hunt for ourselves. Come, we will go into a part of the jungle where you have never yet been." And Nero felt very much excited when he heard his father say this. The lion cub felt brave and strong, and he knew that his teeth and claws were very sharp. Suddenly, through the jungle, which was now quite dark, there came a distant sound as if of thunder. There was a rumble and a roar, and the very ground seemed to shake. "What's that?" asked Nero, looking at his father. CHAPTER III NERO IS SHOT Once again, as Nero stood with Mr. Lion at the front door of the jungle cave, the roaring sound echoed among the trees. "What is that?" asked the boy lion once more. "That is the roaring of other lions, who are also going out to hunt to-night," said Nero's father. "There will be many of us lions in the jungle; perhaps others, like you, who are going out for the first time. You must be brave and strong. Remember the lessons your mother and I have taught you. Crouch down and jump hard. Strike hard with your paws and dig deep with your sharp claws. That is what they are for--to help you hunt so that you may get things to eat. Now we will start." By this time the jungle around the cave where Nero lived seemed filled with the roarings of other lions. The very ground seemed to tremble. Nero was excited, but he was sure he could hunt well. He was a brave lion, and he knew he was strong and nearly full grown now, and he knew his teeth were sharp, as were his claws, and his paws were strong, both for striking and leaping, for that is how a lion hunts. "Boom! Boom!" rolled out the lions' roars in the jungle. "Ah, we shall have a grand hunt to-night!" said Nero's father. "I hope you are still hungry." "Yes I am, very," answered the boy lion. "That is good," returned the father. "Now we will start. At first stay close to me, but when you see a goat or a sheep or some other animal you think you would like to eat, spring on it and strike it with your claws." Of course this sounds cruel, but lions must get their food this way; there is no other. Suddenly Nero opened his mouth and gave a great roar, the loudest he had ever uttered. It shook the ground on which he stood. The trembling of the earth seemed to tickle the pads of skin and flesh of his paws, pads which were the same to him as your shoes are to you. "Ha, that was a fine roar, Nero!" said his father. "Roar again!" And Nero did, louder than at first. "That's the way!" cried Mr. Lion. "That will tell the other jungle folk to keep out of our way when we are having a night-hunt." And that, I suppose, is why lions roar. They do it to frighten away the other animals who might spoil their hunt in the jungle. For the lion's voice, when he roars, is frightfully loud. There is no other animal who can make so much noise--not even the elephant, which is larger than ten lions. If you have ever heard a lion roar, even in his circus cage, or in a city park, you will never forget it. And so Nero roared, and his father roared, and the other lions, all about them in the jungle, roared until there was a regular lion chorus, and the other beasts, hearing it, slunk back to their dens or caves, or crouched under fallen trees, and one after another said to himself: "The lions are out hunting to-night. It is best for us to stay in until they have finished. Then it will be our turn." And so you see how it is that the strength of a lion makes the other animals afraid when the big animals hunt. Elephants do not need to fear lions, for the big animals, with trunks and tusks, do not eat the same kind of food lions eat. Elephants live on grass, hay, palm-nuts and things that grow. But the lion eats only meat, and he would eat an elephant if he could get one, though it might take him a long while. "Now for the hunt!" said Mr. Lion, as he led Nero into the jungle. "Tread softly. Sniff with your nose until you smell something worth hunting, and then spring on it." Though lions, like cats, can see pretty well in the dark, they have to depend a great deal in their hunting on what they can smell with their nose, just as your dog can smell a bone, and tell, in that way, where he has buried it in the garden. So Nero and his father joined the other lions on their march through the jungle in search of something to eat. And Nero kept getting hungrier and hungrier, so that he looked eagerly around every side of him in the darkness, and sniffed so that he might know when he came near anything he could kill and eat. The other lions were doing the same thing. They did not roar now, but went quietly, slinking through the jungle as quietly as your cat creeps through the grass when she is trying to catch a sparrow. The lions had done enough roaring to scare away other animals who might bother them in their hunt. Now they did not roar any longer, for they did not want to scare away the smaller beasts which were food for them in their hunger. "I'm going to leave you for a while now, Nero," said Mr. Lion, after a bit. "You will have to get along by yourself. But don't forget the lessons your mother and I taught you." "Where are you going?" asked Nero. "I am going to the front, to march along with the older men lions," said Nero's father. "We are going to lead you young lions where there will be good hunting." "I shall like that," growled Nero, and he sprang on a tree trunk as he passed, and dug deep into the soft bark. "Hi! Quit that! You're scattering bark in my eyes!" said a voice behind Nero. It was not a loud voice, for one has to be quiet when hunting in the jungle. "Who's there?" asked Nero, thinking for a moment it might be the crocodile who had tossed him into the jungle pool. "It is I--Switchie," was the answer. "Oh, are you hunting, too?" asked Nero, glad to find that he knew some one among the lions besides his father. "Have you killed anything yet?" "No, not yet. But I shall pretty soon," answered Switchie. "This isn't my first hunt. I've been out at night before." "Isn't it great!" said Nero. "I hope I can kill a big buffalo. That would make a fine meal!" "Yes, I should say it would!" exclaimed Switchie. "But you had better leave the buffaloes to your father and the other big men lions. They always take them. It takes a big lion to catch a buffalo, and even then sometimes the buffaloes kill a lion." "How?" asked Nero. "With their sharp horns," answered Switchie. "Buffaloes have terribly sharp horns. Better look out for them. Better stick to the goats and the sheep, or even a rabbit, until you learn more about hunting. As for me, I am old enough now to try for a buffalo, I think. So if you see one, tell me, and I'll kill it and give you some." "Well, I guess I'm nearly as big and strong as you," growled Nero. "If I see a buffalo I'll jump on his back, and strike him with my paw." "All right. But if you get hurt don't say I didn't tell you to be careful," warned Switchie. "Now come on! We must hurry or we shall be left behind. Ho for the jungle hunt!" The two boy lions hurried on after the others. Ahead of them they could hear, faintly, the tread of the older beasts as they walked along, looking for something to strike and kill, to stop the terrible hunger. The lions only went on a hunt when they wanted something to eat. They did not kill for fun. It was their way of getting a living. Suddenly, up in front, there sounded a crash among the tangled vines, bushes and trees of the jungle. Then came a roar, but not a very loud one. "What's that?" asked Nero of Switchie. "Oh, that isn't any thing. Don't be afraid," answered the other lion. "I'm not afraid!" said Nero. "Only, I want to learn things. I never hunted in the jungle at night before, and I don't know so much about it as you do. What was that noise?" "Oh," said Switchie, easily, "that, I suppose, was my father, or yours, killing some big animal. Maybe it was a buffalo. We'll soon find out." And the two boy lions did. As they came to an open place in the jungle they saw Nero's father and that of Switchie crouching near something big and black lying on the ground. Off to one side was a lion, licking, with his big red tongue, a sore place on his leg. "What happened?" asked Nero quickly, of his father. "We killed a buffalo, Cruncher and I," said Mr. Lion, as he nodded toward Switchie's father, whose name was Cruncher. "We killed a buffalo, but my cousin, Chaw, is hurt. The buffalo stuck him with one of his horns. Then I struck down the buffalo. Here, Nero, is a bit of meat for you, and, Switchie, you may have some. But not much. This meat belongs to Cruncher and me. We will give you a little, but, if you want any more, you must hunt for yourselves. I fed you when you were a little baby lion, Nero, but now that you are big you must learn to feed and hunt for yourself." And this, too, is the law of the jungle. Switchie and Nero eagerly ate the bits of meat the older lions gave them, and then the hunt went on. Nero was still very hungry, and so was Switchie, and pretty soon Nero saw a small animal creeping along through the jungle. "Ah, you are trying to get away from me!" thought Nero, who had gone to one side, and away from the others. "But I'll get you!" Then he stalked, or crept softly after, the animal, which was a big rabbit, and, all of a sudden, Nero leaped and caught the smaller beast. "At last I have hunted for myself!" thought Nero, as he ate his meal. "This is great! But it is not enough. I must have more!" He went farther on in the jungle, and, all at once, he heard a goat bleating. "Baa-a-a-a! Baa!" bleated the goat. "Ha! There is something else I can catch for my supper!" thought Nero. "I am getting to be quite a hunter!" By this time he was far off from his father and the other lions. But he did not mind that. He felt sure he could find his way back when he needed to. "But first I'll catch that goat," said Nero. Carefully he stalked through the jungle, coming nearer and nearer to where he could hear the goat bleating. At last, in an open place in the jungle, where the moon shone brightly, Nero saw the goat, a white one. It seemed caught fast in a vine, and could not move. "Ah, I can easily get this fellow!" thought the boy lion. He crouched for a spring, and was just going to leap through the air and on the back of the goat when, suddenly, there was a loud sound, like a small clap of thunder, and at once Nero felt a sharp pain in one paw. He rolled over and over, howling and roaring in pain and anger. At the same time a man hidden on a platform built up in a tree, cried out: "Oh, I have shot a lion! I have shot a lion!" CHAPTER IV NERO IN A CAVE Now while the hunter, hidden on a platform in a tree in the jungle, was shouting about having shot a lion, Nero was doing some shouting of another sort. To tell the truth, he was howling and roaring, just as, sometimes, when you step on the puppy's tail, by mistake, of course, the puppy howls. Nero was howling and roaring with pain. "Oh, what has happened? What is the matter?" cried Nero, in lion talk, of course, as he rolled over and over on the dried leaves of the jungle. "What a terrible pain in my paw! Oh, I wonder if the goat did this! If he did--" Nero stopped his howling long enough to try to stand up and look through the jungle trees to where he had first seen the goat. There the bleating animal was. It had not moved. "Surely that goat couldn't have given me the pain in my paw," said Nero, between his howls. "I wonder what the goat means by staying in one place so long, especially when it must know we lions are out on a night-hunt. And what gave me the pain in my foot, and what made the loud noise?" As Nero roared, so the other hunting lions roared. Switchie and the smaller lions, like Nero, could not roar very loudly, but Nero's father, and the other full-grown beasts made the very ground tremble with their rumblings. At the same time there were other jungle cries from other animals. The monkeys, who had been sleeping in the tree-tops, began to chatter and scold, as they swung to and fro. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" asked one gray-haired monkey, who must have been very old. "What's all the noise about? It reminds me of the time a monkey named Mappo, who once visited here, had the toothache one night and howled until morning. Some of you monkeys howl just like Mappo did, though he was a merry chap most of the time." "Where is Mappo now?" asked a small baboon, which is another kind of monkey. "Oh," replied the gray-haired chap, "Mappo went to a far country on a trip, and had many wonderful adventures. He joined a circus, and was put in a book." "The lions are on a night-hunt," said a middle-sized monkey, who climbed down a tree to take a look. "The lions are hunting, and one of them seems to be hurt, by the way he howls." "Very likely," said the old monkey. "I thought I heard a gun. That means hunters are about. I saw some of them in the jungle to-day, but I kept out of sight. Well, if hunters are hunting and lions are hunting, we monkeys had better stay up in the trees." And the monkeys did. But of course that did not make the pain in Nero's foot any better. The lion boy howled and roared by turns, and with his big, rough, red tongue, he licked the place where his paw hurt. That is the only way lions have of making well their sore places; by licking them with their tongues or letting cold water run on the hurt place. But just then there was no water where Nero could get it. "What's the matter with you, Nero?" roared the voice of Mr. Lion through the black jungle. "What are you howling about?" "Oh, I'm hurt!" said the lion boy. "I saw a goat and tried to jump on it. Then I heard some little thunder, and my paw hurt and the goat is still there." "Ha! That was a trap!" cried Mr. Lion. "That goat was tied there to a tree by a rope, so he would bleat and make you come closer. Then a hunter, hidden in a tree, must have shot you." And this is exactly what had happened. The hunter knew that a lion would come close to try to catch the tied goat, when it bleated, and the man waited. [Illustration: He licked the place where his paw hurt. _Page 38_] Then, when the man, hiding on a platform built in a tree, saw Nero, as the moon shone now and then, he fired his big rifle. But he did not kill a lion, as he thought. He only made Nero lame in one paw, and as the lion boy rolled away as quickly as he could the man lost sight of him. And though he and some other hunters who were with him tried later to find Nero, they could not. He had run away; and I will tell you how he did it. "Come, lions!" called Nero's father to the hunting band, when Nero had told what had happened to him. "Come, we must not hunt here any longer. If one hunter shot Nero, other hunters may shoot at us. We had better hunt somewhere else. Come, we will run away. The jungle is big enough for us to hide from the hunters. But, before we go, we will give a loud roar so the hunters will know we are not afraid. All ready now, my brothers. Roar! Roar! Roar!" And how those lions roared! You could have heard them a mile away, for they all roared at once, and the ground fairly trembled. Even Nero, hurt as he was, helped in the roaring. "Come on now, Nero! Follow us!" called Mr. Lion to the boy cub who was shot. "You will have to run on three legs, but you have done that before. You did it once when you got a big thorn in your paw. Come along, follow us and we will hunt in another part of the jungle." So the lion band turned away from the place where the goat was tied and where the hunters were hidden, and Nero followed. But it was not easy for the cub lion, and soon he began to limp and fall behind. "What's the matter?" asked Switchie, as he saw that his chum was not keeping up with the rest. "Can't you run along faster?" "No, I can't," answered Nero. "And I guess you couldn't either, on only three legs." "Well, maybe I couldn't," replied Switchie. "I'm sorry you were shot, Nero. I'll stay behind and walk with you. Then you won't be lonesome." "Thank you," answered Nero, using lion talk, of course. So Switchie stayed behind with Nero, going slowly, as the wounded lion had to go. But soon the others--the big and little lions who were not hurt began to get far ahead. "Come on, Nero! Come on!" they roared. "And you too, Switchie! Come along here! Hurry up!" "I'll just run on ahead and see what they want," said Switchie to Nero. "I'll tell them you can't go fast, and that they must wait for us. I'll run up ahead and tell them this, and then come back here to you." "All right, thank you, I wish you would," growled Nero, and he did not feel very happy, for his paw hurt him very much. "I'll wait here for you," he said, as he sat down on a pile of leaves. So Switchie ran on ahead to tell the others. But while he was gone something happened that changed Nero's whole life, and really was the cause of his going to a circus. I'll tell you about it. As Nero sat on the pile of leaves, waiting for his friend Switchie to come back, he suddenly heard a noise in the jungle behind him. He saw some lights flashing and he heard the sound of talk. It was the voices of men--the same sort of voice that had shouted: "I have shot a lion!" Nero pricked up his ears and listened as hard as he could. "Those are hunters!" said the boy lion to himself. "They are coming after me! I must run away and hide! I can't wait for Switchie to come back! I must hide!" As I have said, the moon now and then shone in the jungle, making it light enough for men to see to shoot. But the lights Nero saw flashing were not moonbeams. They came from lanterns carried by the hunters. "Here is a mark where a lion has been!" cried one hunter, flashing his light. "This must be the one I shot! Come on, we'll get him yet!" And these were the voices Nero heard. The wounded lion boy did not wait any longer. Up he sprang, and, running on three legs, and making no noise, off through the dark jungle he hurried. His only idea was to get away and hide. Suddenly Nero saw a blacker patch in the half darkness. He knew at once what it was. It was the opening, or front door, of a cave. "It isn't the cave where I live," thought the lion boy, "but it will do very well for me to hide in." So Nero crawled into the cave with his sore paw, and lay down on some dried grass, as far back as he could get. And the hunters, with their guns and lanterns, came on through the jungle, looking for a lion to kill. CHAPTER V NERO IN A TRAP Tramp, tramp, tramp came the hunters through the jungle, flashing their lights and looking for the lion which one of them had shot while the hunter was hidden on the platform in a tree. But Nero, cowering away back in the dark cave, kept very still and quiet, and he heard the hunters walk right past his hiding place. "Good!" thought the boy lion. "They haven't found me! I'm all right so far; but I wonder how long I will have to stay here, and what the other lions will do." Poor Nero felt sick and in pain, and he was lonesome. It's as bad, I think, for a jungle lion to be this way as it would be for your dog. But still Nero did not dare come out of the cave for fear of the hunters. "I'll just have to stay here," thought Nero, "until it's safe to come out. Guess I might as well go to sleep." So Nero curled up on the dried grass in the cave. He knew some other lion once must have used the same cave for a sleeping place, as the grass bed was made up just as Nero's was in the home cave. "It's a good thing I found this place," thought Nero. "But I wish my father and mother and Chet and Boo were here with me. Yes, and I even wish Switchie were here. I wonder what he is doing!" And so, wondering, Nero fell asleep in the jungle cave. How long he slept he did not know, for it was as dark as night in the cavern, no matter whether or not the sun shone outside, and Nero was far back from the front door of the cave. When Nero awakened he tried to stand up and walk. But the moment he put his sore paw down on the stone floor of the cave, he felt such a pain that he let out a howl and then a roar. But as soon as he had done this he knew he had better keep quiet. "For the hunters may be around the cave yet, outside, and may hear me," thought Nero. "But, oh, how my foot hurts!" And indeed it did, for it was all swelled up because of the bullet that had gone in from the hunter's gun. Nero could not step on his paw, and he had to limp around on three legs. "I can't go out of the cave while I'm this way," he thought. "I could not run very fast through the jungle, and if the hunters were to see me, lame as I am, they surely would catch me." Nero knew something about the hunters in the African jungle, for he had often heard his father and the other lions talk about the men with guns. Some of the older lions had even been shot at, and one or two of them had scars on them, to show where the bullets had gone in. But the shot places had healed. And among the stories the older lions told when they came to the cave where Nero lived, were tales of lion friends who had gone out on jungle hunts and had never returned. "What happened to them?" Nero asked one day. "Oh, I suppose some of them were killed dead by a gun," said old Bounder, a toothless lion who could chew only soft scraps of meat. "Others must have been caught in traps and taken away." And Nero thought of this talk as he licked his sore paw in the jungle cave. What had happened to him was exactly like what had happened to some of the lions Bounder used to know. "But I am still here," thought Nero; "and when my father or Switchie comes to find me they will know what has happened to me. But I wish they would hurry!" Nero hopped on three legs about the cave. He was very thirsty, as all animals are after a meal and a sleep, and, besides, he was hot and feverish from his hurt paw. He wanted a drink very much. Now, when a wild animal wants a drink of water he does not do as you boys and girls can do--go to a faucet or the pump and get a drink. Lions in the jungle can't get water whenever they want it, and the only way they have of telling where some may be--that is unless they live near a spring or a pool--is by smelling. And so Nero began sniffing to see if he could smell water in the cave, as he knew he dared not go outside. And pretty soon, to his delight, he caught the sweet smell of a spring. He walked in the direction from which the smell came, and soon he heard the trickle of water. And, a little later, he came to a small spring in the far end of the cave. There was a little pool of water, and Nero took a big drink. Then he let some of the cool water run on his paw, and this made the hurt place feel better. Nero's foot was so sore that he could not go out of the cave for two days, for it was all he could do to limp around in the cavern and get drinks of water. He dared not go outside. And in these two days he became very hungry, so that at last he felt that he must go out and see if he could not find some meat to eat. Very carefully he poked his head outside the cave. The sun was shining brightly in the jungle, and it was nice and warm. Nero looked this way and that for a sign of a hunter, but he saw none. Then, a little distance off, he saw a small animal eating some leaves. "There is my dinner if I can only get it," said Nero to himself. "I must try and see how much of a hunter I shall make on three legs." Carefully, as he had been taught by his father and mother, and as he had done on the night of the big hunt when he had been hurt, Nero began to creep toward the small animal. And he caught it, too, in spite of his sore paw. "Now I feel better!" said Nero, after his meal. "I think it will be all right to stay out of the cave for a while. I can get along better than at first, and the hunters do not seem to be around here. I'll go to the home cave now, and I'll have a great story to tell the others." But Nero was not going to find it as easy to get home through the jungle as he had hoped. In the first place, he did not know his way, and, in the second place, he had to go very slowly. For his paw, though it was getting better, was not well yet, and sometimes, when he knocked it against a stone or a tree, it pained him so that he would have to sit down and rumble and roar and howl. But he did not howl very loudly, for this might have brought the hunters, who, he feared, might try to shoot him again. As I have said, Nero did not know his way back home through the jungle. It had been dark when he started out with his father on the night-hunt, and he had not noticed the way they had slunk along. Then, too, Nero expected his father would be with him to show him the way back. But something had happened, as you know, to make everything different. And when Nero ran away from the hunters, and hid in the cave, he had gone farther and farther away from his own folks and home, though, at the time, he did not know it. "If only I can get back to my own cave I'll be all right," thought the lion boy. "I must try as hard as I can to find my cave. And how I do wish I could see my father and mother, and Boo and Chet!" So Nero wandered to and fro in the jungle, now and then stopping to drink from a pool or a spring, and when he was hungry he hunted small animals, that he could easily catch. He did not dare to go after big animals when his paw was so sore. "If I should see a buffalo now, I'd have to run away from him," thought Nero. "But when I get well, and bigger and stronger, I'll jump on a buffalo's back, just as my father did!" So Nero wandered on and on in the jungle, but he did not find the home cave for which he was looking. Here and there wandered the boy lion, always hoping that he might find some animal path that would lead him home. But he did not. Day after day passed, and Nero was no nearer home than at first. Then he began to know what had happened. "I am lost!" he thought. "I have lost my way. I must ask some of the jungle animals how to get home." But this was not easy. Most of the jungle animals were afraid of the lion, though he was not yet full grown, and when he roared at them, to ask where his cave was, they thought he was trying to scare them or catch them, and they ran away. The larger animals, like the elephants, who went about in herds, and who were not afraid of one lion who was all alone, did not bother to answer Nero, or else they said they knew nothing of his home. "Do you know where I live?" asked poor, lost Nero of the monkeys he saw hopping about in the trees. "Where is my home cave? And where are Boo and Chet?" "We don't know," answered the monkeys. "All we know is that we sit in the trees and eat coconuts when we can get them. We never saw your cave, and, besides, we don't like lions, anyhow." Poor Nero did not know what to do, so he wandered on, eating when he could, and drinking when he came to a pool or a spring. "If I could only meet some other lions one of them would take me home," he thought. But the part of the jungle where Nero now was did not seem to have any lions in it except himself. By this time his paw was nearly well, and he could run about almost as fast as at first. Once Nero came to a spring when he was very thirsty, and, as he was drinking, having driven away a lot of monkeys who were taking up the water in their paws and sipping it, all at once he felt himself knocked over as he had been knocked by the crocodile that time. "Here! Who's doing that?" asked Nero, as he got up from the dust, where he had been knocked. "Who did that?" "I did!" answered a loud voice, and, looking toward the spring, Nero saw an animal the color of an elephant, but not half as large. And on the end of his nose, or snout, the animal had two sharp horns, not as long, though, as the tusks of an elephant. "Oh, so you knocked me away from the spring, did you?" asked Nero. "Yes, I did," was the answer. "Don't you know better than to drink before me?" "Who are you?" asked Nero. "I am the two-horned rhinoceros," was the answer. "And the only jungle folk who can drink with me, or before me, are the elephants. A hippopotamus can, too, as a hippo, which is his short name, is a friend of mine. But, as they live in the water nearly all the time, they don't have to come to a jungle pool to drink. I had a friend once, named Chunky. He was a happy hippo, and he and I used to drink together." "What became of him?" asked Nero. He was not angry with the rhinoceros for having knocked him away from the water. That was the law of the jungle, just as Nero had driven away the monkeys. "What became of Chunky? Oh, he ran away and joined a circus, I believe," answered the rhinoceros. "What's a circus?" Nero wanted to know. "Oh, please don't bother me," replied the two-horned animal. "I am too thirsty to talk," and he drank a lot of water. Then, when he went away, it was Nero's turn. And after the lion had quenched his thirst he thought of asking the rhinoceros the way to the lost cave. But the rhinoceros was gone. "I guess I'll have to find my own way home," thought poor Nero, as he wandered on and on in the jungle. Several weeks passed, and though Nero grew bigger and stronger, he was still a lion cub. And he was very lonesome and homesick, because he could not find his cave. Then, one day, something happened--something very important. Nero was very hungry, not having been able to get anything to eat for a long time, when, all at once, he smelled something good. It was meat--just what he wanted--and, looking along a jungle path used by wild animals, he saw, lying on a pile of leaves, a chunk of goat flesh. "Ah, there is a meal for me!" thought Nero, and then, his paw being well again, he gave a spring, and landed right on the meat. But something very strange happened. Nero suddenly felt himself falling down. Down and down he went, into a big hole, and the meat and the pile of leaves went with him. Down into a black pit fell Nero, and, as he toppled in, a black African man shouted: "Ha! The lion is in the trap! The lion is in my trap!" CHAPTER VI NERO IN A CIRCUS Nero did not know what had happened to him, except that he had fallen down into a big hole dug in the earth. He did not know what the black African man said about being in a "trap," for though Nero could understand lion talk, he did not yet know much about the talk of men. Later on he was to learn a little about that. Just now he was frightened and hurt, for when he fell down the hole he had struck his paw that had the bullet in it, and, though the sore was healed, it still pained a bit at times. "I wonder what can have happened to me," thought Nero, as he tumbled and twisted about on the bottom of the pit, which was partly filled with dried leaves. "I wonder what this is, anyhow!" More than once, when a very little lion boy and out walking along the jungle paths with his father and mother, Nero had fallen into a mud puddle or other hole, because he had not yet learned to walk steadily and carefully. But at such times he had easily scrambled out of the hole, or his mother had helped him. Now Mrs. Lion was not here to do this, and, try as he did, Nero could not get out of this hole. It was too deep, and the sides were too straight. Nero tried hard enough, jumping up and clawing at the dirt, some of which got into his eyes, but jump though he did, and roar though he did, he could not get out. Up on top, at the edge of the hole, the black African man was jumping about, waving his hands, in one of which was a long, sharp spear, and the African was shouting: "I have caught a lion! I have a lion in my hole-trap! Whoop-la!" Of course Nero did not know what all this meant. All he knew was that a man had something to do with his trouble. "Maybe that is the hunter man who shot me," thought Nero; "and now he has caught me because I ran away from him and hid in the cave. Well, he has caught me at last, unless I can get out of this hole." But Nero was wrong. This was not the same man who had shot him. This was another man, a trapper of wild animals, and he had dug a deep hole along a jungle path where he knew lions and other animals would walk. Then he covered the hole with little sticks and leaves, so they would easily break if a big animal, like Nero, jumped on them. And that is just what Nero had done. He saw the piece of meat on the ground, and jumped straight for it. But he landed in the middle of the sticks and leaves, and fell into the hole. That is how Nero was caught, and he did not like it at all. He wanted to be loose, to roam through the jungle as he liked. He wanted to try to find his father and his mother and Chet and Boo. But they were far away. And, while I think of it, I might tell you that for a long time after Nero was lost, that night of the hunt, Mr. Lion looked everywhere for the boy lion. But Nero could not be found, and his father and mother and the other lions thought he had been killed by the hunters. They never saw him again, and, for a time, felt very sad. But so many things happened in the jungle that Mr. and Mrs. Lion soon forgot Nero. That's the way with animals. They are not like us. And so it was that Nero's father and mother never really knew what happened to him. They might find out if they could read this book, but that, of course, can't be done. Now we'll get back to Nero. There he was in the bottom of a big hole, and up at the top was the black African trapper looking down on him. Pretty soon other hunters and trappers came to see the lion that had been caught alive. "He's a fine big fellow, Chaki," said one black man to the trapper who had been so pleased when Nero was caught. "What are you going to do with him?" "Oh, I am going to sell him to a white animal man who comes from across the sea in a big boat called a ship," answered Chaki, the trapper. "And what will the white animal man do with a live lion?" "He buys him to sell to a circus," answered Chaki. "And what is a circus?" asked the other black man. "I don't know," answered Chaki, "except that far across the ocean white people like to pay money to look at wild animals such as we have in our jungle. That's all I know about a circus. The white animal man told me that." "Ha! A circus!" laughed the other black man. "And people pay money to look at wild animals? Well, they should come to the jungle. They could see all the animals they want for nothing." And of course we could, I suppose, only very few of us can go to jungles, and so we go to circuses instead. Nero, down on the bottom of the hole, listened to the talk of the black men up above. He did not understand any of it, or he might have remembered that word "circus." The rhinoceros, who had knocked him away from the drinking pool, had spoken of a "circus" where Chunky, the happy hippo, went. But Nero was too frightened and in too much pain to pay any heed to what the men said. And then began a very unhappy time for our lion friend. It was such an unhappy, sad time that I am not going to tell you very much about this part of Nero's life. I'm going to skip over it and come to the funnier, happier part. For, after the lion had thrashed about on the bottom of the pit for some time, the black African trapper let down ropes and tangled the lion all up in them. Then Nero was hauled to the top of the pit and put into a big wooden cage. He tried to get out, by striking the bars with his paws, and biting them with his teeth, but they were too strong. Then he lay down in a corner of his cage and shut his eyes. He did not like to look out through the bars at the jungle, when he could no longer roam about as he liked. Poor Nero was a prisoner--a caged wild animal. For many days Nero was kept in the cage in the jungle near the hut of the black trapper. At first the lion would not eat, but at last he grew so hungry that he had to take some of the meat they thrust through the bars of the cage to him. And when he had eaten and taken some water, Nero felt better. But he was still cross and unhappy, and whenever any of the black Africans came near his cage Nero would suddenly stick out his paws and try to scratch them. But they knew enough to keep out of his way. Then, one day, Nero felt his cage being suddenly lifted up on long poles, which the black men put across their shoulders, and so they carried the caged lion through the jungle. They wouldn't trust Nero to walk by himself. What had happened was that the white animal man, who bought wild animals for his circus, had come along, and, seeing that Nero was a fine lion, had taken him to be sent away across the ocean, from Africa to the United States of America, where there were many circuses. Nero, still in his cage, was put on board a ship. He was stowed away down in a deep, black hole, deeper and blacker than the jungle pit into which he had fallen, and then began a sea voyage. Nero didn't like this a bit. Sometimes he seemed to be standing on his head, and again he would be on his feet. At other times he seemed to roll over and over in a regular somersault. And these somersaults weren't at all like the ones he used to turn by accident, when he was playing tag in the jungle with his brother and sister, or with Switchie. "Oh, dear, I don't like this at all!" grumbled Nero, in his cage in the ship. "I wish I could go back to the jungle. Oh, here I go again--upside down!" And over he went, cage and all. What was happening was that the ship was in a big storm, and was being tossed up and down on great ocean waves, and that Nero's cage had got loose and was being flung about. Our lion friend was seasick, and he had a dreadful time. More than once he wished himself back in the jungle, but he could not get there. After many days the ship stopped tossing to and fro. It had crossed to the other side, with Nero on board, and was now tied up at a dock in New York. Then Nero felt himself being hoisted up in his cage, and, for the first time in many days, he saw the sun again and smelled fresh air. And, oh, how good it was! It was not like the air of the jungle, for it was cooler, and Nero had been used to being very hot nearly all the time. But he did not mind being a bit cool. Nero's cage was hoisted out of the hold, the deep, black hold of the ship, and slung on a big automobile truck with some boxes and barrels. Nero was the only wild animal, and people passing along on the dock stopped to look into the big wooden cage at the tawny yellow lion who had been brought all the way from the jungle. Away started the auto-truck, giving Nero a new kind of ride. He would much rather have walked, but of course a lion can't go about loose in the streets of New York, though they do let the elephants and camels walk in a circus parade. But Nero was not yet in a circus. Nero looked out through the bars of his cage as he was carted through the streets of New York. "My, this is a queer jungle!" thought the lion. "Where are the trees and the tangled vines and the snakes and monkeys and other animals? All I see are men and other queer creatures. This isn't at all like my jungle!" And of course it was not, being a big city. There are not many places for trees in a city, you know. So Nero cowered down in the corner of his cage until he was put in a freight car to be sent to a place called Bridgeport, Connecticut, where some circus men keep their wild animals, to train them, and have them safe during the winter when it is too cold to give shows in the big, white tents. "Well, this is a new sort of motion," thought Nero, as the train started off. "I don't know that I like it, but still it is better than being made to turn somersaults all the while." [Illustration: Nero looked out through the bars of his cage. _Page 62_] Indeed it was easier riding on a train than in a ship; at least for Nero. He knew nothing about railroads, nor where he was being taken. But, after a while, during which he did not get much to eat or drink, once more his cage was put on a big auto-truck. A little later, after being lifted about, and slung here and there, Nero suddenly saw one end of his cage open. The wooden bars, which had been around him ever since he had left the jungle, seemed to drop away. "Ha! Now, maybe, I can get loose!" thought Nero. He sprang forward, but, to his surprise, he found himself in very much the same sort of place. But this new cage was larger, and the bars were of iron instead of wood. Looking through them Nero could see many other just such cages. He sniffed, and he smelled the smell of many wild animals which he knew. He smelled lions, buffaloes, and elephants. Nero looked around him. He was in a big wooden building, and over to one side were some elephants. At first Nero could not believe it. He rubbed his eyes with his paw and looked again. Yes, surely enough, they were elephants. They were swaying slowly to and fro, as elephants always sway, and they were stuffing hay into their mouths with their curling trunks. "Oh, am I back in the jungle?" asked Nero aloud, speaking in animal talk. "The jungle? No, I should say not!" cried a big jolly-looking elephant. "This isn't the jungle." "Then what is it?" asked Nero. "It's a circus," said the elephant. "This is a circus, and we are glad to have you with us, jungle lion. My name is Tum Tum, what is yours?" "Nero," was the answer. "And so this is a circus!" went on the lion. "Well, well! I never thought I'd be here!" CHAPTER VII NERO LEARNS SOME TRICKS Nero thought the circus a very queer place indeed. It was as queer to him as the wild jungle would be to you if you saw it for the first time. But strange as it was, the circus, where he now found himself, seemed much nicer to Nero than being cooped up in the dark ship or in the freight car. For there were many wild animals in the circus--other lions, tigers, elephants, camels, giraffes, several cages of monkeys, some wolves, a bear or two, and others that Nero did not see until later. And there was also a queer, wild-animal smell, which Nero liked very much. It was almost like the smell of the jungle, and it made him homesick when he thought of the deep tangle of green vines, the thick trees and the silent pools of water. "We are glad to have you in our circus," said the elephant, who had called himself Tum Tum, speaking to Nero. "Of course it isn't very lively now, but wait until we get out on the road, giving a show every day in a new place, and traveling about! Then you'll like it!" "Doesn't the circus stay here every day?" asked Nero, as he looked across to another lion in a cage. Nero hoped this lion would speak to him, but the big fellow seemed to be asleep. "The circus stay here? I should say not!" cried Tum Tum, speaking through his long trunk. "Why, this is only the winter barn, where we stay when the weather is cold. We don't have any shows in winter. The people don't come in to see us, and we don't do any of our tricks. It is only when the show goes on the road in summer, with the big white tent, all covered with gay flags, and the bands playing music, that we have the good times. Here we just rest, eat, and sometimes learn new tricks." "Tricks!" exclaimed Nero. "Tricks? Are they something good to eat?" "Tricks good to eat!" laughed Tum Tum in his jolly voice. "No indeed! Tricks are things you do. But often, after we do ours well, the trainer gives us good things to eat." "I fell into a big hole in the jungle once," said Nero. "Is that a trick?" "Not exactly," answered Tum Tum. "Here, I'll show you what a trick is. This is only one of my easy ones, though," and then suddenly the big elephant stood on his hind legs, waving his trunk in the air. "Oh, so that's a trick," said Nero. "Well, I could do that." But when he tried to stand up on his hind legs in his cage he could not. He had not learned how to balance himself. "So you do tricks in a circus, do you?" went on Nero. "That reminds me. In the jungle I heard some monkeys speak of a circus, and also of a chap named Mappo. Is he here?" "He used to be," said Tum Tum. "Mappo was one of our merriest monkeys. We all liked him, but he went to live with some people. I don't know where he is now. But he was in this circus. And to think of your meeting some of his friends in the jungle! Tell me, did you see any of mine?" "Well, I met lots of elephants," answered Nero, "but I didn't have much time to stop and talk with them. I met a rhinoceros, though, and he said something about Chunky, a happy hippo, who used to live in the jungle near him." "Oh, Chunky is here, in this very circus!" cried Tum Tum. "But he stays in a water-tank, so we don't very often see him. He'll be glad to know you met his rhinoceros friend. I'll tell him the first time I get a chance. But, speaking of tricks, there's a chap over there who does some fine ones," and Tum Tum pointed with his trunk to a cage in which was a shaggy, black animal. "Who is it?" asked Nero. "Dido, the dancing bear," answered the elephant. "He dances on a platform, which is strapped to my back out in the circus rings; he jumps through a hoop of blazing fire; and he turns somersaults." "I turned some somersaults too, after they put me in a cage and brought me from the jungle," said Nero, as he thought of his voyage on the ship. "Well, maybe you can learn to do them here, and that will be a trick," returned Tum Tum. "But you should see Dido, the dancing bear. He surely can dance!" "Who is talking about me?" asked the shaggy creature in the other cage. "We are, Dido," answered Tum Tum. "I was just telling the new lion how you dance on a platform over my back." "Oh, yes," said the bear, opening wide his mouth and showing his red tongue. "And I wish I could soon start to doing that again. I am getting tired of the circus barn. I want to be out in the tent." "It will soon be warm enough," said Tum Tum. "Summer will soon be here, and then we shall have hot weather." "Does it get as hot as in the jungle?" Nero asked. "Sometimes," answered the jolly elephant. "But here comes your keeper, I guess. He is going to give you some meat." And, surely enough, along came a circus man with a big chunk of meat on a large, iron fork. He poked the meat in through the bars of the cage to Nero, and the lion was so hungry that he began eating at once. The man who had fed him stood in front of the cage, looking at Nero. "You look like a fine chap," said the man, talking partly to himself and partly to the jungle animal. "I think we shall be good friends, and I will teach you some tricks. Then the boys and girls who come to the circus will want to watch you. Yes, I'll teach you some tricks. Come, let's be friends." Slowly and carefully the circus trainer reached his hand toward Nero's paw, which was between two bars and partly outside the cage. Nero, looking out of the corners of his eyes as he gnawed the bone and chewed the meat, did not know what the man was trying to do. Perhaps the lion thought that the man was trying to take away the meat. Whatever he thought, Nero suddenly jumped up and struck with all his force at the man's hand. But the man was too quick. He pulled his hand out of the way, and Nero's paw hit the iron bars. And as it happened to be the paw that had been struck by the bullet, Nero felt great pain, for the bullet was still in the flesh, though healed over. "Ouch!" cried Nero, in lion language. "That will teach you not to strike at me when I am only trying to pat you and be kind to you," said the man with a laugh. "You are beginning to learn things, my lion friend." The man stayed for some time in front of Nero's cage, talking kindly to the lion, but Nero paid no attention to him. He only ate the meat. Then, when it was all gone, Nero felt thirsty. "I'll get you some water," said the man, and he did. "Well, you are kind to me, anyhow," thought Nero, "even if you did try to take away my bone," but of course the man had not tried to do that. For about a week Nero lived in his circus cage in the big barn, where the animals were kept warm all winter. Nothing much happened, except that the same man, every day, brought food and water to the wild jungle lion. And by this time Nero was not so wild as he had been at first. He gave up trying to break the iron bars with his paws, and no longer tried to bite them with his teeth. They were too strong for him. Then, one day, the trainer man came again to the lion's cage, with a nice, sweet piece of meat. "My, how good that is!" said Nero to himself, as he ate it. As Nero was chewing away, the man slowly put out his hand toward the lion's paw, which was out between the bars. But Nero saw him, and again the old fear came back that the man was going to take away the meat, and Nero did not want that to happen. "Look out!" roared Nero, in lion talk. "Look out or I'll scratch you!" "Don't do that!" said another voice. A voice that Nero knew came from the other lion cage, that had recently been moved up near his. "Don't be silly, Nero!" said the other circus lion, whose name was Leo. "I used to be as wild as you are, and live in the jungle. But they caught me and brought me here to the circus; and now I like it very much. I, too, tried to scratch the man when he wanted to touch my paw, but I learned better. So must you. The man is your friend. He will feed you and give you water to drink. So don't scratch him. He only wants to pat you and rub you." "Oh, well, if he only wants to do that, all right," said Nero. "He can do that. I thought he wanted to take my meat." And then, when the man saw that Nero was quieting down, he reached out his hand again, and this time he touched Nero's big paw, with its sharp claws. One blow of it would have broken the man's arm, but Nero did not strike the blow. He had learned that the man would not hurt him. And a few days after this Nero and the trainer had become such good friends that the man could open the iron door and go inside Nero's cage and the lion would only blink his big eyes, and not even growl. He had learned that the man would not hurt him. And so Nero's circus lessons began. The first one he learned was leaping over a long stick which the man held stretched out in the cage. At the beginning Nero did not know what the stick was for, but he could see that the man did not intend to strike him with it. The trainer kept bringing the stick nearer and nearer to Nero, who backed into the corner of the cage. At last the lion could back no farther, as he was close against the wall of the cage. "Well, if he doesn't take that stick out of my way I'll jump right over it!" said Nero to himself. And that is just what he did, and the man clapped his hands in delight, and cried: "There! You have learned your first trick! That's fine! Now I must teach you more!" Nero was fast becoming a regular circus lion. CHAPTER VIII NERO MEETS DON One day when Nero awoke in his circus cage, which stood in the big winter barn, the lion saw that something very different was going on from what had happened since he had been brought there from the jungle. Men were running to and fro, and the first thing Nero noticed was that Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, and all the other big animals with the long trunks were gone. "Why, where is Tum Tum?" asked Nero of Leo, his lion friend. "Oh, he's out with the other elephants, pushing wagon cages about the lot," said Leo. "Pushing cages?" repeated Nero. "Is that a circus trick?" "No, that is part of the circus work," answered Leo. "The elephants are so big and strong that they are used instead of horses, sometimes, to push the circus cages." "But why is Tum Tum helping push the circus cages?" asked Nero. "Has anything happened?" "Well, something is going to happen," said Leo. "The circus is going to start out on the road--we are going to travel from town to town. We are going to travel on the railroad and live in a tent instead of this barn. We shall see lots of people--boys and girls--who come to watch us eat, and do tricks, and we shall hear the band music and--Oh, it's real jolly!" "I'm glad of that," said Nero. "I like to be jolly. But will Tum Tum come back?" he asked, for he liked the big, jolly elephant, as, indeed, all the circus animals did. "Oh, yes, Tum Tum will come back," answered Dido, the dancing bear. "The circus couldn't get along without him. And I couldn't do some of my best tricks if Tum Tum didn't walk around the ring with the wooden platform on his back for me to dance on. Oh, we couldn't get along without Tum Tum!" Nero was glad to hear this. Though he liked Leo, his lion friend, and the other animals, even the queer-looking camels, Nero felt more friendly toward Tum Tum than toward any one else in the circus except his trainer. For, by this time, Nero had grown to like very much the man who fed him, and who came into the cage every day to make the lion jump over the stick. But Nero had learned many more tricks than this first, easy one. He did not learn the other tricks as quickly, for they were harder, but the lion could sit up on a big wooden stool, he could stand up on his hind paws, and he would open his mouth very wide when his trainer told him to. In a way Nero had learned something of man-talk, too, for he knew what certain words meant. The trainer would call: "Jump over the stick, Nero!" The lion knew what that meant, and he knew it was different from the words used when the trainer said: "Sit on your stool!" So, though of course Nero could not understand what the circus men said when they talked to one another, the lion had learned some words. So he could talk and understand animal language, and he could also understand some words of man-talk. And that is pretty good, I think, for a lion who had not been out of the jungle quite a year. "Shall we have to push any of the cages?" asked Nero of his friend Leo, as they both watched the circus men hurrying to and fro in the big barn. "Oh, no," answered the older lion. "They never let us out of the cages." "And a good reason, too," declared a humpy camel, near by. "If they let you lions and tigers out of the cages, you'd run away. We wouldn't do that. We camels are well-behaved, like the horses and the elephants." Leo, the old lion, shook his head until his mane dangled in his eyes. "No," he said, "if they opened my cage, I wouldn't run away. I wouldn't even go out, unless it was to get something to eat and come right back again." "I would!" growled Nero. "I'd go out in a minute, if they opened my cage door wide enough. I'd go out and run back to the jungle." "Yes, that's what I used to think, at first," growled Leo. "But after you've been in the circus awhile you get used to it. It's home to you. "Why, I remember, Nero, we once had in this circus a lion just about like you. He always said he'd run away if he got the chance. Well, one day his cage was left open by accident, and he ran away." "What happened?" asked Nero. "Well, he ran back again, the next day, and a more sorry or sick-looking lion you never saw! He was bedraggled and lame and hungry and thirsty! He said he was glad to get back to his cage, and he never left it again." "What had happened to him?" asked the camel. "I guess that was before my time." "Oh, no sooner was he loose in the streets," said Leo, "than he was chased by men and boys, who threw rocks and sticks at him. They were afraid of him, and tried to drive him away. But the circus men tried to catch the runaway lion, and, between both, poor Tarsus, which was his name, had a bad time. He had enough of running away." "He should have gone back to the jungle," said Nero. "That's what I'd do if I could get loose." "Oh, you think you would!" growled Leo. "But the jungle is far away from here. You could never reach it. No, you had much better stay here in the circus, Nero. Here you are in a cage, it is true, but you are warm, you have a good place to sleep, you have plenty to eat and drink, and boys can not throw stones at you." But Nero only switched his tail to and fro, thought of the jungle where he had played with Boo and Chet, and said to himself: "That's all right. But, even though my trainer is kind to me, if ever I get the chance I'll run away!" And so the circus got ready to go out on the road. Tum Tum and the other elephants pushed the animal cages about, and one day Nero saw the big elephant come close up to the lion's cage. "What are you going to do, Tum Tum?" asked Nero. "It is time for your cage to be moved," said the elephant. "I am going to push you out on the lot, and there horses will be hitched to your cage and you will be given a ride." "Well, I hope the ride will be nice," said the lion. "You'll like it," said Tum Tum, trumpeting through his trunk. Pretty soon Nero found himself, in his cage, out in the bright sunshine. It was a warm day, and the lion stretched, opened his mouth as wide as he could, and then lay down in his cage where the sun could warm his back. "It feels just as good as the jungle," thought Nero. "But of course there aren't as many trees, and there are no pools of water, and I haven't Switchie or Chet or Boo to play with. A circus may be nice, but I'll run away the first chance I get." Tum Tum pushed Nero's cage about until some horses could be hitched to it to draw it to the railroad station. For the circus was to travel on a train of cars to the city where it was first to give a show. Nero's cage, as well as other cages, were put on a big flat car, and when the engine started puffing and pulling away, and when Nero felt the motion of the train, he called to Leo, who was on the same car: "I remember riding like this once before." "Yes," said Leo, "I suppose so. It was when you were brought here from the big city where the ship landed. The same thing happened to me. But I am used to riding on railroads now. I don't mind it any more. I like it." "I guess I'll like it, too," said Nero. For the rest of that day and all the night the circus train traveled onward, and it was nearly morning when it stopped. Peeping out between the cracks of the wooden cover of his cage, Nero could see the sun just coming up. It reminded him of the sunrise in the jungle, and he began to feel lonesome and homesick again, even though he had new friends--Tum Tum, Dido and Leo. There was a great deal of noise when the circus train stopped. Men shouted, horses kicked about in their wooden cars, the elephants trumpeted, the tigers growled, the lions roared, while the monkeys chattered. Nero felt his cage being run down off the car, and then he heard Tum Tum talking in elephant animal language. "How are you, Nero? All right?" asked Tum Tum, as he pushed the lion's cage about so the horses could be hitched to it again. "Are you ready to do your tricks in the circus?" "Oh, yes," answered Nero. "When do we begin?" "Pretty soon," answered Leo from his cage. "We'll go to the circus lot, then will come the parade, and then we'll be put in the big tent for the boys and girls to look at. Then the bands will play and the performance will start." "My! that's a lot of things to happen," said Nero. Pretty soon one side of his cage was opened, and Nero's trainer passed by. "Hello, Nero, old boy!" called the man. "Did you stand the ride all right? Yes, I guess you did. Well, we'll soon be doing our tricks together in the tent," and he patted the paw Nero held out to him, for this was his way of shaking hands. Soon after this Nero felt his cage being hauled along by a team of eight horses. The wooden outside covers of the cage were still down, and Nero could look out through the bars, and the people could look in. Then Nero saw that many of the other cages of wild animals were in line with his, some in front and some behind. There were many horses, elephants and camels in line also, and a band was playing music. [Illustration: His keeper rode in the cage with him. _Page 82_] "What's all this about?" asked Nero of Tum Tum. "We are going in the circus parade, through the streets of the town," answered the jolly elephant. "We always have a parade before the show. You'll like it." And Nero liked, very much indeed, his first parade. His keeper rode in the cage with him, sitting on a chair, and now and then patting the big head of the lion. Nero liked that, for he and his keeper were friends. Through great crowds of people on the streets went the circus parade, and then the procession went back to the circus lot where the big, white tents, with their gaily colored flags, had been set up. "Pretty soon the show will begin, Nero," said the keeper, as he got out of the lion's cage. "The parade was only the first part. The people will shortly be in here to look at you and the other animals, and, later on, you and I will do some tricks." All at once, as the trainer walked away, Nero looked out of his cage and saw a big shaggy animal running along on the ground. "Hello, Dido!" growled Nero, for at first he thought it was the dancing bear he saw. But as the running animal turned, Nero saw that it was not Dido. This animal was not so large as the dancing bear. "I'm not Dido," said the new chap. "And I don't seem to know you, though I know that bear in the cage back of you." "Why, that's who I thought you were," said Nero. "And so you know Dido?" "Oh, yes, I know him, and Dido knows me," said the new animal. "Well, you'd better go back into your cage before the circus men see you," said Nero. "How did you get loose? Tell me? I'd like to get out myself." "Ho! Ho! You're making a mistake!" was the laughing answer. "I am not a circus animal. I'm Don, and I'm a runaway dog. At least I ran away once, but I ran back again. I came down to see Dido, whom I met when I was running away," and Don, the nice, big dog, wagged his tail at Dido, the dancing bear. CHAPTER IX NERO SCARES A BOY Nero, the circus lion, who was much larger now than when he had been caught in a jungle trap, was very much surprised at what Don, the runaway dog told him. At first the lion boy could hardly believe that Don was not one of the circus animals. But as the lion, looking out through the bars of his cage, saw Don running about and none of the red-coated circus men trying to catch him, he said: "Well, well! it must be true. He isn't a circus animal at all." And then to Don the lion said: "How do you happen to know Dido, the dancing bear?" "Well, that's a long story," answered Don. "You can read all about me, and how I ran away, if you want to, for it's all in a book a man wrote about me." "Thank you," returned Nero. "But I can't read, and I don't know what a book is, anyhow." "Well, I can't read, either," said Don. "But I know a book when I see one. The little boy in the house where I live goes to school, and he has books. Sometimes I carry them home for him in my mouth. So I know a book when I see one. "But as long as you can't read about me I'll just tell you that in the book the man wrote about how I ran away, got locked in a freight car, how I went to a strange city and traveled about the country. It was then I met Dido, the dancing bear." "Yes, that's right," growled Dido, licking his paws, for some one had thrown him a sugared popcorn ball, and some of the sweet, sticky stuff was still on the bear's paws. Dido wanted to get all of it off. "It was then you met me, Don," went on the dancing bear. "We certainly had some fine times together!" "Indeed we did!" replied the runaway dog, though I should not call him that any more, as he had run back again, as you all know, and was now living in a nice home. "And when I was down at the butcher shop this morning and saw the circus wagons come from the railroad yard," went on Don, "I thought maybe I'd see you again, Dido. So I came here as soon as I could." "I'm glad you did," said the bear. "This lion chap is named Nero. He hasn't been out of the jungle very long." "I'm glad to meet you, Nero," barked Don. "I always like circus animals." "I am glad you do," growled Nero, in his most jolly voice. "I think I shall like you, too, Don, though I don't know much about dogs. I never saw any in the jungle." And this was true, for though there are some dogs in Africa, they are mostly in cities or the towns where the native black men live. There may be some wild dogs in the jungle, but Nero never saw any, and the nearest he ever came to noticing animals like a dog were the black-backed jackals. These are animals, almost like a dog, and, in fact, are something like the Azara dogs of South America, and now Nero asked Don if he was a jackal. But the runaway dog soon told the circus lion a different story, and then they were friends. Don and Dido had a nice visit together in the circus tent before the show began. Don had simply slipped under the side of the tent to get in. If any of the circus men saw him they did not mind, for dogs often come around where circus shows are given. Perhaps they like to see the elephants and other strange animals, as much as the boys and girls do. After awhile great crowds of people began coming into the circus tent. The band played music in another tent, next door, and it was there that the men and women performers would do their tricks--riding on the backs of galloping horses, leaping about on trapezes, jumping over the backs of elephants and so on. Nero paced back and forth in his cage, wondering what was going to happen, for this was his first day of real life in the circus. All the other days had been just getting ready for the summer shows. He had liked the parade through the city streets, when the elephants, horses, and camels wore such bright and gaily colored blankets. Now something else was going to happen. The animal tent, in which stood Nero's cage and that of the other jungle folk, was soon filled with boys and girls and their fathers and mothers, all of whom had come to the circus. They moved from cage to cage, stopping to toss popcorn balls to Dido, the dancing bear, and feed peanuts to Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, and to the friends of Mappo and some of the other merry monkeys. Coming to the cage of the big lion, the boys and girls would stop and look in, and perhaps some one would say: "Oh, isn't he big and fierce! I wouldn't want to go into his cage!" And perhaps some one else would answer: "Pooh! I guess he's a trained lion! Maybe he does tricks! When I grow up I'm going to be a lion tamer." Of course Nero did not understand any of this talk, but he liked to look at the boys and girls, and he was not nearly as wild as he had been when he lived in the jungle. Nero was really quite tame, and he liked his trainer very much, for the man was kind to Nero. Pretty soon all the people--even the boys and girls--went out of the animal tent, leaving the animals almost alone. "Where have they gone?" asked Nero of Dido. "Oh, into the other tent, where the music is playing and where the performance is going on. You'll soon be going in there too, and so shall I." "What for?" asked Nero. "To do your tricks," answered the bear. "That is why you were taught to do them, just as I was taught to dance--so we can make fun and jolly times for the boys and girls. Wait, and you'll see." And, surely enough, a little later Nero's cage was moved into the larger tent, next to the one where the animals were kept. And then Nero's trainer came and spoke to him. "Well, Nero," said the man, "now we're going to see if you can do your tricks before a whole crowd, as nicely as you did them in the barn at Bridgeport. Don't grow excited. You know I'm a friend of yours. Now do your best, and the boys and girls will laugh and clap their hands." So the keeper opened the door of the lion's cage and went inside. As soon as he did several of the boys and girls, and the big folks too, gasped, and some said: "Oh, isn't that terrible! I wouldn't go into the cage of a real, live lion for anything!" You see they didn't know Nero was quite tame, and that the jungle beast liked the man who fed him and was kind to him. "Now do your tricks, Nero!" said the trainer. And Nero did. He jumped over a stick; he stood up on his hind legs and, putting his paws on the trainer's shoulders, made believe to kiss the man, though of course he only touched the man's cheek with his cold, damp nose, just as, sometimes, your dog puts his nose against your cheek to show how much he likes you; next Nero stood up on a sort of upside-down washtub, or pedestal; and after that he jumped through a hoop covered with paper. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," said the trainer, speaking to the circus crowd, "I will do the best trick of all. I will have Nero, my pet lion, open his mouth as wide as he can, and I will put my head inside!" And then, all of a sudden, some little boy in the crowd piped up and cried out: "Oh, Mister, don't do that! He might bite your head off!" Everybody laughed at that, even Nero's trainer, who said: "Oh, I'm not afraid. Nero is a good lion and wouldn't bite me. Come on now, old fellow, for the last and best trick of all!" cried the man, and he cracked his whip, though of course he did not strike Nero with it. The circus lion knew just what to do, for he had been trained in this trick. I didn't say anything about it before, because I was saving it as a surprise for you. "Open your mouth!" suddenly cried the trainer, and Nero opened his jaws as wide as he could. "Oh! Ah! Look!" cried the people, as they saw his big, red tongue and the white, sharp teeth. "Now!" cried the trainer, and into the lion's mouth he popped his head. Everybody in the big circus tent was quiet for a moment, and then all the crowd cried out, and clapped their hands and stamped their shoes on the wooden steps beneath their feet. "There, you see how tame my lion is!" cried the man, as he pulled his head from Nero's mouth, and bowed to the people, who were still clapping and whistling. "You are a good lion!" said the trainer to Nero in a low voice. "Now you shall have a nice piece of meat, a sweet bone to gnaw, and a good drink of water. You did your first tricks very well indeed." Nero did not quite know what it was all about, but he felt that he had done well. It did not hurt him to open his mouth and let the man put in his head, but it tickled the lion's tongue a little, so that Nero wanted to sneeze. And that wouldn't have been a good thing for the trainer. However Nero didn't do it. "What makes the people make so much noise?" asked Nero of Dido, the dancing bear, who came into the larger tent just then. "Oh, that's because they liked your tricks," was the answer. "They always clap and stamp their feet when anything pleases them. They do that when I dance on the platform on Tum Tum's back." And, surely enough, the circus crowds did. They liked the tricks of Dido, the dancing bear, as much as they had those of Nero. After a while Nero's cage was wheeled back into the tent where the wagons of the other animals were kept, and Nero was given something good to eat, and fresh water to drink. Then he felt happy and fell asleep. So Nero began his circus life, and he kept it up all that summer. He traveled about from place to place, and soon became used to doing his tricks, having the man put his head into his mouth and seeing the crowds show their surprise. One day, when the show was being given in a large city, there was a big crowd in the animal tent. Near Nero's cage were some boys, and I am sorry to say they were not all kind boys, though perhaps they didn't know any better. One of the boys had a rotten apple in his hand and he said to another lad: "I'm going to give this rotten apple to one of the elephants and see what a funny face he makes when he chews it!" "That'll be lots of fun," said the second boy. I don't, myself, call that fun. It isn't fair to fool animals when you know so much more than they do. However we'll see what happened. Nero saw the boys standing near his cage, and he heard them talking, though he did not, of course, know what they were saying. But he could smell the rotten apple. Often, in the jungle, he had smelled bad fruit, and he knew that the monkeys would not eat it. "If bad fruit isn't good for monkeys it isn't good for elephants," thought Nero, as he saw the boy hold out the rotten apple toward Tum Tum, the jolly elephant. Tum Tum reached out his trunk to take what he thought was something good, but Nero roared, in animal language, of course: "Don't take that apple, Tum Tum! It's bad!" And then Nero sprang against the bars of his cage, and, reaching out a paw, with its long, sharp claws, made a grab for the boy's arm as he held out the rotten apple. "Look out! The lion's going to bite you!" cried a man to the boy, and the boy was so frightened that he gave a howl and dropped the rotten apple and ran through the crowd, knocking to the right and left every one in his way. Nero roared again and dashed against the bars of his cage, and while women and children screamed and men shouted, Nero's keeper and some of the other animal men ran up to see what the matter was. There was great excitement in the circus tent. CHAPTER X NERO RUNS AWAY Once more Nero roared as he looked over the heads of the crowd to see what had become of the boy who had tried to give Tum Tum the rotten apple. "Hold on there, my lion boy! What's the matter? Don't do that!" called Nero's trainer to him in a kind voice. "What happened, anyhow? Why are you roaring so, and trying to get out of your cage? Don't you like it here in the circus?" Nero stopped roaring at once, and no longer dashed against the bars of his cage. Perhaps he thought that, as long as his kind trainer was at hand, everything would be all right. "Did some one try to hurt my lion friend?" asked the trainer, looking at the crowd near the cage. "No," some one answered. "But the lion, all at once, tried to reach out and claw a boy who was going to give an apple to an elephant. I saw that. I don't know what made the lion act so." "There must have been some good reason," said the trainer. "Nero is a good lion. He wouldn't want to claw a boy just for fun." And then one of the other boys, who was in the crowd that had been around the lad who had the rotten apple, spoke up and said: "Mister, Jimmie was going to play a trick on the elephant. He was going to give him a bad apple just to see what a funny face the elephant would make." "Oh, ho! Now I understand!" said the trainer. "My lion must have smelled the rotten apple and didn't like it. He tried to scare away the boy, I guess." "Well, the boy was scared all right," said a man. "He ran away as fast as he could go." "He ought to!" said the trainer very sharply. The excitement, caused by the loud roaring of Nero, was over now, though, for a time, many persons had been frightened, for Nero had sent his powerful voice rumbling through the circus tent as his father, and the other big lions, had used to make the ground tremble when they roared in the jungle. Then, as things grew quiet and the people passed along the row of cages, looking at the animals, Tum Tum, who heard what had happened, turned to Nero and said: "I'm much obliged to you, my dear lion friend, for scaring the boy who wanted to give me the rotten apple. Most likely, as soon as I'd have taken it in my trunk, I'd have smelled that it was bad, and I would not have eaten it. But some one might have given me a popcorn ball in my trunk at the same time, and that might have smelled so good that I wouldn't have noticed the rotten apple until too late. So you saved me from having a bad taste in my mouth, and I'm much obliged to you." "Oh, that's all right," replied Nero. "I'm glad I could do you a favor. You have been kind to me, pushing my cage around, and I want to be kind to you." So the two circus animals were better friends than ever, and that day in the performers' tent Nero opened his mouth very wide indeed when his trainer wanted to put in his head. For many weeks Nero traveled about the country with the circus, living in his iron-barred cage, from which he was never taken. Nero might be a tame lion, but the circus folk did not think it would be safe to let him out, as Dido, the dancing bear, was allowed to come out of his cage. However, later on, something happened-- But there, I must tell about it in the right place. So, as I said, Nero went about from town to town with the circus, living in his cage, eating and doing his tricks whenever his trainer called on him to do so. And the people who came to the circus performances seemed to like, very much, seeing Nero do his tricks. And they always clapped loudest and longest when the trainer put his head in the lion's mouth. And Nero never bit the trainer once, nor so much as scratched him, even with the tip of one sharp tooth. One afternoon of a long hot day, when big crowds had come to the circus, and after Nero had done his tricks, and Dido, the dancing bear, had done his, and Chunky, the happy hippo, had opened his big mouth so his keeper could toss loaves of bread into it--one afternoon Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, swaying as he chewed his hay, spoke through his trunk and said: "Something is going to happen!" "What makes you think so?" asked Nero, from his cage. "Well, I sort of feel it," answered Tum Tum. "I think we are going to have a big thunderstorm, such as we used to have in the jungle!" "I hope we do!" growled a striped tiger in a cage next to Nero. "I like a good thunder storm, where the rain comes down and cools you off! I like to feel the squidgie mud of the jungle, too, and when it thunders I growl as loudly as I can. I like a storm. I want to get wet!" [Illustration: Then the trainer put his head in the lion's mouth. _Page 100_] "I like a thunder storm, too," said Tum Tum. "But you animals in your cages--you lions and tigers--aren't very likely to feel any rain. We elephants will get wet, and so will the camels and the horses, for we walk out in the open. But, Nero, I guess you in your cage won't feel the storm any." "No, I don't believe we shall," agreed the lion. "But I wish we could. I am so hot and dry, sitting in this cage, that I wish I could get out and splash around in the mud and water. So the sooner the thunder storm comes the better." "It isn't likely to do you much good," went on Tum Tum, "but it will be cooler, afterward, anyhow." And it certainly was very hot in the circus tent that day. It did not get much cooler after dark, and when the circus was over, and the big tents taken down, it was still hot. "We are not going to travel on the train to go to the next town where the circus is to show," said Tum Tum to Nero, as the men began hitching horses to the animal cages and the big tent wagons. "We are to go along the road, in the open." "Then maybe I can see the lightning!" exclaimed Nero. "And, if it rains, I can stick my paws out through the bars and get them wet." "Maybe," said Tum Tum. Then he had to go off to help push some of the heavy wagons, and it was some time before Nero saw his big elephant friend again. Soon the circus caravan was traveling along the road in the darkness. And yet it was not dark all the time, for, every now and then, there came a flash of lightning. The thunder rumbled, too, like the distant roaring of a band of lions. "The storm will soon be here," said the striped tiger, as he crouched down in one corner of his cage, which, like that of Nero, was being hauled along the road by eight horses. "Well, we'll feel better when it rains," said the lion. And then, all at once, the wind began to blow, there came a brighter flash of lightning, a loud clap of thunder, and the storm broke. Down came the rain, in "buckets full," as is sometimes said, and the horses, camels and elephants loved to feel the warm water splashing down on their backs, cooling them off and washing away the dust and dirt. Some of the rain even dashed into the cages of Nero and the tiger, and the jungle cats liked the feel of it as much as did the other circus beasts. But the rain did something else, too. It made the roads very soft and slippery with mud, and in the middle of the night, when Nero's cage was being pulled up a steep hill, something broke on the wagon. It got away from the horses and began to roll down the hill backward. "Look out! Look out!" cried the driver, as he tried to put on the brake. "The lion's cage is running away downhill! Look out, everybody! Look out behind there, Bill on the tiger's cage! Look out!" But the lion's cage did not crash into the tiger's cage, which was the next wagon behind. Instead, Nero's house on wheels rolled to one side of the road and toppled over into a ditch. There was a loud crash as the wooden sides and top cracked and broke. All at once Nero saw the door of his broken cage swing open. He could walk right out, and, as soon as he got steady on his feet, after being tossed about by the fall, the lion gave a leap and found himself standing clear of his cage in the soft mud, with the rain beating down all about him. "Why--why, I'm loose!" roared Nero. "I'm out of my cage for the first time since I was caught in the jungle! Oh, and this is like the jungle, a little. I can feel the soft mud on my paws, and the rain on my back!" Nero opened his mouth to roar, and the rain dashed in, cooling his tongue. As the lightning flashed he could see his broken cage at one side of the ditch, but he was clear of it. When the thunder roared Nero roared back in answer. Up above him Nero could hear the circus men shouting. What they were saying he did not know, but they were telling one another that the lion's cage had rolled downhill, had broken, and that the lion was loose. Nero looked around him. He could see quite well in the dark. Off to one side he saw some tangled bushes and a clump of trees. "Maybe that is the jungle!" thought Nero. "I'm going to find out. I'm going to leave the circus for a while. It was very nice, but I want to be free. I want to feel the rain and the mud. Now that I am out of my cage I'll stay loose for a time!" And so Nero ran away! CHAPTER XI NERO AND BLACKIE The first thing any wild animal does when it runs away is to find some dark place and hide. Even though it may be hungry, an animal, when frightened, will nearly always hide until it can look about and make up its mind what to do. Nero, the circus lion, who got loose from his cage when it rolled downhill in the storm and broke open, did this thing. When he had stood for a moment in the rain and darkness, feeling the soft mud squdge up between his claws, and when he had roared a bit, because he felt so wild and free, Nero sneaked off in the darkness toward some trees and bushes, which he had seen in a flash of lightning. "That may be the jungle," he had said to himself. But of course you and I know that it wasn't the jungle. That was far, far away--across the sea in Africa. He stood for a moment, listening to the shouts of the circus men, who were standing about the broken cage. They could not see Nero in the darkness, nor even when the lightning flashed, for the lion crouched down behind some black bushes. "Well, Nero got away all right," said one circus man. "Yes, and we must get him back!" said the man who had trained Nero to do his tricks. "Folks don't like lions wandering about their farms and gardens. I must find my pet. Here, Nero! Nero! Come back!" called the trainer. But though the lion liked the man who had been so kind to him, Nero was not yet ready to go back to the circus. "I have just gotten out of my cage," said Nero to himself; "and it would be too bad to go back before I have had some fun. So I'll just run on and stay in the jungle awhile." Nero felt very happy. It was a long time since he had been able to roam about as he pleased, and though he had no raincoat or umbrella, and not even rubbers, he didn't mind the storm at all. Animals like to get wet, sometimes, if the rain is not too cold. It gives them a bath, just as you have yours in a tub. "This certainly is fun!" said Nero to himself, as he trotted along through the rain and darkness toward the trees. "I'll find a good place to hide in and stay there all night." It did not take Nero long to find a hiding place. It was a sort of cave down in between two big rocks in the woods; and it was almost as good as the cave in which he had lived in the jungle with his father and mother and Chet and Boo. "I wish my brother and sister were here now," thought Nero to himself, as he snuggled down on a bed of dry leaves between the rocks. The leaves were dry because one rock stretched over them, like a roof. "And if Switchie were here he and I could have some fun to-morrow, going about this new jungle," thought the lion boy. But Switchie, the lion cub with whom Nero used to play, was far off in Africa, so our circus friend had to stay by himself. He curled up on the leaves, listened to the swish and patter of the rain, and soon he fell asleep. Now while Nero was hiding thus in the cave he had found, the circus men were anxious to find the lion. They got ropes and lanterns, and had a new, empty cage made ready, so that, in case Nero were found, he could be given a new home. Then, while Nero's trainer and some men to help him hunt for the lion stayed behind, the rest of the circus went on to where it was to give a show the next day. No matter what happens, the circus must go on, if there is any of it left to travel. Accidents often happened like this one--cages getting stuck in the mud and animals sometimes getting away. But I'm not going to tell you, just now, about the circus men who stayed behind to hunt Nero. They did not find the lion very easily. This story is mostly about Nero, so we shall now see what happened to him. All night long Nero slept in the cave. It lightened and thundered, but he did not mind that. Nor did he mind the rain, for though he had been wet, he liked it, and in the cave under the rock no more water could splash on him. When Nero awoke the sun was shining through the leaves and branches of the trees and down in through the tangle of bushes in front of the cave where Nero had hidden. The lion rolled over, stretched out his heavy paws with their big, curved claws, and opened his mouth and yawned, just as you have often seen your dog or cat yawn after a sleep. "Well," said Nero to himself, "I guess I'll look around this jungle and see if I can find any breakfast. I'm hungry, and that nice trainer man isn't here to give me anything to eat. I'll have to hunt for it myself, as I used to do when I was at home. We'll see what kind of jungle this is." Nero soon found that it was quite different from the jungle in Africa. The trees were not so big, nor were there so many of them, and the vines and bushes were not so tangled. It was not quite so hot, either, though this was the middle of summer, and there were not as many birds as Nero was used to seeing in his home jungle. Nor were there any monkeys swinging by their tails from the trees. It was quite a different jungle altogether, but Nero liked it better than his circus cage. "Now for something to eat!" said Nero, when he had finished stretching. He stepped from the little cave out into the bright sunshine, and looked around. He wanted to make sure there were no men near by who might catch him and take him back to that queer house on wheels, with iron bars all around it. Nero saw nothing to make him go back into his cave. Up in the trees the robins and the sparrows sang and chirped, but if they saw the tawny, yellow lion moving about, like a big cat, they paid no attention. They did not seem to mind Nero at all. And, pretty soon, Nero found something to eat in the woods. He had not forgotten how to hunt, as he had done in the jungle, though it was rather a long time ago. Then Nero sniffed and sniffed until he found a spring of water, at which he took a good drink. "Well, now that I have had something to eat and something to drink I feel much better," said Nero to himself. "I must have some fun." So he looked about, wondering what he would do. It was a sort of vacation for him, you see, as he did not have to do any of his circus tricks. "Let's see, now," thought Nero. "I wonder--" And then, all of a sudden, the lion heard a rustling noise over in the bushes at one side. He gave a jump, just as your cat does when something startles her. Nero wanted to be on the watch for any one who might be trying to catch him or trap him. Then Nero saw a small black animal walk slowly out from under a big bush. The animal was something like a little tiger, except that she was plain black instead of being striped yellow and black. At first Nero was much surprised. "Hello, there!" called the lion, in animal talk, which is the same all over the world. "Hello there! Who are you and where are you going?" "Oh, I'm Blackie, a cat," was the answer. "Once I was a lost cat, but I'm not that way any longer. Who are you, if I may ask?" CHAPTER XII NERO AND THE TRAMP Nero, the circus lion, gave himself a big shake. His mane, or big fringe of hair around his neck, stood out like the fur on your cat's back when a dog chases her, and then Nero roared. Oh, such a loud roar as he gave! The ground shook. "There! Now do you know who I am?" asked Nero. Blackie, the cat who was once lost, seemed quite surprised at the way Nero acted. She looked at the lion and said: "Well, I'm sure I don't know why in the world you are making so much noise. I just asked what your name was, and there you go acting as though you were a part of a thunderstorm. What's it all about, anyhow?" "I was just telling you my name," said Nero, a little ashamed of himself for having made such a racket. "I'm a circus lion. At least I used to be in a circus, but I ran away last night, when my cage rolled downhill and broke." "Oh, a circus lion!" mewed Blackie. "Why, I know some folks in a circus. There was Dido, a dancing bear, and--" "Why, I know him too!" roared Nero, in delight. "He's in the same circus I came from!" "You don't tell me!" exclaimed Blackie. "And then I knew Tum Tum, a jolly elephant, and--" "Well, say now, isn't that queer?" laughed Nero--at least he laughed as much as a lion ever laughs. "Why, Tum Tum is in my circus, too! We are great friends. And once a dog named Don came to the show, but he did not stay very long." "Oh, I know Don, too," said Blackie. "Once he ran away, and once he chased me. But that was before we were friends. Say, Nero, I feel as if I had known you a long time, since we know so many of the same friends. Tell me, have you ever been in a book?" "There it goes again!" cried Nero. "Book! Book! Book! Tum Tum is in one, and so is Don, and Dido. I suppose, next, you'll be telling me that you have had a book written about you." "Yes," said Blackie, rather slowly, as she waved her tail to and fro, "a man wrote a book about me. It tells how I got lost, how I was in a basket, and how I came home to find the family all away. And maybe I wasn't glad when they came back! But were you ever in a book?" "No," answered the circus lion, "and I never expect to be." But that only goes to show that Nero didn't know anything about it. For he is in a book, isn't he? "Where do you live?" asked Nero of Blackie. "Is it in a circus?" "Gracious sakes alive, no!" exclaimed Blackie. "I wouldn't know what to do in a circus. I live in that house over there with a little boy and girl who are very kind to me. Wouldn't you like to come over and see them?" "Thank you, no. Not just now," Nero answered. "I'm not much used to being around houses, though I like boys and girls, for I see many of them in the circus, and they like to watch me do my tricks. But I have just run away, and I want to go about by myself a bit more. The men from the circus may try to catch me, you know." "Don't you want them to?" asked Blackie. "Well, not right away," answered the lion. "I want to have some fun by myself first." "Well, I must be going," said Blackie after a bit, when she had talked a little further with Nero. "If ever you're around my house, stop in and see me. It's right over there, across the hill," and she pointed to it with her paw. "I will, thank you," said Nero, switching his tail from side to side. Then Blackie said goodbye to him, and the cat walked on through the woods, back toward the house where she lived. For two or three days Nero wandered about in the woods, and, all this while, the circus men were hunting everywhere for him. But they could not find him, for the lion kept well hidden in the woods. And of course, though Blackie knew he was there, she could not speak man-talk to tell about him. So Nero remained free and had a good time. But one day the circus lion felt lonesome. He had met none of his friends in the woods, and had not seen Blackie again, though he had looked for her. Nero did meet a little animal who seemed quite friendly. This was Slicko, the jumping squirrel, and Slicko had a nice talk with the lion. "I know what I'll do," said Nero to himself one day. "I'll go over to that house where Blackie lives and see her." So Nero started over the hill to go to the house that Blackie had pointed out as the one in which she lived. And a very strange thing happened to the circus lion there. As it happened, when Nero slunk out of the woods, which were near Blackie's house, no one saw him. In fact none of the family was at home, having gone visiting for the day. Blackie wasn't at home, either, having gone down in the cow pasture to hunt grasshoppers, so there was no one in the house. But Nero did not know that. He went sniffing and snuffing around, thinking perhaps he could find something to eat, but nothing had been left out for lions, as Blackie's folks did not know one was roaming about so near them. Nero walked softly up to the kitchen door of the house. The door was partly open, and this was strange, if the lion had only known it, for folks don't usually go away and leave doors open behind them. And from the open door came the smell of something good. It was the smell of meat, and, in fact, was a boiled ham, which Blackie's mistress had left in a pot on the stove. Now the reason the door of the farmhouse was open was because it had been broken open by a tramp! This tramp, coming to the house to ask for something to eat and seeing that no one was at home, had broken open the door. He was going to get something to eat, and then take whatever else he wanted. And that's why the door was open when Nero walked up to it. The tramp was in the kitchen, cutting himself some pieces from the cold, boiled ham. "My, that smells good!" thought Nero, as he sniffed the meat. "I guess I'll go in and see if I can't get some." So Nero, not, of course, knowing anything about the tramp, but wanting only to get some meat and, perhaps, see his friend Blackie, pushed the kitchen door open with his nose and walked in. And then, all of a sudden, that bad, ragged tramp, who had come in to steal, looked up from the table where he was sitting, eating ham, and saw the lion. "Oh, my! Oh, my goodness me!" cried the tramp, and he was so surprised and frightened that he just slumped down in his chair and didn't dare move. The piece of meat he had been eating dropped from his hand to the floor, and Nero picked it up and ate it, licking his jaws for more. "Oh, this is terrible!" gasped the tramp. "I didn't know this farmer kept a trained lion as a watchdog. I knew he had a black cat, but not a lion. Oh, what am I to do?" Of course Nero didn't in the least know what the man was talking about. But the lion smelled the meat and he wanted some more; so he sat down in front of the kitchen door and looked at the ragged man. "I don't know who you are," said Nero to himself, "and you are certainly not as nice as my circus trainer. "But you have some more meat there," Nero thought on, for he could still smell the ham on the table. "I think you might give me a bit more. That little piece was hardly enough." And so Nero sat there looking at the tramp, who was too frightened to move. He couldn't get out of the door, because the lion was in the way, and he didn't dare turn his back, to go over to open a window and jump out, for fear the lion would spring on him. "Oh, I'm in a terrible fix!" thought the tramp. "This is the first time I was ever caught by a lion! It's worse than half a dozen dogs! Oh, what shall I do?" There really did not seem to be anything for him to do except just sit there. And Nero sat looking at him, waiting to be fed some more meat, as he had been used to being fed in the circus. And then something else happened. Back to the house came the farmer and his wife, and their little girl was with them. They had returned from their visit. "Why, look, Mother!" cried the little girl, as she went up on the back porch. "The kitchen door is open!" "It is?" cried her mother. "I'm sure we locked it when we went away." "We did," said the farmer, who was the little girl's father. "Some one must have gone in--a tramp, maybe. I'll see about this!" The farmer walked quickly to the kitchen door and opened it wide. It had swung partly shut after Nero had gone in. And when the farmer saw the frightened tramp sitting in the chair at the table, too scared to move, and the lion between him and the door, on guard, it seemed, the farmer was so surprised and frightened himself that he cried: "Oh my! There's a lion in our kitchen, and a tramp! Oh, I must get my gun! I must send for the constable!" "The constable won't be any good for a lion," said the farmer's wife. "No, but my gun can shoot the lion," said the farmer. "I'll go for it." "Oh, let me see the lion!" begged the little girl. "I saw one in the circus the other day, and he was tame. Maybe this is the same one. The circus lion I saw wouldn't bite any one, even when the man put his head in the big mouth. Let me look!" She pushed past her father and mother, and looked in the kitchen. The little girl saw the frightened tramp, who had been caught by the lion, and the little girl also saw Nero. And then she laughed and shouted: "Why, that's the very same nice, tame lion I saw in the circus! I'm sure it's the very same one, for it looks just like him. But I can soon tell." "Gracious goodness, child!" cried her mother. "Don't dare go near him! Besides, it may not be a tame, circus lion." "Well, if he is he can do tricks," said the little girl. "The lion I saw in the circus sat up on a stool when the trainer told him to. We haven't any stool big enough, but maybe I can make the lion sit on his hind legs on the table. That will hold him." And then the little girl, doing just as she had seen the trainer do in the circus, held up her hand, pointed at the lion in the kitchen, and then at the table, and cried: "Up, Nero! Up! Sit on the table!" And though Nero did not know the little girl, and did not remember having seen her before, the trained lion knew what the words meant. He had heard his trainer say them many, many times. So Nero slowly walked over to the table, got up on it with a jump, and then and there, right in front of the tramp and the little girl and her father and mother, Nero sat on his hind legs on the table, just as he was accustomed to sit on a stool in the circus ring. "There! What did I tell you?" cried the little girl, clapping her hands. "I knew he was the tame, circus lion! Doesn't he sit up nice?" "Yes," said the farmer, "he does. But there is no telling how long he may sit there. He must have escaped from the circus, and I had better telephone the men that he is here. They'll be glad to get him back." "It's a good thing he scared the tramp," said the farmer's wife, as she looked at the ragged man. "What are you doing here, anyhow?" she asked him. "I--I just came in to get something to eat," he whined. "And then your lion wouldn't let me go." "He isn't my lion," replied the farmer. "But he's done me a good turn. I'll have the constable come here and take you away." And a little later the constable, who had been telephoned for, came and took the tramp to jail. Nero looked on, wondering what it was all about, and wishing some one would give him something to eat. And the little girl thought of this. "The tramp has spoiled the ham for us, Mother," she said. "Can't I give the rest of it to Nero?" [Illustration: Nero sat on his hind legs on the table. _Page 122_] "Oh, yes, I suppose so," said the farmer's wife. So Nero got something to eat after all. And then, when he had fallen asleep in the woodshed where the farmer locked him, the circus men came to take the tame lion back with them. "I'm very glad to get Nero again," said his trainer. "I guess he has had enough of running away." And as they were bringing up the new cage which was to take the lion back to the circus, in came Blackie from the meadow where she had been catching grasshoppers. "Oh, so you did come to see me, after all!" she mewed to Nero. "Yes," answered the lion, in animal talk, which none of the people could understand, "I came to see you." "I'm sorry I was away," said Blackie. "So am I. But I really had a pretty good time," said Nero. "And I scared a man who wore very ragged clothes, something like the funny clowns in our circus. And now I am going back there. I'm glad to have met you, Blackie." "And I'm glad I met you, Nero. Maybe someday I'll come to your circus." "Yes, do," growled Nero. "Good-bye!" called the little girl to the circus lion, as he was hauled away in his cage. "Good-bye! I'm glad you did the sitting-up trick for me!" Late that afternoon Nero was back in the circus tent again. "Well, where in the world have you been?" asked Tum Tum. "Oh, off having adventures, as I suppose you'd call them," answered the lion. "Adventures!" exclaimed the jolly elephant. "Well, if that man hears about them he'll put you in a book." "Oh, I guess not," said Nero, as he curled up in his new cage. But I did, just the same, and here's the book. And so we come to the end of Nero's many adventures--at least for a time. But there are other animals to tell about. In the circus was a striped tiger, of whom I have spoken. I think I will tell you about him. And so the next volume in this series will be called: "Tamba, the Tame Tiger: His Many Adventures." And now we will leave Nero peacefully sleeping in his cage, and dreaming, perhaps, of the little girl and Blackie and of the tramp with the boiled ham. THE END STORIES FOR CHILDREN (From four to nine years old) THE KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES BY RICHARD BARNUM [Illustration] In all nursery literature animals have played a conspicuous part; and the reason is obvious for nothing entertains a child more than the antics of an animal. These stories abound in amusing incidents such as children adore and the characters are so full of life, so appealing to a child's imagination, that none will be satisfied until they have met all of their favorites--Squinty, Slicko, Mappo, Tum Tum, etc. 1 SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG. 2 SLICKO, THE JUMPING SQUIRREL. 3 MAPPO, THE MERRY MONKEY. 4 TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT. 5 DON, A RUNAWAY DOG. 6 DIDO, THE DANCING BEAR. 7 BLACKIE, A LOST CAT. 8 FLOP EAR, THE FUNNY RABBIT. 9 TINKLE, THE TRICK PONY. 10 LIGHTFOOT, THE LEAPING GOAT. 11 CHUNKY, THE HAPPY HIPPO. 12 SHARP EYES, THE SILVER FOX. 13 NERO, THE CIRCUS LION. 14 TAMBA, THE TAME TIGER. _Cloth, Large 12mo, Illustrated, Per vol. 60 cents_ For sale at all bookstores or sent (postage paid) on receipt of price by the publishers. * * * * * BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers 28 West 23rd Street New York 
16956	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 16956-h.htm or 16956-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/9/5/16956/16956-h/16956-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/9/5/16956/16956-h.zip) BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE PLAYING CIRCUS by LAURA LEE HOPE Author of The Bunny Brown Series, The Bobbsey Twins Series, The Outdoor Girls Series, etc. Illustrated by Florence England Nosworthy [Illustration: THEN BUNNY AND SUE JUMPED THROUGH HOOPS COVERED WITH PAPER. _Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Playing Circus._ Frontispiece (P. 117).] New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers 1916 * * * * * BOOKS By LAURA LEE HOPE * * * * * 12mo. Cloth, Illustrated. Price, per volume, 50 cents, postpaid. * * * * * THE BUNNY BROWN SERIES BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE ON GRANDPA'S FARM BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE PLAYING CIRCUS BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT AUNT LU'S CITY HOME BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT CAMP REST-A-WHILE THE BOBBSEY TWINS SERIES For Little Men and Women THE BOBBSEY TWINS THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT THE SEASHORE THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SCHOOL THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SNOW LODGE THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON A HOUSEBOAT THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT MEADOW BROOK THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT HOME * * * * * THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A MOTOR CAR THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A WINTER CAMP THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN FLORIDA THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT OCEAN VIEW THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON PINE ISLAND * * * * * Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York * * * * * Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Playing Circus CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. BUNNY IS UPSIDE DOWN 1 II. LET'S HAVE A CIRCUS! 10 III. THE POOR OLD HEN 21 IV. A STRANGE BOY 30 V. SOMETHING QUEER 40 VI. BEN HALL HELPS 48 VII. BUNNY HAS A FALL 56 VIII. THE DOLL IN THE WELL 65 IX. THE STRIPED CALF 73 X. THE OLD ROOSTER 82 XI. PRACTICE FOR THE CIRCUS 93 XII. THE LITTLE CIRCUS 102 XIII. THE WILD ANIMALS 111 XIV. BUNNY AND SUE GO SAILING 121 XV. SPLASH IS LOST 131 XVI. GETTING THE TENTS 142 XVII. BUNNY AND THE BALLOONS 152 XVIII. THE STORM 163 XIX. HARD WORK 174 XX. THE MISSING MICE 185 XXI. THE BIG CIRCUS 194 XXII. BUNNY'S BRAVE ACT 206 XXIII. BEN DOES A TRICK 215 XXIV. BEN'S SECRET 227 XXV. BACK HOME AGAIN 238 BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE PLAYING CIRCUS CHAPTER I BUNNY IS UPSIDE DOWN "Grandpa, where are you going now?" asked Bunny Brown. "And what are you going to do?" asked Bunny Brown's sister Sue. Grandpa Brown, who was walking down the path at the side of the farmhouse, with a basket on his arm, stood and looked at the two children. He smiled at them, and Bunny and Sue smiled back, for they liked Grandpa Brown very much, and he just loved them. "Are you going after the eggs?" asked Sue. "That basket is too big for eggs," Bunny observed. "It wouldn't be--not for great, great, big eggs," the little girl said. "Would it, Grandpa?" "No, Sue. I guess if I were going out to gather ostrich eggs I wouldn't get many of them in this basket. But I'm not going after eggs. Not this time, anyhow." "Where are you going?" asked Bunny once more. "What's a--a ockstritch?" asked Sue, for that was as near as she could say the funny word. "An ostrich," answered Grandpa Brown, "is a big bird, much bigger than the biggest Thanksgiving turkey. It has long legs, and fine feathers, and ladies wear them on their hats. I mean they wear the ostrich feathers, not the bird's legs." "And do ockstritches lay big eggs?" Sue wanted to know. "They do," answered Grandpa Brown. "They lay eggs in the hot sand of the desert, and they are big eggs. I guess I couldn't get more than six of them in this basket." "Oh-o-o-o!" exclaimed Bunny and Sue together, with their eyes wide open. "What big eggs they must be!" went on Bunny. "And is you going to get hens' eggs or ockstritches' eggs now, Grandpa?" asked Sue. "Neither one, little brown-eyes, I'm going out in the orchard to pick a few peaches. Grandma wants to make a peach shortcake for supper. So I have to get the peaches." "Oh, may we come?" asked Sue, dropping the doll with which she had been playing. "I'll help you pick the peaches," offered Bunny, and he put down some sticks, a hammer and nails. He was trying to make a house for Splash, the big dog, but it was harder work than Bunny had thought. He was glad to stop. "Yes, come along, both of you," replied Grandpa Brown. "I don't believe you can reach up to pick any peaches, but you can eat some, I guess. You know how to eat peaches, don't you?" he asked, smiling again at Bunny Brown and his sister Sue. "Oh, I love peaches!" said Sue. "And I do, too--and peach shortcake is awful good!" murmured Bunny. "Well, come along then. It's nice and shady and cool in the peach orchard." Grandpa Brown put the basket over his arm, and gave Bunny one hand to clasp, while Sue took the other. In this way they walked down the path, through the garden, and out toward the orchard. "Bunny! Sue! Where are you going?" called their mother to the children. Mrs. Brown had come out on the side porch. "With Grandpa," answered Bunny. "I'll look after them," said Grandpa Brown. Bunny and his sister, with their papa and mamma, were spending the summer on the farm of Grandpa Brown away out in the country. The children liked it on the farm very much, for they had good fun. A few days before they had gone to the circus, and had seen so many wonderful things that they talked about them from morning until night, and, sometimes, even after they got to bed. But just now, for a little while, they were not talking or thinking about the circus, though up to the time when Grandpa Brown came around the house with the basket on his arm, Bunny had been telling Sue about the man who hung by his heels from a trapeze that was fast to the top of the big tent. A trapeze, you know, is something like a swing, only it has a stick for a seat instead of a board. "I could hang by a trapeze if I wanted to," Bunny had said to Sue. "Oh, Bunny Brown! You could not!" Sue had cried. "I could if I had the trapeze," he had said. Then along had come Grandpa Brown. "How many peaches do you think you can eat, Bunny?" asked Grandpa, as he led the children toward the orchard. "Oh, maybe seven or six." "That's too many!" laughed Grandpa Brown. "We should have to have the doctor for you, I'm afraid. I guess if you eat two you will have enough, especially with shortcake for supper." "I can eat three," spoke up Sue. "I like peaches." "But don't eat too many," said Grandpa. "Now I'll see if I can find a little, low tree, with ripe peaches on it, so you children can pick some off for yourselves." They were in the orchard now. It was cool and shady there, and the children liked it, for the sun was shining hot outside the orchard. On one edge of the place, where grew the peach trees, ran a little brook, and Bunny and Sue could hear it bubbling as it rippled over the green, mossy stones. The sound of running water made the air seem cooler. A little farther off, across the garden, were grandpa's beehives, where the bees were making honey. Sue and her brother could hear the bees buzzing as they flew from the hives to the flowers in the field. But the children did not want to go very close to the hives, for they knew the bees could sting. "Now here's a nice tree for you to pick peaches from," said Grandpa Brown, as he stopped under one in the orchard. "You may pick two peaches each, and eat them," went on the childrens' grandfather. "And don't you want us to pick some for you, like ockstritches' eggs, an' put them in the basket?" asked Sue. "Well, after you eat your two, perhaps you can help me," answered Grandpa Brown with a smile. But I think he knew that by the time Bunny and Sue had picked their own peaches he would have his basket filled. For, though Bunny and Sue wanted to help, their hands were small and they could not do much. Besides, they liked to play, and you cannot play and work at the same time. But children need to play, so that's all right. Leaving Bunny and Sue under the tree he had showed them, where they might pick their own peaches, Grandpa Brown walked on a little farther, looking for a place where he might fill his basket. "Oh, there's a nice red peach I'm going to get!" exclaimed Sue, as she reached up her hand toward it. But she found she was not quite tall enough. "I'll get it for you," offered Bunny, kindly. He got the peach for Sue, and she began to eat it. "Oh, Bunny!" she cried. "It's a lovely sweet one. I hope you get a nice one." "I will," Bunny said. Then as he looked at his sister he cried: "Oh, Sue! The juice is running all down your chin on your dress." "Oh-oh-o-o-o!" said Sue, as she looked at the peach juice on her dress. "Oh-o-o-o!" "Never mind," remarked Bunny. "We can wash it off in the brook." "Yes," said Sue, and she went on eating her peach. "We'll wash it." Bunny was looking up into the tree for a peach for himself. He wanted to get the biggest and reddest one he could find. "Oh, I see a great big one!" Bunny cried, as he walked all around the tree. "Where is it?" asked Sue. "I want a big one, Bunny." "I'll get you another one. I see two," and Bunny pointed to them up in the tree. "You can't reach 'em," asserted Sue. "They're too high, Bunny." "I--I can climb the tree," said the little boy. "I can climb the tree and get them." "You'll fall," Sue said. "No, I won't, Sue. You just watch me." The peach tree was a low one, with branches close to the ground. And, as Bunny Brown said, he did know a little bit about climbing. He found a box in the orchard, and, by standing on this he got up into the tree. Up and up he went, higher and higher until he was almost within reach of the two peaches he wanted. Grandpa Brown was busy picking peaches at a tree farther off, and did not see the children. "Look out, Sue. I'm going to drop a peach down to you," called Bunny from up in the tree. "I'll look out," said Sue. "I'll hold up my dress, and you can drop the peach in that. Then it won't squash on the ground." She stood under the tree, looking up toward her brother. Bunny reached for one of the two big, red peaches, but he did not pick it. Something else happened. A branch on which the little boy was standing suddenly broke, and down he fell. He turned over, almost like a clown doing a somersault in the circus, and the next moment Bunny's two feet caught between two other branches, and there he hung, upside down, his head pointing to the ground. CHAPTER II LET'S HAVE A CIRCUS! "Bunny! Bunny! What are you doing?" cried Sue, as she saw her brother hanging, head down, in such a funny way from the peach tree branches. "Don't do that, Bunny! You'll get hurt!" "I--I didn't mean to do it!" cried Bunny, and his voice sounded very strange, coming from his mouth upside down as it was. Sue did not know whether to laugh or cry. "Oh, Bunny! Bunny, is you playing circus?" she asked. "No--no! I'm not playing circus!" and Bunny wiggled, and wiggled again, trying to get his feet loose. Both of them were caught between two branches of the peach tree where the limbs grew close together. And it is a good thing that Bunny could not get his feet loose just then, or he would have wiggled himself to the ground, and he might have been badly hurt, for he would have fallen on his head. "Oh, Bunny! Bunny! You _is_ playing circus!" cried Sue again. She had finished her first peach, and now, dropping the stone, from which she had been sucking the last, sweet bits of pulp, she stood looking at her brother, dangling from the tree. "No, I'm not playing circus!" and Bunny's voice sounded now as though he was just ready to cry. "Run and tell grandpa to help me down, Sue!" he begged. "I--I'm choking--I can't hardly breathe, Sue! Run for grandpa!" Bunny was almost choking, and his face, tanned as it was from the sun and wind, was red now--almost as red as the boiled lobster, the hollow claw of which Bunny once put over his nose to make himself look like Mr. Punch, of the Punch and Judy show. For when boys, or girls either, hang by their feet, with their heads upside down, all the blood seems to run there if they hang too long. And that was what was happening to Bunny Brown. "Are you _sure_ you isn't playin' circus?" asked Sue. "No--I--I'm not playing," answered Bunny. "Hurry for grandpa! Oh, how my head hurts!" "You look just like the circus man," said Sue. For one of the men in the circus Bunny and Sue had seen a few days before had hung by his toes from a trapeze, upside down, just as Bunny was hanging, with his head pointing toward the ground, and his feet near the top of the tent. But of course the circus man was used to it, and it did not hurt his head as it did Bunny's. "Hurry, Sue!" begged the little boy. "All right. I'll get grandpa," Sue cried, as she ran off toward the tree where Grandpa Brown was picking peaches. "Oh, Grandpa!" cried the little girl. "Come--come hurry up. Bunny--Bunny--he----" Sue was so out of breath, from having run so fast, and from trying to talk so fast, that she could hardly speak. But Grandpa Brown knew something was the matter. "What is it, Sue?" he asked. "What has happened to Bunny? Did a bee sting him?" "No, Grandpa. But he--he's like the circus man, only he says he isn't playin' he is a circus. He's upside down in the tree, and he's a wigglin' an' a wogglin' an' he can't get down, an' his face is all red an' he wants you, an'--an'----" "My goodness me!" exclaimed Grandpa Brown, setting on the ground his basket, now half full of peaches. "What is that boy up to now?" For Bunny Brown, and often his sister Sue, did get into all sorts of mischief, though they did not always mean to do so. "What has Bunny done now, I wonder?" asked grandpa. "He--he couldn't help it," said Sue. "He slipped when he went up the tree, and now he's swinging by his legs just like the man in the circus, only Bunny says he isn't." "He isn't what?" asked Grandpa Brown, as he hurried along, taking hold of Sue's hand. "What isn't he, Sue? I never did see such children!" and Grandpa Brown shook his head. "Bunny says he isn't the man in the circus," explained Sue. "No, I shouldn't think he would be a man in the circus," said grandpa. "He _looks_ just like a circus man, though," insisted Sue. "But he says he isn't playin' that game." Sue shook her head. She did not know what it all meant, nor why Bunny was hanging in such a queer way. But Grandpa Brown would make it all right. Sue was sure of that. "There he is! There's Bunny upside down!" cried Sue, pointing to the tree in which Bunny was hanging by his feet. "Oh, my!" cried Grandpa Brown. Then he ran forward, took Bunny in his arms, and raised him up. This lifted Bunny's feet free from the tree branches, between which they were caught, and then Grandpa Brown turned the little boy right side up, and set him down on his feet. "There you are, Bunny!" cried grandpa. "But how did it happen? Were you trying to be a circus, all by yourself?" "N--n--no," stammered Bunny, for he could hardly get his breath yet. "I--I slipped down when I was reaching for a big, red peach for Sue. But I didn't slip all the way, for my feets caught in the tree." "Well, it's a good thing they did, or you might have been hurt worse than you were," said Grandpa Brown. "But I guess you're not hurt much now; are you?" Bunny looked down at his feet. Then he felt of his own arms and legs. He took a long breath. His face was not so red now. "I--I guess I'm all right," he answered, at last. "Well, don't climb any more trees," said Grandpa Brown. "You are too little." Bunny thought he was quite a big boy, but of course grandpa knew what was right. "I--I won't climb any more _peach_ trees," said Bunny Brown. "No, nor any other kind!" exclaimed his grandfather. "Just keep out of trees. Little boys and girls are safest on the ground. But now you had better come over where I can keep my eyes on you. I have my basket nearly filled. We'll very soon go back to the house." Bunny Brown was all right now. So he and Sue went over to the tree where grandpa was picking. They helped to fill the basket, for some of the peaches grew on branches so close to the ground that the children could reach up and pick them without any trouble. Bunny Brown and his sister Sue had been on grandpa's farm since early summer. Those of you who have read the first book in this series do not need to be told who the children are. But there are some who may want to hear a little about them. In the first book, named "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue," I told you how the children, with their father and mother, lived in the town of Bellemere, on Sandport bay, near the ocean. Mr. Brown was in the boat business, and many fishermen hired boats from him. Aunt Lu came from New York to visit Mrs. Brown, the mother of Bunny and Sue, and while on her visit Aunt Lu lost her diamond ring. Bunny found it in an awfully funny way, when he was playing he was Mr. Punch, in the Punch and Judy show. In the second book, "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue on Grandpa's Farm," I told you how the Brown family went to the country in a big automobile, in which they lived just as Gypsies do. They even slept in the big automobile van. And when Bunny and Sue reached grandpa's farm, after a two days' trip, what fun they had! You may read all about it in the book. And Bunny and Sue did more than just have fun. The children helped find grandpa's horses, that had been taken away by the Gypsies. The horses were found at the circus, where Bunny and Sue went to see the elephants, tigers, lions, camels and ponies. They also saw the men swinging on the trapeze, high up in the big tent. Bunny Brown and his sister Sue always wanted to be doing something. If it was not one thing it was another. They often got lost, though they did not mean to. Sometimes their dog Splash would find them. Splash was a fine dog. He pulled Sue out of the water once, and she called him Splash because he "splashed" in so bravely to get her. In Bellemere, where Bunny and Sue lived, they had many friends. Every one in town loved the children. Even Wango, the queer monkey pet of Mr. Winkler, the old sailor, liked Bunny and Sue. But they had not seen Wango for some time now; not since coming to the farm in the country. They had seen a trained bear, which a man led around by a string. The bear climbed a telegraph pole, and did other tricks. Bunny and Sue thought he was very funny. But they did not like him as much as they did the cunning little monkey at home in Bellemere. Carrying the basket of peaches on his arm, and leading the children, Grandpa Brown walked back to the house. Mrs. Brown, the mother of Bunny and Sue, watched them come up the walk. "Oh, Sue!" cried her mother. "Look at your dress! What did you spill on it?" "I--I guess it's peach juice, Mother. It dripped all over. But Bunny hung upside down in the tree, just like the man in the circus, only he wasn't." I guess Sue was glad to talk about something else beside the peach juice stains on her dress. "What--what happened?" asked Mother Brown, looking at grandpa. "Did Bunny----?" "That's right," he said, laughing. "Bunny was hanging, upside down, in a tree. But he wasn't hurt, and I soon lifted him down." "Oh, what will those children do next?" asked their mother. "I--I didn't mean to do it," said Bunny. "It--it just--happened. I--I couldn't help it." "No, I suppose not," said his mother. "But you must go and wash now. Sue, I'll put a clean dress on you, and then I'll see if I can get the peach stains off this one. You ought to have on an old apron." A little later, Bunny and Sue, now nice and clean, were sitting on the side porch. It was almost time for supper. "Bunny," asked Sue, "did it hurt when you were playin' you were a circus man only you weren't?" "No, it didn't exactly _hurt_," he said slowly. "But it felt funny. Did I really look like a circus man, Sue?" "Yep. Just like one. Only, of course, you didn't have any nice pink suit on, with spangles and silver and gold." "Oh, no, of course not," agreed Bunny. "But did I swing by my feet?" "Yes, Bunny, you did." For a moment the little chap said nothing. Then he cried out: "Oh, Sue! I know what let's do!" "What?" "Let's have a circus! It will be lots of fun! We'll get up a circus all by ourselves! Will you help me make a circus?" CHAPTER III THE POOR OLD HEN Sue looked at Bunny with widely-opened eyes. Then she clapped her hands. Sue always did that when she felt happy, and she felt that way now. "Oh, Bunny!" she cried. "A circus? A real circus?" "Well, of course not a _real_, big one, with lions and tigers and all that," said the little boy. "We couldn't get elephants and camels and bears. But maybe grandpa would let us take his two horses, that he got back from the Gypsies. They have lots of horses in the circus." "I'd be afraid to ride on a horse," objected Sue, shaking her head. "You wouldn't if Bunker Blue held you on; would you?" "No, maybe not then." "Well, we'll get Bunker Blue to hold us on the horse's back," said Bunny. Bunker Blue was a big, red-haired boy--almost a man--and he worked for Mr. Brown. Bunker was very fond of Bunny and Sue. Bunker had steered the big automobile in which the Brown family came to grandpa's farm, and he was still staying in the country. "Do you think we could really get up a circus?" asked Sue, after thinking about what Bunny had said. "Of course we can," answered the little boy. "Didn't we get up a Punch and Judy show, when I found Aunt Lu's diamond ring?" "Yes, but that wasn't as big as a circus." "Well, we need only have a little circus show, Sue." "Where could we have it, Bunny?" The little boy thought for a moment. "In grandpa's barn," he answered. "There's lots of room. It would be just fine." "Would you and me be all the circus, Bunny?" "Oh, no. We'd get some of the other boys and girls. We could get Tom White, Nellie Bruce, Jimmie Kenny, Sallie Smith and Ned Johnson. They'd be glad to play circus." "Yes, I guess they would," said Sue. "It will be lots of fun. But what can we do, Bunny? You haven't any lobster claw to play Mr. Punch now, 'cause it's broke." "No, we don't want to give a Punch and Judy show, Sue. We want to make this just like a circus, with trapezes and wild animals and----" "But you said we couldn't have any lions or tigers, Bunny. 'Sides, I'd be afraid of them," and Sue looked over her shoulder as if, even then, an elephant might be reaching out his trunk toward her for some peanuts. "Oh, of course we couldn't have any real wild animals," said Bunny. "What kind, then?" Sue wanted to know. "Make believe kind. I could put some stripes on Splash, and make believe our dog was a tiger, Sue." "How could you put stripes on him, Bunny?" "With paint." "No!" cried Sue, shaking her head. "Splash is half my dog, and I don't want him all painted up. You sha'n't do it, Bunny Brown!" "All right, then. I'll only paint _my_ half of Splash," said the little boy. "_My_ half can be a striped tiger, and _your_ half can be just a plain dog." "That would be a funny wild animal," Sue said. "A half tiger and half dog." "Lots of folks would like to see an animal like that," Bunny said. "I'll just stripe my half of Splash, and leave your half plain, Sue." "All right. But is you only going to have one wild make-believe animal, Bunny?" "No, Ned Johnson has a dog. We can make a lion out of him." "But Ned's dog hasn't any tail," said Sue. "I mean he has only a little baby tail, like a rabbit. Lions always have tails with tassels on the end." "Well," said Bunny, slowly. "We could make believe this lion had his tail bit off by an elephant." "Oh, yes," said Sue. "Or else maybe I could tie a cloth tail on Ned's dog," went on Bunny. "And lions have manes, too. That's a lot of hair on their neck, like a horse," went on Sue. "Well, we could take some carpenter shavings and tie them on Ned's dog's neck," said Bunny. "We could make believe that was the lion's mane." "Yes," agreed Sue, "we could do that. Oh, I think a circus is nice, Bunny. But what else can we have besides the wild animals?" "Oh, I can make a trapeze from the clothes-line and a broom handle. I could hang by my feet from the trapeze." "Oh, Bunny! Wouldn't you be afraid?" "Pooh! No! Didn't I hang in the tree? And I was only a little scared then. I'll get on the trapeze all right." "And what can I do, Bunny?" "Oh, you can ride a horse when Bunker Blue holds you on. We'll get mother to make you a blue dress out of mosquito netting, and you can have a ribbon in your hair, like a real circus lady." "Oh, Bunny, do you s'pose mother will let us have the circus?" "I guess so. We'll tell her about it, anyhow. But we'll have to get some other boys and girls to help us. And we'll have to make a cage to keep Splash in. He's going to be the wild tiger, you know." "Oh, but I don't want Splash shut up in a cage!" cried Sue. "I sha'n't let you put my half of him in a cage! And I do own half of him, right down the middle; half his tail is mine, too. You can't put my half of him in any old cage!" Bunny did not know what to say. It was easy enough to put make-believe tiger stripes on one side, or on half a dog, but it was very hard to put half a dog in a cage, and leave the other half outside. Bunny did not see how it could be done. "Oh, it won't hurt Splash," said the little boy. "Come on, Sue. Please let me put your half with my half of Splash in a cage." "No, sir! Bunny Brown! I won't do it! You can't put my half of Splash in a cage. He won't like it." "But, Sue, it's only a make-believe cage, just as he's a make-believe tiger." "Oh, well, if it's only a make-believe cage, then, I don't care. But you mustn't hurt him, and you can't put any paint stripes on my half." "No, I won't, Sue. Now let's go out to the barn and look to see where we can put up the trapezes and rings and things like that, and where I can hang by my feet and by my hands." "Oh, Bunny! Are you going to do that?" "Sure!" cried the little boy, as though it was as easy as eating a piece of strawberry shortcake. "You just watch me, Sue." "Well, I don't want to do that," said Sue. "I'm just going to be a pretty lady and ride a white horse." "But grandpa hasn't any white horses, Sue. They're brown." "Well, I can sprinkle some talcum powder on a brown horse and make him white," said the little girl. "Can't I?" "Oh, yes!" cried Bunny. "That will be fine! But it will take an awful lot of talcum powder to make a big horse all white, Sue." "Well, I'll just make him spotted white then. I've got some talcum powder of my own, and it smells awful good. I guess a horse would like it; don't you, Bunny?" "I guess so, Sue. But come out to the barn." Grandpa Brown had two barns on his farm. One was where the horses and cows were kept, and the other held wagons, carriages and machinery. It was in the horse-barn where the children went--the barn where there were big piles of sweet-smelling hay. "I can fall on the hay, 'stead of falling in a net, like the circus men do," said Bunny. "Anyhow, we haven't any circus net," suggested Sue. "No," agreed Bunny. "But the hay is just as bouncy. I'm going to jump in it!" He climbed up on the edge of the hay-mow, or place where the hay is kept, and jumped into the dried grass. For hay is just dried grass, you know. Down into the hay bounced Bunny, and Sue bounced after him. The children jumped up and down in the hay, laughing and shouting. Then they played around the barn, trying to pretend that they were already having the circus in it. "Oh, it will be such fun!" cried Sue. "Jolly!" cried Bunny. "Let's go and ask mother now," said Sue. The children started for the house. On the way they had to pass a little pond of water. On the edge of it stood a hen, clucking and making a great fuss. She would run toward the water and then come back again, without getting her feet wet. "Oh, the poor old hen!" cried Sue. "What's the matter? Oh, see, Bunny! All her little chickens are in the water. Oh, Bunny! We must get them out for her. Oh, you poor old hen!" CHAPTER IV A STRANGE BOY Bunny Brown and his sister Sue stood on the shore of the little pond, looking at the old hen, who was fluttering up and down, very much excited, clucking and calling as loudly as she could. And, paddling up and down in the water in front of her, where the hen dared not go, for chickens don't like to get wet you know, paddling up and down in front of the hen were some soft, fluffy little balls of downy feathers. "Oh, her chickens will all be drowned!" cried Sue. "We must get them out, Bunny. Take off your shoes and stockings and wade in. I'll help you save the little chickens for the poor old hen." Sue sat down on the ground, and began to take off her shoes. Bunny began to laugh. "Why, what--what's the matter?" asked Sue, and she seemed rather surprised at Bunny's laughter. "Don't you want to save the little chicks for the hen?" Sue went on. "Maybe somebody threw them in the water, or maybe they fell in." "Those aren't little chickens, Sue!" exclaimed Bunny, still laughing. "Not chickens? They aren't? Then what are they?" "Little ducks! That's the reason they went into the water. They know how to swim when they're just hatched out of the eggs. They won't get drowned." Sue did not know what to say. She had never before seen any baby ducks, and, at first, they did look like newly hatched chickens. But as she watched them she saw they were swimming about, and, as one little baby duck waddled out on the shore, Sue could see the webbed feet, which were not at all like the claws of a chicken. "But Bunny--Bunny--if they're little ducks and it doesn't hurt them to go in the water, what makes the old hen so afraid?" Sue asked. "I--I guess she thinks they are chickens. She doesn't know they are ducks and can swim," said Bunny. "I guess that's it, Sue." "Ha! Ha! Yes, that's it!" a voice exclaimed behind Bunny and Sue. They looked around to see their Grandpa Brown looking at them and laughing. "The old hen doesn't know what to make of her little family going in swimming," he went on. "You see, we put ducks' eggs under a hen to hatch, Bunny and Sue. A hen can hatch any kind of eggs." "Can a hen hatch ockstritches' eggs?" Sue wanted to know. "Well, maybe not the eggs of an ostrich," answered Grandpa Brown. "I guess a hen could only cover one of those at a time. But a hen can hatch ducks' or turkeys' eggs as well as her own kind." "So as we don't always have a duck that wants to hatch out little ones, we put the ducks' eggs under a hen. And every time, as soon as the little ducks find water, after they are hatched, they go in for a swim, just as if they had a duck for a mother instead of a hen. "And, of course, the mother hen thinks she has little chickens, for at first she can't tell the little ducks from chickens. And when they go into the water she thinks, just as you did, Sue, that they will be drowned. So she makes a great fuss. But she soon gets over it." "I guess she's over it now," said Bunny. Indeed, the old mother hen was not clucking so loudly now, nor was she rushing up and down on the shore of the pond with her wings all fluffed up. She seemed to know that the little family she had hatched out, even if they were not like any others she had taken care of, were all right, and very nice. And she seemed to think that for them to go in the water was all right, too. As for the little ducklings, they paddled about, and quacked and whistled (as baby ducks always do) and had a perfectly lovely time. The old mother hen stood on the bank and watched them. Pretty soon the ducks had had enough of swimming, and they came out on dry land, waddling from side to side in the funny way ducks do when they walk. "Oh! How glad the old hen is to see them safe on shore again!" cried Sue. And, indeed, the mother hen did seem glad to have her family with her once more. She clucked over them, and tried to hover them under her warm wings, thinking, maybe, that she would dry them after their bath. But ducks' feathers do not get wet in the water the way the feathers of chickens do, for ducks feathers have a sort of oil in them. So the little ducks did not need to get dry. They ran about in the sun, quacking in their baby voices, and the mother hen followed them about, clucking and scratching in the gravel to dig up things for them to eat. "They'll be all right now," said Grandpa Brown. "The next time the little ducks go into the water the old hen mother won't be at all frightened, for she will know it is all right. This always happens when we let a chicken hatch out ducks' eggs." "And I thought the little chickens were drowning!" laughed Sue, as she put on her shoes again. "Well, that's just what the mother hen thought," said Grandpa Brown. "But what have you children been doing?" "Getting ready for a circus," answered Bunny Brown. "A circus!" exclaimed grandpa, in surprise. "Yes," explained Sue. "Bunny is going to get a trapeze, and fall down in the hay, where it doesn't hurt. And he's going to paint his half of our dog Splash, so Splash will look like a tiger, and we're going to have a horse, and Bunker Blue is going to hold me on so I can ride and--and----" But that was all Sue could think of just then. Grandpa Brown looked surprised and, taking off his straw hat, scratched his head, as he always did when thinking. "Going to have a circus; eh? Well, where abouts?" "In your barn," said Bunny. "That is, if you'll let us." Grandpa Brown thought for a little while. "Well," he said slowly, "I guess I don't mind. I s'pose it's only a make-believe circus; isn't it?" "Yes," answered Bunny. "Just pretend." "Oh, well, go ahead. Have all the fun you like, but don't get hurt. Are you two going to be the whole circus?" "Oh, no!" exclaimed Bunny. "We're going to have Tom White and Ned Johnson----" "And Nellie Bruce and Sallie Smith," added Sue. "All the children around here; eh?" asked grandpa. "Well, have a good time. I used to have a trained dog once. He would do finely for your circus." "What could he do?" Bunny wanted to know. "Oh, he could pretend to say his prayers, make believe he was dead, he could turn somersaults and climb a ladder." "Oh, if we only had him for our circus!" cried Bunny. "Where is that dog now, Grandpa?" asked Sue. "Oh, he died a good many years ago. But I guess you can get your dog Splash to do some tricks. Have a good time, but don't get into mischief." "We won't!" promised Bunny Brown and his sister Sue. And they really meant what they said. But you just wait and see what happens. The rest of that day Bunny and Sue talked about the circus they were going to have. Grandma Brown, as well as father and Mother Brown, said she did not mind if a circus was held in the barn, but she wanted Bunny to be careful about going on the trapeze. "Oh, if I fall I'll fall in the hay," said the little fellow with a laugh. "And what are you going to use to put stripes on your half of Splash?" asked his mother. "Paint, I guess," said Bunny. "Oh, no. Paint would spoil Splash's nice, fluffy hair. I'll mix you up some starch and water, with a little bluing in, that will easily wash off," promised Mother Brown. "Blue stripes!" cried Bunny. "A tiger doesn't have blue stripes, and my half of Splash is going to be a tiger." "You can pretend he is a new sort of tiger," said Grandma Brown, and Bunny was satisfied with that. That afternoon Bunny and Sue went to the homes of the neighboring children to tell them about the circus. Nearly all the children said they would come, and take part in the show in the barn. "Oh, we'll have a fine circus!" cried Bunny Brown that night when they were all sitting on the porch to cool off, for it was quite hot. "Yes, I guess we'll all have to come and see you act," said Daddy Brown. "Hark! What's that?" suddenly asked Grandma Brown. They all listened, and heard some one knocking at the back door. "I'll go and look," said grandpa. "Maybe it's a tramp. There have been some around lately." Bunny and Sue thought of the tramps who had taken the big cocoanut-custard cake, about which I told you in the book before this one. Perhaps those tramps had gotten out of jail and had come to get more cake. Bunny and Sue sat close to mother and father while grandpa went around the corner of the house to see who was knocking at the back door. They all heard grandpa speaking to some one. And the answers came in a boy's voice. "What do you want?" asked grandpa. "If--if you please," said the strange boy's voice, "I--I'm very hungry. I haven't had any dinner or supper. I'm willing to do any work you want, for something to eat. I--I----" And then it sounded as though the strange boy were crying. "That isn't a tramp!" exclaimed Grandma Brown, getting up. "It's just a hungry boy. I'm going to feed him." They all followed Grandma Brown around to the back stoop. There was a light in the kitchen, and by it Bunny and Sue could see a boy, not quite as big as Bunker Blue, standing beside grandpa. The boy had on clothes that were dusty, and somewhat torn. But the boy's face and hands were clean, and he had bright eyes that, just now, seemed filled with tears. "What is it?" asked Grandma Brown. "It's a hungry boy, Mother. A strange, hungry boy!" said grandpa. "I guess we'll have to feed him, and then we'll have him tell us his story." CHAPTER V SOMETHING QUEER "Come right in and sit down!" was Grandma Brown's invitation. And she said it in such a kind, pleasant voice that the strange boy looked around as though she were speaking to some one who had come up behind him, that he could not see. "Come right in, and get something to eat," went on the children's grandmother. "Do you--do you mean _me_?" asked the strange boy. "Why, yes. Who else do you s'pose she meant?" asked Grandpa Brown. "I--I didn't know, sir. You see I--I'm not used to being invited into places that way. I thought maybe you didn't mean it." "Mean it? Of course I mean it!" said Grandma Brown. "You're hungry; aren't you?" asked Grandpa Brown. "Hungry. Oh, sir--I--I haven't had anything since breakfast, and then it was only a green apple and some berries I picked." "Land sakes!" cried Grandma Brown. "Why didn't you go up to the first house you came to and ask for a meal?" "I--I didn't like to, ma'am. I thought maybe they'd set the dog on me, thinking I was a tramp." By this time Splash, the big pet dog, had come around the path. The strange boy looked around as though getting ready to run. "He won't hurt you," said Bunny quickly. "Splash is a good dog." Splash went up to the strange boy, rubbed his cold, wet nose on the boy's legs, and then Splash began to wag his tail. "See, he likes you," said Sue. "He's going to be in our show; Splash is. He's going to be half a blue-striped tiger when we have our circus." "Circus!" cried the strange boy. "Is--is there a circus around here?" and he seemed much surprised, even frightened, Bunny thought afterward. "No, there isn't any circus," said Grandpa Brown. "It's only a make-believe one the children are getting up. But we musn't keep you standing here talking when you're half starved. Get him something to eat, Mother. The idea of being afraid to go to a house and ask for something!" said Grandpa Brown, in a low voice. "That shows he isn't a regular tramp; doesn't it?" asked Mother Brown. "I should say so--yes," answered grandpa. "But there is something queer about that boy." By this time Grandmother Brown had gone into the kitchen. She told the strange boy to follow her, and soon she had set out in front of him some bread and butter, a plate of cold meat and a big bowl of cool, rich, creamy milk. "Now you just eat all you want," said Grandma Brown, kindly. Bunny and Sue had come out into the kitchen, and they now stood staring at the strange boy. He had a pleasant face, though, just now, it looked pale, and all pinched up from hunger, like a rubber ball that hasn't any air in it. The boy looked around the kitchen, as though he did not know just what to do. In his hand he held a ragged cap he had taken off his head when he came in. "Did you want something?" asked Grandma Brown. "I--I was looking for a place to hang my hat. And then I'd like to wash. I'm all dust and dirt." Grandma Brown smiled. She was pleased--Bunny and Sue could see that--for Grandma Brown liked clean and neat boys and girls who hung up their hats and bonnets, and washed their faces and hands, without being told to do so. "Hang your cap over on that nail," said Grandpa Brown, pointing to one behind the stove. "And you can wash at the sink to-night. Now you two tots had better go to bed!" grandpa went on, as he saw Bunny and Sue standing with their backs against the wall, watching the strange boy. "We--we want to stay and see him eat," objected Sue. The boy smiled, and Mrs. Brown laughed. "This isn't a circus, where you watch the animals eat," she said. "You come along with me, and, when this young man has finished his supper, you can see him again." "Oh, but--if you please--you're very good. But after I eat this nice meal I'll--I'll be going on," said the boy. "No you'll not!" said Grandpa Brown. "You'll just stay here all night. We can put you up. I think it's going to storm. You don't want to be out in the rain?" "Oh, that's very good of you," the boy said, "But I don't want to be a trouble to you." "It won't be any trouble," Grandpa Brown said. Then he went out of the kitchen with Mother Brown, Bunny and Sue, leaving Grandma Brown to wait on the strange boy. Splash stayed in the kitchen too. Perhaps the big dog was hungry himself. "That boy isn't a regular tramp," said Grandpa Brown. "But there is something queer about him. He seems afraid. I must have a talk with him after he eats." "He seems nice and neat," said Mother Brown. "Yes, he's clean. I like him for that. Well, we'll soon find out what he has to tell me." But the boy did not seem to want to talk much about himself, when Grandpa Brown began asking questions, after the meal. "You have run away; haven't you?" Grandpa Brown asked. "Yes--yes, sir, I did run away." "From home?" "No, I haven't had any home, that I can remember. I didn't run away from home. I was working." "On a farm?" "No, sir. I didn't work on a farm." "Where was it then?" "I--I'd rather not tell," the boy said, looking around him as though he thought some one might be after him. "Look here!" said Grandpa Brown. "You haven't been a bad boy; have you?" "No--no, sir. I've tried to be good. But the--the people I worked for made it hard for me. They wanted me to do things I couldn't, and they beat me and didn't give me enough to eat. So I just ran away. They may come after me--that's why I don't want to tell you. If you don't know where I ran from, you won't know what to tell them if they come after me. But I'll go now." The boy got up from the table, as though to go out into the night. It was raining now. "No, I won't let you go," said Grandpa Brown. "And I won't give you up to the people who beat you. I'll look into this. You can stay here to-night. You can sleep in the room with Bunker Blue. He'll look after you. Now I hope you have been telling me the truth!" "Oh, yes, sir. It's all true. I did work for--for some people, and they half starved me and made me work very hard. I just had to run away, and I hope they don't catch me and take me back." "Well, I hope so, too," Grandpa Brown said. "I can't imagine what sort of work you did. You don't look very strong." "I'm not. But I didn't have to be so very strong." "Not strong enough to work on a farm, I guess." "Oh, I'm strong enough for that--yes, sir! Feel my muscle!" and the boy bent up his arm. Grandpa Brown put his hand on it. "Yes, you have some muscle," he said. "Well, maybe you will be all right. Anyhow you'll be better off for a good night's sleep. I'll call Bunker and have him look after you." The strange boy, who said his name was Ben Hall, went up stairs with Bunker Blue to go to bed. Bunny and Sue were also taken off to their little beds. "Well, what do you think of the new boy?" Bunny heard his father ask of Grandpa Brown, just before the lights were put out for the night. "Well, I think there's something queer about him," Grandpa Brown said. "I'd like to know where he was working before he came here. But I'll ask him again to-morrow. He seems like a nice, clean boy. But he certainly is queer!" CHAPTER VI BEN HALL HELPS Early the next morning Bunny and Sue jumped out of bed, and ran down stairs in their bath robes. Out into the kitchen they hurried, where they could hear their grandmother singing. "Where is he?" asked Bunny, eagerly. "Did he have his breakfast?" Sue wanted to know. "Who?" asked Grandma Brown. "What are you children talking about? And why aren't you dressed?" "We just got up," Bunny explained, "and we came down stairs right away. Where is Ben Hall?" "Did he go away?" asked Sue, and she looked all around the kitchen. "Bless your hearts!" exclaimed Grandma Brown. "You mean the strange, hungry boy, who came last night? Oh, he's up long ago!" "Did he go away?" asked Sue. "I hope he didn't," cried Bunny. "I like him, and I hope he'll stay here and play with us. He could help us with the circus." "Did he go away?" asked Sue again, anxiously. "Oh, no," Grandma Brown answered. "He went out to help Bunker Blue feed the chickens and the cows and horses. He is very willing to work, Ben is." "Is grandpa going to keep him?" Bunny asked. "For a while, yes," said his grandmother. "The poor boy has no home, and no place to go. Where he ran away from he won't tell, but he seems badly frightened. So we are going to take care of him for a little while, and he is going to help around the farm. There are many errands and chores to do, and a good boy is always useful." "I'm glad he's going to stay," said Bunny. "So'm I," added Sue. "Maybe he can make boats, Bunny, and a water wheel that we can fix to turn around at a waterfall." "Maybe," agreed Bunny. "Where is Ben, Grandma?" "Oh, now he's out in the barn, somewhere, I expect. But you two tots must get dressed and have your breakfast. Then you can go out and play." "We'll find Ben," said Bunny. "Yes," agreed Sue. "We'll have two boys to play with now--Ben and Bunker Blue." "Oh, you two children mustn't expect the big boys to play with you all the while," said Grandma Brown. "They have to work." "But they can play with us sometimes; can't they, Grandma?" asked Bunny. "Oh, yes, sometimes." A little later the two children, having had their breakfast, ran to the barn, to look for Ben and Bunker. They found them leading the horses out to the big drinking trough in front. The trough was filled from a spring, back of the barn, the water running through a pipe. "Oh, Bunker, give me a ride on Major's back!" cried Sue, as she saw her father's red-haired helper leading the old brown horse. "Put me on his back, Bunker!" "All right, Sue! Come along. Whoa, there, Major!" Major stood still, for he was very gentle. Bunker lifted Sue up on the animal's broad back, and held her there while he led the horse to the drinking trough. "Do you want a ride, too?" asked Ben Hall of Bunny. "Yes," answered the little boy. "Here you go then. We'll both ride this horse to water." Ben Hall did a strange thing. All at once he jumped up in the air, and before Bunny or Sue knew what he was doing the strange boy was sitting on the back of Prince, the other horse. He had jumped up as easily as a bouncing, rubber ball. "Now then, come over here, and I'll lift you up in front of me!" called Ben to Bunny, and soon the little fellow was sitting on the back of Prince, while Ben guided him to the drinking trough. "Say, that's a good way to get up on a horse's back, Ben!" called Bunker Blue, who had seen what Ben had done. "Where did you learn that trick of jumping up?" "Oh, I--I just sort of learned it--that's all. It's easy when you practise it." "Well, I'm going to practise then," said Bunker. "I'd like to learn to jump on a horse's back the way you did." When the horses had had their water Bunker lifted Sue down from the back of Major. "But I want to ride back to the barn," the little girl said. "And in a minute so you shall," promised Bunker. "Only, just now, I want to see if I can jump up the way Ben did." Bunker tried it, but he nearly fell. "I can't do it," he said. "It looks easy, but it's hard. You must have had to practise a good while, Ben." "Yes, I did." "How long?" "Oh, about five years!" Bunker Blue whistled in surprise. "Five years!" he cried. "I'll never be able to do that. Let me see once more how you do it." Ben lifted Bunny down, and once more the strange boy leaped with one jump upon the back of the horse. "Why, he does it just like the men in the circus!" exclaimed Sue. "Oh, Bunny, Ben will make a good jumper in our circus." "Yes," agreed the little boy. "Do you think, Ben, you could show me how to get on a horse's back that way?" Bunny asked. "Well, I'm afraid not--not such a little boy as you," answered Ben, as he lifted Bunny up on Prince's back once more for the ride to the barn. The horses were tied in their stalls again, after Bunny and Sue had been lifted from the backs of the animals. Then Bunny said: "You are going to stay here and help work on the farm, Ben. My grandmother said so. And, if you are, will you come out and look at the barn where we are going to have our circus? Maybe you and Bunker can help us put up the trapeze." "Not now, Bunny boy," said Bunker. "We have to go and pull weeds out of the garden. We'll look at the barn right after dinner." And this Ben and Bunker did. Bunny and Sue showed Ben the mow, and the pile of hay, into which the trapeze performers were to fall, instead of into nets. "So they won't get hurt," Bunny explained. "We haven't any nets, anyhow." "Do you think we could have a circus here?" Sue wanted to know. "Why, I should think so," Ben answered, looking up toward the roof of the barn. "Yes, you could have a good make-believe circus here." "Will you help?" asked Bunny eagerly. Ben Hall laughed, and looked at Bunny and Sue in a queer sort of way. "What makes you think I can help you make a play-circus?" he asked. "Oh, I guess you can, all right," spoke up Bunker Blue. "I guess you know more about a circus than you let us think. Don't you now?" "Oh, well, I've seen 'em," said Ben, slowly. "And the way you jumped on the horse--why, you must have been watching pretty hard to see just how to do that," Bunker went on. "I've seen lots of circuses, but I can't jump up the way you can, Ben." "Then he can ride a horse in our circus," said Sue. "Can you hang on a trapeze?" asked Bunny. "Well, maybe," the new boy answered. "But you haven't any trapeze here, have you?" "We can make one, out of a broom stick and some clothes line," said Bunny. "I've got 'em all ready," and he showed where he had put, in a hole in the hay, the rope and stick. "Good! That's the idea!" exclaimed Ben Hall. "Now I'll just climb up to the roof beams, and fasten the rope of the trapeze." Up climbed Ben, and he was making fast the ropes, when, all at once Bunny, Sue and Bunker Blue, who were watching the strange boy, saw him suddenly slip off the beam on which he was standing. "Oh, poor Ben!" sighed Sue. "He's going to get an awful hard bump, so he is!" CHAPTER VII BUNNY HAS A FALL Down and down, from the big beam near the top of the barn, fell Ben Hall. And, as Bunny Brown and his sister Sue watched the new, strange boy, something queer happened. For, instead of falling straight down, head first or feet first as you would think any one ought to fall, Ben began turning over and over. Over and over he turned, first his feet and then his head and then his back being pointed toward the pile of hay on the bottom of the barn floor. "Oh, look! look!" cried Sue. "What--what makes him do that?" asked Bunny Brown. "I guess he wants to," answered Bunker Blue. Bunny and his sister thought they were going to be frightened when they saw Ben slip and fall. But when the children saw Bunker Blue laughing they smiled too. It was queer to see Ben turning over and over in that funny way. "I guess he likes to do it," said Bunker. "Whoop-la!" yelled Ben as he came somersaulting down, for that is what he was doing; turning one somersault after another, over and over in the air as he fell. And then, in a few seconds, he landed safely on his feet in a soft pile of hay, so he wasn't hurt a bit. "Oh!" exclaimed Sue. "Oh my!" cried Bunny Brown. "Say, that was fine!" shouted Bunker Blue. "How did you do it?" "Oh, I--I just did it," answered Ben, slowly, for he was a little out of breath. "I slipped, and when I found I was going to fall, I began to turn somersaults to make it easier coming down." "I should think it would be harder," said Bunny Brown. "Not when you know how," answered Ben, smiling. "Where'd you learn how?" Bunker wanted to know. "Oh, a man--a man showed me how," returned Ben. "But never mind about that now. I must fasten the rope to the beam, and then we'll fix the trapeze so Bunny can do some circus acts on it." "But not high up!" cried Sue. "You won't go on a high trapeze, will you, Bunny?" "Not very high," he answered. "But I would like to turn somersaults in the air like you, Ben. Will you show me how?" "Some day, when you get bigger. You're too small now." "I wouldn't want to turn somersaults," said Sue, shaking her head. "They aren't for girls, anyhow," flung forth Bunny. Bunker Blue looked at Ben sharply. "I think I can guess where you learned to turn those somersaults in the air," said the boat-boy. "It was in a--" "Hush! Don't tell any one!" whispered Ben quickly. "I'll tell you all about it after a while. Now help me put up the trapeze." Bunny heard what Ben and Bunker said, but he did not think much about it then. The little boy was looking up to see from what a height Ben had fallen, and Bunny was wondering what he would ever do if he tumbled down so far. Bunker and Ben climbed the ladder to the beam far above the hay pile, and soon they had fastened up the ropes of the trapeze. They pulled hard on them to make sure they were strong enough, so Bunny would not have a fall. Then the piece of broom handle was tied on the two lower ends of the ropes, and the trapeze was finished. "Now you can try it, Bunny," said Bunker, after he had swung on the trapeze for a few times to make sure it was safe. Bunny walked across the barn floor where some hay had been spread to make a sort of cushion. "We'll use hay, instead of a net as they do in a circus," Bunny said. "Anyhow we haven't got any net," put in Sue. "We can make believe the hay is a new kind," said her brother. Bunny hung by his hands from the wooden bar of the trapeze, just as he had seen the men do in the circus. Then he began to swing slowly back and forth. "Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "That's fine. Now turn yourself inside out, like the circus man did." "No, Bunny can't do that yet," said Ben. "He must first do easy things on the trapeze. Turning yourself inside out is too hard. Bunny is not strong enough for those tricks." To and fro swung Bunny, but soon his arms began to get tired. "I--I want to get down!" he called. "Stop the swing--I mean the trapeze," for the trapeze was very much like a swing, as I have told you, only, instead of a board, it had only a stick to which the little boy was holding by his hands. "I want to get down," Bunny called. "Stop me, Bunker." "Let go and jump," advised Ben. "Oh, I--I'm afraid," said Bunny. "You won't get hurt!" exclaimed the older boy. "You must learn to jump from the trapeze into the soft hay. That's what they do in a circus. Jump while you're swinging. You won't get hurt." "Are you sure, Ben?" "Sure. Give a jump now, and see what happens." Bunny wanted to do some of the things he had seen the circus men do, and one of them was jumping from the trapeze. The little boy looked down at the pile of hay below him. It seemed nice and soft, but it also looked to be a good distance off. "Come on, Bunny, jump!" called Bunker. "All right. Here I come!" Bunny let go of the trapeze bar. He shot through the air, and, for a second or two, he was afraid he was going to be hurt. But, the next thing he knew, he had landed feet first on a soft pile of hay and he wasn't hurt a bit! "Good!" cried Bunker Blue. "You did that well!" said Ben Hall. "Just like in a circus," added Sue. "Did I do it good?" asked Bunny Brown. "You surely did. For the first time it was very good for such a small boy," answered Ben. "Now try again." "Oh, I like it!" Bunny cried. "I'm going to do it lots and lots of times, and then I'm going to turn somersaults." "Well, not right away," advised Ben. "Try the easy part for a while yet." Bunny swung on the trapeze some more, and dropped into the soft hay. He was not at all afraid now, and each time he did it he liked it more and more. Sue, also, wanted to try it, and so she hung by her little hands. But Bunker Blue put his strong arms under her so, in case she slipped, she would be caught. Sue did not swing on the trapeze, nor jump, as Bunny had done. Bunker and Ben put up more trapezes in the barn--big ones for themselves. Ben could swing and turn somersaults and drop off into the hay from away up near the roof of the barn. Bunker could not do quite as well as this, but, for all that, he was pretty good. "Will you two act in our circus?" asked Bunny of Bunker and Ben. "Why, yes, I guess I will, if your grandfather lets me stay here on this nice farm," Ben answered. "Oh, he'll let you stay," Bunny said. "I'll tell him we want you in our circus." "All right," laughed Ben. "Bunker and I will practise some trapeze acts for your show." For a little while longer Bunny and Sue played about in the barn. Bunny found an old strawberry crate, with a cover on. "This will make a wild animal cage," he said. "The slats are just like the bars of a cage, and the animal can look through." "What wild animal will you put in there?" asked Bunker. "Oh, I guess I'll put in Splash. He is going to be half a blue striped tiger." "No! No!" cried Sue. "That crate isn't big enough for Splash. You'll squash him all up. I'm not going to have my half of Splash all squashed up, Bunny Brown!" "Well, then I'll get a bigger cage for Splash. We can get a little dog, and put him in here." Two or three days after this Bunny and Sue again went out to the barn to look at the circus trapezes, and play. Bunker Blue and Ben were not with them this time, as the two older boys were weeding the garden for Grandpa Brown. Bunny swung on his little, low trapeze, and then, after he had jumped off into the hay as Ben had taught him, the little fellow began climbing the ladder to the beam on which was fastened the big and high trapeze. "Oh, Bunny! Where you going?" asked Sue. "Up here. I want to see how high it looks." "Oh, Bunny Brown! You come right down, or I'll go and tell mamma! She said you weren't to climb up high." "I--I'm not going very high, Sue." Bunny was half way up the ladder. And, just as he spoke to Sue, his foot slipped, and down he fell, in between two rounds of the ladder. "Oh! oh!" cried Sue. "Oh, Bunny! You're going to fall!" But Bunny did not fall all the way. As he slipped, his hands caught hold of a round of the ladder, and there he clung, just as if he had hold of the bar of his swinging trapeze. CHAPTER VIII THE DOLL IN THE WELL Bunny Brown hung there on the ladder, swinging to and fro. On the barn floor below him, stood his sister Sue, watching, and almost ready to cry, for Sue was afraid Bunny would fall. "Oh, Bunny! Bunny!" she exclaimed. "Don't fall! Don't fall!" "I--I can't help it," Bunny answered. "My fingers are slipping off!" And indeed they were. He could not hold to the big round stick of the ladder as well as he could to the smaller broom-handle stick of his trapeze. Bunny Brown looked down. And then he saw something that frightened him more than had Sue's cries. For, underneath him was the bare floor of the barn, with no soft hay on which to fall--on which to bounce up and down like a rubber ball. "Oh, Sue!" cried Bunny. "I'm going to fall, and--and--" He did not finish what he started to say, but he wiggled his feet and legs, pointing them at the bare floor of the barn, over which he hung. But Sue saw and understood. "Wait a minute, Bunny!" she cried. "Don't fall yet! Wait a minute, and I'll throw some hay down there for you to fall on!" "All--all right!" answered Bunny. He did not want to talk much, for it took nearly all his breath and strength to hold on to the ladder. But he was glad Sue had thought of the hay. He was going to tell her to get it, but she guessed it herself. Putting her doll carefully in a corner, on a little wisp of hay, Sue ran to the edge of the mow, where there was a big pile of the dried grass, which the horses and cows eat. With both her chubby hands, Sue began to pull the hay out, and scatter it on the barn floor under Bunny. Her brother hung right over her head now, clinging to the ladder. "Haven't you got 'most enough hay there now, Sue?" asked Bunny. "I--I can't hold on much longer." "Wait just a minute!" called Sue, as she ran back to the mow. This time she managed to gather up a lot of hay in her two arms. This she piled on the other, and she was only just in time. "Look out!" suddenly cried Bunny. "Here I come!" And down he did come. Plump! Right on the pile of hay Sue had made for him. And it was a good thing the hay was there, or Bunny might have hurt his legs by his tumble. He did not try to turn a somersault as Ben did, the time he fell. Bunny was glad enough just to fall down straight. "Oh, Bunny! Bunny! Did you hurt yourself?" cried Sue, as she saw her brother sit down in the pile of hay. Bunny did not answer for a minute. He looked all around, as though he did not know exactly what had happened. Then he glanced up at the ladder to which he had clung. "That--that was a big fall," he said slowly. "I--I'm glad the hay was there, Sue. I'm glad you put it under me." "So'm I glad," declared Sue. "I guess you won't want to be in a circus, will you, Bunny?" "Sure I will. Men fall in circuses, only they fall in nets. But hay is better than a net, 'cept that it tickles you," and Bunny took from his neck some pieces of dried grass that made him wiggle, and "squiggle," as Sue called it. "Hello! What happened here?" asked a voice, and the children looked up to see, standing in the door of the barn, Grandpa Brown. "What happened?" asked the farmer. "Did you fall, Bunny?" I think he must have guessed that, from seeing the way Bunny was sitting on the little pile of hay. "Yes, I--I slipped off the ladder," said the little boy. "But I didn't get hurt." "'Cause I spread hay under him," said Sue. "I thought of it all by myself." "That was fine!" said Grandpa Brown. "But, after this, Bunny, don't you climb up on any ladders, or any other high places. If you are going to use my barn for your circus, you must not get hurt." "We won't!" Bunny promised. "Then keep off ladders. Your little low trapeze is all right, for you will fall in the hay if you slip off that. But no more ladder-climbing!" "All right, Grandpa." Bunny got up. Sue picked up her doll, and Grandpa Brown put back the hay into the mow, for he did not like his barn floor covered with the dried grass, though, of course, he was very glad Sue had put some there for Bunny to fall on. Bunny and Sue went out of the barn, and walked around to the shady side. It was only a little while after breakfast, hardly time to go in and ask for something more to eat, which the children did every day about ten o'clock. At that hour Grandma Brown generally had some bread and jam, or jelly tarts, ready for them. "What can we do until jam-time?" asked Sue, of her brother. "I don't know," he answered. "It's pretty hot." There was nothing more they could do about the circus just then. Bunker and Ben were to make some more trapezes, put other things in the barn, and make the seats. Several other boys and girls had been asked to take part in the "show," but they were not yet sure that their mothers and fathers would let them. So, for a few days, Bunny and Sue could do no more about the circus. "But we ought to do _something_," said Bunny. "It's so hot--" That gave Sue an idea. "We could go paddling in the brook, and get our feet cooled off," said Bunny's sister. "Yes, but we wouldn't be back here in time to get our bread and jam." "That's so," Sue agreed. It would never do to miss "jam-time." "My doll must be hot, too," Sue went on. "I wonder if we could give her a bath?" "How?" Bunny wanted to know. "Why, down in the well," suddenly cried Sue. "We could tie a string around her, and let her down in the well water. That would give her a bath. She's a rubber doll, and a bath won't hurt her. It will do her good." "We'll do it!" cried Bunny. The well was not far from the house. A little later, with a string he had taken from his kite, Bunny was helping Sue lower her rubber doll down the big hole, at the bottom of which was the cool water that was pulled up in a bucket. "Splash!" went the doll down in the well. By leaning over the edge of the wooden box that was built around the water-place, Bunny and Sue could see the rubber doll splashing up and down in the water far below them. "Oh, she likes it! She likes it!" cried Sue, jumping up and down in delight. "Doesn't she just love it, Bunny?" "I guess so," her brother answered. "But she can't talk and tell us so, of course." "Course not!" Sue exclaimed. "My dolls can't talk, 'ceptin' my phonograph one, and she says 'Mamma' and 'Papa,' only now she's broken, inside, and she can't do nothin' but make a buzzin' sound, but I like her just the same." "But if a doll can't talk, how do you know when she likes anything?" asked Bunny. "Why, I--I just know--that's all," Sue answered. "All right," agreed Bunny. "Now it's my turn to pull her up and down, Sue." There was a long string tied around the doll, and the two children were taking turns raising and lowering Sue's play-baby, so the rubber doll would splash up and down in the water. "All right. I'll let you do it once, and then it's my turn again," Sue said. "I guess she's had enough bath now. I'll have to feed her." "And we'll get some bread and jam ourselves, Sue." Just how it happened neither Bunny nor Sue could tell afterward, but Bunny either did not get a good hold of the string, or else it slipped through his fingers. Anyhow, just as Sue was passing the cord to him, it slipped away, and down into the well went doll, string and all. "Oh, Bunny! Bunny Brown!" cried Sue. "You've drowned my lovely doll! Oh, dear!" CHAPTER IX THE STRIPED CALF Bunny Brown was so surprised at seeing the rubber doll and string slip back with a splash into the well, that, for a moment, he did not know what to do or say. He just stood leaning over, and looking down, as though that would bring the doll back. "Oh, dear!" sighed Sue again. "Oh, Bunny!" "I--I didn't mean to!" pleaded Bunny sadly enough. "But I'll never get her back again!" went on Sue. "Oh, my lovely rubber doll!" "Maybe--maybe she can swim up!" said Bunny. "She--she can not!" Sue cried. "How can she swim up when there isn't any water 'cept away down there in the bottom of the well?" "If she was a circus doll she could climb up the bucket-rope, Sue." "Yes, but she isn't a circus doll. Oh, dear!" "And if I was a circus man, I could climb down the rope and get her!" Bunny went on. "Oh, don't you dare do that!" Sue fairly screamed. "If you do you'll fall in and be drowned. Don't do it, Bunny!" and she clung to him with all her might. "I won't, Sue!" the little fellow promised. "But I can see your doll down there, Sue. She's floating on top of the water--swimming, maybe, so she isn't drowned. "Oh, I know what let's do!" Bunny cried, after another look down the well. "What?" Sue wanted to know. "Let's go tell grandpa. He'll get your doll up with the long-handled rake." "With the rake?" cried Sue. "Yes. Don't you remember grandpa told us how once the bucket of the well got loose from the rope, and fell into the water. He fished the bucket up with the rake, tied to a long pole. He can do that to your doll." "But he might stick her with the teeth of the rake," said Sue. She knew the iron teeth of a rake were sharp, for once she had stepped on a rake when Bunny had left it in the grass, after raking the lawn at home. "Well, maybe grandpa can tangle the rake in the string around the doll, and pull her up that way. It wouldn't hurt then." "No," agreed Sue. "That wouldn't hurt." "Then let's go tell grandpa," urged Bunny once more. Leaving the doll to swim in the well as best she could, the two children ran toward the house. They saw their grandpa coming from it, and at once they began to cry: "Oh, Grandpa, she fell in!" "Come and get her out of the well!" "Bring the long-handled rake, Grandpa!" Grandpa was so surprised, at first, that he did nothing except stand still and look at the children. Then he managed to ask: "Who is it? What is it? What happened? Who fell down the well? Did Bunny fall in? Did Sue?" Then as he saw the two children themselves standing and looking at him, Grandpa Brown knew nothing had happened to either of them. "But who is in the well?" he asked. "My rubber doll," answered Sue. "Bunny let the string slip when we gave her a bath." "But I didn't mean to," Bunny said. "I couldn't help it. But you can get her out with the rake; can't you, Grandpa. Same as you did the bucket." "Well, I guess maybe I can," Grandpa Brown answered. "I'll try anyhow. And, after this, you children must keep away from the well." "We will," promised Bunny. The well bucket often came loose from the rope, and grandpa had several times fished it up with the rake, which he tied to a long clothes-line pole. In a few minutes he was ready to go to the well, with Bunny and Sue. Grandpa Brown carried the rake, and, reaching the well, he looked down in it. "I don't see your doll, Sue," he said. "Oh, then she's drowned! Oh, dear!" "But I see a string," went on Grandpa Brown. "Perhaps the string is still fast to the doll. I'll wind the string around the end of the rake, and pull it up. Maybe then I'll pull up the doll too." And that is just what grandpa did. Up and up he lifted the long-handled rake. Around the teeth was tangled the end of the string. Carefully, very carefully, Grandpa Brown took hold of the string and pulled. "Is she coming up, Grandpa?" asked Sue anxiously. "I think she is," said grandpa slowly. "There is something on the end of the string, anyhow. But maybe it's a fish." Grandpa smiled, and then the children knew he was making fun. "Oh, dear!" said Sue. "I hope my doll hasn't turned into a goldfish." But nothing like that had happened. Up came the rubber doll, safely, on the end of the string. Water ran from the round hole in the doll's back--the hole that was a sort of whistle, which made a funny noise when Sue squeezed her doll, as she did when "loving" her. "There you are! Your doll's all right," said Grandpa Brown. "Now you children must not come near the well again. When you want to give your doll a bath, Sue, dangle her in the brook, where it isn't deep. And if you put a cork in the hole in her back, she won't get full of water and sink." "That's so," said Bunny Brown. "The water leaked in through that hole. We'll stop it up next time, Sue." "Oh, no!" Sue cried. "That hole is where she breathes. But I'll only wash her in a basin after this, so she can't get drowned." It was now time for bread and jam, and Sue and Bunny were soon eating it on the shady back porch. Mother Brown told them, just as their grandpa had done, to keep away from the well, and they said they would. Bunny and Sue then went wading in the brook until dinner time. And then they had a little sleep in the hammocks in the shade, under the apple tree. "What shall we do now, Bunny!" asked Sue when she awoke from her little nap, and saw her brother looking over at her from his hammock. Sue always wanted to be doing something, and so did Bunny. "What can we do?" asked the little brown-eyed girl. "Let's go out to the barn again," said Bunny. "Maybe Bunker Blue, or Ben, is out there now, making some more circus things." But when Bunny and Sue reached the place where they were going to have their show in a few weeks, they saw neither of the big boys. They did see something that interested them, though. This was the hired man who, with a big pot of green paint, was painting the wheelbarrow. "Hello, Henry!" exclaimed Bunny to the man, who was working in the shade at one side of the barn. "Hello, Bunny!" answered Henry. "How are you this afternoon?" "Good. How is yourself?" "Oh, fine." Henry went on putting green paint on the wheelbarrow. Then Bunny said: "I couldn't do that; could I, Henry? I mean you wouldn't let me paint; would you?" "No, Bunny. I'm afraid not. You'd get it all over your clothes. I couldn't let you." "I--I thought you couldn't," returned Bunny with a sigh. "But I just asked, you know, Henry." "Yes," said the hired man with a smile. "I know. But you'd better go off and play somewhere else." It was more fun, though, for Bunny Brown and his sister Sue to watch Henry paint, and they stood there for some time. Finally the hired man stopped painting. "Guess I'll go and get a drink of water," he said, putting the brush in the pot of green paint. "Now don't touch the wheelbarrow." "We won't!" promised Bunny and Sue. Just then, inside the barn, there sounded a loud: "Baa-a-a-a-a!" "What's that, Bunny?" asked Sue. "One of the new little calves. Want to see them?" Of course Sue did, and soon she and Bunny were petting one of the calves. They were in little pens, by themselves, near the mother cows, and the children could reach over the sides of the pens, inside the barn, and pat the little animals. All at once Bunny cried: "Oh, Sue. I know what we can do!" "What?" she asked. "We can stripe a calf green, with the green paint, and we'll have a zebra for our circus." "What's a zebra?" Sue wanted to know. "It's a striped horse. They have 'em in all circuses. We'll make one for ours." "Does zebras have green stripes, Bunny?" "I don't know. But green paint is all we have, so we'll use that. A green striped zebra would be pretty, I think." "So do I, Bunny. But Henry told us not to touch the paint." "No, he didn't, Sue. He only told us to keep away from the wheelbarrow, and I am. I won't go near it. But we'll get the pot of paint, and stripe the calf green." "All right," agreed Sue. "I'll hold the paint-pot, and you can dip your brush in." Not meaning to do anything wrong, of course, Bunny and Sue hurried to get the pot of paint. Henry had not come back. Leaning over the edge of the calf's pen, Bunny dipped the brush in the paint, and began striping the baby cow. "Baa-a-a-a-a!" went the little animal, and the old cow went: "Moo!" CHAPTER X THE OLD ROOSTER Again and again Bunny Brown dipped the brush in the green paint the hired man had left, and stripe after stripe did the little fellow put on the calf. "She'll be a regular circus zebra when I'm done," said Bunny Brown to his sister Sue. Both children laughed in glee. "Are you going to paint both sides of the calf, Bunny?" "I am if I can reach. Maybe I can't. Anyhow, a zebra ought to be painted on both sides. Not like we're going to do our dog Splash; only on one side, to make a pretend blue-striped tiger of him." Sue seemed to be thinking of something. "Doesn't he look nice?" asked Bunny of his sister. "Isn't he going to be a fine zebra?" He stood back from the box-stall where the calf was kept, so Sue could see how the little animal looked. "Doesn't he look pretty, Sue? Just like a circus zebra, only of course they're not green. But isn't he nice?" "Yes," said Sue, "he is pretty." The calf, after jumping around some when Bunny first put the paint on, was now standing very still, as though he liked it. Of course the calf did not know that the paint would not wear off for a long time. Then, too, the cow mother had put her head over from the next stall, where she was tied, and she was rubbing her big red tongue on the calf's head. The calf liked its cow mother to rub it this way, and maybe that is why the little calf stood still. "It's going to look real nice, Bunny," said Sue, as she looked at the green stripes Bunny had put on. "I--I guess I'll let you put blue stripes on my half of Splash, too. Then he'll look all over like a tiger; won't he, Bunny?" "Sure. I'm glad you'll let me, Sue. 'Cause a dog, only half striped, would look funny. Now I'll see if I can put some stripes on the other side of the calf." Bunny tried to reach the side of the little animal he had not yet painted, but he could not do it from where he stood. "I'm going over in the stall with it," Bunny said. "You hand me the pail of paint when I get there, Sue." "Oh, Bunny! Are you going right in with the calf?" "Yes." "He--he'll bite you!" "No, he won't. Calves haven't any teeth. They only eat milk, and they don't have to chew that. They don't get teeth until they're big. "I'm not afraid," said Bunny Brown, as he climbed over into the calf's pen. Sue stood as near as she could, so Bunny could dip his brush in the green paint. Bunny was careful not to get any on his own suit, or on Sue's dress. That is he was as careful as any small boy could be. But, even then, he did splash some of the paint on himself and on Sue. But the children did not think of this at the time. They were so busy having fun, turning a calf into a circus zebra. [Illustration: THEY WERE BUSY TURNING A CALF INTO A CIRCUS ZEBRA. _Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Playing Circus_ _Page 84._] Bunny had put a number of green stripes on one side of the calf, and now he was ready to put some on the other. But the calf did not stand as still with Bunny inside the stall with her, as when he had been outside. The calf seemed frightened. "Baa-a-a-a-a!" it cried. "Baa-a-a-a-a! Baa-a-a-a-a!" And the old mother cow cried: "Moo! Moo! Moo!" She did not like to see Bunny so close to her baby calf, I guess. But the old cow did not try to hook Bunny with her horns. She only looked at him with her big, brown eyes, and tried to reach her tongue over and "kiss" the calf, as Sue called it. "Stand still!" Bunny said to the calf, but the little animal did not want to. Perhaps it thought it had had enough of the green paint. It moved about, from one side of the box to the other, and Bunny had hard work to put on any more stripes. "Isn't that enough?" asked Sue, after a bit. "It looks real nice Bunny. You had better save some green paint for the other calf." "Yes, but I'm only going to stripe one," answered Bunny. "It's too hard. One zebra is enough for our circus. We'll make the other calf into a lion. A lion doesn't have any stripes." "All right," agreed Sue. "Then come on out, Bunny, 'cause I'm tired of holding this paint for you." "In a minute, Sue. I'll be right out. I just want to put some stripes on the calf's legs. They have to be striped same as the sides and back." And that was where Bunny Brown made one of his mistakes. He should have let the calf's legs alone. For, no sooner did the little animal feel the tickling of the paint brush on its legs than it gave a loud cry, and began to kick. Out with its hind legs it kicked, and, as Bunny happened to be stooping down, just then, near the calf's feet, the little boy was kicked over. Right over he went, spilling some of the paint on himself, but the most of it, I am glad to say, went on the straw in the calf's box-stall. "Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "Oh, Bunny Brown!" Her brother did not answer. He had fallen down on his face, and his mouth was full of straw. And when he did get up he saw that the calf had kicked open the gate of its stall, and was running around the barnyard, all green striped and spotted. "Moo! Moo!" cried the mother cow, when she saw her little one break out. Then the old cow pushed very hard on the gate that shut her in. Open went the gate, and out ran the cow to be with her little calf. "Oh, Bunny! Look!" cried Sue. "Our circus zebra-cow will run away!" Bunny jumped to his feet, and, leaving the overturned pot of paint behind him, out he ran into the barnyard. "Whoa! Whoa there, bossy-calf!" he cried. "You don't say whoa to cows, you say that to horses!" called Sue to her brother. "What do you say to cows?" Bunny wanted to know. "You call 'Co boss! Co boss! Co boss'!" answered Sue. "I know 'cause I heard grandma call them to be milked. Call 'Co boss!' Bunny." The little boy did, but there was no need to, for the little calf, once it found that the mother cow was with it, did not run any farther. The mother cow put out her red tongue and "kissed" her little calf some more. She did not seem to mind the green paint, though perhaps if she had gotten some in her mouth she might not have liked it. "Well, anyhow," said Bunny Brown, "we have a striped zebra for our circus. And when I get some blue paint I'll paint our dog Splash, and make a tiger of him, Sue." "Did the calf-zebra hurt you when she kicked you over, Bunny?" Sue wanted to know. "No, hardly any. Her feet are soft, and I fell on the straw. But all the paint is spilled." "Maybe there's a little left so Henry can finish the wheelbarrow," suggested Sue. "I'll go and look," offered Bunny. But he did not get the chance. For just then Henry came into the barnyard. "Have you seen my pot of green paint," he asked. "I left it--" Then he saw the green striped calf. At first he laughed and then he said: "Oh, this is too bad! That's one of your grandpa's best calves, and he won't like it a bit, painting him that way." "He's a zebra," said Bunny. "No matter what he is," and Henry shook his head, "it's too bad. I shouldn't have left the paint where you could get it. I'll have to tell Mr. Brown." Bunny and Sue felt bad at this. They had not thought they were doing anything wrong, but now it seemed that they were. "Will--will grandpa be very sorry?" asked Sue. "Yes, he'll be very sorry and angry," answered the hired man, "he'll not like it to see his calf all streaked with green paint." But Grandpa Brown was not as angry at Bunny and Sue as he might have been. Of course he said they had done wrong, and he felt bad. But no one could be angry for very long at Bunny Brown and his sister Sue. They were so jolly, never meaning to be bad. They just didn't think. But of course you know that not thinking what you are doing often makes as much trouble as though you did a thing on purpose. "Well, I guess I'll have to forgive you youngsters this time," said Grandpa Brown. "But don't paint any more of my farm animals without asking me. Now I'll see if we can get the green paint off the calf." "Oh, can't you leave it on, Grandpa?" asked Bunny. "It was awful hard to make him striped like a zebra, and we want him in our circus to be one of the wild animals. Let the stripes stay on." And grandpa had to, whether he wanted to or not, for they would not come off. The hired man tried soap and water. But the calf would not stand still long enough to let him scrub her. "I guess we'll just have to let the green paint wear off," said Grandpa Brown. "But never do such a thing again, Bunny." "I won't," promised the little boy. The calf and the mother cow were put back in their stalls. Bunny and Sue were cleaned of the green paint that had splattered on them, and Henry found enough paint left in the can to finish the wheelbarrow. "Well, we've got a start for our circus, anyhow," said Bunny to Sue a few days after he had painted the calf. The green stripes had dried now, and made the calf look very funny indeed. Some of the other cows and calves seemed frightened at the strange, striped one, but the mother cow was just as fond of her little one as before. "You'll need other animals besides a striped calf, and your dog Splash, in the circus," said Bunker Blue to Bunny one day. "Yes, I guess we will. I'll go and ask Sue about it." Bunny always liked to talk matters over with his sister. He found her on the side porch, making a doll's dress. "Sue," said Bunny, "we have to have more make-believe wild animals for our show." "Yes?" asked Sue. "What kind?" "Well, maybe we ought to have a camel." "Camels is too hard to make," said Sue. "Their humps might fall off. Why don't you make a ockstritch, Bunny? An ockstritch what lays big eggs, and has tail feathers for ladies' hats. Make a ockstritch." "How?" asked Bunny. Sue thought for a minute. Just then the old big rooster strutted past the porch. "He would make a good ockstritch, Bunny," said Sue. "He has nice long tail feathers. Can you catch him?" "Maybe," hesitated Bunny. "Oh, I know what I'll do!" he exclaimed. "I'll get the clothes line for a lasso, and I'll pretend to be a Wild West cowboy. Then I can lasso the rooster and make an ostrich of him." "Oh, fine!" cried Sue, clapping her hands. The rooster, who did not in the least guess what was going to happen to him, flapped his wings and crowed loudly. CHAPTER XI PRACTICE FOR THE CIRCUS Bunny Brown took a piece of clothes line that hung down from one of the posts. He was sure his grandma or his mother would not want this end, so he could take it. "Anyhow, it isn't wash-day," said Bunny to Sue, "and as soon as I lasso the rooster I can put the line back again. I can tie on what I cut off." Bunny had an old knife Bunker Blue had given him. It was a knife Bunker had used to open clams and oysters, and was not very sharp. That was the reason Bunker gave it to Bunny. Bunker did not want the little boy to cut himself. With this old knife Bunny cut off a bit of clothes line. He had to saw and saw back and forth with the dull blade of the knife before he could cut the line. But at last he had a long piece of rope. "Now I'll make a lasso just like the cowboys have in the Wild West," said Bunny. Bunny had once seen a show like that, so he knew something of what the cowboys did with their lassos, which are long ropes, with a loop in one end. They throw this loop around the head, or leg, of a cow or a horse, and catch it this way, so as not to hurt it. "Now see me catch the rooster, Sue!" called Bunny. "I'll help you," offered the little girl. "You stand here by the rose bush, I'll shoo the rooster up to you, then you can lasso him." "All right!" cried Bunny, swinging the piece of clothes line around his head as he had seen the cowboys do in the show. "Cock-a-doodle-do!" crowed the rooster, and then he made a funny gurgling noise, as he saw Sue running toward him. The old rooster was not used to children, as, except when Bunny Brown and his sister Sue came to their grandpa's farm, there were no little ones about the place. And when the old rooster saw Sue running toward him, he did not know what to make of the little girl. "Shoo! Shoo!" cried Sue, waving her hands. "Shoo! Scat!" "Cock-a-doodle-do!" crowed the rooster, and it sounded just as if he said, "I don't know what to do!" "Shoo! Shoo!" cried the little girl, and she tried to drive the rooster over toward Bunny, so he could lasso the big crowing bird. But the rooster was not going to be caught as easily as that. He ran to one side, around the rose bush and off toward the garden. "Get him, Bunny! Get him!" cried Sue. "I will!" shouted the little make-believe cowboy. After the rooster he ran, swinging his lasso. "Whoa there! Whoa!" called Bunny. "Shoo! Shoo!" exclaimed Sue. "No--no! Don't do that!" begged Bunny. "Don't do what?" Sue asked. "Don't shoo him that way. That makes him run. I want him to stand still so I can catch him." "But you said cowboys catched things when they were running, like this rooster is," objected Sue. "Yes," agreed Bunny, "but I haven't been a cowboy very long you see. I want the rooster to stand still so I can lasso him. So don't _shoo_ him--just whoa him!" Then Bunny called: "Whoa! Whoa there!" "That's what you say to a horse--not to a rooster," said the little girl. "I know," Bunny answered. "But I guess this rooster knows horse talk, 'cause there's horses around here. Whoa there!" But even if the rooster did understand horse talk, he was not going to stop and let Bunny lasso him. That was sure. On and on the rooster ran, crowing and cackling. The hens and other roosters heard the noise, and crowed and cackled too, wondering what it was all about. "Here he comes, Bunny! Here he comes!" cried Sue, as the big old rooster, having run toward a fence, until he could go no farther, had to turn around and run back again. "Get him, Bunny!" "I will!" cried the little boy. "I'll get him this time." But the rooster was running very fast now, for he was very much scared. Back and forth he went, from one side to the other. He did come close to Bunny, but when the little boy threw his clothes line rope lasso it fell far away from the rooster. "Oh, you missed him!" cried Sue, much disappointed. "But I'll get him next time," said Bunny, as he picked up his lasso and ran after the rooster. Back and forth around the garden, under the lilac and rose bushes, ran Bunny and Sue after the old rooster. The rooster was getting tired now, and could not go so fast. Neither could Bunny nor Sue, and Bunny's arm was so tired, from having thrown his lasso so much, that he wanted to stop and rest. But still he wanted to catch the rooster. "Here he comes now--get him, Bunny!" cried Sue, as she went around one side of the currant bush, while Bunny came around the other side. The rooster was right between the two children, and as there was a fence on one side of him, and the bush on the other, it looked as if he would be caught this time. "Oh, get him, Bunny!" Sue called. "Get him!" "I--I will!" answered her brother. "I'll just grab him in my arms. I can put the lasso on him afterward." The rooster was running away from Sue who was right behind him, and the rooster was heading straight for Bunny. The little boy put out his arms to grab the big fowl, when the rooster, with a loud crow and cackle, flew up over Bunny's head, over the fence and into the meadow beyond. And Bunny was running so fast, and so was Sue, that, before they could stop themselves, down they both fell, in the soft grass. For a moment they sat there, looking at one another. Then Sue smiled. She was glad to sit down and rest, even if she had fallen. And so was Bunny. "Well, we didn't get him," said Bunny slowly, as he looked at the rooster, now safe on the other side of the fence. "No," said Sue. "But you can climb over the fence in the meadow." "I--I guess I don't want to," said the little fellow. "Hello! What's going on here? Who's been chasing my old rooster?" asked Grandpa Brown, coming up just then, and looking at the two children. "We--we were chasing him Grandpa," said Bunny, who always told the truth. "We was goin' to make a ockstritch of him," Sue explained. "A ockstritch for our circus in the barn." "Oh, an ostrich!" laughed Grandpa Brown. "Well, I'd rather you wouldn't take my best big rooster. I have some smaller, and tamer ones, you may take for your circus." "Really?" asked Bunny. "And can we pretend they are ostriches?" "Yes, you can put them in wooden cages and make believe they are anything you like," said Grandpa Brown. "Only, of course, you must be kind to them." "Sure!" said Bunny Brown. "We won't hurt the roosters." "When are you going to have your show?" asked Grandpa Brown. "Oh, next week," Bunny answered. "Some of the boys and girls are coming over to-day, and we're going to practise in the barn." "Well, be careful you don't get hurt," said their grandpa. "And can we have the green-striped calf for a zebra?" Bunny wanted to know. "Oh, I guess so; yes. The stripes haven't worn off him yet, and they won't for some time. So you might as well play with him." "We don't want to play with him," Bunny explained. "He--he jumps about too much. We just want to put him in a cage and make believe he is a wild animal." "Like a ockstritch," added Sue. The ostrich seemed to be her favorite. "An ostrich isn't an animal," carefully explained Bunny. "It's a big bird, and it hides its head in the sand, and they pull out its tail feathers for ladies' hats." "Well, it's wild, anyhow," said Sue. "Yes, it's wild," admitted Bunny. Grandpa Brown showed the children two tame roosters, that would let Bunny and Sue stroke their glossy feathers. "You may put them in a box, and make believe they are any sort of wild bird or animal you like," said the farmer. The children promised to be kind to the roosters. They did not put them in cages that day, as it was too soon. That afternoon Tom White, Nellie Bruce, Jimmie Kenny, Sallie Smith and Ned Johnson came over to see Bunny and Sue. They all went out to the barn, and there they got ready for the circus. Bunny and Sue, as well as the other children, were to be dressed up in funny clothes, which their mothers said they would make for them. Bunny was to do some "acts" on the trapeze, and fall down in the hay. Then he and Sue were to do part of a little Punch and Judy show they had once given, though Bunny, this time, had no big lobster claw to put on his nose. "All ready now!" called Bunny, when his friends were in the barn. "All ready to practise for the circus!" CHAPTER XII THE LITTLE CIRCUS "Bunny! Bunny Brown! What am I going to be in the circus? I want to be a clown!" "Yes, I want to be a clown, too, and throw water over another clown, like I saw in a circus once!" "Well, you're not going to throw any water on me!" "Yes I can if Bunny Brown says so! It's _his_ circus!" Tom White, Jimmie Kenny and Ned Johnson were talking together in one corner of the barn. Ned wanted to be a clown, and throw water on some one else. Jimmie did not want to be the one to get wet, nor did Tom White. "Bunny, can't I be a clown?" asked Ned. "I'm going to be a wild animal trainer--make-believe!" exclaimed Sue, "and I'm going to be near the cage where the blue-striped tiger is. I'm going to make him roar." Sallie Smith looked a bit scared. "Oh, it's only make-believe," Sue explained. "Yes, I know," said Sallie. "But--Oh, dear! a blue-striped tiger!" "Oh, it's only our big dog Splash," went on Sue. "First I was only going to let Bunny stripe his half of Splash. But a half a blue-striped tiger would look funny, so I said he could make my half of Splash striped too. It will wash off, for it's only bluing, like mother puts on the clothes." "And we're going to have a striped zebra, too," said Bunny. "Oh, let's see it!" begged the three boys. "It's only one of grandpa's calves," cried Sue, "but it really has green stripes on it. Bunny put them on, and they're green paint, and they won't come off 'till they wear off, grandpa says, and the calf ran away, and kicked Bunny over and----" "Oh, Sue, don't tell everything!" cried Bunny. "You'll spoil the show." "Let's see the striped calf!" begged the three boys. "No, we've got to practise for the circus," Bunny insisted. "Now I'll do my trapeze act," and he climbed up to the bar that hung by the long ropes from the beam in the barn. "I want to do a trapeze act, too!" cried Tom White. "Say, we can't all do the same thing!" Bunny said. "That isn't like a real circus. It's got to be different acts." "Oh, say!" cried Ned Johnson. "I know what I can do! I can ride you in a wheelbarrow, Tom, and upset you. That will make 'em all laugh." "It won't make me laugh, if you upset me too hard!" declared Tom. "I'll spread some hay on the floor, like the time I did when Bunny fell," said Sue. "Then you won't be hurt. It doesn't hurt to fall on hay; does it, Bunny?" "Nope." "All right. Ned can upset me out of the wheelbarrow if he does it on the hay," agreed Tom. So those two boys began to practise this part of the circus, while Bunny swung from the trapeze. Jimmie Kenny said he would climb up as high as he could and slide down a rope, like a sailor. "I'll have some hay under me, too, so if I slip I won't be hurt," he said. Indeed, if it had not been for the big piles of soft hay in grandpa's barn I don't know what the little circus performers would have done. While the boys were practising the things they were going to do, Sue and her little girl friends made up a little act of their own. Each one had a doll, and they practised a little song which they had sung in school. It was about putting the dollies to sleep in a cat's cradle, and a little mouse came in and awakened them, and then they went out to gather flowers for the honey bees. Just a simple little song, but Sue and her friends sung it very nicely. "And I know something else you can do, Sue, besides being a keeper of wild animals," said Bunny. "What?" asked his sister. "You can ride in the wheelbarrow and drive Ned and Tom for your horses--make-believe, you know." "But I don't want to be upset, even on the hay!" Sue said. "No, we won't upset you," promised Ned. Then they practised that little act with Sue. "When we give our real circus," said Bunny, "we can cover the wheelbarrow with flowers, and nobody will know what it is you're riding in, Sue." "That will be nice!" As the days went on, Bunny and Sue found they would have to have more children in their little circus, so others were invited. One boy brought an old rocking horse, and another had one almost like it, so they gave a "pretend" horse race around the barn floor. Bunker Blue made a big sea-saw for the children, and every one who came to the show was to have a free ride on this. "We ought to have a merry-go-'round," said Bunny one day. "I'll make you one," offered Ben Hall, the strange boy, who was still working on grandpa's farm. "Oh, will you! How?" asked Bunny. Ben took some planks and nailed them together, criss-cross, like an X. Then he put them on a box, and on the ends of the planks that stuck out he fastened some wagon wheels. When four children sat down on the planks, and some one pushed them, they went around and around as nicely as you please, getting a fine ride around the middle of the barn floor. "But we ought to have music," said Sue. "I'll play my mouth organ," offered Bunker Blue. At last the day of the little circus came. Bunny and Sue had decided that it was to be free, as they did not want pins, and none of the country children had any money to spend. So the circus was free to old folks and young folks alike. "You'll come; won't you, Mother?" asked Bunny the morning of the circus. "Oh, yes, of course." "And will you, Daddy?" Sue wanted to know. "Yes, little girl. I want to see you ride in your chariot, as you call it." For Bunny had named the wheelbarrow that was to be covered with flowers, a chariot, which is what they use to race with in a real circus. Splash had been most beautifully striped with blue, and, though he did not like being shut up in a box, with slats nailed in front to serve as iron bars, still the big dog knew it was all in fun, so he stayed quietly where Bunny put him. The striped calf was in another cage, and he was given a nice pail full of milk to keep him quiet, so he would not kick his way out. Calves like milk, you know. The two roosters, which Sue said were the wild "ockstritches," behaved very nicely, picking up the corn in their cage as though they had been in a circus many times before. Grandpa also let the children take the old turkey gobbler and put him in a box. "What shall we call him?" asked Sue, just before the show was about to begin. "Oh, he'll be the elephant," said Bunny. "See, he's got something hanging down in front like an elephant's trunk. And we didn't get time to dress the pig up like an elephant." "But a elephant has four legs, Bunny, and the turkey has only two." "Oh, well, we can pretend he was in a railroad wreck, and lost two of his legs. Circuses do get wrecked sometimes." "All right, Bunny." All the children who were to take part in Bunny's and Sue's show were in the barn, waiting for the curtain to be pulled back. For grandmother and Mother Brown had made a calico curtain for the children. Bunker Blue and Ben said they would stand, one on either side, to pull the curtain back when the show started. Bunker was going to play his mouth organ, while Ben said he would make what music he could by whistling and blowing on a piece of paper folded over a comb. You can make pretty good music that way, only, as Ben said, it tickles your lips, and you have to stop every once in a while. Many children from nearby farms came to the little circus in the barn, and some of their fathers and mothers also came. It was a fine day for the show. "Are you all ready, Bunny?" asked Bunker, who, with Ben, stood behind the curtain. "All ready," answered the little boy. "Here we go!" cried Bunker. Then he played on his mouth organ, Ben tooted on the comb and the curtain slid back on the wires by which it was stretched across the stage, or platform, in the barn. "Welcome to our show!" cried Bunny Brown, making a bow to the audience which was seated on boxes and boards out in front. "We will now begin!" he went on. "And after the show you are all invited to stay and see the wild animals. We have a blue-striped tiger, a wild zebra and an----" "An elephant, only he lost two legs in a accident," said Sue in a shrill whisper, fearing Bunny was going to forget about the turkey. CHAPTER XIII THE WILD ANIMALS Everyone laughed when Sue said that, and Sue herself blushed as red as the ribbon on her hair, and the sash her mother had pinned around her waist. "Does your elephant eat peanuts?" asked Daddy Brown, smiling. "No, I don't guess so," answered Sue. "He likes corn better." "Now the show's going to begin!" cried Bunny Brown. "Get ready everybody. The first will be a grand trapeze act! Come on, boys! Play some music, please, Bunker!" Bunker played a new tune on his mouth organ. Then Bunny, Ned Johnson and Tom White got on the trapezes, for Bunny had decided that his one act, like this, was not enough. It would look more like a real circus with three performers. Back and forth on the flying trapezes swung Bunny and his two friends. Of course such little fellows could not do many tricks, but they did very well, so all the grown folks said. They hung by their hands, and by their legs, and Ned Johnson, who was quite strong for his age, "turned himself inside out," as he called it, by pulling up his legs and putting them over his head, and under the trapeze bar. Suddenly Bunny Brown gave a call. "All ready now for our big swing!" "I'm ready!" answered Tom. "So am I," added Ned. The three boys swung back and forth. All at once Bunny cried: "Let go!" Away they sailed through the air. "Oh, they'll be hurt! They'll fall and be hurt!" cried Grandma Brown. "No, this is only part of the show," said Mother Brown. And so it was. For Bunny, Ned and Tom landed safely on a big pile of hay, having jumped into the mow when they let go of the trapeze bars. "How was that?" cried Bunny, laughing while Bunker and Ben played the music. "Fine!" cried Daddy Brown. "It's almost as good a show as the one I paid real money to see," laughed grandpa. "What's next?" asked Jimmie Kenny's mother, who had come with her neighbor, Mrs. Smith. "It's your turn now, Sue," whispered Bunny to his sister. "Do your act." So Sue, and her little girl chums, sang their doll song. It was very much liked, too, and the people clapped so that the little girls had to sing it over again. The curtain was now pulled across the stage while Ned and Tom got ready for one of the clown acts. They were dressed in queer, calico suits, almost like those worn by real clowns in a circus, and the boys had whitened their faces with chalk, and stuck on red rose leaves to make red dots. Ned came out in front, with Tom in a wheelbarrow, for they had decided this between themselves. Ned wheeled Tom about, at the same time singing a funny song, and then, out from behind a barrel, rushed Jimmie Kenny. Jimmie had a pail, and he began crying: "Fire! Fire! Fire!" So loudly did he shout, and so much in earnest did he seem, that some of the farmers began to look about as though they were afraid Grandpa Brown's barn was on fire. "Don't worry! It's only in fun," said grandpa. Ned and Tom did not seem to know what to make of Jimmie's act. He was not supposed to come out when they did. "Now this is where I upset you, Tom," said Ned in a low voice. "Well, as long as you turn me over on the soft hay I don't mind," answered the other boy, for they had made this up between them. Over went the wheelbarrow, and Tom was spilled out. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" cried Jimmie again, and then dashed a pail of water over Tom and Ned. "Waugh! Ouch! Stop that!" spluttered Ned. "Stop it!" "That--that wasn't in the show!" stammered Tom, for some of the water went in his mouth. "I know it wasn't in it," laughed Jimmie, "but I thought I'd put it in!" At first Tom and Ned were a little angry, but when each looked at the other, and saw how funny he was, with half the white and red spots washed off his face, each one had to laugh. The audience laughed, too. The water did no harm, for it was a hot day, and the boys had on old clothes. So they did not mind. But Tom and Ned decided to play a little trick on Jimmie. So, while he was laughing at what he had done to them, they suddenly ran at him, caught him, and put him in the wheelbarrow. Before he could get out they began wheeling him around the barn floor. "Now dump him!" suddenly cried Tom, and out shot Jimmie on a pile of hay. Before he could get up Tom had dashed some water on him. "Now we're even!" cried Ned. "You're wet, too!" It was all in fun, and no one minded getting wet. Then the circus went on. Sue was ridden in the flower-covered wheelbarrow, driving Ned and Tom. The boys acted like very nice horses indeed, and went slowly or fast, just as Sue called to them. She had a wreath of daisies on her hair, and looked like a little flower queen. After that Bunker Blue and Ben Hall played some music on the mouth organ and comb, while Bunny and Sue were getting ready to give their little Punch and Judy show, which they had played once before, back home. "Why don't you do some of your tricks, Ben?" asked Bunker of the new boy, when Bunny and Sue were almost ready. "Oh, I can't do any tricks," said Ben, turning away. "Yes you can! I guess you know more about a circus than you are willing to tell; don't you?" But Ben did not answer, and then the curtain had to be pulled back to let Bunny and Sue be seen. I will not tell you about the Punch and Judy show here, as I have written about it in the first book. Besides, it was not as well done by Bunny and Sue as was the first one. Bunny forgot some of the things he should have said, and so did Sue. Besides, Bunny had no big, red, hollow lobster claw to put over his nose, to make himself look like Mr. Punch. But, for all that, the show was very much enjoyed by all, especially the children. The race on the two rocking horses was lots of fun, and toward the end one of the boys rocked his horse so much that he fell over, but there was some straw for him to fall on, so he was not hurt. Up he jumped, on to the back of his horse again, and away he rode. But the other boy won the race. Then Bunny and Sue jumped from some carpenter horses, through hoops that were covered with paper pasted over them, just like in a real circus. "Crack!" went the paper as Bunny and Sue jumped through. "Oh, it's just like real; isn't it, Mother?" called a little girl in the audience. It was very still when she said this, and everyone laughed so loudly that Bunny Brown looked around. And, as he did not look where he was jumping, he tumbled and fell off the saw-horse. But Bunny fell in a soft place, and as a saw-horse is only made of wood, like a rocking horse, it did not kick, or step on, the little boy. So everything was all right. The performing part of the circus came to an end with a "grand concert." Bunny, Sue and all the others stood in line and sang a song, while Bunker Blue played on the mouth organ, and Ben on the paper-covered comb. "And now you are all invited to come and see the wild animals!" called Bunny. "Señorita Mozara will show you the blue striped tiger that does tricks. Señorita Mozara is my sister Sue," he explained, "but wild animal trainers all have fancy names, so I made that one up for her." Everyone laughed at that. "Right this way, ladies and gentlemen, to see the wild animals!" cried Sue. Ben Hall had told her what the circus men said, and Sue tried, in her childish voice, to do it as nearly like them as possible. "Right this way!" she cried. "You will see the blue-striped tiger--of course it's only our dog Splash, and he won't hurt you," said Sue quickly, as she saw some of the little children hanging back. "He will eat meat from my hand, and stand up on his hind legs. He will lie down and roll over. This way, everybody!" Splash did look funny, all striped with bluing as he was. But he did the tricks for Sue, and everyone thought it was a very nice part of the circus. "Over this way is the striped zebra," went on Sue, as she led the way to where the green-painted calf was shut in a little pen. The men, women and children were laughing at the queer animal, when something happened. Splash got out of his cage. Either some one opened the door, or Splash pushed it open. And as Splash bounded out he knocked over the cage where the turkey gobbler "elephant" was kept. "Gobble-obble-obble!" went the turkey, as it flew across the barn. Children screamed, and some of them backed up against the cage of roosters, so it broke open and the crowing roosters were loose. "Baaa-a-a-a!" went the green striped calf, and giving a big jump, out of the box it came, and began running around, upsetting both Bunny and Sue. "Oh, the wild animals are loose! The wild animals are loose!" cried a little girl, while the big folks laughed so hard that they had to sit down on boxes, wheelbarrows, boards or whatever they could find. It was very funny. CHAPTER XIV BUNNY AND SUE GO SAILING Certainly all the animals in the circus which Bunny and Sue had gotten up, were loose, though of course they were not exactly "wild" animals. The green-striped calf was wild enough when it came to running around and kicking up its heels, but then calves do that anyhow, whether they are striped like a zebra or not, so that doesn't count. "Look out! Look out, everybody!" cried Bunny Brown. For, just then, the calf, having run to one end of the barn and finding the doors there closed, had run back again, and was heading straight for the place where they were all standing. "Somebody catch him!" cried Ben Hall. "It would take a cowboy to do that," spoke up Bunker Blue. "A cowboy with a lasso!" "I'll catch him! I'll get him!" cried Bunny. "I had a lasso that I was trying to catch the old rooster with. I'll lasso the calf!" "No, little man. You'll not do anything of the sort!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, catching his son up in his arms. "You'd better stay away from that calf. It would not mean to hurt you, perhaps, but it might knock you down and step on you." The calf was now running back and forth, bleating and looking for some place where it could get out of the barn. For it did not like being in a circus, though, at first, it had been quiet enough. Splash thought it was great fun. He ran here and there, barking loudly, and racing after the calf. The two roosters were crowing as loudly as they could, fluttering here, there, everywhere. One nearly perched on top of Grandma Brown's head. The horses could be heard neighing and stamping about in their stalls. Perhaps they, too, wanted to join in the fun. "Oh, dear!" cried Sue. "I don't like this. Let's go out, Bunny." But with the calf running back and forth in the barn, crossing this way and that, it was not easy for Bunny, Sue and the others to keep out of its way. "I guess I'll have to take a hand in this," said Grandpa Brown. He knew how to handle cows, horses and calves you see. But there was no need for him to do anything. Just then the hired man, who had been milking some of the cows, opened the barn door to see what all the noise meant. He had a pail of milk in his hand, and, no sooner had the calf seen this, than the striped creature made a rush for the hired man. "Look out!" cried Grandpa Brown. "Come back here!" cried Sue, to the calf. Perhaps she thought the calf would mind her, since Sue had been the make-believe wild animal trainer in the circus. But all the green-striped calf thought of just then was the pail of milk it saw. Right at the hired man it rushed, almost knocking him down. "Here! Here! Look out! Stop it! That milk isn't for you!" cried the hired man, trying to push the calf to one side. But the calf was hungry, and it had made up its little mind that it was going to have that milk. And it did. Before the hired man could stop it, the calf had its nose down in the pail of nice, warm, fresh milk. "Let him have it," said Grandpa Brown, with a laugh. "The milk will keep him quiet, and we folks can get out. The circus is over; isn't it, Bunny?" "Oh, yes, Grandpa. But we didn't think the wild animals were going to get loose. How did you like it?" "Do you mean how did I like the wild animals getting loose?" asked Grandpa Brown, with a laugh. "No, the circus," answered Bunny. "Was it good?" "It certainly was!" cried his grandfather. "I liked it very much!" "And so did I," said grandma. "But I was afraid you would be hurt when you jumped that time, Bunny." "Oh, that's just a circus trick," Bunny said. "You ought to see Ben jump. Go on, Ben, show 'em how you can turn over in the air." "Not now, Bunny. I haven't time. I'm going to help Bunker clean up the barn." There were many things to be put away after the circus, for Grandpa Brown had said if the children used his barn they must leave it neat and clean when they finished. By this time the grown people who had come to the circus, and the boys and girls, too, began to leave. The calf was now standing still, drinking the milk from the pail. Splash had stopped barking. The two roosters had gotten out of the barn, and everything was quiet once more. The circus was over, and everyone said he had had a good time. Some of the little folks wanted to see it all over again, but Bunny said that could not be done. The grown folks said Bunny Brown and his sister Sue were very clever to get up such a nice little show. "But of course we didn't do it all," explained Bunny, who like to have others share in the praise. "We never could have done it if grandpa hadn't let us take his barn, or if Bunker and Ben hadn't helped us. It was as much their show as it was ours." "Yes, Bunker and Ben were very good to help you," said Bunny's mother. "And now I think it is time for you and Sue to wash and get ready for supper." "I'd like to have a bigger show, in a tent Some day," said Bunny. "Yes, that would be nice," agreed Sue. "Well, if I'd known you wanted a tent instead of my barn, I could have given you one," said Grandpa Brown. "Oh, have you really a tent?" asked Bunny, eagerly. "Yes, it's an old army tent. Not very big, though. When I used to go camping with some old soldier friends of mine we took it with us. It's up in the attic now, I guess. But your circus is over, so you won't want a tent now." "Maybe we'll have another circus some day," suggested Bunny. "Then could we take your army tent?" "Oh, I guess so." And when Bunny, Sue and the children and the grown folks had left the barn, Bunker Blue said to Ben Hall: "Say, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to get up a circus among us big boys; would it?" "Yes, it might be fun." "If Mr. Brown has a tent we could use that, and we might borrow another. Would you like to do that, Ben?" "I might." "Say, look here!" exclaimed Bunker, "why don't you tell us more about yourself? You know something about a real circus." "What makes you think so?" Ben asked. "Oh, because I do. Were you ever in one?" Instead of answering Ben cried: "Look out! That plank is going to fall on your foot!" Ben and Bunker were putting away the boxes and boards that had been used for seats in the circus. And, as Ben spoke, one of the boards slipped off a box. Bunker pulled his foot away, but not in time to prevent being struck by the board. "Ouch!" he cried, and then he forgot that he had asked Ben about that boy's having been in a circus. Ben was glad he did not have to answer that question. When Bunker and Ben had made the barn look as neat as it was before the little circus was held, and when the blue stripes had been washed off Splash, the two big boys sat and talked until supper was ready. "What do you think about getting up a larger circus?" asked Bunker. "Why, I guess we could do it," said Ben. "Are there some big boys around here?" "Lots of 'em. I've met some since I came here with Bunny, Sue and their family. We could get the big fellows together, and give a real show, in a tent." "Would we have any little folks in it?" "Well, we'd have Bunny and Sue, of course, because they started this circus idea. They're real cute; don't you think?" "They certainly are," agreed Ben. "I like 'em very much. Well, we'll think about another circus. We'll need a larger tent than the one Mr. Brown has. Can we get one?" "I think so. The folks around here used to have a county fair in a tent, and we might get that. We could charge money, too, if we gave a good show." "That would be nice," said Ben, with a laugh. "I'd like to earn some money." That night after supper, when Bunny and Sue were getting ready for bed, after having talked the circus all over again, they heard their grandfather saying to Daddy Brown: "I can't make out what sort of boy that Ben Hall is." "Why, isn't he a good boy?" asked Bunny's father. "Oh, yes, he's a very good boy. I wouldn't ask a better. He does his work on the farm here very well. But there is something strange about him. He has some secret, and I can't find out what it is." That was all Bunny heard. Sue did not stop to listen to that much. But Bunny wondered, as he was falling asleep, what Ben's secret was. It was some time before he found out. "What are we going to do to-day, Bunny?" asked Sue, as she and her brother went outdoors, after breakfast next morning. Bunny did not answer at first. He walked slowly down to the edge of the little pond where the ducks swam, and there he saw an old barn door that had been laid down so Grandma Brown would not have to step in a wet and muddy place when it rained. "What can we do to have some fun, Bunny?" Still Bunny did not answer. He went closer to the old door, and then he suddenly said: "Sue, we're going sailing!" "Going sailing?" "Yep. This will be our ship. All we'll have to do will be to put a sail on it and we'll sail across the duck pond. Come on." Bunny found an old bag that had held corn for the chickens. He nailed this bag to a stick, and fastened the stick up straight in a crack in the barn door, which lay down flat on the ground. Then he and Sue managed to get the door in the duck pond, on the edge of which it had been placed over a mud puddle. "There!" cried Bunny. "Get on the boat, Sue." Bunny and Sue, who had taken off their shoes and stockings, stood up on the big door. It floated nicely with them. A little wind blew out the bag sail, and away they went. CHAPTER XV SPLASH IS LOST "Bunny! Oh, Bunny! We're sailing! We're sailing!" joyfully cried Sue, as she felt the barn-door raft moving through the water. "Of course we're sailing," Bunny answered, as he stood up near the mast, which is what the stick that holds the sail is called. The mast Bunny had made was only a piece of a lima bean pole, and the sail was only an old bag. But the children had just as much fun as though they were in one of their father's big sail boats. The duck pond was not very wide, but it was quite long, and when Bunny and Sue had sailed across it to the other side, they turned around to go to the upper end. Bunny had found a piece of board, which he had nailed to another short length of bean pole, and this made a sort of oar. This he put in the water at the back of the raft to steer with. Bunny Brown knew something about steering a boat, for he had often been out with his father or Bunker Blue. And Bunny was quick to learn, though he was not much more than six years old. Harder blew the wind on the bag-sail, and faster and faster went Bunny and Sue to the upper end of the pond. There were many ducks swimming on the water, or putting their heads down below, into the mud, to get the weeds that grew there. Sometimes they found snails, which some ducks like very much. But when the ducks saw the barn-door raft sailing among them, they were afraid, and, quacking loudly, they paddled out of the way. "Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue, as they sailed along, "there's the little ducks that were hatched out by the hen mother." "So they are!" exclaimed the little boy. The little ducks were swimming in the water, and the hen mother was clucking along shore. She would not go in the water herself, but stayed as near to it as she dared, on shore. Perhaps she wanted to make sure the little ducks would not drown. Of course they would not, unless a big fish pulled them under water, for ducks are made on purpose to swim. And there were no big fish in the pond, only little minnows, about half as big as a lollypop stick. "Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue, as she saw the hen mother watching the little ducks paddle about, "Oh, Bunny, I know what we can do." "What?" "We can give the hen mamma a ride on our boat. Poor thing! She never can go paddling or swimming with her family. Let's take her on our boat, and she can sail with her little ducks then, and not get wet." "That's what we'll do!" Bunny cried. "I'm glad you thought of it, Sue. We'll give the old hen a sail, and the ducks can paddle around with us." Bunny steered the raft over to the shore where the hen was clucking away, calling to her ducklings to come to dry land. Perhaps she thought they had been in bathing long enough. "Can we catch her?" asked Sue. "You know it's hard work to catch a chicken. You couldn't catch the old rooster." "Oh, this is easier," Bunny said. "The hen mother won't run away from her little ducks." And, for a wonder, Bunny was right. But then, as Grandma Brown told him afterward, the old hen was a very tame one, and was used to being picked up and petted. So when Bunny and Sue reached the shore the hen did not run away. She let Bunny pick her up, and she only clucked a little when he set her down in a dry place on the door raft. "Now we'll go sailing again," Bunny said, as he pushed off from the shore. The old hen clucked and fluttered her wings. She was calling to her little ducks. And they came right up on to the raft, too. Perhaps they wanted to see what sailing was like, and then, too, they may have had enough of swimming and paddling for a time. At any rate, there the old mother hen and her little ducks were on the raft, with the two children. "Now we'll give them a fine ride!" cried Sue. "Aren't they cute, Bunny?" "Yes," said Bunny. He steered the raft, while Sue picked up one of the little ducks and petted it in her hand. "Oh, you dear, cute, sweet little thing!" murmured Sue. "I wish I had you for a doll!" On and on sailed Bunny and Sue, and I think it was the first time the old hen mother ever went sailing with her family of ducks. She seemed to like it, too, Bunny and Sue thought. Finally, when the raft was in the middle of the pond, the little ducks gave some quacks, a sort of whistle and into the water they fluttered one after the other. "Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!" went the hen mamma, fluttering her wings. "Cluckity-cluck-cluck!" I suppose that meant, in hen talk: "Come back! Come back! Stay on the boat and have a nice ride!" But the little ducks wanted to swim in the water. And they did. "Never mind," said Sue. "We'll keep on sailing, Bunny, and we'll sail right after the little ducks, so the hen mamma can watch them." And this the children did. The little ducks paddled around in the water at the edge of the raft, and on the middle of it, in a dry place, perched the hen mother. It was great fun, and Bunny and Sue liked it very much. "She is just like a trained hen," said Bunny. "If we have another and bigger circus, Sue, we can have this hen in it." "Are we going to have another circus?" "Maybe--a big one, in two tents. Bunker Blue and Ben are talking about it." "Oh, that would be fun!" cried Sue, clapping her hands. And then, all at once, as soon as Sue did this, the little ducks took fright, and hurried toward the shore. Perhaps they thought Sue was shooing them away, as her grandmother sometimes shooed the hens out of the garden. Anyhow, the little ducks, half swimming and half flying, rushed for the shore, and no sooner had the hen mother seen them go, than with a loud cluck she raised herself up in the air, and flew to shore also. She had had enough of sailing, and she wanted to be with her little duck family. "Oh, I didn't mean to scare them," said Sue. "Never mind," Bunny comforted her. "I guess they had ride enough. Now we'll sail down to the other end of the pond." But the wind was quite strong now. It blew very hard on the bag-sail, and the raft went swiftly through the water. All at once there was a cracking sound, and the raft turned to one side. "Oh, dear!" cried Sue. "What's the matter?" Something flew down over her head, covering her eyes, and she could see nothing. "Stop! Stop!" cried the little girl. "Is that you, Bunny?" But Bunny did not answer. Sue pulled the thing off her head. When she could see she noticed that it was the bag sail. The beanpole mast had broken off close to where it was stuck in a crack in the barn door, and the sail had fallen on Sue. But where was Bunny Brown? Sue looked all around and then saw her brother, off the raft, standing up in the water behind her. "What--what's the matter, Bunny?" asked Sue. "Don't you want to sail any more? What makes you be in the water? Oh, you're all wet!" she cried, as she saw that he had fallen in, right over his head. "I--I couldn't help it," said Bunny. "I slipped in when the wind broke the sail. I--I fell on my back, and a lot of water got in my nose and mouth, but--but I got on my feet, and I'm all right now, Sue." Bunny's father had taught him a little about swimming, and Bunny knew that the first thing to do, when you fall in water, is to hold your breath. Then, when your head bobs up, as it surely will, you can take a breath, and stand up, if the water isn't too deep. So Bunny stood up, with the muddy water dripping from him, looking at Sue who was still on the raft, all alone. "Oh, Bunny!" cried the little girl. "What shall I do? I--I'm afraid!" "You're all right," Bunny answered bravely. "I'll come and push you to shore. I'm all wet so I might as well stay wading now." The duck pond was not very deep, and Bunny was soon wading behind the raft, pushing it, with Sue on it, toward shore. So his sister did not get more than her feet wet, and, as she had on no shoes or stockings, that did not matter. "Oh, Bunny! What happened?" asked his mother, when she saw how wet he was, as, a little later, the two children came to the farmhouse. "What happened, Bunny?" "Oh, Mamma. We gave the old hen a ride, so she could be with her little ducks," said Sue, "and the wind broke our sail, and it fell on me, and the ducks flew away and so did the hen mother, and Bunny fell in. That's what happened!" "Mercy me, sakes alive! I should think that was enough!" cried Grandma Brown. "Yes, perhaps you had better keep away from the duck pond after this," said Mother Brown. "Now I'll have to change all your clothes, Bunny." Bunny was sorry his mother had so much work to do for him, but, as he said, he could not help it. Washed and clean, Bunny and Sue, a little later, went down the road to the house of Nellie Bruce. "We'll take Splash with us," said Bunny. "Where is he? Here, Splash! Splash!" he called. "I didn't see him all to-day," said Sue. "Maybe he didn't like being a blue-striped tiger in a circus, and he's gone back to our home by the ocean." "He wouldn't go that far," said Bunny. "Besides, he liked being in the circus. He wagged his tail 'most all the while, and when he does that he's happy. Here, Splash!" he called again. But Splash did not come, even when Sue called, and the two children went off to play without him. For a time they did not think about their dog, as they had such fun at the home of Nellie Bruce. They played tag, and hide-and-go-seek, as well as teeter-tauter, and bean-bag. Then Mrs. Bruce gave them some cookies and milk, and they had a little play-party. But, when it came time for Bunny and Sue to go home, they thought of Splash again. "I wonder if he'll be there waiting for us," said Sue, as they came within sight of their Grandpa Brown's house. "I hope so," said Bunny. But no Splash was there, and he had not been seen since early morning, before Bunny and Sue went sailing on the duck pond. "Oh, dear!" sighed Sue. "Splash has run away. He's lost!" "Dogs can't get lost!" Bunny declared. "Yes, he is too lost," and tears came into Sue's eyes. CHAPTER XVI GETTING THE TENTS Bunny Brown himself thought it was strange that Splash was not about to greet him and his sister as they came home from play. The big shaggy dog, that had once pulled Sue from the water, was very fond of the children, and if he did not go with them (which he did nearly every time) he was always waiting for them to come back. But this time Splash was not to be seen. Bunny went about the yard, whistling, while Sue called: "Splash! Here, Splash! I want you! Come here, Splash!" But the joyful bark of Splash was not heard, nor did he come bounding around the side of the house, to play with Bunny Brown and his sister Sue, when they called. "It is queer," said Mother Brown. "I saw him early this morning, when I gave him his breakfast, and I thought he went with you, Bunny, when you and Sue went down to the duck pond." "No, Splash didn't go with us," said Bunny. And this was rather strange, too, for the dog loved water, and played near it whenever he could, dashing in to bring out sticks that Bunny or Sue would throw in for him. "And didn't he go down to Nellie Bruce's with you?" asked Grandma Brown. She was as fond of Splash as anyone. "No, he didn't follow us," Sue answered. "We wanted him, too. But we thought sure he'd be here waiting for us. But he isn't," and again the little girl's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, we'll find him," said Bunny. But that was easier said than done. All about the house and barns in the farmyard, down through the meadows and over the pasture they looked for Splash. Mother and Grandmother Brown helped search, but Bunny and Sue, with Bunker Blue and Ben Hall, went farther off to look. It was nearly time for supper, but Bunny and Sue did not want to wash and get clean ready for the meal until they had found Splash. But Splash, it seemed, was not to the found. "We'll have to ask some of the neighbors if they've seen him," said Bunker. "We'll go down the road a way and ask everyone we meet." Splash, by this time, was pretty well known at the houses along the road where Grandpa Brown lived, for the dog made friends with everyone, and was fond of children. But Bunker, Ben, Bunny and Sue had to ask at a number of places before they found anyone who had seen Splash. "Your dog lost; eh?" exclaimed Mr. Black, who lived about a mile from Grandpa Brown's house. "Why, yes, I saw Splash this morning. He was running over the fields back of my house. I called to him, thinking you children might be with him, and there's an old ram, over in my back pasture, that I didn't want to get after you. "But Splash wouldn't come when I called to him, and when I saw you two youngsters weren't with him, I didn't worry about the ram. I knew Splash could look out for himself." "Did you see him come back?" asked Bunker. "No. I didn't notice. I was too busy." "Then we'll go over and look for him," said Ben. "Maybe the old ram got him after all." "Well, maybe he did," said the farmer, "but I guess a dog like Splash can run faster than a ram. Anyhow we'll have a look." "Are you going, Bunny?" asked Sue. "Sure. Aren't you? Don't you want to find Splash?" "Yes--but--but I don't want a old ram to hook me with his horns." "I'll take care of you, Sue," said Farmer Black. "I'll take a big stick with me, and the ram is afraid of that. We'll find Splash for you." They all went over the field where Mr. Black had seen Splash trotting early that morning. They saw the ram, who, at first, seemed about to run toward them. But when Mr. Black shook the stick at him the ram turned away and nibbled grass. "No sign of Splash here," said the farmer, as he stood on the fence and looked across the field. "Then he's just lost," said Bunny. He was glad the ram had not hurt his dog. But where could Splash be? They went on a little farther, and Sue called: "Splash! Splash! Where are you?" But there was no answer. Then they went on a little farther, and Bunny called: "Splash! Ho, Splash!" Hark! What was that? They all listened. From somewhere, a good way off, the faint barking of a dog could be heard. "There he is!" cried Bunker Blue. "That's Splash!" "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Sue. "But why doesn't he come to us?" Bunny asked. "Splash always comes when you call him. Why doesn't he come?" No one could answer this. They listened and waited. They could hear the dog barking, but the sound was as far off as ever. "Maybe he can't come," said Ben. "Maybe he's caught, or hurt, and can't walk. We'll have to go to him." "I guess that's right," said Farmer Black. "We'll find that dog of yours after all." They listened in order to tell where the barking came from, and then started off toward a little grove of trees. It seemed that Splash was there. And, as they came nearer the barking sounded more plainly. "Oh, Splash! Splash!" cried Sue. The dog barked and whined now. "He's hurt!" said Bunker Blue. "He must be caught in a trap!" And it was there they found poor Splash. He had stepped with one paw into a trap that was hidden under the leaves, and there he was, held fast. For the trap, which was a string spring one, was fastened by a chain to a heavy log. And as Splash could not pull the log and trap too, he had had to stay where he was caught. "Oh, you poor, dear Splash!" cried Sue, putting her arms around the dog's neck. Splash licked her face with his red tongue, and whined. Bunny, too, put his arms around his pet. "Some boy must have set that trap here to catch musk rats," said Farmer Black. "I've told 'em not to, but they won't mind. Let me see now if I can't set Splash loose." This was soon done. The trap was not a sharp one, with teeth, as some are made, and though one of the dog's paws was pinched and bruised, no bones were broken, nor was the skin cut. But poor Splash was quite lame, and could only walk on three legs. "Splash, what made you run away from home?" asked Bunny. Of course the dog could not answer. But he may have found some other dog to play with, and run off to have some fun. Then he had stepped into the trap, and there he was held until his little friends came to find him. "And it's a good thing you looked for him," said Bunker Blue, "or he might have been out here all night, caught in the trap." "Poor Splash!" said Sue, as she hugged him again. As Splash could not walk along very well, on three legs, Mr. Black said he would hitch up a wagon and take the dog, and everyone else, to grandpa's place. And, a little later, this was done. Grandpa Brown put some liniment on the sore leg, and bound it up in soft cloths. Then Splash went to sleep in the kitchen. "Oh, I'm so glad he isn't lost!" sighed Sue, as she and Bunny went to bed that night. "So am I," echoed her brother. For several days Splash had to go about on three legs, holding the lame one, with the cloth on, up in the air. Then the pain and bruise of the trap passed away, and he could run around the same as before, on four legs, though he limped a little. Soon he was over that, and as well as ever. "And you must keep out of traps," said Bunny, shaking a finger at his pet. "Bow-wow!" barked Splash, and I guess that he meant he would. It was about a week after this that Bunny Brown and his sister Sue saw Bunker Blue and Ben Hall out in a field with a big pile of white cloth. "Oh, maybe they're going to send up a balloon!" exclaimed Bunny, for he had once seen this done at a park. "Let's go watch!" cried Sue. They found the two big boys stretching out the white cloth, to which was fastened many ropes. "Is it a balloon?" asked Bunny. "No," answered Bunker. "It's a tent." "A tent! What a big one!" "It's the army tent your grandfather used to sleep in when he went to camp. He let us take it. We're going to put it up and see how many it will hold." "What for?" Bunny wanted to know. "Are you going camping? Can Sue and I come?" "No, we're not going camping," answered Ben. "But we want this tent, and perhaps another one, bigger, for the circus we are going to give." "Oh, are you going to have a circus?" asked Bunny. "Well, we big boys are thinking of it," said Bunker. "You young ones gave such a good one, that we want to see if we can't come up to you. That's why we're going to put up this tent." "We'll help," said Bunny. Then he and Sue began pulling on ropes and hauling on the ends of the white canvas, of which the tent was made. The children thought they were helping, but I guess Bunker and Ben could have done better if left alone. Still they liked the children, and did not want to send them away. But Bunny, who had gone away from Sue, soon grew tired of pulling on the heavy ropes. "I guess I'll come back when you have the tent up," said the little fellow. "Come on, Sue," and he looked around for his sister. But she was not in sight. "Sue! Sue!" called Bunny. "Where are you?" "Maybe she's gone home," said Ben. "No, she wouldn't go without me," Bunny declared. "Oh, maybe she's lost; or caught in a trap, just like Splash was!" and Bunny began to cry. CHAPTER XVII BUNNY AND THE BALLOONS Bunker Blue, Ben, and some of the large boys from nearby farms, who had been invited to come over and help put up the big tent, stopped pulling on the ropes, or driving in stakes, and gathered around Bunny Brown. "What's the matter?" asked one big boy, who had a snub nose. "My--my little sister is lost," Bunny explained, half crying. "Who is your sister?" the big boy asked. He came from a farm a good way off, and was somewhat of a stranger. "She's Sue--that's my sister," Bunny explained. "She was here a little while ago, but now she's lost!" "This is Bunny Brown," explained Bunker to the other boys. "He and his sister Sue are staying at Grandpa Brown's farm. Their grandfather let us take this tent," he said. "Oh, I see!" exclaimed the big boy. "Well, we'll help you hunt for your sister, Bunny." They began looking all around the big tent, which was spread out on the ground and not yet up on the poles, as it would be later, so the people could come in it to see the show of the big boys. But Sue was not in sight. Nor could she be seen anywhere in the field where the tent was to be put up. "Are you sure she didn't go back to the house, Bunny?" asked Ben. "I'm sure she didn't," said the little boy. "She was here with me a little while ago. If she'd gone she'd have told me so, and Splash would have gone with her. He goes with her more than he does with me. And see, here is Splash!" This was true. The big dog lay in the shade, watching what Bunny and the others were doing, and wondering, I suppose, why people were so foolish as to work in hot weather, when they could just as well lie down in the shade, and stick out their tongues to keep cool--for that is what dogs do. "Maybe Splash can find Sue," said Bunker. "Hi there, Splash!" he called. "Where's Sue? Find her!" Splash jumped up with a bark, and ran to Bunny. "You tell him what to do," said Bunker. "He'll mind you better than he will me." "Find Sue, Splash! Find Sue!" said Bunny. Splash barked again, looked up into Bunny's face, as if to make sure what was wanted, and then, with a bark he ran to where a big pile of the white canvas was gathered in a heap. It was a part of the tent the boys had not yet unfolded, or straightened out. Splash stood near this and barked. Then he began poking in it with his sharp nose. "He--he's found something," said Ben. "Maybe it's Sue," cried Bunker. "Come on!" Taking hold of Bunny's hand, Bunker ran with him toward the pile of canvas. The other boys ran too. But before they got there Sue was sitting up in the middle of it, and Splash was standing near her, barking and jumping about now and then, as if he felt very happy. "Why--why, Sue!" Bunny cried. "Were you there all the while?" "How long is all the while?" asked Sue, rubbing her sleepy eyes. "I was playing house here, Bunny, and I pulled a bed spread over me, and went to sleep. Splash put his cold nose on me and woke me up. What are you all lookin' at me for?" Sue asked, as she saw the circle of boys, her brother among them, staring at her. "We--we thought you were lost, Sue," said Bunny. "And we came to find you." "I--I wasn't losted at all!" Sue protested. "I was here all the while! I just went to sleep!" And that was what had happened. When Bunny was busy helping Ben and Bunker pull on some of the tent ropes, Sue had slipped off by herself, and had lain down on the pile of canvas. Feeling sleepy, she had pulled a part of the tent over her. She made believe it was a white spread, such as was on her bed in her Grandpa Brown's house. This covered Sue from sight, so Bunny and none of the others could see her. And there she had slept, while the others looked. And had not Splash known where to find the little girl, she might have slept a great deal longer, and Bunny and the boys might not have found her until dark. "But I've slept long enough, now," said Sue. "Is the tent ready for the big circus?" "Not yet," answered Bunker Blue. "We've got to use the piece of canvas you were sleeping on, so it's a good thing you woke up. But we'll soon have the tent ready, and then we'll go and get the bigger one." "Oh, are you going to have two?" asked Sue. "Yes," answered Ben. "Oh, we're going to give a fine show! And we want you and your sister Sue in it, too, Bunny," went on the strange boy who had come to Grandpa Brown's so hungry that night. "You'll be in the big circus; won't you?" "To give the Punch and Judy show?" asked Sue. "Well, maybe that, and maybe some of the things you did in your own little circus," Bunker said. "There's time enough to get up something new if you want." "All right. That's what we'll do," said Bunny. "Come on, Sue, and we'll practise a new act for the big boys' circus." The little circus, gotten up by Bunny and Sue, had made quite a jolly time for the people in the country where Grandpa Brown lived. It was talked of in many a farmhouse, and it was this talk of the little circus that had made Bunker, Ben and the other big boys want to give a larger show of their own. Some of the boys were quite strong, and they could do tricks on the trapeze that Bunny and his little friends did not dare try. Then, too, one of the boys had a trained dog, that had once been in a real city theatre show, and another had some white mice that could do little tricks, and even fire a toy cannon that shot a paper cap. "Oh, it's going to be a real circus all right, in real tents," said Bunker Blue. As I have told you, Grandpa Brown let the boys take his old army tent, and they were to have another, and larger one, that had once been used at a county fair. Leaving Bunker, Ben and the other big boys to put up their tent, Bunny and Sue, with Splash, their dog, went back to the farmhouse. "What trick can we do, Bunny?" asked Sue. "What can we do in the circus?" "Oh, we'll make up a surprise, so they'll all laugh," he said. "I wish I had another big lobster claw, so I could put it on my nose, and look funny." "Maybe you could find something else to put on your nose," said the little girl. "Oh, Bunny, I know!" she suddenly cried. "I've just thought of something fine!" "What?" asked Bunny. Sue looked all around, to make sure no one was listening, and then she whispered to Bunny. And what it was she told him I'm not allowed to tell you just now, though I will when the right time comes. Anyhow, Bunny and Sue were very busy the rest of the day. They were making something out in the barn, and they kept the doors closed so no one could see what they were doing. It was the day after this that Bunny and Sue were asked by their grandma to go on a little errand for her. It was about half a mile down the safe country road, to a neighbor's house, and as the two children had been there before, they knew the way very well. Hand in hand they set off, with Splash following after them. They walked slowly, for there was no hurry. Now and then they stopped to pick some pretty flowers, or get a drink at a wayside spring. Once in a while they saw a red, yellow or blue bird, and they stopped to watch the pretty creatures fly to their nests, where their little ones were waiting to be fed. "Oh, isn't it just lovely in the country," said Sue. "Don't you just love it, Bunny?" "Yes," he answered. "I do. And won't we have fun at our circus, Sue, when I dress up like a----" "Hush!" exclaimed the little girl. "Don't tell anyone! It's a secret you know." "Pooh! There's nobody here to tell!" laughed Bunny. In a little while they were at the house of the neighbor to whom Grandma Brown had sent them. They gave in the little note grandma had written, and then Mrs. Wilson, to whom it was sent, after writing an answer, gave Bunny and Sue each a cookie, and a cool glass of milk. "Sit down in the shade, on the porch, and eat and drink," said Mrs. Wilson. "Then you will feel better when going home." Bunny and Sue liked the cookies and milk very much. They were just eating the last crumbs of the cookies, and drinking the last drops of milk, when Bunny, looking out toward the road, saw, going past, a man with a large number of balloons, tied to strings, floating over his head. There were red balloons, and blue ones; green, yellow, purple, white and pink ones. "Oh, look, Sue!" cried Bunny. "The balloons! That's just what we want for our circus." "What do we want of balloons?" asked the little girl. "I mean we ought to have somebody sell them outside the tents," Bunny went on. "It won't look like a real circus without toy balloons." "That's so," agreed Sue. "But how can we get 'em?" "We'll ask the balloon man," said Bunny. He was not a bit bashful about speaking to strangers. Setting down his empty milk glass, Bunny ran down the front path toward the road, where the balloon man was walking along through the dust. Sue ran after her brother. "Hey! Hi there!" called Bunny. The man stopped and turned around. Seeing the two children, he smiled. "You wanta de balloon?" he asked, for he was an Italian, just like the one who had a hand organ, and whose monkey ran away, as I have told you in the book before this one. "We want lots of balloons," said Bunny. "Oh, sure!" said the man, smiling more than ever. "We want all the balloons for our circus," Bunny explained. "Circus? Circus?" repeated the balloon man, and he did not seem to know what Bunny meant. "What is circus?" he asked. "We're going to have a circus," Bunny explained. "My sister Sue says we must have toy balloons. You come to our circus and you can sell a lot. You know--a show in a tent." "Oh, sure! I know!" The Italian smiled again. He had often sold balloons at fairs and circuses. "Where your circus?" he asked. "Come on, we'll show you," promised Bunny. Then he and Sue started back toward Grandpa Brown's house, followed by the man with the balloons floating over his head--red balloons, green, blue, purple, yellow, white and pink ones. CHAPTER XVIII THE STORM "Bunny! Won't it be just grand!" whispered Sue to her brother, as they walked along ahead of the balloon man. "Fine!" said Bunny. "We'll have him stand outside the tent, and sell his balloons. It'll look just like a real circus then. It wouldn't without the balloons; would it, Sue?" "No. And, oh, Bunny! I've thought of something else." "What is it?" "Pink lemonade." "Pink lemonade?" "Yes, we'll have the balloon man sell that, and peanuts. Then it will be more than ever like a real circus." "But how can he sell pink lemonade and peanuts and balloons?" Bunny wanted to know. "Oh, he can do it," said Sue, who seemed to think it was very easy. "He can tie his bunch of balloons to the lemonade and peanut stand, and when anybody wants one they can take it and put down the five cents. Then the balloon man will have one hand to dish out the hot peanuts, and the other to pour out the pink lemonade." "Yes, I guess he could do that," said Bunny. "We'll ask him, anyhow. Maybe he won't want to." Bunny and Sue stopped and waited for the balloon man to catch up with them. The man, seeing the children waiting for him, hurried forward, and stopped to see what was wanted. "Well?" he asked, looking at his balloons to make sure none of them would break away, and float up to the clouds. "Can you sell pink lemonade?" asked Bunny. "Penk leemonade," repeated the Italian, saying the words in a funny way. "Whata you calla dat? Penk leemonade?" "You know--what they always have at a circus," said Bunny. "This color," and he pointed to a pink balloon. "You drink it you know, out of a glass--five cents." "No can drinka de balloon!" the man exclaimed. "You put your teeth on heem and he go--pop! so--no good!" "No, I don't mean that!" cried Bunny, laughing at the Italian, who made funny faces, and waved his hands in the air. "I mean can you sell pink lemonade--to drink--at our circus?" "And peanuts?" added Sue. "Yes, we'd want you to sell peanuts, too," went on the little boy. "Ha! Peanuts? No! I used to pusha de peanut cart--make de whistle blow--hot peanuts. No more! I sella de balloon!" exclaimed the Italian. "No more makea de hot peanuts!" "Oh, dear!" sighed Sue. "He won't do it! We'll have to get some one else, Bunny." "Well, we can easy do that," said Bunny. "Maybe the hired man will sell peanuts and lemonade for us. I asked him if he would like to be in the big circus, and he said he would. I asked him if he could do any acts." "What'd he say?" Sue wanted to know, while the Italian balloon peddler stood looking at the two children, as if wondering what they would do next. "Well, the hired man said all he could do was milk a cow, and plow up the ground. He wanted to know if they were circus acts, and I said I guessed not," replied Bunny. "So maybe he'd be glad to sell lemonade and peanuts." "I think he would," said Sue. "You needn't do anything except blow up your balloons and sell 'em," she went on to the Italian. "Never mind about the peanuts and the pink lemonade." "Alla right," said the man, with a smile that showed what nice white teeth he had. "Me sella de balloon!" He and the children walked on a little longer. Then the man turned to Bunny and asked: "How much farder now--to de circus?" "Not far now," said Bunny. "The circus isn't quite ready yet, but you can stay at our grandpa's house until it is. You see we don't get many balloon peddlers out this way. You're the first one we've seen, so you'd better stay. It won't be more than a week, or maybe two weeks." "Circus last all dat time?" asked the Italian. "Sella lot de balloons. Buy more in New York--sella dem! Mucha de money!" "We've an aunt in New York," said Sue. "Her name is Aunt Lu. If you sell all these balloons she'll buy some more for you in New York, so you won't have to go away." "Yes," said Bunny, "that would be best. We'll get Aunt Lu to send you more balloons. And when you haven't any to sell, while you're waiting, you could help the hired man sell pink lemonade and peanuts. 'Cause, anyhow, maybe the hired man sometimes would have to go to milk the cows, and you could take his place." The Italian shook his head. He did not quite know what Bunny and Sue were talking about. All he thought of was that he was being taken to a circus, where he might sell all his balloons, and make money enough to buy more to sell. "There's grandpa's house now," said Sue, as they went around a turn in the road. "Where de circus--where de tents?" the Italian wanted to know. "Oh, they're not all up yet," said Bunny. "The big boys are doing that. You just come with us." And so Bunny Brown and his sister Sue walked up the front path, followed by the Italian with the many-colored balloons floating over his head. "Mercy me! What's all this?" cried Mother Brown, when she saw the little procession. "What does this mean, Bunny--Sue?" "It's balloons, for the circus," explained Bunny. "We saw this man down the road, and we invited him to come with us. He's going to stay here until it's time for the circus, next week, and then he's going to sell balloons outside the tent." "We wanted him to sell pink lemonade and peanuts," said Sue, "but he wouldn't. So the hired man can do that. Now, Grandma," went on the little girl, "maybe this balloon man is hungry. We're not, 'cause we had some cookies and milk; didn't we, Bunny?" "Yep." "But he didn't have any," Sue went on. "And he'll have to have a place to sleep, 'cause he's going to stay to the circus, and sell balloons. And if he sells them all Aunt Lu will send him more from New York and he can sell them. Won't it be nice, Mother?" Mrs. Brown did not know what to say. Neither did Grandma Brown. They just looked at one another, and then at the Italian, and next at Bunny and Sue. "Me sella de balloon!" explained the Italian, as best he could in his queer English. "Little boy--little gal--say circus. Me likea de circus. But me no see any tents. Where circus tents?" "Oh these children!" cried Mrs. Brown. "What in the world are we to do with this Italian and his balloons?" "Me sella de balloons!" said the dark-skinned man. "Yes, I know," sighed Mrs. Brown. "But the circus is only a make-believe one, and it isn't ready yet, and--Oh, I don't know what to do!" she cried. "Bunny--Sue--you shouldn't have invited the balloon man to come here!" "But you can't have a circus without balloons," said Bunny. "Yes, my dear, I know, but----" "What's all the trouble?" asked Papa Brown, coming out on the porch just then. Bunny and Sue, their mother and the Italian, told the story after a while. "Well," said Mr. Brown, to the Italian, after he had listened carefully, "I'm sorry you had your trip for nothing. But of course the children did not know any better. It is only a little circus, and you would not sell many balloons. But, as long as you came away back here, I guess we can give you something to eat, and we'll buy some balloons of you for the children." "Thanka you. Mucha de 'bliged," said the Italian with a smile. He seemed happy now, and after Grandma Brown had given him some bread and meat, and a big piece of pie, out on the side porch, he started off down the road again, smiling and happy. Bunny and Sue were each given a balloon by their father, who bought them from the Italian. "And don't invite any more peddlers to your circus, children," said Mr. Brown. "We won't," promised Bunny. "But we thought the balloons would be nice." "We can have the hired man sell pink lemonade and peanuts; can't we?" Sue wanted to know. "Yes, I guess so--if he wants to," laughed Grandpa Brown. "Well, we have some balloons ourselves, anyhow," said Bunny to his sister that night. The children had much fun with their balloons next day. They tied long threads to them, and let them float high in the air. Once Sue's nearly got away, but Bunny ran after the thread, which was dragging on the ground, and caught it. The big boys had not forgotten about the circus, all this while. Bunker, Ben and their friends had put up the tent Grandpa Brown let them take, and Bunny and Sue went inside. "My! It's terrible big!" said Sue, looking about the white canvas house. It was not so very large, but it seemed so to Sue. "Just wait until you see the other," said Bunker. "The fair tent is three times as big as this." And so it was. When that was put up in the meadow, near the army tent of Grandpa Brown's, the place began to look like a real circus ground. "When are you going to have the show?" asked Bunny of Ben. "Oh, in a few days now. Have you and Sue made up what you are going to do?" "Yes, but it's a secret," Sue answered. "So much the better!" laughed Ben. "You'll surprise the people." The two tents were put up, and the big boys were getting ready for the circus. One night, about four days before it was to be held, Bunker Blue and Ben came in from where they had been, down near the tents, and looked anxiously at the sky. "What's the matter," asked Bunny. "Well," said Bunker, "it looks as if we would have a big rain storm. And if we do, and the meadow brook gets too full of water, it may wash the tents away." "Oh, I guess that won't happen," said Ben. But in the night it began to rain very hard. It thundered and lightened, and Bunny and Sue woke up, frightened. Sue began to cry. "Why, you mustn't cry just because it rains," said Mother Brown. "But I'm afraid!" sobbed Sue. "And it will wash away our circus tents!" and she sat up in bed, and shivered every time it thundered. "Oh, Mother! It will wash away all the nice circus tents!" CHAPTER XIX HARD WORK Mrs. Brown did not quite understand what Sue said about the storm washing away the circus tents. So she asked the little girl to explain. "Why, Bunker Blue said," Sue told her mother, "that if the storm was too hard, the brook would get full of water, and wash away our circus tents. And I don't want that, 'cause me and Bunny is going to do an act, only it's a secret and I can't tell you. Only--Oh, dear!" cried Sue, as she saw a very bright flash of lightning. "It's going to bang again!" "But you musn't be afraid of the storm," said Mother Brown. "See, Bunny isn't afraid!" "Yes, I _is_ afraid too!" cried the little boy, who slept in the next room. "I _is_ afraid, but I wasn't goin' to tell!" "Well, that's being brave--not to show that you are afraid," said Mother Brown. "Come now, Sue, you be brave, like Bunny." "But I can't, Mother! I don't want the circus to be spoiled!" "Oh, I guess the tents are good and strong," said Mr. Brown, who had gotten up to see what Sue was crying for. "They won't blow away." It was about eleven o'clock at night, and quite dark, except when the lightning came. Then the loud thunder would sound, "just like circus wagons rumbling over a bridge," as Bunny told Sue, to try and make his little sister feel less afraid. But all Sue could talk of was the circus tents, that might be blown over by the strong wind, which was now rattling the shutters and windows of the farmhouse. Or else the white canvas houses might be washed away by the high water. While Mr. and Mrs. Brown sat up, trying to comfort Sue, by telling her and Bunny a fairy story, there were sounds heard in another part of the house. "I guess that's Grandpa Brown getting up to see if his cows and horses are all right," said mother. "The cows and horses are not afraid in a storm, Sue." "Maybe they are, but they can't talk and tell us about it," said Sue, who was not quite so frightened now. Grandpa Brown could be heard speaking to some one in the hall. "Hello, Bunker Blue," he called, "is that you getting up?" "Yes, Mr. Brown," was the answer the children heard. "And who is that with you?" "Ben Hall." "What are you going to do?" Bunny Brown heard his grandpa ask. "We're going down to see about our circus tents," said Bunker. "We're afraid they may be carried away in the storm." "Well, perhaps they may," said Grandpa Brown. "It's a bad storm all right, but we'll be safe and comfortable in the house. Take a lantern with you, if you're going out, and be careful." "We will," promised Bunker. Bunny put on his slippers and bath robe and went to the bedroom door. It was open a little way, and out in the hall he could see Bunker Blue and Ben Hall. The two big boys had on rubber boots and rubber coats, for it was raining hard. "Oh, Bunker!" called Bunny. "May I go with you?" "What, little shaver! Are you awake?" Bunker asked. "You'd better get back to bed. It's raining cats and dogs!" "Really?" called Sue, from her father's lap, where she was sitting all "cuddled up." "Is it really raining cats and dogs? Is it raining my dog Splash? If it is I want to see it!" "No, I didn't exactly mean that," answered Bunker with a laugh. "I meant it was raining such big drops that they are almost as large as little baby cats and dogs. But it is storming too hard for you two youngsters to come out. Ben and I will see about the tents." "Don't let them blow away!" begged Bunny. "Or wash down the brook," added Sue. "We won't!" promised the big boys. Then they went out into the storm. The wind was blowing so hard they could not carry umbrellas, for if they had taken them the umbrellas would have been blown inside out in a minute. But with rubber hats, coats and boots Bunker and Ben could not get very wet. Bunny and Sue, looking from their windows, saw the flicker of the lantern, as Bunker and Ben walked with it toward the circus tents. Harder rumbled the thunder, and brighter flashed the lightning. The rain pounded on the roof as though it would punch holes in it, and come through to wet Bunny and Sue. But nothing like that happened, and soon the two children began to feel sleepy again, even though the storm still kept up. "I--I guess I'll go to bed," said Sue. "Will you stay by me a little while, Daddy?" "Yes," answered her father. "I'll sit right by your little bed." "And hold my hand until I get to sleep?" "Yes, I'll hold your hand, Sue." "All right. Then I won't be scared any more. You can hold Bunny's hand, Mother." "Pooh, I'm not afraid!" said Bunny. "But I like you to hold my hand, Mother!" he added quickly, for fear his mother would go away and leave him. "All right, I'll sit by you," she said, with a smile. Bunny and Sue soon fell asleep again. The thunder was not quite so loud, nor the lightning so bright, but it rained harder than ever, and as Bunny felt his eyes growing heavy, so that he was almost asleep, he again thought of what might happen to the circus tents. "If they wash away down the brook, we can't have any show," he thought. "But maybe it won't happen." Bunny roused up a little later, when some one came into the farmhouse. The little boy thought it was Bunker and Ben, but he was too sleepy to get up and ask. He heard some one, that sounded like his grandpa, ask: "Did they wash away?" Then Bunker's voice answered: "Yes, they both washed away. It's a regular flood down in the meadow. Everything is spoiled!" "I wonder--I wonder if he means the circus?" thought Bunny, but he was too sleepy to do anything more, just then, than wonder. In the morning, however, when the storm had passed, Bunny Brown and his sister Sue heard some bad news. After breakfast Bunker and Ben came in and Bunker said: "Well, little folks, I guess we can't have any circus!" "No circus!" cried Bunny, and he was so surprised that he dropped his fork with a clatter on his plate, waking up Splash, the big dog, who was asleep in one corner of the room. "Why can't we have a circus?" asked Sue. She and Bunny had almost forgotten about the storm the night before. "We can't have a circus," explained Bunker, "because both our tents were washed away during the night. The brook, that is generally so small that you can wade across it, was so filled with rain water that it was almost turned into a river. It flooded the meadow, the water washed out the tent poles and pegs, and down the tents fell, flat. Then the water rose higher and washed them away." "Where did it wash them?" asked Bunny. "Oh, away down toward the river, I guess. I'm afraid we'll never get 'em back." "It's too bad," said Ben. "Just when we were all ready for the nice circus. But, Bunker, we won't give up yet. We'll look for those tents, and maybe we can put them up again." "Well, maybe we can do it," said the red-haired boy. "But I'm afraid everything is spoiled." "We'll help you look for the tents," said Bunny. "Won't we, Sue?" "If--if the water isn't too deep," said Sue. She was always afraid of deep water, though she, like Bunny, was learning to swim. "Oh, the water isn't deep now," Bunker assured her. "It was a regular flood in the night when Ben and I went out to look at it, but it has all gone down now, since the rain stopped." "Was it deep when you were out last night?" Bunny wanted to know. "It surely was," answered Bunker. "It was almost over our boots. We couldn't get near the tents, and we had to watch them be knocked down by the flood, and carried away on the big waves. Then we came back to the house." "We couldn't do anything in the dark, anyhow," remarked Ben. "But now that it's daylight maybe we can find the tents." "We'll help--come on!" exclaimed Bunny to his sister. They finished their breakfast, and, after promising to keep out of mischief, Bunny and Sue were allowed to go with Bunker and Ben to look for the missing tents. First they went down to the meadow where the white canvas houses had been first put up. The brook was higher than Bunny or Sue had ever seen it before, and the bent-over, twisted and muddy grass showed how high up in the meadow the water had come. There were some wooden pegs still left in the ground, to show where the tents had stood. "And now they're gone," said Bunny sadly. "Yes. Carried away in the flood," remarked Bunker. "But maybe we'll find them," said Ben hopefully. They walked along the bank of the brook. About a mile farther on it flowed into a small river. "And if our tents have floated down the river we may never get them back," said Bunker. "Now everybody look, and whoever first sees the white tents, caught on a stone or on a log, tell us, and we'll try to get them," said Bunker. You may be sure Bunny and Sue kept their eyes wide open, and were very desirous to be the first to see the tents. It was Sue who had the first good look. As she and Bunny, with Ben, Bunker and some other big boys who had come to help, went around a turn in the brook, Sue, who had run on ahead, saw something white bobbing up and down in the water. "Oh, there's a tent--maybe!" she cried. The others ran to her side. "So it is!" shouted Bunker. "That's the small tent, caught fast on a rock in the brook. We'll get that out first!" He and the other boys took off their shoes and stockings, and waded out to the tent. It was hard work to get it to shore, but they finally managed to do it. The tent was wet and muddy, and torn in two places, but it could be dried out, mended and used. "And now for the big tent--see if _you_ can find that, Bunny!" called Ben. But Bunny was not as lucky as was his sister Sue. After they had walked on half a mile farther, it was Bunker himself who saw the big tent, caught on a sunken tree, just where the brook flowed into the river. "Now if we get that we'll be all right," he said. "Yes, but it isn't going to be as easy to get that as it was the little one," commented Ben Hall. "We'll have to work very hard to get that tent to shore." "I'll help," offered Bunny Brown, and the other boys laughed. Bunny was so little to offer to help get the big tent on shore. CHAPTER XX THE MISSING MICE The big tent, once used at the fair, but which the boys had now borrowed for their circus, was all tangled up in the water. The ropes and cloth were twisted and wound around among the sticks and stones, where the tent had drifted, after the flood of the night before had carried it away. "Oh, we'll never get that out so we can use it," said Charlie Tenny, one of the boys who was helping Ben, Bunker and the others. "Yes, we'll get it out," said Ben. "We've got Bunny Brown to help us you know." Some of the boys laughed, and Bunny's face grew red. "Now I mean just what I say!" cried Ben. "Bunny Brown is a brave little chap, and if it hadn't been for him and his sister Sue we big fellows wouldn't have thought of getting up a circus show. So it's a good thing to have a chap like him with us, even if he is small." Bunny felt better after this, and he thought Ben was very kind to speak as he had done. "Splash is here, too," said Bunny. "He can get hold of a rope and pull like anything." "That's right," said Bunker Blue. "Maybe Splash can help us. He is a strong dog." "It's a good thing the tent didn't go all the way down to the river," said Charlie. "Otherwise we might never have found it." "Yes," put in Bunker. "And now let's see if we can get it to shore. It's not going to be easy." The boys worked hard, and Bunny helped. He could wade out, where the water was not too deep, and pull on the ropes. There were a great many of these ropes to hold the tent together, but now they were all tangled. But Ben Hall seemed to know how to untangle them, and soon the work of getting the tent to shore began to look easier. Splash did his share of work, too. He pulled on the ropes Bunker Blue handed him, shutting his strong, white teeth on them, and straining and tugging until you would have thought that Splash, all alone, would pull the tent ashore. And, finally, with all the boys and the dog and Bunny Brown pulling and tugging, they got the tent out of the water. It was still all twisted and tangled, but now that it was on shore it was easier to make smooth. "We'll have to get a wagon to haul it back to the meadow where we are going to set it up again," said Bunker. "My grandpa will let us take a horse and wagon," said Bunny. "He wants to see the circus." "I guess we'll have to give him a free ticket if he lets us take a horse and wagon to haul the tent," said Ben with a laugh. "You've a good grandpa, Bunny Brown." "Yep. I like him, and so does Sue," said the little fellow. Grandpa Brown very kindly said he would go down to the river himself, in his wagon, and help the boys bring up the tent. He did this, and he also helped them set it up again. This time they put the two circus tents farther back from the brook. "Then if it rains again, and the water gets high and makes a flood, it won't wash away the tents," said Bunker Blue. "When is the show going to be?" asked Sue. She was anxious to see it, and she and Bunny were waiting for the time when they could let their secret become known. For they had told no one yet. "Oh, we'll have to wait a few days now, before having the circus," said Ben. "The tents are all wet, and we want them to dry out. Then we've got to make the seats all over again, because the flood carried them away. I guess we can't have the show until next week." There was much more work to be done because the flood had come and spoiled everything. But, after all, it did not matter much, and the boys set to work with jolly laughs to get the circus ready again. Bunny and Sue helped all they could, and the older boys were glad to have the children with them, because both Bunny and Sue were so good-natured, and said such funny things, at times, that it made the others laugh. The seats for the circus were made of boards, laid across boxes, just as Bunny and Sue had made theirs when they gave their first Punch and Judy show in their barn at home. There were seats all around the outer edge inside the big fair tent. It was in this one that the real "show" was to be given. Here the big boys would swing on trapezes, have foot and wheelbarrow races, ride horses and do all sorts of tricks. "The people will sit here and watch us do our funny things," said Ben. "We're going to have clowns, and everything." "And what's going to be in the little tent--the army one grandpa let you take?" asked Bunny. "Oh, that's for the wild animals," said Bunker Blue. "Are you going to have our dog Splash striped like a blue tiger again?" asked Sue. "No, I think we'll have some different wild animals this time," said Ben. "There'll be some surprises at our show." "Oh, I wish it were time now!" cried Sue. "We've got a surprise too; haven't we, Bunny?" "Yep!" answered her brother. "Come on out to the barn, Sue and we'll practise it again." What it was Bunny and Sue were going to do, none of the big boys could guess. And they did not try very hard, for they had too much to do themselves, getting ready for the "big" circus as they called it, for the first one, gotten up by Bunny and Sue, was only a little one. So the smaller tent was made ready for the "wild" animals, though of course there would really be no elephants, tigers or anything like that. You couldn't have them in a boys' circus, and I guess the boys didn't really want them. "Make-believe" was as much fun to them as it was to Bunny and Sue. There was nice, clear weather after the storm and flood, and soon the circus tents were dried out again. The boards were once more put across the boxes for seats. One day Bunker and Ben went into the big tent. There they saw Bunny and Sue tying some pieces of old carpet on to some of the planks down near the front sawdust ring. For there was a real sawdust ring, the sawdust having come from grandpa's ice-house. "What are you putting carpet on the planks for?" asked Ben, of the two children. "To make preserved seats," answered Sue. "Reserved seats, Sue. _Re_served--not _pre_served seats, Sue," corrected Bunny. "Well, it's just the same, 'most," said Sue, as she went on tying her bit of carpet to a board. "We're making some nice, soft reserved seats for grandpa and grandma, and mother and daddy." "Oh, I see!" laughed Bunker. "That's a good idea. We can make soft seats for the ladies, Ben. We'll get some more pieces of old carpet and have a lot of reserved seats." And this the big boys did. Bunny and Sue, little as they were, had given them a good idea. And now began the real work of getting ready for the circus. That is the boys began taking into the smaller tent queer looking boxes and crates. These boxes and crates were covered with cloth or paper, so no one could see what was in them. "What are they?" asked Sue, as she and Bunny stood outside the smaller tent, for Bunker would not let them go inside. "Oh, those are some of the wild animals," said the red-haired boy. "Really?" asked Sue, her eyes opening wide. "Well--really-make-believe," laughed Bunker. "And are the white mice there?" asked Bunny. "Yes, the white mice are in the tent," said Bunker. One of the country boys, who had a lot of white mice had promised to lend them to the circus. He had taught them to do some little tricks, and this was to be a part of the show. "Oh, I can hardly wait!" cried Sue. "I want to see the circus." "Well you can now, in a day or so," said Bunker. "Hi there! What have you?" he asked of a boy who came up to the tent with a box on a wheelbarrow. "This is the wild lion," was the answer. "Oh-o-o-o-o!" exclaimed Sue, getting closer to Bunny. "A lion!" "Oh, I've got him well trained," said the boy. "He won't hurt you at all. He won't even roar if I tell him not to." Certainly the lion in the cage seemed very quiet, and the boy carried him very easily. "I guess maybe he's a baby lion," whispered Sue to Bunny. That afternoon there was a great deal of excitement down at the "circus grounds," as Bunny and Sue called the place in the meadow where the tents stood. One of the boys who had been helping Bunker and Ben, came running out of the tent crying: "They're gone! They're gone!" "What's gone?" asked Ben. "My white mice! The cage door is open and they're all gone!" CHAPTER XXI THE BIG CIRCUS Bunny Brown and his sister Sue looked at one another. If the white mice had escaped from the circus tent, some of the other animals might also get away. And suppose that should happen to the lion, which Ben had said was in one of the boxes! Just suppose! "I--I guess we'd better go home, Bunny," said Sue, in a whisper. "Yes," he answered. "I--I guess mother wants us. Come on!" "What's the matter?" asked Bunker Blue. "I thought you were going to stay and help us, Bunny." "I--I was. But if those mice got away--" "Oh, I see!" laughed Bunker Blue. "You're afraid some of the other animals might also get out. But don't be afraid. We haven't any of the other wild beasts in here yet." "But that--that lion," said Bunny, looking toward the animal tent. "Oh, he's asleep," said Ben. "Besides he wouldn't hurt anyone even if he was out of his cage. You needn't be afraid. He's the only animal, except the mice, that we've put in the tent yet. But how did your mice get out, Sam?" he asked the boy who owned them. "I don't know. They were all right last night, but, when I went to feed them this morning, the cage door was open, and they were all gone." "Will--will they bite?" asked Sue. "No, they're very tame and gentle," answered Sam. "White mice and white rats, you know, aren't like the other kind. I guess being colored white makes them kind and nice. They run all over me, in my pockets and up my sleeves. Sometimes they go to sleep in my pockets. "Why, even my mother isn't afraid of them, and she'll let them go to sleep in her lap, and she wouldn't do that for a black mouse or a black or gray rat. No sir!" "No, I guess not!" exclaimed Bunker. "Other rats and mice would bite. But it's too bad your white ones are gone. We'll have to find them. We can't have a good circus without them. Everybody help hunt for Sam's lost mice!" cried Bunker. "I--I know how to get them," said Sue. "How?" Sam wanted to know. He and the others, including Bunny and Sue, had gone inside the tent to look at the empty mouse cage. "With cheese," answered Sue. "Don't you know the little verse: 'Once a trap was baited, with a piece of cheese. It tickled so a little mouse it almost made him sneeze.' And when your mices sneeze, when they smell the cheese, you could hear them, and catch them, Sam." "Yes, maybe that would be a good plan," laughed Bunker Blue. "But do your mice like cheese, Sam?" "Yes, they'll eat almost anything, and they'll take it right out of my hand. Oh dear! I hope they come back!" Sam felt very bad, for he had had his white mice pets a long time, and had taught them to do many little tricks. "We'll all help you look for them," said Ben. "Did you ever teach any of them the trick of opening the cage door?" he asked. "No," replied Sam. "I don't believe they could do that, for the door was fastened on the outside, and white mice haven't paws like a trained monkey. Maybe I didn't fasten the cage door good last night." "Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "Wouldn't it be fun if we could send and get Mr. Winkler's monkey Wango for our circus? Wouldn't it?" "Yes, maybe it would," replied Bunny. "But I don't guess we could do it. Come on, Sue, I'm going to look for the white mice." "All right," Sue said. Maybe some little girls would be afraid of mice, white, black or gray. But Sue was not. Perhaps it was because she knew Bunny was going to be with her. Then, too, Sue was very anxious to have the circus as good as it could be made, and if the mice were missing some of the people who came might not like it. So Sue and Bunny said they would help hunt for the lost white mice. With the big boys, the children looked all around the animal tent. The ground had been covered with straw, and the mice might be hiding in this, or among the boxes and barrels in the tent. But, look as every one did, the mice were not to be found. "What's in that box?" asked Sue, pointing to one covered with a horse blanket. "That's the lion," answered Bunker Blue. "But don't be afraid," he went on, as he saw Sue step to one side. "He's asleep now. Besides he can't hurt anyone. You'll see, when we have the circus." No one knew where the white mice had gone. Even Splash could not find them, though both Bunny and Sue told their dog to look for Sam's pets. "I guess Splash isn't a rat dog," said Ben. "No, and I'm glad he isn't," Sam said. "Rat dogs might think white mice were made for them to shake and kill, just as they shake and kill the other kind of rats and mice. I'd rather lose my white mice, and never see them again, than have them killed." But, even though the white mice were missing, the circus would go on just the same. And now began a busy time for all the big boys. The show would be given in two more days, and there was much to be done before that time. Sam and Bunker Blue had painted some signs which they tacked up on Grandpa Brown's barn, as well as on the barns of some of the other farmers. Everybody was invited to come to the circus, and those who wanted to could give a little money to help pay for the hire of the big tent. Many of the farmers and their wives said they would do this. One by one the animal cages, which were just wooden boxes with wooden slats nailed in front, were brought into the animal tent. They were put around in a circle on the straw which covered the ground. In the other tent the boys had made a little wooden platform, like a stage. They had put up trapezes and bars, on which they could do all sorts of tricks, such as hanging by their hands, by their heels and even by their chins. No one except themselves knew what Bunny and his sister Sue were going to do. The children had kept their secret well. They had asked their grandma for two old bed sheets, and she had let them take the white pieces of cloth. Bunny and Sue were making something in the harness room of the barn, and they kept the door shut so no one could look in. It was the night before the circus, and Bunny and Sue had gone to bed. They were almost asleep when, in the next room, they heard their mother call: "Oh, Walter!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown to her husband. "There's something under my bed. I'm sure it's one of the animals from the boys' circus! Do look and see what it is!" "Oh, it can't be anything," said Mr. Brown. "All the animals are shut up in the tent. Besides, they are only make-believe animals, anyhow." "Well, I'm sure _something_ is under my bed!" said Mrs. Brown. "I heard it move. Please look!" Mr. Brown looked. Sue and Bunny wondered what it was their papa would find. They heard him say: "Oh, it's nothing but a piece of white paper. You heard it rattle in the wind. Come and see for yourself." Bunny and Sue heard their mother cross the room. She stooped down to look under the bed. Then she cried: "Oh, Walter! It's alive! It isn't paper at all. It's coming out!" "Why, so it is!" said Mr. Brown. "I wonder what--?" Then Mrs. Brown screamed, and Mr. Brown laughed. "Oh, it's a mouse! It's a rat! It's a whole lot of mice!" said Bunny's mother. "Yes, it's a whole lot of mice, and they're white!" said Mr. Brown with a jolly laugh. "Hurrah! We've found the lost white mice from the boys' circus! You needn't be afraid of them!" Mrs. Brown did not scream any more. She was not afraid of white mice. Bunny and Sue ran into the room where their mother and father were. There they saw their father picking up the white mice in his hands, and petting them. The mice seemed to like it. "Oh, where did you find them?" cried Bunny. "Under our bed," his mother said. "Oh, how glad Sam will be!" said Sue. "Now we can have the circus all right." And so the white mice were found. They had gotten out of their cage in the tent, and had, somehow or other, found their way to the farmhouse. There they had hid themselves away, until that night when they came out into Mr. Brown's room. "Well, I'm glad they are found," said Mrs. Brown. "Give them something to eat, and put them in a box until morning." This Mr. Brown did, after Bunny and Sue had held in their hands the queer pets, which had such funny pink eyes. "I want to see them do some tricks," said Sue. "Sam can hitch them to a little cart and drive them," said Bunny. "He told me so." The mice were put safely away ready for the circus the next day, and soon the house was quiet, with everyone asleep. The sun was brightly shining. There was just enough wind to make it cool, and the weather was perfectly fine for the circus. Bunny, Sue, Bunker and Ben were up early that morning, for there was still much to do. Sam, the boy who owned the white mice, came over to ask if his pets had been found. And when told that they were safe in a box down in the cellar, he was very happy indeed. "I must put them back in their cage, and let them practise a few of their tricks," he said. "They may have forgotten some as they have been away from me so long." Bunny and Sue had to get their things ready. They were to have a little place in the big tent to dress and get ready for their act. They were the smallest folks in the circus, and everyone was anxious to see what they would do. On the big, as well as on the little, tent the boys had fastened flags. Some were the regular stars and stripes of our own country, and other flags were just pieces of bright-colored cloth that the boys' mothers had given them. But the tents looked very pretty in the bright and sparkling sunshine, with the gay banners fluttering. Just as in a real circus, the people who came were to go first into the animal tent, and from there on into the one with the seats, where they would watch the performance. Soon after dinner the farmers and their wives, with such of their children who were not taking part in the show, began to come. "Right this way to see the wild animals!" called Ben Hall, who was making believe he was a lion tamer. "This way for the wild animals! Come one! Come all!" The people crowded into the small tent. All around the sides were wooden boxes, with wooden slats. These were the "cages." "Now watch the trained white mice!" cried Ben. "The big circus is about to begin!" "Over this way! Over this way!" cried Sam, as he stood on a box with his trained white mice in their cage in front of him. "Right this way to see the wonderful trained white mice, which escaped from their cage and were caught by brave Mr. Brown and his wife!" Everyone clapped and laughed at that. Then Sam made his pink-eyed pets do many tricks. They ran up his arms to his shoulders, and sat on his head. Some of them jumped over sticks, and others through paper-covered hoops, like the horse-back riders in a real circus. One big white mouse climbed a ladder, and two others drew a little wagon, in which a third mouse sat, pretending to hold the reins. One big white mouse fired a toy cannon, that shot a paper cap. Then Sam made his mice all stand up in a line, and make a bow to the people. "That ends the white mice act!" cried Sam. "We will now show you a wild lion. But please don't anybody be scared, for the lion can only eat bread and jam, and he won't hurt you." "What a funny lion--to eat bread and jam," laughed Sue. "Hush!" exclaimed Bunny. "He's going to take the blanket off the cage." Everyone looked to see what sort of wild lion there was in the circus. CHAPTER XXII BUNNY'S BRAVE ACT "Now, ladies and gentlemen, as well as boys and girls," began Ben Hall, who was a sort of ring-master, in the play-circus, "I am about to show you that this lion does really eat bread and jam, and that he is a very kind and gentle lion indeed, though he can roar. Roar for the people!" cried Ben, shaking the horse blanket that was hung in front of the "lion's cage." The next second there came such a real "roar," that some of the smallest children screamed. "Don't be afraid!" cried Ben. "He won't hurt you. I will now raise the curtain, and you can see the lion." Slowly he pulled aside the blanket. And then everyone laughed--that is they did after a few seconds. For at first it did look like a real lion in the box. He had a real tail, and a big, shaggy mane, and his mouth was wide open, showing his red tongue and his white, sharp teeth. But when you looked a second time you saw that it was only the skin of a lion, which had been made into a rug for the parlor. And it was Tom White, one of the boys with whom Bunny played, who was pretending to be a lion, with the skin rug pulled over him, and the stuffed head over his head. Underneath the open mouth of the lion peered out Tom's smiling face, and as he looked through the wooden slats of the cage Ben put in a piece of bread and jam, which Tom ate as he knelt there on his hands and knees. "See! I told you this was a kind and gentle lion, and would eat bread and jam," announced Ben. "I will now have him roar for you again, ladies and gentlemen. Roar, lion, roar!" But instead of roaring, Tom, for a joke, went: "Meaou! Meaou! Meaou!" just like a pussy cat. Of course everyone laughed at that. The idea of a big, savage lion meaouing like a kitten! Tom had to laugh and then he couldn't pucker up his lips to meaou any more. "Ladies and gentlemen, as well as boys and girls," went on Ben. "We will now pass to the next cage. This is a real wild animal. He has sharp teeth, so do not go too close to his cage. He is the wild chicken-eater of the woods!" "Oh, I wonder what that can be?" whispered Sue. "We'll see in a minute," Bunny answered. The two children, as well as the other boys who were to take part in the show in the big tent later on, were now following the crowd around to see the animals. "Behold the wild chicken-eater of the woods!" cried Ben, as he pulled aside a blanket from another wooden box-cage. This time there was a sort of snarl and bark. It was so real that everyone knew this was a real animal, and not a boy dressed up in a skin or fur rug. Some of the little children tried to run out of the tent. "Don't be afraid!" called Ben. "He can't get loose. There he is!" He pulled the blanket aside and there everyone saw a small reddish animal, as big as a dog, with a large, bushy tail, a sharp pointed nose, and very bright eyes. "What is it?" asked Sue. "Oh! what is it?" "It's a fox," answered her brother. "I once saw one in the real circus where grandpa found his horses the Gypsies took." "Yes, it is a fox," said Ben. "And a fox just loves to eat chickens and live in the woods." "Where did you get him," Bunny asked. "Oh, one of the boys caught him in a trap, and saved him for the circus. He is going to tame him, but the fox is quite wild yet." And indeed the fox was. For he jumped about, and tried to bite and scratch his way out of the cage. But the wooden bars were too strong for him. The people who had come to the circus gotten up by the big boys, stood for some time looking at the fox, which was a real wild animal. Some of the farmers, though they had lived in the country all their lives, had never seen a fox before. "Now, if you will come down this way!" said Ben, as he started toward a place in the tent that had been curtained off, "I will show you our trained bear." "Oh, is it real?" asked Sue. "You'll see," said Ben, who seemed to know how to talk and act, just like a real ring-master in the circus. Ben stood in front of the little corner of the tent, that was curtained off, so no one could see what was behind it. "Are you all ready in there?" Ben called, loudly. "Yes, yes, all ready!" was the quick answer. And the voice did not sound like that of any of the boys from the nearby farms. "Oh, I didn't know a bear could talk," cried Sue, and everyone laughed, for the tent was very still and quiet just then, and Sue's voice was heard all over. "That wasn't the bear talking," said Ben. "It was his trainer. The man who makes the bear do tricks you know." "Oh, is it a trick bear?" Sue asked. "Yes," answered Ben. "A real truly one?" Bunny wanted to know. "You'll see in a minute," Ben told her. "All ready now, Signore Allegretti! We are going to have you do some tricks with your trained bear!" With that Ben pulled aside the curtain, and there stood a real, live, truly, big brown bear, and with him was a man wearing a red cap. The man had hold of a chain that was fastened to a leather muzzle on the bear's nose. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried the children. "Why, he's real!" gasped Sue. "Of course he's real!" laughed Ben. "He's just like the bear the man had out in front of grandpa's house last week, doing tricks," said Bunny. A man had gone past Grandpa Brown's house with a trained bear, and he had stopped to make the big, shaggy animal do some tricks. Bunny and Sue had given the man pennies, and Grandma Brown gave him something to eat. The man gave part of his bread and cake to the bear. "This is the same man," said Ben. "When I saw him, I thought he and his bear would be just the thing for our circus. So I asked him to come back to-day and give us a little show on his own account. And here he is. He came last night and stayed in the barn so no one would see him until it was time for the circus. I wanted him for a surprise." "Well, he is a surprise," said Bunny. "I didn't think it was a _real_ bear." "Let's see him do some tricks!" called a boy. "All right. He do tricks for you," promised the man with the red cap. "Come, Alonzo. Make fun for the children. Show dem how you laugh!" The bear, who was named Alonzo, opened his mouth very wide, and made some funny noises. I suppose that was as near to laughing as a bear could come. [Illustration: THERE STOOD A REAL, LIVE, TRULY, BIG BROWN BEAR _Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Playing Circus. Page 211._] "Now turn a somersault!" cried the bear's trainer, and the big, shaggy creature did--a slow, easy somersault. Then he did other tricks, such as marching like a soldier, with a stick for a gun, and he pretended to kiss his master. Then the bear danced--at least his master called it dancing, though of course a big, heavy bear can not dance very fast. "Now climb a pole!" cried the bear's master. "Climb a pole for the little children, and they will give us pennies to buy buns." There was a big pole in the middle of the animal tent, and the bear trainer led the animal toward it. "I make him climb dis!" he said. "Is the pole strong enough to hold him?" asked Grandpa Brown. "The bear is pretty heavy, I think." "Oh, dat pole hold him! I make Alonzo climb very easy," the Italian bear-trainer said. "Up you go, Alonzo!" The bear stuck his long sharp claws in the pole. It was part of a tree trunk, for the regular tent pole had been broken when the tent was carried away in the flood. Up and up went the bear, until he was half way to the top. The children looked on with delight and even the old folks said it was a good trick. And then, all of a sudden, something happened. The big centre pole, half way up which was the bear, began to tip over. Some of the ropes that held it began to slip, because they were not tied tightly enough to hold the pole and the bear too. "Look out!" called Daddy Brown. "The tent is going to fall! Run out everybody!" "They haven't time!" said Grandpa Brown. "The tent will come down on our heads." Bunny Brown stood right beside one of the ropes that held up the pole. Bunny saw the rope slipping, and he knew enough about ropes and sails to be sure that if the rope could be held the pole would not fall. "I've got to hold that rope!" thought Bunny. Then, like the brave little fellow he was, he reached forward, and grasped the rope with both hands. He knew he could not hold it from slipping that way, however, so he wound the rope around his waist as he had seen his father's sailors do when pulling in a heavy boat. With the rope around his waist, brave Bunny found himself being pulled forward as the pole swayed over more and more, with the bear on it. CHAPTER XXIII BEN DOES A TRICK "Look out!" "Run, everybody!" "Somebody help that little boy hold up the pole! He's doing it all alone!" "Oh, Bunny! Bunny Brown! You'll be hurt!" It was Bunny's mother who called this last. It was some of the farmers in the circus tent who had shouted before that, not seeming to know what to do. Daddy Brown and grandpa were hurrying from the other side of the tent to help Bunny hold the rope. The pole was slowly falling, the tent seemed as if it would come down, and the Italian was calling to his bear. As for the bear, he seemed to think that he ought to climb higher up on the pole. He did not seem to mind the fall he was going to get. Bunny Brown, small as he was, knew what he was doing. He had seen that the rope, which help up the pole, ran around a little wooden wheel, called a pulley. If he could stop the rope from running all the way through the pulley, the pole would not fall down, and the tent would stay up. "And if I keep the rope tight around my waist, the end of it can't get over the pulley wheel," thought Bunny. He had often seen sailors do this with his father's boats, when they slid down the steep beach into the ocean. And then, all of a sudden, Bunny found himself jerked from his feet. He struck against the bottom of the tent pole, and his side hurt him a little, but he still held to the rope about his waist. "The pole has stopped falling! The pole has stopped falling!" some one cried. "Yes, and Bunny stopped it!" said Sue. "Oh, Bunny, are you hurted?" Bunny's breath was so nearly squeezed out of him that he could not answer for a moment. But his mother had reached him now. So had Daddy Brown, his grandpa and some other men. In another moment the rope that held up the big pole was unwound from Bunny's waist and made fast to a peg in the ground. "Now the pole can't fall!" said Grandpa Brown. "We're safe now!" "Is--is the tent all right?" asked Bunny, as his father picked him up in his arms. "Yes, brave little boy. The tent is all right! You stopped it from falling on the people's heads." "And the bear--is the bear all right?" asked Bunny. From where his father held him Bunny could not see the shaggy creature. "Yes, the bear is all right," answered Mr. Brown. "He is coming down the pole now." "That bear is too big and heavy to climb the tent pole," said Grandpa Brown. "He is too fat. But it's lucky Bunny grabbed that rope." "I--I saw it slipping," said Bunny, "and I--I just grabbed it!" The bear came to the ground, and made a low bow, as his master had taught him to do. The tent pole was now made tight and fast, and the circus could go on again. Some of the ladies, with their little boys and girls, who had run out of the tent when they thought it was going to fall, now came back again. "The show in the animal tent is now over," said Ben Hall. "We invite you, one and all, into the next tent where we will do some real circus tricks." "And there's preserved seats for grandpa and grandma, and daddy and mother!" called out Sue, so clearly that everyone heard her. "The preserved seats have carpet on," said Sue. "Reserved seats, Sue, not preserved," said Bunny in a shrill whisper, and everyone who heard him laughed. Into the big tent, with its rows of seats around the elevated stage and sawdust ring the people walked. They were still laughing at the funny sights they had seen, the lion, made from a parlor rug, with a boy inside it. And they were talking about Bunny's brave act, in stopping the pole of the tent from falling down. "You and Sue go and get ready for what you are to do," whispered Bunker Blue to the two children. "I'll tell you when it's your turn to come out on the stage." "All right," answered Bunny. "Come on, Sue. Now's the time for our secret." He and Sue went into a little dressing room that had been made especially for them. It was a part of the big tent, curtained off with blankets. In this little room Bunny and Sue, earlier in the day, had taken the things they needed to do their "trick." You will soon learn what it was they had kept secret so long. It took some little time for all the people to take their places in the "preserved" seats, as Sue called them. Daddy Brown and his wife, and grandpa and grandma were given places well down in front, where they could see all that went on. "The first act!" cried Ben Hall, "will be some fancy riding on a horse, by Ted Kennedy! Come on, Ted!" he called. "Oh, Ben's dressed up like a real clown!" called Bunny to Sue, as they looked out between their blanket curtains, and saw what was going on. Ben had made himself a clown suit out of some calico. With a pointed cap on his head, and his face all streaked with red and white chalk, he looked just like a real clown in a real circus. Ben and some of the others had "dressed up," while the people were taking their seats in the big tent. "Oh, look, Bunny!" cried Sue. "It's a real horse Ted is riding!" And so it was. When Ben called for the first act, in came Ted riding on the back of one of his father's farm horses. Ted wore an old bathing suit, on which he had sewed some pieces of colored rags, and some small sleigh bells, that jingled when he danced about on the back of the horse. For the horse was such a slow one, with such a broad back, that there was no danger of Ted's falling off. Around and around the sawdust ring rode Ted. Now he would stand on his hands, and again on his feet. Then he would sit down and ride backwards. Finally, when the horse was going a little faster Ted jumped off, jumped on again, and then turned a somersault in the air. [Illustration: OUT CAME BUNNY, THE SCARECROW BOY, AND SUE, THE JACK-O'-LANTERN GIRL. _Page 224._ _Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Playing Circus._] "Wasn't that great, Bunny?" cried Sue, who was watching. "It sure was. But hurry up, or we'll be late." The people clapped and laughed as Ted rode out of the ring after his act. Then came more of the circus tricks. Two of the bigger boys pretended they were an elephant. One was the hind legs and tail and the other boy was the front legs and trunk. The boys were covered with a suit of dark cloth, almost the color of an elephant, and when they walked around the ring it was very funny. Then a little boy was given a ride on the "elephant's back." He liked it very much. Two other boys pretended they were horses, with long bunches of grass for tails. Each one took a smaller boy on his back, and then these "boy horses" raced around the sawdust ring. Two of the girls were dressed up like real circus ladies, one in a pink, and the other in a blue dress, made from mosquito netting. They sat on sawhorses, which Bunker Blue got from the village carpenter shop. And though the sawhorses could not run, or gallop, or even trot, the girls pretended they could, and they had such a funny make-believe race that everyone laughed. The girls even jumped through paper hoops, just as the real riders do in a circus. Then there was a wheelbarrow race between two boys, each of whom had to push another boy around the tent. All went well until one of the clowns put a pail of water in front of one of the wheelbarrows. Over this pail the boy stumbled, and he and the one he was wheeling got all wet. But it was only in fun, and no one minded. There were several boys who did fancy tricks on the trapeze bars. They hung by their arms and legs, and "turned themselves inside out," as Bunny called it. Other boys did some high and broad jumping, while Bunker Blue pretended he was the big strong giant man, who could lift heavy weights. But the weights were only empty pasteboard boxes, painted black to look like iron. Bunker pretended it was very hard to lift them, but of course it was easy, for they were very light. One boy, Tommie Lutken, did a very good trick though. He walked on a tight rope stretched from one end of the tent to the other. This was a real trick, and Tommie had practised nearly two weeks before he could do it. He walked back and forth without falling. But when the people clapped, and wanted him to do it again, Tommie did not do so well. He slipped and fell, but he did not get hurt. "Now, Bunny and Sue, it's your turn!" called Ben to them, when he came out of the ring, after having done some funny clown tricks. "Are you all ready?" "All ready!" answered Bunny. "Come on, Sue." Out of their dressing room the children came, and when the people saw them they laughed and clapped their hands. For Bunny was dressed like a scarecrow out of a cornfield, with a suit of such ragged and patched clothes on that it is a wonder they did not fall off him. He had a black mask, cut out of cloth, over his face, and he held his arms and legs stiff, just as the wooden and straw scarecrow does in the cornfield. And Sue! You'd never guess how she was dressed. She was a Jack-o'-lantern. She and Bunny had scooped the inside out of a big yellow pumpkin, and had made it thin and hollow. Then they had cut a hole in the bottom, made eyes, a nose and mouth, and Sue put the pumpkin over her head. From her shoulders to her feet Sue was covered with an old sheet, and as she walked along it looked just as if a real, Hallowe'en Jack-o'-lantern had come to life. Out on to the wooden platform of the circus tent went Bunny, the scarecrow boy, and Sue, the Jack-o'-lantern girl. They made little bows to each other, and then to the audience, and then they did a funny dance, while Bunker Blue played on his mouth organ. "Say, isn't that just fine of our children?" whispered Mother Brown. "It certainly is," said Daddy. Up and down the platform danced Bunny and Sue. They were the smallest ones in the circus, and everyone said they were just "too cute for anything." There were many more tricks done by the boys in the tent, and the circus was a great success. Ben and the other clowns made lots of fun. They threw water on one another, beat each other with cloth clubs, stuffed with sawdust, which didn't hurt any more than a feather. "And now I will do my great jumping trick!" called Ben, "and then the show will be over. I am going to jump over fourteen elephants and ten camels." At the end of the tent was a long board, which sprang up and down like a teeter tauter. It was called a spring-board, and some of the boys had made their jumps from it, turning somersaults in the air, and falling down in a pile of soft hay. Ben asked some of the boys to stand in a line at the end of the spring board. "I'll just pretend these boys are elephants and camels," said Ben, "as it's hard to get real camels and elephants this summer. But I will now make my big jump." Ben went to the far end of the spring board. He gave a run down it, and then jumped off the springy end. Up in the air he went, and, as he shot forward, over the heads of the boys standing in a line, Ben turned first one, then two, and then three somersaults in the air. "Oh, look at that!" "Say, that's great!" "How did he do it?" "He must be a regular circus performer!" "Do it again! Do it again!" Everyone was shouting at once, it seemed. Ben landed on a pile of soft hay. He stood up, made a low bow, and kissed his hand to the audience, as performers do in the circus. A strange man, who had come into the circus a little while before, started toward Ben Hall. Ben stood there bowing and smiling until he saw this man. "Come here a minute, Ben. I want to talk to you," said the man. But Ben, after one look at the stranger, gave a jump, crawled under the tent and ran away, all dressed as he was in the clown suit. "Why--why! What did he do that for?" asked Bunny Brown, very much surprised. CHAPTER XXIV BEN'S SECRET Everyone was looking at the place where Ben Hall had slid out under the edge of the tent and run away. Why he had done it no one knew. Then all eyes were turned toward the strange man who had come into the tent just in time to see Ben's big jump, and his three somersaults. The man was a stranger. No one seemed to know him. This man stood for a moment, also looking at the place where Ben had slipped under the tent. Then he cried out: "Well, he's got away again! I must catch him!" Then the man ran out of the tent. "What is it all about?" asked Mother Brown. "Is this a part of the circus, Bunny?" But Bunny did not know; neither did his sister Sue. They were as much surprised as anyone at Ben's strange act. And they did not know who the man was, at the sight of whom Ben had seemed so frightened. "I'll see what it's about," said Grandpa Brown. He hurried out of the tent, but soon came back again. "Ben isn't in sight," Grandpa Brown said, "and that queer man is running across the fields." "Is he chasing after Ben?" asked Bunny. "Well, he may be. But if I can't see Ben, I don't see how the man can, either. I don't know what it all means." "Maybe the man was a Gypsy," said Sue, "and he wants to catch Ben, same as the Gypsies took grandpa's horses." "Gypsies don't take boys and girls," said Mrs. Brown. "Besides, that man didn't look like a Gypsy. There is something queer about it all." "I always said that boy, Ben, was queer," asserted Grandpa Brown. "He has acted queerly from the time he came here so hungry. But he was a good boy, and he worked well, I'll say that for him. I hope he isn't in trouble." "Will he--will he come back?" Sue wanted to know. "I don't know, my dear," answered her grandfather. "I hope so." "I hope so, too!" declared Sue. "I like Ben." "He ran as soon as he saw that man," observed Bunker Blue. "Did he ever tell you anything about himself?" asked Mr. Brown. "You were with Ben most of the time, Bunker." "No, sir, he never told me anything about himself. But he seemed to know a lot about circuses. I asked him if he was ever with one, but he would never tell me." "Well, I don't know that we can do anything," said grandpa. "If Ben comes back we'll treat him right, and if he is in trouble we will help him. But, since he is gone, there is no use trying to find him." The circus was over. The boys who had brought their pets to the show took them home again. It was now late afternoon, and Grandpa Brown said the boys could leave the tents up until next day, as there was no sign of a storm. "You can take them down then," he said to Bunker Blue. "My tent we'll store away in the barn, until Bunny and Sue want to give another circus. The big fair tent can also be taken down to-morrow and put away. But everyone is too tired to do all that work to-night." That evening, in grandpa's farmhouse, after supper, nothing was talked of but the circus, and what had happened at it. Everyone said it was the best children's circus they had ever seen. "But poor Ben!" exclaimed Bunny. "I wonder where he is?" "Did he have his supper?" asked Sue. No one knew, for Ben had not come back. It was dark now. The cows and horses had been fed. The chickens had had their supper, and gone to roost long ago. Bunny, Sue and all the others had had a good meal. But Ben was not around. Everyone felt sad. "I wonder why he ran away," pondered Bunker Blue, over and over again, "I wonder why he ran away, as soon as he saw that man." No one knew. Early the next morning Bunny Brown and his sister Sue arose and came down stairs to breakfast. "Did Ben come back?" was the first question they asked. "No," said Grandma Brown. "He didn't come back." "Oh, dear!" sighed Sue. "It's too bad!" said Bunny. Then he crooked and wiggled one of his fat little fingers at Sue. She knew what that meant. It meant Bunny had something to whisper to her. "What is it?" she asked, when grandma had gone out into the kitchen to get some more bread and butter. "Hush! Don't tell anyone," whispered Bunny. "But we'll go and look for him and bring him back." "Bring who back?" "Ben Hall. We'll go look for him, Sue." "But we don't know where to find him." "We'll take Splash," announced Bunny. "Splash likes Ben, and our dog will find him. We'll go right after breakfast." And as soon as they had brushed their teeth, which they did after each meal, Bunny Brown and his sister Sue started out to find Ben Hall, who had run away from the circus the day before. Bunny and Sue did not want to go very far away from grandpa's house. They, themselves, had been lost a number of times, and they did not want this to happen again. But they thought there would be no harm in just walking across the meadow where Ben had last been seen. From the meadow grandpa's house was in plain sight, and if Bunny and Sue did not stray into the wood, which was at the further side of the meadow, they could not lose their way. "I hope we can find Ben," said Sue. "So do I," echoed Bunny. "Come on Splash, find Ben!" The big dog barked and ran on ahead. Bunker Blue, and some of the boys who had helped get up the circus, were now taking down the big tent. It was to be folded up, put on a wagon, and taken to the town hall where it was kept when not in use. "I'm going to be a circus man when I grow up," said Bunny, as he looked back, and saw the white tent fluttering to the ground, as the ropes holding it up were loosened. "I'm not," said Sue. "I--I'd be afraid of the wild animals. I'm just going to ride in an automobile when I get big." "You can ride in mine," offered Bunny. "I'm going to have an automobile, even if I am a circus man." Over the meadow went the two children and Splash their dog, looking for Ben Hall. But they did not see him, nor did they see the strange man who had run after him out of the tent. Bunny and Sue went almost to the patch of woodland. Then they turned back, for they did not want to get lost. "I guess we can't find him," said Bunny sadly. "No," agreed Sue. "Let's go back." When the children reached grandpa's house again, the big tent was down, and Bunker and the other boys were gone. They were taking the tent back. The smaller tent--the one Grandpa Brown had loaned--was still up. "Let's go in it and rest," said Bunny. "We can make believe we are camping out." "All right," agreed Sue. Into the tent they went. All the wooden boxes, that had been used as cages for the make-believe wild animals, had been taken out. There was only some straw piled up in one corner. "Watch me jump!" cried Bunny. He gave a run and landed on something in the pile of soft straw. Something in the straw grunted and yelled. Then some one sat up. Bunny Brown rolled over and over out of the way. "Oh! Oh!" cried Sue. "What is it?" But she did not need to ask twice. She saw a big boy, dressed in a funny clown's suit, standing up in the straw. Bunny was now sitting up, and he, too, was looking at the clown. "Why--why," said Sue, "It's Ben! It's our Ben!" "So it is!" cried Bunny. "Yes," answered Ben, rubbing his eyes, for he had been asleep in the straw when Bunny jumped on him. "Yes, I've come back. I stayed in the field, under a haystack all night, but I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to come back." "What'd you run away for?" asked Bunny. "Because I was afraid he'd catch me," Ben answered. "Do you mean that--that man," whispered Bunny. "Yes." "He isn't here," said Sue. "Did you stay in this tent all the while, Ben?" "No, Sue. I ran across the field when I saw that man looking at me, after I made my big jump. I ran over to the woods and hid. Then, when it got dark, I crept back and hid under the hay stack. A little while ago, when I saw Bunker and the other boys drive away with the big tent, I came back here. I'm awfully hungry!" "We'll get you something to eat," said Sue. "Won't we, Bunny?" "Sure we will. But come on up to the house, Ben. That man isn't there, and we won't let him hurt you. What's it all about, anyhow?" "I guess I'll have to tell your folks my secret," Ben answered. "Oh, have you a secret, too?" asked Sue, clapping her hands. "How nice!" "No, it isn't very nice," said Ben. "But I guess I will go and ask your grandmother for something to eat. I'm terribly hungry!" Holding the hands of Bunny Brown and his sister Sue, Ben, the strange boy, who had been so queerly found under the straw in the tent, walked toward grandpa's house. "Well land sakes! Where'd you come from?" asked Grandma Brown, as she saw him. "And such a looking sight! You look as if you'd slept in a barn all night!" "I did--almost," said Ben, smiling. "Well, come in and get that clown suit off you," said Mrs. Brown. "Then tell us all about it. What made you run away?" "I was afraid that man would get me," said Ben. "Why should he want to get you?" asked Daddy Brown. "Because I ran away from his circus where I used to do tricks," Ben answered. "That's my secret. I used to be a regular circus performer, but I couldn't stand it any longer, and I ran away. I didn't want you to know it, so I didn't tell you. But that man, who came into the tent when I was doing the same jump I used to do in the regular circus--that man knew me. I thought he had come to take me back, and I didn't want to go. So I ran away." "You poor boy!" said Grandma Brown. There came a knock on the door, and when Mrs. Brown opened it there stood the same man from whom Ben had run away the day before. "Oh, you're back again I see!" said the man. Ben dropped his knife and fork on his plate, and looked around for a place to hide. Everyone was silent, waiting for what would happen next. CHAPTER XXV BACK HOME AGAIN "Now don't be afraid, Ben," said the man. "I'm not going to hurt you." "Are you--are you going to make me go back to the circus?" Ben asked slowly. "Not unless you want to go, though we want you back with us very much, for we have missed you," the man replied. "I'll not go back to be beaten the way I was!" cried Ben. "I can't stand that. That's why I ran away." "You can just stay with us; can't he Mother?" pleaded Sue. "He can work on grandpa's farm with Bunker Blue." "What does all this mean?" asked Grandpa Brown of the strange man who had knocked at the door. "Are you after Ben?" "Yes, sir, I am after Ben," was the answer, and the man smiled. "I have been looking for him for a long time, and I am glad I have found him. I will take him back with me if he will come, and I will make him a promise that he will no more be whipped. I never knew anything about that until after he had run away from my circus." "Did you really do that, Ben?" asked Bunny. "Run away?" "Yes. That was where I came from that night I begged a meal here--a circus. But I'll go back, for I like being in a circus, if I'm not beaten." "Tell us all about it," said grandpa. "I will," answered the man. "My name is James Hooper. I own a small circus, with some other men, and we travel about the country, giving performances in small towns and cities. This boy, Ben Hall, has been in our show ever since he was a baby. His father and mother were both circus people, but they died last year, and Ben, who had learned to do many tricks, and who knew something about animals, was such a bright chap that I kept him with us. I was going to make a circus performer of him." "And I wanted very much to be one--a clown," said Ben. "But the head clown was so mean to me, and whipped me so much, that I made up my mind to run away, and I did." "I don't know that I blame you," said Mr. Hooper. "I never knew that you had such a hard time. I supposed you ran away just for fun, and I tried to find you. I asked about you in all the places where we stopped, but no one had seen you." "I have been here ever since I left your show," explained Ben. "I like it here, but I like the circus better. How did you find me?" "Well, our circus is showing in a town about three miles from here," said Mr. Hooper. "Over there, in that town, I heard about a little circus some boys and girls were getting up here, and--" "Bunny and I got up the circus first," said Sue, "and then the big boys made one, but we acted in it." "I see!" laughed Mr. Hooper. "Well, I heard about your circus over here, so I came to ask if any of you had seen Ben. I walked into the tent, and there I saw him doing the jump and somersaults he used to do in our tent. I knew him right away, but before I could speak to him he ran away. "I ran after him, hoping I could tell him how much we wanted him back, but I could not catch up to him. So I went back to my circus, and made up my mind I'd come back here again to-day. I'm glad I did, for now I've found you, Ben." Ben told Mr. Hooper, just as he had told Bunny and Sue, about sleeping all night out in the field, under a pile of hay, and then of creeping back to sleep in the tent. "Well, do you want to come back with me, or stay here on the farm?" asked Mr. Hooper. "I'll promise that you'll be well treated, Ben, and the head clown, who was so mean to you, isn't with us any more. You won't be whipped again, and you'll have a chance to become a head clown yourself." "Then I'll come back with you," said the circus boy. "I'm very much obliged to you, for all you've done for me," he said to Grandpa Brown and Grandma Brown, "and I hope you won't be mad at me if I go away." "Not if you think it best to go," said grandpa. "You have been a good boy while here, and you have more than earned your board. I don't like to lose you, but if you want to be a clown, the circus is the best place for you." "All his folks were circus people," said Mr. Hooper. "And when that's the case the young folks nearly always stay in the same business. Ben will make a good clown when he grows up, and he will be a good jumper, too." "I'm going to be a circus man," said Bunny. "Can I be in your show, Mr. Hooper?" "Well, we'll see about that when you get a little older. But you and your sister can come and see our circus, any time you wish, for nothing. I watched you two do your scarecrow and pumpkin dance, and you did it very well." Bunny Brown and his sister Sue were pleased to hear this. "Yes, it was a pretty good circus for young folks to get up all by themselves," said Grandpa Brown. "But how soon do you have to take Ben away with you, Mr. Hooper?" "As soon as I can, Mr. Brown. Our show is going to move on to-night, and I'd like to have Ben back in his old place if you can let him go." "Oh, yes," said Grandpa Brown. "He can go. I hope you'll be happy, Ben." "I'll look well after him, and he shall have no more trouble," said Mr. Hooper. Then Ben told what a hard time he had after he ran away from the circus. He had to sleep in old barns, and under hay-stacks, and he had very little to eat. And when he came to grandpa's house he did not tell that he had run away from the show, for fear some one would make him go back to the bad clown who beat him. But everything came out all right, you see, and Ben was happy once more. Of course, Bunny and Sue felt sorry to have their friend leave them, but it could not be helped. "But we'll be going back home ourselves pretty soon," said Daddy Brown. Bunker Blue and Ben Hall shook hands and said they hoped they would see each other again. "And to think," said Bunker, "that you were from a circus all the time, and never told us! But I sort of thought you were, for you knew so much about ropes, and putting up tents, making tricks and acts and pretend wild animals, and all that." "Yes," answered Ben with a laugh, "sometimes it was pretty hard not to do some of the other tricks I had learned in the circus. I didn't want you to find out about me, but the secret came out, anyhow." "Just like ours about the scarecrow and the pumpkin!" laughed Bunny Brown. "Wasn't ours a good secret?" "It certainly was!" cried Mother Brown. That night Ben Hall said good-bye to Bunny, Sue and all the others, and went back to the real circus with Mr. Hooper. "I wonder if we'll ever see him again?" asked Bunny, a little sadly. "Perhaps you will," said his father. The vacation of Bunny and Sue, on grandpa's farm was at an end. In a few days they were to go back to their home, near the ocean. "Oh, but we have had such fun here; haven't we, Bunny?" cried Sue. "Indeed we have," he said. "Jolly good fun!" "I wonder what we'll do next?" Sue asked. "I don't know," answered her brother. But, as I happen to know, I'll tell you. Bunny and Sue went on another journey, and you may read all about it in the next book in this series, which will be named: "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue at Aunt Lu's City Home." In that book I'll tell you all the funny things the little boy and girl saw, and did, when they were in the big city of New York. It was quite different from being on grandpa's farm in the country. One morning, about two weeks after the play-circus had been given, and Ben Hall had gone back to the real show, to learn to be a clown, Bunker Blue brought the great big automobile up to the farmhouse. "All aboard!" cried Bunker. "All aboard for Bellemere and Sandport Bay! Come on, Bunny and Sue!" Into the automobile, that was like a little house on wheels, climbed Bunny and Sue. Mr. and Mrs. Brown also got in. Bunker sat on the front seat to steer. There were good things to eat in the automobile, and the little beds were all made up, with freshly ironed sheets, so when night came, everyone would have a good sleep. Splash sat up on the front seat with Bunker. "Good-bye! Good-bye!" called Bunny and Sue, waving their hands out of a window. "Good-bye!" answered grandma and Grandpa Brown. "Good-bye!" called the hired man. "Bow-wow!" barked Splash. "Chug-chug!" went the automobile, and, after a safe and pleasant journey, Bunny Brown and his sister Sue safely reached home, ready for new fun and fresh adventures which they had in plenty. And so we will all say good-bye to them. THE END * * * * * THE BUNNY BROWN SERIES By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of the Popular "Bobbsey Twins" Books * * * * * Wrapper and text illustrations drawn by FLORENCE ENGLAND NOSWORTHY * * * * * 12mo. DURABLY BOUND. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING * * * * * These stories by the author of the "Bobbsey Twins" Books are eagerly welcomed by the little folks from about five to ten years of age. Their eyes fairly dance with delight at the lively doings of inquisitive little Bunny Brown and his cunning, trustful sister Sue. Bunny was a lively little boy, very inquisitive. When he did anything, Sue followed his leadership. They had many adventures, some comical in the extreme. BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE ON GRANDPA'S FARM BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE PLAYING CIRCUS BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT CAMP REST-A-WHILE BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT AUNT LU'S CITY HOME BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE IN THE BIG WOODS BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE ON AN AUTO TOUR BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AND THEIR SHETLAND PONY BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE GIVING A SHOW BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT CHRISTMAS TREE COVE * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH SERIES By GERTRUDE W. MORRISON * * * * * 12mo. BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. * * * * * Here is a series full of the spirit of high school life of to-day. The girls are real flesh-and-blood characters, and we follow them with interest in school and out. There are many contested matches on track and field, and on the water, as well as doings in the classroom and on the school stage. There is plenty of fun and excitement, all clean, pure and wholesome. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH Or Rivals for all Honors. A stirring tale of high school life, full of fun, with a touch of mystery and a strange initiation. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON LAKE LUNA Or The Crew That Won. Telling of water sports and fun galore, and of fine times in camp. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH AT BASKETBALL Or The Great Gymnasium Mystery. Here we have a number of thrilling contests at basketball and in addition, the solving of a mystery which had bothered the high school authorities for a long while. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON THE STAGE Or The Play That Took the Prize. How the girls went in for theatricals and how one of them wrote a play which afterward was made over for the professional stage and brought in some much-needed money. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD Or The Girl Champions of the School League This story takes in high school athletics in their most approved and up-to-date fashion. Full of fun and excitement. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH IN CAMP Or The Old Professor's Secret. The girls went camping on Acorn Island and had a delightful time at boating, swimming and picnic parties. * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of the "Bobbsey Twin Books" and "Bunny Brown" Series. * * * * * 12mo. BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. * * * * * These tales take in the various adventures participated in by several bright, up-to-date girls who love outdoor life. They are clean and wholesome, free from sensationalism, absorbing from the first chapter to the last. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE Or Camping and Tramping for Fun and Health. Telling how the girls organized their Camping and Tramping Club, how they went on a tour, and of various adventures which befell them. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE Or Stirring Cruise of the Motor Boat Gem. One of the girls becomes the proud possessor of a motor boat and invites her club members to take a trip down the river to Rainbow Lake, a beautiful sheet of water lying between the mountains. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A MOTOR CAR Or The Haunted Mansion of Shadow Valley. One of the girls has learned to run a big motor car, and she invites the club to go on a tour to visit some distant relatives. On the way they stop at a deserted mansion and make a surprising discovery. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A WINTER CAMP Or Glorious Days on Skates and Ice Boats. In this story, the scene is shifted to a winter season. The girls have some jolly times skating and ice boating, and visit a hunters' camp in the big woods. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN FLORIDA. Or Wintering in the Sunny South. The parents of one of the girls have bought an orange grove in Florida, and her companions are invited to visit the place. They take a trip into the interior, where several unusual things happen. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT OCEAN VIEW Or The Box that Was Found in the Sand. The girls have great fun and solve a mystery while on an outing along the New England coast. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON PINE ISLAND Or A Cave and What it Contained. A bright, healthful story, full of good times at a bungalow camp on Pine Island. * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK THE BOBBSEY TWINS BOOKS For Little Men and Women By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of "The Bunny Brown" Series, Etc. * * * * * 12mo. DURABLY BOUND. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING * * * * * Copyright publications which cannot be obtained elsewhere. Books that charm the hearts of the little ones, and of which they never tire. THE BOBBSEY TWINS THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT THE SEASHORE THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SCHOOL THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SNOW LODGE THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON A HOUSEBOAT THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT MEADOW BROOK THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT HOME THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN A GREAT CITY THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON BLUEBERRY ISLAND THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON THE DEEP BLUE SEA THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE GREAT WEST * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS SERIES By VICTOR APPLETON * * * * * 12mo. BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING * * * * * Moving pictures and photo plays are famous the world over, and in this line of books the reader is given a full description of how the films are made--the scenes of little dramas, indoors and out, trick pictures to satisfy the curious, soul-stirring pictures of city affairs, life in the Wild West, among the cowboys and Indians, thrilling rescues along the seacoast, the daring of picture hunters in the jungle among savage beasts, and the great risks run in picturing conditions in a land of earthquakes. The volumes teem with adventures and will be found interesting from first chapter to last. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS Or Perils of a Great City Depicted. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE WEST Or Taking Scenes Among the Cowboys and Indians. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON THE COAST Or Showing the Perils of the Deep. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE JUNGLE Or Stirring Times Among the Wild Animals. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN EARTHQUAKE LAND Or Working Amid Many Perils. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AND THE FLOOD Or Perilous Days on the Mississippi. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT PANAMA Or Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS UNDER THE SEA Or The Treasure of the Lost Ship. * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH SERIES By GRAHAM B. FORBES Never was there a cleaner, brighter, more manly boy than Frank Allen, the hero of this series of boys' tales, and never was there a better crowd of lads to associate with than the students of the School. All boys will read these stories with deep interest. The rivalry between the towns along the river was of the keenest, and plots and counterplots to win the champions, at baseball, at football, at boat racing, at track athletics, and at ice hockey, were without number. Any lad reading one volume of this series will surely want the others. THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH Or The All Around Rivals of the School THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE DIAMOND Or Winning Out by Pluck THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE RIVER Or The Boat Race Plot that Failed THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE GRIDIRON Or The Struggle for the Silver Cup THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE ICE Or Out for the Hockey Championship THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH IN TRACK ATHLETICS Or A Long Run that Won THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH IN WINTER SPORTS Or Stirring Doings on Skates and Iceboats 12mo. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in cloth, with cover design and wrappers in colors. * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Varied usage of -- and ---- were retained as were haystack, hay stack and hay-stack. Page 10: The word "tree" was inserted into the text as there was a space and no word. "...of the peach tree" Extraneous punctuation was removed. Such as "No, Ned Johnson has a dog. "We can ... Incorrect punctuation repaired. "I am going to feed him," to "I am going to feed him." Page 72: "agian" changed to "again". "my turn again," Page 226: Hyphens added to first Jack-o'-lantern on page to conform to rest of text. 
21599	----	[Illustration: Whooo-ish! went more water from Tum Tum's trunk on the blazing peanut wagon and straw. (Page 91) _Frontispiece_] Kneetime Animal Stories TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT HIS MANY ADVENTURES BY RICHARD BARNUM Author of "Squinty, the Comical Pig," "Slicko, the Jumping Squirrel," "Mappo, the Merry Monkey," "Don, a Runaway Dog," etc. _ILLUSTRATED BY_ _HARRIET H. TOOKER_ NEW YORK BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES By Richard Barnum _Large 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume,_ _50 cents, postpaid_ SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG SLICKO, THE JUMPING SQUIRREL MAPPO, THE MERRY MONKEY TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT DON, A RUNAWAY DOG DIDO, THE DANCING BEAR BLACKIE, A LOST CAT FLOP EAR, THE FUNNY RABBIT TINKLE, THE TRICK PONY LIGHTFOOT, THE LEAPING GOAT (_Other volumes in preparation_) BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers New York Copyright, 1915 by Barse & Hopkins _Tum Tum, the Jolly Elephant_ VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I TUM TUM GOES SWIMMING 7 II TUM TUM IS CAUGHT 18 III TUM TUM AND MAPPO 31 IV TUM TUM IN THE CIRCUS 42 V TUM TUM AND DON 49 VI TUM TUM AND THE WAGON 60 VII TUM TUM LOOKS FOR MAPPO 69 VIII TUM TUM AND THE FIRE 77 IX TUM TUM AND THE BALLOONS 89 X TUM TUM AND THE LEMONADE 97 XI TUM TUM AND THE TIGER 110 XII TUM TUM'S BRAVE DEED 117 ILLUSTRATIONS Whooo-ish! went more water from Tum Tum's trunk on the blazing peanut wagon and straw. _Frontispiece_ PAGE Through the forest jungle rushed the elephants, trampling down the trees and bushes 24 He fell down on his knees, while Mappo sailed through the air 41 All this while Tum Tum was holding Don high in the air in his trunk 60 The big hippopotamus wagon rolled out of the mud, and on to the firm, hard road 84 Right out of the ground the big elephant pulled the tree 98 He stayed under the tree where the tiger was, for he knew that soon the circus men would come to hunt for Sharp Tooth 120 TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT CHAPTER I TUM TUM GOES SWIMMING Tum Tum was a jolly elephant. I shall tell you that much at the start of this story, so you will not have to be guessing as to who Tum Tum was. Tum Tum was the jolliest elephant in the circus, but before that he was the jolliest elephant in the woods or jungle. In fact, Tum Tum was nearly always happy and jolly, and, though he had many troubles, in all the adventures that happened to him, still, he always tried to be good-natured over them. So I am going to tell you all about Tum Tum, and the wonderful things that happened to him. Once upon a time Tum Tum was a baby elephant, and lived away off in a far country called India, with many other elephants, little and big, in the jungle. The jungle is just another name for woods, or forest, only the jungle is a very thick woods. The trees grow big and strong, and between them grow strong vines so that it is hard for any living creature except an elephant, or maybe a snake to push his way along. A snake can crawl on the ground under the vines, you know. Well, Tum Tum lived in this jungle, and with him lived his father and mother. His father was a great big elephant, named Tusky, and he was called this because he had two big, long, white teeth, called tusks, sticking out on either side of his long trunk, which was like a fat rubber hose. Tum Tum's mother was named Mrs. Tusky, but she did not have any long teeth like her husband. Perhaps she had had some once, and had lost them, breaking down a big tree, or something like that. Tum Tum had no brothers or sisters, but there were other little boy and girl elephants in the herd, or family of elephants, where he lived, and, altogether, he had a good time in the jungle, Tum Tum did. One day Tum Tum, who had been eating his dinner of leaves, with his father and mother, heard a loud trumpeting in the woods back of where he was standing. Trumpeting is the noise an elephant makes when he blows through his long trunk, or nose. It is his way of speaking to another elephant. "Who's that calling?" asked Mrs. Tusky, of her husband. "Oh, it sounds like some of the little boy elephants," said the old papa elephant, as he pulled up a tree by the roots, so he could the more easily take a bite from the tender top leaves. "I hope it doesn't mean any danger for us," said Mrs. Tusky, looking at Tum Tum, who was busy finishing his dinner. Elephants, you know, no matter if they are big, are just as much afraid of danger as are other wild animals. Of course they are not so much afraid of the other beasts in the jungles, for the elephant can fight almost anything, even a lion or a tiger. But an elephant is afraid of the black men, or natives, who live in the jungle, and an elephant is also afraid of the white hunters, who come into the big forest from time to time. "I hope no hunters are about, to make one of our elephant friends trumpet that way," said Mrs. Tusky, speaking in a way elephants have. "Oh, no, don't be afraid," said her husband, eating away at his tree leaves. "There is no danger." But, as he said this, he put up his long trunk-nose, and carefully sniffed the air. That is the way animals have of telling if danger is near. They do it by smelling as well as by listening and seeing. Only one cannot see very far in the jungle, as the trees are so thick. Mr. Tusky also lifted up his big ears, about as large as ten palm-leaf fans, and listened for any sounds of danger. All he heard was the crashing of tree branches and bushes, as some of the other elephants, farther off in the jungle, pushed their way about eating their dinners. Then, suddenly, some elephant called, trumpeting through his trunk: "Tum Tum! Hello, Tum Tum! Can't you come out and play?" "Oh, it's some of your little elephant friends," said Mr. Tum Tum, to the little boy elephant. I say "little," though Tum Tum was really a pretty good size. He was much larger than a horse. "Oh, may I go and play with them?" asked Tum Tum, just as any of you might have done. Of course Tum Tum did not speak in words, as you or I would have done. Instead he spoke in elephant language, though he could also speak and understand other animal talk. And he could also understand man-talk, just as, in my other books, I have told you how dogs, cats, pigs and monkeys can understand what we say to them, though they cannot talk to us. "May I go out and play?" asked Tum Tum. "Oh, I guess so," answered his father. "But do not go too far away. And you must listen for the sound of the danger trumpet from Mr. Boom. When he signals that there is danger, you must run back, for that will mean we shall have to go off farther in the jungle, and hide." "I'll be careful," promised Tum Tum. Elephants in the jungle live in big families, or herds. At the head is the largest elephant of them all, the leader. He is always on the lookout for danger, and when he sees, hears or smells any, he gives a signal, or trumpet, through his trunk, and then all the elephants run away and hide. Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, stopped eating his dinner, for he had had enough, anyhow, and off through the jungle he crashed. He did not wait to go by the path, for he was so big and strong. Even though he was a little chap, as yet, he could crash through big thick bushes, and even knock over pretty large trees, if they were in his way. "I'm coming!" called Tum Tum to his play-fellows, the other elephants. "I'm coming!" Tum Tum came to a tree that stood in his way. He could just as well have gone around it, but that was not what he was used to. He lowered his head, and banged into it. "Crash!" over went the tree, broken off short. "I'll soon be with you!" Tum Tum called again, for he still could not see his little friends. "Who's there?" he asked. Back through the jungle came the answer: "We're all here--Whoo-ee, Gumble-umble, Thorny and Zunga!" These were the names of the elephants with whom Tum Tum played. Whoo-ee was a boy elephant, and he had that name, because he used to make a funny sound, almost like his name, when he whistled through his trunk. Gumble-umble was another boy elephant, and he was called that because he grumbled, or found fault, so often. Thorny was a girl elephant, and she got her name, because she was so fond of eating the tender, juicy leaves from the thorn tree. Zunga was another girl elephant, and she was just called that name because her mother thought it sounded nice--just as Tum Tum's mamma thought his name was the nicest one in the jungle. "I'm coming!" trumpeted Tum Tum, and then he came to another tree that stood in his path. "I guess I'll have to knock this out of the way," he thought to himself, and he lowered his strong head and started toward it. "Crack!" went his head against the tree, but the tree did not break. It was very strong. "Humph!" thought Tum Tum. "I guess I'll have to pull you up by the roots if I can't break you off." So he wound his trunk around the tree. Then he pulled and he pulled and he pulled some more until, all of a sudden, the tree came up by the roots. It came up so quickly that Tum Tum tumbled over backwards, head over heels. "Smash!" down in the bushes went Tum Tum, holding up the tree in his trunk. "Ha! Ha!" came an elephant laugh from the jungle in front of Tum Tum. "Oh, just look at him!" a voice called. "What happened, Tum Tum?" asked a third elephant. "Are you playing one of your tricks?" some one else wanted to know. Tum Tum looked up from where he lay on his back in the bushes. He saw Whoo-ee, Gumble-umble, Thorny and Zunga looking at him, their mouths wide open, laughing. And then, instead of getting angry, and being cross, Tum Tum just laughed himself, such a jolly laugh! "Ha! Ha!" he giggled. "I--I fell over backward pulling up this tree. Did you see me?" "Did we see you? Well, I guess we did!" cried Whoo-ee. "Well, maybe you did, but I didn't," complained Gumble-umble. "Zunga got right in my way, when I wanted to look." "Oh, I'm sorry," said Zunga. "I didn't mean to." "Oh, don't mind Gumble-umble," said Tum Tum, with another jolly laugh. "He's always finding fault. I'll pull up another tree, and fall again, Gumble-umble, so you can see me do it, if you like." "No, don't. You might hurt yourself," said Thorny, the other girl elephant. "Pooh!" cried Tum Tum. "I'm not afraid!" "Well, never mind about pulling up more trees now," said Whoo-ee. "We called you to come out, and have some fun with us. We are going swimming." "Where?" asked Tum Tum, as he got up off his back, and blew some dust over himself to keep away the flies. "Oh, we're going down in the river," said Zunga. "It's so hot to-day, that a nice bath will cool us off. Come on." "I'd better ask my mother," said Tum Tum. "I didn't know you were going swimming, when you called for me to come and play with you. I'll go ask her." "All right, we'll wait for you. Only don't be all day," said Gumble-umble. "We want to go in the water before night." "Oh, you mustn't mind him," laughed Whoo-ee. "I don't know what's the matter with him to-day; he's always finding fault. Did you get a thorn in your foot, Gumble, that makes you so cross?" "No, I didn't," answered the other boy elephant. "But I don't want to stand here all the afternoon in a hot jungle, waiting for Tum Tum." "I won't be long," promised the jolly elephant. He hurried back through the woods to where his father and mother were still eating. "Mother, may I go in swimming?" he asked, as he came to where Mrs. Tusky stood. "Yes, but don't go so far, that you can't hear any calls that may come from Mr. Boom. There's no telling when the hunters may find us." "I'll listen, and be careful," said Tum Tum. Back he crashed through the jungle, and soon he and his elephant friends were on their way to the river, that was not far from where the herd of elephants was feeding. "There's the river!" suddenly called Whoo-ee, as he caught sight of the sparkling water through the trees. "Let's see who'll be the first one in!" called Whoo-ee, as he began to run. "Oh, don't leave us behind," begged Thorny and Zunga. "Oh, that's the way with girls--always making a fuss!" complained Gumble-umble. "Why can't you run like we boys do?" "Because you're bigger and stronger than we are," said Zunga. "Well, we're not going to wait for you," said Gumble-umble. "Never mind, I don't care whether I'm first in the water or not," said Tum Tum. "I'll stay with you, Thorny, and Zunga." "Isn't Tum Tum nice?" whispered Zunga to Thorny, as they went along through the jungle. "Yes," said Thorny. Whoo-ee and Gumble-umble hurried on through the woods, and Whoo-ee was the first to splash into the water. "I beat!" he cried. "Well, I'd have been first only I stumbled over a tree root," said Gumble-umble. He was always finding fault, it seemed. Into the water splashed the five elephant children. They went out where it was about deep enough to come up to their ears, and then they sucked water up in their trunks and sprayed it over their backs, to drive away the flies and gnats that bit them. Then they swam out into deep water, and rolled and tumbled about, having great fun. They splashed each other, squirted water all over, and soon were as cool as cucumbers on ice. All at once, through the jungle, there sounded a loud trumpeting. "Hark!" cried Whoo-ee, as he stopped squirting water on Thorny. "What's that?" "It's Mr. Boom signaling that there's danger!" cried Tum Tum. CHAPTER II TUM TUM IS CAUGHT Tum Tum, and the other elephants who were in swimming, made no more noise than a fly walking up the window. They all kept quiet and listened. Through the jungle again sounded the trumpet call: "Umph! Umph! Boom! Boom! Toom!" "That sure means danger!" cried Tum Tum. "Come on! We had better go back to where our fathers and mothers are." "Indeed we had!" said Thorny, as she and Zunga waded to the shore, water dripping from them. "That's always the way!" complained Gumble-umble. "Just as we are having fun, something has to happen." "Look here!" exclaimed Whoo-ee, "you don't want to be caught in a trap, do you?" "Of course not," said Gumble-umble. "And you don't want a hunter to shoot you, or to carry you away far off somewhere, do you?" "You know I don't," and Gumble-umble did not speak quite so crossly this time. "Well, then," said Whoo-ee, "let's do as Tum Tum is doing, and start for home. There must be some danger, or Mr. Boom wouldn't have called to us that way." "Indeed he wouldn't," said Tum Tum, and he did not laugh in his jolly way now. "My mother told me to be sure and listen for a call from Mr. Boom. She said he would be looking for danger, and when he called, I was to hurry home." Tum Tum was out on the bank of the river now. Gumble-umble was the last one of the elephants to come from the swimming pool. "Let's hurry," said Tum Tum. "That's what I say!" cried Thorny. "I don't want to be caught by some hunter." The elephant children knew what hunters were, for their fathers and mothers had often told them about the natives who tried to catch elephants. Indeed, some of the older elephants had more than once been caught in traps, but they had gotten out. Without stopping to put on any clothes, for of course elephants do not wear any, Tum Tum and the others hurried off through the jungle toward where the rest of the herd was feeding. Several times as they hastened along, they could hear Mr. Boom trumpeting, and it sounded as though he said: "Hurry along! Hurry along! There's danger! Danger!" And Tum Tum and the others did hurry, you may be sure of that. Before the elephant children reached the place where they had left the herd feeding, Tum Tum saw something pushing through the jungle toward them. "Look out!" he warned his playmates. "Something is coming!" The five elephants stopped short, and were beginning to get afraid when, all at once, Tum Tum's mother burst through the bushes and came up to him. "Oh, I was so frightened!" she said, speaking through her trunk. "I thought you were never coming!" "Oh, we heard Mr. Boom," said Tum Tum, "and we came on as soon as we could. But what's the matter, mamma?" "Plenty is the matter, or, rather, is going to be, unless we can get away," said the mamma elephant. "A big band of hunters is in the jungle, and they are coming this way." "Did you see them?" asked Whoo-ee. "No, indeed! If we waited until they were close enough for us elephants to see them, they would be so close, that we could not get away. Some monkeys brought word that the hunters were on the march. So we are going to start at once and go afar off, into a deep, dark part of the jungle, where they cannot find us." "Well, we had a swim, anyhow," said Tum Tum. "I'm hungry, mamma. Have we time to eat?" "No, indeed," said the lady elephant. "We'll just have to eat as we go along. You children had better go to your fathers and mothers," she said to Whoo-ee, Gumble-umble, Thorny and Zunga. "They are, very likely, looking for you." So the four friends of Tum Tum started off, and soon the whole herd of elephants was moving off through the jungle, led by Mr. Boom, who had heard of the danger from a monkey friend. All that day the herd of elephants kept on, crashing their way through the jungle. They did not follow any path, but made one for themselves. Through the thick, strong vines they pushed their way, breaking down trees, or pulling them up by their roots. Nothing could stop the elephants when they were running away from danger. "Oh, dear! This is no fun! I'm tired! I'm not going to run any more!" complained Gumble-umble. "I don't believe there is any danger, anyhow." "Oh, but there must be," said Tum Tum, who, with Whoo-ee, was hurrying along beside his play-fellow. "Otherwise they wouldn't make us go so fast," and he pointed with his trunk to Mr. Boom, and some of the older men elephants, who were leading the herd. "Well, I'm not going to go so fast," said Gumble-umble. "I'm going to stop and have a rest." "No, you're not!" exclaimed his father, who came up behind Gumble-umble, just then. "I'm sorry," the papa elephant said, "but you must keep on. It would never do to stop now, or the hunters would get us. Here, I'll push you along," and with his strong head, Gumble-umble's father shoved his son along, whether Gumble-umble wanted to go or not. Tum Tum needed no pushing. He was glad enough to hurry along as fast as he could. So were the other small elephants, for they did not want to be caught. Then, after a while, Mr. Boom signaled that they were far enough off now, and need not hurry any more. They were safe, at least for a time. "And I'm glad of it!" exclaimed Gumble-umble. "I can't walk another step," and he lay down to rest. All the elephants were tired, and hungry. But they had come to a place where there was plenty of food and water. Soon they were eating, drinking and getting ready to spend the night in the jungle, for it was now almost dark. Tum Tum found a nice cozy place between his mother and father, and soon he was sound asleep. For some time after this, the herd of elephants was kept on the move by the hunters. Then, finally, the men with guns were left so far behind that there was no more danger for them. Then all the elephants were glad. They did not have to run through the jungle any more, and they had time to eat and drink. Tum Tum and his friends went in swimming many times, and Tum Tum grew so fat and large and strong, that he was soon the largest of all the children elephants in the herd. In fact, he was almost as large as his father and mother, and of all the elephants he was the strongest, except only Mr. Boom. No elephant was stronger or braver than Mr. Boom. That was what made him the leader. One day, when Tum Tum had grown to be a big, fine strong elephant, though as jolly as ever, something happened to him. I shall tell you all about it now. The herd of elephants was in the forest as before. They were eating away, when, all of a sudden, Mr. Boom gave the signal with his trunk. "Danger! Danger!" he cried, in his deep, booming voice, that was like distant thunder. "Oh, we've got to run again!" cried Mr. Tusky, who was the father of Tum Tum. It is a good thing elephants do not live in houses, and also good that they have nothing to move with them, when they go from place to place, or they would have trouble, because they have to run away from danger so often. Once again they were on the march, with Mr. Boom in the lead. Now Tum Tum was so big and strong, that he was allowed to march at the head of the herd with Mr. Boom. "Oh, but I am afraid to have him there," said Mrs. Tusky to her husband. "Nonsense!" exclaimed the papa elephant. "He must learn to take his place. Some day he will be the leader of the herd, and will warn the others of danger." Through the forest jungle rushed the elephants, trampling down the trees and bushes. Behind them could be heard the shouts of the hunters, and the firing of guns. There was also the noise of big wooden and tin drums being beaten, and horns being blown. There was also the trumpeting of other elephants--tame elephants. For hunters use tame elephants to help them catch the wild ones. [Illustration: Through the forest jungle rushed the elephants, trampling down the trees and bushes. Page 24] "Wait! don't run away! You will not be hurt!" called the tame elephants to Tum Tum, and the other wild ones. But the wild elephants did not want to be caught. They did not know they would be kindly treated by their masters. All the wild elephants wanted to do was to get away. So with Tum Tum and Mr. Boom at their head, away they rushed through the jungle. All at once the rushing herd of wild elephants came to a fence in the jungle. It was a strong fence, made of big bamboo trees stuck in the ground. It was such a strong fence that even Mr. Boom, try as he did, could not break it down. When he found that after one or two blows from his head would not break the fence, he called out to the other elephants: "Never mind the fence! We can't break through it, so we'll run along beside it. Maybe there'll be a hole in it somewhere." So the elephants rushed through the jungle, alongside of the fence, just as you might do, until you came to a gate, or hole. That was what Mr. Boom was looking for--a hole in the fence. But he did not see any. In fact, this fence was a trap, and soon Mr. Boom and the other elephants knew this. "Run away from the fence! Run over this way!" called Mr. Boom. The elephants ran, but soon they saw another fence in front of them--a fence as strong as the first one. Mr. Boom and some of the strong elephants, including Tum Tum, tried to break it down, but they could not. If they had all gotten together, and pushed at one spot, they might have broken it, but they pushed in different places, and the fence held them back. "Never mind!" called Mr. Boom. "Maybe this fence has a hole in it. We'll run along it and find out." "Why can't we turn around and go back?" asked Gumble-umble of Tum Tum, behind whom he was now running. "Because the hunters are behind us," said Tum Tum. "If we turned back, they would surely catch us. The only thing to do is to run on." Tum Tum was beginning to be a smart elephant, you see. He knew many things about danger. But, had he only known it, there was something he did not know--and this was that he and the others were, even then, running right into a trap. On and on rushed the elephants. The two lines of fences that had been far apart, were now so close together that they could both easily be seen at once. It was like going down a long lane, in the cow pasture, with a fence on either side. Then Mr. Boom saw the danger. "Go back! Go back!" called the big leader elephant. "Go back!" But it was too late. Right in front of the elephants was a big round place, like a baseball park, with a high fence all around it--a very strong fence. There was a gate by which the elephants could be driven into this park, only it was a trap, and not a park. And there was no way out of it. The fence ran all about it, except this one hole. And through that hole the elephants were being driven. "Go back! Go back!" cried Tum Tum, waving his trunk at the other elephants as Mr. Boom was doing. But the elephants were afraid to go back because the hunters were rushing up behind them. The hunters had driven the elephants into the trap, and were going to keep them there. Up rode the hunters on tame elephants. Into the trap they drove the wild ones, Tum Tum and all the others. "Alas! We are caught!" cried Mr. Boom. "Come, let us see if we cannot break through this fence!" He rushed at it with his big head, but the fence was too strong for him. Into the midst of the wild elephants came the tame ones, with the hunter-men on their backs. The tame elephants talked to the wild ones. "Be quiet!" said the tame elephants. "You will not be hurt! See us! We were once like you, but we were caught and we like it. Be quiet!" Some of the elephants quieted down, but others rushed about, trying to break through the fence. Tum Tum was one of these. Then, all at once two tame elephants, with men on their backs, rushed at Tum Tum. Chains and ropes were thrown over his back, and around his legs. The chains and ropes were pulled tight. Tum Tum was caught in the trap. CHAPTER III TUM TUM AND MAPPO Tum Tum was not now such a jolly elephant as he had been the day he went in swimming, or as happy as when he pulled up the tree, fell over backward, and laughed at his own joke. No, indeed! Tum Tum was feeling very unhappy now. "Oh, mamma!" Tum Tum cried. "Oh, papa! What has happened?" Mr. and Mrs. Tusky were not able to answer Tum Tum. They, too, as well as nearly all the other elephants, had been caught in the trap. Some of them, like Tum Tum, were held fast with chains and ropes, and others were trying to batter down the fence of the trap with their heads. But they felt that they could not do it, as the fence was too strong. "Let me go! Let me loose!" cried Tum Tum in his elephant language. Of course the hunter men, who had taken Tum Tum and the others prisoners, did not understand this talk, but they could see that Tum Tum was very strong, and might break loose. "Better put a couple more chains on that fellow," said one of the hunters to another. "I guess so," agreed the second hunter. "That is the finest and biggest elephant we have caught in this herd." At first Tum Tum thought they must be speaking of Mr. Boom, who surely was the largest and strongest elephant in the jungle. But, when Tum Tum looked around, Mr. Boom was not to be seen. He had gotten away. He had turned, and run out of the trap, and he was so big and strong that even the tame elephants, with the hunters on their backs, could not stop him. Away he rushed into the jungle. But he was very sad, for he alone, of all the herd, had escaped. "I wonder of whom they can be speaking, so big and strong," thought Tum Tum. He saw two tame elephants, with hunters on their backs, and carrying chains, coming toward him. "Why--why, they must mean me!" said Tum Tum to himself. He stopped trying to break down the fence, which the hunters had built as a trap, and waited. "Look out for him," said one of the men. "He looks dangerous. He looks like a bad elephant." Tum Tum was not a bad elephant. He was very strong, but he was not bad. "Oh, mamma, what shall I do?" cried Tum Tum, as he saw the tame elephants, with chains, coming closer to him. For all his great strength, Tum Tum was yet only a boy elephant. He was not very wise. He did not know what to do. "Listen," said Tum Tum's father. "You are now the leader of the herd, Tum Tum. Mr. Boom is gone, and I am too old to be the leader. So you must be. We elephants will do as you do. If you can break down the fence, and get away from the hunters, we will follow you." "I will try, once more, to break down the fence," said Tum Tum. "Let some of the strong, young elephants come to help me. Come, Whoo-ee--come, Gumble-umble! We will smash down the fence!" But one of the tame elephants, who heard what Tum Tum said, called to him, and spoke: "Oh, brother. Do not break down the fence." "Why not?" asked Tum Tum, who could easily understand the language of the tame elephant. "Why should I not break the fence, and let my friends, and my father and mother, out of this trap. Why not?" "Because," answered the tame elephant, with the chains, "you cannot do it. Already you are held with ropes, and soon we will put more chains on you, so that you cannot move." "And why would you--you who are elephants like ourselves--why would you do this to us, who never harmed you?" asked Tum Tum. "Because it is for your good," said the tame elephant. "The white hunters are very strong. You may get away from them now, but they will come after you again. It is better to give in now. If you are good, and do not try to break down the fence, you will wear no chains." "But what will happen to us--to me and my father and mother?" asked Tum Tum. "You will be put to work, piling teak logs in the woods," said the tame elephant. "You will have enough to eat, you will have shelter from the rain and the flies. You will have water to drink and to wash in. It is a good life. I like it." "Is that all that will happen to me?" asked Tum Tum. "Perhaps not," answered the tame elephant. "You may be sent far across the big water, in a house that floats, and go, as other elephants have gone, to a circus, or menagerie, for the boys and girls to look at, and feed peanuts to." "What are peanuts?" asked Tum Tum, who was hungry. "I do not know, never having eaten any," said the tame elephant. "But one of my brothers, who was in a circus in a far off land, and who came back here, said they were very good. Now shall we put the chains on you--I and my tame brothers--or will you be quiet--you and the others?" Tum Tum thought for a minute. After all he was caught, and it would be hard to get away, even if he were the strongest elephant in the herd, now that Mr. Boom was gone. Then, too, it might be nice in a circus, and Tum Tum certainly wanted to see what peanuts were like. "I--I will be good, tame brother," he said. "You need not put the chains and ropes on me." "You are wise, Tum Tum," said the tame elephant. "We will put no chains on you. And about the others?" he asked. "The others will do as I do," said Tum Tum. "I am the leader now." "Good!" trumpeted the tame elephant, whose name was Dunda. "My brother from the jungle is wise." So Tum Tum had no more chains put on his legs or back, and those that were on him, with the ropes, were taken off. "So we are not to try to break from the trap?" asked Whoo-ee. "No, for we will be well treated here," said Tum Tum, "and some of us may go to a circus." "What is a circus?" asked Zunga. "It is a place where boys and girls look at us, and feed us peanuts," answered Tum Tum. "I will not go to any circus!" cried Gumble-umble. "I am going to break out of this trap!" "You must not!" cried Tum Tum. "I have said that we would all be good, and I am the leader." "You cannot lead me!" trumpeted Gumble-umble, and he rushed at the fence of the stockade, or trap. But before he could reach it, two tame elephants rushed at him, and Gumble-umble was soon bound with strong chains and ropes, so that he could hardly move. "It is all your fault!" he cried to Tum Tum. "No, it is your own," said Gumble-umble's papa. "Now you must quiet down and be a good elephant. We are caught, we can go no more to the jungle, but perhaps it is best for us." So Tum Tum and the wild elephants were thus caught. For a time the herd of wild elephants was kept inside the fence. They were given good things to eat, and plenty of water to drink, and to blow over themselves with their trunks, to cool off. They did not try to get away, though once, in the night, Mr. Boom came as close to the outside of the trap, or stockade, as he dared, and trumpeted, trying to call his herd back to him. But they would not go. They were beginning to like it, with the tame elephants. In a little while all the wild elephants, Tum Tum included, were quite tame. Then they were taken out, a few at a time, out to the forest, and shown how to pile up the heavy logs of teakwood, which is used for building ships, and sometimes for making tables and chairs. The tame elephants showed the wild ones how to carry the logs on their tusks, or in their trunks, and how to pile them up as neatly as you can pile up your building blocks. Tum Tum learned to do this, and also how to push heavy wagons about with his head. He also learned much of the man-talk, so that his driver, or _mahoot_, as he is called, could, by a few words, make Tum Tum understand just what was wanted. One day Tum Tum was taken away from the rest of the herd, and he did not even have a chance to say good-by. He was led up what seemed to be a little bridge, and Tum Tum was afraid it would fall with him. But it did not. Next he walked down into a dark place, and he found other elephants there. Some of them he knew. "Where are we, and where are we going?" he asked. "We are in a ship, and we are being taken across the ocean to a circus," answered Whoo-ee, who was one of the elephants in the dark place, which was the inside of a steamship. "A circus! Good!" cried Tum Tum. "Now I shall know how a peanut tastes." The ship began to move and rock. It rocked and swayed for many days, for it was on the ocean. And then, one day, a sailor came down to see the elephants. He brought with him a queer little animal, with thick, brown hair. And this animal chattered in jungle talk. "Ha! I seem to know who that is!" thought Tum Tum. "Chatter! Chatter! Chat! Chur-r-r-r-r-r!" went the little brown-haired animal, as he sprang from the arms of the sailor. "Umph! Umph!" trumpeted Tum Tum. Then the little brown monkey, for such it was, gave a jump from the arms of the sailor, and landed up on the back of the elephant. "Hello, Tum Tum!" cried the monkey. "Why, it's Mappo!" exclaimed Tum Tum. "How did you get here?" "I was caught in a net, when I was eating some cocoanut," the monkey said. I have told you how that happened in a book called, "Mappo, the Merry Monkey." [Illustration: He fell down on his knees, while Mappo sailed through the air. Page 41] "Caught in a net, eh?" said Tum Tum. "That is too bad. I was caught myself. But where are you going?" "To a circus," answered Mappo. "So am I!" cried Tum Tum. "This is fine! We'll be in the circus together!" The monkey and the elephant were good friends, for they had known each other in the jungle, Tum Tum often having passed under the tree where Mappo's home was. The sailor who had brought Mappo down to see the elephants, smiled as he saw Tum Tum making friends with him. "I guess I'll leave them together," said the sailor. So Mappo went to sleep on Tum Tum's big back. The monkey had not slept very long, before he was suddenly awakened, by finding himself almost sliding off. "What is the matter, Tum Tum?" asked Mappo. "The ship is trying to stand on its head, I think," said the elephant. "Oh, here I go!" and he fell down on his knees, while Mappo sailed through the air and fell on a pile of hay. CHAPTER IV TUM TUM IN THE CIRCUS With Mappo chattering in his monkey language, and the elephants in the lower part of the ship trumpeting through their trunks, there was so much noise, that it is no wonder many of the animals were frightened. "Oh, what is it? What is it?" Mappo chattered. "I don't know," answered Tum Tum, "unless the hunters are coming after us again," and, raising his trunk, he gave the call of danger, as he had heard Mr. Boom, the big leader elephant, give it in the jungle. "Hush! Be quiet!" called an old elephant near Tum Tum. "Why do you call that way, brother?" he asked in elephant language. "There is danger," replied Tum Tum. "I must tell the others to get out of here." "That cannot be done," said the old elephant. "We are in a ship, on the big water, and if we got out now, in the ocean, we would surely drown. Be quiet!" "But why am I tossed about so?" asked Tum Tum. "Why can I not stand up straight?" "Because the ship is in a storm," answered the old elephant. "I know, for I have been on a ship before. The wind is blowing and tossing the ship up and down. "But there is no danger. Only keep quiet, and, since you are the new leader of the elephants, tell them to be quiet, or some of them may be hurt. See, down come the sailors to see what is the trouble." Surely enough, down came a whole lot of sailors, in white suits, to see why all the elephants had trumpeted so loudly, and why Mappo, the merry monkey, had squealed. "Hush! Be quiet!" called Tum Tum to the other elephants. "Be quiet or I shall beat you with my trunk, and make you." When Tum Tum spoke that way, all the other elephants heard him, and they grew quiet. Some, who had fallen on their knees, when the ship tossed from side to side, now got up. They placed their big legs far apart, so they could stand steadily. "We will be all right when the storm passes," said the old elephant who had spoken to Tum Tum. Mappo picked himself up off the pile of hay, and, just then, his friend the sailor came to get him. "I guess you have been here long enough, Mappo," said the sailor. "You might get hurt down here, with all these big elephants." Mappo was glad enough to go, not that he felt afraid of the elephants, but he knew that one of them might, by accident, fall on him, and an elephant is so large and heavy that, when he falls on a monkey, there is not much left of the little chap. "Good-by, Tum Tum!" called Mappo to his big friend. "I'll come and see you, when the storm is over." "All right," answered Tum Tum. "And I hope the storm will soon be over, for I do not like it." The ship was swinging to and fro, like a rocking chair on the front porch when the wind blows. But finally the elephants became used to it, and some of them could even go to sleep. But Tum Tum stayed awake. "There might be some danger," he thought to himself, "and if there was, I could warn the others. I am the leader, and must always be on the watch for danger, just as Mr. Boom would be, if he were here." But I am glad to say no more danger came to the ship. It rode safely through the storm, and in a few days, it was gliding swiftly over the blue sea. "What will happen to us, when the ship stops sailing?" asked Tum Tum of the old elephant, who seemed to know so much. "After it gets to the other side of the ocean," said the old elephant, "we shall be taken out--we and all the animals. Then we shall go to the circus." "Is the circus nice?" asked Tum Tum. "I have been in one or two, and I like them," said the old elephant, whose name was Hoy. "There is hard work, but there is also fun." "Tell me about the fun," said Tum Tum. "I do not like to hear about the hard work." "The work goes with the fun," said Hoy, "so I will tell you about both. The hard work comes in marching through the hard city streets, that hurt your feet. That is when we go in the parade. I know, for I have been in many parades. But it is fun, too, for we elephants have a little house on our backs, and men and women ride in it. Then the bands play, and the people laugh and shout to see us pass by. Yes, that is fun," and the old elephant, who had been sent to make the voyage in the ship, so that he might keep the new, wild elephants quiet, shut his eyes as he thought of the circus days. "Is there other hard work?" asked Tum Tum. "A great deal," said Hoy. "You will have to push heavy wagons about with your head, and lift heavy poles, as you did in the lumber yard when you came from the jungle. And then you will have to do tricks in the circus ring." "What are tricks?" asked Tum Tum. "Tricks are what I call hard work, but they make the people in the circus laugh," answered Hoy. "You will have to stand on your head, turn somersaults and do many things like that." "Now tell me about the fun," begged Tum Tum. "Yes, there is some fun," spoke Hoy, slowly. "You will get nice hay to eat, and water to drink, and the children in the circus will give you popcorn balls and peanuts to eat. Also, you will wear a fine blanket, all gold and spangles, when you march around the ring in the tent. But now I am tired, and I want to go to sleep." So the old elephant slept, and Tum Tum stood there, swaying backward and forward in the ship, wondering whether he would like a circus. It took several weeks for the ship to make the journey from jungle land to circus land, and, during that period, Mappo, the merry monkey, came down to see Tum Tum several times. "I am going to be in the circus, also," said Mappo, when one day Tum Tum spoke of the big show under the white tent. "Are you?" asked the jolly elephant. "That will be nice. We'll see each other." "And will you take care of me, so the tiger won't get me?" asked Mappo. "Indeed I shall!" cried Tum Tum through his big trunk. At last the day came when the ship reached her dock, and the animals were taken out. The chains were loosed from the legs of Tum Tum and the other elephants, and they were hoisted up from the lower part of the ship, and allowed to go ashore. Tum Tum was glad of it, for he was tired of the water. But his journey was not over, for, with the others, he was put in a railroad car, and hauled by an engine. At last, however, he reached a big wooden building, and the old elephant, Hoy, said: "This is where the circus stays in winter. Now you will begin to have hard work, and also fun." "Well," thought Tum Tum, as, with the other elephants, he marched toward the big barn-like building, "if there is enough fun, I shall not mind the hard work." Then, as he felt rather jolly, after getting out of the big freight car, Tum Tum picked up a piece of stick from the ground, and began tickling another elephant in the ribs with it. "Yoump! Umph! Woomph!" trumpeted this elephant. This was his way of saying: "Hi, there! What are you doing? Stop it!" "Oh, that's only in fun!" laughed Tum Tum. "Well, my ribs are too sore to want that kind of fun," the other elephant said. "Now you just quit!" But Tum Tum was so jolly that he wanted more fun, so he tickled another elephant. This elephant, instead of speaking to Tum Tum, just reached over with her long trunk, pulled one of Tum Tum's legs out from under him, and down he went in a heap. "Ha! Maybe you like that kind of fun!" cried the elephant who had made Tum Tum fall. "It didn't hurt me!" said Tum Tum, as he got up. But, after that, he was careful not to play any jokes on this elephant. It was very cold in this new land to which Tum Tum had come, for it was winter. It was not at all like his green, hot jungle, and he was glad when he was led, with the other elephants, into the big barn, where the circus stayed in winter. CHAPTER V TUM TUM AND DON "Well, this is certainly a funny place," thought Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, as he looked about him. And well might he say so. He found himself inside a large barn, which was nice and warm, and for this Tum Tum was glad, for it felt more like the warmth of his jungle, and Tum Tum, who had been shivering in the cold, outer air, now felt much better. The earthen floor of the barn was covered with sawdust, and all around the sides of the barn were cages containing many animals. There were lions, tigers, wolves, leopards, monkeys, snakes, and many other strange beasts, some of which Tum Tum had seen in his jungle home, and some of which he had never before seen. "I suppose that is where Mappo will be put," thought Tum Tum, as he looked at the cages full of lively little monkey chaps. Then Tum Tum looked and saw a number of elephants, chained in a row on another side of the circus barn, and he knew that would be his place. Opening out of the big barn was a smaller one, and in that were many horses and ponies. There were many men in the circus barn, and they all seemed to be doing something. Some were carrying pails of water to the animals, others were feeding hay to the elephants, and meat to the lions, tigers and spotted leopards. Tum Tum did not care for meat, but he was very hungry for some of the juicy, green leaves that grew on trees in his jungle. As he could get none of those now, he had to eat dry hay, and very good that tasted, too. He had grown to like it on board the ship. "Bring the elephants over here!" called one circus man to another, and Tum Tum felt himself being led along by a man who had a stick with a hook in the end of it. But the man did not stick the hook in Tum Tum, because Tum Tum was good and gentle now. Tum Tum, though he had been a wild elephant in the jungle only a few weeks before, had learned many things, since he had been caught. He had learned that men were his friends, and would not hurt him, though they made him do as they wanted him to, and ordered him about as though he were a little dog instead of a big, strong elephant. The men did not seem to be afraid of Tum Tum, though he was a little afraid of them, especially when they carried sharp hooks, which hurt one's skin. "Come along!" cried the man who was leading Tum Tum and the others, and over to one side of the circus barn they went, to be chained by a leg to a very strong stake driven into the ground. "Feed them up well," said the first man, "and then we'll see about putting them through some tricks." "Ha!" thought Tum Tum. "So the tricks are to begin soon, are they? I wonder what kind I shall do, and whether I shall like them or not?" Tum Tum waited anxiously to see what would happen next. What did happen was that he got something to eat, and a little treat into the bargain. For with the big pile of hay that was given him, there were some long, pointed yellow things. "Ha! What are those?" asked Tum Tum of Hoy, the big, tame elephant who had been in a circus before. "They are carrots," said Hoy. "Are they good to eat?" asked Tum Tum. "Try and see," answered Hoy, with a twinkle in his little eyes. He was eating the yellow carrots as fast as he could. Tum Tum took one little bite, holding the carrot in his trunk. And, as soon as he chewed on it, he knew that he liked carrots very much. "Ha! That is certainly good!" he said to Hoy. "I wish I had carrots every day." "Oh, but you won't get them every day," said the old elephant. "They are just special, to get you to feeling jolly, so you will learn your tricks more easily." "Well, I feel pretty jolly anyhow," said Tum Tum. "I'll do any tricks I can." He did not know yet all that was to happen to him, before he learned to do his tricks. Tum Tum had been in the circus nearly a week before he was taught any tricks. In that week he had plenty to eat, and good water to drink, some of which he spurted over himself with his trunk. That was his way of taking a bath, you see. Then, one day, some circus men came to where Tum Tum was chained, and one of them said: "Now, we'll take out this big elephant, and teach him some tricks. Get Hoy, so he'll show Tum Tum what we want done." "Ha! So now the tricks begin!" cried Tum Tum to Hoy. "Yes, and you want to watch out, and do as you are told, or you may not like it," said Hoy. Tum Tum and the older elephant were led to the middle of the circus ring. The chains were taken off Tum Tum's legs, but a rope was put around his front ones, and he wondered what that was for. Then Tum Tum and Hoy were stood in a line with some other big elephants. "All ready now!" cried a circus man, snapping his long whip. "Stand up!" Hoy raised himself up on his hind legs, lifting his trunk high in the air. "Do as I do! Do as I do!" called Hoy to Tum Tum. "Stand up on your hind legs." "I--I can't!" answered Tum Tum, who tried. But he found he could not. Then a funny thing happened. All of a sudden Tum Tum found his front legs and head being pulled up in the air by the rope, and, before he knew it, he was standing on his hind legs whether he wanted to or not. The circus men had pulled on the end of the rope, which ran through a pulley, hoisting Tum Tum in the air. That was the way they had of teaching him to stand up. Several times Tum Tum was let down to the ground, and hauled up again, and each time he was pulled up, the circus man would call out: "Stand up on your hind legs! Stand up on your hind legs!" "Is this a trick?" asked Tum Tum of Hoy, who did not have to have a rope around him to pull him up. "Yes, it is one trick," answered the old elephant. "There are many more, though, to learn." Tum Tum was beginning to be tired of being hauled up this way. So were some of the other elephants, and one of them tried to break loose. But he was hit with a rope, and squealed so that none of the others tried to get away. "Now then, take off the ropes, and we'll see how many have learned their lesson," said the head circus man. "Now's your chance to show how smart you are," whispered Hoy to Tum Tum. "When he tells you to stand up next time, do it all by yourself. Then you'll have learned this one trick." "I'll try," promised Tum Tum. The elephants stood in a row. The head circus man cracked his whip, and called: "Up on your hind legs!" Tum Tum gave a little spring, and raised his front legs from the ground. He settled back on his strong hind legs, and there he was, doing just as Hoy was doing! Tum Tum had learned his first lesson, just as he had learned to pile teakwood logs in straight piles. "Ha! We have one smart fellow in the bunch, anyhow!" cried the circus man. Tum Tum was glad when he heard this, just as you would be, if you had learned your lesson in school. For it is a good thing to learn to do things, even for an elephant. But if Tum Tum thought he would get a rest after he had shown that he could do the trick without being hauled up by a rope, he was sadly mistaken. Over and over he had to do the trick, until he felt tired, large and strong as he was. Some of the elephants could stand up on their hind legs for a second or so, and then they fell down again. They were made to practice again with ropes, but no ropes were needed for Tum Tum. "Well, that's enough for one day," said the head circus man finally. "Give them all some carrots with their hay. To-morrow we shall try having them stand on their front legs." "Will that be harder?" asked Tum Tum of Hoy as he marched to the side of the barn where the elephants were kept. "Much harder," said the old elephant. "But I think you can do it." "I'll try, anyhow," spoke Tum Tum, with a jolly laugh. "I think tricks are fun." Standing on his front legs, with his hind ones in the air, was not as funny as he had thought. In the first place, he had to start with the rope, and, before he knew it, his hind legs were pulled out from under him, by the circus men, and Tum Tum was almost standing on his head. Hoy told him what to do, and how to balance himself, just as he told the other elephants, and soon Tum Tum could do it very well. When this practice was over, and when Tum Tum could stand on either his front or hind legs, without being pulled by a rope, he was given more carrots to eat. Tum Tum could now do two tricks, but, as you children know, who have seen elephants in a circus, there are many others that can be done. Elephants can be made to sit down in a low, strong chair, they can be made to stand on top of a small tub, to play see-saw, to ring bells, play hand organs with their trunks, and do many other queer things they never thought of doing in the jungle. Why, I have seen elephants fire cannon, wave flags, and play baseball. Elephants are very wonderful, and very wise and lively, for such big animals. As the winter days went by, Tum Tum learned many tricks in the circus. He learned to stand with other elephants, in a long row, and let the acrobats jump over him, and he also let the clowns jump right on his broad back. Tum Tum learned to do a little dance, too, but he never danced as well as the ponies could, for Tum Tum was very heavy. Tum Tum also learned how to walk across, and kneel down over his master, who lay flat on the sawdust, and though Tum Tum, with his big body, came very close to the man, he never touched him. If Tum Tum had stepped, even with one foot, on the man, he would have hurt him very much. But Tum Tum was careful. One day, when spring was near at hand, and when it was nearly time for the circus to travel on the road, from one town to another, Tum Tum was out in front of the barn, helping push some of the big circus wagons about. He pushed them with his strong head. All at once Tum Tum felt something bite him on the hind leg, and he heard a barking noise, such as monkeys sometimes make. "Is that you, Mappo?" asked Tum Tum quickly. He could not turn around, for he was pushing the wagon up hill. "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" was the barking answer, and Tum Tum felt his legs nipped again. "Stop that, Mappo, if you please," said the big elephant. "Please don't do that, when I am pushing this wagon." But Tum Tum's leg was bitten again, and he cried: "Mappo, I shall squeeze you in my trunk, if you do not let me alone. I like a joke as well as you do, but it is no fun to have your legs nipped when you are pushing a heavy wagon. Stop it!" "Bow wow! Bow wow! Bow wow!" came the answer. "That doesn't sound exactly like Mappo," said Tum Tum. "I wonder who it can be?" When Tum Tum had pushed the wagon to the top of the hill, he could turn around. Then, instead of seeing the merry little monkey, he saw a big black and white dog, who was barking and nipping at his heels. "Oh, ho! So it is you, eh?" asked Tum Tum. "Who are you, and what are you biting me for?" "My name is Don," barked the dog, "and I am biting you to drive you away. I am afraid you might hurt my master. I never saw such an animal as you, with two tails. Go away!" and Don barked louder than before, and once more tried to bite the elephant's feet. "Here, Don! Don!" called a man's voice. "Come away from that elephant!" "Bow wow!" barked Don. "I am going to bite him!" "Oh, are you?" asked Tum Tum. And with that he reached out with his trunk, caught Don around the middle, and lifted him high in the air. Don did not bark now. He howled in fear. CHAPTER VI TUM TUM AND THE WAGON "Please let me down! Oh, please do!" begged Don, the dog, of Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, as the big creature from the jungle held the dog high up in the air. Tum Tum did not feel so very jolly just then. He did not want to hurt Don, but neither did the elephant like to be nipped on his hind legs, when he was pushing a wagon. "Oh, the elephant has our dog!" cried a boy who was with the man who had called after Don. "Oh, papa, will he hurt him?" "No, Tum Tum won't hurt anyone," said a circus man. "I'll get your dog back for you, but he must be careful of elephants after this." "He never saw one before," said the boy's father. All this while Tum Tum was holding Don high in the air in his trunk. "Oh, won't you let me down?" begged Don. "I will, if you won't bark at me again, and bite me," said Tum Tum. "I don't want to hurt you, doggie boy, but I can't have you bothering me, when I'm doing my circus work." [Illustration: All this while Tum Tum was holding Don high in the air in his trunk. Page 60] "Oh, I'll be good! I'll be good!" promised Don, and with that Tum Tum lowered him gently to the ground, uncoiled his trunk from around Don's middle, and the dog ran howling to his master and the boy. "Don, what made you bite the elephant?" asked the boy. Don only barked gently in answer. He could not speak man or boy talk, you know, any more than an elephant could, though he understood it very well. "I told you the elephant wouldn't hurt your dog," said the circus man. "Tum Tum is very gentle." Don crept behind his master, and looked at Tum Tum. The elephant walked down to get another wagon to push up hill, as all the circus horses were too busy to pull it. "Bow wow!" barked Don, but this time he was talking to Tum Tum, and not barking angrily at him. "Are you an elephant?" asked Don, in his own language, which the elephant understood very well. "Yes, I am an elephant," said Tum Tum. "And you have two tails," went on Don. Almost anyone who sees an elephant for the first time thinks that. "No, I have only one tail," Tum Tum answered. "The front thing is my trunk, or long nose. I breathe through it, pick up things to eat in it, and squirt water through it." "My! It is very useful, isn't it?" asked Don, wagging his tail. "Indeed it is," said Tum Tum. The elephant and the dog were fast becoming friends now, and were talking together, though the boy and his father and the circus men did not know this. "Then was it your trunk that you picked me up in?" asked Don, of the elephant. "Yes," replied Tum Tum, "and I am sorry if I frightened you." "Oh, well, that's all right," answered Don. "I am all right now, and I suppose I did wrong to bark at you, and bite. I am sorry." "Then I'll excuse you," spoke Tum Tum. "But what is your name, and where do you live?" "My name is Don, and I live on a farm," answered the dog. "We have a comical little pig on our farm named Squinty. Did you ever see him?" "I think not," answered Tum Tum. "You see I haven't been in this country very long. Did you bring the pig to the circus?" "Gracious, no!" barked Don. "He had to stay home in the pen. But my master, his boy and I came to see you elephants, and other circus animals. Only I never knew what an elephant was like before." "Well, now you know," said Tum Tum, "so you won't bark at, or bite, the next one you see." "Indeed I shall not," said Don. "I have to bark at Squinty, the comical pig, once in a while, when he gets out of the pen, and once I took hold of his ear in my teeth." "I hope you didn't hurt him," said Tum Tum. "No, I wouldn't do that for the world," said Don. And those of you who have read about "Squinty, the Comical Pig," know how kind Don was to him. "So you came to see the circus?" went on Tum Tum to Don, as the dog's master and his boy looked about at the strange sights. "Yes, though I don't know exactly what a circus is," said Don. "Well, this is the start of it," Tum Tum said. "These are our winter quarters. Soon we shall start out on the road, and live in a tent. Then I shall do my tricks, the children and the people will laugh and shout, and give me popcorn balls and peanuts. Oh, yum-yum!" and Tum Tum smacked his lips because he thought of the good things he was going to have to eat a little later on. "Can you do tricks?" asked Don. "Indeed I can, a great many," the elephant said. "I can stand on my hind feet--so!" and up he rose in the air, until his little short tail dangled on the ground. "Anything else?" asked Don. "That's a good trick. Let me see you do another." "Look!" cried Tum Tum, and this time he stood on his front legs, and raised his hind ones in the air. "That's harder to do," said the jolly elephant. "I should think so," agreed Don. "I'm going to try it myself." Don did try, but when he wanted to stand on his front legs, he fell over and bumped his nose. And when he tried to stand on his hind legs, he fell over backward and bumped his head. "I--I guess I can't do it," he said to Tum Tum. "It needs much practice to do it well," spoke the jolly elephant. "Here, Tum Tum!" called one of the circus men. "This is no time to be doing tricks. Come and help push some more of these wagons. If the circus is ever to start out on the road, to give shows in the tent, we must start soon. Come, push some of these wagons, with your big, strong head." "I'll have to go now," said Tum Tum to Don, the dog, for they were now good friends. "I may see you again, sometime." "I hope you will," spoke Don. "Your circus is coming to our town, I know, for the barns on our farm are pasted over with posters, and bills." "Then I may see you when we get there," said Tum Tum, as he walked slowly forward to push the wagon pointed out by the circus man. That is how Don and Tum Tum became acquainted. As the dog went off with his master and the boy, he barked a good-by to Tum Tum, saying: "If you come near our place, I'll show you Squinty, the comical pig. One eye is wide open, and the other partly shut." "He must be a funny chap," said Tum Tum. The big, jolly elephant pushed into place the heavy wagon. Then it was dinner time. But as Tum Tum was eating his hay and carrots in the animal tent, for he was kept in that, now that the weather was warmer, all at once Tum Tum heard a loud shouting. "Look out for that wagon. The tiger cage wagon is rolling down hill. It will turn over, be smashed, and the tiger will get out! Stop that wagon, somebody!" Tum Tum heard this shouting, and looking out of the side of his tent, he saw a big red and gold wagon rushing down the hill backwards. "I must stop that wagon," said Tum Tum. CHAPTER VII TUM TUM LOOKS FOR MAPPO Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, pulled hard on the chain that held his big leg fast to a stake driven into the ground. He wanted to get loose so he could stop the wagon from rolling down hill, maybe upsetting and letting the big tiger out. "I know I can stop the wagon, if they will only take this chain off my leg, so I can get out there," thought Tum Tum, as he pulled and tugged at the chain and peg. Outside the tent men were running and shouting. Some of them tried to put stones in the way of the wagon wheels, but the tiger's cage was so heavy that it rolled right over the stones. The tiger was frightened and angry, and he growled and snarled, until you would have thought he was back in the jungle again. "Let me loose! Let me loose!" trumpeted Tum Tum through his trunk, as he waved it to and fro. Of course none of the circus men could understand this language, but Tum Tum's keeper knew what the big elephant meant. The keeper came running in the tent. "Tum Tum!" he cried. "I believe you can stop that wagon. Stop the tiger cage! Get in front of it, and push on it with your big head. That will stop it from rolling down hill!" "I will! I will!" said Tum Tum, only, of course, he spoke in elephant language. The keeper soon took the chain off Tum Tum's leg, and the big elephant rushed out of the tent, and toward the rolling wagon. None of the men had yet been able to stop it, and it was half way down the hill now, going faster and faster. Inside, the tiger was growling and snarling louder than ever, and trying to break out through the iron bars. "Look out! He'll get away!" cried Mappo, who had run and jumped inside the cage with the other monkeys. "Old Sharp Tooth will get loose." "No, he won't!" said Tum Tum, who was now going toward the tiger's cage as fast as he could. "Don't be afraid, Mappo," the elephant went on, for he knew monkeys are very much afraid of tigers. "I won't let him get you, Mappo," said Tum Tum. On rushed the big elephant toward the rolling cage. He got in front of it, and then he stood still, in the middle of the hill, waiting for the tiger's cage, on wheels, to roll down to him. "Look out, Tum Tum, or it will hit you!" chattered Mappo. "That's what I want it to do," said Tum Tum. "But it can't hurt me, as my head is so big and strong. Now you watch me!" On came the tiger's cage. Tum Tum stood there ready to let it bunk into him. His legs were spread far apart so he himself would not be knocked over. Bang! That was the tiger's cage hitting Tum Tum on the head. "Ouch!" yelled the big elephant through his trunk, for though it did not hurt him much, he felt a little pain. Then he stood there, and pushed so hard on the big wagon, that it could not roll down hill any more. Instead, it began to roll back up the hill, as Tum Tum pushed on it. "That's the way to do it, Tum Tum!" cried the elephant's keeper. "I knew you could do it. Come on now, old fellow. Push the cage right back where it belongs." Tum Tum did so. Soon the tiger's cage was in line with those of the lions, wolves, bears and other animals, ready for the circus to begin. "Oh, but I'm glad the tiger didn't get loose," said Mappo, to Tum Tum. "I was so afraid!" "Why were you afraid?" the big elephant wanted to know. "Oh, because Sharp Tooth, the tiger, does not like me. I am sure he would bite me, if he got loose." "Why would he do that?" asked Tum Tum. "Because I would not let him out of his cage, when he and I were caught in the jungle," answered the monkey. Then he told about the time Sharp Tooth had tried to get out of his cage. "Never fear, Mappo," said Tum Tum. "I'll not let Sharp Tooth hurt you as long as I am around." "Thank you," said Mappo. For several days after this the circus went from town to town, traveling after dark each night, so as to be ready to give a show in the day-time. One day Sharp Tooth, the tiger, spoke to Tum Tum as the elephant was passing the cage. "Why did you stop my wagon from rolling down hill, Tum Tum?" asked the tiger. "Because I did not want to see it smashed, and see you thrown out, Sharp Tooth," answered Tum Tum. "But that is just what I wanted to do--get out," spoke the tiger. "I want to get loose! I am tired of staying in the cage!" "But if you got out, you might bite someone," went on Tum Tum. "Yes, that is just what I would do," growled the tiger. "I would bite and scratch until the men would be glad to let me go back to my jungle again. I am mad at you for not letting my cage run on. If you had, I would now be free." "Well, I am glad you are not free," said Tum Tum, as he looked at the sharp teeth and sharp claws of the tiger, and thought of little Mappo. "Then I am mad at you, and I am going to stay mad," said the tiger, and he sulked in his cage. Tum Tum was not very much afraid of the tiger now, even though he knew the bad animal might some day get loose and scratch him. "I don't believe Sharp Tooth will ever get out," said Tum Tum to himself. The big elephant had good times in the circus. He had to do only a few tricks in the afternoon, and some more in the evening. The rest of the time he could eat or sleep, except when the circus moved from place to place. Then he would have to help the other elephants push the heavy wagons up on the railroad trains. But Tum Tum did not mind this. What he liked, best of all, was to stand in the animal tent, before and after his trick performances, and watch the children and grown people come in to look at him and the other animals. Some of the little children seemed afraid of the elephants, but when Tum Tum saw one of these frightened little tots, he would just put out his trunk, and gently stroke some other little boy or girl, so as to show how gentle he was. Then the frightened one's mother or father would say: "See, the good elephant will not hurt you. Come, give him some peanuts or popcorn." Then the child would hand Tum Tum a peanut, and Tum Tum would eat it with a twinkle in his little eyes. Of course Tum Tum would much rather have had a whole bag full of peanuts at a time, for he could put them all in his mouth, and more, at once. Still, Tum Tum was glad enough to get single peanuts at a time, and though it was hard work to chew a single one in his big mouth, just as it would be hard for you to chew just one grain of sugar, still Tum Tum was very polite, and he never refused to take the single peanuts. "A big ball of popcorn makes something pretty good to chew on," said Tum Tum to one of the elephants chained near him. "I like that, don't you?" "Indeed I do," the elephant said. "We never got anything as nice as popcorn and peanuts in the jungle, did we?" "No," answered Tum Tum, thinking of the days in the dense jungle. Tum Tum wondered what had become of Mr. Boom and where his father and mother, and his other elephant friends, might be. "I suppose they are still back in the lumber yard, piling up teakwood logs," thought Tum Tum. "I am glad I am in the circus, even if I did have to be pulled up with a rope to make me learn how to stand on my head and my hind legs." Tum Tum could do many other tricks besides these now, and he was such a jolly old elephant, always doing as he was told without any grumbling, that all the circus men liked him. If there was anything hard to do, or any trick that none of the other elephants could go through, Tum Tum was sure to be called on. "He is the smartest elephant of all," his keeper would say, and this made Tum Tum feel very proud and happy. One day there was much excitement in the animal tent, and at first Tum Tum thought maybe the tiger had gotten loose again, or that another big cage had rolled down hill. When one of the animal men rushed in and called out something, Tum Tum knew it was not that. "One of the monkeys is missing," said one trainer to another. "It is Mappo, that smart one." "Ha! Is that so?" asked the other. "How did he get loose?" "He must have slipped out of the cage, when we were on the road. Come, we are going to try to find him." "I know a good way," said the keeper of Tum Tum. "I shall take my elephant with me. My elephant and that monkey Mappo were good friends. If Mappo sees Tum Tum, he will be glad to come back. So we will take Tum Tum to hunt Mappo." "Ha! That is good!" thought Tum Tum, as he listened. Soon the hunt for Mappo began. Many of the circus men started for the woods to look for the lost monkey. Tum Tum went along also, his keeper riding on his back. "I wonder if we will find Mappo?" thought Tum Tum. CHAPTER VIII TUM TUM AND THE FIRE Through the woods, near the circus town, went the men looking for lost Mappo. They wanted to get back the monkey because he was such a good one to do tricks, and because the children, many of whom came to the circus, liked to see him ride on the back of a dog, or pony, and jump through paper-covered hoops. "We must find Mappo!" cried the keeper who had him in charge. Mappo had run away, as I have told you in the book about his adventures, because he was afraid Sharp Tooth, the big tiger, would get loose and bite him. In the woods he had many wonderful adventures. He met Slicko, the jumping girl squirrel, about whom I have told you, and also Squinty, the comical pig. Mappo liked Squinty, the pig, very much, for Squinty was a nice little chap. On and on went Tum Tum and the men, looking for the lost monkey. After the search had gone on for several hours, Mappo, who was walking along through the woods with Squinty, saw the circus men coming after him. "Here's where I have to run and hide," said Mappo. "Why?" grunted Squinty, the comical pig. "Because the circus men are after me. Look!" and the monkey chap pointed through the woods to where could be seen some men in red coats. "Oh, and look at that funny animal with two tails!" cried Squinty. "I'd be afraid of him." "You wouldn't need to be," said Mappo. "That is only Tum Tum, the elephant, and he is very jolly. He would not hurt a fly. I guess he is looking for me, but, as I don't want to go back to the circus just yet, I'll go off in the woods and hide." "And I guess I'll go hide, too," said Squinty, for he, also, had run away, but not from a circus. He had run away from his pen at the farm--the farm where Don, the dog, lived. So Mappo hurried off to climb a tall tree. As Tum Tum went along through the bushes, he saw his little monkey friend. "Ha! There is Mappo!" said Tum Tum to himself, and he hurried on through the woods. "Wait a minute, Mappo!" called Tum Tum, in animal language. But Mappo would not wait, and Tum Tum could not tell the circus men with him that the lost monkey was just ahead of them. Tum Tum could not speak man talk, you know, and the circus men had not yet seen Mappo. So the little monkey got away. Tum Tum saw a little animal with Mappo, and the elephant said to himself: "Ha! That must be Squinty, the comical pig, of whom Don, the dog, told me. I would like to meet Squinty, but I don't see how I can. He can run through these woods faster than I can. Well, maybe I will see him some day. And I do hope Mappo comes back to the circus. It will be lonesome without him." But Mappo had many adventures before he came back to the circus. "Well, I guess it's no use hunting for him any more," said one of the circus men. "That monkey has gotten far away. We had better go back to the tents." "Yes, I think we had," said the man who was riding on the back of Tum Tum. The elephant knew that Mappo was not so very far off, but Tum Tum had no way of telling his keeper about it. Back to the circus went Tum Tum, and another monkey had to do the tricks that Mappo used to do in the performances that day. "What happened?" asked Sharp Tooth, the tiger, of Tum Tum, as the elephant went past the cage of the striped beast. "Where did you go a little while ago?" "Out looking for Mappo, the monkey," answered Tum Tum. "Did he run away?" asked the tiger. "Yes, I guess he was afraid you would bite him." "And so I would, if I could get him," snarled the tiger. "He is to blame for me being shut up in this cage." Tum Tum said nothing, for he did not want to get in a quarrel with the tiger. Day after day went past in the circus, and still Mappo did not come back. Sometimes Tum Tum was lonesome for his little monkey friend, but there was so much to do, that no one in a circus could be lonesome for very long at a time. Tum Tum was learning some new tricks, and this took up much of his time. Each day he was growing bigger and stronger, for he was not a very old elephant, when he had been caught in the jungle. Now he was very strong, and he could easily have pushed two heavy animal cages at once. He was the strongest elephant in the whole circus. One day, when the circus was going along the road from one town to another, one of the wagons became stuck fast in the mud, for it had rained in the night. It was the wagon in which rode the hippopotamus, with his big red mouth that he could open so wide. The whole circus procession had to stop, or at least all the wagons behind the hippopotamus cage, had to stop, as they could not get past. "Bring up some of the elephants, and have them pull the hippo's cage out of the mud!" cried the head circus man. He called him "hippo" for short, you see. Up came two big elephants, and chains were put about their necks, and made fast to the hippopotamus wagon. "Now, pull!" cried the circus men, and the elephants strained and pulled as hard as they could. But the wagon did not move out of the mud. "Pull harder!" cried the circus man, and he cracked his long whip, but he did not hit the elephants with it. But, no matter how hard the elephants pulled, they could not pull the hippopotamus wagon out of the mud. "Well, what are we going to do?" asked the head circus man. "We cannot stay here all day." "Suppose you let my elephant, Tum Tum, try to pull the wagon out of the mud," said Tum Tum's keeper. "My elephant is very strong." "Ha! But is he as strong as two elephants?" asked the head circus man. "I think so," said the keeper. "Let us try. But Tum Tum can push better than he can pull, so I shall put him in back of the wagon, and let him push it out of the mud with his head. Let some of the men steer the wagon in front, when Tum Tum pushes from behind." "Very well, we shall try," said the head circus man. The ten horses who pulled the hippopotamus wagon had been unhitched when the two elephants tried to pull it. Now the two elephants were led to one side, and Tum Tum came up. "Ha! He thinks he can push that wagon out of the mud, when we two could not pull it," said one elephant to the other. "Yes, he is very proud," spoke the other. Tum Tum heard them. "No, I am not proud," said Tum Tum, "and I am not sure that I can push the wagon out of the mud, but I am going to try." His keeper led him up in back of the hippopotamus wagon. It was very large and heavy, and had settled far down in the soft mud of the road. The hippo was still in it, and the hippo was very heavy himself, weighing as much as two tons of coal. The circus men could not let the hippopotamus out of his cage, because he was rather wild, and might have run away or made trouble. So they had to leave him in. "Now, Tum Tum, you have some hard work ahead of you!" said his trainer, as he led the elephant up behind the wagon. "Let me see, if you can push this out of the mud hole." "Umph! Umph!" grunted Tum Tum through his trunk. That was his way of saying that he would do his best. Tum Tum went close up to the wagon, and stuck his four big feet well down in the mud to brace himself. Then he put his large head against the wagon, and began to push. Tum Tum took a long breath, and then he pushed, and pushed and pushed some more. "He can never do it," said one of the two elephants who had tried to pull the wagon. "Indeed he cannot," spoke the other. "Wait and see!" grunted Tum Tum. "I have not finished yet." He pushed harder and harder. His head was hurting him, and his feet were slipping in the mud of the road. Still he kept on pushing. "I don't believe your elephant can do it," said one of the circus men. "We had better hitch about four of them to the wagon." "No, let Tum Tum try once more. I am sure he can do it," spoke the elephant's kind keeper. When Tum Tum heard this, he felt himself swell up inside. It was as though he had new strength. "I _will_ push that wagon!" he said to himself. "I _will_ push it out of the mud!" Then he took another long breath, and pushed with all his might on the wagon. "Now it's going!" cried Tum Tum. Slowly at first, and then faster, the big hippopotamus wagon rolled out of the mud, and on to the firm, hard road. "There it goes!" cried a circus man. "Hurray! Tum Tum has done it!" shouted another. "I told you he was strong," said Tum Tum's keeper. "He surely is," spoke the head circus man. "But I never thought he could push that wagon." Tum Tum had not thought so himself, but even an elephant never knows what he can do until he tries. "Huh! I s'pose he thinks he's smart, because he pushed a wagon we couldn't," said one of the two elephants to the other. "Yes," said the second one, "but if they'd given us another chance, we could have done it, too." [Illustration: The big hippopotamus wagon rolled out of the mud, and on to the firm, hard road. Page 84] But I do not believe they could. And Tum Tum did not think he was "smart," either. He only felt that he had done what he had been told to do, even though it was hard work, and did hurt his head. So the hippopotamus wagon was pushed out of the mud, and the circus procession went on down the road. It was not long after this that something else happened to Tum Tum. The elephant seemed to be having many adventures since he came from the jungle. The circus had gone on and on, showing in many different places. Tum Tum, in each place, had looked to see if Mappo had come back, but the little monkey had not. Perhaps he was still off in the woods with Squinty, the comical pig. It was a very hot day, and the animals in their cages, and the elephants, camels and horses, in the tent, had hard work to get a cool breeze or find any fresh air to breathe. In the west were some black clouds that looked as though they would bring a thunder shower. Just before the show began, Tum Tum was taken out of the tent to help push some of the heavy wagons into place. "Oh, look at the elephant!" cried some boys who had no money to go inside and see the show. They were glad to see even an elephant. Tum Tum finished his work of pushing the wagons into place and his trainer led him toward a big tub filled with water, for he knew his pet elephant would want a drink, as it was so hot. Near the water tub stood a peanut wagon, and the smell of the roasting nuts made Tum Tum hungry for some. But he knew the children in the circus would soon give him plenty. All of a sudden some boys, who were trying to get closer to Tum Tum, ran into the peanut wagon, and tipped it over. All at once the red-hot charcoal that kept the peanuts warm, spilled out, and the wagon, and some straw near it, caught fire. My, how it blazed! "Fire! Fire!" cried the peanut man. "Oh, somebody put out the fire, or all my peanuts will be burned up!" Tum Tum looked at the fire, and wondered if he could help put it out. CHAPTER IX TUM TUM AND THE BALLOONS "Come away, Tum Tum!" cried the elephant's keeper. "I don't want you getting all excited about a fire, and maybe burned. A few peanuts are not worth it. We'll let some of the tent men put out the fire. Come away!" But Tum Tum did not want to go away from the fire. He was not much afraid of it. Most wild animals are afraid of fire, but Tum Tum was tame now, and he knew that though fire burns, it also does good, in cooking food, even for animals. Besides, Tum Tum had seen so much of fire, since he had come to the circus, and had seen so many flaring lamps at the night performances, that he was not afraid of just a blazing peanut wagon. "I'm sorry to see all those peanuts burned up," thought Tum Tum. "I wonder if I can't save them--maybe I'll get some for myself, if I do." Tum Tum thought quickly. There was a great deal of excitement around him, for the straw was now blazing in many places and the peanuts and wagon were all in flames. "Come away, Tum Tum!" called his keeper. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" yelled the peanut man. "Bring water here, somebody!" shouted another man. "Get a pail! Get a pail!" one of the boys yelled. "Call out the fire engines!" said another. But Tum Tum knew a better way than that. His trunk was just like a hose, only, of course, not so long. He could suck it up full of water, and squirt it out again, just like a pop gun shoots out a cork. And that was what Tum Tum did. He put his trunk into the tub of water, and sucked up as much as he could. Then Tum Tum aimed his trunk right at the blazing peanut wagon and the straw. Whooo-ish! went the water, as Tum Tum squirted it out of his trunk. On the fire it spattered. Hiss-s-s-s-s! went the fire, like an angry snake. "Ha! That's the way to do it, Tum Tum!" cried his keeper. "You know how to put out a fire! That's the way. You're as good as a fire engine yourself!" Tum Tum did not answer. In the first place, he could not talk to his keeper except in elephant language, which the circus man did not understand. And, in the second place, Tum Tum was going to suck up more water in his nose, for the fire was not quite out yet. And you know it is hard to talk when you have your nose full of water, even if you are an elephant. Whooo-ish! went more water from Tum Tum's trunk on the blazing peanut wagon and straw. Hiss! went the fire again, as it felt the wet water. Fire does not like water, you know. "Once more, Tum Tum! One more trunk full, and you'll have the fire out!" cried the elephant's keeper. Again Tum Tum dipped his trunk into the tub of water, and spurted it on the fire. This time the fire went out completely. Tum Tum had made it so wet, with water from his trunk, that it could no longer burn. "Oh, what a smart, good elephant!" cried the peanut man. "He saved my wagon from burning up. I must give him some peanuts!" A few of the peanuts were burned, but there were plenty left, and, though some of them tasted a little like smoke, Tum Tum did not mind that. He chewed several bags full--shells and all--and was hungry for more. But now it was time to go back into the circus tent, and have his handsome blanket put on, to take his place in the procession. The boys, one of whom had accidentally upset the peanut wagon, looked at Tum Tum eagerly. "Say, he's a smart elephant all right!" he cried. "That's what he is!" said another. "I'd like to have him!" "Huh! What would you do with an elephant?" asked his friend. "An elephant would eat a ton of hay a day." "Would he?" "Sure he would." "Well, then, I don't want an elephant," said the boy. "I guess a dog is good enough for me. A dog can eat old bones; he doesn't need a ton of hay a day." The boys helped the peanut man turn his wagon right side up, and they also helped him gather the scattered peanuts. Then the man built another fire, and went around the tent, selling his peanuts. "Tum Tum, you are getting smarter and smarter each day," said his keeper, as he led him back to get ready for the parade. "I am proud of you. You are the best elephant in the circus." Tum Tum heard what was said of him, but he only flapped his big ears, that were nearly the size of washtubs. Then he stood in line with his companions, and ate the peanuts and popcorn balls the children fed to him over the ropes. "My, I s'pose Tum Tum will be so stuck up, and proud, that he won't want to speak to us, after he has done so many wonderful things," said one of the jealous elephants. "He pushed the wagon out of the mud, and now he has put out a peanut wagon fire. Some elephants have all the luck in this world." Tum Tum's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. He just ate the popcorn balls and peanuts. But he was not at all proud or stuck up. Tum Tum was now such a gentle and tame elephant, that children could ride on his back. At first, some of the circus performers, who had their children with them, let them get up on Tum Tum, and then, when his keeper found that Tum Tum did not mind, some of the boys and girls who came to see the show each day were allowed to ride. Up and down the tent they went on Tum Tum's back, sitting in the little house that was strapped fast to him. Tum Tum was led about by his keeper when the children thus rode, and very glad Tum Tum was to give the boys and girls this fun, for he liked children very much. Tum Tum would have been very glad if Mappo, the merry monkey, had come back to ride on his back, as he did sometimes. But Mappo was far away; where, Tum Tum did not know. Nearly every day something new happened to Tum Tum in the circus. Every day he saw new faces, new boys and girls and once in a while, he did some new tricks. He had enough to eat, a good place to sleep, he did not have to work very hard, and, best of all, he was in no danger. So, altogether, Tum Tum liked the circus life much better than he had liked being in the jungle. Still, now and again, he would wish himself back in the cool, dark woods, smashing through the thick bushes, and breaking down, or pulling up, big trees by their roots. In the circus were some men from India, where Tum Tum had worked in the lumber yard, piling up teakwood logs, and these Indians could talk the language spoken in India--the man-language Tum Tum had first learned. He liked to have them come to see him, rub his trunk, and talk to him in their queer words. One day another adventure happened to Tum Tum. He was out in front of the circus tent, after he had helped roll some of the heavy animal wagons into place, when he saw some children, with their papa, coming to the circus. "Oh, papa!" cried a little boy, "couldn't we ride on the elephant's back?" and he was so excited, this little boy was, that he danced up and down with his red balloon. All the children had these toy balloons. "Oh, I don't believe you could ride on the elephant's back," said the little boy's papa. "They can, if you will let them," said Tum Tum's keeper. "My elephant is very kind and gentle, and many children ride on him. I will hold them on, if you are willing." "Oh, let us, papa!" cried a little girl. "All right, I don't mind," he said. Tum Tum was led close to a wagon, from which the children could easily get into the little house on his back. In that they sat with their papa and the keeper, and around the circus grounds they went. It was not yet time for the show, and Tum Tum did not have to go in. "Oh, what a lovely ride!" cried the little boy, when it was over. "Thank you so much!" Tum Tum was glad the children had enjoyed it. Then, as the boy and girl got down from the elephant's back, their toy balloons slipped out of their hands and floated off through the air. "Oh, there goes my balloon!" cried the little girl. "And there goes mine, too!" cried the little boy. "Oh, papa!" "Never mind, I'll get you some others," said the man. "But I'd rather have that one," the little boy said, half crying. "I would, too," added his sister. Just then the wind blew the two balloons into the top of a tall tree. It was a tall, slender tree, too little for any one to climb up, or put a ladder against. "Oh, now we can never get our balloons!" sobbed the little girl, as the toys bobbed about in the wind, the strings fast to a tree branch. Then Tum Tum made up his mind, just as he had done at the peanut fire. "I'll get those balloons back for the children," thought the big, kind, jolly elephant. CHAPTER X TUM TUM AND THE LEMONADE The little boy and girl, who had ridden on the back of Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, stretched up their hands toward the balloons that had caught in the tree. They even got up again into the little house, and, standing up, tried to reach their floating toys. "Sit down! Sit down!" called their father. "Yes, you might fall," said Tum Tum's trainer, or keeper, who was also riding in the little house on the elephant's back. "But we want our balloons!" cried the little boy. "Yes, our nice toy balloons!" said the little girl, and there were tears in her eyes. Tum Tum felt sorry for her. He did not like to see little girls cry. "I must get those balloons back for them," Tum Tum said to himself, over and over again. "I'll get you other balloons," said the children's papa again, trying to make them feel happier. But the boy and girl wanted the same balloons they had had first. "Now if Mappo were only here," thought Tum Tum, "he could easily climb up that tree, even if it is a slender one, and will easily bend. For Mappo is not very heavy, and he could go away up to the top of the tree. "But no one else can, and none of the monkeys but Mappo is smart enough to do it. So I'll have to get the balloons myself." And how do you think Tum Tum did it? Of course he could not climb a tree--no elephant could, even if it were a big tree. But Tum Tum was very strong, and, just as he had often done in the jungle, he wrapped his long, rubbery hose-like nose, or trunk, around the tree. "Here, Tum Tum, what are you doing?" called his keeper. "Umph! Umph! Wumph!" Tum Tum answered. That meant: "You just watch me, if you please, and you'll see." Then Tum Tum just pulled and pulled as hard on that tree, and up he pulled it by the roots. Right out of the ground the big elephant pulled the tree, and then, holding it in his strong trunk, he tipped it over so the top branches were close to the children on his back. And, tangled in the branches were the cords of the toy balloons, that still bobbed about. [Illustration: Right out of the ground the big elephant pulled the tree. Page 98] "Oh, look!" cried the boy. "Here are our balloons, sister!" "Oh, so they are!" exclaimed the little girl. "Oh, what a good elephant he is to get our balloons back for us!" "I should say he was!" cried the papa. "That is a smart elephant you have," he said to the keeper. "Yes, Tum Tum is very good and smart," said the circus man. He reached over, loosed the strings of the balloons from the tree branch, and gave the ends of the cords to the children. "Now you may let go of the tree, Tum Tum," the man said to the elephant, and Tum Tum dropped the tree on the ground. "Oh, papa, the elephant was so good to us, can't we buy him a bag of peanuts?" asked the little girl. "I guess so," answered her papa, with a laugh. "And may I buy him some popcorn balls?" asked the boy. "Oh, yes, but I hope Tum Tum doesn't become ill from all that sweet stuff," said the papa. "Oh, I guess he won't--he's used to being fed by the children," the circus man said. When Tum Tum heard the boy and girl talking about getting him good things to eat, the big elephant felt very glad. For he was such a big fellow that he was nearly always hungry, and, no matter how many peanuts or popcorn balls he had, he was always willing to eat more. It was now nearly time for the circus to begin, and Tum Tum was led back toward the tent, the children still riding on his back, holding tightly to the strings of their balloons. They were not going to lose them a second time, if they could help it. Near the tent was the same peanut man whose stand had nearly burned up the time Tum Tum put out the blaze with water from his trunk. The boy and girl bought two bags full of peanuts from this man, and from another man they bought popcorn balls. These they fed to Tum Tum, who reached out his trunk for them, and put them into his mouth. "Good-by, Tum Tum!" called the little girl to him, waving one hand, while in the other she held her balloon. "Good-by, elephant!" called the little boy, also waving his hand. "I'll see you in the circus," he added. Tum Tum waved his trunk. He was too busy chewing popcorn and peanuts to speak, even if he could have talked boy and girl language, which he could not. Later on, in the show, Tum Tum, as he went through his tricks, saw the little boy and girl sitting near the ring, with their papa, watching the animals and performers. Two or three days after that something else happened to Tum Tum, and it made him very happy. He was in the tent, after the show, eating his hay, and blowing dust over his back now and then to keep away the flies and mosquitoes, when, all of a sudden, in came a monkey. Tum Tum gave one look at the monkey, and then another look. "Why--why!" cried Tum Tum, in elephant language. "That looks like Mappo." "I am Mappo!" cried the little chap. "Oh, don't let him get me!" "Let who get you?" cried Tum Tum. "What is the matter?" for Mappo looked very frightened. "The hand-organ man is after me!" chattered Mappo, and with that he gave a jump, and landed right upon Tum Tum's broad back. "Don't be afraid," said the elephant. "No one will get you while I am here, Mappo," and Tum Tum swung his long trunk. Then in came the hand-organ man after the monkey, just as I have told you he did in the book about Mappo. But the circus men and Tum Tum would not let Mappo go. And Tum Tum looked so big and fierce and strong that the hand-organ man was afraid to try to take Mappo away. So that is how Mappo came back to the circus again, after having had many adventures. He told Tum Tum all about them. "Are you going to run away again?" asked Tum Tum. "No, I guess not," answered Mappo, hanging by his tail. Tum Tum was glad Mappo had come back, for the big elephant was lonesome for his little friend, and I guess Mappo was also lonesome for Tum Tum. At any rate, the two were soon as good friends as before. The show went on from town to town, and it was nearing the time for the circus season to be over. Then the animals would be taken back to the big barn, there to stay all winter, until spring and summer should come again. One day a bad man came into the tent where the elephants were standing, eating their hay, and held out something in his hand. Tum Tum, and the other elephants, stretched out their trunks, for it seemed as if the man had something good for them to eat. And Tum Tum, being the nearest, reached it first. The thing the man held out was in a bag, and it smelled like peanuts. In fact, there were a few peanuts, and shells, in the bag but, besides that, there were also some sour lemons, which Tum Tum did not like at all. But he had chewed on them before he knew what they were, not stopping to open the bag the bad man gave him. As he felt the sour juice running down his throat, Tum Tum gave a squeal. He was angry at the man who had played this trick on him. "Ha! Ha!" laughed the man. "I fooled you that time, Mr. Elephant. How do you like lemons?" Tum Tum did not answer. He just reached his trunk in his mouth, and pulled out the sour stuff, and threw it away. The man laughed very hard at his mean trick, and one of the keepers said to him: "You had better look out. Elephants have good memories, and if ever you get near Tum Tum, where he can reach you, you may be sorry for what you did." "Oh, I'm not afraid of an elephant!" cried the man with another laugh. "If ever I can reach that man with my trunk, I'll make him wish he'd never given me lemons," thought Tum Tum. But, try as he did, he could not stretch himself far enough to reach the man, for there were chains about the legs of the elephant. Later on that day, the same man came walking past the elephants in the animal tent, after the circus was over. I guess he had forgotten about the trick he played. But Tum Tum and the other elephants had not forgotten. All of a sudden Maggo, the elephant standing next to Tum Tum, saw the bad man, and, reaching out her trunk, Maggo caught him around the waist, and lifted him off his feet. "Oh! Oh! Put me down! Oh, an elephant has me!" cried the man. Instantly there was great excitement in the animal tent. The people yelled, and the trainers came running over to see what was the matter. They saw the man lifted high in the air in Maggo's trunk. "Put him down! Put him down at once!" cried Maggo's keeper. But Maggo was not going to do that at once. "Now is your chance, Tum Tum," said Maggo. "I'll hold this bad man, who gave you lemons instead of peanuts, and you can hit him with your trunk." "No, I'll not do that," said Tum Tum, who was very gentle. "If I did, I might hurt him, for I strike very hard with my trunk. But I will fix him, so he will not play any more tricks on elephants." Then Tum Tum dipped his trunk in a tub of water near by, and, suddenly, spurted it all over the man, making him as wet as if he had gone in swimming. "Oh, my! Oh, dear! Oh, stop it!" cried the man excitedly, with the water squirting all over him. "Let him down now, Maggo," said Tum Tum, with a queer little twinkle, like laughter, in his eyes. "I guess he won't want to play any more tricks." Maggo set down the dripping man, who was glad enough to run away. He did not once look back. "It served you right, for giving Tum Tum lemons," said a keeper. "Some elephants would have done worse than just to squirt water on you." One afternoon it was very hot in the circus. It was so hot that the sides of the animal tent were lowered to let in the air, but, even at that it was not very cool. "Don't you wish we were back in the jungle, near some river, where we could wade in and float until the sun went down?" asked Maggo of Tum Tum. "Indeed I do," was the answer. "But there is no use wishing." "It doesn't seem so," spoke Maggo, and she fanned herself with her large ears, in a way elephants have. "I wish I had something cool to drink," went on Maggo. "Yes, a nice, cool drink would be just fine," said Tum Tum. "But I do not see where we are going to get it," he went on. Then he happened to look over the side of the tent, which had been let down low, to allow the breeze to come in. What Tum Tum saw made him feel very good. Just outside the tent, was a lemonade stand, and on the ground by it was a big washtub full of pink lemonade, the kind they always sell at circuses. Tum Tum stretched out his trunk, and found that he could easily reach the pink lemonade. "I say, Maggo," called Tum Tum, in an elephant whisper. "I know how to get a cool drink." "How?" asked Maggo. "Now, don't play any joke on me. I could not bear that. I am so thirsty!" "No, this isn't a joke," said Tum Tum. "At least it isn't a joke on you. Come, we shall both have a drink. Put your trunk out over the side of the tent. On the ground outside is a big washtub, full of pink lemonade. We can easily suck it up through our trunks and drink it. Come on, I'll show you how to do it." "Oh, fine!" cried Maggo. Then she and Tum Tum, not thinking it was wrong, put their trunks down in the pink lemonade, and sucked it all out, putting it into their mouths. "Oh, but that's good!" cried Tum Tum, for the lemonade happened to be very sweet. "It certainly is," said Maggo. "I wish there were more." CHAPTER XI TUM TUM AND THE TIGER The two elephants sucked up all the pink lemonade from the washtub near the stand outside the tent. Then they felt much better, and cooler. They did not mind the heat so much. But, in a little while, there was a great sound of some one shouting and calling outside the tent. It was the voice of the man who had made the pink lemonade to sell to those who came to see the circus. "Oh, my lemonade!" cried the man. "My pink lemonade! It is all gone! Some one drank it all up, or else it leaked out of the tub! What shall I do? What shall I do?" The man ran up and down, trying to find his lemonade, but it was all gone. "Say, Tum Tum," said Maggo, "was that his lemonade we drank?" "I--I guess it must have been," said Tum Tum. "But I didn't know it belonged to anybody. I thought it was just standing there in the tub, and that we might as well take it as anyone else." "Well, it's too bad if we've taken the poor man's lemonade, that he was going to sell for money," said Maggo. "Yes, it is," agreed Tum Tum. "But we can't help it now." "Yes," spoke Maggo. "We can't do anything." Just then the man who owned the lemonade looked up, and saw the trunks of the two elephants sticking out over the top of the tent. The man guessed what had happened. "Ha! They took my lemonade!" the man cried. "They sucked it up through their trunks. Oh, they took my lemonade, and I'll make the circus pay for it!" Tum Tum's keeper heard the noise the man was making, and came running up. "What is the matter?" asked the circus man. "Oh, yoy! Yoy!" cried the man. "Your elephants took all my pink lemonade, from the washtub where I had ice in it! They sucked it up in their rubber-hose trunks!" "Tum Tum, did you and Maggo do that?" asked the keeper. Tum Tum could not answer, of course. But the circus man looked at Tum Tum's long, white ivory tusks, and on one of them were some splashes of pink lemonade. "Yes, Tum Tum, you did it," said the man. "Well, I won't punish you, for you did not know any better, I suppose." "But what about my lemonade?" asked the peddler. "Don't I get paid for it?" "Yes, I guess the circus will have to pay you," spoke the keeper. "After all, I am glad Tum Tum had it, for he has been a good elephant, and so has Maggo. I am glad they had it!" The other elephants wished they had had some also, but there was not enough to go around. The keeper paid the man for the lemonade the elephants had taken, and the man made another washtub full. But this he took care to place far enough away from the tent, so the elephants could not reach over and suck it up in their trunks. "Well, we made a lot of trouble, even though we did not mean to," said Tum Tum to Maggo that evening, when they were cooling off after the show. "But that lemonade tasted good, didn't it?" "It certainly did," said Maggo with a sigh that almost shook the tent. That night Tum Tum, and all the elephants, had to work very hard, pushing the heavy animal cages down the road to where they were loaded on the railroad cars to go to a distant city. As Tum Tum was pushing the cage of Sharp Tooth, the big tiger, he heard that striped animal talking with Roarer, the lion. "Can you hear me, Roarer?" asked Sharp Tooth, as her cage was pushed alongside that of the King of Beasts. "Yes, I can hear you, Sharp Tooth," said Roarer. "What is it you want to say?" At this Tum Tum lifted wide his ears away from his sides, so he could hear better. "I think something is going to happen," mused Tum Tum. Then Tum Tum made up his mind that he would listen and find out what it was. He knew the tiger and lion were dangerous animals. They had never become tame, and were always trying to find a way to escape, or get loose from their cages. "And if that's what they're trying this time, I'll stop them if I can," thought Tum Tum. So, while he was pushing first the tiger, and then the lion cage along, he listened, though he pretended not to hear anything. "What is it you want to tell me, Sharp Tooth?" asked Roarer. "Listen carefully," answered the tiger. "Can you hear me?" "Yes, yes," growled the lion again. "What is it? Be quick!" "I know a way to get out of our cages," said the tiger. "If I tell you, will you come with me? Then we can run off to the woods, and live there until we can find our way back to the jungle. Will you come with me, Roarer?" "Yes," said the lion, "I will. Tell me how to get out of my cage and back to the jungle." The lion and tiger did not know that the jungle, where they had lived, was many miles away, across the big ocean. "This is how we can get out," said Sharp Tooth. "You know when the man cleans our cages each night, he leaves the door unlocked so the feeding man can follow and put meat in easily." "Does he do that?" asked the lion. "I never noticed." "Yes, he always does that," said the tiger. "For a little while each evening, just before we are fed, the doors of our cages are not locked. We can easily push them open, before the meat man comes to feed us and closes them. We can get out then." "But if we go before we get our meat, we shall be hungry," roared the lion. "What of it, silly?" cried Sharp Tooth. "Is it not better to get away, and be hungry for a little while, than to stay here shut up in a cage all your life?" "Well, I suppose it is," said the lion with a big sigh. "Then we are to come out of our cages to-night?" "Yes, soon after the man has finished cleaning them, and has left the door unlocked. He does not know that I know about the door. I suppose he imagines I think it is as tightly shut as ever. But it isn't!" "Good!" cried the lion. "Then we'll run away! But when?" "To-night," hissed the tiger. "Be quiet now, some one may hear us." "Ha! Some one has already heard you," thought Tum Tum. "So you are going to get away to-night, are you? Well, not if I know it! I'll stop you all right! It would never do to have you loose in the woods; all the people would be scared. Let me see, how can I stop you?" Tum Tum wished he could speak man-talk, so he could tell the keepers what the lion and tiger were going to do. But Tum Tum could speak only animal language. "But I can stay near the tiger's cage, and when he does get out, I can grab him in my trunk, before he has time to scratch me, and push him back in his cage again," thought Tum Tum. "By that time the keepers will come, and shut the cage doors. Yes, I'll do that with Sharp Tooth; but what about Roarer? I need help there. I'll get Maggo." So Tum Tum told Maggo, about the lion and tiger going to escape from the circus. "And if you'll stand in front of the lion's cage, he won't dare run very far," said Tum Tum to Maggo. "If you'll look after the lion, I'll look after the tiger." "All right," said Maggo, "I shall. It would not be right for those fierce animals to get away." Toward evening, when the show was over for the afternoon, Maggo and Tum Tum were allowed to roam about the animal tent a little, the chains being taken off their feet. "Now's our time, Maggo," whispered Tum Tum. "You go over by the lion's cage, and I'll stay by the tiger's." "All right, I will," said Maggo. Over she went to stand in front of the lion's cage. The cleaning man had been around, and the doors of the cages were open. Then, before Tum Tum could get to the tiger's cage, that big, striped beast gave one blow with his paw on the unlocked door, pushing it open. He sprang out, crying: "Come on, Roarer! Come on with me. I'm out! Jump out through the door and we'll go to the jungle!" CHAPTER XII TUM TUM'S BRAVE DEED Tum Tum tried to get in front of Sharp Tooth and stop the tiger from getting out of his cage, but the big elephant was not quick enough. Besides, the tiger moved so swiftly, that hardly any one could have stopped him. "Come back here! Come back!" cried Tum Tum, when he saw Sharp Tooth running out of the tent. "Indeed I will not! I'm off to the jungle!" snarled the striped beast. "Come on, Roarer!" she called. But Roarer could not, for Maggo, the big elephant, had placed herself in front of the door of his cage, and was leaning against it. And Maggo was so big and heavy that Roarer could not push open the iron-barred door. "Get out of my way!" cried the lion to the elephant. "No, no! I will not!" answered brave Maggo. Then the lion put his paws through the bars of the cage and scratched Maggo, but the lady elephant did not mind that. She made a loud noise through her trunk, and this call brought the keepers on the run. One of them saw what the matter was. "Quick!" cried this keeper. "The lion's cage door is not fastened. He is trying to get out, but the elephant is holding him in. Quick! Fasten shut the door!" Then the circus men, very quickly, made the door tightly shut, and that was the end of Roarer's chances for getting out. Oh, but that lion was angry! He sprang about the cage, roaring loudly, but he could not get out to go and join Sharp Tooth, the tiger. "Some of you put some salve on the elephant's scratches," said the head circus man, "while I look to see if any other animals have gotten loose." Then he saw the open door of the tiger's cage, and he cried: "Sharp Tooth is loose! We must go and find that tiger!" Then some one else called: "And Tum Tum is gone also!" "What, Tum Tum gone!" cried the elephant trainer. "That's so," he said, as he saw that the place where Tum Tum used to stand was empty. "I wonder where Tum Tum can be?" said the keeper. Maggo wished she could tell how Tum Tum had tried to stop the tiger from running away, but how the big elephant had not been in time. However, the head keeper must have guessed it. "I don't believe Tum Tum ran away," he said. "He must have gone out after the tiger. Come on, we must find them both." As it happened, the circus performance was over, so there were no boys or girls, or men and women, to be frightened by hearing that the tiger was loose. Sharp Tooth was so excited at getting out of the cage, that she did not try to bite anybody. She slipped out of the tent, and ran toward some woods near the circus lot. But Tum Tum was right after her. The tiger could go along very fast, but the elephant could travel almost as quickly, and he kept right behind the striped beast. "Ha! Go on back! Stop following me!" snarled Sharp Tooth. "No, I'll not," answered the brave elephant. "I want you to come back to the circus." "I'll never come!" snapped the tiger. "Oh, yes, you will," the elephant said. The tiger kept on, and Tum Tum followed. Finally the tiger ran up a tree and crouched out on a big limb. "Ha! Now you can't follow me!" she said to the elephant. "You can't climb up this tree!" "No, but I can stay here until you come down," said Tum Tum, "and that's what I'll do." "Bah!" snarled the tiger. "Go away and let me alone!" But Tum Tum would not. He stayed under the tree where the tiger was, for he knew that soon the circus men would come to hunt for Sharp Tooth, to put her back in her cage. And, surely enough, that is just what happened. The head keeper could easily see which way the tiger and elephant had gone, for, though Sharp Tooth did not make much of a track, Tum Tum did. An elephant cannot crash and push his way through the bushes and trees without making a broad path. And this path the circus men followed. Soon they came to the tree in which Sharp Tooth was crouching. "Here she is!" cried one. "Bring up the cage!" The tiger's empty cage was wheeled under the tree, and the door was open. Inside was put a nice piece of meat, such as the tiger loved, and she was very hungry now. "You had better go down in your cage and behave yourself," said Tum Tum. "No, I will not!" snarled the tiger. But when the circus men snapped their whips, and fired off guns, and brought blazing torches, Sharp Tooth was afraid. Besides, she was very hungry, and as the lion had not run away with her, she was afraid she could never get to the jungle alone. [Illustration: He stayed under the tree where the tiger was, for he knew that soon the circus men would come to hunt for Sharp Tooth. Page 120] "I guess I had better go down in my cage," said the tiger. "But," she added to Tum Tum, "if ever I get a chance to scratch you, I will." Into the cage she jumped, and the circus men slammed the door shut. The tiger was caught again. "Good old boy, Tum Tum!" called the elephant's keeper to him, as they were going back to the animal tent. "You saved the tiger from getting away, and that was a good thing, for Sharp Tooth might have bitten someone. You are a very good elephant!" This made Tum Tum feel quite happy, more happy even than did the nice big lumps of sugar, and loaves of bread, he was given for his supper as a reward. For you know animals like to be spoken kindly to, as well we do, boys and girls. You just try it with your dog. Speak harshly to him, or scold him, and see how he cringes down, and tucks his tail between his legs. He knows when you are not kind to him. And then try speaking nicely. Tell him what a good dog he is, and how much you like him, and see what a change there is. He will jump up, and wag his tail, and bark, he is so glad because you are speaking kindly to him. And, if you let him, he will try to kiss you with his red tongue. Oh, yes, indeed, animals know a great deal more than most persons think they do. So that was how Sharp Tooth got out of her cage, and how Tum Tum helped to catch her again. After that the animals' cages were never left open, even for a second. "Did you get very scratched?" asked Tum Tum of Maggo, when everything was once more quiet in the animal tent. "No, not much," answered the lady elephant. "I'm sorry I was not quick enough for the tiger," said Tum Tum. "Never mind, it is all over now." Then the two elephant friends stood side by side in the tent and ate hay and talked to each other in elephant language. And now my story of Tum Tum is drawing to a close. I shall tell you one more thing that happened to him, and then I am finished. One day the circus was showing near a large city, and great crowds of people came out to see it. There were boys and girls--more than Tum Tum had ever seen before. The big tent was full. Tum Tum did all his tricks as best he could. He stood on his head, and on his hind legs. He sat up at the table, and made believe eat a meal. In this trick Mappo, the merry monkey, had a part, for he sat up with Tum Tum, and they both ate. When the circus was almost over, and Tum Tum had played soldier, and marched out of the ring carrying Mappo on his back, while Mappo waved a flag, the little monkey, who could see out of the top of the tent said: "Tum Tum, we are going to have a big thunder shower. I can see the lightning and the black clouds." "Well, it will not hurt us," said Tum Tum. "We often used to have thunder storms in the jungle, and here we are under a tent." Then, suddenly the storm came. It grew very black, and the thunder and lightning frightened the big crowds in the circus tent. It rained very hard, too, so that some of the tent ropes were made loose and slipped. "Run out, quick!" suddenly called a man. "The tent is going to fall on us! Run, everybody!" "No! Sit still! Keep your seats!" the circus men cried, but the crowd was frightened and ran. Just then, one of the big poles of the tent began to fall. "That pole must not fall!" cried Tum Tum's keeper. "But how can I hold it up? I am not strong enough." Then he looked at Tum Tum, the big elephant. "Ha! Tum Tum will hold up the pole, until all the people get out of the tent!" cried the circus man. "Here, Tum Tum," he called. "Hold up this pole." Tum Tum knew what was wanted of him. He pushed his strong head against the pole, and it did not fall over. Tum Tum held it up, and the tent did not come down. "Tum Tum, you are a fine elephant!" cried his master. "I love you!" The rain was soon over, and that night, after the evening performance, the circus went on to another town. That brings me to the end of Tum Tum's adventures. But I have some stories about other animals, and in the next book I'll tell you about "Don, a Runaway Dog; His Many Adventures." As for Tum Tum, he lived in the circus for many, many years, growing older and stronger and wiser every day, and everybody thought he was the jolliest elephant in all the world. THE END STORIES FOR CHILDREN (From four to nine years old) THE KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES BY RICHARD BARNUM [Illustration] In all nursery literature animals have played a conspicuous part; and the reason is obvious for nothing entertains a child more than the antics of an animal. These stories abound in amusing incidents such as children adore and the characters are so full of life, so appealing to a child's imagination, that none will be satisfied until they have met all of their favorites--Squinty, Slicko, Mappo, Tum Tum, etc. 1 SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG. 2 SLICKO, THE JUMPING SQUIRREL. 3 MAPPO, THE MERRY MONKEY. 4 TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT. 5 DON, A RUNAWAY DOG. 6 DIDO, THE DANCING BEAR. 7 BLACKIE, A LOST CAT. 8 FLOP EAR, THE FUNNY RABBIT. 9 TINKLE, THE TRICK PONY. 10 LIGHTFOOT, THE LEAPING GOAT. 11 CHUNKY, THE HAPPY HIPPO. 12 SHARP EYES, THE SILVER FOX. _Cloth, Large 12mo., Illustrated, Per vol. 50 cents_ For sale at all bookstores or sent (postage paid) on receipt of price by the publishers. BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers 28 West 23rd Street New York 
22521	----	file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by Microsoft for their Live Search Books site.) THE YOUNG ACROBAT of the Great North American Circus BY HORATIO ALGER, Jr. AUTHOR OF "THE ERIE TRAIN BOY," "RAGGED DICK," "TATTERED TOM," ETC. NEW YORK HURST AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS THE YOUNG ACROBAT CHAPTER I. KIT WATSON. There was great excitement in Smyrna, especially among the boys. Barlow's Great American Circus in its triumphal progress from State to State was close at hand, and immense yellow posters announcing its arrival were liberally displayed on fences and barns, while smaller bills were put up in the post office, the hotel, and the principal stores, and distributed from house to house. It was the largest circus that had ever visited Smyrna. At least a dozen elephants marched with ponderous steps in its preliminary procession, while clowns, acrobats, giants, dwarfs, fat women, cannibals, and hairy savages from Thibet and Madagascar, were among the strange wonders which were to be seen at each performance for the small sum of fifty cents, children half price. For weeks the young people had been looking forward to the advent of this marvelous aggregation of curiosities, and the country papers from farther east had given glowing accounts of the great show, which was emphatically pronounced greater and more gorgeous than in any previous year. But it may be as well to reproduce, in part, the description given in the posters: BARLOW'S GREAT NORTH AMERICAN CIRCUS. Now in its triumphal march across the continent, will give two grand performances, AT SMYRNA On the afternoon and evening of May 18th. Never in all its history has this Unparalleled show embraced a greater variety of attractions, or included a larger number of world famous Acrobats, Clowns, Bare back Riders, Rope walkers, Trapeze Artists, and Star Performers, In addition to a colossal menagerie, comprising Elephants, Tigers, Lions, Leopards, and other wild animals in great variety. All this and far more, including a hundred DARING ACTS, Can be seen for the trifling sum of Fifty cents; Children half price. COME ONE! COME ALL! Two boys paused to read this notice, pasted with illustrative pictures of elephants and circus performers on the high board fence near Stoddard's grocery store. They were Dan Clark and Christopher Watson, called Kit for short. "Shall you go to the circus, Dan?" asked Kit. "I would like to, but you know, Kit, I have no money to spare." "Don't let that interfere," said Kit, kindly. "Here is half a dollar. That will take you in." "You're a tip-top fellow, Kit. But I don't think I ought to take it. I don't know when I shall be able to return it." "Who asked you to return it? I meant it as a gift." "You're a true friend, Kit," said Dan, earnestly. "I don't know as I ought to take it, but I will anyhow. You know I only get my board and a dollar a week from Farmer Clifford, and that I give to my mother." "I wish you had a better place, Dan." "So do I; but perhaps it is as well as I can do at my age. All boys are not born to good luck as you are." "Am I born to good luck? I don't know." "Isn't your uncle Stephen the richest man in Smyrna?" "I suppose he is; but that doesn't make me rich." "Isn't he your guardian?" "Yes; but it doesn't follow because there is a guardian there is a fortune." "I hope there is." "I am going to tell you something in confidence, Dan. Uncle Stephen has lately been dropping a good many hints about the necessity of being economical, and that I may have my own way to make in the world. What do you think it means?" "Have you been extravagant?" "Not that I am aware of. I have been at an expensive boarding school with my cousin Ralph, and I have dressed well, and had a fair amount of spending money." "Have you spent any more than Ralph?" "No; not so much, for I will tell you in confidence that he has been playing pool and cards for money, of course without the knowledge of the principal. I know also that this last term, besides spending his pocket money he ran up bills, which his father had to pay, to the amount of fifty dollars or more." "How did your uncle like it?" "I don't know. Ralph and his father had a private interview, but he got the money. I believe his mother took his part." "Why don't you ask your uncle just how you stand?" "I have thought of it. If I am to inherit a fortune I should like to know it. If I have my own way to make I want to know that also, so that I can begin to prepare for it." "Would you feel bad if you found out that you were a poor boy--like me, for instance?" "I suppose I should just at first, but I should try to make the best of it in the end." "Well, I hope you won't have occasion to buckle down to hard work. When do you go back to school?" "The next term begins next Monday." "And it is now Wednesday. You will be able to see the circus at any rate. It is to arrive to-night." "Suppose we go round to the lot to-morrow morning. We can see them putting up the tents." "All right! I'll meet you at nine o'clock." They were about to separate when another boy, of about the same age and size, came up. "It's time for dinner, Kit," he said; "mother'll be angry if you are late." "Very well! I'll go home with you. Good morning, Dan." "Good morning, Kit. Good morning, Ralph." Ralph mumbled out "Morning," but did not deign to look at Dan. "I wonder you associate with that boy, Kit," he said. "Why?" inquired Kit, rather defiantly. "Because he's only a farm laborer." "Does that hurt him?" "I don't care to associate with such a low class." "Daniel Webster worked on a farm when he was a boy." "Dan Clark isn't a Webster." "We don't know what he will turn out to be." "I don't consider him fit for me to associate with," said Ralph. "It may be different in your case." "Why should it be different in my case?" asked Kit, suspiciously. "Oh, no offense at all, but your circumstances and social position are likely to be different from mine." "Are they? That's just what I should like to find out." "My father says so, and as you are under his guardianship he ought to know." "Yes, he ought to know, but he has never told me." "He has told me, but I am not at liberty to say anything," said Ralph, looking mysterious. "I think I ought to be the first to be told," said Kit, not unreasonably. "You will be told soon. There is one thing I can tell you, however. You are not to go back to boarding school on Monday." Kit paused in the street, and gazed at his companion in surprise. "Are you going back?" he asked. "Yes; I'm going to keep on till I am ready for college." "And what is to be done with me?" Ralph shrugged his shoulders. "I am not at liberty to tell you," he answered. "I shall ask my uncle this very day." "Just as you please." Kit walked on in silence. His mind was busy with thoughts of the change in his prospects. He did not know what was coming, but he was anxious. It was likely to be a turning point in his life, and he was apprehensive that the information soon to be imparted to him would not be of an agreeable nature. CHAPTER II. INTRODUCES THREE CURIOSITIES. Stephen Watson, uncle of Kit and father of Ralph, was a man of middle age. It was difficult to trace any resemblance between him and his nephew. The latter had an open face, with a bright, attractive expression. Mr. Watson was dark and sallow, of spare habit, and there was a cunning look in his eyes, beneath which a Roman nose jutted out like a promontory. He looked like the incarnation of cold selfishness, and his real character did not belie his looks. Five years before Kit Watson's father had died. He resembled Kit in appearance, and was very popular in Smyrna. His brother wound up the estate, and had since been living in luxury, but whether the property was his or his nephew's Kit was unable to tell. He had asked the question occasionally, but his uncle showed a distaste for the subject, and gave evasive replies. What Kit had just heard made him anxious, and he resolved to attack his uncle once more. After dinner, therefore, he began: "Uncle Stephen, Ralph tells me I am not going back to school on Monday." "Ralph speaks correctly," Mr. Watson replied in a measured voice. "But why am I not to go?" "I will explain before the time comes." "Can you not tell me now? I am anxious to know." "You must curb your curiosity. You will know in good time." Kit regarded his uncle in silence. He wished to know what had caused this remarkable change, but it seemed useless to ask any more questions. The next morning he and Dan Clark, according to agreement, met in front of Stoddard's store. "I had hard work to get away," said Dan. "Let us go right over to the circus grounds." These were located about a third of a mile from the hotel, in a large twenty-acre pasture. The lot, as it was called, was a scene of activity. A band of canvas men were busily engaged in putting up the big tent. Several elephants were standing round, and the cages of animals had already been put in place inside the rising tent. On a bench outside sat a curious group, comprising Achilles Henderson, the great Scotch giant, who was set down on the bills as eight feet three inches in height, and was really about seven feet and a half; Major Conrad, the dwarf, who was about the size of an average child of three years, and Madame Celestina Morella, the queen of fat women, who was credited on the bills with a weight of five hundred and eighty seven pounds. She was certainly massive, but probably fell short a hundred and fifty pounds of these elephantine proportions. Kit and Dan paused to look at this singular trio. "I wonder how much pay they get?" said Dan, turning to Kit. "I saw in some paper that the fat woman gets fifty dollars a week." "That's pretty good pay for being fat, Kit." "Would you be willing to be as fat for that money?" "I think not," said Dan, "though it's a good deal more than I get now." They were standing near the bench on which the three were seated. Achilles, who looked good-natured, as most big men are, addressed the boys. "Well, boys, are you coming to see the show?" "Yes," answered both. "I used to like to myself when I was a boy. I didn't expect then I should ever travel with one." "Were you very large as a boy?" asked Dan, with curiosity. "When I was twelve years old I was six feet high, and people generally thought then that I was eighteen. I thought perhaps I shouldn't grow any more, but I kept on. When I was sixteen I was seven feet tall, and by twenty I had reached my present height." "Are you eight feet three inches tall, Mr. Henderson?" "Is that what the bills say?" "Yes." "Then it must be so," he said with a smile. "How long have you been traveling with the circus?" "Five years." "How do you like it?" "It's a good deal easier than working on a farm, especially in Vermont, where I was born and bred." "But they call you the Scotch giant." "It sounds well, doesn't it? My father was born in Scotland, but my mother was a Vermont Yankee. You know Americans are more willing to pay for a foreign curiosity than for one home born. That's why my _great_ friend here"--emphasizing the word great--"calls herself Madame Celestina Morella." The fat lady smiled. "People think I am French or Italian," she said, "but I never was out of the United States in my life." "Where were you born, Madame Morella?" "In the western part of New York State. I know what you are going to ask me. Was I always fat? No, when I was sixteen I only weighed one hundred and twenty. Then I had a fit of sickness and nearly died. After recovering, I began to gain flesh, till I became a monster, as you see." As she said this, she laughed, and her fat sides shook with merriment. Evidently she did not let her size weigh upon her mind. "I suppose your real name isn't Celestina Morella?" said Kit. "My real name is Betsey Hatch. That is what they called me in my girlhood, but I should hardly know who was meant if I was called so now." "Have you been long in the show business?" "About seven years." "Do you like it?" "I didn't at first, but now I've got used to moving about. Now when the spring opens I have the regular circus fever. But I have my troubles." "What are they?" asked Kit, seeing that the fat woman liked to talk. "Well, I find it very difficult to secure at the hotels a bed large enough and strong enough to hold me. I suppose you won't be surprised to hear that." "Not much." "At Akron, Ohio, where the hotel was full, I was put in a cot bed, though I protested against it. As soon as I got in, the whole thing collapsed, and I was landed on the floor." She laughed heartily at the remembrance. "I remember that very well," said the giant, "for I slept in the room below. Half an hour after getting into bed, I heard a fearful noise in the room above, and thought at first the hotel had been struck by lightning, and a piercing shriek that echoed through the house led me to fear that my esteemed Italian friend was a victim. But my mind was soon relieved when I learned the truth." "I suppose, major, you never broke down a bed," said the giant, turning to the dwarf. "No," answered the major, in a shrill piping voice, "I never lie awake thinking of that." "I believe you served in the civil war, major?" "Yes, I was in the infantry." It was a stale joke, but all four laughed at it. "How much do you weigh, major?" Kit ventured to ask. "Twenty-one pounds and a half," answered the dwarf. "I have with me some of my photographs, if you would like to buy," and the little man produced half a dozen cards from his tiny pocket. "How much are they?" "Ten cents." "I'll take one," said Kit, and he produced the necessary coin. "If you go into the tent you can see some of the performers rehearsing," suggested Achilles. "Let us go in, Dan." The two boys reached the portals and went into the big tent. CHAPTER III. KIT ASTONISHES TWO ACROBATS. The circus tent was nearly ready for the regular performance. Kit and Dan regarded the sawdust arena with the interest which it always inspires in boys of sixteen. Already it was invested with fascination for them. Two acrobats who performed what is called the "brothers' act" were rehearsing. They were placarded as the Vincenti brothers, though one was a French Canadian and the other an Irishman, and there was no relationship between them. At the time the boys entered, one had climbed upon the other's shoulders, and was standing erect with folded arms. This was, of course, easy, but the next act was more difficult. By a quick movement he lowered his head, and grasping the uplifted hands of the lower acrobat, raised his feet and poised himself aloft, with his feet up in the air, sustained by the muscular arms of his associate. "That must take strength, Kit," said Dan. "So it does." "No one but a circus man could do it, I suppose?" "I can do it," said Kit quietly. Dan regarded him with undisguised astonishment. "You are joking," he said. "No, I am not." "Where did you learn to do such a thing?" asked Dan, incredulous, though he knew Kit to be a boy of truth. "I will tell you. In the town where I attended boarding school there is a large gymnasium, under the superintendence of a man who traveled for years with a circus. He used to give lessons to the boys, but most contented themselves with a few common exercises. I suppose I should also, but there was an English boy in the school, very supple and muscular, who was proud of his strength, and ambitious to make himself a thorough gymnast. He persuaded me to take lessons in the most difficult acrobatic feats with him, as two had to work together." "Did you pay the professor extra to instruct you?" asked Dan. "He charged nothing. He was only too glad to teach us all he knew. It seems he was at one time connected with Barnum's circus, and prepared performers for the arena. He told us it made him think of his old circus days to teach us. At the close of last term we gave him five dollars apiece as an acknowledgment of his services. He assured us then that we were competent to perform in any circus." "Could you really do what the Vincenti brothers are doing?" "Yes; and more." "I wish I could see you do it." The boys were seated near the sawdust arena, and the last part of their conversation had been heard by the acrobats. It was taken as an illustration of boyish braggadocio, and as circus men are always ready for practical jokes, particularly at the expense of greenhorns, they resolved that there was a good chance for a little fun. One tipped the wink to the other, and turning to Kit, said: "What's that you're saying, kid?" "How does he know your name?" said Dan, mistaking kid, the circus name for boy, for his friend's nickname. "He said kid, not Kit," answered our hero. "Do you think you can do our act?" continued the acrobat. "I think I can," replied Kit. This elicited a broad grin from the acrobat. "Look here, kid," he said, "do you know how long it took me to learn the business?" "I don't know, but I should like to know." "Three years." "No doubt you can do a great deal more than I." "Oh, no, certainly not!" said the acrobat, ironically. "I see you don't believe me," said Kit. "I'll tell you what you remind me of, kid. There was a fellow came to our circus last summer, and wanted to get an engagement as rider. He said he'd been a cowboy out in New Mexico, and had been employed to break horses. So we gave the fellow a trial. We brought out a wild mustang, and told him to show what he could do. The mustang let him get on, as was his custom, but after he was fairly on, he gave a jump, and Mr. Cowboy measured his length on the sawdust." Kit and Dan both smiled at this story. "I am not a cowboy, and don't profess to ride bucking mustangs," he said, "though my friend Dan may." "I'd rather be excused," put in Dan. "I'll tell you what, kid, if you'll go through the performance you've just seen I'll give you five dollars." The fellow expected Kit would make some hasty excuse, but he was mistaken. Our hero rose from his seat, removed his coat and vest, and bounded into the arena. "I am ready," he said, "but I am not strong enough to be the under man. I'll do the other." "All right! Go ahead!" The speaker put himself in position. Kit gave a spring, and in an instant was upon his shoulders. There was an exclamation of surprise from the second acrobat. "Christopher!" he exclaimed. "The boy's got something in him, after all." "Now what shall I do?" asked Kit, as with folded arms he stood on the acrobat's shoulders. "Keep your place while I walk round the arena." Kit maintained his position while the acrobat ran round the circle, increasing his pace on purpose to dislodge his young associate. But Kit was too well used to this act to be embarrassed. He held himself erect, and never swerved for an instant. "Pretty good, kid!" said the acrobat. "Now reverse yourself and stand on my hands with your feet in the air." Kit made the change skillfully, and to the equal surprise of Dan and the other acrobat, both of whom applauded without stint. "Can you do anything else?" asked Alonzo Vincenti. "Yes." Kit went through a variety of other feats, and then descending from his elevated perch, was about to resume his coat and vest, when the circus performer asked him, "Can you tumble?" Kit's answer was to roll over the arena in a succession of somersaults and hand springs. "Well, I'm beat!" said the acrobat. "You're the smartest kid I ever met in my travels. Are you sure you're not a professional?" "Quite sure," answered Kit, smiling. "You never traveled with a show, then?" Kit shook his head. "Where on earth did you pick up all these acts?" "I took lessons of Professor Donaldson." "You did! Well, that explains it. I say, kid, you ought to join a circus. You'd command a fine salary." "Would I? How much could I get?" asked Kit, with interest. "Ten or twelve dollars a week and all expenses paid. That's pretty good pay for a kid, isn't it?" "It's more than I ever earned yet," answered Kit, with a smile. "I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Barlow would give you that now. If you ever make up your mind to join a show, come round and see him." "Thank you," said Kit. Soon after the boys left the circus lot and went home. "Would you really join a circus, Kit?" asked Dan. "It isn't the life I would choose," answered Kit, seriously, "but I may have to find some way of earning a living, and that very soon." "I thought your father left you a fortune." "So did I; but I hear that I am to be taken from boarding school, and possibly set to work. Ralph has given me a hint of it. I shall soon know, as my uncle intimates that he has a communication to make me." "I hope it isn't as bad as you think, Kit." "I hope so too, but I can tell you better to-morrow. We will meet to-night at the show." CHAPTER IV. A SCENE NOT DOWN ON THE BILLS. Just before supper Kit was asked to an interview with his uncle. "You wish to speak to me, Uncle Stephen?" he said. "Yes; I have decided not to postpone the explanation for which you asked yesterday." "I shall be glad to hear it, sir." "Ever since your father's death I have supported you, not because I was morally or legally bound to do so, but because you were my nephew." "But didn't my father leave any property?" asked Kit in amazement. "He was supposed to have done so." "This house and grounds are surely worth a good deal of money!" "So they are," answered Stephen Watson, dryly, "but unfortunately they did not belong to your father." "This is certainly a mistake," exclaimed Kit, indignantly. "Wait till I have finished. These stood in your father's name, but there was a mortgage of two thousand dollars held by the Smyrna Savings Bank." "Surely the place is worth far more than two thousand dollars!" "Curb your impatience, and you will soon understand me. The place _is_ worth far more than two thousand dollars. I consider it worth ten thousand." "Then I don't see----" "Your father left large debts, which of course had to be paid. I was therefore obliged to sell the estate, in order to realize the necessary funds." "For how much did you sell the place?" "For nine thousand dollars. I regarded that as a good price, considering that it was paid in cash or the equivalent." "To whom did you sell?" "I bought it in myself; I was not willing that the place which my brother had loved so well, should pass into the hands of strangers." "May I ask who was my father's principal creditor?" asked Kit. "Ahem! I was," answered Stephen Watson, in a tone of slight embarrassment. "You!" exclaimed Kit, in fresh surprise. "Yes; your father owed me twelve thousand dollars borrowed at various times." "How could he have been obliged to borrow so much?" asked Kit. "He always seemed comfortably situated. I never once heard him complain of being pressed for money." "Very likely; he was very reticent about his affairs. I would explain, but the matter is rather a delicate one." "I think I am entitled to know all about it, Uncle Stephen," said Kit, firmly. "Be it so! Perhaps you are right. Let me tell you in the briefest terms, then, that in his later years your father speculated in Wall Street--not heavily, for he had not the means, but heavily for one of his property. Of course he lost. Almost every one does, who ventures into the 'street.' His first losses, instead of deterring him from further speculation, led him on to rasher ventures. It was then that he came to me for money." "Didn't you urge him to give up speculating?" asked Kit. "Yes, but my words availed little. Perhaps you will think I ought to have refused him loans, but he assured me in the strongest terms that unless he obtained money from some source he would be ruined, and I yielded. I might have been weak--it was weak, for I stood a chance of losing all, having merely his notes of hand to show for the money I lent. But it is hard to refuse a brother. I think I should do the same again." Kit was silent. His uncle's words were warm, and indicated strong sympathy for Kit's father, but his tone was cold, and there seemed a lack of earnestness. Kit could not repress a feeling of incredulity. There was another obstacle to his accepting with full credence the tale which his uncle told him. He had always understood from his father that his uncle was a poor and struggling man. How could he have in his possession the sum of twelve thousand dollars to lend his brother? This question was certainly difficult to answer. He paused, then refraining from discussing the subject, said: "Why have you not told me this before, Uncle Stephen?" "Would it have made you any happier?" returned Stephen Watson. "No." "Till you had acquired a fair education, I thought it better to keep the unpleasant truth from you. It would only have annoyed you to feel that you owed everything to my generosity, and were in fact a child of charity." Kit's face flushed deeply as he heard this expression from his uncle's lips. "Do you mean that my father left absolutely nothing?" he asked. "Yes, absolutely nothing. Well, no, not quite that. I think there was a balance of a little over a hundred dollars left after paying all debts. That is hardly worth counting." "Yes, that is hardly worth counting," said Kit in a dull, mechanical tone. "Still, I determined to educate you, and give you equal advantages with my own son. I have done so up to the present moment. I wish I could continue to do so, but Ralph is getting more expensive as he grows older (and you also), and I cannot afford to keep you both at school. You will therefore stop studying, and I shall secure you some work." "If things are as you say, I cannot complain of this," Kit said in a dull, spiritless tone, "but it comes upon me like a thunderbolt." "No doubt, no doubt. I knew it would be a shock, and I have postponed telling you as long as possible." "I suppose I ought to thank you. Have you anything more to say to me now?" "No." "Then, sir, I will leave you. I will ask further particulars some other day." "He takes it hard," muttered Stephen Watson, eyeing the retreating form of his nephew thoughtfully. "I wonder if he will suspect that there is anything wrong. Even if he does, he is only a boy, and can prove nothing." * * * * * "What makes you so glum, Kit?" asked Dan Clark, when they met at seven o'clock, as agreed, to go together to the show. "Not much, Dan, only I have learned that I am a pauper." "But the estate--the house and the grounds?" said Dan, bewildered. "Belong to my uncle." "Who says so?" "He says so. But I don't want to say any more about it now. Let us start for the circus, and I will try to forget my pauper position, for one evening at least." Before they reached the lot, they heard the circus band discoursing lively music. They were in a crowd, for all Smyrna, men, women and children, were bound for the show. It was a grand gala night. In the city, where there are many amusements, the circus draws well, but in the country everybody goes. Outside the great tent were the side shows. In one of them Kit found his friends of the morning, the giant, the dwarf, and the fat lady, with other curiosities hereafter to be mentioned. Just inside the tent, in what might be called the ante chamber, was the collection of animals. The elephants were accorded more freedom than the rest, but the lion, tiger, and leopard were shut up in cages. The lion seemed particularly restless. He was pacing his narrow quarters, lashing his tail, and from time to time emitting deep growls, betokening irritation and anger. "How would you like to go into the cage?" asked Dan. "I don't care for an interview with his majesty," responded Kit. A stranger was standing near the cage. "Don't go too near, boys!" he said. "That lion is particularly fierce. He nearly killed a man last season in Pennsylvania." "How was that?" "The man ventured too near the cage. The lion stretched out his claws, and fastened them in the man's shoulder, lacerating it fearfully before he could be released. He came near dying of blood poisoning." Kit and Dan sheered off. The lion looked wicked enough to kill a dozen men. At eight o'clock the performance commenced. First there was a procession of elephants and horses, the latter carrying the bareback riders and other members of the circus, with the curiosities and freaks. Then came two bareback riders, who jumped through hoops, and over banners, and performed somersaults, to the wondering delight of the boys. Then came tumblers, and in preparation for another scene a gaudily dressed clown entered the ring. Suddenly there was heard a deep baying sound, which struck terror into every heart. It was the lion; but seemed close at hand. In an instant a dark, cat-like form, rushing down the aisle, sprang into the ring. The great Numidian lion had broken from his cage, and the life of every one in the audience was in peril. Ladies shrieked, strong men grew pale, and all wildly looked about for some way of escape. Striking down the clown, and standing with one foot on the prostrate form, the lion's cruel eyes wandered slowly over the vast assemblage. Only ten feet from him, in front seats, sat Kit and Dan. Kit rose in his seat pale and excited, but with a resolute fire in his eyes. He had thought of a way to vanquish the lion. CHAPTER V. HOW KIT VANQUISHED THE LION. The danger was imminent. Under the canvas there were at least two thousand spectators. Smyrna had less than five thousand inhabitants, but from towns around there were numerous excursion parties, which helped to swell the number present. Had these people foreseen the terrible scene not down on the bills, they would have remained at home and locked the doors of their houses. But danger is seldom anticipated and peril generally finds us unprepared. Dan Clark saw Kit about to leave his seat. "Where are you going?" he cried. "I am going into the arena." "What? Are you out of your head?" asked Dan, and he took hold of Kit to detain him. But the boy tore himself from the grasp of his friend, and with blanched brow, for he knew full well the risk he ran, he sprang over the parapet, and in an instant he stood in the sawdust circle facing the angry monarch of the wilds, whose presence had struck terror into the hearts of two thousand members of a superior race. The sudden movement of Kit created a sensation only less than the appearance of the lion. The residents of Smyrna all knew him, but they could not understand the cause of his apparent fool-hardiness. "Come back! Come away, for your life!" exclaimed dozens of Kit's friends and acquaintances. "Who is that boy? Is he one of the circus men?" asked strangers who were present. "You will be killed, Kit! Come back!" implored Dan Clark, appalled at the danger of his friend. Kit heard, but did not heed, the various calls. He knew what he was about, and he did not mean to be killed. But there seemed the greatest danger of it. He was six feet from the angry beast, who lashed his tail with renewed wrath, when he saw his new and puny foe. Kit knew, however, that the lion's method of attack is to spring upon his victims, and that he needs a space of from twelve to fifteen feet to do it. He himself, being but six feet distant, was within the necessary space. The lion must increase the distance between them in order to accomplish its purpose. Now it happened that Mr. Watson had in his kitchen an elderly woman, who had for years been addicted to the obnoxious habit of snuff taking--a habit, I am glad to be able to say, which is far less prevalent now than in former days. Just before Kit had started for the circus, Ellen, who was a Scotch woman, said: "Master Kit, if you are going near the store, will you buy me a quarter of a pound of snuff?" "Certainly, Ellen," answered Kit, who was always obliging. The snuff he had in his pocket at the time of the lion's appearance in the ring, and it was the thought of this unusual but formidable weapon that gave him courage. If he had merely had a pistol or revolver in his pocket, he would not have ventured, for he knew that a wound would only make the lion fiercer and more dangerous. The lion stood stock still for a moment. Apparently he was amazed at the daring of the boy who had rushed into his presence. His fierce eyes began to roll wickedly and he uttered one of those deep, hoarse growls, such as are wont to strike fear alike into animals and men. He glared at Kit very much as a cat surveys a puny mouse whom she purposes to make her victim. It was a few brief seconds, but to the audience, who were spellbound, and scarcely dared to breathe, it seemed as many minutes that the boy and lion stood confronting each other without moving. Indeed, Kit stood as if fascinated before the mighty beast, and a thrill passed through his frame as he realized the terrible danger into which he had impulsively rushed. But he knew full well that his peril was each instant growing greater. He could not retreat now, for the furious beast would improve the chance to spring upon him and rend him to pieces. With curious deliberation he drew from his pocket a paper parcel, while the lion, as if stirred by curiosity, eyed him attentively. He opened it carefully, and then, without an instant's delay, he flung a handful of the snuff which it contained full in the eyes of the terrible animal. No sooner had he done so than he gave a spring, and in a flash was over the parapet and back in his seat. It was not a moment too soon! The lion was blinded by the snuff, which caused him intense pain. He released the terrified clown, who lost no time in escaping from the arena, while the vanquished beast rolled around on the sawdust in his agony, sending forth meanwhile the most terrible roars. By this time the circus management had recovered from its momentary panic. The trainer and half a dozen animal men (those whose duty it was to take care of the animals) rushed into the circle, and soon obtained the mastery of the lion, whose pain had subdued his fury, and who was now moaning piteously. Then through the crowded tent there ran a thrill of admiration for the boy who had delivered them all from a terrible danger. One man, an enthusiastic Western visitor, sprang to his feet, and, waving his hat, exclaimed: "Three cheers for the brave boy, who has shown more courage than all the rest of us put together! Hip, hip, hurrah!" The call was responded to with enthusiasm. Men and even women rose in their seats, and joined in the cheering. But some of the friends of Kit amended the suggestion by crying, "Hurrah for Kit Watson!" "Hurrah for Kit Watson!" cried the Western man. "He's the pluckiest kid I ever saw yet." Kit had not been frightened before, but he felt undeniably nervous when he saw the eyes of two thousand people fixed upon him. He blushed and seemed disposed to screen himself from observation. But at this moment a tall, portly man advanced from the front of the tent, and came up to where Kit was sitting. "My boy," he said, "do me the favor to follow me. I am Mr. Barlow." It was indeed the proprietor of the circus. He had come in person to greet the boy who had averted such a tragedy. Mechanically Kit followed Mr. Barlow, who led him again into the arena. Then the manager cleared his throat, and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, I have nothing to show you here to-night that is better worth your attention than the young man whose heroic act you have just witnessed and profited by. I introduce to you the boy hero, Kit Watson!" "Speech! speech!" exclaimed the spectators, after a liberal meed of applause. Kit stood erect, and spoke modestly. "I don't pretend to be a hero," he said. "I was as much frightened as anybody, but I thought of the snuff in my pocket, and I recalled to mind a story of a man who subdued a lunatic by means of it. So, on the impulse of the moment, I jumped into the ring. I am very much obliged to you for your cheers, and I wish I was as brave as you seem to think. I won't take up any more of your time, for I know you want the show to go on." Kit retired amid a burst of applause, and resumed his seat. The entertainment of the evening now proceeded, greatly to the satisfaction of the crowded ranks of spectators. But from time to time glances were cast towards the seat which Kit occupied. "Kit," whispered Dan, "I am proud of you! I didn't think you had it in you." "Don't say any more, Dan, or I shall become so vain you can't endure me. Look! there are our friends, the acrobats." CHAPTER VI. KIT'S POOR PROSPECTS. There was one of the spectators who did not admire Kit's heroic conduct, nor join in the applause which was so liberally showered upon him. This was Ralph Watson, who sat on the opposite side of the tent, with his chum, James Schuyler, a boy who had recently come to Smyrna from the city of New York. Ralph had been very pale when the lion first made his appearance in the arena, and trembled with fear, and no one had felt greater relief when the danger was past. But, being naturally of a jealous disposition, he was very much annoyed by the sudden popularity won by Kit. "Isn't that your cousin?" asked James Schuyler. "Yes," answered Ralph shortly. "What a brave boy he is!" Ralph shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see much bravery about it," he said. "It isn't as if the lion was a wild one in his native forest. This one was tame." "He didn't look very tame to me," rejoined James, who, though rather snobbish, was willing to admit the danger they had all incurred. "The people didn't think so either. Hear them cheer your cousin." "It will make him terribly conceited. He will actually think he's a hero." "I wouldn't have given much for any of our lives if he hadn't jumped into the ring, and blinded the lion." Meanwhile Kit was enjoying the performance, and thinking very little of how his action would be regarded by Ralph, for whom he had no very cordial feeling, though they had been, from the necessity of the case, close companions for many years. On their return home, Kit and Ralph reached the gate together. "It seems you're a great hero all at once," said Ralph, with a sneer. Kit understood the sneer, but did not choose to notice it. "Thank you for the compliment," he responded quietly. "O, I didn't mean to flatter you! You are puffed up enough." "Are you sorry I jumped into the ring, Ralph?" asked Kit good-naturedly. "I don't believe there was any real danger." "Then I must congratulate you upon your courage. All the rest of us were frightened, and even Mr. Barlow admitted that there was danger." "The lion was half tame. It isn't as if he were wild." "He looked wild enough to me when I faced him in the ring. I confess that my knees began to tremble, and I wished myself at home." "You'd better set up as a lion tamer," said Ralph. "Thank you; I think I should prefer some other business, where my life would be safer." "You are likely to have your wish, then." "What do you mean?" asked Kit quickly, detecting a significance in Ralph's tone. "I mean that father intends to have you learn a trade." "Has he told you so?" "Yes." "Doesn't he propose to consult me?" "Why should he? You are only a boy, and can't judge what is best for yourself." "Still I am likely to be more interested than any one else in the way I am to earn my living. What trade are _you_ going to learn?" "What trade am I going to learn?" repeated Ralph, with the assumption of insulted dignity. "None at all. I shall be a merchant or a professional man." "And why should not I be the same?" asked Kit. "Because you're a poor boy. Didn't my father tell you this afternoon that you had no money coming to you?" "Yes; but that needn't prevent me from becoming a merchant, or studying a profession." "So _you_ think. You can't expect my father to pay for sending you to college, or support you while you are qualifying yourself to be a merchant." "I don't know yet what I am entitled to expect." "You will soon know." "How soon?" "To-morrow. There's a blacksmith in the next town, Aaron Bickford, who has agreed to take you as an apprentice." "So it's all settled, is it?" Kit asked, full of indignation. "Yes, if Mr. Bickford likes your appearance. He's coming to Smyrna on business to-morrow, and will call here. You're to live at his house." "Indeed! I am very much obliged for the information." "Oh, you needn't get grouty about it. I've no doubt you'll have enough to eat." "So I am to be a blacksmith, and you a merchant or----" "Lawyer. I think I shall decide to be a lawyer," said Ralph, complacently. "That will make quite a difference in our social positions." "Of course; but I will help you all I can. If you have a shop of your own, I will have my horses shod at your place." "Does your father think I am particularly well fitted to be a blacksmith?" "He thinks you will get along very well in the business, if you are industrious. A poor boy can't choose. He must take the best he can get." Kit did not sleep very much that night. He was full of anger and indignation with his uncle. Why should his future be so different from his cousin's? At school he had distinguished himself more in his studies, and he did not see why he was not as well fitted to become a merchant or a lawyer as Ralph. "They can't make me a blacksmith without my consent," was his final thought, as he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Kit was up early the next morning. As breakfast was not ready, he strolled over to the hotel, which was only five minutes' walk from his uncle's house. The circus tent had vanished. Late at night, after the evening performance was over, the canvas men had busied themselves in taking them down, and packing them for transportation to a town ten miles distant on the railroad, where they were to give two exhibitions the next day. The showy chariots, the lions, tigers, elephants and camels, with all the performers, were gone. But Mr. Barlow, the owner of the circus, had remained at the Smyrna Hotel all night, preferring to journey comfortably the next morning. He was sitting on the piazza when Kit passed. Though he had never seen Kit but once, his business made him observant of faces, and he recognized him immediately. "Aha!" he said, "this is the young hero of last evening, is it not?" Kit smiled. "I am the boy who jumped into the ring," he said. "So I thought. I hope you slept well after the excitement." A sudden thought came to Kit. Mr. Barlow looked like a kind hearted man, and he had already shown that he was well disposed toward him. "I slept very poorly," he said. "Was it the thought of the danger you had been in?" "No, sir; I learned that my uncle, without consulting me, had arranged to apprentice me to a blacksmith." Mr. Barlow looked surprised. "But you look like a boy of independent means," he said, puzzled. "I have always supposed that this was the case," said Kit, "but my uncle told me yesterday, to my surprise, that I was dependent upon him, and had no expectations." "You don't want to be a blacksmith?" "No, sir; I consider any kind of work honorable, but that would not suit me." "You would succeed well in my business," said the showman, "but I am very careful how I recommend it to boys. It isn't a good school for them. They are exposed to many temptations in it. But if a boy has a strong will, and good principles, he may avoid all the evils connected with it." Kit had not thought of it before, but now the question suggested itself: "Why should I not join the circus. I should like it better than being a blacksmith." "How much do you pay acrobats?" he asked. "Are you an acrobat?" asked Mr. Barlow. Kit told the story of his practicing with the Vincenti Brothers. "Good!" said Mr. Barlow. "If they indorse you, it is sufficient. If you decide to join my company, I will give you, to begin with, ten dollars a week and your expenses." "Thank you, sir," said Kit, dazzled by the offer, "Where will you be on Saturday?" "At Grafton on Saturday, and Milltown on Monday." "If I decide to join you, I will do so at one or the other of those places." Here the railroad omnibus came up, and Mr. Barlow entered it, for he was to leave by the next train. CHAPTER VII. AARON BICKFORD, THE BLACKSMITH. Kit returned to breakfast in good spirits. He saw a way out of his difficulties. Though he had no false pride, he felt that a blacksmith's life would be distasteful to him. He was fond of study, and had looked forward to a college course. Now this was out of the question. It seemed that he was as poor as his friend, Dan Clark, with his own way to make in the world. When he left school, at the beginning of the vacation, he supposed that he would inherit a competence. It was certainly a great change in his prospects, but now he did not feel dispirited. He thought, upon the whole, he would enjoy traveling with the circus. His duties would be light, and the pay liberal. Before he returned to breakfast, Ralph had come down-stairs, and had a few words with his father. "I think you are going to have trouble with Kit, father," he commenced. "What makes you think so, and what about?" asked Mr. Watson. "I told him last evening about your plan of apprenticing him to Mr. Bickford." "You did wrong. I did not propose to mention the matter to him till Mr. Bickford's arrival. What did he say?" "He turned up his nose at the idea. He thinks he ought to become a merchant or a professional man like me. He is too proud to be a blacksmith." "Then he must put his pride in his pocket. It will be all I can do to pay the expenses of your education. I can't provide for two boys." "When Kit is off your hands won't you increase my allowance, father?" asked Ralph, insinuatingly. "Suppose we postpone that matter," replied Mr. Watson, in a tone of voice that was not encouraging. "I have lost some money lately, and I can't do anything more for you just at present." Ralph looked disappointed, but did not venture to press the subject. "Where have you been, Kit?" he asked, as he saw his cousin entering the gate, and coming up the path to the front door. "I have been taking a walk," answered Kit, cheerfully. "It's a good idea to rise early." "Why?" "Because you will probably be required to do so in your new place." "What new place?" "At the blacksmith's." Kit smiled. To Ralph's surprise he did not appear to be annoyed. "I see you are getting reconciled to the idea. Last evening you seemed to dislike it." "Your father has not said anything about it to me." "He will very soon." "Won't you come round and see me occasionally, Ralph?" asked Kit, with a curious smile. "Yes; I may call on Saturday. I should like to see how you look." Kit smiled again. He thought it extremely doubtful whether Ralph would see him at the blacksmith's forge. Half an hour after breakfast, while Ralph and Kit were in the stable, the sound of wheels was heard, and a stout, broad-shouldered man, with a bronzed complexion, drove up in a farm wagon. Throwing his reins over the horse's neck, he descended from the wagon, and turned in at the gate. Mr. Watson, who had been sitting at the front window, opened the door for him. "Glad to see you, Mr. Bickford," he said. "Is the boy ready?" asked the blacksmith. "I can take him right over with me this morning." "Come into the house, I will send for him." Mr. Bickford noticed the handsome appearance of the hall, and the front room, the door of which was partly open, and said: "If the boy's been used to livin' here, he must be kind of high strung. I can't give him no such home as this." "Of course not, Mr. Bickford. He can't expect it. He's a poor boy, and will have to make his own way in the world. Beggars can't be choosers, you know." A servant was sent to the stable to summon Kit. Ralph, who thought he should enjoy the scene, accompanied him. Kit regarded the blacksmith with some curiosity. "This is Mr. Aaron Bickford, of Oakford, Kit," began his uncle. "I hope you are well, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, politely. The blacksmith gazed at Kit with earnest scrutiny. "Humph!" said he; "are you strong and muscular?" "Pretty fair," answered Kit, with a smile. "Kit," said his uncle, clearing his throat, "in your circumstances I have thought it desirable that you should learn a trade, and have spoken to Mr. Bickford about taking you as an apprentice." "In what business?" asked Kit. "I'm a blacksmith," said Mr. Bickford, taking it upon himself to reply, "and it's a good, healthy business as any you'd want to follow." "I have no doubt of it," said Kit, quietly, "but I don't think I should like it all the same. Uncle Stephen, how does it happen that you have selected such a business for me?" "I heard that Mr. Bickford needed an apprentice, and I have arranged matters with him to take you, and teach you his trade." "Yes," put in Mr. Bickford, "I've agreed to give you your board and a dollar a week the first year. That's more than I got when I was 'prentice. My old master only paid me fifty cents a week." Kit turned to his uncle. "Do you think my education has fitted me for a blacksmith's trade?" he asked. "It won't interfere," replied Mr. Watson, a little uneasily. "Wouldn't it have been well to consult me in the matter? It seems to me I am rather interested." "Oh, I supposed you would object, as you had been looking forward to being a gentleman, but I can't afford to keep you in idleness any longer, and so have arranged matters with Mr. Bickford." "Suppose I object to going with him?" said Kit, calmly. "Then I shall overrule your objections, and compel you to do what I think is for your good." Kit's eye flashed with transient anger, but as he had no idea of acceding to his uncle's order, he did not allow himself to become unduly excited. Indeed he had a plan, which made temporary submission a matter of policy. "What's the boy's name?" asked Aaron Bickford. "I am generally called Kit. My right name is Christopher." "Then, Kit, you'd better be getting your traps together, for I can't stop long away from the shop." "I have arranged to have you go back with Mr. Bickford to-day," said Stephen Watson. "That's rather short notice, isn't it?" Kit rejoined. "The sooner the matter is arranged, the better!" answered his uncle. "Very well," said Kit, with unexpected submission. "I'll go and pack up my clothes." Mr. Watson looked relieved. He had expected to have more trouble with his nephew. In twenty minutes Kit reappeared with his school valise. He had packed up a supply of shirts, socks, handkerchiefs, and underclothing. "I am all ready," he said. "Then we'll be going," said the blacksmith, rising with alacrity. Kit took his place on the seat beside Mr. Bickford. "Good-by, uncle!" he said; "it may be some time before we meet again." "What does the boy mean?" asked Stephen Watson, turning to Ralph with a puzzled look. "I don't know. He's been acting queer all the morning." So Kit rode away with Aaron Bickford, but he had not the slightest intention of becoming blacksmith. Instead of blacksmith's forges, visions of a circus ring and acrobatic feats were dancing before his mind. CHAPTER VIII. KIT'S RIDE TO OAKFORD. Oakford was six miles away. The blacksmith's horse was seventeen years old, and did not make very good speed. Kit was unusually busy thinking. He had taken a decisive step; he had, in fact, made up his mind to enter upon a new life. He had not objected to going away with the blacksmith, because it gave him an excuse for packing up his clothes, and leaving the house quietly. It may be objected that he had deceived Mr. Bickford. This was true, and the thought of it troubled him, but he hardly knew how to explain matters. Not much conversation took place till they were within a mile of Oakford. Aaron Bickford had filled his pipe at the beginning of the journey, and he had smoked steadily ever since. At last he removed his pipe from his mouth, and put it in his pocket. "Were you ever in Oakford?" he asked. "Yes," answered Kit. "I know the place very well." "How do you think you'll like livin' there?" "I don't think I shall like it." Mr. Bickford looked surprised. "I'll keep you at work so stiddy you won't mind where you are," he remarked dryly. "Not if I know it," Kit said to himself. He knew Mr. Bickford by reputation. He was a close-fisted, miserly man, who was not likely to be a very desirable employer, for he expected every one who worked for him to labor as hard as himself. Moreover, he and his wife lived in a very stingy manner, and few of the luxuries of the season appeared on their table. The fact that complaints upon this score had been made by some of Kit's predecessors in his employ, led Mr. Bickford to make inquiries with a view to ascertaining whether Kit was particular about his food. "Are you partic'lar about your vittles?" he asked abruptly. "I have been accustomed to good food," answered Kit. "You can't expect to live as you have at your uncle's," continued the blacksmith. "Me and my wife have enough to eat, but we think it best to eat plain food. Some of my help have had stuck up notions, and expected first class hotel fare, but they didn't get it at my house." "I believe you," said Kit. Mr. Bickford eyed him sharply, not being sure but this might be a sarcastic observation, but Kit's face was straight, and betrayed nothing. "You'll live as well as I do myself," he proceeded, after a pause. "I don't pamper my appetite by no means." Kit was quite ready to believe this also, but did not say so. "What time did you get up at your uncle's?" asked the blacksmith. "We have breakfast a little before eight. I get up in time for breakfast." "You do, hey?" ejaculated the blacksmith, scornfully. "Wa'al, I declare! You must be tuckered out gettin' up so airly." "O no, I stand it very well, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, amused. "Do you know what time I get up?" asked Mr. Bickford, with a touch of indignation in his tone. "I would like to know," answered Kit meekly. "Wa'al, I get up at five o'clock. What do you say to that, hey?" "I think it is very early." "I suppose you couldn't get up so early as that?" "I might, if there was any need of it." "I reckon there will be need of it if you're goin' to work for me." Kit cleared his throat. He felt that the time had come for an explanation. "Mr. Bickford," he said, "I owe you an apology." "What?" said Bickford, regarding his young companion in surprise. "I have deceived you." "I don't know what you're talkin' about." "I don't think I did right to come with you to day." "I can't make out what you're talkin' about. Your uncle has engaged to let you work for me." "But I haven't engaged to work for you, Mr. Bickford." "Hey?" and the blacksmith eyed our hero in undisguised amazement. "I may as well say that I don't intend to work for you." "You don't mean to work for me?" repeated Bickford slowly. "Just so. I have no intention of becoming a blacksmith." "Is the boy crazy?" ejaculated Aaron Bickford. "No, Mr. Bickford; I have full command of my senses. You will have to look out for another apprentice." "Then why did you agree to come with me?" "That is what I have to apologize for. I wanted to get away from my uncle's house quietly, and I thought it the best way to pretend to agree to his plan." Aaron Bickford was not a sweet tempered man. He had a pretty strong will of his own, and was called, not without reason, obstinate. He began to feel angry. "Well, boy, have you got through with what you had to say?" he asked. "I believe so--for the present." "Then I guess it's about time for me to say something." "Very well, sir." "You'll find me a tough customer to deal with, young man." "Then perhaps it is just as well that I do not propose to work for you." "But you are goin' to work for me!" said the blacksmith, nodding his head. "Whether I want to or not?" interrogated Kit, placidly. "Yes, whether you want to or not, willy nilly, as the lawyers say." "I think, Mr. Bickford, you will find that it takes two to make a bargain." "So it does, and there's two that's made this bargain, your uncle and me." Mr. Bickford was not always strictly grammatical in his language, as the reader will observe. "I don't admit my uncle's right to make arrangements for me without my consent." "You know more'n he does, I reckon?" "No, but this matter concerns me more than it does him." "Maybe you expect to live without workin'!" "No; if it is true, as my uncle says, that I have no money, I shall have to make my living, but I prefer to choose my own way of doing it." "You're a queer boy. Bein' a blacksmith is too much work for you, I reckon." "At any rate it isn't the kind of work I care to undertake." "What's all this rigmarole comin' to? Here we are 'most at my house. If you ain't goin' to work for me, what are you goin' to do?" "I should like to pass the night at your house, Mr. Bickford. After breakfast I will pay you for your accommodations, and go----" "Where?" "You must excuse my telling you that. I have formed some plans, but I do not care to have my uncle know them." "Are you going to work for anybody?" asked the blacksmith, whose curiosity was aroused. "Yes, I have a place secured." "Is it on a farm?" "No." "You're mighty mysterious, it seems to me. Now you've had your say, I've got something to tell you." "Very well, Mr. Bickford." "You say you're not goin' to work for me?" "Yes, sir." "Then I say you _are_ goin' to work for me. I've got your uncle's authority to set you to work, and I'm goin' to do it." Kit heard this calmly. "Suppose we postpone the discussion of the matter," he said. "Is that your house?" Aaron Bickford's answer was to drive into the yard of a cottage. On the side opposite was a blacksmith's forge. "That's where you're goin' to work!" he said, grimly, pointing to the forge. CHAPTER IX. KIT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. Grafton, where Barlow's circus was billed to appear on Saturday, was only six miles farther on. Oakford was about half way, so that in accompanying the blacksmith to his home, Kit had accomplished about half the necessary journey. Now that he had undeceived the blacksmith as to his intention of staying he felt at ease in his mind. It was his plan to remain over night in the house and pursue his journey early the next day. "Are these all the clo'es you brought with you?" asked Bickford, surveying Kit's neat and rather expensive suit with disapproval. "Yes. Am I not well enough dressed for a blacksmith?" asked Kit, with a smile. "You're a plaguy sight too well dressed," returned Bickford. "You want a good rough suit, for the forge is a dirty place." "I thought I told you I did not intend to work for you, Mr. Bickford." "That's what you said, but I don't take no stock in it. Your uncle has bound you out to me, and that settles it." "If he has bound me out, where are the papers, Mr. Bickford?" asked Kit, keenly. This question was a poser. The blacksmith supposed that Kit might be ignorant that papers were required, but he found himself mistaken. "There ain't no papers, but that don't make no difference," he said. "He says you're to work for me, and I'm goin' to hold you to it." Kit did not reply, for he saw no advantage in discussion. "You'll get a dollar a week and your board, and you can't do better. I reckon dinner is about ready now." Kit felt ready for the dinner, for the morning's ride had sharpened his appetite. So when, five minutes later, he was summoned to the table, he willingly accepted the invitation. "This is my new 'prentice, Mrs. Bickford," said the blacksmith, by way of introduction, to a spare, red headed woman, who was bustling about the kitchen, where the table was spread. Mrs. Bickford eyed Kit critically. "He's one of the kid glove kind, by his looks," she said. "You don't expect to get much work out of him, do you?" "I reckon I will, or know the reason why," responded Bickford, significantly. "Set right down and I'll dish up the victuals," said Mrs. Bickford. "We don't stand on no ceremony here. What's your name, young man?" "People call me Kit." "Sounds like a young cat. It's rediculous to give a boy such a name. First thing you know I'll be calling you Kitty." "I hope I don't look like a cat," said Kit laughing. "You ain't got no fur on your cheeks yet," said the blacksmith, laughing heartily at his own witticism. "What have you got for dinner, mother?" "It's a sort of picked-up dinner," answered Mrs. Bickford. "There's some pork and beans warmed up, some slapjacks from breakfast, and some fried sassidges." "Why, that's a dinner for a king," said the blacksmith, rubbing his hands. He took his seat, and put on a plate for Kit specimens of the delicacies mentioned above. In spite of his appetite Kit partook sparingly, supplementing his meal with bread, which, being from the baker's shop, was of good quality. He congratulated himself that he was not to board permanently at Mr. Bickford's table. When dinner was over, the blacksmith in a genial mood said to Kit: "You needn't begin to work till to-morrow. You can tramp round the village if you want to." Kit was glad of the delay, as early the next morning he expected to bid farewell to Oakford, and thus would avoid a conflict. He had been in Oakford before, and knew his way about. He went out of the yard and walked about in a leisurely way. It was early in June, and the country was at its best. The birds were singing, the fields were green with verdure, and Kit's spirits rose. He felt that it would be delightful to travel about the country, as he would do if he joined Barlow's Circus. He overtook a boy somewhat larger than himself, a stout, strong country boy, attired in a rough, coarse working suit. He was about to pass him, when the country boy called out, "Hallo, you!" "Were you speaking to me?" asked Kit, turning and looking back. "Yes. Didn't I see you riding into town with Aaron Bickford?" "Yes." "Are you going to work for him?" "That is what he expects," answered Kit diplomatically. He hesitated about confiding his plans to a stranger. "Then I pity you." "Why?" "I used to work for him." "Did you?" "Yes, I stood it as long as I could." "Then you didn't like it?" "I guess not." "What was the trouble?" "Everything. He's a stingy old hunks, to begin with. I went to work for a dollar a week and board. If the board had been decent, it would have been something, but I'd as soon board at the poorhouse." "I have taken dinner there," said Kit, smiling. "Did you like it?" "I have dined better. In fact I have seldom dined worse." "What did the old woman give you?" Kit enumerated the articles composing the bill of fare. "That's better than usual," said the new acquaintance. "I suppose the dollar a week is all right," said Kit. "Good enough if you can get it. It's about as easy to get blood out of a stone, as money out of old Bickford. Generally I had to wait ten days after the time before I could get the money." "How is the work?" "Hard, and plenty of it. It's work early and work late, and if there isn't work at the forge, you've got to help the old woman, by drawing water and doing chores. You don't live in Oakford, do you?" "No; I came from Smyrna." "I thought not. Bickford can't get a boy to work for him here. What made you come? Couldn't you get a place at home?" "I didn't try." "Well, you haven't done much in coming here." "I begin to think so," Kit responded, with a smile. "Hasn't the circus been in your town?" "Yes." "I wanted to go, but I guess I'll manage to see it in Grafton. It shows there to-morrow." "Are you going?" asked Kit with interest. "Yes; I shall walk. I'll start early and spend the day there." "We may meet there." "You don't expect to go, do you? Bickford won't let you off." Kit smiled. "I don't think Mr. Bickford will have much to say about it," he said. "Are you going to hook jack?" asked his new acquaintance. "I didn't mean to tell you, but I will. I have made up my mind not to work for Mr. Bickford at all." "Then why did you come here?" "Because my uncle saw fit to arrange with him." "What are you going to do, then?" "I am offered work with the circus." "You are!" exclaimed the country boy, opening wide his eyes in astonishment. "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to be an acrobat." "What's that?" Kit explained as well as he could. "What are they going to pay you?" "Ten dollars a week and my expenses," answered Kit, proudly. "Jehu!" ejaculated the other boy. "Why, that's good wages for a man. Do you think they'd hire me, too?" "If you think you can do what they require, you can ask them." "Why can't I do it as well as you?" "Because I have been practicing for a long time at a gymnasium. What is your name?" "Bill Morris." "Then, Bill, don't say a word to any one about my plans. Suppose we go to Grafton together?" "All right!" Before the boys parted they made an agreement to meet at five o'clock the next morning, to set out on their walk to Grafton. CHAPTER X. KIT'S FIRST NIGHT AT THE BLACKSMITH'S. At nine o'clock the blacksmith, giving a deep yawn, said: "You'd better be getting to bed, young feller. You'll have to be up bright and airly in the morning." Kit was already feeling sleepy, and made no objection. Though it was yet early, he had found it hard work to get through the evening, as he could find nothing to read except a weekly paper, three months old, and a copy of "Pilgrim's Progress." In truth, neither Mr. Bickford nor his wife were of a literary turn, and did not even manage to keep up with the news of the day. "I am ready," said Kit. "Mother, show him to his room," added the blacksmith. "To-morrow I'll give him a lesson at the forge." "Perhaps you will," said Kit to himself, "but I think it doubtful." Kit's room was a small back one on the second floor. The front apartment was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Bickford, and there was one of the same size which was used as a spare chamber. Kit's room was supplied with a cot bed, and was furnished in the plainest manner. One thing he missed. He saw no washstand. "Where am I to wash in the morning?" he asked. "You can wash in the tin basin in the kitchen," answered Mrs. Bickford. "There's a bar of soap down there and a roller towel, so I guess you won't have to go dirty." Kit shuddered at the suggestion. He had seen bars of yellow soap in the grocery at home, and didn't think he should enjoy its use. Nor did he fancy using the same towel with the blacksmith and his wife. He had seen the roller towel hanging beside the sink, and judged from its appearance that it had already been used nearly a week. "I have been accustomed to wash in my own room," he ventured to say. "You've been used to a great many things that you won't find here," replied Mrs. Bickford, grimly. Kit thought it extremely likely. "If you can't do as the rest of us do, you can get along without washing," continued the lady. "I will try and manage," answered Kit, bearing in mind that he expected to leave the Bickford mansion forever the next morning. "That new boy of yours is kind of uppish," remarked Mrs. Bickford, when she returned to the sitting room. "What's the matter now?" "He wants to wash in his own room. He's too fine a gentleman to wash in the kitchen." "What did you tell him?" Mrs. Bickford repeated her remark. "Good for you, mother! We'll take down his pride a little." "Is he goin' to work in them fine clo'es he brought with him?" "He didn't bring any others." "He'll spile 'em, and not have anything to wear to meetin'." "Haven't we got a pair of overalls in the house--one that the last boy used?" "Yes; I'll get 'em right away." "They'll be good for him to wear." Before Kit got into bed, the door of his chamber was unceremoniously opened, and Mrs. Bickford walked in, carrying a faded pair of overalls. "You can put these on in the mornin'," she said. "They'll keep your clo'es clean. They may be a mite long for you, but you can turn up the legs at the bottom." She left the room without waiting for an answer. Kit surveyed the overalls with amusement. "I wonder how I should look in them," he said to himself. He drew them over his trousers, and regarded his figure as well as he could in the little seven by nine glass that hung on the wall. "There is Kit, the young blacksmith!" he said with a smile. "On the whole, I don't think it improves my appearance. I'll take them off, and leave them for the next boy." "What did the boy say, mother?" asked Mr. Bickford, upon his wife's return. "He just took 'em; he didn't say anything." "I s'pose he's never worn overalls before," said the blacksmith. "What do you think he told me on the way over?" "I don't know." "He said he wasn't goin' to work for me at all. He didn't like the blacksmith's trade." "Well, of all things!" "I just told him he hadn't no choice in the matter, that me and his uncle had arranged matters, and that I should hold him to the contract." "I'm afraid he'll be dainty about his vittles. He didn't eat much dinner." "Wait till he gets to work, mother. I guess he'll have appetite enough. I mean he shall earn his board, at any rate." "I hope we won't have no trouble with him, Aaron." "You needn't be afraid, mother." "Somehow, Aaron, you never did manage to keep boys very long," said Mrs. Bickford, dubiously. "Because their folks were weak, and allowed 'em to have their own way. It'll be different with this boy." "What makes you think so?" "Because his uncle is anxious to get rid of him. He told me the boy, till lately, had imagined he was goin' to have property. He's supported him out of charity, dressin' him like a gentleman, sendin' him to school, and spendin' a pile of money on him. Now he thinks it about time to quit, and have the boy learn a trade. Of course the boy'll complain, and try to beg off, but it won't be no use. Stephen Watson won't make no account of what he says. He keeps a horse himself, and has promised to have him shod at my shop." "Well, it may be for the best; I hope so." Aaron Bickford felt a good deal of confidence in himself. He understood very well that Kit was averse to working in his shop, but he meant to make him do it. "I'd like to see the boy I can't master," he said to himself, complacently. "Years hence, when the boy has a forge of his own, he'll thank me for perseverin' with him. There's money to be made in the business. Why, when I began I wasn't worth a hundred dollars, and I owed for my anvil. Now I own this house and shop, and I've got a tidy sum in the bank." This was true. But it must be added that the result was largely due to the pinching economy which both he and his wife had practiced. When Mr. Bickford woke up the next morning it was half-past five o'clock. "Strange how I came to oversleep," he said. "I guess I must have been more tuckered out than I supposed. Well, the boy's had a longer nap than I meant he should. However, it's only for one mornin'." Mr. Bickford did not linger over his toilet. Five minutes was rather an overstatement of the time. He went to Kit's chamber, and, opening the door, went in as unceremoniously as his wife had done the night before. A surprise awaited him. There was no one in the bed. "What! has the boy got up a'ready?" he asked himself, in a bewildered way. "He's better at gettin' up than I expected." Looking about him, he discovered on a chair by the bedside the overalls, and upon them a note and a silver dollar. "What's all that mean?" he asked himself. Looking closer he saw that the note was directed to him. Beginning to suspect that something was wrong, he opened it. This was what the note contained: MR. BICKFORD--I leave you a dollar to pay for my food and lodging. I do not care to become a blacksmith. Good by. KIT WATSON. "I'll have him back!" exclaimed Aaron Bickford, an angry look appearing on his face. "He ain't goin' to get the best of me." Mr. Bickford harnessed up his horse, and started after the fugitive. But in what direction should he drive? He was not long at fault. He met a milkman who had seen two boys starting out on the Grafton road, and so informed him. "I guess they're bound for the circus," he said. "Like as not," returned the blacksmith. But he had a long chase of it. It was not until he was within half a mile of the circus tents that he descried the two boys, trudging along, Kit with his valise in his hand. Hearing the sound of wheels, the boys looked back, and in some dismay recognized their pursuer. The blacksmith stood up in his wagon, and pointing his long whip at Kit, cried out, "Stop where you are, Kit Watson, or I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had!" CHAPTER XI. KIT FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. If Aaron Bickford expected to frighten Kit by his threat, he was destined to find himself badly mistaken. Kit was startled at first, not having anticipated that the blacksmith would get upon his track so soon. But he was a boy of spirit, and had no thought of surrender. Mr. Bickford halted his horse, and Kit faced him. "Didn't you find my note?" he asked. "Yes, I did." "Then you know that I don't care to work for you." "What's that got to do with it? Your uncle and me have settled that you shall." "Then you'll have to unsettle it. I have a right to choose my own occupation, and I don't intend to become a blacksmith. Even if I did, I should choose some one else as my teacher." "None of your impudence, young man! You'll have a long account to settle with me, I warn you of that." "I had but one account to settle--for my board and lodging--and I've attended to that. Good morning, Mr. Bickford." Kit turned and began to continue his journey. "Hallo! Stop, I tell you!" shouted the blacksmith. "Have you got any more to say? If so, I'll listen." "What more I have to say, I shall say with a horsewhip!" retorted Bickford, grimly, preparing to descend from his wagon. "Come, William, we must run for it," said Kit. "Are you good at running?" "Try me!" was the laconic reply. By the time Aaron Bickford was out of his wagon, the boys had increased the distance between them by several rods. "Oho, so that's your game, is it?" said the blacksmith. "If I don't overhaul them, my name isn't Aaron Bickford." Kit was a good runner--quite as good as his pursuer--but he had one serious disadvantage. His valise was heavy, and materially affected his speed. He had carried it several miles, and though he had shifted it from one hand to the other, both arms were now tired. "Let me take it, Kit," said his companion, who was now on intimate terms with him. "It'll be just as heavy for you as for me." "Never mind! He isn't after me." "Well, if you don't mind carrying it a little while." The advantage of the change was soon apparent. Kit increased his speed, and William, whose arms were not tired, was not materially retarded by his burden. "If I had no valise I would climb a tree," said Kit, while running. "I don't believe Mr. Bickford is good at climbing." "We haven't got far to go to reach the circus tents," returned William. But though the boys held out well, Aaron Bickford gradually gained upon them. Many years at the anvil had given him plenty of wind and endurance. Besides, he was entirely fresh, not having taken a long walk already, as the boys had done. "You'd better give up!" he cried out, in the tone of one who was sure of victory. "It takes more than a boy like you to get the best of Aaron Bickford." It did indeed seem as if the boys must surrender. Within a few rods Bickford would be even with them. Kit came to a sudden determination. "Jump over the fence!" he cried. There was a rail fence skirting one side of the road. No sooner said than done. Both boys clambered over the fence, and with that barrier between them faced the angry blacksmith. "Well, I've got you!" he cried, panting. "Have you? I don't see it," answered Kit. "You might as well give up fust as last." "Suppose we discuss matters a little, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, calmly. "What right have you to pursue me?" "What right? Your uncle's given me the charge of you." "That is something he had no right to do." "Why not? Ain't he your guardian?" "No." "Who is, then?" "I have no guardian but myself." "That's a likely story. I can't listen to no such foolish talk." Aaron Bickford felt that it was time to move upon the enemy's entrenchments, and, putting one leg on the lower rail, he proceeded to climb over the fence. But the boys had anticipated this move, and were prepared for it. By the time the blacksmith was inside the field, the boys, who were considerably lighter and more active, had crossed to the reverse side. "Here we are again, Mr. Bickford," said William Morris. The blacksmith frowned. "Don't you be impudent, Bill Morris," he said. "I haven't anything to do with you, but I sha'n't let you sass me." "What have I said that's out of the way?" asked William. "Oh, you're mighty innocent, you are! You're aidin' and abettin' Kit Watson to escape from me, his lawful master." "I have no master, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, proudly. "Well, that's what they used to call 'em when I was a boy. Boys weren't so pert and impudent in them days." Meanwhile the blacksmith was recrossing the fence. Kit and William took the opportunity to run, and by the time Mr. Bickford was again on the roadside they were several rods away. This naturally exasperated the blacksmith, who felt mortified at his failure to overtake the youngsters. A new idea occurred to him. "You, Bill, do you want to earn a dime?" he asked. "How?" inquired William. "Just help me catch that boy Kit, and I'll give you ten cents." "I don't care to earn money that way, Mr. Bickford," responded William, scornfully. "Good for you, William!" exclaimed Kit. "You won't earn ten cents any easier," persisted Bickford. "I wouldn't do such a mean thing for a dollar, nor five dollars," replied William. "Kit's a friend of mine, and I'm going to stand by him." The blacksmith was made angry by this persistent refusal. Then again he was faint and uncomfortable from having missed his breakfast, which seemed likely to be indefinitely postponed. "I'll lick you, Bill Morris, as well as Kit, when I catch you," he said. "Probably you will--when you catch me!" retorted William, in an aggravating tone. "Run faster, Kit." The boys ran, but again they were impeded by the heavy valise, and slowly but surely the blacksmith was gaining upon them. Kit, who was again carrying the burden, began to show signs of distress, and dropped behind his companion. "I can't hold out much longer, Bill," he said, puffing laboriously. Aaron Bickford heard these words, and they impelled him to extra exertion. At last he caught up and grasped Kit by the collar. "I've got ye at last!" he cried, triumphantly. CHAPTER XII. MR. BICKFORD'S DEFEAT. Aaron Bickford was a strong man. By his work at the forge he had strengthened his muscles till they were like iron. So was Kit a strong boy, but it would be absurd to represent him as a match for the sturdy blacksmith. "I've got ye at last!" repeated Bickford tightening his grasp of Kit's coat collar. "Let go my collar!" cried Kit, not struggling, for he knew that it would be useless. "I'll let go your collar when I've got ye in the wagon," answered the blacksmith, "and not till then. You, Bill, bring along his valise. I'll take ye home in the wagon, though it would be only right if I let ye walk." "Mr. Bickford," said Kit, "you have no right to touch me. You have no authority over me." "I ain't, hey? Well, we'll argy that matter when we get home." And he commenced dragging Kit in the direction of the wagon. It certainly seemed as if Kit's plans were destined, if not for defeat, to postponement. Unconditional surrender was his only choice against the superior strength of Aaron Bickford. It was certainly very vexatious. But help was nearer than he anticipated. They were now within sight of the circus tents, and Kit, to his joy, descried the giant, Achilles Henderson, taking a morning walk, and already within hearing distance. "Mr. Henderson!" he called out, eagerly. "Who is that you're calling?" asked the blacksmith sharply. Achilles heard, and instantly recognized the boy who had talked with him at Smyrna. It took but a few strides to bring him to the spot where Kit was held in captivity. "What does this mean?" he asked. "This man is dragging me away without authority," answered Kit. "Who is he?" asked the giant. "He is a blacksmith, and claims me as an apprentice, but I never agreed to work for him." "That's a lie," said the blacksmith, "he's my runaway apprentice." "I would believe the boy sooner than you," said Achilles, not favorably impressed by the blacksmith's bull dog look. "It doesn't make any difference what you believe," said Bickford, rudely; and he began to pull Kit in the direction of the wagon. "Let go that boy's collar," cried Achilles, sternly. "I won't!" retorted the blacksmith. "I advise you to mind your own business." Achilles Henderson, like most big men, was good natured, but he was roused by the other's insolence. He carried war into the enemy's camp by seizing the blacksmith and shaking him till he was compelled to release his grasp. "What do you mean by this outrage?" demanded Bickford, furiously. "It's only a gentle hint," said Achilles, smiling. "Now, my friend, I've got a piece of advice to give you. If that is your wagon back there you'd better get into it as soon as convenient--the sooner the better--and get out of my way or I'll give you a stronger hint." The blacksmith was too indignant to be prudent. What! Confess himself vanquished, and go home without the boy! The idea was intolerable to him. "I'm goin' to take the boy," he said, angrily, and darting forward he essayed to seize Kit by the collar again. "Oho! You need a stronger hint," said Achilles. With this he grasped the blacksmith about the middle, and tossed him over the fence into the adjoining field as easily as if he were a cat. Aaron Bickford did not know what had happened to him. He lay motionless for a few seconds, and then picked himself up with some difficulty, and confronted the giant with mingled fear and anger. "I'll have the law of ye for this," he shouted. Achilles laughed. "It's as you like," he said. "I've got my witnesses here," pointing to the two boys. Mr. Bickford got over the fence, and sullenly turned in the direction of his deserted wagon. "You'll hear from me again, all of you!" he shouted, shaking his fist. "Don't trouble yourself to write," said the giant, jocosely. "We can worry along without a letter." The blacksmith was too full of wrath for utterance. He kept on his way, muttering to himself, and shaking his fist at intervals. "Now what's all this about?" asked Achilles. "What's the matter with our amiable friend?" Kit explained. "So you don't want to be a blacksmith? Where are you going, if I may inquire?" "I'm going to join the circus," answered Kit. "In what capacity--as a lion tamer?" "No; I shouldn't fancy that business. I am to be an acrobat." "An acrobat! But are you qualified?" asked Achilles, somewhat surprised. He had not heard of Kit's practice with the Vincenti brothers on the day of his first visit to the circus. "I am pretty well qualified already," answered Kit, "I saw Mr. Barlow yesterday morning, and he promised me an engagement at ten dollars a week." "Good!" said Achilles, heartily. "I am pleased to hear it. I took a liking to you the other day, and I'm glad you're going to join us. But do you think it wise to choose such a life?" "You have chosen it," said Kit. "Yes; but what could I do--a man of my size? I must earn more than a common man. My board and clothes both cost more. What do you think I paid for this suit I have on?" "I couldn't tell, sir." "Sixty dollars. The tailor only charges thirty dollars to a man of ordinary size, but I am so absurdly large that I have to pay double price." "Why don't you buy your suits ready made?" asked Kit, smiling. Achilles laughed heartily at the idea. "Show me a place where I can get ready made clothes to fit me," he answered, "and I will gladly accept your suggestion." "That may be a little difficult, I admit." "Why, you have no idea how inconvenient I find it to be so large. I can't find a bed to suit me in any hotel. If I go to the theater I can't crowd myself into an ordinary seat. I have to have all kinds of clothing, inside and outside, made to order. My hats and shoes must also be made expressly for me." "I suppose you get very well paid," suggested Kit. "Seventy-five dollars a week sounds pretty large, and would be if my expenses were not so great. You wouldn't be a giant for that money, would you?" "I am not so ambitious," replied Kit, smiling. "But there was a moment when I wished myself of your size." "When was that?" "When the blacksmith grasped me by the collar." "You don't have to work very hard," said William Morris. "My boy, it is pretty hard work to be stared at by a crowd of people. I get tired of it often, but I see no other way of making a living." "You would make a pretty good blacksmith." "I couldn't earn more than a man of average strength, and that wouldn't be enough, as I have explained." "Were your parents very tall?" asked Kit. "My father was six feet in height, but my mother was a small woman. I don't know what put it into me to grow so big. But here we are at the lot. Will you come in?" "When can I see Mr. Barlow?" asked Kit, anxiously. "He is at the hotel. He won't be round till half-past nine. Have you two boys had breakfast?" "No," answered Kit; "I'm nearly famished." "Come round to the circus tent. You are to be one of us, and will board there. I guess we can provide for your friend, too." Never was invitation more gladly accepted. Both Kit and William felt as if they had not broken their fast for a week. CHAPTER XIII. BREAKFAST IN THE CIRCUS TENT. Achilles entered the circus inclosure--the "lot," as it is generally called,--and made his way to a small tent situated not far from the one devoted to the performances. An attendant was carrying in a plate of hot steak and potatoes from the cook tent near by. "Is breakfast ready?" asked Achilles. "Yes; any time you want it." "Is anybody inside?" "Only Mademoiselle Louise." "Well, I want three breakfasts--for myself and my two young friends here." "I didn't know you had sons," said Mike, the attendant, regarding Kit and William with some curiosity. "I haven't. One of these young men is an acrobat, who will be one of us. The other is his friend. Bring along the grub as quick as possible--we are all hungry." "All right, sir." Running the length of the tent, which was about twenty feet by ten, was a long table surrounded by benches. The giant took his seat and placed the boys one on each side of him. Just opposite sat a woman of twenty-five or thereabouts, who was already eating breakfast. "Good morning, Mlle. Louise," said the giant. "Good morning, Mr. Henderson," responded the lady. "Who are your young companions?" "I don't know their names, but this one," placing his hand on Kit's shoulder, "has been engaged by Mr. Barlow as an acrobat." "Indeed! He looks young." "I am sixteen," volunteered Kit. "What circus have you traveled with before this season?" asked Mlle. Louise. "I have never traveled with any, madam." "But you are an acrobat?" "I have had my practice in a gymnasium." "How came Mr. Barlow to engage you?" "At Smyrna I practiced a little with the Vincenti brothers." "At Smyrna? Why, that's where the lion dashed into the arena!" "Yes." "Do you know the boy who had the courage to face him?" Kit blushed. "I am the boy," he said. "You don't mean it!" exclaimed the lady, vivaciously. "Why, you're a hero. I must shake hands with you," and she reached across the table and gave Kit a hearty grasp of the hand. "Is that so?" interposed Achilles. "Why, I didn't know you were the boy. I was not present at the time, and only heard of it afterwards. Mlle. Louise is right. You are a brave fellow." "I am much obliged to you both for your favorable opinion," said Kit modestly, "but I didn't realize my danger till afterwards." "Oh, heavens! I can see him now--that wicked beast!" exclaimed the lady. "I was nearly scared out of my senses. As for poor Dupont, he was nearer death than I ever want to be till my time comes." "Was Dupont the clown?" asked Kit. "Yes. The lion held him down, with his foot upon the poor clown's back, and but for your brave act he would have torn the poor fellow to pieces. Mr. Henderson, you missed the most thrilling act of the evening." "So I begin to think. By the way, boys, I ought to have introduced this lady. She is the famous aerial artist, whom you saw the other evening in her wonderful feats upon the trapeze." "Yes," said Mlle. Louise, complacently, "I think I have a pretty good act. I get plenty of applause, eh, Mr. Henderson?" "That's true. I think I should leave the circus if I had to appear in your act. I never could summon up courage." The lady laughed. "Monsieur Achilles," she said, "I wouldn't advise you to emulate me. I don't believe you could find a rope strong enough to support you, and if you should fall, I pity the audience." "You have convinced me. I shall give up all thoughts of it," said the giant, with mock gravity. "It would suit better our young friend here, who is an acrobat." "Did you ever practice on a trapeze?" asked Mlle. Louise, turning to Kit. "Yes, often," answered Kit, "but never at a great height." "Would it frighten you to find yourself so high up in the air?" "I don't think so; I have a cool head." "You must practice. I will give you a few hints myself. If you are cool and courageous, as I judge you will soon learn. By the way, what is your name?" "Kit Watson." "It'll be something else when you begin work." "Do all performers have assumed names?" "Generally. Here I am Mademoiselle Louise Lefroy, but it isn't a bit like my real name." Before this the boys had been served with breakfast. The steak was rather tough, and the coffee not of the best quality, but Kit and William thoroughly enjoyed it, and thought it about the best breakfast they had ever eaten. Mlle. Louise continued to converse with them, and was very gracious. "Are you too an acrobat?" she asked William. William became so confused that he swallowed some coffee the wrong way, and came near choking. "No, ma'am," he answered bashfully, "but I'd like to go round with the show." "You'll be better off at home if you've got one," said the giant. "You are not a performer; you are too small for a property man, and not strong enough for a razorback." "What's a razorback?" asked William, in amazement. Achilles smiled. "It's a boy or man who helps load and unload the circus cars," he answered. "It is heavy work, and you would be thrown among a low lot of people--canvasmen, and such. Our young friend here, on the other hand, will have a good sleeping berth, eat at the first table, and be well provided for generally." William looked disappointed. He had never thought particularly about traveling with a circus till now, but his meeting with Kit had given him a circus fever. At ten o'clock Mr. Barlow came to the grounds, and Achilles volunteered to go with Kit to speak with him about his engagement. CHAPTER XIV. SOME CIRCUS PEOPLE. Mr. Barlow recognized Kit instantly. "So you have kept your promise, my young friend," he said. "Well, have you come to join us?" "Yes, sir, if your offer holds good." "My offers always hold good; I never go back on my word." Kit was glad to hear this, for he would have been placed in an embarrassing position if, like some men, Mr. Barlow had forgotten an offer made on the impulse of the moment. "Have you any directions to give, sir?" "You may report to my manager, Mr. Bryant. First, however, it may be well for you to see the Vincenti brothers, and arrange for a joint act." "When do you wish me to appear, sir?" "Whenever you are ready. You may take a week to rehearse, if necessary. Your pay will commence at once." "Thank you, Mr. Barlow; you are very kind and considerate." Mr. Barlow smiled, and, waving his hand, passed on. He was very popular with all who were in his employ, and had a high reputation for kindness and strict integrity. "I'd like to work for him," said William Morris, who had listened to the conversation between Kit and the circus proprietor. "I should like to have you along with me," replied Kit, "but from what Mr. Henderson says there is no good opening." It was not till eleven o'clock that Kit met his future partners, the Vincenti brothers. "Good!" said Alonzo, in a tone of satisfaction. "We must get up a joint act. I suppose you haven't got a suit of tights?" "No. I never expected to need one." "I have an extra one which I think will fit you. Though I am ten years older than you we are about the same size." Kit had occasion to remark that circus performers are short as a rule. Many of them do not exceed five feet four inches in height, but generally they are compactly built, with well developed muscles, and possess unusual strength and agility. The circus suit was brought out. It proved to be an excellent fit. William Morris eyed Kit with admiration. "You look like a regular circus chap, Kit!" he exclaimed. "I wish I was in your shoes." "Wait till you see whether I am a success, William," replied Kit. "Now, if you are ready, we will have a little practice," said Alonzo Vincenti. "May I look on?" asked William. "Oh, yes; we don't generally admit spectators, but you are a friend of the boy." They all entered the tent, and for an hour Kit was kept hard at work. In the act devised by the Vincenti brothers, he stood on the shoulders of the second, who in his turn stood on the shoulders of the first. Various changes were gone through, in all of which Kit proved himself an adept, and won high compliments from his new associates. "Can you tumble?" asked Antonio. Kit smiled. "I was afraid I should when I first got on your shoulders," he answered. "That was what I meant,--something like this," and he whirled across the arena, rolling over and over on hands and feet in the manner of a cart wheel. Kit imitated Antonio rather slowly and awkwardly at first, but rapidly showed improvement. "You'll soon learn," said Antonio. "Now let me show you something else." This something else was a succession of somersaults, made in the most rapid manner. Kit tried this also, slowly at first, as before, but proving a rapid learner. "In the course of three or four days you will be able to do it in public," said Alonzo. "When do you advise me to make my first appearance?" asked Kit. "To-night, in our first act." "But shall I be ready?" "You'll do. We may as well make a beginning." "I wish I could see you, Kit," said William. "Can't you?" "I was going to the afternoon performance. It would make me too late home if I stayed in the evening." "Won't there be some people over from Oakford that you can ride back with?" "I didn't think of that. Yes, John Woods told me that his father was coming, and would bring him along. I could ride home with them." "Good! then you'd better stay." "Perhaps I'd better go over and buy a ticket." But to William's satisfaction he was given free admission as a friend of Kit. Not only that, but he was invited to take dinner and supper at the circus table. In fact, he was treated with distinguished consideration. "Kit," he said, "I was in luck to meet you." "And it was lucky for me that I met you. I shouldn't like to have met Aaron Bickford single handed." "I wish old Bickford would come to the circus to-night. Wouldn't he be surprised to see you performing in tights?" "I think it would rather take him by surprise," said Kit, smiling. Kit and William occupied seats at the afternoon performance as spectators, it having been arranged that Kit's _début_ should be made in the evening. Our hero regarded the different acts with unusual interest, and his heart beat a little quicker when he heard the applause elicited by the performances of the Vincenti brothers, for he had already begun to consider himself one of them. When the performance was over, and the audience was dispersing, Kit felt a hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned and his glance rested upon a man of about forty, with a grave, serious expression. He was puzzled, for it was not a face that he remembered to have ever seen before. "You don't know me?" said the stranger. "No, sir." "And yet you have done me a very great service." "I didn't know it, sir." "The greatest service that any one person can do to another--you have saved my life." Then a light dawned upon Kit's mind, and he remembered what Achilles Henderson had said to him in the morning. "Is your name Dupont?" he asked. "Yes; I am Joe Dupont, the clown, whom you saved from a horrible death. I tell you, when Nero stood there in the ring with his paw on my breast I gave myself up for lost. I expected to be torn to pieces. It was an awful moment!" and the clown shuddered at the picture which his imagination conjured up. "Yes, sir; I wouldn't see such another moment for all the money Barlow is worth. I wonder my hair didn't turn white." "Excuse me, Mr. Dupont, but I find it hard to think you are Joe Dupont, the clown," said Kit. "Why?" "Because you look so grave and sedate." Joe Dupont smiled. "I only make a fool of myself in the ring," he said. "Outside you might take me for a merchant or minister. Indeed, I am a minister's son." "You a minister's son!" ejaculated Kit. "Yes; you wouldn't think it, would you? I was rather a wild lad, as minister's sons often are. My poor father tried hard to give me an education, but my mind wasn't on books or school exercises, and at sixteen I cut and run." "Did you join a circus then?" "Not at once. I tried hard to earn my living in different ways. Finally I struck a circus, and got an engagement as a razorback. When I got older I began to notice and imitate the clowns, and finally I made up my mind to become one myself." "Do you like the business?" "I have to like it. No; I am disgusted with myself often and often. You can judge from one thing. I have a little daughter, Katy, now eight years of age. She has never seen me in the ring and never will. I could never hold up my head in her presence if she had once seen me playing the fool before an audience." All this surprised Kit. He had been disposed to think that what clowns were before the public they were in private life also. Now he saw his mistake. "You contribute to the public amusement, Mr. Dupont," said Kit. "True; but what sort of a life record is it? Suppose in after years Katy is asked, 'Who was your father?' and is obliged to answer, 'Joe Dupont, the clown.' But I ought not to grumble. But for you I should have died a terrible death, and Katy would be fatherless, so I have much to be thankful for after all." Kit listened to the clown not without surprise. He could hardly realize that this was the comical man whose grotesque actions and sayings had convulsed the spectators only an hour before. When he came to think of it, he felt that he would rather be an acrobat than a clown. CHAPTER XV. MR. BICKFORD GOES TO THE CIRCUS. When Aaron Bickford, balked of his prey, was compelled to get into his wagon and start for home, he felt uncommonly cross. To begin with, he was half famished, having harnessed up and set out on what turned out to be a wild goose chase without breaking his fast. Yet he could have borne this with comparative equanimity if he had effected the purpose which he had in view--the capture of his expected apprentice. But he had been signally defeated. Indeed he had been humiliated in presence of Kit and William Morris, by being unceremoniously picked up and tossed over the fence. As William was an Oakford boy, he foresaw that his discomfiture would soon be known to all his fellow townsmen, and that public ridicule would be his portion. There seemed no way to avoid this, unless by begging William to keep silent, and this he could not bring himself to do, even if the request was likely to be granted. "Where's the boy?" asked his wife, as, after unharnessing his horse, he went into the house. "I don't know where he is," answered Bickford, in a surly tone. "Didn't you find him?" "Yes, I found him." "Wouldn't he come back?" "He didn't." "I'd have made him if I were you." "Perhaps you would, and then perhaps you wouldn't. Perhaps you couldn't." "You don't mean to say, Aaron Bickford, that you let a whippersnapper like that defy you?" "What could I do against a man eight feet high?" "Goodness, Mr. Bickford, have you been drinking?" ejaculated his wife. "No, I haven't been drinking." "Do you mean to tell me that boy is eight feet high?" "No, I don't mean to tell you the boy is eight feet high. But I won't answer any more foolish questions till you give me something to eat. I am fairly faint with hunger." "Sit down, then, and I hope after you've gratified your appetite you'll be a little less mysterious." Mrs. Bickford was privately of opinion that her husband had stopped at some drinking place--otherwise why should he prate of men eight feet tall? Aaron Bickford ate almost ravenously, though the food set before him was not calculated to gratify the taste of an epicure. But all things are acceptable to an empty stomach. When he seemed to be satisfied, his wife began anew. "Who is it that is eight feet high?" she asked. "The giant at the circus." "What did you have to do with him?" "Not much, but he had something to do with me," answered Bickford, grimly. "How is that?" "I overhauled the boy, and was dragging him back to the wagon, when this fellow hove in sight. It seems he knew the young rascal, and took his part. He seized me as easily as you would take up a cat, and flung me over the fence." "I wish I'd been there!" exclaimed Mrs. Bickford, angrily. "What could you have done. You would have been flung over too," said her husband, contemptuously. "I would have got a good grip of his hair, and I guess that would have made him let go." "You'd have to stand on a ladder, then." "So the boy got away?" "Of course he did." "And where did he go?" "I expect he went to the circus along with William Morris." "Was that boy with him?" "Yes." "They were pretty well matched. What can they do at the circus?" "I don't know. Perhaps their long-legged friend will give them a ticket to the show." "Aaron, suppose we go to the circus?" "What for?" "You may get hold of the boy, and bring him back. The giant won't be with him all the time." "I'd like to get the boy back," said Bickford, in a wavering tone. "I'd give him a lesson." "And so would I. I guess between us we could subdue him. But of course he must be got back first." "I'll think of it, Sarah." Later in the day Mr. Bickford told his wife he would go to the circus, but he tried to evade taking her in order to save the expense of another ticket. To this, however, she would not agree. The upshot was, that after supper the old horse was harnessed up, and the amiable pair, bent on vengeance, started for Grafton. CHAPTER XVI. MR. BICKFORD AT THE CIRCUS. Mr. Bickford's chief object in going to the circus was to regain possession of Kit, his runaway apprentice, as he chose to consider him. But, besides this, he really had a curiosity to see the show, and thought this would afford him a good excuse for doing so. The same remark will apply to Mrs. Bickford, whose curiosity had been excited the year previous by seeing a circus procession. The blacksmith and his wife were not prejudiced against amusements, like many others, but were too frugal to attend them. Now that they could combine business with pleasure, they threw to the winds all hesitation. "Do you think you'll get the boy, father?" asked Mrs. Bickford, as they jolted over the road to Grafton. "I'll make a try for it, Sarah. He's a good strong boy, and he'll make a capital blacksmith. Did you notice his broad shoulders?" "He looks like he'd have a hearty appetite," said the careful spouse. "We won't pamper him, Sarah," replied Bickford, smiling grimly. "He won't get no such victuals as he did at home. Plain food and plenty of it, that's the way to bring up boys." "Perhaps he won't be at the circus," suggested Mrs. Bickford. "I'd be surprised if he wasn't. Boys have a natural hankering for the circus. I had when I was a boy." "Did you ever go, Aaron?" "No; I didn't have the money." "Do you know how much they charge?" "Fifty cents, I believe." "It's an awful sight of money to pay for amusement. If it lasts two hours, that makes twenty-five cents an hour." "So it does, Sarah. That's as much as I can earn by hard work in that time." "I don't know as it's right to fling away so much money." "I wouldn't do it if it wasn't for gettin' the boy back. He'll be worth a good deal to me if I do. He's a good deal stronger than Bill Morris." "Of course that makes a difference. I don't care so much for the circus, though I should like to see the man stand up on a horse and jump through hoops. I wonder if the horse jumps through too." "I don't know, but we'll soon know all that is to be known. The boy won't expect to see us, I reckon," concluded the blacksmith, with a chuckle. At length they reached the circus grounds. All was bustle and excitement in the neighborhood of the lot. "I declare, Aaron, it looks like Fourth of July," said Mrs. Bickford. "So it does. It beats all--what a crowd there is." They bought tickets and entered the inclosure. In a small tent near the entrance were the curiosities. They were about to walk in when a young man curtly asked for tickets. "We bought tickets at the gate. Here they are." "All right; but you need separate tickets here." "I declare that's a swindle," said Mrs. Bickford. "I thought we could see the whole show on these." "We only charge ten cents extra for this." "It's a shame. Shall we go in, Aaron?" "I guess we will. I want to see that 'ere fat woman." "I'd like to see the dwarf and the woman with hair five feet long. A circus is dreadful expensive, but bein' as we're here we might as well see the whole thing." Twenty cents was paid at the door, and the economical pair, grown suddenly so extravagant, walked in. The first object on which the blacksmith's eyes rested kindled him with indignation, and recalled mortifying memories. It was Achilles Henderson, the giant, who, on his side recognized Aaron Bickford. "Good evening, my friend," he said, with a smile. "I believe we have met before." "Do you know him?" asked Mrs. Bickford, in surprise. Aaron's brow contracted as he answered: "It's the ruffian that threw me over the fence this morning." "I see you remember me," said Achilles, good-naturedly. "I ought to remember you," retorted the blacksmith. "Come, don't bear malice. It was only a little joke." "I don't like such jokes." "Well, well; I'll give you satisfaction. I'll let you throw me over the fence any time you want to, and I won't make a particle of resistance." Somehow this proposal did not strike the blacksmith as satisfactory. He asked abruptly: "Where's the boy?" "There were two boys." "I mean the stout, broad-shouldered boy." "I don't know just where he is at present." "Do you know why I've come here this evening?" "To see the show, I expect." "I've come to get that boy. I've no doubt he's somewhere about here." "Oho!" thought the giant; "I must put my young friend on his guard." "If you'll help me I'll do as much for you some time." "So you are going to carry him back with you?" went on Achilles, desirous of learning the extent of Kit's danger. "Yes, I am." "You say he is your apprentice?" "Of course he is." "And you've got the papers to show for it?" "I don't need no papers. I've got his uncle's consent." "I think, my friend, you're not familiar with the law," thought Achilles. "Kit won't go with you to-night." But it was nearly time for the performance. Mr. and Mrs. Bickford left the smaller tent, and entering the big one took their seats. They watched the performance with great wonder and enjoyment till the entrance of Kit and the Vincenti brothers. They did not immediately discover him, but when he stood on the shoulders of Alonzo Vincenti, who, in turn, stood on the shoulders of Antonio, and the three-storied acrobat walked round the ring, Mrs. Bickford recognized Kit, and, pointing with her parasol to the young acrobat, as she half raised herself from her seat, she exclaimed in a shrill voice: "Look, Aaron, there's your boy, all rigged out in circus clothes!" "Well, that beats all!" ejaculated the blacksmith, gazing with wide open mouth at Kit. Just then, Kit, reversing his attitude, raised his feet in the air and was borne round the ring, amid the plaudits of the spectators. "How do you think he does it?" asked Mrs. Bickford in astonishment. "I give it up," said the blacksmith. "He's a smart critter. Do you think they pay him?" "I reckon he gets two or three dollars a week, but he hain't no business to hire out to the circus folks. He's going back with us to-night, and I'll turn him out a blacksmith in two years." When Kit had finished his act, he went to the dressing room and changed his clothes. "I wonder whether the old fellow is after me!" he thought. "What could have put it into his head that I was here?" As he emerged from the dressing room he met Mr. Barlow, the proprietor of the circus, who advanced towards him, and shook his hand cordially. "Bravo, my young friend!" he said. "You did yourself great credit. Are you sure you have never performed in a circus before?" "Quite sure, sir." "You went through your act like an old professional. You did as well as either of the other two." "Thank you, sir. I am glad you are satisfied." "I ought to be. I regard you as a decided acquisition to my show. Keep on doing your best, and I can assure you that your efforts will be appreciated. How much did I agree to pay you?" "Ten dollars a week, sir." "That isn't enough. I raise your salary at once to twenty-five." Kit was dazzled by his good fortune. What! Twenty-five dollars a week and traveling expenses for a boy of sixteen! It seemed marvelous. "I am afraid I am dreaming, Mr. Barlow," he said. "I can't believe that I am really to receive so handsome a salary." "You will realize it to-night when you collect your first week's pay." "But this won't be a full week, sir." "Never mind! You shall receive full pay. Do you think I forget your heroic act at Smyrna?" "Thank you, sir. I hope nothing will prevent my continuing in your employ." "What should prevent?" asked Mr. Barlow, quickly. "Have you had an offer from another show?" "No, sir; I am not well known enough for that; but I saw a man in the audience who would probably like to get me away." "Who is it?" "A blacksmith from Oakford." "I don't understand. What have you to do with a blacksmith?" Kit explained briefly. "When do you think he will try to recover possession of you?" asked the circus proprietor. "Just after the show is over." "Has he any papers?" "Not one." "Then he has no claim on you. If he makes any trouble let me know." "I will, Mr. Barlow." CHAPTER XVII. KIT'S STRATAGEM. Kit, when dressed, sought the part of the house where he knew that William Morris was seated. "How did I do, Will?" he asked. "Splendidly!" answered the boy enthusiastically. "I felt proud of you." "I think I have a right to be satisfied myself. I have had my pay raised." "You don't mean to say you are to get more than ten dollars?" said his friend, opening his eyes in amazement. "I am raised to twenty-five." "You don't mean to say you are to get twenty-five dollars a week, Kit?" "Yes, I do." "And your board?" "And my board and traveling expenses," added Kit, with a smile. "I wish I were in your shoes, Kit," said William. "Think of me with only one dollar a week." "Would you be willing to go through my acts for the money I am going to receive?" William shook his head. "I couldn't do it, Kit," he replied. "It always makes me dizzy when I have my head down. I don't believe I could ever do anything in a circus." "Well, William, I won't forget you. If I save money, as I am sure to do, I'll see if I can't do something for you by and by. By the way, did you see Mr. and Mrs. Bickford?" "No, you don't mean to say they are here?" "Look over there!" William followed the direction of Kit's finger, and he easily discovered the blacksmith and his wife. "By gracious! You're right!" he said. "It's the first money I've known old Bickford to pay for any amusement for years." "They came after me, William." "You won't go back with them?" "Not much. I don't care to give up twenty-five dollars a week for the privilege of learning the trade of a blacksmith." "Suppose they try to carry you off?" "That gives me an idea. With your help I'll try to play a trick on them. It'll be capital fun." "Go ahead and tell me what it is, Kit. I'm with you!" "My plan is that you should ride home with Mr. Bickford," said Kit. "I don't understand," said William, looking puzzled. "I'll tell you my idea. Bickford has come here with the intention of taking me back with him to Oakford." "But you don't mean to go?" "Of course not, but when the show is over I shall put myself in his way, and after a little objection agree to go. I will ask for five minutes to get ready. In that time I will change hats with you, and as it is dark you can easily pass yourself off for me." "Capital!" exclaimed William, laughing. "Won't the old man look foolish when he finds out who is with him?" "Don't let him know till you arrive, or he would force you to leave the carriage, and walk home alone, and a six mile walk is no joke." "All right Kit! I understand, and I think I can carry out your idea. I haven't much love for the old man or his wife either, and I am glad of a chance to get even with them." The performance continued till ten o'clock. The blacksmith and his wife enjoyed it beyond their anticipations. Amusements of any kind were new to them, and their pleasure was like that of children. "I begin to think, Sarah, we shall get our money's worth," said Aaron cautiously, as the entertainment neared its end; "this is a great show." "So it is, Aaron. I don't begrudge the money myself, though fifty cents is a pretty high price to pay. Then, besides, you'll have a chance to carry the boy home." "That's so, Sarah. Just as soon as the show is over, foller me, and we'll try to find him." At length the last act was ended, and the crowd of spectators began pouring from the tent. Mr. Bickford hurriedly emerged from the audience, and began to look around for Kit. He had but little trouble in finding him, for the boy purposely put himself in his way. Aaron Bickford strode up to him. "Well, I've caught you at last!" he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "What do you want of me, Mr. Bickford?" said Kit. "What do I want of you? Well, I want you to go home with me, of course." "Won't you let me stay with the circus a week?" asked Kit, in a subdued tone. "No, I won't. I've got the wagon here, and I'm goin' to take you back with me to-night." "If you really think my uncle wishes it, perhaps I had better go," said Kit, in what appeared to be a wavering tone. Mr. Bickford was quite elated. He feared he should have trouble in persuading Kit to accompany him. He would not have been surprised if the boy had disappeared, and given him trouble to find him, and his unexpected submissiveness was an agreeable surprise. "Well, boy, it's time to be goin'. Oakford's six miles off, and we won't get home before midnight unless we start right off." "I'll go and get my things, Mr. Bickford. Where is your horse and wagon?" "Out by the entrance. It's hitched to a tree." "All right! You go and unhitch the horse, and I'll be right along." "But suppose you give me the slip? You'd better go along now." "I'll bring him with me, Mr. Bickford," said the giant. "I'm sorry he isn't going to stay with us, and I'll see him off." Achilles Henderson spoke in so straightforward a manner that Mr. Bickford was deceived. "Very well," he said. "I'll go along with Mrs. Bickford. Don't keep me waitin', for it's gettin' late." The blacksmith and his wife took up their march to the place where their team had been hitched. They found it safe, and untied the horse. "We're goin' to have a dark ride home, mother," he said. "Yes, Aaron, but you've done a good evening's work." "That's so, Sarah. I expected I'd have more trouble with the boy." "There's nothing like being firm, Aaron. When he saw you were in earnest, he gave up." "I mean to keep a tight rein on him, Sarah. He's a boy that likes to have his own way, if I ain't greatly mistaken. We must break his will." The horse was unhitched, and still Kit had not arrived. Mr. Bickford began to fear that he had been tricked after all, when two figures, contrasting strongly with each other, appeared. One was the giant, in his ample height, and the other was a boy. "There they are, Aaron!" said Mrs. Bickford, who was the first to descry the oddly assorted pair. "Where is the boy to sit?" asked Achilles. "In the back seat. Mother and I will sit in front." "All right! There you are!" said Mr. Henderson, lifting the boy in his arms, as easily as if he were a kitten, and putting him on the rear seat. "Good-by, Kit!" he said. "I'm sorry you're going to leave us. Perhaps Mr. Bickford will let you off if we show anywhere near here." "The boy will be at work, and can't be let off," said the blacksmith, stiffly. "But it is time we were off." "Good-by, then, Kit!" "Good-by!" said the supposed Kit, in a low tone, for he feared that the difference in his voice would be recognized. But Mr. Bickford had no suspicions. He was anxious to get started, for he and his wife were always in bed by this time ordinarily. So the team started, and Achilles Henderson, suppressing a laugh, strode away to the circus cars, which were already being prepared for a midnight journey to the next place. It may be explained here that the circus of to-day generally owns its own cars, which are used for the conveyance of all connected with it, their luggage, the tents, the animals, and all the paraphernalia of the show. As soon as the show is ended, the canvas men set to work to take down and fold up the tents. All the freight is conveyed to the cars, and the razorbacks, already referred to, set about loading them. The performers, ticketmen, and candy butchers seek their berths in the sleeping cars and are often in the land of dreams before the train starts. While Mr. Bickford was driving in the darkness to Oakford with the supposed Kit on the back seat, the real Kit was in his berth in the circus cars, preparing for a refreshing night's rest. CHAPTER XVIII. MR. BICKFORD'S MORTIFYING DISCOVERY. Mr. Bickford was in excellent spirits. He had enjoyed the evening, and although he had been compelled to disburse a dollar for two circus tickets, a sum which to him seemed large, he was disposed to acknowledge that he had received his money's worth. Besides, and this seemed to him the greatest triumph of all, he had recovered his runaway apprentice, or thought he had. He inwardly resolved that Kit should smart for his past insubordination, though he had not yet decided in what way he would get even with him. The unexpected submissiveness shown by Kit elated him, and confirmed him in the idea he had long entertained that he could manage boys a good deal better than the average of men. "Talk about hard cases," he said one day to his wife. "I'd like to see the boy that can get the start of Aaron Bickford. He'll have to get up unusually airly in the mornin'." Mr. Bickford felt a little like crowing over his captive, and turned his head partly round to survey the boy on the back seat. Fortunately for William the darkness was so great that there was small chance of his detecting the imposture. "I reckon you didn't expect to be ridin' back to Oakford along of me this evenin'," he observed. "No, sir," muttered William in a voice scarcely audible. "Ho, ho, you feel kind of grouty, eh?" said the blacksmith. "Well, I ain't much surprised. You thought you could have your own way with Aaron Bickford, but you're beginnin' to see your mistake, I reckon?" "Yes, sir," replied the supposed Kit, in a meek voice. "Ho, ho! That's the way boys ginerally come out when they try to buck agin' their elders. Not but you might have succeeded with some men, but you didn't know the man you had to deal with this time." There was a sort of gurgle, for William was trying hard not to laugh, as he was picturing to himself the rage and mortification of Mr. Bickford when he discovered the deceit that had been practiced upon him. But the blacksmith misunderstood the sound, and thought Kit was sobbing. "You needn't take on!" he said, magnanimously. "It ain't so bad as it might be. You'll be a good deal better off learnin' a good trade than trampin' round the country with the circus. I hope this'll be a lesson to you. You'd better not try to run away ag'in, for it won't be no use. You won't always have that long-legged giant to help you. If I'd done right, I should have had him took up for 'sault and battery. He needn't think because he's eight feet high, more or less, that he can defy the laws of the land. I reckon he got a little skeered of what he done, or he wouldn't have acted so different this evening." William did not reply to this. He was rather in hopes Mr. Bickford would stop addressing him, for he did not like to run the risk of answering, as it might open the eyes of the blacksmith to the fact that he had the wrong boy in the wagon. The distance to Oakford steadily diminished, though Mr. Bickford's horse was a slow one. At length it had dwindled to half a mile. "Now I don't care if he does find out who I am," thought William. "It ain't but a little way home now, and I shouldn't mind walking." Still his own house was rather beyond Mr. Bickford's, and it was just as well to ride the whole way, if he could escape detection so long. "Where did you learn them circus performances, Christopher?" suddenly asked the blacksmith, turning once more in his seat. By this time they were within a few rods of the blacksmith's yard, and William became bold, now that he had nothing to lose by it. "My name isn't Christopher," he answered in his usual tone. "Your name isn't Christopher? That's what your uncle told me." "I think you are mistaken," said William quietly. "What's got into the boy? Is he goin' to deny his own name? What is your name, then?" "My name is William Morris," was the distinct response. "What!" exclaimed the blacksmith in amazement. "I think you ought to know me, Mr. Bickford. I worked for you some time, you know." "Take off your hat, and let me look at your face!" said Aaron Bickford, sternly. William laughed as he complied with the request. It was now rather lighter, and the blacksmith, peering into his face, saw that it was indeed true--that the boy on the back seat was not Kit Watson at all, but his ex-apprentice, William Morris. "It's Bill Morris, by the living jingo!" he exclaimed. "What do you say to that, Sarah?" "You're a master hand at managing boys, Aaron," said his wife sarcastically. "How came you in the wagon, Bill Morris?" demanded Bickford, not caring to answer his wife. "The giant put me in," answered William. "Where is that boy, Christopher Watson?" "I expect he is travelin' with the show, Mr. Bickford." "Who put you up to this mean trick?" demanded the blacksmith, wrathfully. "Kit Watson." "I've got an account to settle with you, William Morris. I s'pose you think you've done something pretty smart." "I think he has, Aaron," said Mrs. Bickford, who seemed to take a malicious pleasure in opening her husband's wounds afresh. "Mrs. Bickford, it isn't very creditable in you to triumph over your husband, just after he's been spendin' fifty cents for your amusement." "Goodness knows, Mr. Bickford, you don't often take me to shows. I guess what you spend that way won't ruin you." While the married pair were indulging in their little recriminations, William had managed to slip out of the wagon in the rear, and he was now a rod away. "Good night, Mr. Bickford!" he shouted. "I'm much obliged to you for bringing me home. It's saved me a long walk." The blacksmith's reply was one that I do not care to record. He was thoroughly angry and disgusted. If it hadn't been so late he would have got out and tried to inflict punishment on William with his whip, but the boy was too far away by this time to make this possible. CHAPTER XIX. STEPHEN WATSON VISITS OAKFORD. On Monday as Mr. Bickford was about his work a carriage drove into the yard, containing Stephen Watson and Ralph. "Good morning, Mr. Bickford," said Stephen Watson. "I've called over to inquire about Kit. I hope he is doing his duty by you." The blacksmith looked at Mr. Watson with embarrassment, and did not immediately reply. Mr. Watson repeated his question. "Kit isn't with me," answered Bickford, at length. "Isn't with you!" repeated Stephen Watson, in surprise. "Where is he?" "He's run away." "Run away!" ejaculated Kit's uncle. "What is the meaning of that?" "He said he didn't want to be a blacksmith, and that you had no authority to make him." "But where has he gone? Have you any idea?" "He has gone off with Barlow's circus." "But what object can he have in going off with a circus?" asked Mr. Watson, no less bewildered. "They've hired him to perform." "Are you sure of this?" "I ought to be," answered the blacksmith, grimly. "My wife and I saw him jumpin' round last evenin' in the circus tent over at Grafton." "But I don't see what he--a green hand--can do. Ralph, can you throw any light on this mystery?" Ralph explained that Kit had practiced acrobatic feats extensively at the gymnasium connected with the school. "Did he ever talk of going off with a circus?" asked Mr. Watson. "Never, though he enjoyed the exercise." "I went after him and tried to get him back," said Mr. Bickford, "but he gave me the slip." "He's done a very foolish and crazy thing. He can't get more than three or four dollars a week from the circus, and in the fall he'll be out of a job." "Just as you say, sir. He'd have a good payin' trade if he stayed with me. What do you think it is best to do about it, Mr. Watson?" "I shall do nothing. If the boy chooses to make a fool of himself, he may try it. Next fall, and possibly before, he'll be coming back in rags, and beg me to take him back." "I hope you won't take him back," said Ralph, who was jealous of Kit. "I shall not consider myself bound to do so, but if he consents to obey me, and learn a trade of Mr. Bickford, I will fit him, up and enable him to do so--out of charity, and because he is my nephew." "Then you don't mean to do anything about it, sir?" asked Aaron Bickford, considerably disappointed, for he longed to get Kit into his power once more. "No, I will leave the boy to himself. Ralph, as our business seems to be over, we will turn about and go home." Mr. Watson drove out of the blacksmith's yard. "Well, Ralph," he said, as they were on their way home, "I am very much annoyed at what your cousin has done, but I don't see that I am to blame." "Of course you're not, pa," returned Ralph, promptly. "Still the public may misjudge me. It will be very awkward to answer questions about Kit. I really don't know what to say." "Say he's run away and joined the circus. We might as well tell the truth." "I don't know but it will be best. I will add that, though it grieves me, I think it advisable, as he is so old, not to interfere with him, but let him see the error of his way for himself. I will say also that when he chooses to come back, I will make suitable arrangements for him." "I guess that will do. I will say the same." "I don't mind saying to you that I shall feel it quite a relief to be rid of the expense of maintaining him, for he has cost me a great deal of money. You are my son, and of course I expect to take care of you, and bring you up as a gentleman, but he has no claim upon me except that of relationship. I won't say that to others, however." "You are quite right, pa. As he is poor, and has his own living to make, it isn't best to send him to a high-priced school, and give him too much money to spend." It will be seen that there was a striking resemblance between the views of father and son, both of whom were intensely selfish, mean and unscrupulous. Stephen Watson foresaw that there would be a difficulty in making outside friends of the family understand why Kit had left home. He deliberately resolved to misrepresent him, and the opportunity came sooner than he anticipated. On the afternoon of the day of his call upon the blacksmith, there was a ring at the bell, and a middle-aged stranger was ushered into the parlor. "I suppose you don't remember me," he said to Stephen Watson. "I can't say I do," replied Stephen, eying him. "I knew your brother better than I did you. I am Harry Miller, who used to go to school with you both in the old red schoolhouse on the hill." "I remember your name, but I should not have remembered you." "I don't wonder. Time changes us all. I am sorry to hear that your poor brother is dead." "Yes," answered Stephen, heaving a sigh proper to the occasion, which was intended to signify his grief at the loss. "He was cut down like the grass of the field. It is the common lot." "His wife died earlier, did she not?" "Yes." "But there was a son?" "Yes." "How old is the boy?" "Just turned sixteen." "May I see him? I should like to see the son of my old deskmate." "Ah!" sighed Stephen. "I wish he were here to meet you." "But surely he is not dead?" "No; he is not dead, but he is a source of anxiety to me." "And why?" asked the visitor, with concern. "Has he turned out badly?" "Why, I don't know that I can exactly say that he has turned out badly." "What is the matter with him, then?" "He is wayward, and instead of being willing to devote himself to his school studies like my son Ralph, he has formed an extraordinary taste for the circus." "Indeed! but where is he?" "He is traveling with Barlow's circus." "In what capacity?" "As an acrobat." Henry Miller laughed. "I remember," he said, "that his father was fond of athletic sports. You never were." "No, I was a quiet boy." "That you were, and uncommonly sly!" thought Miller, but he did not consider it polite to say so. "Is the boy--by the way, what is his name?" "Christopher. He is generally called Kit." "Well, is Kit a good gymnast?" "I believe he is." "When did he join the circus?" "Only yesterday. In fact it is painful for me to say so, he ran away from a good home to associate with mountebanks." "And what are you going to do about it?" "He is so headstrong that I have thought it best to give him his own way, and let him see for himself how foolish he has been. Of course he has a home to return to whenever he sees fit." "That may be the best way. I should like to see the young rascal. I would follow up the circus and do so, only I am unfortunately called to California on business. I am part owner of a gold mine out there." "I trust you have been prospered in your worldly affairs." "Yes, I have every reason to be thankful. I suppose I am worth two hundred thousand dollars." Stephen Watson, whose god was money, almost turned green with jealousy. At the same time he asked himself how he could take advantage of his old schoolmate's good luck. "I wish he would take a fancy to my Ralph," he thought. So he called in Ralph, and introduced him to the rich stranger. "He's a good boy, my Ralph," he said; "sober and correct in all his habits, and fond of study." Ralph was rather surprised to hear this panegyric, but presently his father explained to him in private the object he had in view. Then Ralph made himself as agreeable as he could, but he failed to please Mr. Miller. "He is too much like his father," he said to himself. When he terminated his call, he received a very cordial invitation to come again on his return from California. "If Kit has returned I certainly will come," he replied, an answer which pleased neither Ralph nor his father. CHAPTER XX. A CHAT WITH A CANDY BUTCHER. Kit had a berth assigned him in one of the circus cars. His nearest neighbor was Harry Thorne, a young man of twenty-four, who filled the position of candy butcher. As this term may sound strange to my readers, I will explain that it is applied to the venders of candy, lemonade, peanuts, and other articles such as are patronized by those who come to see the show. It is really a very profitable business, as will be explained in the course of the story. Harry Thorne was social and ready to give Kit any information about the circus. "How long is it since you joined a circus?" asked Kit, after getting acquainted. "I was younger than you," answered Thorne. "Why did you join? What gave you the idea?" "A spirit of adventure, I think. Besides, there was a large family of us--I am the oldest--and it was necessary for me to do something." "That's a queer name--candy butcher." "It seems so to you, but I am used to it." "Did you become a candy butcher at once?" "Not till I was eighteen. Before that I ran errands and made myself generally useful. I thought of being an acrobat, like you, but I was too stout and not active enough." "I shouldn't think there would be much money made in your business," said Kit. "That shows you don't know much about circus matters. Last fall I ran in with seven hundred dollars saved, besides paying all my expenses during the six months I was out." "You ought to be pretty well off now, if you have been a candy butcher for five or six years." "I haven't a cent, and am owing two hundred dollars in Philadelphia." "How is that?" "You don't often find a circus man that saves money. It's easy come, easy go. But I send money home every season--three or four hundred dollars at least, if I do well." "That's a good thing any way. But if I were in your place I would put away some money every season." "I could do it, but it's hard to make up my mind." "I can't see how you can make such sums. It puzzles me." "We are paid a fixed salary, say twenty-five dollars a month, and commission on sales. I was always pretty lucky in selling, and my income has sometimes been very large. But I don't make much in large places. It is in the smaller towns that the money is made. When a country beau brings his girl to the circus, he don't mind expense. He makes up his mind to spend several dollars in having a good time--so he buys lemonade, peanuts, apples, and everything that he or his girl fancies. In the city, where there are plenty of places where such things can be bought, we don't sell much. In New York or Philadelphia I make very little more than my salary." "What is there most profit on?" asked Kit. "Well, I should say lemonade. You've heard of circus lemonade?" "Is there anything peculiar about it?" "Yes, something peculiarly weak. A good-sized lemon will make half a dozen glasses, and perhaps more. But there is something cheaper still, and that is citric acid. I remember one hot day in an Ohio town. The thermometer stood at 99 degrees and there wasn't a drop of spring or well water to be had, for we had cornered it. All who were thirsty had to drink lemonade, and it took a good many glasses to quench thirst. I made a harvest that day, and so did the other candy butchers. If we could have a whole summer of such days, I could retire on a small fortune in October." "Do you like the circus business?" "Sometimes I get tired of it, but when the spring opens I generally have the circus fever." "What do you do in the winter?" "It is seldom I get anything to do. I am an expense, and that is why I find myself in debt when the new season opens. Last winter I was more lucky. A young fellow--an old circus acquaintance of mine--has a store in the country, and he offered to supply me with a stock of goods to sell on commission in country villages near by. In that way I filled up about three months, making my expenses, but doing nothing more. However, that was a great thing for me, and I start this season only two hundred dollars in debt, as I think I told you a few minutes ago." "Is it the same way with performers?" "No; they have a better chance. Next winter, if you try, you can probably make an engagement to perform at some dime museum or variety hall, in New York or elsewhere. I once got the position of ticket seller for a part of the winter." "I don't think I should like to perform in a dime museum," said Kit. "What's the odds, if you are well paid for it?" "I don't intend to make my present business a permanent one." "That's different. What will you do next fall?" "I may go to school." Harry Thorne whistled. "That will be a novelty," he said. "I haven't been to school since I was twelve years old." "Wouldn't you like to go now?" "No; I'm too old. Are you much of a scholar?" "I'm a pretty good Latin scholar, and know something of Greek." "I'll bet there isn't another acrobat in the country that can say that. What salary do you get, if you don't mind telling?" "Twenty-five dollars a week." "You're in luck. How came Barlow to give you so much?" "I think he took a liking to me. Perhaps he wanted to pay me for facing the lion at Smyrna." "Were you the boy who did that? I thought your face looked familiar. You've got pluck, Kit." "I hope so; but I'm not sure whether it is I or the snuff that is entitled to the most credit." "Anyhow it took some courage, even if you did have the snuff with you." "Do you know what is to be our route this season?" "I think we are going West as far as St. Louis, taking all the larger towns and cities on our way. We are to show a week in Chicago. But I don't care so much for the cities as the country towns--the one-night places." "Does Mr. Barlow go with us?" "Not steadily. He drops in on us here and there. There's one thing I can say for him--he won't have any man in his employ drink or gamble. We have to bind ourselves to total abstinence while we are in his employ--that is, till the end of the season. Gambling is the great vice of circus men; it is more prevalent even than drinking." "Don't the men do it on the sly?" "They run a risk if they do. At the first offense they are fined, at the second or third they are bounced." "That doesn't trouble me any. I neither drink nor gamble." "Good for you." "Say, when are you two fellows goin' to stop talkin'?" was heard from a neighboring berth. "You don't give a fellow a chance to sleep." Kit and his new friend took the hint and addressed themselves to slumber. CHAPTER XXI. KIT MEETS A SCHOOLMATE. Kit slept profoundly, being very tired. He was taken by surprise when, the next morning, he was shaken into a state of wakefulness, and opening his eyes met those of his neighbor Harry Thorne. "Is it morning?" he asked, in a sleepy tone. "I should say it was. It is a quarter after nine, and the parade starts at ten." "The parade?" "Yes; we give a morning parade in every place we visit. If you are not on hand to take part in it, you will be fined five dollars." "I'll be up in a jiffy," said Kit, springing out of his berth. "But there's time enough, isn't there?" "Yes; but not too much. You will want to get some breakfast. By the way, are you used to driving?" "Oh, yes. I have done a good deal of it," answered Kit. "I thought so, as you are a country boy. How would you like to drive a span of horses attached to one of the small chariots?" Kit was extremely fond of a horse, and he answered promptly, "I'll do it." "There are two. The other is driven by Charlie Davis, once a performer but now a ticket man. He is a little older than you." "All right! I don't see how I came to sleep so late." "You and Charlie are good matches. Once he went to bed Saturday night, and did not wake up till Monday morning." "That beats my record!" Kit was dressed in less than ten minutes. "Where shall I get breakfast?" he asked. "The regular breakfast is over, and you will have to buy some. There is a restaurant just opposite the lot. You might get in with one of the cooks, and get something in the cook tent." "No; I'll go to the restaurant. To-morrow I'll be on hand at the regular breakfast." The restaurant was a small one, with no pretensions to style, but Kit was hungry and not particular. At the same table there was a dark complexioned boy of about his own size, who had just begun to dispatch a beefsteak. He looked up as Kit seated himself. "You're the new acrobat, are you not?" asked the other. "Yes; are you Charlie Davis?" "Yes; how do you know me?" "Harry Thorne was speaking of you." "I see you're one of the late birds as well as I. I generally have to buy my breakfast outside. How do you like circus life?" "I haven't tried it well enough to tell. This is only my second day." "I went into it at fourteen. I've been an acrobat, too, but I have a weak ankle, and have gone into the ticket department." "Are you going to remain in the circus permanently?" "No, I'm trying to wean myself from it. A friend has promised to set me up in business whenever I get ready to retire. If I kept on, I would be no better off at forty than I am now." "Yet circus people make a good deal of money, I hear." "Right you are, my boy, but they don't keep it. They get spoiled for anything else, and soon or later they are left out in the cold. I've had a good deal of fun out of it, for I like traveling, but I'm going to give it up." "I took it up because I had nothing else to do, but I shan't stay in it long. I'll tell you about it some day. I hear you drive one of the pony chariots." "Yes." "I am to drive the other." "Good! Don't let them run away with you, my boy." "I'll try not to," said Kit, smiling. "Is there any danger?" "Not much. They're trained. Are you fond of horses?" "I like nothing better." "So it is with me. I'll wait till you are through breakfast, and then we'll go over together." Half an hour later Kit sat on the box of a chariot, drawn by two beautiful ponies. The circus line had been formed, and the parade began. Behind him was a circus wagon, or rather a cage on wheels, through the gratings of which could be seen a tiger, crafty and cruel looking. In front was an elephant, with two or three performers on his back. Kit was dressed in street costume, his circus dress not being required. In another part of the procession was Charlie Davis, driving a corresponding wagon. Kit felt a peculiar exhilaration as he drove his ponies, and reflected upon the strangeness of his position, as compared with his previous experiences. He had from time to time watched circus processions, but not in his wildest and most improbable dreams had it ever occurred to him to imagine that he would ever himself take part in one. As he looked down from his perch he saw the streets lined with the usual curious crowd of spectators, among whom boys were largely represented. "I suppose some of them are envying me," he thought to himself, with a smile. "Suppose there was some one who recognized me?" No sooner had the thought come into his mind, than he heard his own name called in a voice indicating amazement. "Kit Watson, by all that's wonderful!" were the words that fell on his ears. Looking to the right, his glance fell upon Jack Dormer, a schoolmate, who had been attending the same academy with him for a year past. Kit colored, feeling a little embarrassed. "How are you, Jack?" he said. "How came you in this circus procession, Kit?" "I can't tell you now. Come round to the lot, after the parade is over, and I'll tell you all about it." Jack availed himself of the invitation and presented himself at the circus grounds. "What does it all mean, Kit?" he asked. "Have you really and truly joined the circus?" "Come round this afternoon, and you'll see me perform. I am one of the Vincenti brothers, acrobats." "But what put it in your head? That's what I want to know?" "I thought I would like it better than being a blacksmith." "But who ever dreamed of your being a blacksmith?" "My uncle did. I'll tell you all about it." Kit told his story. Jack Dormer listened with sympathetic interest. "Do they pay you well?" he asked. "I get twenty-five dollars a week, and all expenses." "Can you get me a job?" asked Jack quite overcome by the magnificence of the salary. "As an acrobat, Jack?" asked Kit, laughing, for Jack had the reputation of being one of the clumsiest boys in school. "Well, no, I don't suppose I could do much in that way, but isn't there something I could do?" "Take my advice, Jack, and give it up. You've got a good home, and there is no need of your going into any such business even if you were qualified." "Don't you like it?" "I can't tell yet. Of course it is exciting, but those who have been in it a good while advise against it. I may not stay in it more than one season." "Shall I tell the fellows at school where you are?" "No, I would rather you wouldn't." "Does your cousin Ralph come back to school?" "Yes." "We could spare him a good deal better than you." "I am not fond of Ralph myself, but the world is wide enough for us both." Kit saw his schoolmate again after the afternoon performance, and received many compliments. "I couldn't believe it was you," he said. "You acted as if you were an old hand at the business." CHAPTER XXII. NEW ACQUAINTANCES. Sunday was of course a day of rest for the circus employees. Most of them observed it by lying in bed unusually late. Kit, however, rose in good season, and found himself first at breakfast. When the proper time arrived, he walked to the village, and selecting the first church he came to, entered. He had always been in the habit of attending church, and felt that there was no good reason why he should give up the practice now that he was away from home. He stood in the lobby, waiting for the sexton to appear, when a fine-looking man of middle age entered the church with a young girl of fourteen at his side. He glanced at Kit with interest, and after a moment's pause walked up to him. "Are you a stranger here?" he asked. "Yes, sir," answered Kit. "I shall be glad to have you accept a seat in my pew." "Thank you, sir," said Kit, politely; "I was waiting for the sexton, intending to ask him for a seat." "I have plenty of room in my pew, having only my daughter with me. Are you staying long in the town?" "Only as long as the circus does," answered Kit. The gentleman looked surprised. "Are you connected with the circus?" he asked, quickly. "Yes, sir." By this time the young girl was examining Kit with interest and attention. "Is it possible you are a performer?" "Yes, sir." "I wouldn't have dreamed it. You look like a young gentleman." "I hope I am, sir." "Pardon me, I meant no offense, but you don't at all answer my idea of a circus performer." "I have only been two days with the circus," said Kit; "and that may account for my not having a circus look." "It is time to take our seats. I will speak with you afterwards. First, however, let me introduce my daughter, Evelyn Grant." "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Evelyn," said Kit, removing his hat. "My name is Christopher Watson." Evelyn offered her hand with a smile. "I had no idea circus young men were so polite," she said. There was no chance for any further conversation, as they had entered the church. Mr. Grant's pew was in a prominent position. He drew back to let the two young people enter. They seated themselves at the lower end of the pew and Mr. Grant took his seat at the head. Kit noticed that several persons in neighboring pews regarded him with apparent curiosity. Kit enjoyed the services, which were of an interesting character. He had expected to feel like a stranger, but thanks to the kindness of Mr. Grant, he felt quite as much at home as when he sat in his uncle's pew at Smyrna. When the services were over, they filed slowly out of church. A new surprise was in store for Kit. "If you have no engagement we shall be glad to have you dine with us, Master Watson," said Mr. Grant. "You will come, won't you?" said Evelyn, with a smile. "You are very kind," said Kit, in grateful surprise. "Nothing could be more agreeable to me." Just then a gentleman approached Mr. Grant, and said: "I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Mayor." "Is your father the mayor of the city?" asked Kit. "Yes; he was elected last December." "I am very fortunate to be invited to dinner by the mayor." "And by the mayor's daughter. Don't forget that." "You may be sure I appreciate that, too." "How funny it seems to me to be walking with a circus performer! What do you do? You don't stand upon a horse's back, and jump through hoops, do you?" "No, I can't do that." "But what do you do?" "I am an acrobat." Kit explained to her what he did. "It must be very hard." "Oh, no! I learned to do it in a gymnasium, before I ever dreamed of being connected with a circus." "Where was the gymnasium?" "Attached to Dr. Codman's academy." "Why, I had a cousin who attended there," said Evelyn, in surprise. "What was his name?" "Edward Moore." "I know him very well. He is a nice fellow." At this moment Kit, in looking around, was surprised to see the familiar face and figure of Mr. Barlow, the circus proprietor, who had evidently, like himself, been attending the service. Recognition was mutual. "I am glad to see you here, Watson," said Mr. Barlow, offering his hand. "I always attend church myself when I have an opportunity, but I am afraid few in my employ follow my example. I always feel more confidence in any young man who seems to enjoy a church service." Mr. Barlow was a man whose name was widely known, and Kit saw that Mr. Grant looked as if he would like to be introduced. "Mr. Barlow," he said, "allow me to introduce a new friend, Mr. Grant, the mayor of the town." "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mayor," said the showman, offering his hand. "The pleasure is mutual, sir," said the mayor. "I need not say that your name has long been familiar to me." "I am glad you have taken one of my young men under your wing. He is a recent acquisition, but I have reason to think well of him." "He is to dine with us to-day. I shall be glad to extend an invitation to you also, Mr. Barlow." "You are very kind, and but for a previous engagement I would accept with pleasure. I shall be glad to see you at my show to-morrow with complimentary tickets." "What a nice old gentleman Mr. Barlow is," said Evelyn, in a low voice. "I have found him an excellent friend. He won't allow any of us to drink or gamble while we are in his employ." "I hope you wouldn't want to do either, Mr. Watson." "I have no disposition to do so. But, Miss Evelyn, I want to ask you a favor." "What is it? If it isn't anything very great, I may grant it." "Don't call me Mr. Watson." "What shall I call you then?" "My friends call me Kit." "That's a nice name. Yes, I'll call you Kit." It will be seen that the two young people were getting on famously. "Do you live far away, Miss Evelyn?" "About a quarter of a mile from here." In turning the corner of a street, Kit met his friend Harry Thorne, walking with Charlie Davis. Both regarded Kit with surprise. "Kit seems to be getting on," said Charlie. "Do you know who he is walking with?" "No; do you?" "With the daughter of the mayor." "How do you know?" "The gentleman in front was pointed out to me as the mayor. I shouldn't wonder if he were going to dine there." When Kit returned to the circus tents about four o'clock in the afternoon, he met with some good-natured raillery which he took in good part. He felt that he had passed the day in a much more satisfactory manner than if, like the great majority of his companions, he had risen late and lounged about the circus grounds, beguiling the time with smoking and story telling. CHAPTER XXIII. KIT'S DARING ACT. Kit's acts thus far had been confined to the ring, but now a new one was expected from him. Early in the performance a series of flying leaps from a springboard, in which all the acrobats took part, was introduced. From a point thirty feet back the performer ran swiftly till he reached the springboard, from which a leap was made accompanied by a somersault, carrying him over a considerable space in advance. It was the custom to place first one elephant, then a second, and finally a third, in front of the springboard. There was only one man who could leap over three elephants. The two Vincenti brothers took part regularly, but Kit, being a new hand, had thus far been excused. But one of the regular performers being temporarily unwell, it was considered desirable that his place should be supplied. "Do you think you can do it?" asked Alonzo Vincenti, somewhat doubtfully. "Yes," answered Kit, confidently. "It will be sufficient if you jump over one elephant," continued his associate. "Then you can drop out." "I can do better than that," said Kit. "I don't know about that. My brother can only jump over two." "You jump over three elephants." "Yes; but I am the only one who can do it. It takes a good spring to clear even two. It won't do to lose your head." "Can I have a chance to rehearse?" "Yes, I will speak about it." "Then I will appear this evening." "But if you fail you are likely to hurt yourself." "I know that. That is why I would rather make the first trial in the evening. The lights and the crowd will excite and help me." Kit was not foolhardy in his undertaking, for he had already had some practice in similar feats with his old teacher. Besides, he was ambitious. In school his ambition had shown itself in his attempt to eclipse his schoolfellows in scholarship. In the gymnasium he had ranked first, and now that he had joined the circus he didn't like to be assigned to a place in the rear. Let me take the opportunity here to advise my young readers not to imitate Kit in essaying dangerous parts. "Be bold, but not too bold!" is a very good motto. During the forenoon Kit found an opportunity to practice in the empty tent, in order to settle the question whether he had lost any of his old-time skill. The result was satisfactory, and renewed his confidence. "I can do better before a tent full of spectators than when practicing by myself," he decided. The evening came. Standing near the ticket seller half an hour before the show began, Kit heard his name called. Turning quickly he saw his friends of the previous day, Mayor Grant and his daughter Evelyn. "Good evening, my boy!" said the mayor cordially. "We have come to see what you can do." "Then I hope I shall do myself credit," said Kit, shaking hands with the mayor and his daughter. "Have you engaged seats?" "Not yet." "Then let me select them for you." "With pleasure. I am glad to have a friend at court." Kit selected seats as near as possible to the ring where he was to perform. "These are splendid seats," said Evelyn. "How soon do you appear?" "In a few minutes. I shall have to leave you now, but I will be back after my first act." "What a nice boy he is, papa!" said Evelyn. "Yes; it is a pity he is attached to a circus." "Why? Isn't it a respectable business?" "Yes; but there are many temptations connected with it, and most circus performers never rise any higher." Evelyn was not inclined to discuss the question, though there is no doubt that she took a more favorable view of the circus profession than her father. The procession had just begun to move round the inner ring of the circus, including the elephants, the riders, the clowns, and performers of all kinds. Kit appeared, as in the public procession, driving a span of ponies. This was the introduction. Then the various parts of the programme succeeded. Soon Kit performed his act in the ring. He had a new act to-night. Standing on the shoulders of one of the Vincenti brothers, he turned a somersault and landed on the shoulders of the other, standing six to eight feet away. "I don't see how he does it, papa," said Evelyn. "He must be very smart." "I see you are determined to make a hero of this young man, Evelyn." "Don't you admire him yourself, papa?" "Admire is rather a strong word, daughter. I will admit, however, that I like him, and hope he will soon change his business." After the act was over, Kit came round and received congratulations. Evelyn repeated what her father said. "I agree with you, sir," said Kit, "I haven't selected this as my life business, but shall keep my engagement till the end of the season." "How, on the whole, do you like your new associates? I don't need to be told that they are very different from those to whom you are accustomed." "They are very kind to me, and generous to each other when there is need. They will divide their last dollar with a friend." "They often come to their last dollar, don't they?" "Yes; they can't keep money. They are always in debt when the new season opens, no matter how much they brought home with them at the end of the last." "Are there no exceptions?" "Yes, a few. I have heard of one circus manager who commenced as a candy butcher, and now is proprietor of a very fair-sized show. Of course he had to save up money or he would never have succeeded so well." Kit had to cut short his visit, for the new act, already referred to, was near at hand. In the list of leapers Kit came last. First of all, there was a simple somersault from the springboard. This was easy. Just after Kit came the clown, who, though really a clever acrobat, stopped short when he came to the board and merely jumped up and down to the amusement of the young spectators. "He can't jump no more'n I can," said one small boy, contemptuously. "I shouldn't think they'd let him try," said another. Both boys were surprised when, in the next trial, where the task was to jump over an elephant, the despised clown made a good spring and landed fairly on his feet. "I guess he was afraid before," said the first boy. "No; he only pretended for fun. Do you see that boy? I wonder if he can jump over the elephant." The question was soon answered. Kit took his turn and sprang with apparent ease over the great beast. Next another elephant was driven in alongside of the first. Again the leapers advanced to try their skill. But two held back, not feeling competent for the task. The clown once more made a feint of jumping, but only jumped up and retired apparently filled with confusion. Evelyn gazed in intense excitement. "It must be awfully hard to jump like that, papa," she said. "I don't think I shall ever try it, Evelyn." Another elephant was driven alongside the other two, making three in all. The other contestants retired, for only Alonzo had succeeded hitherto in executing this difficult feat. He expected to be the only one now, but noticed with surprise that Kit seemed ready to follow him. "You don't mean to try it, Kit?" he said, in amazement. "Why not?" "You will fail, and if you do, you may hurt yourself seriously." "I shall not fail," said Kit, confidently. Alonzo looked anxious, but there was no time to expostulate. He ran swiftly to the board, made a vigorous spring, and landed handsomely on the bedding which had been provided beyond. He had scarcely stepped aside, when, to the astonishment of the other acrobats, Kit gathered himself up, ran to the springboard, and exerting himself to the utmost, made his leap, and landed a foot ahead of Alonzo. Then the tent rang with applause, and there were many exclamations of astonishment, not only among the spectators, but also among the circus performers. Kit's face flushed with pleasure, and bowing his acknowledgments, he withdrew. "He is certainly a wonderful boy," said the mayor. CHAPTER XXIV. KIT RECEIVES A LETTER. Kit received compliments enough to spoil him, if he had not been strong-minded and level-headed boy. Among others Mr. Barlow, who had been present and witnessed his daring act, took the opportunity to congratulate him. "You seem to be born for a circus performer, my young friend," he said. "You have come to the front at once." "Thank you, sir," said Kit. "I am glad that I succeeded, but such success as that does not satisfy my ambition." "You mean, perhaps, that you want to jump over four, perhaps five elephants?" suggested the manager. Kit smiled. "No," he answered; "I don't think I shall venture beyond three. But I don't expect to remain in the circus more than this season." "That is almost a pity, when you are so well qualified to excel in it." "Mr. Barlow," said Kit, seriously, "if I were a great manager like you, I would not mind, but I don't care to go through life as a circus performer." "I don't know but you are right, my boy. In fact I know you are. I shouldn't care to be a performer myself." "I don't think you would excel in that line," said Kit, with a glance at the portly form of the well-known showman. "You wouldn't advise me to try jumping over elephants, I infer," said Mr. Barlow, with an amused smile. "No, sir." "I will take your advice, my boy. Though your share of worldly experience isn't great, you are certainly correct in that. I shall relieve the fears of Mrs. Barlow at once by telling her that I have decided not to enter the ring." Kit also received the congratulations of the mayor and Evelyn, but the former added: "Though your act was a daring one, I was almost sorry to see it." "Why, sir?" "I feared it would confirm you in your love of your present business." "No, sir, there is no danger," replied Kit. "I have a fair education already, and prefer to qualify myself for something different." "I am glad to hear you say so. You are undoubtedly right." "I must say good-by now," said Kit; "for we get off at midnight." "Shall you not return this way?" "No, sir; we are to go West, I hear." "I hope when the season is over, you will make us a visit. Come and stay a week," said the mayor, hospitably. "Do come," said Evelyn, earnestly. "How can I thank you for your kindness to a stranger?" said Kit, gratefully. "I shall certainly avail myself of your hospitality. There are not many who would take such notice of a circus boy." "You are something more than a circus boy," said the mayor, "or I might not have been so drawn to you. Good-by, then, and if you ever need a friend, don't forget that you are at liberty to call upon me." It was a source of regret to Kit that he was obliged to part with friends whom in so short a time he had come to value so highly. He resolved that he would accept the mayor's offer at the close of the season. He would need a friend and adviser, and he felt confident that Mayor Grant's counsel would be wise and judicious. Kit was already asleep in his bunk when the circus train started for the next place on the route. When he woke up he was in the town of Colebrook. Here a surprise was in store for him in the shape of a letter from his uncle. When he saw the familiar handwriting and the postmark "Smyrna," he broke the seal with a feeling of curiosity. He did not expect to derive either pleasure or satisfaction from the perusal. We will look over his shoulder while he is reading the letter. NEPHEW CHRISTOPHER,--I cannot express to you my surprise and disappointment when I rode over to Oakford to see you, and learned from Mr. Bickford that you had run away from his house and joined the circus. There must be something low and depraved in your tastes, that you should thus abandon the prospect of earning a respectable livelihood, and go tramping through the country with a circus. What do you think your father would say if he could come to life, and become aware of the course you have so rashly taken? I should be justified in forcibly removing you from your present associations, and returning you to your worthy employer, Mr. Aaron Bickford, and perhaps it is my duty to do so. But I think it wiser for you to realize for yourself the folly of your course. You have deliberately deserted a good home and a kind guardian and become a tramp, if I may so express myself. I cannot imagine my son Ralph doing such a thing. He is, I hope, too dutiful and too sensible to throw away the advantages which fortune has secured him, to become a mountebank. It is very embarrassing to me to answer questions about you. There are some who will be unjust enough, I doubt not, to blame me for your wild course, but I shall be sustained by the consciousness of my entire innocence in the matter. At great expense I have maintained you and paid the cost of your education, giving you privileges and advantages equal to those I have given my own boy. I have done so cheerfully, because you were my nephew, and I am sorry you have made me so poor a return. But I shall look for my reward to my own conscience, and hope you may yet see the folly and wickedness of your course. I have only to add that when that time comes you are welcome to return to my roof and protection, and I will intercede with your excellent employer, Mr. Bickford, to take you back and teach you his trade, whereby you may be enabled to earn a more respectable living than you are doing at present. Ralph joins with me in this wish. Your uncle, STEPHEN WATSON. Kit's lip curled when he read this hypocritical letter, and was tempted to despise his uncle more now than ever. He lost no time in sending this reply: UNCLE STEPHEN,--I have received your letter, and can only express my surprise at the view you take of your treatment of me. Whether my father really left me as destitute as you claim, I am not in a position to say. If you have really gone to personal expense in maintaining and educating me up to this point, I shall, when I am able, reimburse you to the last cent. But I cannot forgive you for your trying to force a boy, reared and educated as I have been, to learn the trade of a blacksmith. You say that I have enjoyed advantages similar to those of your son Ralph. I wish to ask whether you would dream of apprenticing him to any such business. You speak of my low associations, and call me a mountebank. In the town I have just left I was the guest of the mayor, and have promised to spend a week at his house on a visit when the circus season is over. Though you have done your best to lower me socially, I am confident that I shall be able to win a good place by my own unaided exertions. I have no intention in continuing as a circus performer, though I am very liberally paid. It is too soon for me to decide upon my future course, but you may tell Mr. Bickford he need not wait for me to resume my place in his shop. I do not know when I shall see you or Ralph again, but you need have no fear that I shall appeal to your generosity. Your nephew, CHRISTOPHER WATSON. Stephen Watson read this letter with surprise and chagrin. He was sorry to hear that Kit was doing so well, and alarmed at his implied doubt whether he had really been left destitute by his father. "That boy is going to give me trouble," he muttered. CHAPTER XXV. THE ATTACK ON THE CIRCUS TENT. Four weeks passed, in which Kit continued to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the manager. His youth and pleasant face, added to his uncommon skill, made him a favorite with the public, and being a boy with a love of adventure he enjoyed thoroughly the constant variety of circus life and travel. All circus existence is not sunshine, however. There are communities which are always dreaded by circus managers, on account of the rough and lawless element which dominates them. Early one morning Barlow's circus arrived at the mining town of Coalville (as we will call it), in Pennsylvania. An afternoon performance was given, and passed off smoothly; but in the evening a gang of about twenty miners made their appearance, bent on mischief. Mr. Clark, the manager, sought Mr. Barlow. "I think we shall have trouble this evening, Mr. Barlow," he said. "Guard against it, then. What indications have you seen?" "A gang of twenty miners have just entered the lot. They look ugly." "Have the canvas men on guard, and summon the razorbacks, if necessary. Don't provoke a conflict, but be ready for one." Mr. Clark hastily made his arrangements as quietly as possible. Near the ticket seller lounged a body of men, strong and muscular. These were the canvas men. Some of them looked as reckless and dangerous as the miners, from whom a disturbance was feared. These canvas men, whose duty it is to set up and take down the tents, are, for the most part, a rough set. They are paid from fifteen to twenty dollars a month and board. Their accommodations are very poor, but as good perhaps as they are accustomed to. They are not averse to a scrimmage, and obeyed with alacrity the directions of Mr. Clark. The body of miners marched in procession to the ticket seller and then halted, one serving as spokesman. "Give us twenty tickets, boss," said the leader. "Where is your money?" asked the ticket seller, cautiously. "Never you mind! We're on the free list, ain't we, boys?" "Yes, we are!" was the chorus from his followers. "There are no deadheads admitted to the show," said the ticket agent, firmly. "You'll be a deadhead yourself if you ain't careful, young feller!" was the retort. "Keep back, men! There are others waiting for a chance to buy tickets." "Let 'em wait! Just hand over them tickets, or we'll run over you." The fellow looked so dangerous that the ticket seller saw there was no time to parley. He raised the well-known circus cry, which is called out in times of danger, like a summons to arms, "Hey, Rube!" Instantly the canvas men and razorbacks rushed to the rescue, and made an impetuous attack on the disorderly crowd of miners. They, too, were aching for a fight, and there was a wild scene of battle, in which, as in the ancient days, the opposing forces fought hand to hand. The canvas men were strong, but so were the miners. Their muscles were toughened by daily toil, and it looked as if the outsiders might win. Kit was not of course called upon to take part in the contest, but he was unwillingly involved. One of the miners detached himself from the main body, and creeping stealthily to the big tent, whipped out a large knife, and was on the point of cutting one of the ropes, his intention being to sever one after another till the big tent collapsed. Kit saw his design, and rushing forward seized his arm. "Hold on there!" he cried. "What are you about?" "Let me alone, and mind your own business!" returned the miner, in a hoarse, deep voice. But Kit saw that it was a critical moment, and that great mischief might be done. He looked about him for help, for he was far from able to cope with his brawny antagonist. Still he clung to the arm of the intruder, and succeeded in delaying his purpose. "Let go or I'll cut you!" said the miner, savagely. Then Kit in desperation raised the cry, "Hey, Rube!" But it hardly seemed likely to bring the needed assistance, for all the fighting men were engaged in the battle near the ticket seller. "That won't do no good, young bantam!" said the ruffian, as he aimed a blow at our hero. Kit's career would in all probability have been cut short, but for the timely arrival of Achilles Henderson. The giant had heard the boy's warning cry, and being near at hand, rushed to his aid. His arrival was most opportune. He seized the miner in his powerful grasp, and the ruffian, strong and muscular as he was, was like a child in his clutch. His knife fell from his hand, as he was shaken like a reed by the giant. "Secure the knife, Kit!" cried Achilles. Kit needed no second bidding. He stooped swiftly and took up the weapon. But Achilles was needed in another direction. The contest between the miners and the canvas men still raged fiercely near the ticket stand. It looked as if the intruders would conquer. From the ranks of the defenders rose a wild and desperate cry, "Hey, Rube!" Achilles heard it. "Come, Kit!" he said. "We are wanted." He hurled the miner in his grasp to the ground with such force that the man lay senseless; then he rushed with all the speed which his long limbs enabled him to attain to the scene of the conflict. Here again he was none too soon. The leader of the miners, who had been the first spokesman and aggressor, was armed with a powerful club with which he was preparing to deal the ticket seller a terrible and possibly fatal blow, when Achilles rushed into the _mêlée_ like a hurricane. He snatched the club from the hands of the ruffian, and dealt about unsparingly. The ringleader was the first to fall. Next Achilles attacked the rest of the brutal gang, till half a dozen men with broken heads lay upon the ground. The attacking force were completely demoralized, and in dismay fled from the field. The ticket seller breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought I was done for, Mr. Henderson," he said, when the giant returned flushed with his exertions. "You are equal to half a dozen men." "I haven't had so much exercise in a long time," said Achilles, panting. "Kit, where is the knife that scalawag was going to cut the rope with?" "Here it is, Mr. Henderson." "I will keep it in remembrance of this little adventure. Perhaps I had better go and look after the original owner." He met the ruffian limping like one disabled. His look was sullen and menacing. "Give me my knife," he growled. "I couldn't think of it, my man!" said Achilles blandly. "Evidently you are not old enough to be trusted with a knife." "I'd like to thrash you!" growled the miner again. "I've no doubt of it, my friend; your intentions are good, but can't be carried out. And now I have a word to say," he continued, sternly. "Just get out of the lot as fast as your legs can carry you, or I'll serve you worse than I did before." The ruffian looked toward the ticket stand. He saw several of his friends limping away like himself, looking like whipped curs, and he saw that there was no choice for him but to obey. With a muttered oath and a sullen scowl, he left the grounds. "Kit," said the giant, "it won't do for me to exercise like this every day. I shall need a second supper." "You are certainly entitled to one, Mr. Henderson," replied our hero. CHAPTER XXVI. KIT IS MADE A PRISONER. It had been a day of exciting adventure, but so far as Kit was concerned the end was not yet. He performed as usual, but as his second act was over at quarter past nine, he thought, being fatigued, that he would not wait until the close, but go at once to the circus car in which he had a berth, and go to bed. He crossed the lot, and emerged into the street. It was moderately dark, there being no moon, and only the light of a few stars to relieve the gloom. Kit had not taken a dozen steps from the lot when two stout men approached him, both evidently miners. "That's the kid that prevented my cutting the rope," he heard one say. "Is he? I saw him with the giant." "I mean to settle his hash for him," said the first. Kit saw that he was in danger, and turned to run back to his friends. But it was too late! The first speaker laid a strong arm upon his shoulder, and his boyish strength was not able to overcome it. "Don't be in such a hurry, kid," said his captor. "Let me go," cried Kit. "You belong to the circus, don't you?" "Yes." "What do you do?" "I am an acrobat." "What's that?" "I leap and turn somersaults, and so on." "Yes, I know. Do you remember me?" "I might if it were lighter." The man lit a match and held it close to his face. "Do you know me now?" "Yes." "Who am I?" "You are the man who tried to cut the ropes of the tent." "Right you are. I would have succeeded but for you." "I suppose you would." "Did you call that giant to pitch into me?" "No; I didn't know he was near." "He treated me like a brute," said the man, wrathfully. "My limbs are aching now from the fall he gave me." Kit did not answer. "I'd like to give him a broken head, as he gave some of my friends. Where is he?" "I suppose he is somewhere in the lot. I'll go and call him, if you want me to." "That's too thin! Now I've got you I won't let you off so easy." "What do you intend to do?" asked Kit becoming alarmed. "To give you a lesson." Kit did not ask what kind of a lesson was meant, but he feared it included bodily injury. Then at least, if never before, he wished himself back at his uncle's house in Smyrna, uncongenial as it was otherwise. The first speaker spoke in a low voice to the second. Kit did not hear the words, but judged what they were from what followed. The two men placed him beside them, and he was sternly ordered to move on. They kept the road for perhaps half a mile, then turned off into a narrow lane which appeared to ascend a hill. Finally they stopped in front of a dark cabin, of one story, which seemed to be unoccupied. The outer door was fastened by a bolt. One of the men drew out a bolt, and threw open the door. A dark interior was revealed. One of the men lit a match, throwing a fitful light upon an empty room. At one end of the apartment was a ring, fixed in a beam, and in the corner was a stout rope. "That will do," said the first speaker. He took the rope, secured one end of it to the ring, and then tied Kit firmly with the balance. It was long enough to allow of his lying down. "Now," said the first man grimly, "I reckon the kid will be safe here till to-morrow." They prepared to leave the cabin. "Are you going to leave me here?" asked Kit, in dismay. "Yes." "What good will it do you?" "You'll see--to-morrow." Kit had ten dollars in his pocket, and he thought of offering it in return for his freedom, but it occurred to him fortunately that his captors would deprive him of it, as it was quite within their power to do, and not compensate him in any way. He understood by this time the character of the men into whose hands he had fallen, and he thought it prudent to remain silent. As the first captor stood with the door open, while just on the point of leaving, he said grimly, "How do you like it, kid?" "Not at all," answered Kit. "If you beg my pardon for what you did, I might let you go." Kit did not believe this, and he had no intention of humiliating himself for nothing. "I only did my duty," he said. "I have nothing to ask pardon for." "You may change your mind--to-morrow!" Another ominous reference to to-morrow. Evidently he was only deferring his vengeance, and intended to wreak it on his young prisoner the next day. It was not a comforting thought, nor was it calculated to sooth Kit, weary as he was, to sleep. The door was closed, and Kit heard the sliding of the bolt on the outside. He was a prisoner, securely enough, and with small chance of rescue. Now, though Kit is my hero, I do not mean to represent him as above human weakness, and I won't pretend that he didn't feel anxious and disturbed. His prospects seemed very dark. He could not hope for mercy from the brutal men who had captured him. As they could not get hold of the giant they would undoubtedly seek to make him expiate the offenses of Achilles Henderson as well as his own. "If only Mr. Henderson knew where I was," he said to himself, "I should soon be free." But there seemed little hope of this. He had not told any one that he intended to retire to the circus cars earlier than usual. The chances were that he would not be missed till the circus company had reached the next town on their route, ten miles away. Then there would be no clew to his whereabouts, and even if there were he might be killed before any help could come to him. So far as he had been able to observe, the miners were--a portion of them, at least--a lawless set of men, who were not likely to be influenced by considerations of pity or ordinary humanity. Kit had been very religiously brought up during his father's life, at least, and he had not lost his faith in an overruling Providence. So in this great peril it was natural for him to pray to God for deliverance from danger. When his prayer was concluded, he felt easier, and in spite of his disagreeable surroundings he managed to fall asleep. Meanwhile the circus performance terminated, and preparations were commenced for the journey to the next town. The canvas men swarmed around the tents and swiftly took them down and conveyed them to the freight cars, where they assisted the razorbacks to pack them in small compass. Harry Thorne, who had his berth next to Kit, turned in rather late. He looked into Kit's bed, and to his surprise found it unoccupied. "What can have become of the boy?" he asked himself. He went outside, and espying Achilles Henderson, he said: "Have you seen anything of Kit Watson?" "Isn't he in his berth?" asked Mr. Henderson, surprised. "No." Inquiry developed the fact that Kit had not been seen by any one since the conclusion of his act. "I am afraid the boy has come to harm," said Achilles. "This is a rough place, and there are plenty of tough characters about, as our experience this afternoon showed." "What shall we do? The cars will soon be starting, and we must leave him behind." "If he doesn't show up before that time, I will stay behind and hunt him up. He is too good a boy to be left to his fate." CHAPTER XXVII. A MINER'S CABIN. Kit's principal captor was known as Dick Hayden. He was an Englishman, and a leader in every kind of mischief. If there was any disturbance between the miners and their employers, he was generally found to be at the bottom of it. A naturally quarrelsome disposition was intensified by intemperance. In the attack upon the circus tents he found himself in his element. His ignominious defeat made him ugly and revengeful. His wife was dead, but he had one child, Janet, a girl of thirteen, who cooked for him and took care of his cabin. The poor girl had a hard time of it, but she endeavored so far as possible to avoid trouble with her brutal parent. It was near ten o'clock when Hayden came home after locking Kit in the deserted cabin. He had gone away without supper, but late as it was, Janet had something hot ready for him on the stove. "Well, Janet, child, have you my supper ready?" he said, not unpleasantly, for his victory over Kit and the meditated revenge of the next day had put him in good humor. "Yes, father; it's on the stove and ready to dish up." "Lay the table, then, for I'm main tired and hungry." The little girl quickly spread the cloth, and Dick Hayden ate like a voracious animal. When supper was over he sat back in his chair and lit a pipe. A comfortable supper made him loquacious. "Well, Janet, you don't ask where I've been." "Was it to the circus, father?" "Yes." "How did you like the show?" "I didn't see it," he growled, a frown gathering upon his brow. "And why not, father?" "Because we had a fight to get in free, and got the worst of it." "They must be main strong, then, those circus men." "Strong!" repeated Hayden, scornfully. "Well, mayhap they are, but we'd have bested them but for the giant." "The giant! Is it the big man I saw in the parade?" "Yes; he's as strong as three men. He flung me down as easily as I'd throw a boy." "Then he must have been strong, for you're a powerful man, father." "There isn't a man as works in the mine'll compare with me, lass," said Hayden, proudly; "but all the same I'm no match for a monster." "Tell me about it, father," said Janet, with natural curiosity. Dick Hayden went on to describe the fight around the ticket stand, and how he had slipped away, intending to cut the ropes of the tent and let it down on the heads of the spectators gathered inside. "I'd have done it, too," he added, "but for a kid." "I thought just now you said it was the giant." "And I stick to it, lass; but this boy saw what I was doing, and brought the giant to the spot. I could do nothing after that. He threw me down, so that for a few minutes I was stunned." "And how did the fight come out at the ticket stand, father?" "Our men had almost overpowered the circus men, when the giant rushed into the midst, and, seizing a club from Bob Stubbs, laid about him, till half a dozen of our strongest men lay on the ground with broken heads." What puzzled Janet was, that her father should have come home in such good humor after so disastrous a defeat. It was contrary to her experience of him. She would naturally have expected that he would be surly and quarrelsome. The mystery was soon made clear. "But we've got even with them!" chuckled Hayden directly after. "How is that, father?" "We caught the kid." "You have?" "Yes; he was goin' to the circus cars to turn in when Stubbs and I caught him." "You--you didn't kill him, father?" asked Janet in alarm. "No, not yet." "Where is he?" "Do you mind the deserted cabin on Knob Hill?" "Yes, father." "He's locked up in that, tied hand and foot." "How long do you mean to keep him there?" asked Janet, anxiously. "Till to-morrow, and then----" Dick paused ominously. "Well, and then?" "He'll be lucky if he gets off with a whole skin," growled her father. "But for him I'd have brought down the tent about the ears of the people that sat inside, and we'd have had a fine revenge on the showmen." "You don't mean to kill the boy, do you, father?" "What is it to you, lass? You'd best mind your own business. You've got nothing to do with it." "How does the boy look? Was it the one that drove the first chariot, father?" "Like enough, lass! Did you see him?" "Yes; I saw the parade. Everybody was out in the streets then." "And you took partic'lar notice of the boy? That's like a lass," chuckled Hayden. "But it was his duty, father, to stand by the show, seein' he belongs to it." "I don't trouble myself about that. He brought that monster on me, and I'm sore yet with the fall he gave me. I'll take it out of the kid." "But it seems to me, father, it would be better to lay for the giant." "What folly is that, lass? I'd be main glad to give the giant a dose of what he gave me, but he'll leave town to-night, and I ain't big enough to tackle him, even if I had the chance. So I'll revenge myself on his friend, the boy. The kid may be his son, for aught I know." "And what will you do for him, father?" asked Janet, pertinaciously. "You won't kill him?" "Well, I won't go so far as that, for I've no mind to put my neck in a noose, but I'll flog him within an inch of his life. I'll teach him to mind his own business for the future." Janet knew her father's strength and brutality, and she shuddered at the idea of the boy being exposed to it. She knew very well it would be of no use to make a protest. She would only get herself into trouble. Yet she couldn't reconcile herself to the thought of poor Kit being cruelly punished. She asked herself what she could do to prevent it. There was one thing in favor of a rescue. She knew where Kit was confined. If it were not so late she would steal out, and going to the cabin relieve him from captivity. But it was too late, and too dark for that. Besides, she could not leave her father's cabin without observation. "I will wait till to-morrow morning," she said to herself. It so chanced that on account of some slight repairs the mine in which her father was employed was shut down for a few days. This was favorable, for he would lie in bed till eight o'clock at least, and there would be a chance to get out without observation. The next morning, about five o'clock, Janet rose from her bed, hastily dressed herself, and crept to the door of her father's chamber. He was sound asleep, and breathing heavily. There was small chance of his awakening before seven o'clock. Janet took a little meat and bread in a tin pail, for she thought the captive might be in need of breakfast, and then, putting a sharp knife in her pocket to cut the ropes that bound him, she left the house and took her way over the hill to the deserted cabin which served as Kit's prison. CHAPTER XXVIII. KIT RESCUED BY A GIRL. Kit had succeeded in getting a little sleep during the night, but his position was necessarily constrained and he was but very slightly refreshed. Moreover he was a prey to anxiety, for he did not know what fate awaited him on the succeeding day. At four o'clock in the morning a little light found its way into the cabin through a small window at the rear. The other windows were boarded up. Kit, appreciating the desirability of escaping before a visit should be made him by his captors, tried hard to work himself out of his bonds, but only succeeded in confining himself more closely than before. "What will they do to me?" he asked himself anxiously. He had heard from some of the circus men accounts of the roughness and brutality of the miners, or at least of a certain class of them, for some were quiet and peaceable men, and he knew that there was no extreme of which they were not capable. Life is sweet, and to a boy of sixteen, in good health and strength, it is especially dear. Suppose he should lose his life in this region? Probably none of his friends would ever learn what had become of him, and his uncle and cousin would not scruple to spread rumors to his discredit. It was certainly tantalizing that he should be tied hand and foot, utterly unable to help himself. More and more light crept in at the window, and there was every indication of its being a glorious day. But this prospect brought no pleasure to poor Kit. "Before this time the circus people must have found out my absence," he thought. "Will they take the trouble to look for me?" Kit was on good terms with his comrades, indeed he was popular with them all, as a bright boy is apt to be, and he did not like to think that no effort would be made to find him. Still, as he could not help owning to himself, they had no clew that was likely to lead to success. He had given no one notice where he was going, and his capture was not likely to have been observed by any one. While he was indulging in these sorrowful reflections, his attention was drawn to a noise at the window. "They can't have come back so early," he said to himself in surprise. He twisted himself round to catch a glimpse, if possible, of the early visitor, and to his delight, he caught a partial view of Janet's dress. Suppose she should prove a deliverer, he said to himself with beating heart. The visitor, whoever it was, was evidently trying to peer into the cabin. Kit was so placed in a corner as to be almost out of sight in the dark interior. He felt that he must attract attention. "Hallo, there!" he cried in a loud clear voice. "He's there!" thought Janet, "just as father said." "Let me out!" cried Kit, eagerly. "Draw out the bolt, and open the door!" "Will she do it, or will she be frightened away?" he asked himself, with his heart filled with suspense. He did not have long to wait for an answer, and a favorable one. He heard the bolt withdrawn, then the door was opened, and the girl's face appeared. Janet Hayden was small, not especially pretty, and rather old-fashioned in looks, but to poor Kit she seemed like an angel. "Are you the circus boy?" she asked timidly. "Yes; I am tied here. Have you got a knife to cut this rope?" "Yes; I brought one with me." "Then you knew I was here?" Kit asked in surprise. "Yes; it was my father that locked you up here--my father and another man." "Will you cut the rope and let me go, then?" "Yes; that is what I came for." The little maid went up to the captive, bent over, and with considerable sawing, for the knife she had with her was a dull case knife, succeeded in severing the rope, and Kit was able to rise and stand upon his feet. It was a perfect luxury to feel himself once more free and unshackled. "I'm very much obliged to you," he said, gratefully. "You can't imagine how stiff I am." "I should think you would be," said Janet, sympathetically. "When did your father tell you that I was here?" "After he got home last night. It was after he had eaten his supper." "And where is he now?" "At home and asleep." "Does he get up early?" asked Kit, in some anxiety. "Yes, when he is at work; but the mine is shut down for a few days, so he lies abed longer." "Did he say anything about coming here to-day?" "Yes, he meant to come--he and the other man--and I was afraid he would do you some harm." "He would have done so, I am sure," said Kit, shuddering. "I don't see how such a rough father should have so good a daughter." Janet blushed, and seemed pleased with the compliment. "I think I take after my mother," she said. "Is your mother alive?" "No, she died two years ago," answered Janet, sorrowfully. "She was Scotch, and that is why I am called by a Scotch name." "What is your name, if you don't mind telling me?" "Janet. I am Janet Hayden." "I shall always remember it, for you have done me a great service." "What is your name?" asked Janet, feeling less timid than at first. "Kit Watson." "That is a funny name--Kit, I mean." "My right name is Christopher, but my friends call me Kit. Can you direct me to the next town--Groveton, where the circus shows to-day." "Yes, if you will come outside, I will point out which way it is." Kit emerged from the cabin, nothing loath, and Janet pointed in a westerly direction. "You go over the hill," she said, "and you will come to a road. You will know it, for near the stile there is a red house." "Thank you. How far is it to the next town?" "Eight miles, I believe." "That would be a long walk. Do you think I could get any one to take me over in a wagon?" "I think the man who lives in the red house, Mr. Stover, would take you over, if you pay him." "I shall be glad to pay him, and----" Kit paused, for he felt rather delicate about offering any money to Janet, though he knew she had rendered him most valuable service. "Will you let me offer you a little present?" He took a five dollar bill from his pocket, and offered it to Janet. "What is that?" she asked. "It is a five dollar bill." "You must be rich," she said, for this seemed to her a great deal of money. "Oh, no! but will you take it?" "No," answered Janet, shrinking back, "I didn't come here for money." "I am sure you didn't, but I should like to give you something." "No, I would rather not. Besides, if father knew I had money, he would suspect something, and beat me." "Like the brute that he is," thought Kit. "But I must go at once, for he may wake up and miss me. Good-by!" "Good-by!" said Kit. He had no time to say more, for the child was already hurrying down the hill. CHAPTER XXIX. JANET MEETS THE GIANT. Janet took her way homewards, hurrying with quick feet, lest her father should wake up before she arrived. But she had taken so early a start that she found him still sleeping soundly. She instantly began to make preparations for breakfast. By the time it was on the table her father woke up and yawned. With his waking there came the thought of his young circus captive, and the vengeance he intended to wreak upon him. This pleasant idea roused him completely, and he dressed himself briskly. "Is breakfast ready, Janet?" he asked. "Yes, father." "What time is it?" "Seven o'clock," answered Janet, looking at the clock over the mantel. "I am expecting Bob Stubbs here this morning. Have you got enough for him?" "I think so, father," replied Janet. She did not speak with alacrity, for Mr. Stubbs was no favorite of hers. At that moment a step was heard at the door, and the gentleman spoken of made his appearance. "You're late, Dick," said Stubbs, rubbing his bristling chin. "Yes, I got tired out yesterday. When the mine's shut down I like to take my time. Have you had breakfast, Bob?" "Ye-es," answered Stubbs hesitating, as he glanced at the neatly spread table, with the eggs and bacon on the center dish. "Never mind! You can eat some more. Put a chair for him, Janet." "This lass of yours is growing pretty," said Stubbs, with a glance of admiration. "There's a compliment for you, lass!" said the father. Janet, however, did not appear to appreciate it, and continued to look grave. "Wonder how the kid's getting along," said Bob Stubbs, with his mouth full of bacon. "I reckon he's hungry," said Dick Hayden, in a voice of satisfaction. "Have you left him without anything to eat, father?" asked Janet. "Yes." "The poor fellow will be starved." "And serves him right, too. There ain't no call to pity him." "Why won't you take him some breakfast if you're going round there? I will put some up in a tin pail." "What do you say to that, Bob, hey?" said Hayden. "It's natural for the gal to pity him. He's a nice lookin' chap enough." "He's nicer looking than he will be when we get through with him, eh, Bob?" "That's so, Dick." As Janet listened to this conversation, her heart revolted against the brutality conveyed by the words. She felt dissatisfied to think that her own father was such a man. She could not well feel an affection for him, remembering how ill he had treated her gentle mother, who, as she knew, would be living to-day had she been wedded to a better husband. The two men did not linger long at the table. They were accustomed to swallow their food rapidly, in order to get to the scene of their daily labor on time. So in twenty minutes they rose from the table, and putting on their hats left the cabin. As they departed Janet breathed a sigh of relief, and congratulated herself that she had released the poor boy, and so saved him from the brutal treatment he was likely to receive at the hands of the two miners. "He will have had plenty of time to get away before father and Mr. Stubbs reach the cabin," she said to herself. Janet washed the dishes, and then, having an errand at the store, put on her hat and left the cabin. She did not trouble herself to lock the door, for there was nothing in the place likely to excite the cupidity of any dishonest person. Janet had accomplished a part of the distance when she saw approaching her a figure that at once attracted her earnest attention. The reason will be readily understood when I say that it was Achilles Henderson, the circus giant. Mr. Henderson had been exploring the neighborhood in the hope of finding some trace of Kit, but thus far had been unsuccessful. He was very much perplexed, having absolutely no clew, and was thinking of starting for Groveton, where the circus was billed to appear that evening. He was walking in an undecided way, and never thought of noticing the little girl who stood staring at him. Indeed he was so used to being stared at that he took it as a matter of course, and did not think of giving the curious gazer a second glance. But his attention was called by a low, half frightened voice. "Mr. Giant!" "Well, little girl, what do you want?" he asked. "Are you looking for anybody?" asked Janet, first glancing carefully around, to make sure that she was not likely to be overheard. "Yes," answered Achilles, quickly. "I am looking for a boy." "A circus boy?" "Yes; do you know where he is?" "Come nearer! I don't want anybody to hear what I say." "All right, my little maid! Is the boy alive and well?" "Yes, he was two hours ago." "Where is he?" "I don't know where he is now." Achilles looked disappointed. "Tell me all you know," he said. "My father and Bob Stubbs took him last night, and shut him up in a lonely cabin on the hill." "Where is the cabin?" "He isn't there now. I let him out." "Good for you, little girl! You're a trump. You're a great deal better than your father. Do you know where the boy went?" "I will tell you where I told him to go." "Where is your father now? Is he at work?" "No; the mine is shut down." "How did you know that the boy was in the cabin?" "I heard father tell where he was last night, when he was at supper. So I got up very early, and stole out to release him, for I was afraid father might kill him. He said he meant to punish him for what you did. He said he would rather get at you." "He's quite welcome to, if he wants to," answered Achilles, grimly. "On the whole I wouldn't advise him to tackle me." "He thought you had gone on with the circus." "I should have done so if I hadn't missed Kit." "Yes; he told me his name was Kit." "Was he tied?" "Yes; I took a knife with me and cut the ropes." "The poor fellow must have passed an uncomfortable night." "Yes, he said so." "He must have been very glad to see you." "Yes, he was. I am only afraid of one thing." "What is that?" "Father and the other man left the house more than half an hour ago to go to the cabin. When they find him gone, they will be very angry." "Like as not." "And I think they will try to find him." "Very true; I wish I knew where he was. They wouldn't dare to attack him in my company." "No, Mr. Giant. You must be very strong." "I think I would be a match for them." Achilles questioned Janet minutely as to the advice she had given Kit. "I might follow the boy," he said to himself, "at a guess, but there's only half a chance of my hitting right. Where is the cabin?" he asked, suddenly. Janet pointed in the proper direction. "I know what I'll do," he said, with sudden decision. "I'll follow your father and the other man. All the danger to Kit is likely to come from them. If I can get track of them, I can make sure that no mischief will be done." Achilles Henderson then stepped over a fence which an ordinary man would have had to climb, and made his way to the deserted cabin. CHAPTER XXX. DICK HAYDEN FINDS THE BIRD FLOWN. Half an hour previously Dick Hayden and his congenial friend, Bob Stubbs, reached the cabin. They had much pleasant and jocose conversation on the way touching their young captive, and how he had probably passed the night. They had personal injuries to avenge, and though Achilles was responsible for them, they proposed to wreak vengeance on the boy whom a luckless fate had thrown into their hands. "My shoulders are sore yet," said Hayden, "over the fall that big brute gave me." "And my head hasn't got over the crack I got when he laid me flat with his club," responded Stubbs. "Well, we've got a friend of his, that's one comfort. I'm going to take it out of the kid's hide." "You don't mean to--do for him?" said Stubbs, cautiously. "I don't mean to kill him, if that's what you mean, Stubbs. I have too much regard for my neck, but I mean to give him a sound flogging. You ain't afraid, be you?" "Catch Bob Stubbs afraid of anything, except the hangman's rope! I don't mind telling you that I have reasons to be afraid of that." "Why? You've never been hung, have you?" "No; but an uncle of mine was strung up in England." "What for?" "He got into trouble with a fellow workman and stabbed him." "He was in bad luck. Why didn't he cut it, and come to America?" "He tried it, but the bobbies caught him in the steerage of an ocean steamer, and then it was all up with him." "Well, I hope his nephew will come to a better end. But here we are at the cabin." There was nothing in the outward appearance of the hut to indicate that the bird was flown. Janet bolted the door after releasing the prisoner, and no one could judge that it had been opened. "All is safe," said Bob Stubbs. "Of course it is! Why shouldn't it be?" "No reason; but some of his friends might have found him." "All his friends are at Groveton. Then they had no idea what we did with him." "They must have found out that he was gone." "They couldn't find him, so that would do him no good." Stubbs was about to draw the bolt, but Hayden stayed his hand. "Wait a minute, Bob," he said; "I'll look in at the window, and see what he is doing." Dick Hayden went around to the rear of the building, and flattened his face against the pane in the effort to see the corner where the captive had been tied. He could not see very distinctly, but what he did see startled him. He could perceive no one. "Could the boy have loosened the rope?" he asked himself hurriedly. Even in that case, as the window was nailed so that it could not be opened, and the door was bolted, there seemed no way of escape. His eyes eagerly explored other portions of the cabin, but he could not catch a glimpse of Kit. He rushed round to the front, and in an excitement which Stubbs could not understand, pulled the bolt back with a jerk. "What's the matter, Dick?" asked Stubbs, staring. Dick Hayden did not answer, but threw open the door. He strode in, and peeped here and there. "The boy's gone!" he said hoarsely, to Stubbs, who followed close behind. "Gone!" echoed Stubbs, in blank amazement. "How did he get away?" "That's the question," responded Dick, growling. "Well, I'm--flabbergasted! There's witchery here!" Dick Hayden bent over and picked up the pieces of rope which lay in the corner where the prisoner had been placed. He examined the ends, and said briefly, turning to Stubbs: "They've been cut!" "So they have, Dick. Who in natur' could have done it? Perhaps the kid did it himself. Might have had a knife in his pocket." "Don't be a fool, Stubbs! Supposin' he'd done it, how was he goin' to get out?" "That's what beats me!" "Somebody must have let him out." "Do you think it's his circus friends?" "No; they're all in Groveton. Somebody must have been passin' and heard the boy holler, and let him out." "What are you goin' to do about it, Dick?" "Goin' to sit down and take a smoke. It may give me an idea." It will be noticed that of these two, Dick Hayden, as the bolder and stronger spirit, was the leader, and Bob Stubbs the subservient follower. Stubbs was no less brutal, when occasion served, but he was not self reliant. He wanted some one to lead the way, and he was willing to follow. The two men sat down beside the cabin, and lit their pipes. Nothing was said for a time. Dick seemed disinclined to conversation, and Stubbs was always disposed to be silent when enjoying a smoke. The smoke continued for twenty minutes or more. Finally Dick withdrew the pipe from his mouth. "Well, Dick, what do you think about it? What shall we do?" inquired his friend. "I am going to foller the kid." "But you don't know where he's gone," replied Stubbs. "No; but I may strike his track. Are you with me?" "Of course I am." "Then listen to me. The one that let the boy out knows the neighborhood. The boy would naturally want to go to Groveton, and likely he would be directed to Stover. If the kid had any money, he would ask Stover to drive him over, or else he would foot it." "You're right, Dick. That's what he'd do," said Stubbs, admiring his companion's penetration. "Then we must go over to Stover's." "All right! I'm with you." "I'm a poor man, Bob, but I'd give a ten dollar bill to have that kid in my power once more." "I don't doubt it, Dick." "I hate to have it said that a kid like that got the advantage of Dick Hayden." "So would I, Bob." "If I get hold of him I'll give him a lesson that he won't soon forget." "And serve him right too." The two men rose, and took their way across the fields, following exactly the same path which our hero had traveled earlier in the morning. They walked with brisk steps, having a definite purpose in view. Dick Hayden was intensely anxious to recapture Kit, whose escape had balked him of his vengeance, and mortified him exceedingly. As he expressed it, he could not bear to think that a boy of sixteen had got the advantage of him. At length they reached the red house already referred to, and saw Ham Stover, the owner, in the yard. "You are up betimes, Dick," said Stover. "What's in the wind?" "Have you seen aught of a boy of sixteen passin' this way?" asked Dick, anxiously. "A likely lookin' lad, well dressed?" "Yes." "He was round here an hour ago, and took breakfast in the house." This was true; the slight refreshment Janet had brought him having proved insufficient to completely stay the cravings of Kit's appetite after his night in the cabin. "Where is he now?" "What do you want of him?" "Never you mind--I'll tell you bimeby. Where is he?" "He wanted me to harness up and take him to Groveton." Dick Hayden and Stubbs exchanged glances. It was evident that they had struck Kit's trail. "Well, did you do it?" "No; I couldn't spare the time. Besides I wanted the horse to go to the village. I'm going to harness up now." "What did the boy do?" "He walked." "How long since did he start?" "About half an hour or thereabouts." Dick Hayden made a rapid calculation. "We may overtake him if we walk fast," he said. Without stopping to enlighten the curiosity of Mr. Stover the two men set out rapidly on the Groveton road. CHAPTER XXXI. IN THE ENEMY'S HANDS. Mr. Stover was considerably surprised when twenty minutes later, looking up from his work in the yard, he saw a man of colossal size crossing the street. He hadn't attended the circus, and had not therefore heard of the giant, who was one of its principal features. "Who in creation can that be?" Stover asked himself. Achilles Henderson turned into the yard, and accosted the farmer: "Good morning, friend," he said. "Can you tell me if a boy of about sixteen has passed here this morning?" "That boy again!" thought the bewildered farmer. "Yes," he answered. "Please describe him." Mr. Stover did so. "The very one!" said Achilles. "Now how long since was he here?" "He took breakfast with my family, and started off nigh on to an hour ago." "In what direction did he go?" This question was also answered. "Thank you, friend," said the giant; "you have done me a favor." "Then won't you do me one?" said Stover. "Who is this boy that so many people are askin' for?" "He is a young acrobat connected with Barlow's circus. But what do you mean by so many people asking about him?" "There was two men here twenty minutes ago, that seemed very anxious to find him." Achilles Henderson heard this with apprehension. He could guess who they were, and what he heard alarmed him for Kit's safety. "Who are they?" he inquired hastily. "Dick Hayden and Bob Stubbs." "Are they miners?" "Yes." "Did you tell them where the boy went?" "Sartin! Why not?" "Because they mean to do the boy a mischief; they may even kill him." "What in creation should they do that for?" "Mr. Stover, I must follow them at once. Have you a team?" "Yes; but I calculated to use it." "I must have it, and I want you to go with me. You may charge what you please. Remember a boy's life may depend on it." "Then you shall have it," said the farmer, "and I'll go with you. I took a likin' to the boy. He was a gentleman, if ever I saw one; and my women folks was mightily taken with him. Dick Hayden and Bob Stubbs are rough kind of men, and I wouldn't trust any one I set store by in their hands. But why----" "Harness your horse, and I'll answer your questions on the way, Mr. Stover." "How do you know my name?" asked Stover, with sudden thought. "I was told by some one as I came along." The farmer lost no time in harnessing his horse, Achilles Henderson lending a hand. The horse seemed rather alarmed, never having seen a giant before, but soon got over his fright. The two men then jumped into the wagon, and set out in search of Kit. Meanwhile our hero had taken his way leisurely along the road. He didn't anticipate being followed, at any rate so soon, and felt under no particular apprehension. He had walked about three miles when a broad branching elm tree tempted him to rest by its shade. He threw himself down on the grass, and indulged in self congratulations upon his escape from his captors. But his congratulation proved to be premature. After a while he raised his eyes and looked carelessly back in the direction from which he had come. What he saw startled him. The two miners, Hayden and Stubbs, had lost no time on the way. They were bent on capturing Kit, in order to revenge themselves upon him. Reaching a little eminence in the road Dick Hayden caught sight of his intended victim sitting under the tree. His eyes gleamed with a wicked light. "There's the kid, Stubbs!" he said. "Stir your stumps, old man, and we'll collar him!" The two miners started on a run, and when Kit caught sight of them they were already within a few rods. The young acrobat saw that his only safety, if indeed there was any chance at all, was in flight. He started to his feet, and being fleet of limb gave them a good chase. But in the end the superior strength and endurance of the men conquered. Flushed and panting, Kit was compelled to stop. Hayden grasped him by the collar with a look of wicked satisfaction. "So I've got you, my fine chap, have I?" "Yes, so it seems!" said Kit, his heart sinking. "Sit down! I've got a few questions to ask." There was a broad flat stone by the roadside. He seated Kit upon it with a forcible push, and the two men ranged themselves one on each side of him. "What time did you leave the cabin, boy?" "I don't know what time it was. It must have been two hours since--perhaps more." "Did any one let you out?" "Yes." "Who was it?" "I don't know the person's name." "Was it a man?" Kit began to feel that he must be cautious. He knew that she was the daughter of the man who was questioning him, and that she would be in danger of rough treatment if her father should find out that she had thwarted him. "I cannot tell you," he answered, though he well knew that the answer was likely to get him into trouble. "You can't tell? Why not? Don't you know whether it was a man or not?" "Yes, I know." "You mean that you won't tell me, then?" said Hayden, in a menacing tone. "I mean that I don't care to do it. I might get the person into trouble." "You would that, you may bet your life. I can tackle any man round here, and I'd get even with that man if I swung for it." "That is why I don't care to tell you," said Kit. "How can you tell that the man knew you put me there?" "Didn't you tell him?" "No." "It was a man, then!" said Hayden, turning to Stubbs. "Look here, young feller, if you tell me who it was, you may get off better yourself." "I would rather not!" answered Kit, pale but firm. "Suit yourself, kid, but you may as well know that you'll be half killed before we get through with you. Get up!" As he spoke, Hayden jerked Kit to his feet, and began to drag him toward the rail fence. "Take down the rails, Stubbs!" he said. "What's your game, Dick?" "I'm going to give the kid a drubbing that he won't be likely to forget, but I can't do it in the road, for some one may come along." "I'm with you, Dick." At the lower end of the field which they had now entered was a strip of woods, which promised seclusion and freedom from interruption. Poor Kit, as he was dragged forward by his relentless captor, found his spirits sinking to zero. "Will no one deliver me from this brutal man?" he exclaimed inwardly. He felt that his life was in peril. CHAPTER XXXII. KIT'S DANGER. The men reached the edge of the woods and halted. "I'd like to hang him!" growled Dick Hayden with a malignant look. "It wouldn't do, Dick," said Stubbs. "We'd get into trouble." "If we were found out." "Murder will 'most always come out," said Stubbs, uneasily. He was a shade less brutal and far less daring than his companion. It can be imagined with what feelings Kit heard this colloquy. He had no confidence in the humanity of his captors, and considered them, Dick Hayden in particular, as capable of anything. He did not dare to remonstrate lest in a spirit of perversity the two men might proceed to extremities. Kit was not long in doubt as to the intentions of his captors. "Take off your coat, boy!" said Hayden, harshly. Kit looked into the face of his persecutor, and decided that it would be prudent to obey. Otherwise he would have forcibly resisted. He removed his coat and held it over his arm. "Lay down the coat and take off your vest," was the next order. This also Kit felt compelled to do. Dick Hayden produced from the capacious side pocket of his coat a cord, which he proceeded to test by pulling. It was evidently very strong. "Stubbs, tie him to yonder sapling!" said Dick. Stubbs proceeded, nothing loth, to obey the directions of his leader. Kit was tied with his back exposed. Dick Hayden watched the preparations with evident enjoyment. "This is the moment I have been longing for," he said. From his other pocket he drew a cowhide, which he passed through the fingers of his left hand, while with cruel eyes he surveyed the shrinking form of his victim. Meanwhile where was Achilles Henderson? He and Stover bowled as rapidly over the road as the speed of a fourteen year old horse would permit. He looked eagerly before him, in the hope of catching a glimpse either of Kit or of the miners. When they started they were far behind, but at last they reached a point on the road where they could see Kit and his two captors making their way across the fields. "There they are!" said Stover, who was the first to see them. "And they've got the boy with them!" ejaculated Achilles. "Where are they going, do you think?" "Over to them woods, it's likely," replied Stover. "What for?" "I'm afraid they mean to do the boy harm." "Not if I can prevent it," said Achilles, with a stern look about the mouth. "They're goin' to give him a floggin', I think." "They'll get the same dose in larger measure, I can tell them that. Mr. Stover, isn't there any way I can reach the woods by a short cut so that they won't see me?" "Yes, there is a path in that field there. There is a fringe of trees separatin' it from the field where they are walkin'." "Then stop your horse, and I'll jump out!" Mr. Stover did so with alacrity. He disliked both Dick Hayden and Bob Stubbs, whom he had reason to suspect of carrying off a dozen of his chickens the previous season. He had not dared to charge them with it, knowing the men's ugly disposition, and being certain that they would revenge themselves upon him. "Do you want me along, Mr. Giant?" he asked. "No; I'm more than a match for them both." "Shouldn't wonder if you were," chuckled Stover. He kept his place in the wagon and laughed quietly to himself. "I'd like to see the scrimmage," he said to himself. With this object in view he drove forward, so that from the wagon seat he could command a view of the scene of conflict. "They're tying the boy to a tree," he said. "I reckon the giant'll be in time, and I'm glad on't. That boy's a real gentleman. Wonder what he's done to rile Dick Hayden and Bob Stubbs. He'd have a mighty small show if the giant hadn't come up. Dick's a strong man, but he'll be like a child in the hands of an eight-footer." Meanwhile Achilles Henderson was getting over the ground at the rate of ten miles an hour or more. His long strides gave him a great advantage over an ordinary runner. "If they lay a hand on that boy I pity 'em!" he said to himself. It was fortunate for Kit that Dick Hayden, like a cat who plays with a mouse, paused to gloat over the evident alarm and uneasiness of his victim, even after all was ready for the punishment which he proposed to inflict. "Well, boy, what have you to say now?" he demanded, drawing the cowhide through his short stubby fingers. "I have nothing to say that will move you from your purpose, I am afraid," replied poor Kit. "I guess you're about right there, kid!" chuckled Hayden. "Are you ready to apologize to me for what you done over to the circus?" "I don't think there is anything to apologize for." "There isn't, isn't there? Didn't you bring that long-legged ruffian on to me?" "I was only doing my duty," said Kit, manfully. "Oho! so that's the way you look at it, do you?" "Yes, sir." "No doubt you'd like it if that tall brute were here now," said Hayden, tauntingly. "Yes," murmured Kit; "I wish my good friend Achilles were here." "So that's his name, is it? Well, I wouldn't mind if he were here. Stubbs, I think you and I could do for him, eh?" "I don't know," said Stubbs, dubiously. "Well I do. He's only one man, while we are two, and strong at that." "Oho!" thought Achilles, who was now within hearing. "So my friend, the miner, is getting valorous! Well, he will probably have a chance to test his strength." By this time Hayden had got through with his taunts, and was ready to enjoy his vengeance. "Your time has come, boy!" he said, fiercely. "Stand back, Stubbs!" Bob Stubbs stepped back, and Dick Hayden raised the cruel cowhide in his muscular grasp. It would have inflicted a terrible blow had it fallen on the young acrobat. But something unexpected happened. The instrument of torture was torn from his hands, and a deep voice, which he knew only too well, uttered these words: "For shame, you brute! Would you kill the boy?" Panic stricken the brutal miner turned and found himself confronting Achilles Henderson. A fierce cry of rage and disappointment burst from his lips. "Where did you come from?" he stammered. "From Heaven, I think!" murmured poor Kit, with devout gratitude to that overruling Providence which had sent him such a helper in his utmost need. CHAPTER XXXIII. DICK HAYDEN MEETS WITH RETRIBUTION. Dick Hayden and Bob Stubbs, large and strong men as they were, looked puny, compared with the giant who towered beside them, his face kindling with righteous indignation. "What are you going to do to the boy?" he demanded, sternly. "I was going to flog him," answered Hayden in a surly tone. "And you were helping him?" went on Achilles, turning to Stubbs. "No, sir," answered Stubbs eagerly, for, big as he was, he was a coward. "I didn't want Dick to do it." "You coward!" exclaimed Hayden, contemptuously. "You're as deep in it as I am." "Is that true, Kit?" asked Achilles. "He isn't as bad as the other," said Kit. "That man Hayden thought of killing me, but his friend protested against it." "It shall be remembered to his credit. Why did you wish to flog the boy?" he asked of Hayden. "On account of what happened at the circus." "The boy didn't touch you." "He brought you on me." "Then I was the one to punish." "I couldn't get at you." "Here I am, at your service." Dick Harden measured the giant with a vindictive eye, but there was something in the sight of the mighty thews and sinews of the huge man that quelled his warlike ardor. "It wouldn't be a fair contest," he said sullenly. "There are two of you, as you said just before I came." "No, there are not," interposed Stubbs, hastily. "I hain't any grudge against you, Mr. Giant." "You are willing to help me?" "Yes." "Then untie that boy." Stubbs unloosed the cord that bound Kit to the tree, while Achilles Henderson watched Hayden narrowly, for he had no mind to let him go free. "Are you that man's slave?" asked Hayden. "I am willing to oblige him," said Stubbs, meekly. Kit straightened up on being released, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Come along, Stubbs," said Hayden, with an ugly look at Kit and his protector. "Our business is through." "Not quite," said Achilles, quietly, as he laid his broad hand with a detaining grasp on the shoulder of the ruffian. "I am not through with you." "What do you want?" asked Dick Hayden with assumed bravado, but with an uneasy look on his lowering face. "I am going to give you a lesson. I gave you one at the circus ground, but you need another." "Touch me if you dare!" said Hayden, defiantly. For answer, Achilles hurled him to the ground with less effort than Hayden would have needed to serve Kit in the same way. Then with the cowhide uplifted he struck the prostrate wretch three sharp blows that made him howl with rage and pain. Stubbs looked on with pale face, thinking that his turn might come next. "Hit him, Stubbs! Kill him!" screamed Dick Hayden. "Would you stand by and see me murdered?" "I can't help you," said Stubbs. "What can I do?" Having administered justice to the chief ruffian, Achilles turned to Stubbs. "Now," he said, "what have you to say for yourself? Why shouldn't I serve you in the same way?" "Spare me!" whined Stubbs, panic stricken. "I am the boy's friend. It was Hayden who wanted to hurt him." "My friend, I put very little confidence in what you say. Still I don't think you are as bad as this brute here. I will spare you on one condition." "What is it? Indeed, I will do anything you ask." "Then take this cowhide and give your companion a taste of its quality." Stubbs looked alarmed. "Don't ask me to do that," he said. "Me and Dick are pals." "Just as I supposed. In that case you require a dose of the same medicine," and Achilles made a threatening demonstration with the rawhide. "Don't do it," cried Stubbs, affrighted. "Then will you do as I say?" "Yes, yes." "Will you lay it on well?" "Yes," answered Stubbs, who, forced to choose between his own skin and Hayden's, was influenced by a regard for his own person. Dick Hayden listened to this conference with lowering brow. He did not think Stubbs would dare to hit him. But he was destined to find himself unpleasantly surprised. Stubbs took the hide from the hands of the giant, and anxious to conciliate his powerful antagonist laid it with emphasis on Hayden, already smarting from his former castigation. "I'll kill you for that, Bob Stubbs!" he yelled, almost frothing at the mouth with rage. "I had to do it, Dick!" said Stubbs, apologetically. "You heard what he said." "I don't care what he said. To spare your own miserable carcass, you struck your friend. But I am your friend no longer. I'll have it out of you!" "Come, Kit, you are revenged," said the giant. "Now let us hurry on to the circus. There's a team in the road below. I think I can make a bargain with Mr. Stover to carry us all the way." They found Mr. Stover waiting for them. "Well," he said, "how did you make out?" "Suppose you look back and see!" Stover did look, and to his amazement he saw Dick Hayden and Bob Stubbs rolling on the ground, each holding the other in a fierce embrace. Hayden had attacked Stubbs, and though the latter tried hard to avoid a combat he was forced into it. Then, finding himself pushed, he fought as well as he could. Fortune favored him, for Dick Hayden tripped, and in so doing sprained his ankle. He fell with a groan, and Stubbs, glad to escape, left him in haste, and made the best of his way home. It was not until several hours afterwards that Hayden was found by another party, and carried home, where he was confined for a fortnight. This was fortunate for Kit and the giant, for he had intended to make a formal complaint before a justice of the peace which might have resulted in the arrest and detention of one or both. But his sprained ankle gave him so much pain that it drove all other thoughts out of his head for the time being. Mr. Stover was induced by an unusually liberal offer to convey the two friends to the next town, where they found their circus friends wondering what had become of them. Kit was none the worse for his experience, though it had been far from pleasant, and performed that afternoon and evening with his usual spirit and success. He told Achilles how he had been rescued by Janet Hayden, and the latter said with emphasis: "The girl's a trump! She has probably saved your life! That brute, her father, wouldn't shrink from any violence, no matter how great. You ought to make her some acknowledgment, Kit." "I wouldn't dare to," answered the young acrobat. "If her father should find out what she did for me, I am afraid her life would not be safe." CHAPTER XXXIV. SOME IMPORTANT INFORMATION. Two or three days later, the circus was billed to show at Glendale, a manufacturing village in Western Pennsylvania. The name attracted the attention of Kit, for this was the place where his uncle had lived for many years previous to the death of Kit's father. He naturally desired to learn something of his uncle's reputation among the villagers, who from his long residence among them must remember him well. The circus had arrived during the night. As a general thing Kit was not in a hurry to get up, but as he was to stay but a day in Glendale, he rose early, with the intention of improving his time. Breakfast in the circus tent was not ready till nine o'clock, for circus men of every description get up late, except the razorbacks, who are compelled to be about very early to unload the freight cars, and the canvas men, who put up the tents. So Kit went to the hotel, and registering his name called for breakfast. After he had eaten it, he strolled into the office, hoping to meet some one of whom he could make inquiries respecting his uncle. This was made unexpectedly easy. A man of about his uncle's age had been examining the list of arrivals. He looked at Kit inquisitively. "I beg your pardon, young man," he said, "but are you Christopher Watson?" "Yes, sir," answered Kit, politely. "Did you ever have any relatives living in this place?" "Yes, sir. My uncle, Stephen Watson, used to live here." "I thought so. I once saw your father. He came here to visit your uncle. You look like him." Kit was gratified, for he cherished a warm affection for his dead father, and was glad to have it said that he resembled him. "Are you going to stay here long?" asked the villager. "No, sir; I am here only for the day." "On business, I presume." "Yes, sir," answered Kit, smiling. "I am here with Barlow's circus." The other looked amazed. "You don't mean to say that you are connected with the circus?" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir." "In what capacity?" "I am an acrobat." "I don't understand it at all. Why should your father's son need to travel with a circus?" "Because I have my living to earn, and that pays me better than any other employment I can get." "But your father was a rich man, I always heard." "I supposed so myself, till a short time since my uncle informed me that I was penniless, and must learn a trade." "But where did the money go, then? How does your uncle make a living?" "He has my father's old place, and appears to have enough to support himself and Ralph." "Sit down here, young man! There is something strange about this. I want to ask you a few questions." "You are the man I want to see," said Kit. "I think myself there is some mystery, and I would like to ask some questions about my uncle Stephen from some one who knew him here. I suppose you knew him?" "No one knew him better. Many is the time he has come to me for a loan. He didn't always pay back the money, and I dare say he owes me still in the neighborhood of fifty dollars." "Was he poor then?" "He was in very limited circumstances. He pretended to be in the insurance business, and had a small office in the building near the hotel, but if he made four hundred dollars a year in that way it was more than any one supposed." "Then," said Kit, puzzled, "how could he have lent my father ten thousand dollars?" "He lend you father ten thousand dollars, or anybody else ten thousand dollars! Why, that is perfectly ridiculous. Who says he did?" "He says so himself." "To whom did he tell that fish story?" "He told me. That is the way he explained his taking possession of the property. That was only one loan. He said he lent father money at various times, and had to take the estate in payment." Kit's auditor gave a loud whistle. "The man's a deeper and shrewder rascal than I had any idea of," he said. "He is swindling you in the most barefaced manner." "I am not very much surprised to hear it," said Kit. "I was not satisfied that he was telling the truth. If you are correct, then, he has wrongfully appropriated my father's money." "There is not a doubt of it. Did he drive you from home?" "About the same. He attempted to apprentice me to a blacksmith, while his own son Ralph he means to send to college, and have him study law." "I remember Ralph well, though he was a small boy when he left this village. He was very unpopular among those of his own age. He was always up to some mean act of mischief. He got my boy into trouble once in school by charging him with something he had himself done." "He hasn't changed much, then," said Kit. "We both attended the same boarding school, but nobody liked Ralph." "Was he much of a scholar?" "No; he dragged along in the lower half of the class." "Were you two good friends?" "We didn't quarrel, but we kept apart." "So his father wants to make a lawyer of him?" "Yes; I have had a letter from Smyrna in which I hear that my uncle has just bought Ralph a bicycle valued at a hundred and twenty-five dollars." "Money seems to be more plenty with him now than it used to be in his Glendale days. By the way would you like to see the place where your uncle used to live?" "Yes, sir, if you don't mind showing me." "I will do so with pleasure. Put on your hat, and we will go at once." They walked about a third of a mile, till they reached the outskirts of the village. "This is the home of the foreign population," said Kit's guide. "And there is the house which was occupied for at least ten years by your uncle." Kit eyed the building with interest. It was a plain looking cottage, containing but four rooms, which stood badly in need of paint. There was about an acre of land, rocky and sterile, attached to it. "This is the residence of the man who lent your father ten thousand dollars," said his guide, in an ironical tone. "Not much of a palace, is it?" "It can't be worth over a thousand dollars." "Your uncle sold it for seven hundred and eighty dollars, but he didn't get that sum in money, for it was mortgaged for six hundred." "You said my father came here once?" "It was to visit your uncle. While he was here, he stood security at the tailor's for new suits for your uncle and cousin, and must have given your uncle some cash besides, for he appeared to be in funds for some time afterwards. So you see the loan, or rather gift, was on the other side." "I don't see how my uncle dared to misrepresent matters in that way." "Nor I; for he could easily be convicted of fraudulent statements." "I am very much obliged to you, Mr.----" "Pierce." "Mr. Pierce, for your information." "I hope you will make some use of it." "I certainly shall," said Kit, his good humored face showing unwonted resolution. "Whenever you do, my testimony will be at your service, and there are plenty others who will corroborate my statements of your uncle's financial condition when here. The fact is, my young friend, your uncle has engaged in a most shameless plot against you." Kit was deeply impressed by this conversation. He was resolved, when the time came, to assert his rights, and lay claim to his dead father's property. CHAPTER XXXV. ON THE TRAPEZE. Kit was on pleasant relations with his fellow performers. Indeed, he was a general favorite, owing to his obliging disposition and pleasant manners. He took an interest in their acts as well as his own, and in particular had cultivated an intimacy with Louise Lefroy, the trapeze performer. He had practiced on the trapeze in the gymnasium, and had acquired additional skill under the tuition of Mlle. Lefroy. "Some time you will make an engagement as a trapeze performer, Christopher," said the lady to him one day. "No," answered Kit, shaking his head. "You wouldn't be afraid?" "No; I think I would make a very respectable performer; but I don't mean to travel with the circus after this season, unless I am obliged to." "Why should you be obliged to?" "Because I have my living to earn." "It is a pity," said Mlle. Lefroy. "You seem cut out for a circus performer." "Do you like it, Mlle. Lefroy?" The lady looked thoughtful. "I have to like it," she said. "Besides, there is an excitement about it, and I crave excitement." "But wouldn't you rather have a home of your own?" "Listen! I had a home of my own, but my husband was intemperate, and in fits of intoxication would illtreat me and my boy." "Then you have a boy?" said Kit, surprised. "Yes; and I support him at a boarding school out of my professional earnings, which are large." "I am going to ask you another question, but you may not like to answer it." "Speak plainly." "Your husband is living, is he not?" "Yes." "Does he know that you are a circus performer?" "No; and I would not have him know for worlds." "Would he feel sensitive about it?" Mlle. Lefroy laughed bitterly. "You don't know him, or you would not ask that question," she said. "He would want to appropriate my salary. That is why I do not care to have him know how I am earning the living which he ought to provide for me." "I sympathize with you," said Kit, gently. "Then you don't think any the worse of me because I am a trapeze performer." "Why should I? Am I not a circus performer also?" "Yes; but it is different with you, being a man. You would not like to think of your mother or sister in my position." "No; I would not, yet I can imagine circumstances that would justify it." From this time Kit was disposed to look with different eyes upon Mlle. Lefroy. He did not think of her as a daring actor, but rather as an injured wife and devoted mother, who every day risked her life for the sake of one who was dear to her. "Did you never fear that your husband might be present when you are performing?" asked Kit. "It is my constant dread," answered Mlle. Lefroy. "When I come out in my costume, and look over the sea of heads, I am always afraid I shall see _his_ face." "But you never have yet?" "Never yet. I do not think if I should see that man I could go through my part. It requires nerve, as you know, and my nerves would be so shaken that my life would be in peril. If you ever hear of my meeting with an accident, you may guess the probable cause." "Then, if ever you recognize your husband among the spectators, it would be prudent to omit your performance." "That is what I propose to do." Kit little imagined how soon the contingency which his friend feared would arrive. Two evenings later Harry Thorne brought him a little note. He opened it and read as follows: Come and see me at once. LOUISE LEFROY. Kit ascertained where Mlle. Lefroy was to be found, and obeyed the summons immediately. He found the lady in great agitation. "Are you not well?" he asked. "Well in health, but not in mind," she answered. "Has anything happened?" "Yes; what I dreaded has come to pass." "Have you seen your husband?" asked Kit quickly. "Yes; I was taking a walk, and saw him on the opposite side of the street." "Did he see you?" "No; but I ascertained that he is staying at the hotel. Now he is likely to follow the crowd, and attend the circus to-night." "That is probable. Then you will not appear." "I should not dare to. But it will be a great disappointment to the management. The trapeze act is always a popular one, especially in a country town like this. Now I am going to ask a favor of you." Kit's face flushed with excitement. He foresaw what it would be. "What is it?" he asked. "I want you to appear in my place this evening." "Do you think I am competent?" "You cannot do my act, but you can do enough to satisfy the public. But, my dear friend, I don't want to subject you to any risk. If you are at all nervous or afraid, don't attempt it." "I am not afraid," said Kit confidently. "I will appear!" In the evening the tent was full. Very few knew of the change in the programme. Mr. Barlow had consented to the substitution with some reluctance, for he feared that Kit might be undertaking something beyond his power to perform. Even the Vincenti brothers, Kit's associates, were surprised when the manager came forward and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, Mlle. Lefroy is indisposed, and will be unable to perform her act this evening. Unwilling to disappoint the public, we have substituted one of our youngest and most daring performers, who will appear in her place." When Kit came out, his young face glowing with excitement, and made his bow, the crowd of spectators greeted him with enthusiastic applause. His fellow actors joined in the ovation. They feared he had overrated his ability, but were ready to applaud his pluck. Now was the time, if any, for Kit to grow nervous, and show stage fright. But he felt none. The sight of the eager faces around him only stimulated him. He caught the rope which hung down from the trapeze, and quickly climbing up poised himself on his elevated perch. He did not allow himself to look down, but strove to shut out the sight of the hundreds of upturned faces, and proceeded to perform his act as coolly as if he were in a gymnasium, only six feet from the ground instead of thirty. It is not to be supposed that Kit, who was a comparative novice, could equal Mlle. Louise Lefroy, who had been cultivating her specialty for ten years. He went through several feats, however, hanging from the trapeze with his head down, then quickly recovering himself and swinging by his hands. The public was disposed to be pleased, and, when the act was finished, gave him a round of applause. Later in the evening a small man, with a very dark complexion, and keen, black eyes, approached him as he was standing near the lion's cage. "Is this Luigi Vincenti?" he asked. This was Kit's circus name. He passed for a brother, of Alonzo and Antonio Vincenti. "Yes, sir," answered Kit. "I saw your trapeze act this evening," he went on. "It was very good." "Thank you, sir. You know, perhaps, that I am not a trapeze performer. I only appeared in place of Mlle. Lefroy, who is indisposed." "So I understand; but you do very well for a boy. My name is Signor Oponto. I am at the head of a large circus in Havana. My visit to the United States is partly to secure additional talent. How long are you engaged to Mr. Barlow?" "For no definite time. I suppose I shall remain till the end of the season." "You have no engagements beyond?" "No, sir; this is my first season with any circus." "Then I will make you an offer. I don't want to take you from Mr. Barlow, but when the season is over I shall be ready to arrange for your appearance in Havana under my personal management." Though Kit was modest he was human. He did feel flattered to find himself rated so high. It even occurred to him that he might like to be considered a star in circus circles, to be the admiration of circus audiences, and to be regarded with wondering awe by boys of his own age throughout the country. But Kit was also a sensible boy. After all, this preëminence was only of a physical character. A great acrobat or trapeze artist has no recognized place in society, and his ambition is of a low character. While these reflections were presenting themselves to his mind, Signor Oponto stood by in silence, waiting for his answer. He thought that Kit's hesitation was due to pecuniary considerations. "What salary does Mr. Barlow pay you?" he asked, in a businesslike tone. "Twenty-five dollars a week." "I will give you fifty, and engage you for a year." He regarded Kit intently to see how this proposal struck him. "You are very liberal, Signor Oponto," Kit began, but the manager interrupted him. "I will also pay your board," he added; "and of course defray your expenses to Havana. Is that satisfactory?" "It would be very much so but for one thing." "What is that?" "I doubt whether I shall remain in the business after this season." "Why not? Don't you like it?" "Yes, very well; but I prefer to follow some profession of a literary character. I am nearly prepared for college, and I may decide to continue my studies." "But even your college students devote most of their time to base ball and rowing, I hear." "Not quite so bad as that," answered Kit, with a smile. "You don't refuse definitely, I hope." "No; it may be that I may feel obliged to remain in the business. In that case I will give you the preference." "That is all I can expect. Here is my card. Whenever you are ready, write to me, and your communication will receive instant attention." "Thank you, sir." The next day Mlle. Lefroy resumed her work, the danger of meeting her husband having passed. She expressed her gratitude to Kit for serving as her substitute, and wished to make him a present of ten dollars, but he refused to accept it. "I was glad of the chance to see what I could do on the trapeze," he said. "I never expect to follow it up, but I have already received an offer of an engagement in that line." "So I heard. And you don't care to accept it?" "No; I do not mean to be a circus performer permanently." "You are right. It leads to nothing, and before middle life you are liable to find yourself unfitted for it." CHAPTER XXXVI. CLOSE OF THE CIRCUS. Days and weeks flew swiftly by. September gave place to October, and the circus season neared its close. Already the performers were casting about for employment during the long, dull winter that must elapse before the next season. "What are your plans, Kit?" asked Antonio Vincenti, who in private called his young associate by his real name. "I don't know yet, Antonio. I may go to school." "Have you saved money enough to keep you through the winter?" "Yes; I have four hundred dollars in the wagon." This is the expression made use of to indicate "in the hands of the treasurer." "You've done better than my brother or I. We must work during the winter." "Have you any chance yet?" "Yes; we can go to work in a dime museum in Philadelphia for a month, and afterwards we will go to Chicago, where we were last winter. I could get a chance for you, too." "Thank you, but I don't care to work in that way at present. If I went anywhere I would go to Havana, where I am offered a profitable engagement." "Has Mr. Barlow said anything to you about next season?" "Yes; but I shall make no engagement in advance. Something may happen which will keep me at home." "Oh, you'll be coming round in the spring. You'll have the circus fever like all the rest of us." Kit smiled and shook his head. "I haven't been in the business long enough to get so much attached to it as you are," he said. "But at any rate, I shall come round to see my old friends." The last circus performance was given in Albany, and the winter quarters were to be at a town twenty miles distant. Kit went through his acts with his usual success, and when he took off his circus costume, it was with a feeling that it might be the last time he would wear it. The breaking up was not to take place till the next day, and he was preparing to spend the night in some Albany hotel. He had taken off his tights, as has been said, and put on his street dress, when a tall man, with a frank, good humored expression, stepped up to him. "Are you Christopher Watson?" he asked. "Yes," answered Kit, in surprise, for he had no recollection of having met the stranger before. "Of course you don't know me, but I was a school-fellow and intimate friend of your father." "Then," said Kit, cordially, "I must take you by the hand. All my father's friends are my friends." The face of the stranger lighted up. "That's the way to talk," he said. "I see you are like your father. Shake hands again." "But how did you know I was with Barlow's circus?" asked Kit, puzzled. "Your uncle told me." "Have you seen him lately?" asked Kit, quickly. "No; I saw him about three months ago at Smyrna." "What did he tell you about me?" "He said you were a wayward lad, and preferred traveling with a circus to following an honest business." "I am afraid you have got a wrong idea of me, then." "Bless you, I knew your uncle before you were born. He is not at all like your father. One was as open as the day, the other was cunning, selfish, and foxy." "I see you understand my Uncle Stephen as well as I do." "I ought to." "Were you surprised to hear that I was traveling with a circus?" "Well, I was; but your uncle told me one thing that surprised me more. He said that your father left nothing." "That surprised me, too; but I have got some light on the subject and I feel in need of a friend and adviser." "Then if you'll take Henry Miller for want of a better, I don't believe you'll regret it." "I shall be glad to accept your kind offer, Mr. Miller. Now that you mention your name, I remember it very well. My father often spoke of you." "Did he so?" said the stranger, evidently much gratified. "I am glad to hear it. Of all my school companions, your father was the one I liked best. And now, before we go any further, I want to tell you two things. First, I should have hunted you up sooner, but business called me to California, where I have considerable property. Next, having learned that you were left destitute, I decided to do something for the son of my old friend. So I took a hundred shares of stock in a new mine, which had just been put on the market when I reached 'Frisco, and I said to myself: 'That is for Kit Watson.' Well, it was a lucky investment. The shares cost me five dollars apiece, and just before I left California I sold them for fifty dollars apiece. What do you say to that?" "Is it possible mining shares rise in value so fast?" asked Kit in amazement. "Well, sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't. Often it's the other way, and I don't advise you or anybody else that knows nothing about it to speculate in mining shares. It is a risky thing, and you are more apt to lose than to win. However, this turned out O. K., and you are worth five thousand dollars to-day, my boy." "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Miller," said Kit. "I can't seem to realize it." "You needn't thank me at all. I did it for your father's sake, but now that I know you I am glad to do it for your own. When we get to New York I advise you to salt it down in government bonds, or in some other good reliable stock." "I shall be glad to follow your advice, Mr. Miller." "Then I'll invest all but five hundred dollars, for you may want to use that. What sort of a season have you had?" "I've saved up four hundred dollars," said Kit proudly. "You don't say so! You must have got pretty good pay." "Twenty-five dollars a week." "Your uncle said you probably got two or three dollars a week." "He probably thought so. He has no idea I have been so well paid. I chose to keep it from him." "You said you wanted to ask my advice about something." "Yes, sir." "Why not come round to the Delavan and take a room? I am staying there, and I will tell the clerk to pick you out a room next to mine." "I will do so. I intended to stay at some hotel to night. This is the last night of the circus. To-morrow we close up, and separate. I shall draw my money and bid good-by to my circus friends." "I am glad of that. We will keep together. I have neither chick nor child, Kit, and if you'll accept me as your guardian I'll do the best I can for you. But perhaps you prefer to go back to your uncle." Kit shook his head. "I should never do that," he said, "especially after what I have learned during my trip." "Let it keep till to-morrow, for we are both tired. Now get ready and we'll go to the Delavan." Kit was assigned a nice room next to Mr. Miller, where he passed a comfortable night. The next day he revealed to his new friend the discoveries he had made in his uncle's old home in Pennsylvania--his uncle's poverty up to the time of his brother's death, and the evident falseness of his claim to have lent him large sums of money, in payment of which he had coolly appropriated his entire estate. His late friend listened to this story in amazement. "I knew Stephen Watson to be unprincipled," he said, "but I didn't think him as bad as that. He has swindled you shamefully." "Just my idea, Mr. Miller." "While he has carefully feathered his own nest. This wrong must be righted." "It was my intention to find some good lawyer, and ask his advice." "We'll do it, Kit. But, first of all, I'll go with you to this town in Pennsylvania, and obtain the necessary testimony sworn to before a justice. Then we'll find a good lawyer, and move on the enemy's works." "I will be guided by your advice entirely, Mr. Miller." "It will be a satisfaction to me to get even with your uncle. To swindle his own nephew in this barefaced manner! We'll bring him up with a short turn, Kit!" The next day Kit and his new friend left Albany. CHAPTER XXXVII. KIT COMES HOME. One morning James Schuyler Kit's old acquaintance at Smyrna, received a letter from Kit, in which he said: "Our circus season is ended, but I am detained a few days by important business. I will tell you about it when we meet. If you see my uncle tell him that I expect to reach Smyrna somewhere about the twenty-fifth of October." "I wonder what Kit's important business can be," thought James. "I hope it is something of advantage to him." James happened to meet Stephen Watson an hour later. "Mr. Watson," he said, "I had a letter from Kit this morning." "Indeed!" "He says that his circus season is over." "And he is out of employment," said Watson, his lip curling. "I suppose so; he expects to reach Smyrna somewhere about the twenty-fifth of the month." Stephen Watson smiled, but said nothing. "No doubt he will find it very convenient to stay at home through the winter," he reflected. "Well, he must think I am a fool to take back a boy who has defied my authority." It was Saturday, and Ralph was home from boarding-school. "Ralph," said his father, "I bring you good news." "What is it, pa?" "Your cousin will be home from the circus towards the last of next week." "Who told you? Did he write you?" "He wrote to James Schuyler, who told me." "I suppose he expects you will give him a home through the winter." "You may rest easy, Ralph. He won't have his own way with me, I can assure you." "What shall you do, pa?" "I shall see Bickford about taking him back. I have occasion to go over there on Monday to have the horse shod, and I can speak to him about it." Ralph laughed. "That will bring down his pride," he said. "I suppose he will beg off." "He will find me firm as a rock. What I decide upon I generally carry through." "Good for you, pa! I was afraid you would weaken." "You don't know me, my son. I have been patient and bided my time. Your cousin presumed to set up his will against mine. He has got along thus far because he has made a living by traveling with a circus. Now the circus season is at an end, and he is glad enough to come back to me." On Monday Stephen Watson rode over to Oakford, and made it in his way to call on Aaron Bickford. "Have you got a boy, Mr. Bickford?" he asked. "I had one, but he left me last Saturday. He didn't suit me." This was the blacksmith's interpretation of it. The truth was the boy became disgusted with the treatment he received and the fare provided at his employer's table, and left him without ceremony. "How would you like to take back my nephew?" "Has he come back?" asked the blacksmith, pricking up his ears. "Not yet; but I expect him back toward the end of next week." "Has he left the circus?" "The circus has left him. That is, it has closed for the season. He has sent word to a boy in Smyrna that he will be back in a few days." "He gave me a great deal of trouble, Mr. Watson." "Just so, and I thought you might like to get even with him," said Stephen Watson, looking significantly at the blacksmith. "It would do me good to give him a flogging," said Aaron Bickford. "I shan't interfere," replied Watson. "The boy has acted badly and he deserves punishment." "Yes, I'll take him back," said the blacksmith. "I guess he'll stay this time," he added grimly. "I think he will have to. There won't be any circus to give him employment." "He is a good strong boy, and he can make a good blacksmith, if he has a mind to." "You must make him have a mind to," said Stephen Watson. When the horse was shod he got into the carriage and drove away. After this interview Mr. Bickford seemed in unusually good spirits, so much so that his wife inquired: "Have you had any good luck, Aaron?" "What makes you ask?" "Because you look unusually chipper. I was hopin' somebody had died and left you a fortune." "Well, not exactly, wife; but I've heard something that makes me feel good." "What's that?" "Stephen Watson, of Smyrna, was over here this morning." "Well?" "He says that boy Kit is coming home in a few days." "What if he is?" "He's goin' to bring him over here, and apprentice him to me again." "I should think once would be enough, considerin' how he treated you." "He ain't goin' to serve me so again, you may bet on that. I'm goin' to have my way this time." "Ain't you afraid he'll run away again?" "Not much. The circus has shut up, and he'll have to stay with me, or starve. His uncle tells me I can punish him when I think he deserves it." "I hope you won't be disappointed, Mr. Bickford, but that boy's rather hard to handle." "I know it, but I'm the one that can handle him." "You thought so before, the evening we went to the show." "I know so this time." CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONCLUSION. Several days passed. On Thursday afternoon Kit arrived in Smyrna, accompanied by his generous California friend Henry Miller. They put up at the hotel, and after dinner Kit walked over to the house occupied by his uncle. Mr. Watson saw him from the window, and hastening to the door opened it himself. "Good afternoon, Uncle Stephen," said Kit. "So you're back!" said his uncle curtly. "Yes; did you expect me?" "James Schuyler told me you were coming." "Yes, I wrote him that he might inform you." "That was a good thought of yours. I have made arrangements for you." "What arrangements?" "I shall take you over to Oakford on Saturday, and place you with Aaron Bickford to learn the blacksmith's trade. This time I'd advise you not to run away." Kit didn't exhibit any dismay when his uncle informed him of the plan he had arranged for him. "I will talk this over with you, Uncle Stephen," he said. "With your permission I will go into the house." "You can stay here till Saturday. Then you will go with me to Oakford." Kit followed his uncle into the house. "I have something important to say to you, Uncle Stephen," he went on. "Sit down, and I will tell you what I have discovered within the last few months." Stephen Watson anxiously awaited Kit's communication. "Can he have found out?" he asked himself. "But no! it is impossible." "I will give you five minutes to tell me your astonishing discovery," he said, with an attempt at his usual sneer. "I may need a longer time, but I will be as quick as I can. Among the places where our circus exhibited was Glendale, Pennsylvania. Remembering that you once lived there, I made inquiries about you in the village. I saw the house where you lived for many years. Judge of my surprise when I learned that you were always in extreme poverty. Then I recalled your story of having lent my father ten thousand dollars, in payment of which you took the bulk of his property. I mentioned it, and found that it was pronounced preposterous. I discovered that on the other hand, you were frequently the recipient of money gifts from my poor father. In return for this you have attempted to rob his son. The note which you presented against the estate was undoubtedly a forgery. But even had it been genuine, the property of which you took possession must have amounted to at least twenty thousand dollars." Stephen Watson had not interrupted Kit by a word. He was panic stricken, and absolutely did not know what to say. He finally succeeded in answering hoarsely: "This is an outrageous falsehood, Christopher Watson. It is an ingenious scheme to rob me of what rightfully belongs to me. You must be a fool to think I am going to be frightened by a boy's wild fiction. Leave my house! I would have allowed you to stay till Saturday, but this is too much. If you come here again, I will horsewhip you!" But even when he was making this threat his face was pallid, and his glance uneasy. At this moment the bell rang. Kit himself answered the call, and returned with his friend, Henry Miller. "Why, it is Mr. Miller!" said Stephen Watson, who had not forgotten that Miller was very wealthy. "When did you return from California?" "Kit, have you told your uncle?" asked Henry Miller, ignoring this greeting. "Yes, and he orders me to leave the house." "Hark you, Stephen Watson!" said Henry Miller sternly. "You are in a bad box. For over a week Kit and I have been looking up matters, and we are prepared to prove that you have outrageously defrauded him out of his father's estate. We have enlisted a first class lawyer in the case, and now we come to you to know whether you will surrender or fight." "Mr. Miller, this is very strange. Are you in the plot too?" "Don't talk of any plots, Stephen Watson. Your fraud is so transparent that I wonder you dare to hope it would succeed. You probably presumed upon Kit's being a boy of an unsuspicious nature. But he has found a friend, who was his father's friend before him, and who is determined that he shall be righted." "I defy you!" exclaimed Stephen Watson recklessly, for he saw that submission would be ruin, and leave him penniless. "Wait a minute! I'll give you another chance. Do you know what we are prepared to prove? Well, I will tell you. We can prove that you are not only a swindler but a forger, and our success will consign you to a prison cell. You deserve it, no doubt, but you shall have a chance." "What terms do you offer?" asked Stephen Watson, overwhelmed by the conviction that what Miller said was true. "Surrender unconditionally, restore to Kit his own property, and----" "But it will leave me penniless!" groaned Stephen Watson. "Just as I supposed. In Kit's behalf, I will promise that you shall not starve. You once kept a small grocery store, and understand the trade. We will set you up in that business wherever you choose, and will give you besides a small income, say three hundred dollars a year, so that you may be able to live modestly." "But Ralph, my poor boy, what will become of him?" "I will pay the expenses of his education," said Kit, "and when he leaves school, I will make him an allowance so that he can enter a store and qualify himself to earn his own living. He won't be able to live as he has lived, but he shall not suffer." "It is more than either of you deserve," said Henry Miller. "I was not in favor of treating you so generously, but Kit, whom you have defrauded, insisted upon it. You ought to thank him on your knees." Stephen Watson did not speak. He looked the picture of misery. "Do you agree to this?" asked Mr. Miller. "I must!" replied Watson, sullenly. It made a great sensation in Smyrna when Kit took his proper place as the true master of his dead father's estate. Stephen Watson left town suddenly, and Ralph followed him. No sorrow was felt for his reverse of fortune, for he had made no friends in the town. He and Ralph settled down in a small Western city, and started a grocery store. From time to time Kit receives abject letters, pleading for more money, and sometimes he sends it, but always against the advice of Henry Miller, who says rightly that Stephen Watson already fares better than he deserves. Ralph is turning out badly. His pride received a severe shock when his cousin was raised above him, and he has formed bad habits which in time will wreck him physically, unless he turns over a new leaf. It is hardly necessary to say that Kit decided not to learn the blacksmith's trade. His old employer, Aaron Bickford, has tried hard to get into his good graces and secure his trade, but Kit employs another man for whom he has a greater respect. Kit has made more than one visit to the worthy Mayor Grant from whom he received so much kindness when a young acrobat, and a marked partiality for Evelyn, the mayor's pretty daughter, may some day lead to a nearer connection between the families. Good, like bad fortune, seldom comes singly, and besides recovering his own property, Kit finds himself the favorite and presumed heir of Henry Miller, the wealthy Californian, who has taken up his home with our hero. Last summer they took a trip to California, and Kit was charmed with the wonderful Yosemite Valley and the Geysers. He has decided to become a lawyer, though he will be in a position to live without employment of any kind. A few months after his return, Kit read in the paper of the killing of Dick Hayden, the miner, in a drunken brawl at Coalville. He at once took steps to seek out the daughter, Janet, who had rendered him such signal service when he was captured by the ruffians, and brought her to Smyrna, where he provided a happy home for her in a family of his acquaintance. Nor has Kit forgotten his circus friends. Last year when Barlow's circus returned from its wanderings he invited those whom he knew best, the giant, his two brother acrobats, and Mlle. Lefroy, to pass a week as his guests. For the sake of old times and experiences he is always ready to help poor professionals, and has been a friend in need to many. He knows that with all their weaknesses, they are generous to a fault, and ready to divide their last dollar with a needy comrade. There are some who think Kit shows a strange taste in keeping up acquaintance with his old associates, but like his friend, Charlie Davis, who has also retired from the circus, he will always have a kindly feeling for those with whom he traveled when a YOUNG ACROBAT. THE END. 
23758	----	produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) [Illustration: WORK AND WIN OLIVER OPTIC] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration: Signature: William T. Adams] WORK AND WIN OR NODDY NEWMAN ON A CRUISE A Story for Young People BY OLIVER OPTIC AUTHOR OF "BOAT CLUB," "ALL ABOARD," "NOW OR NEVER," ETC., ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS To MY YOUNG FRIEND, Edward C. Bellows, THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE. In the preparation of this volume, the author has had in his mind the intention to delineate the progress of a boy whose education had been neglected, and whose moral attributes were of the lowest order, from vice and indifference to the development of a high moral and religious principle in the heart, which is the rule and guide of a pure and true life. The incidents which make up the story are introduced to illustrate the moral status of the youth, at the beginning, and to develop the influences from which proceeded a gentle and Christian character. Mollie, the captain's daughter, whose simple purity of life, whose filial devotion to an erring parent, and whose trusting faith in the hour of adversity, won the love and respect of Noddy, was not the least of these influences. If the writer has not "moralized," it was because the true life, seen with the living eye, is better than any precept, however skilfully it may be dressed by the rhetorical genius of the moralist. Once more the author takes pleasure in acknowledging the kindness of his young friends, who have so favorably received his former works; and he hopes that "WORK AND WIN," the fourth of the Woodville Stories, will have as pleasant a welcome as its predecessors. WILLIAM T. ADAMS. HARRISON SQUARE. MASS., November 10, 1865. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. The Mischief-Makers 9 II. The Circus at Whitestone 21 III. A Moral Question 33 IV. Noddy's Confession 45 V. Squire Wriggs at Woodville 57 VI. Noddy's Engagement 70 VII. The Ring-Master 81 VIII. Good-by to Woodville 93 IX. An Attempt to Work and Win 105 X. Poor Mollie 117 XI. The Schooner Roebuck 129 XII. The Drunken Captain 141 XIII. The Shark 154 XIV. The Yellow Fever 167 XV. The Demon of the Cup 180 XVI. Night and Storm 193 XVII. After the Storm 206 XVIII. The Beautiful Island 217 XIX. The Visitors 228 XX. Homeward Bound 239 XXI. The Clergyman and his Wife 247 WORK AND WIN; OR, NODDY NEWMAN ON A CRUISE. CHAPTER I. THE MISCHIEF-MAKERS. "Here, Noddy Newman! you haven't washed out the boat-house yet," said Ben, the boatman, as the young gentleman thus addressed was ambling down towards the river. "Hang the boat-house!" exclaimed Noddy, impatiently, as he stopped short in his walk, and seemed to be in doubt whether he should return or continue on his way. "You know what Miss Bertha says--don't you?" "Yes, I know what she says," added Noddy, rubbing his head, as though he were trying to reconcile his present purpose, whatever it was, with the loyalty he owed to Bertha. "I suppose it don't make much difference to her whether I wash out the boat-house now or by and by." "I don't know anything about that, my boy," said the old man. "Miss Bertha told me to find some regular work for you to do every day. I found it, and she say you must wash out the boat-house every morning before nine o'clock. If you don't do it, I shall report you to her. That's all I've got to say about it." "I calculate to wash out the boat-house." "You've only half an hour to do it in, then. You've not only got to wash it out every morning, but you have got to do it before nine o'clock. Them's the orders. I always obey orders. If Miss Bertha should tell me to tie you up, and give you as big a licking as you deserve, I should do it." "No, you wouldn't." "I haven't got any such orders, mind ye, Noddy; so we won't dispute about that. Now, go and wash out the boat-house like a good boy, and don't make any fuss about it." Noddy deliberated a few moments more. He evidently disliked the job, or did not wish to do it at that particular time; but Miss Bertha's influence was all-powerful; and though he would have fought, tooth and nail, against anything like compulsion on the part of Ben, he could not resist the potent spell which the name of his young mistress cast upon him. "Hang the old boat-house!" exclaimed he, as he stamped his foot upon the ground, and then slowly retraced his steps towards the boatman. "Hang it, if you like, Noddy, but wash it out first," said Ben, with a smile, as he observed the effect of the charm he had used to induce the wayward youth to do his duty. "I wish the boat-house was burned up!" added Noddy, petulantly. "No, you don't." "Yes, I do. I wish it was a pile of ashes at this moment." "Don't say so, Noddy. What would Miss Bertha think to hear you talk like that?" "You can tell her, if you like," replied Noddy, as he rushed desperately into the boat-house to do the disagreeable job. Noddy Newman was an orphan; and no one in the vicinity of Woodville even knew what his real name was. Two years before, Bertha Grant had taken the most tender care of him, after an accident by which he had been severely injured. Previous to that time he had been a vagabond, roaming about the woods and the villages, sleeping in barns and out-buildings, and stealing his food when he could obtain it by no other means. Efforts had been made to commit him to the poorhouse; but he had cunningly avoided being captured, and retained his freedom until the accident placed him under the influence of Bertha Grant, who had before vainly attempted to induce him to join her mission-school in the Glen. Noddy had been two years at Woodville. He was neither a servant nor a member of the family, but occupied a half-way position, eating and sleeping with the men employed on the estate, but being the constant companion of Bertha, who was laboring to civilize and educate him. She had been partially successful in her philanthropic labors; for Noddy knew how to behave himself with propriety, and could read and write with tolerable facility. But books and literature were not Noddy's _forte_, and he still retained an unhealthy relish for his early vagabond habits. Like a great many other boys,--even like some of those who have been brought up judiciously and carefully,--Noddy was not very fond of work. He was bold and impulsive, and had not yet acquired any fixed ideas in regard to the objects of life. Bertha Grant had obtained a powerful influence over him, to which he was solely indebted for all the progress he had made in learning and the arts of civilized life. Wayward as he always had been, and as he still was, there was a spirit in him upon which to build a hope that something might yet be made of him, though this faith was in a great measure confined to Bertha and the old boatman. He had a great many good qualities--enough, in the opinion of his gentle instructress, to redeem him from his besetting sins, which were neither few nor small. He was generous, which made him popular among those who were under no moral responsibility for his future welfare. He was bold and daring, and never hesitated to do anything which the nerve or muscle of a boy of fourteen could achieve. His feats of strength and daring, often performed from mere bravado, won the admiration of the thoughtless, and Noddy was regarded as a "character" by people who only wanted to be amused. Noddy had reached an age when the future became an interesting problem to those who had labored to improve his manners and his morals. Mr. Grant had suggested to Bertha the propriety of having him bound as an apprentice to some steady mechanic; and, at the time of our story, she and her father were in search of such a person. The subject of this kind solicitude did not relish the idea of learning a trade, though he had not positively rebelled at the disposition which it was proposed to make of him. He had always lived near the river; and during his residence at Woodville he had been employed, so far as he could be employed at all, about the boats. He was a kind of assistant to the boatman, though there was no need of such an official on the premises. For his own good, rather than for the labor he performed, he was required to do certain work about the boat-house, and in the boats when they were in use. We could recite a great many scrapes, of which Noddy had been the hero, during the two years of his stay at Woodville; but such a recital would hardly be profitable to our readers, especially as the young man's subsequent career was not devoid of stirring incidents. Noddy drew a bucket of water at the pier, and carried it into the boat-house. Ben, satisfied now that the work was actually in progress, left the pier, and walked up to the house to receive his morning instructions. He was hardly out of sight before Miss Fanny Grant presented herself at the door. Miss Fanny was now a nice young lady of twelve. She was as different from her sister Bertha as she could be. She was proud, and rather wayward. Like some other young ladies we have somewhere read about, she was very fond of having her own way, even when her own way had been proved to be uncomfortable and dangerous. But when we mention Miss Fanny's faults, we do not wish to be understood that she had no virtues. If she did wrong very often, she did right in the main, and had made a great deal of progress in learning to do wisely and well, and, what was just as good, in doing it after she had learned it. Fanny Grant walked up to the boat-house with a very decided step, and it soon appeared that she was not there by chance or accident; which leads us sorrowfully to remark, that in her wrongdoing she often found a ready companion and supporter in Noddy Newman. She was rather inclined to be a romp; and though she was not given to "playing with the boys," the absence of any suitable playmate sometimes led her to invite the half-reformed vagabond of Woodville to assist in her sport. "You are a pretty fellow, Noddy Newman!" said she, her pouting lips giving an added emphasis to her reproachful remark. "Why didn't you come down to the Point, as you said you would?" "Because I couldn't, Miss Fanny," growled Noddy. "I had to wash out this confounded boat-house, or be reported to Miss Bertha." "Couldn't you do that after you got back?" "Ben said I must do it before nine o'clock. I wanted to go down to the Point, as I agreed, but you see I couldn't." "I waited for you till I got tired out," pouted Fanny; but she neglected to add that five minutes on ordinary occasions were the full limit of her patience. "Hang the old boat-house! I told Ben I wished it was burned up." "So do I; but come along, Noddy. We will go now." "I can't go till I've washed out the boat-house." "Yes, you can." "But if Ben comes down and finds the place hasn't been washed out, he will tell Miss Bertha." "Let him tell her--who cares?" "She will talk to me for an hour." "Let her talk--talking won't kill you." "I don't like to be talked to in that way by Miss Bertha." "Fiddle-de-dee! You can tell her I wanted you," said Fanny, her eyes snapping with earnestness. "Shall I tell her what you wanted me for?" asked Noddy, with a cunning look. "Of course you needn't tell her that. But come along, or I shall go without you." "No--you wouldn't do that, Miss Fanny. You couldn't." "Well, won't you come?" "Not now." "I can't wait." "I will go just as soon as I have done washing the boat-house." "Plague on the boat-house!" snapped Fanny. "I wish it was burned up. What a nice fire it would make!--wouldn't it, Noddy?" The bright eyes of the wayward miss sparkled with delight as she thought of the blazing building; and while her more wayward companion described the miseries which he daily endured in his regular work, she hardly listened to him. She seemed to be plotting mischief; but if she was, she did not make Noddy her confidant this time. "Come, Noddy," said she, after a few moments' reflection, "I will promise to make it all right with Bertha." Noddy dropped the broom with which he had begun to sweep up some chips and shavings Ben had made in repairing a boat-hook. "If you will get me out of the scrape, I will go now," said he. "I will; you may depend upon me." "Then I will go." "Where is Ben, now?" "He has gone up to the house." "Then you run down to the Point, and bring the boat up to the pier. I am tired, and don't want to walk down there again." Noddy was entirely willing, and bounded off like a deer, for he had fully made up his mind to disobey orders, and his impulsive nature did not permit him to consider the consequences. He was absent but a few moments, and presently appeared rowing a small boat up the river. At the pier he turned the boat, and backed her up to the landing steps. "All ready, Miss Fanny!" shouted the young boatman, for his companion in mischief was not in sight. Still she did not appear; and Noddy was about to go in search of her, when she came out of the boat-house, and ran down to the steps. Her face was flushed, and she seemed to be very much agitated. Noddy was afraid, from her looks, that something had happened to spoil the anticipated sport of the morning; but she stepped into the boat, and told him, in hurried tones, to push off. "What's the matter, Miss Fanny?" he asked, not a little startled by her appearance. "Nothing, Noddy; pull away just as fast as ever you can." "Are we caught?" said he, as he followed Fanny's direction. "No; caught! no. Why don't you row faster, Noddy? You don't pull worth a cent." "I am pulling as hard as I can," replied he, unable to keep pace with her impatience. "I wouldn't be seen here now for anything!" exclaimed Fanny, earnestly, as she glanced back at the boat-house, with a look so uneasy that it almost unmanned her resolute companion. Noddy pulled with all his might, and the light boat darted over the waves with a speed which ought to have satisfied his nervous passenger. As they reached the point of Van Alstine's Island, a dense smoke was seen to rise from the boat-house on the pier; and a few moments later, the whole building was wrapped in flames. CHAPTER II. THE CIRCUS AT WHITESTONE. "Do you see that?" exclaimed Noddy, as he stopped rowing, and gazed at the flames which leaped madly up from the devoted building. "I see it," replied Fanny, with even more agitation than was manifested by her companion. "I don't understand it," added Noddy. "The boat-house is on fire, and will burn up in a few minutes more. I think it is plain enough;" and Fanny struggled to be calm and indifferent. "We must go back and see to it." "We shall do nothing of the kind. Pull away as hard as ever you can, or we shall not get to Whitestone in season." "I don't care about going to Whitestone now; I want to know what all that means." "Can't you see what it means? The boat-house is on fire." "Well, how did it catch afire? That's what bothers me." "You needn't bother yourself about it. My father owns the boat-house, and it isn't worth much." "All that may be; but I want to know how it got afire." "We shall find out soon enough when we return." "But I want to know now." "You can't know now; so pull away." "I shall have the credit of setting that fire," added Noddy, not a little disturbed by the anticipation. "No, you won't." "Yes, I shall. I told Ben I wished the boat-house would catch afire and burn up. Of course he will lay it to me." "No matter if he does; Ben isn't everybody." "Well, he is 'most everybody, so far as Miss Bertha is concerned; and I'd rather tumbled overboard in December than have that fire happen just now." "You were not there when the fire broke out," said Fanny, with a strong effort to satisfy her boatman. "That's the very reason why they will lay it to me. They will say I set the boat-house afire, and then ran away on purpose." "I can say you were with me when the fire broke out, and that I know you didn't do it," replied Fanny. "That will do; but I would give all my old shoes to know how the fire took, myself." "No matter how it took." "Yes, it is matter, Miss Fanny. I want to know. There wasn't any fire in the building when I left it." "Perhaps somebody stopped there in a boat, and set it on fire." "Perhaps they did; but I know very well they didn't," answered Noddy, positively. "There hasn't been any boat near the pier since we left it." "Perhaps Ben left his pipe among those shavings." "Ben never did that. He would cut his head off sooner than do such a thing. He is as scared of fire as he is of the Flying Dutchman." "Don't say anything more about it. Now row over to Whitestone as quick as you can," added Fanny, petulantly. "I'm not going over to Whitestone, after what has happened. I shouldn't have a bit of fun if I went." "Very well, Noddy; then you may get out of the scrape as you can," said the young lady, angrily. "What scrape?" "Why, they will accuse you of setting the boat-house afire; and you told Ben you wished it was burned down." "But I didn't set it afire." "Who did, then?" "That's just what I want to find out. That's what worries me; for I can't see how it happened, unless it took fire from that bucket of water I left on the floor." Fanny was too much disturbed by the conduct of her boatman, or by some other circumstance, to laugh at Noddy's joke; and the brilliant sally was permitted to waste itself without an appreciative smile. She sat looking at the angry flames as they devoured the building, while her companion vainly attempted to hit upon a satisfactory explanation of the cause of the fire. Noddy was perplexed; he was absolutely worried, not so much by the probable consequences to himself of the unfortunate event, as by the cravings of his own curiosity. He did not see how it happened; and if a potent juggler had performed a wonderful feat in his presence, he could not have been more exercised in mind to know how it was done. Noddy was neither a logician nor a philosopher; and therefore he was utterly unable to account for the origin of the fire. In vain he wasted his intellectual powers in speculations; in vain he tried to remember some exciting cause to which the calamity could be traced. Meanwhile, Miss Fanny was deliberating quite as diligently over another question; for she apparently regarded the destruction of the boat-house as a small affair, and did not concern herself to know how it had been caused. But she was very anxious to reach Whitestone before ten o'clock, and her rebellious boatman had intimated his intention not to carry out his part of the agreement. "What are you thinking about, Noddy?" asked she, when both had maintained silence for the full space of three minutes, which was a longer period than either of them had ever before kept still while awake. "I was thinking of that fire," replied Noddy, removing his gaze from the burning building, and fixing it upon her. "Are you going to Whitestone, or not?" continued she, impatiently. "No; I don't want to go to Whitestone, while all of them down there are talking about me, and saying I set the boat-house afire." "They will believe you did it, too." "But I didn't, Miss Fanny. You know I didn't." "How should I know it?" "Because I was with you; besides, you came out of the boat-house after I did." "If you will row me over to Whitestone, I will say so; and I will tell them I know you didn't do it." Noddy considered the matter for a moment, and, perhaps concluding that it was safer for him to keep on the right side of Miss Fanny, he signified his acceptance of the terms by taking up his oars, and pulling towards Whitestone. But he was not satisfied; he was as uneasy as a fish out of water; and nothing but the tyranny of the wayward young lady in the boat would have induced him to flee from the trouble which was brewing at Woodville. He had quite lost sight of the purpose which had induced him to disobey Bertha's orders. Our young adventurers had not left Woodville without an object. There was a circus at Whitestone--a travelling company which had advertised to give three grand performances on that day. Miss Fanny wanted to go; but, either because her father was otherwise occupied, or because he did not approve of circuses, he had declined to go with her. Bertha did not want to go, and also had an engagement. Fanny had set her heart upon going; and she happened to be too wilful, just at that period, to submit to the disappointment to which her father's convenience or his principles doomed her. Bertha had gone to the city at an early hour in the morning to spend the day with a friend, and Fanny decided that she would go to the circus, in spite of all obstacles, and in the face of her father's implied prohibition. When she had proceeded far enough to rebel, in her own heart, against the will of her father, the rest of the deed was easily accomplished. Noddy had never been to a circus; and when Fanny told him what it was,--how men rode standing up on their horses; how they turned somersets, and played all sorts of antics on the tight rope and the slack rope; and, above all, what funny things the clowns said and did,--he was quite ready to do almost anything to procure so rare a pleasure as witnessing such a performance must afford him. It did not require any persuasion to induce him to assist Fanny in her disobedience. The only obstacle which had presented itself was his morning work in the boat-house, which Bertha's departure for the city had prevented him from doing at an earlier hour. To prevent Ben from suspecting that they were on the water, in case they should happen to be missed, he had borrowed a boat and placed it at the Point, where they could embark without being seen, if Ben or any of the servants happened to be near the pier. The boatman, who made it his business to see that Noddy did his work on time in the morning, did not neglect his duty on this occasion; and when Noddy started to meet Fanny at the appointed place, he had been called back, as described in the first chapter. As he pulled towards Whitestone, he watched the flames that rose from the boat-house; and he had, for the time, lost all his enthusiasm about the circus. He could think only of the doubtful position in which his impulsive words to the boatman placed him. Above all things,--and all his doubts and fears culminated in this point,--what would Miss Bertha say? He did not care what others said, except so far as their words went to convince his mistress of his guilt. What would she do to him? But, after all had been said and done, he was not guilty. He had not set the boat-house on fire, and he did not even know who had done the malicious act. Noddy regarded this as a very happy thought; and while the reflection had a place in his mind, he pulled the oars with redoubled vigor. Yet it was in vain for him to rely upon the voice of an approving conscience for peace in that hour of trouble. If he had not, at that moment, been engaged in an act of disobedience, he might have been easy. He had been strictly forbidden by Mr. Grant, and by Bertha, ever to take Fanny out in a boat without permission; and Miss Fanny had been as strictly forbidden to go with him, or with any of the servants, without the express consent, each time, of her father or of Bertha. It is very hard, while doing wrong in one thing, to enjoy an approving conscience in another thing; and Noddy found it so in the present instance. We do not mean to say that Noddy's conscience was of any great account to him, or that the inward monitor caused his present uneasiness. He had a conscience, but his vagabond life had demoralized it in the first place, and it had not been sufficiently developed, during his stay at Woodville, to abate very sensibly his anticipated pleasure at the circus. His uneasiness was entirely selfish. He had got into a scrape, whose probable consequences worried him more than his conscience. By the time the runaways reached Whitestone, the boat-house was all burned up, and nothing but the curling smoke from the ruins visibly reminded the transgressors of the event which had disturbed them. Securing the boat in a proper place, Noddy conducted the young lady to the large tent in which the circus company performed, and which was more than a mile from the river. Fanny gave him the money, and Noddy purchased two tickets, which admitted them to the interior of the tent. If Noddy had been entirely at ease about the affair on the other side of the river, no doubt he would have enjoyed the performance very much; but in the midst of the "grand entree of all the horses and riders of the troupe," the sorrowing face of Bertha Grant thrust itself between him and the horsemen, to obscure his vision and diminish the cheap glories of the gorgeous scene. When "the most daring rider in the world" danced about, like a top, on the bare back of his "fiery, untamed steed," Noddy was enthusiastic, and would have given a York shilling for the privilege of trying to do it himself. The "ground and lofty tumbling," with the exception of the spangled tunics of the performers, hardly came up to his expectations; and he was entirely satisfied that he could beat the best man among them at such games. As the performance proceeded, he warmed up enough to forget the fire, and ceased to dread the rebuke of Bertha; but when all was over,--when the clown had made his last wry face, and the great American acrobat had achieved his last gyration, Bertha and the fire came back to him with increased power. Moody and sullen, he walked down to the river with Fanny, who, under ordinary circumstances, would have been too proud to walk through the streets of Whitestone with him. If he had been alone, it is quite probable that he would have taken to the woods, so much did he dread to return to Woodville. He pushed off the boat, and for some time he pulled in silence, for Miss Fanny now appeared to have her own peculiar trials. Her conscience seemed to have found a voice, and she did not speak till the boat had reached the lower end of Van Alstine's Island. "The fire is all out now," said she. "Yes; but I would give a thousand dollars to know how it caught," added Noddy. "I know," continued Fanny, looking down into the bottom of the boat. "Who did it?" demanded Noddy, eagerly. "I did it myself," answered Fanny, looking up into his face to note the effect of the astonishing confession. CHAPTER III. A MORAL QUESTION. Noddy dropped his oars, and, with open mouth and staring eyes, gazed fixedly in silence at his gentle companion, who had so far outstripped him in making mischief as to set fire to a building. It was too much for him, and he found it impossible to comprehend the depravity of Miss Fanny. He would not have dared to do such a thing himself, and it was impossible to believe that she had done so tremendous a deed. "I don't believe it," said he; and the words burst from him with explosive force, as soon as he could find a tongue to express himself. "I did," replied Fanny, gazing at him with a kind of blank look, which would have assured a more expert reader of the human face than Noddy Newman that she had come to a realizing sense of the magnitude of the mischief she had done. "No, you didn't, Miss Fanny!" exclaimed her incredulous friend. "I know you didn't do that; you couldn't do it." "But I did; I wouldn't say I did if I didn't." "Well, that beats me all to pieces!" added Noddy, bending forward in his seat, and looking sharply into her face, in search of any indications that she was making fun of him, or was engaged in perpetrating a joke. Certainly there was no indication of a want of seriousness on the part of the wayward young lady; on the contrary, she looked exceedingly troubled. Noddy could not say a word, and he was busily occupied in trying to get through his head the stupendous fact that Miss Fanny had become an incendiary; that she was wicked enough to set fire to her father's building. It required a good deal of labor and study on the part of so poor a scholar as Noddy to comprehend the idea. He had always looked upon Fanny as Bertha's sister. His devoted benefactress was an angel in his estimation, and it was as impossible for her to do anything wrong as it was for water to run up hill. If Bertha was absolutely perfect,--as he measured human virtue,--it was impossible that her sister should be very far below her standard. He knew that she was a little wild and wayward, but it was beyond his comprehension that she should do anything that was really "naughty." Fanny's confession, when he realized that it was true, gave him a shock from which he did not soon recover. One of his oars had slipped overboard without his notice, and the other might have gone after it, if his companion had not reminded him where he was, and what he ought to do. Paddling the boat around with one oar, he recovered the other; but he had no clear idea of the purpose for which such implements were intended, and he permitted the boat to drift with the tide, while he gave himself up to the consideration of the difficult and trying question which the conduct of Fanny imposed upon him. Noddy was not selfish; and if the generous vein of his nature had been well balanced and fortified by the corresponding virtues, his character would have soared to the region of the noble and grand in human nature. But the generous in character is hardly worthy of respect, though it may challenge the admiration of the thoughtless, unless it rests upon the sure foundation of moral principle. Noddy forgot his own trials in sympathizing with the unpleasant situation of his associate in wrongdoing, and his present thought was how he should get her out of the scrape. He was honestly willing to sacrifice himself for her sake. While he was faithfully considering the question, in the dim light of his own moral sense, Miss Fanny suddenly burst into tears, and cried with a violence and an unction which were a severe trial to his nerves. "Don't cry, Fanny," said he; "I'll get you out of the scrape." "I don't want to get out of it," sobbed she. Now, this was the most paradoxical reply which the little maiden could possibly have made, and Noddy was perplexed almost beyond the hope of redemption. What in the world was she crying about, if she did not wish to get out of the scrape? What could make her cry if it was not the fear of consequences--of punishment, and of the mean opinion which her friends would have of her, when they found out that she was wicked enough to set a building on fire? Noddy asked no questions, for he could not frame one which would cover so intricate a matter. "I am perfectly willing to be punished for what I have done," added Fanny, to whose troubled heart speech was the only vent. "What are you crying for?" asked the bewildered Noddy. "Because--because I did it," replied she; and her choked utterance hardly permitted her to speak the words. "Well, Miss Fanny, you are altogether ahead of my time; and I don't know what you mean. If you cry about it now, what did you do it for?" "Because I was wicked and naughty. If I had thought only a moment, I shouldn't have done it. I am so sorry I did it! I would give the world if I hadn't." "What will they do to you?" asked Noddy, whose fear of consequences had not yet given place to a higher view of the matter. "I don't care what they do; I deserve the worst they can do. How shall I look Bertha and my father in the face when I see them?" "O, hold your head right up, and look as bold as a lion--as bold as two lions, if the worst comes." "Don't talk so, Noddy. You make me feel worse than I did." "What in the world ails you, Miss Fanny?" demanded Noddy, grown desperate by the perplexities of the situation. "I am so sorry I did such a wicked thing! I shall go to Bertha and my father, and tell them all about it, as soon as they come home," added Fanny, as she wiped away her tears, and appeared to be much comforted by the good resolution which was certainly the best one the circumstances admitted. "Are you going to do that?" exclaimed Noddy, astonished at the declaration. "I am." "And get me into a scrape too! They won't let me off as easy as they do you. I shall be sent off to learn to be a tinker, or a blacksmith." "You didn't set the boat-house on fire, Noddy. It wasn't any of your doings," said Fanny, somewhat disturbed by this new complication. "You wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been for me. I told you what I said to Ben--that I wished the boat-house was burned up; and that's what put it into your head." "Well, you didn't do it." "I know that; but I shall have to bear all the blame of it." Noddy's moral perceptions were strong enough to enable him to see that he was not without fault in the matter; and he was opposed to Fanny's making the intended confession of her guilt. "I will keep you out of trouble, Noddy," said she, kindly. "You can't do it; when you own up, you will sink me to the bottom of the river. Besides, you are a fool to do any such thing, Miss Fanny. What do you want to say a word about it for? Ben will think some fellow landed from the river, and set the boat-house on fire." "I must do it, Noddy," protested she. "I shall not have a moment's peace till I confess. I shall not dare to look father and Bertha in the face if I don't." "You won't if you do. How are they going to know anything about it, if you don't tell them?" "Well, they will lay it to you if I don't." "No matter if they do; I didn't do it, and I can say so truly, and they will believe me." "But how shall I feel all the time? I shall know who did it, if nobody else does. I shall feel mean and guilty." "You won't feel half so bad as you will when they look at you, and know all the time that you are guilty. If you are going to own up, I shall keep out of the way. You won't see me at Woodville again in a hurry." "What do you mean, Noddy?" asked Fanny, startled by the strong words of her companion. "That's just what I mean. If you own up, they will say that I made you do it; and I had enough sight rather bear the blame of setting the boat-house afire, than be told that I made you do it. I can dirty my own hands, but I don't like the idea of dirtying yours." "You don't mean to leave Woodville, Noddy?" asked Fanny, in a reproachful tone. "If you own up, I shall not go back. I've been thinking of going ever since they talked of making a tinker of me; so it will only be going a few days sooner. I want to go to sea, and I don't want to be a tinker." Fanny gazed into the water by the side of the boat, thinking of what her companion had said. She really did not think she ought to "own up," on the terms which Noddy mentioned. "If you are sorry, and want to repent, you can do all that; and I will give you my solemn promise to be as good as you are, Miss Fanny," said Noddy, satisfied that he had made an impression upon the mind of his wavering companion. His advice seemed to be sensible. She was sorry she had done wrong; she could repent in sorrow and silence, and never do wrong again. Her father and her sister would despise her if they knew she had done such a wicked and unladylike thing as to set the boat-house on fire. She could save all this pain and mortification, and repent just the same. Besides, she could not take upon herself the responsibility of driving Noddy away from Woodville, for that would cause Bertha a great deal of pain and uneasiness. Fanny had not yet learned to do right though the heavens fall. "Well, I won't say anything about it, Noddy," said she, yielding to what seemed to her the force of circumstances. "That's right, Fanny. Now, you leave the whole thing to me, and I will manage it so as to keep you out of trouble; and you can repent and be sorry just as much as you please," replied Noddy, as he began to row again. "There is nothing to be afraid of. Ben will never know that we have been on the river." "But I know it myself," said the conscience-stricken maiden. "Of course you do; what of that?" "If I didn't know it myself, I should feel well enough." "You are a funny girl." "Don't you ever feel that you have done wrong, Noddy?" "I suppose I do; but I don't make any such fuss about it as you do." "You were not brought up by a kind father and a loving sister, who would give anything rather than have you do wrong," said Fanny, beginning to cry again. "There! don't cry any more; if you do, you will 'let the cat out of the bag.' I am going to land you here at the Glen. You can take a walk there, and go home about one o'clock. Then you can tell the folks you have been walking in the Glen; and it will be the truth." "It will be just as much a lie as though I hadn't been there. It will be one half the truth told to hide the other half." This was rather beyond Noddy's moral philosophy, and he did not worry himself to argue the point. He pulled up to the landing place at the Glen, where he had so often conveyed Bertha, and near the spot where he had met with the accident which had placed him under her kindly care. Fanny, with a heavy heart and a doubting mind, stepped on shore, and walked up into the grove. She was burdened with grief for the wrong she had done, and for half an hour she wandered about the beautiful spot, trying to compose herself enough to appear before the people at the house. When it was too late, she wished she had not consented to Noddy's plan; but the fear of working a great wrong in driving him from the good influences to which he was subjected at Woodville, by doing right, and confessing her error, was rather comforting, though it did not meet the wants of her case. In season for dinner, she entered the house with her hand full of wild flowers, which grew only in the Glen. In the hall she met Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, who looked at her flushed face, and then at the flowers in her hand. "We have been wondering where you were, all the forenoon," said Mrs. Green. "I see you have been to the Glen by the flowers you have in your hand. Did you know the boat-house was burned up?" "I saw the smoke of it," replied Fanny. "It is the strangest thing that ever happened. No one can tell how it took fire." Fanny made no reply, and the housekeeper hastened away to attend to her duties. The poor girl was suffering all the tortures of remorse which a wrong act can awaken, and she went up to her room with the feeling that she did not wish to see another soul for a month. Half an hour later, Noddy Newman presented himself at the great house, laden with swamp pinks, whose fragrance filled the air, and seemed to explain where he had been all the forenoon. With no little flourish, he requested Mrs. Green to put them in the vases for Bertha's room; for his young mistress was very fond of the sweet blossoms. He appeared to be entirely satisfied with himself; and, with a branch of the pink in his hand, he left the house, and walked towards the servants' quarters, where, at his dinner, he met Ben, the boatman. CHAPTER IV. NODDY'S CONFESSION. The old boatman never did any thing as other people did it; and though Noddy had put on the best face he could assume to meet the shock of the accusation which he was confident would be brought against him, Ben said not a word about the boat-house. He did not seem to be aware that it had been burned. He ate his dinner in his usual cheerful frame of mind, and talked of swamp pinks, suggested by the branch which the young reprobate had brought into the servants' hall. Noddy was more perplexed than he had been before that day. Why didn't the old man "pitch into him," and accuse him of kindling the fire? Why didn't he get angry, as he did sometimes, and call him a young vagabond, and threaten to horsewhip him? Ben talked of the pinks, of the weather, the crops, and the latest news; but he did not say a word about the destruction of the boat-house, or Noddy's absence during the forenoon. After dinner, Noddy followed the old man down to the pier by the river in a state of anxiety which hardly permitted him to keep up the cheerful expression he had assumed, and which he usually wore. They reached the smouldering ruins of the building, but Ben took no notice of it, and did not allude to the great event which had occurred. Noddy was inclined to doubt whether the boat-house had been burned at all; and he would have rejected the fact, if the charred remains of the house had not been there to attest it. Ben hobbled down to the pier, and stepped on board the Greyhound, which he had hauled up to the shore to enable him to make some repairs on the mainsail. Noddy followed him; but he grew more desperate at every step he advanced, for the old man still most provokingly refused to say a single word about the fire. "Gracious!" exclaimed Noddy, suddenly starting back in the utmost astonishment; for he had come to the conclusion, that if Ben would not speak about the fire, he must. The old boatman was still vicious, and refused even to notice his well-managed exclamation. Noddy thought it was very obstinate of Ben not to say something, and offer him a chance, in the natural way, to prove his innocence. "Why, Ben, the boat-house is burned up!" shouted Noddy, determined that the old man should have no excuse for not speaking about the fire. Ben did not even raise his eyes from the work on which he was engaged. He was adjusting the palm on his hand, and in a moment began to sew as though nothing had happened, and no one was present but himself. Noddy was fully satisfied now that the boatman was carrying out the details of some plot of his own. "Ben!" roared Noddy, at the top of his lungs, and still standing near the ruins. "What do you want, Noddy?" demanded Ben, as good-naturedly as though everything had worked well during the day. "The boat-house is burned up!" screamed Noddy, apparently as much excited as though he had just discovered the fact. Ben made no reply, which was another evidence that he was engaged in working out some deep-laid plot, perhaps to convict him of the crime, by some trick. Noddy was determined not to be convicted if he could possibly help it. "Ben!" shouted he again. "Well, Noddy, what is it?" "Did you _know_ the boat-house was burned up?" There was no answer; and Noddy ran down to the place where the sail-boat was hauled up. He tried to look excited and indignant, and perhaps he succeeded; though, as the old man preserved his equanimity, he had no means of knowing what impression he had produced. "Did you know the boat-house was burned up?" repeated Noddy, opening his eyes as though he had made a discovery of the utmost importance. "I did," replied Ben, as indifferently as though it had been a matter of no consequence whatever. "Why didn't you tell me about it?" demanded Noddy, with becoming indignation. "Because I decided that I wouldn't say a word about it to any person," answered Ben. "How did it happen?" "I haven't anything to say about it; so you mustn't ask me any questions." "Don't you know how it caught afire?" persisted Noddy. "I've nothing to say on that subject." Noddy was vexed and disheartened; but he felt that it would not be prudent to deny the charge of setting it on fire before he was accused, for that would certainly convict him. The old man was playing a deep game, and that annoyed him still more. "So you won't say anything about it, Ben?" added he, seating himself on the pier. "Not a word, Noddy." "Well, I wouldn't if I were you," continued Noddy, lightly. Ben took no notice of this sinister remark, thus exhibiting a presence of mind which completely balked his assailant. "I understand it all, Ben; and I don't blame you for not wanting to say anything about it. I suppose you will own up when Mr. Grant comes home to-night." "Don't be saucy, Noddy," said the old man, mildly. "So you smoked your pipe among the shavings, and set the boat-house afire--did you, Ben? Well, I am sorry for you, you are generally so careful; but I don't believe they will discharge you for it." Ben was as calm and unruffled as a summer sea. Noddy knew that, under ordinary circumstances, the boatman would have come down upon him like a northeast gale, if he had dared to use such insulting language to him. He tried him on every tack, but not a word could he obtain which betrayed the opinion of the veteran, in regard to the origin of the fire. It was useless to resort to any more arts, and he gave up the point in despair. All the afternoon he wandered about the estate, and could think of nothing but the unhappy event of the morning. Fanny did not show herself, and he had no opportunity for further consultation. About six o'clock Bertha returned with her father; and after tea they walked down to the river. Fanny complained of a headache, and did not go with them. It is more than probable that she was really afflicted, as she said; for she had certainly suffered enough to make her head ache. Of course the first thing that attracted the attention of Mr. Grant and his daughter was the pile of charred timbers that indicated the place where the boat-house had once stood. "How did that happen?" asked Mr. Grant of Ben, who was on the pier. "I don't know how it happened," replied the boatman, who had found his tongue now, and proceeded to give his employer all the particulars of the destruction of the building, concluding with Noddy's energetic exclamation that he wished the boat-house was burned up. "But did Noddy set the building on fire?" asked Bertha, greatly pained to hear this charge against her pupil. "I don't know, Miss Bertha. I went up to the house to get my morning instructions, as I always do, and left Noddy at work washing up the boat-house. I found you had gone to the city, and I went right out of the house, and was coming down here. I got in sight of the pier, and saw Miss Fanny come out of the boat-house." "Fanny?" "Yes; I am sure it was her. I didn't mind where she went, for I happened to think the mainsail of the Greyhound wanted a little mending, and I went over to my room after some needles. While I was in my chamber, one of the gardeners rushed up to tell me the boat-house was afire. I came down, but 'twasn't no use; the building was most gone when I got here." "Did you leave anything in the building in the shape of matches, or anything else?" asked Mr. Grant. "No, sir; I never do that," replied the old man, with a blush. "I know you are very careful, Ben. Then I suppose it was set on fire." "I suppose it was, sir." "Who do you suppose set it afire, Ben?" said Bertha, anxiously. "Bless you, miss, I don't know." "Do you think it was Noddy?" "No, Miss Bertha, I don't think it was." "Who could it have been?" "That's more than I know. Here comes Noddy, and he can speak for himself." Noddy had come forward for this purpose when he saw Mr. Grant and Bertha on the pier, and he had heard the last part of the conversation. He was not a little astonished to hear Ben declare his belief that he was not guilty, for he had been fully satisfied that he should have all the credit of the naughty transaction. "Do you know how the fire caught, Noddy?" said Mr. Grant. "I reckon it caught from a bucket of water I left there," replied Noddy, who did not know what to say till he had felt his way a little. "No trifling, Noddy!" added Mr. Grant, though he could hardly keep from laughing at the ridiculous answer. "How should I know, sir, when Ben don't know? I tried to make him tell me how it caught, and he wouldn't say a word about it." "I thought it was best for me to keep still," said Ben. "This is very strange," continued Mr. Grant. "Who was the last person you saw in the boat-house, Ben?" "Miss Fanny, sir. I saw her come out of it only a few moments before the fire broke out." Noddy was appalled at this answer, for it indicated that Fanny was already suspected of the deed. "Of course Fanny would not do such a thing as set the boat-house on fire," said Bertha. "Of course she wouldn't," added Noddy. "What made you say you did not think Noddy set the fire, Ben?" asked Mr. Grant. "Because I think he had gone off somewhere before the fire, and that Miss Fanny was in the building after he was. Noddy was sculling off before he had done his work, and I called him back. That's when he wished the boat-house was burned down." "It is pretty evident that the fire was set by Noddy or Fanny," said Mr. Grant; and he appeared to have no doubt as to which was the guilty one, for he looked very sternly at the wayward boy before him. "I think so, sir," added Ben. "And you say that it was not Noddy?" continued Mr. Grant, looking exceedingly troubled as he considered the alternative. The boatman bowed his head in reply, as though his conclusion was so serious and solemn that he could not express it in words. Noddy looked from Ben to Mr. Grant, and from Mr. Grant to Ben again. It was plain enough what they meant, and he had not even been suspected of the crime. The boatman had seen Fanny come out of the building just before the flames appeared, and all hope of charging the deed upon some vagabond from the river was gone. "Do you mean to say, Ben, that you think Fanny set the boat-house on fire?" demanded Mr. Grant, sternly. "I don't see who else could have set it," added Ben, stoutly. "I do," interposed Noddy. "I say she didn't do it." "Why do you say so?" "Because I did it myself." "I thought so!" exclaimed Mr. Grant, greatly relieved by the confession. Ben was confused and annoyed, and Noddy was rather pleased at the position in which he had placed the old man, who, in his opinion, had not treated him as well as usual. "Why didn't you own it before?" said Mr. Grant, "and not allow an innocent person to be suspected." "I didn't like to," answered the culprit, with a smile, as though he was entirely satisfied with his own position. "You must be taken care of." "I am going to take care of myself, sir," said Noddy, with easy indifference. This remark was capable of so many interpretations that no one knew what it meant--whether Noddy intended to run away, or reform his vicious habits. Bertha had never seen him look so self-possessed and impudent when he had done wrong, and she feared that all her labors for his moral improvement had been wasted. Some further explanations followed, and Noddy was questioned till a satisfactory theory in regard to the fire was agreed upon. The boy declared that he had visited the boat-house after Fanny left it, and that she was walking towards the Glen when he kindled the fire. He made out a consistent story, and completely upset Ben's conclusions, and left the veteran in a very confused and uncomfortable state of mind. Mr. Grant declared that something must be done with the boy at once; that if he was permitted to continue on the place, he might take a notion to burn the house down. Poor Bertha could not gainsay her father's conclusion, and, sad as it was, she was compelled to leave the culprit to whatever decision Mr. Grant might reach. For the present he was ordered to his room, to which he submissively went, attended by Bertha, though he was fully resolved not to be "taken care of;" for he understood this to mean a place in the workhouse or the penitentiary. CHAPTER V. SQUIRE WRIGGS AT WOODVILLE. Bertha was deeply pained at the reckless wrong which her _protégé_ had done, and more deeply by the cool indifference with which he carried himself after his voluntary confession. There was little to hope for while he manifested not a single sign of contrition for the crime committed. He was truly sorry for the grief he had caused her; but for his own sin he did not speak a word of regret. "I suppose I am to be a tinker now," said Noddy to her, with a smile, which looked absolutely awful to Bertha, for it was a token of depravity she could not bear to look upon. "I must leave you now, Noddy, for you are not good," replied Bertha, sadly. "I am sorry you feel so bad about me, Miss Bertha," added Noddy. "I wish you would be sorry for yourself, instead of me." "I am--sorry that you want to make a tinker of me;" and Noddy used this word to express his contempt of any mechanical occupation. He did not like to work. Patient, plodding labor, devoid of excitement, was his aversion; though handling a boat, cleaning out a gutter on some dizzy height of the mansion, or cutting off a limb at the highest point of the tallest shade tree on the estate, was entirely to his taste, and he did not regard anything as work which had a spice of danger or a thrill of excitement about it. He was not lazy, in the broad sense of the word; there was not a more active and restless person on the estate than himself. A shop, therefore, was a horror which he had no words to describe, and which he could never endure. "I want to see you in some useful occupation, where you can earn your living, and become a respectable man," said Bertha. "Don't you want to be a respectable man, Noddy?" "Well, I suppose I do; but I had rather be a vagabond than a respectable tinker." "You must work, Noddy, if you would win a good name, and enough of this world's goods to make you comfortable. Work and win; I give you this motto for your guidance. My father told me to lock you up in your room." "You may do that, Miss Bertha," laughed Noddy. "I don't care how much you lock me in. When I want to go out, I shall go. I shall work, and win my freedom." Noddy thought this application of Bertha's motto was funny, and he had the hardihood to laugh at it, till Bertha, hopeless of making any impression on him at the present time, left the room, and locked the door behind her. "Work and win!" said Noddy. "That's very pretty, and for Miss Bertha's sake I shall remember it; but I shan't work in any tinker's shop. I may as well take myself off, and go to work in my own way." Noddy was tired, after the exertions of the day; and so deeply and truly repentant was he for the wrong he had done, that he immediately went to sleep, though it was not yet dark. Neither the present nor the future seemed to give him any trouble; and if he could avoid the miseries of the tinker's shop, as he was perfectly confident he could, he did not concern himself about any of the prizes of life which are gained by honest industry or patient well doing. When it was quite dark, and Noddy had slept about two hours, the springing of the bolt in the lock of his door awoke him. He leaped to his feet, and his first thought was, that something was to be done with him for burning the boat-house. But the door opened, and, by the dim light which came through the window, he recognized the slight form of Fanny Grant. "Noddy," said she, timidly. "Well, Miss Fanny, have you come to let me out of jail?" "No; I came to see you, and nobody knows I am here. You won't expose me--will you?" "Of course I won't; that isn't much like me." "I know it isn't, Noddy. What did you say that you set the fire for?" "Because I thought that was the best way to settle the whole thing. Ben saw you come out of the boat-house, and told your father he believed you set the building on fire. That was the meanest thing the old man ever did. Why didn't he lay it to me, as he ought to have done?" "I suppose he knew you didn't do it." "That don't make any difference. He ought to have known better than tell your father it was you." "I am so sorry for what you have done!" "What are you sorry for? It won't hurt me, any how; and it would be an awful thing for you. They were going to make a tinker of me before, and I suppose they will do it now--if they can. I wouldn't care a fig for it if Miss Bertha didn't feel so bad about it." "I will tell her the truth." "Don't you do it, Miss Fanny. That wouldn't help me a bit, and will spoil you." "But I must tell the truth. They don't suspect me even of going on the water." "So much the better. They won't ask you any hard questions. Now, Miss Fanny, don't you say a word; for if you do, it will make it all the worse for me." "Why so, Noddy?" "Because, according to my notion, I did set the building afire. If I hadn't said what I did, you never would have thought of doing it. So I was the fellow that did it, after all. That's the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "But you didn't set it afire, and you didn't mean to do any such thing." "That may be; but you wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for me. It was more my fault than it was yours; and I want you to leave the thing just where it is now." "But it would be mean for me to stand still, and see you bear all the blame." "It would be enough sight meaner for you to say anything about it." "I don't think so." "I do; for don't you see it is a good deal worse for me to put you up to such a thing than it was for me to do it myself? Your father would forgive me for setting the fire sooner than they would for making you do it. I'm bad enough already, and they know it; but if they think I make you as bad as I am myself, they would put me in a worse place than a tinker's shop." Noddy's argument was too much for the feminine mind of Miss Fanny, and again she abandoned the purpose she had fully resolved upon, and decided not to confess her guilt. We must do her the justice to say, that she came to this conclusion, not from any fear of personal consequences, but in order to save Noddy from the terrible reproach which would be cast upon him if she did confess. Already, in her heart and before God, she had acknowledged her error, and was sorrowfully repenting her misconduct. But she could not expose Noddy to any penalty which he did not deserve. She knew that he did not mean to set the fire; that his words were idle, petulant ones, which had no real meaning; and it would be wrong to let her father and Bertha suppose that Noddy had instigated her to the criminal act. Fanny had not yet learned that it is best to cleave unto the truth, and let the consequences take care of themselves. She yielded her own convictions to those of another, which no person should ever do in questions of right and wrong. She sacrificed her own faith in the simple truth, to another's faith in policy, expediency. The question was settled for the present, and Fanny crept back to her chamber, no easier in mind, no better satisfied with herself, than before. Noddy went to sleep again; but the only cloud he saw was the displeasure of Bertha. He was simply conscious that he had got into a scrape. He had not burned the boat-house, and he did not feel guilty. He had not intended to induce Fanny to do the deed, and he did not feel guilty of that. He was so generous that he wished to save her from the consequences of her error, and the deception he used did not weigh very heavily on his conscience. He regarded his situation as merely a "scrape" into which he had accidentally fallen, and his only business was to get out of it. These thoughts filled his mind when he awoke in the morning. He was too restless to remain a quiet prisoner for any great length of time; and when he had dressed himself, he began to look about him for the means of mitigating his imprisonment, or bringing it to a conclusion, as the case might require. The window would be available at night, but it was in full view of the gardeners in the daytime, who would be likely to report any movement on his part. The door looked more hopeful. One of the men brought his breakfast, and retired, locking the door behind him. While he was eating it,--and his appetite did not seem to be at all impaired by the situation to which he had been reduced,--he saw Mr. Grant on the lawn, talking with a stranger. His interest was at once excited, and a closer examination assured him that the visitor was Squire Wriggs, of Whitestone. The discovery almost spoiled Noddy's appetite, for he knew that the squire was a lawyer, and had often been mixed up with cases of house-breaking, horse-stealing, robbery, and murder; and he at once concluded that the legal gentleman's business related to him. His ideas of lawyers were rather confused and indistinct. He knew they had a great deal to do in the court-house, when men were sent to the penitentiary and the house of correction for various crimes. He watched the squire and Mr. Grant, and he was fully satisfied in his own mind what they were talking about when the latter pointed to the window of his chamber. He had eaten only half his breakfast, but he found it impossible to take another mouthful, after he realized that he was the subject of the conversation between Mr. Grant and the lawyer. It seemed just as though all his friends, even Miss Bertha, had suddenly deserted him. That conference on the lawn was simply a plot to take him to the court-house, and then send him to the penitentiary, the house of correction, or some other abominable place, even if it were no worse than a tinker's shop. He was absolutely terrified at the prospect. After all his high hopes, and all his confidence in his supple limbs, the judges, the lawyers, and the constables might fetter his muscles so that he could not get away--so that he could not even run away to sea, which was his ultimate intention, whenever he could make up his mind to leave Miss Bertha. Noddy watched the two gentlemen on the lawn, and his breast was filled with a storm of emotions. He pictured the horrors of the prison to which they were about to send him, and his fancy made the prospect far worse than the reality could possibly have been. Mr. Grant led the way towards the building occupied by the servants. Noddy was desperate. Squire Wriggs was the visible manifestation of jails, courts, constables, and other abominations, which were the sum of all that was terrible. He decided at once not to wait for a visit from the awful personage, who was evidently coming into the house to see him. He raised the window a little, intending to throw it wide open, and leap down upon the lawn, when his persecutor entered the door. There was not a man or boy at Woodville who could catch him when he had the use of his legs, and the world would then be open to him. But the gentlemen paused at the door, and Noddy listened as a criminal would wait to hear his sentence from the stern judge. "Thirty thousand dollars is a great deal of money for a boy like him," said Mr. Grant. "Of course he must have a guardian." "And you are the best person in the world for that position," added Squire Wriggs. "But he is a young reprobate, and something must be done with him." "Certainly; he must be taken care of at once." "I'm afraid he will burn my house down, as he did the boat-house. My daughter is interested in him; if it wasn't for her, I would send him to the house of correction before I slept again." "When you are his guardian, you can do what you think best for him." "That will be no easy matter." "We will take the boy over to the court now, and then--" Noddy did not hear any more, for the two gentlemen entered the house, and he heard their step on the stairs. But he did not want to know anything more. Squire Wriggs had distinctly said they would take him over to the court, and that was enough to satisfy him that his worst fears were to be realized. The talk about thirty thousand dollars, and the guardian, was as unintelligible to him as though it had been in ancient Greek, and he did not bestow a second thought upon it. The "boy like him," to whom thirty thousand dollars would be a great deal of money, meant some other person than himself. The court was Noddy's peculiar abomination; and when he heard the words, he clutched the sash of the window with convulsive energy. Mr. Grant and Squire Wriggs passed into the house, and Noddy Newman passed out. To a gymnast of his wiry experience, the feat was not impossible, or even very difficult. Swinging out of the window, he placed his feet on the window-cap below, and then, stooping down, he got hold with his hands, and slipped down from his perch with about the same ease with which a well-trained monkey would have accomplished the descent. He was on the solid earth now, and with the feeling that the court-house and a whole regiment of constables were behind him, he took to his heels. A stiff-kneed gardener, who had observed his exit from the house, attempted to follow him; but he might as well have chased a northwest gale. Noddy reached the Glen, and no sound of pursuers could be heard. The phantom court-house had been beaten in the race. CHAPTER VI. NODDY'S ENGAGEMENT. When Noddy reached the Glen, he had time to stop and think; and the consequences of the sudden step he had taken came to his mind with tremendous force. He had fled from Miss Bertha, and all the comforts and luxuries which had surrounded him at Woodville. He was a vagabond again. It was a great deal better to be a vagabond than it was to be an inmate of a prison, or even of a tinker's shop. He had committed no crime; the worst that could be said of him was, that he was a victim of circumstances. It was unfortunate for him that he had used those petulant words, that he wished the boat-house was burned down, for they had put the idea into Fanny's head. He did not mean to kindle the fire, but he believed that he had been the cause of it, and that it was hardly fair to let the young lady suffer for what he had virtually done. He was sorry to leave Woodville, and above all, sorry to be banished from the presence of Miss Bertha. But that had already been agreed upon, and he was only anticipating the event by taking himself off as he did. He would rather have gone in a more honorable manner than running away like a hunted dog; but he could not help that, and the very thought of the horrible court-house was enough to drive him from the best home in the world. He walked up to a retired part of the Glen, where he could continue his retreat without being intercepted, if it became necessary, and sat down on a rock to think of the future. He had no more idea what he should do with himself, than he had when he was a wanderer before in these regions. Undoubtedly his ultimate purpose was to go to sea; but he was not quite ready to depart. He cherished a hope that he might contrive to meet Bertha in some of her walks, and say good-bye to her before he committed himself to his fortunes on the stormy ocean. While he was deliberating upon his prospects, a happy thought, as he regarded it, came to his mind. He could turn somersets, and cut more capers than any man in the circus company which he had seen on the preceding day. With a little practice, he was satisfied that he could learn to stand up on the back of a horse. A field of glory suddenly opened to his vision, and he could win the applause of admiring thousands by his daring feats. He had performed all sorts of gyrations for the amusement of the idlers about Woodville, and he might now turn his accomplishments to a useful purpose--indeed, make them pay for his food and clothing. Noddy had no idea that circus performances were not entirely respectable; and it seemed to him that his early training had exactly fitted him to shine in this peculiar sphere. It might not be decent business for Mr. Grant and Bertha, but it was just the thing for him. Whitestone was a very large town, and the circus was still there. He had not a moment to lose; and, under the impulse of his new resolution, he left the Glen, intending to walk up the river to the ferry, a couple of miles distant. Noddy went over the river, and reached the great tent of the circus company about one o'clock. He was rather disturbed by the fear that he might meet Squire Wriggs, or some of the constables; but all his hopes were now centred on the circus, and he could not avoid the risk of exposing himself. He boldly inquired for the "head man" of the establishment; but this distinguished functionary was not on the premises at that time; he would be there in the course of half an hour. He walked down to a shop, and having a small sum of money in his pocket, he obtained something to eat. On his return to the tent, the head man was pointed out to him. Noddy, as a general rule, was not troubled with bashfulness; and he walked resolutely up to the manager, and intimated to him that he should like to be engaged as a performer. "What do you want, my boy?" demanded the head man, who was quite confident that he had mistaken the applicant's meaning, for it was hardly possible that a youth like him could be a circus performer. "I want a place to perform, sir," repeated Noddy, who was entirely ignorant of the technical terms belonging to the profession. "To perform!" laughed the manager, measuring him from head to foot with his eye. "Yes, sir." "What kind of business can you do, my boy?" "Almost anything, sir." "Do you ride?" "No, sir; I'm not much used to standing up on a horse, but I think I could go it, after doing it a little while." "Do you, indeed!" sneered the man. "Well, we don't want anybody that can do almost any kind of business." "I'm used to this thing, sir," pleaded Noddy. "Used to it! I suppose you want a place as a bill-sticker, or to take care of the horses." "No, sir; I want to perform. If you will give me a chance to show what I can do, I think you'll have me," persisted Noddy, not at all pleased with the decided refusal he had received. "Well, come in here," laughed the head man, who had no doubt that the applicant would soon be brought to grief. It was almost time for the doors to be opened for the afternoon performance, and the man conducted Noddy to the ring, where he saw a number of the riders and gymnasts, all dressed in their silks and spangles to appear before the public. "Here, Whippleby, is a young man that wants an engagement," said the manager to the man who had acted as ring-master when Noddy was present. "What can he do?" "Almost everything; but he isn't much used to riding." Whippleby laughed, and the manager laughed; and it was quite evident, even to the aspirant for circus honors, that all present intended to amuse themselves at his expense. But Noddy felt able to outdo most of the circus people at their own profession, and he confidently expected to turn the laugh upon them before the game was ended. "A versatile genius," said Whippleby. "Just try him, and see what he can do," added the manager, significantly. "Well, my little man, what do you say to a little ground and lofty tumbling," said Whippleby, winking at the performers, who stood in a circle around them. "I'm at home in that," replied Noddy, throwing off his jacket. "Good! You have got pluck enough, at any rate. Here, Nesmond, do something," said the ring-master to a wiry young man of the group. Nesmond did what Noddy had seen him do the day before; he whirled over and over across the ring, like a hoop, striking his hands and feet alternately on the ground. "There, youngster, do you see that?" said Whippleby. "Yes, sir, I see it," replied Noddy, unabashed by the work which was expected of him. "Now, let us see you do it." Noddy did it, and if anything, more rapidly and gracefully than the professional man. The men applauded, and Nesmond--"the great American vaulter and tumbler"--looked exceedingly disconcerted when he saw his wonderful act so easily imitated. "Try it again, Nesmond," said Whippleby. The distinguished athlete went on for half an hour, performing his antics; and Noddy repeated them, though he had never before attempted some of them. Nesmond gave it up. "Well, young man, you can do almost everything, but you are as clumsy and ungraceful as a bear about it. You need a little training on your positions, and you will make a first-class tumbler," said the manager. The men had ceased to laugh, and even looked admiringly on the prodigy who had so suddenly developed himself. Noddy felt that his fortune was already made, and he was almost ready to snap his fingers at the court-house. Here was a chance for him to "work and win," and it was entirely to his taste. The manager then questioned him in regard to his family connections; but as Noddy had none, his answers were very brief. He had no father nor mother, and he had no home; he was no runaway, for there was no one living who had any claim upon him. These answers were entirely satisfactory to the head man. "What salary do you expect?" asked the manager, when he had assured himself there was no one to interfere with any arrangement he might make. "What do you give?" asked Noddy. "Well, we give different salaries, depending on the men." "You have seen what I can do--what will you give me? Talk right up, or I shall have nothing to do with it," added Noddy, borrowing an expression from a highly respectable horse jockey, who had a language of his own. "I'll give you your board and clothes, and your dresses for the first season." "Nothing of that sort for me," replied Noddy, promptly. "I want to know how much I am to have in hard cash." "Very well; I'll give you five dollars a week, and you find yourself." Five dollars a week looked like a large salary to Noddy, though it was not one-fourth of what the distinguished Mr. Nesmond received, and he immediately closed the bargain. "I'll put you on the bills for the next town we visit. What's your name?" "Noddy Newman." "What?" The embryo performer repeated his name. "That won't do; you must have a better name than that. Arthur De Forrest--how will that suit you?" "First rate," replied Noddy, who was very accommodating in minor matters. "We show in Disbury to-morrow night, and you must be ready to do your business then, Mr. De Forrest," added the manager. "After the performance this afternoon Mr. Whippleby will give you a few lessons." "But where shall I get a dress?" "I will furnish you one, and take it out of your salary. You had better put it on when you practice, so as to get used to it." Noddy was highly pleased with all these arrangements, and could not help congratulating himself on the happy thought which had induced him to join the circus. It was true, and he could not help noticing it, that the men around him were not such people as Mr. Grant, and others whom he had been in the habit of seeing at Woodville. All of them swore terribly; their breath smelt of liquor, and they talked the language of a depravity to which Noddy, with all his waywardness, was a stranger. There were boys no older than himself in the company, but they did not seem a whit less depraved than the older ones. Though the novice was not a young man of high aims and purposes, he was not much pleased with his companions. He was what they termed "green," and it was quite plain to him that there would be a fight before many days had passed by, for he was too high-spirited to submit tamely to the insults which were heaped upon him. During the afternoon performance, he stood at the gates of the ring, where the horses enter; and Mr. Whippleby sent him before the public for the first time, to bring out a whip which had been left there. "Noddy Newman!" shouted a boy among the spectators. The young athlete heard his name, and too late he remembered that he had exposed himself to the gaze of the constables, who might by this time be in search of him. During the rest of the afternoon he kept himself out of sight; but the mischief had already been done. CHAPTER VII. THE RING-MASTER. When the performance was over, Noddy, with the assistance of one of his companions, dressed himself in "trunk and tights," and appeared in the ring to take his first lesson in graceful movements. He could turn the somersets, and go through with the other evolutions; but there was a certain polish needed--so the ring-master said--to make them pass off well. He was to assume a graceful position at the beginning and end of each act; he must recover himself without clumsiness; he must bow, and make a flourish with his hands, when he had done a brilliant thing. Noddy had not much taste for this branch of the profession. He did not like the bowing and the flourishing. If the feat itself did not please the people, he could not win them by smirking. He was much pleased with his costume, and this kept him good-natured, under the severe training of the ring-master, for a time. Mr. Whippleby was coarse and rough in his manners. During the show he had been all grace and elegance, and did not use any big words, but now he was as rough as a bear, and swore like a pirate. He was just like a cat's paw,--he kept the sharp claws down while the dear people were present; but now he thrust them out. Noddy found the "business" was no joke. Mr. Whippleby did not so regard it, now that the training had commenced; and the novice found that he had placed himself under a very tyrannical master. He made his bows and flourished his arms, with all the grace he could command for a time; but he did not come up to his severe teacher's standard. "Do that again," said Mr. Whippleby, with savage emphasis. "Don't hurry it." Noddy did it again, as slowly as he could; but he was apparently just as far from perfection as before. "If you don't do better than that, I'll put the whip around your legs!" shouted the impatient ring-master. "One of the mules could do it better." "I did it as well as I could," replied Noddy, rather tartly. "You will do it better than that, or your legs will smart. Now do it again." Noddy obeyed. He did not think the ring-master really intended to strike him with the long whip he held in his hand, but supposed he was so much in the habit of threatening the clown with the lash, that he did it now from the force of habit. His last attempt did not satisfy Mr. Whippleby, who stormed at him more furiously than before. "Do you think I have nothing better to do than waste my time over a blockhead like you? I haven't had my bitters yet. Now do it again; and if you fail this time you will catch it." Noddy turned his somerset; but he had hardly recovered himself before he received a smart cut from the whip in the tenderest part of his leg. There was a young lion in the novice, and a blow from any man was more than he could endure. He expressed his mind in regard to the outrage with such freedom, that Mr. Whippleby lost his temper, if he ever had any to lose, and he began to lash the unfortunate youth in the most brutal manner. Noddy, finding there was no satisfaction to be obtained by facing the ring-master, fled from the spot, leaping up on the seats where the spectators sat. He was maddened to fury by the harsh treatment he had received; and thirsting for vengeance, he seized whatever missiles he could find, and hurled them at his persecutor. His legs seemed to be on fire from the effects of the blows he had received. He rubbed them for a moment, while he hurled the most bitter denunciations at the ring-master. "Now, come down, and try again," called Mr. Whippleby, who did not seem to be much disconcerted by what had taken place, when he had in some measure recovered his equanimity. "No, I won't!" replied Noddy. "Have you got enough, Mr. Arthur De Forrest?" "I will give _you_ enough before you get through." While this colloquy was going on, the manager appeared in the ring. Whippleby laughingly told him what had happened, and he seemed to be much amused by it; but the ring-master had certainly changed his tone at the appearance of the "head man." "Come, my boy, come down, and let me see how well you do your business," said the manager. "I've had enough of it," replied Noddy, as he returned to the ring. "I'm not a horse, and I'm not going to be treated like one." "That's your initiation, my boy," said Whippleby. "We always try new beginners in that way, to find out what they are made of." "You will find out what I'm made of, if you hit me again with that whip." "I know now. You won't need any more, if you try to do what you are told." "I'm not going to be whipped, whether I try or not," added Noddy, doggedly. "You shall not be whipped, my boy," said the manager. "Now show me your ground act." The novice was about to comply,--for he had already come to the conclusion that the "head man" would protect him,--when he saw two men enter the tent. They did not belong to the company, and Noddy was quite sure he had often seen them in Whitestone. "We don't allow visitors in here now," said the manager. "We come on business. There is a boy here that we want to find," replied one of the men. "You must leave the tent," said the manager, rather sharply. "I am a constable, and there is a boy about here that I want." "What's his name?" "They call him Noddy Newman." "What do you want of him?" "That's my business," answered the constable, rudely. "The boy came into the ring this afternoon during the show, and I suppose he belongs to the company." "That's the fellow!" exclaimed the other constable, pointing to Noddy, who was trying to take himself off without being noticed. "That's Arthur De Forrest," interposed the manager. "No, it isn't; I've known him this five years," said the man who had recognized the culprit. Both of them walked towards Noddy, with the intention, apparently, of laying violent hands on him; but the young gentleman in "trunk and tights" was not prepared to yield up his personal liberty, and he retreated. The officers were in a position where they could stop him from leaving the tent by either of the two entrances; and Noddy, finding his exit prevented, seized a rope which was hanging down by the centre-pole, and climbed up out of the reach of his pursuers. "What do you want of me?" demanded the young athlete, as he perched himself in a comfortable position on the "slack-rope," which was suspended to the pole. "We shall not do you any harm, my boy," said one of the officers. "What do you want of me?" "There is good news for you; and you are wanted over at Squire Wriggs's office." "I know ye! You want to take me to the court-house. You can't humbug me," said Noddy, fully confirmed in his suspicions by the conduct of the men. "We won't hurt you." "You want to take me up." "No, we don't; we only want to take you up to Squire Wriggs's office. It's all for your good." "No, you don't," replied Noddy. "You can't cheat me." "We don't want to cheat you. We are only sent to find you. We will not arrest you." "I know better. You can't fool me. I heard Squire Wriggs say he wanted to take me up to the court-house; and you don't catch me near no court-house. I know what you mean." "You are mistaken, my boy. Come down, and I will tell you all about it." "When I do, you let me know," replied Noddy, who felt so secure from arrest in his present quarters that he expressed his mind with perfect freedom. "We promise not to arrest you," persisted the constable who did the talking. "We have been looking for you all day." "You may look another day, if you like," added the defiant refugee. "You want me for setting fire to the boat-house; but I am not to blame, if I did do it." "We don't know anything about the boat-house; Squire Wriggs has a lot of money for you." "You can't catch an old bird in any such trap as that," answered Noddy, shaking his head significantly. The officers used all their powers of persuasion to induce him to come down; but Noddy, satisfied that they had been sent by Squire Wriggs, was fully persuaded that they were trying to deceive him. The story about a "lot of money" for a poor boy like him, who had not a friend in the world, was too absurd, in his estimation, to be entertained for a moment. He had heard the squire speak to Mr. Grant about thirty thousand dollars; but such a sum was beyond his comprehension. He did not believe any man, not even the owner of Woodville, had so much money; and of course it was nothing to him. The constables got out of patience at last; and though they showed no signs of anger or malice, they exhibited an intention to catch him, which was much worse. One of them commenced the ascent of the pole in the centre of the tent. The circus people, who seemed to be in full sympathy with Noddy, remained neutral, for the intruders were officers of the law, and it was not prudent to oppose them. Noddy perceived the object of his pursuers, and grasping one of the tent-ropes, he scrambled up to the very apex of the canvas structure, and crawled through the aperture around the pole. From this point he slid down to the short poles, and then dropped upon the ground, before the man in the ring could pass round to the outside of the tent. Dodging under the curtains, he reached the place which served as a dressing-room. Removing his "trunks," he hurried on his clothes, and rushed out into the open air again. His persecutors were not in sight, and he did not lose a moment in putting a safe distance between himself and them. Precisely as a well-educated duck or other water-fowl would have done, he hastened to the river, as his most natural element. He had made a complete circuit of the town in his flight. He did not dare to show himself to a living being; for it seemed to him just as though the whole country was after him. When he reached the river, he sat down on the bank, exhausted by his efforts and by the excitement of the afternoon. "I reckon I've got about circus enough," said he to himself,--for there was no one else to whom he could say it. "That Whippleby is worse than a heathen. I don't like any of them." He rubbed his legs, which were not yet done smarting; and the pain seemed to be an emphatic protest against circuses in general, and the "Great Olympian Circus" in particular. But whether he liked the circus or not, it was no longer safe for him to remain with the company. He had taken "French leave" of the manager, and had cheated him out of the tights which enveloped his body from neck to heels. This thought reminded him that they did not feel at all comfortable, and he wished the manager had his own again. Having abandoned the circus profession in disgust, he wondered what he should do next. It was useless for him to stay in the vicinity of Woodville; and the only safe plan for him to adopt was, to go away to some other part of the country, or go to sea at once. He could not tolerate the idea of leaving without letting Bertha know where he was. The officers were on his track, and he could not hope always to escape them. The court-house was terrible, and prompt action was necessary. He must have a sight of Bertha, even if he did not speak to her; and at the risk of being captured, he determined to stay in the neighborhood of Woodville till the next morning. Near the place where he sat there was a skiff moored to the bank. He hauled it in, and took up the oars. He did not mean to steal it, only to borrow it till the next morning. With this comfortable reflection he cast off the painter, and pulled over to the other side of the river. It was now quite late in the evening. He had not eaten any supper, and, like other boys, he was always hungry at meal times. He wanted something to eat; and it occurred to him that there were generally some crackers and cheese in the locker of the Greyhound, and he rowed down to her moorings. He found what he wanted there, and made a hearty supper. He was satisfied then, and soon went to sleep in the stern-sheets of the sail-boat. Fortunately for him he waked up about daylight, and was not seen by any of the early risers at Woodville. Appropriating the rest of the crackers and cheese for his breakfast, he got into the skiff and rowed up to the Glen, where he hoped, in the course of the forenoon, to see Bertha. CHAPTER VIII. GOOD-BYE TO WOODVILLE. Bertha often walked to the Glen before breakfast, and Noddy expected to find her there on the present occasion. As she did not appear, he followed the path toward Woodville, and actually reached the lawn which surrounded the mansion before he thought of the danger he incurred. But it was breakfast time in the servants' quarters, and he was not seen. Keeping on the outskirts of the lawn, where he could make good his retreat in case of necessity, he walked nearly around to the pier, and was so fortunate as to discover Bertha at the turn of a winding path, near his route. The sight of her filled him with emotion, and brought to his mind the remembrance of the many happy days he had spent in her presence. He could hardly restrain the tears which the thought of leaving the place brought to his eyes, though Noddy was not given to the feminine custom of weeping. "Miss Bertha," said he, as she approached the spot where he stood. She started back with alarm; but he stepped forward from the concealment of the bushes, and with a smile of pleasure she recognized him. "Why, Noddy, is that you?" said she, walking towards the spot where he stood. "It's me, Miss Bertha; but I suppose you don't want to see me now." "I am very glad to see you. What did you go away for?" "Because they were going to put me in the court-house." "In the court-house!" exclaimed Bertha, who was better acquainted with legal affairs than her pupil. "Yes, for setting the boat-house afire." "I don't think they intended to take you to the court-house." "O, I know they did. I have had two constables after me; but I got away from them. Besides, I heard Squire Wriggs say they were going to take me to the court-house. I heard him say so myself." "Perhaps it is so," said Bertha, musing. "Squire Wriggs came to see father yesterday morning. They went out together, and were speaking of you as they left the house." "I'm glad you didn't have anything to do with it," said Noddy, delighted to find that Bertha was not one of his persecutors. Then, with the utmost simplicity, and apparently with the feeling that he was a persecuted youth, he told her everything that had occurred from the time he first saw Mr. Grant and Squire Wriggs on the lawn. "I don't know what my father's plans are," said Bertha, sadly; "but he thinks it is no longer safe to permit you to roam about the place. He is afraid you will set the house on fire, or do some other terrible thing." "But I wouldn't, Miss Bertha," protested Noddy. "Why did you do such a wicked thing?" "I couldn't help it." "Yes, you could, Noddy. That's only making a bad matter worse. Of course you could help setting a building on fire." "It wasn't my fault, Miss Bertha," stammered he; "I can't explain it now--perhaps some time I may; and when you understand it, you won't think so bad of me." "If there is anything about it I don't know, why don't you tell me?" added Bertha, mystified by his strange remark. "I can't say anything now. Please don't ask me anything about it, Miss Bertha. I'm not half so much to blame as you think I am; but I set the fire, and they are after me for it. They have used all sorts of tricks to catch me; but I'm not going into any court-house, or any tinker's shop." "What tricks do you mean?" "They said they had a lot of money for me, and that Squire Wriggs wouldn't do me any harm." "Well, I don't know anything about that. Father went over to Whitestone with Squire Wriggs, after you ran away. He went over again last night, after he came from the city, and I haven't seen him for more than a moment since." "He is going to send me to the court-house," said Noddy, fully satisfied that Bertha knew nothing about the proceedings of her father. "I am going to sea, now." "To sea, Noddy?" "Yes, I'm going to work and win, as you told me, and when I come back I shall be respectable." Bertha had her doubts on this point. She had almost lost all hope of her _protégé_, and she did not think that a voyage in the forecastle of a ship would be likely to improve his manners or his morals. "I can't let you go, Noddy," said she. "I must go; if I stay here they will put me in prison. You don't want to see me put in prison, Bertha." "I don't." "Then what can I do? The officers are after me this moment." "But I shall have to tell my father that I have seen you." "You may do that; and you may tell him, too, that it won't be any use for him to try to find me, for I shall keep out of the way. If they catch me they will be smarter than I am," added Noddy, confidently. "I want to see you again, Noddy, after I have talked with father about you. I don't believe he intends to send you to prison." "I know he does. I come over here to see you before I went away. I couldn't go without seeing you, or I shouldn't have come. I may never see you again, for I shan't run any more risks after this." Bertha said all she could to induce him to meet her again; but the cunning youth was afraid that some trap might be set to catch him, and he assured her that this was positively his last appearance at Woodville for the present. He was satisfied that Mr. Grant had taken the case into his own hands, and that she could not save him if she would. "Now, good-bye, Miss Bertha," said he, wiping a tear from his face. "Don't go, Noddy," pleaded she. "I must." "You haven't any clothes but those you have on, and you have no money." "I don't want any. I can get along very well. Won't you shake hands with me before I go?" "Certainly, I will," replied she, giving him her hand. "You will not let me do anything for you now?" "You have done more than I deserve. Good-bye, Miss Bertha," said he, pressing the hand he held. "Good-bye, Noddy," replied she. "Good-bye, if you must go." "There comes your father," exclaimed he, as he bounded off into the grove with the speed of an antelope. "Was that Noddy?" asked Mr. Grant, as he joined Bertha a few minutes later. "Yes, father." "Why didn't you tell me he was here, Bertha?" "He came but a few moments ago. He came to bid me good-bye." "Where is he going?" "He is going to sea. He says you intend to take him to the court-house." "This is very unfortunate. A most remarkable event in regard to the boy has occurred, which I haven't time to tell you about now. It is very important that I should find him at once." "I don't think you can catch him. He is very much afraid of being sent to prison." "I had no intention of sending him to prison," laughed Mr. Grant. "But he heard Squire Wriggs say he must take him over to the court." "That was for another matter--in a word, to have a guardian appointed, for Noddy will be a rich man when he is of age." "Noddy?" exclaimed Bertha. "Yes; but I haven't a moment to spare. I have been at work on his affairs since yesterday morning. They are all right now; and all we want to enable us to complete the business is the presence of the boy." "Poor fellow! He is terribly worked up at the idea of going to the court-house, or even to a tinker's shop, as he calls it." "Well, he is running away from his own fortune and happiness; and I must find him." "I hope you will, father," said Bertha, earnestly, as Mr. Grant hastened away to organize a pursuit of the refugee. All the male servants on the place were summoned, and several started off in the direction in which Noddy had retreated. The boatman and others were sent off in the boats; and the prospect was, that the fugitive would be captured within a few hours. As our story relates more especially to the runaway himself, we shall follow him, and leave the well-meaning people of Woodville to pursue their investigations alone. When Noddy discovered Mr. Grant, he was satisfied that the gentleman saw him, for he quickened his pace, and walked towards the place where he stood holding Bertha's hand. He ran with all his might by the familiar paths till he reached the Glen. There were, at present, no signs of a pursuit; but he was confident that it would not be delayed, and he did not even stop to take breath. Rushing down to the water, he embarked in the skiff, and rowed up the river, taking care to keep in shore, where he could not be seen from below. Above Van Alstine's Island, he crossed the river, and began to work his way down; but the white sails of the Greyhound were seen, with all the boats belonging to the estate, headed up stream. They were chasing him in earnest, and he saw that it was not safe to remain on the river. "Do you know where Mr. Grover lives?" he asked of a ragged boy who was fishing on the bank of the river. "Below Whitestone?" "Yes." "Will you take this boat down there?" "I will," replied the boy, glad of the job, and willing to do it without any compensation. Noddy had taken off the tights belonging to the circus company, and rolled them up in a bundle. In order to be as honest as Bertha had taught him to be,--though he was not always so particular,--he engaged the boy to leave them at the circus tent. The boy got into the boat, and began his trip down the river. Noddy felt that he had been honest, and he was rather proud of the record he was to leave behind him; for it did not once occur to him that borrowing the boat without leave was only a little better than stealing it, even if he did return it. The servants at Woodville and the constables at Whitestone were on his track, and he had no time to spare. Taking a road leading from the river, he walked away from it as fast as he could. About three miles distant, he found a road leading to the northward; and thinking it better to suffer by excess of prudence than by the want of it, he took this direction, and pursued his journey till he was so tired he could go no farther. A farmer on the road gave him some dinner; and when he had rested himself, he resumed his walk. At sunset he reached a large town on the river, where he felt safe from pursuit until he saw the flaming hand-bills of the Great Olympian Circus, which was almost as bad as meeting one of the constables, for these worthies would expect to find him at the tent, and probably were on the watch for him. Noddy was too tired to walk any farther that day. He wanted to reach some large seaport, like New York or Boston, where he could find a vessel bound on a foreign voyage. He was almost afraid to go to the former city, for he had heard about the smart detectives they have there, who catch any person guilty of crime, though they never saw him before. He had told Bertha that he intended to go to sea; and he was afraid that Mr. Grant would be on the watch for him, or set some of these detectives to catch him, if he went there. It was almost time for the steamers for Albany, which went up in the night, to reach the town, and he determined to go on board of one, and proceed as far up the river as he could with the small sum of money in his possession. He soon found the landing-place, and presently a steamer came along. "Where do you want to go, boy?" asked one of the officers of the boat. "I want to go to Albany; but I haven't money enough to pay my fare." "How much money have you got?" "Thirty-five cents. I will go as far as that will pay my fare." "That will only be to the next landing-place." "Couldn't you give me some work to do, to pay my fare up to Albany?" The officer happened to be rather pleased with Noddy, and told him he might stand by and help land the baggage at the stopping-places. He gave the little wanderer some supper in the mess-room, after the boat got off, and Noddy was as grateful as though the man had given him a gold mine. When the steamer made another landing, he worked with all his might, and was highly commended for his skill and activity. And so he passed the night, sleeping between the stoppages, and working like a mule at every landing. In the morning the boat reached Albany, and the officer gave him his breakfast with the engineers. Noddy felt safe from pursuit now; he went on shore, and walked about the city, thinking what he should do next. CHAPTER IX. AN ATTEMPT TO WORK AND WIN. Boston was two hundred miles distant, and Noddy was principally excited to know how he should get there, for he had decided to ship in that city. It would take him a week to go on foot, and his funds were now completely exhausted, so that he could not pay his fare by railroad. If he could neither ride nor walk, the question was narrowed down to a point where it needed no further consideration. "Here, boy, do you want a job?" said a gentleman, coming out of a dwelling with a valise and a large bundle in his hands. "Yes, sir; thank you, sir," replied Noddy, springing forward, and taking the heavier articles, without giving the gentleman the trouble to state what he wanted of him. This incident seemed to solve the problem for him. He could remain in Albany long enough to earn a sufficient sum of money to pay his fare to Boston. He followed the gentleman to the railroad station, and handed the valise to the baggage-master. The gentleman gave him a quarter of a dollar for his services. It was a liberal return for the short time he had been employed, and a few more such jobs as that would soon put him in funds. Noddy was sanguine now that he could earn money with entire ease, and all the difficulties which had beset him began to disappear. There was something exceedingly pleasant in the idea of being independent; of putting his hand into his pocket and always finding some money there which had been earned by his own labor. It was a novel sensation to him. "Work and win!" exclaimed he, as he walked out of the railroad station. "I understand it all now, and I may thank Miss Bertha for the idea." In the enthusiasm of the moment, he began to consider whether it would not be better to remain on shore and amass a fortune, which he believed could be done in a short time. He could carry bundles and valises till he got money enough to buy a horse and wagon, when he could go into the business on a more extensive scale. The road to fortune was open to him; all his trials and difficulties had suddenly vanished, and he had only to reach out his hand to pluck the golden harvest. The rattling of a train which had just arrived disturbed this pleasant dream, and Noddy hastened back to secure the fruit of his brilliant resolution. There were plenty of gentlemen with bags and valises in their hands, but not a single one of them wanted any assistance; and some of them answered his civil salutation with insult and harshness. The experiment did not work so well as he had anticipated, for Noddy's great expectations led him to believe that he should make about half a dollar out of the arrival of this train, instead of which he did not make a single cent. "Work and win; but where are you going to get your work?" said Noddy to himself. No more trains were to arrive for some hours, and he posted himself in the street, asking for a job whenever there was the least prospect of obtaining one. At noon, Noddy was hungry, and was obliged to spend half his morning's earnings for a coarse dinner, for his circumstances did not permit him to indulge in the luxury of roast beef and plum pudding. During the afternoon he lay in wait for a job at the railroad stations, and in the most public places of the city. But the sum of his earnings was only five cents. "Work and win!" said he. "Sum total of day's work, thirty cents; not enough to buy what I want to eat. It don't pay." If work did not pay, stealing certainly would not; and we are happy to say, Bertha Grant had done her duty by him so faithfully, that he did not feel tempted to resort to any irregular means of obtaining a subsistence. If work did not pay, it was only because he could not obtain it. He had not yet struck a productive vein. He had been a fishing a great many times; but when he had no success, he neither concluded that fish were not good, nor that there were no fish in the river. There was a train to arrive, after dark, from New York city, and he determined to make one more effort to improve his fortunes. As the passengers came out of the station with small parcels of baggage in their hands, he offered his services to them. His heart almost leaped with rapture when a gentleman handed him a small carpet-bag, and told him to follow to the Delavan House. He took the bag, and then, to his horror, he discovered that the gentleman was Mr. Grant! What had brought him to Albany? As Noddy's sphere of observation was confined to the little world of his own affairs, he concluded that the owner of Woodville must be there for the purpose of arresting him. Probably some of those smart constables had traced him to the town where he had embarked for Albany. Again the horrors of the court-house, the jail, and the tinker's shop were present to his mind. He had taken the valise, and was now following Mr. Grant to the hotel. It was dark at the place where he had received the carpet-bag, otherwise he would have been recognized. Noddy had no doubt in regard to the correctness of his conclusions; and he could not help thinking that a great man, like Mr. Grant, was taking a good deal of pains to capture a poor boy, like him. His arrest was a matter of a great deal more consequence than he had supposed, which made it all the more necessary to his future peace and happiness that he should escape. The bag tied him to his persecutor, or he would have run away as fast as he could. He could not carry off the baggage, for that would subject him to another penalty, even if he had been dishonest enough to do such a thing. He decided to follow Mr. Grant to the hotel, drop the bag, and run. "Boy, do you know where the police office is?" said Mr. Grant, suddenly turning round upon him. "No, sir," replied Noddy, whose natural boldness prompted him, when fairly cornered, to face the danger. "What! Noddy?" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I came to look for you." "Thank you, sir," replied Noddy. "You were a foolish fellow to run away. I'm not going to hurt you; neither is anybody else." Noddy was not a little astonished to find Mr. Grant, in his own homely terms, "trying it on" in this manner. It was not strange that the constable, or even Squire Wriggs, should resort to deception to entrap him; but he was not quite prepared for it from the upright proprietor of Woodville. If he was wanted "bad enough" to induce a gentleman of wealth and position to make a journey to Albany after him, it was the very best reason in the world why he should get out of the way as soon as possible. "How is Miss Bertha, sir?" asked Noddy, who did not know what else to say. "She is quite well, and feels very badly now at your absence. You have made a great mistake, Noddy," replied Mr. Grant. "Is Miss Fanny pretty well, sir?" "Very well. We don't wish to injure you, or even to punish you, for setting the boat-house on fire. The worst that I shall do will be to send you----" "Is Ben any better than he was?" continued Noddy, fully satisfied in his own mind in regard to the last remark. "Ben is very well," said Mr. Grant, impatiently. "Now, you will come with me, Noddy, and not try to run away again." "How is Mrs. Green and the rest of the folks?" asked Noddy, fully resolved that even Mr. Grant should not "pull wool over his eyes," as he quaintly expressed his view of this attempt to deceive him. "She is well. Now come with me, Noddy. I will give you a good supper, and you shall have everything you need. Your circumstances have changed now, and you will be a rich man when you are of age." "Have you heard from Mr. Richard lately, sir?" "Never mind Richard, now. Come with me, Noddy. If you attempt to run away again, I shall be obliged to hand you over to a policeman." That looked much more like it, in Noddy's opinion, and he had no doubt of Mr. Grant's entire sincerity in the last remark. "I will follow you, sir," replied Noddy, though he did not intend to continue on this route much farther. "You understand that I am your friend, Noddy, and that no harm shall come to you." "Yes, sir; I understand that." "Come here now, and walk by my side. I don't want to call a policeman to take charge of you." Noddy did not want him to do so either, and did not intend that he should. He placed himself by the side of his powerful persecutor, as he still regarded him, and they walked together towards the hotel. The young refugee was nervous and uneasy, and watched with the utmost diligence for an opportunity to slip away. As they were crossing a street, a hack, approaching rapidly, caused Mr. Grant to quicken his pace in order to avoid being run over. Noddy, burdened with the weight of the carpet-bag, did not keep up with him, and he was obliged to fall back to escape the carriage. "Here, boy, you take this bag, and follow the owner to the hotel, and he will give you something," said Noddy to a ragged boy at the corner of the street. Without waiting for an answer, he darted down the cross street, and made his best time in the rush for liberty. The boy, to whom Noddy had given the bag, ran over the street, and placed himself behind Mr. Grant, whom he judged to be the owner of the baggage. "Where is the other boy?" demanded Mr. Grant. "Gone down State Street to find ten cents he lost there," replied the wicked boy. "I'll carry your bag, sir." "But I want the boy! Which way did he go?" said Mr. Grant, in hurried tones. "Down there, sir. His mother'll lick him if he don't find the ten cents he lost. I'll carry the bag." But Mr. Grant was unwilling to trust his property to the hands of such a boy, and he immediately reclaimed it. "I want that boy!" exclaimed Mr. Grant, in great agitation. "Which way did he go?" "Down there," replied the ragged boy, pointing down a street in exactly the opposite direction from that taken by the fugitive. But Mr. Grant was too wise a man to follow. He was in search of a policeman just then. As these worthy functionaries are never at hand when they are wanted, of course he did not find one. He called a carriage, and ordered the driver to convey him with all speed, and at double fare, to the police office. On his arrival, he immediately stated his business, and in a few hours the whole police force of the city were on the lookout for poor Noddy Newman. The object of all this friendly solicitude was unconscious of the decided steps taken by Mr. Grant; but he ran till he had placed a safe distance between himself and his potent oppressor. He saw plenty of policemen in his flight, but he paid no attention to them, nor even thought what a powerful combination they formed against a weak boy like himself. He was satisfied, however, that he must leave the city; and when he was out of breath with running, he walked as nearly on a straight course as the streets would permit, till he reached the outskirts of the city. "Stop that heifer!" shouted a man, who was chasing the animal. Noddy headed her off, and she darted away in another direction. Our refugee was interested in the case at once; for he could not permit any horned beast to circumvent him. He ran as though he had not run before that evening, and brought the wayward animal up in a corner when the man came to his assistance. "You are a smart boy," said the drover. "That's so," puffed Noddy, modestly. "If you haven't got nothin' better to do, I'll make it wuth your while to help drive these cattle down to the keers," added the man. As Noddy had nothing better to do, he at once accepted the offer, without even stipulating the price. They started the heifer again, and she concluded to join the drove which was in the adjoining street. It was no easy matter to drive the animals, which were not accustomed to the ways of the city, through the streets, and Noddy won a great deal of credit for the vigor and agility with which he discharged his duty. They reached the ferry boat, and crossing, came to the "keers," into which the young drover assisted in loading the cattle. His employer gave him a quarter of a dollar, which hardly came up to Noddy's expectations; for it seemed to him like working very hard, and winning very little for it. The man asked him some questions about his home. Noddy told as much of the truth as suited his purpose, and concluded by saying he wanted to get to Boston, where he could find something to do. "O, you want sunthin to do--do ye?" replied the drover. "Well, I'll give you your victuals, and what clothes you want, to help me drive." This was not exactly Noddy's idea of "work and win," and he told the drover he wanted to go to sea. "I'll tell you what I'll do. You may go down to Brighton, and help take keer of the cattle in the keers, and I'll take keer of you on the way." Noddy was more than satisfied with all these "keers," and he promptly accepted the offer. In half an hour the train started, and he was on the way to Brighton, which is only a few miles from Boston. CHAPTER X. POOR MOLLIE. Noddy's duty on the journey to Brighton was to assist in keeping the cattle on their feet. When the poor animals become weary, they are disposed to lie down; but they are so closely packed that this is not possible for more than one or two in a car; and if one lies down he is liable to be trampled to death by the others. The persons in charge of the cattle, therefore, are obliged to watch them, and keep them on their feet. The train occasionally stopped during the night, and was several times delayed, so that it did not reach its destination till the middle of the following forenoon. The drover provided him a hearty breakfast in the morning, and Noddy was in no haste. The future was still nothing but a blank to him, and he was in no hurry to commence the battle of life. When he arrived at Brighton he assisted in driving the cattle to the pens; and then, with half a dollar, which the drover gave him for his extra services, he started for Boston, whose spires he could even then see in the distance. He reached the city, and from the Mill Dam--the long bridge he had just crossed--he walked to the Common. Being quite worn out by two nights of hard work, and the long walk he had just taken, he seated himself on one of the stone benches near the Frog Pond. It was a warm and pleasant day, and he watched the sports of the happy children who were at play, until his eyelids grew heavy, and he hardly knew the State House from the Big Tree. For a boy of his age he had undergone a severe experience. The exciting circumstances which surrounded him had kept him wide awake until his physical nature could endure no more. Leaving the seat he had occupied, he sought out the quietest place he could find, and stretching himself on the grass, went to sleep. It was nearly sunset when he awoke; but he felt like a new being, ready now to work and win at any business which might offer. He wandered about the streets of the city for two hours, and then ate a hearty supper at a restaurant. It was too late to do anything that night, and he asked a policeman to tell him where he could sleep. The officer, finding he was a friendless stranger, gave him a bed at the station-house. In the morning he made his way to the wharves, and during the long day he went from vessel to vessel in search of a berth as cabin-boy. He asked for this situation, because he had frequently heard the term; but he was willing to accept any position he could obtain. No one wanted a cabin-boy, or so small a sailor as he was. Night came on again, with a hopeless prospect for the future; and poor Noddy began to question the wisdom of the course he had taken. A tinker's shop, with plenty to eat, and a place to sleep, was certainly much better than wandering about the streets. He could not help thinking of Woodville, and the pleasant room he had occupied in the servants' quarters; of the bountiful table at which he had sat; and, above all, of the kindness and care which Miss Bertha had always bestowed upon him. With all his heart he wished he was there; but when he thought of the court-house and the prison, he was more reconciled to his fate, and was determined to persevere in his efforts to obtain work. It was the close of a long summer day. He had been wandering about the wharves at the north part of the city; and as the darkness came on, he walked up Hanover Street in search of a policeman, who would give him permission to sleep another night in the station-house. As he did not readily find one, he turned into another street. It made but little difference to him where he went, for he had no destination, and he was as likely to find a policeman in one place as another. He had gone but a short distance before he saw a crowd of ragged boys pursuing and hooting at a drunken man who was leading a little girl ten or eleven years of age,--or rather, she was trying to lead him. Under ordinary circumstances, we are afraid that Noddy would have joined the ragamuffins and enjoyed the senseless sport as well as any of them; but his own sorrows raised him above this meanness in the present instance, and he passed the boys without a particle of interest in the fun. He was going by the drunken man and the little girl, when one of the boldest of the pursuers rushed up and gave the man a push, which caused him to fall on the pavement. The young vagabonds raised a chorus of laughter, and shouted with all their might. The little girl, who was evidently the drunkard's daughter, did not desert him. She bent over him, and used all her feeble powers to assist him to his feet again. "My poor father!" sobbed she; and her heart seemed to be broken by the grief and peril which surrounded her. The tones with which these words were spoken touched the heart of Noddy; and without stopping to consider any troublesome questions, he sprang to the assistance of the girl. The man was not utterly helpless; and with the aid of Noddy and his daughter he got upon his feet again. At that moment another of the unruly boys, emboldened by the feat of the first, rushed up and grasped the arm of the little girl, as if to pull her away from her father's support. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" pleaded the grief-stricken girl, in tones so full of sorrow that our wanderer could not resist them, if her vagabond persecutor could. He sprang to her assistance, and with one vigorous and well-directed blow, he knocked the rude assailant halfway across the street, and left him sprawling on the pavement. Noddy did not wait to see what the boy would do next, but turned his attention to the poor girl, whose situation, rather than that of her father, had awakened his sympathy. "What is your father's name?" asked Noddy, who proceeded as though he had a sovereign remedy for the miseries of the situation. "Captain McClintock," sobbed the little girl, still clinging to her father, with no sting of reproach in her words or her manner. "Don't cry, little girl; I will do what I can for you," said Noddy, warmly. "I can lick those boys, if I can't do anything more." "Thank you!" replied the afflicted daughter. "If I can only get him down to the vessel, I shall be so glad!" "Want to fight?" shouted the young ruffian, whom Noddy had upset, coming as near the party as he dared. "I'll give you fight, if you come near me again," replied the champion of the poor girl. "Come on, if you want to fight," cried the little bully, who had not the pluck to approach within twenty feet of his late assailant. The crowd of boys still shouted, and some of them carried their hostility so far as to throw sticks and stones at the little party; but as long as they kept at a respectful distance, Noddy did not deem it wise to meddle with them, though he kept one eye on them, and stood ready to punish those who ventured too near. "Come, Captain McClintock," said he, as he attempted to lead the drunken father, "let's go on board." "Heave ahead, my hearty!" replied the captain, as he pressed forward, though his steps were so uncertain that his two feeble supporters could hardly keep him on his feet. The remarkable trio passed down Fleet Street, and, after many difficulties and much "rough weather," reached the head of the wharf, where the little girl said her father's vessel lay. They were still closely followed by the merciless ragamuffins, who had pelted them with stones and sticks, until the patience of Noddy was severely tried. "Come, my boy, now we'll--hic--now we'll go and--hic--go and take something 'fore we go on board," said the drunken captain, suddenly coming to a dead halt in the middle of the street. "O, no, father!" cried the daughter; "let us go on board." "Something to take, Mollie, and you shall--hic--you shall have some--hic--some soda water." "I don't want any, father. Do come on board." "You are a good girl, Mollie, and you shall--hic--you shall have some cake." "Not to-night, father. We will get it in the morning," pleaded poor Mollie, trembling with apprehension for the consequences which must follow another glass of liquor. "Come, Captain McClintock, let's go on board," said Noddy. "Who are you?" demanded the inebriated man. "I'm the best fellow out; and I want to see your vessel." "You shall see her, my boy. If you are--hic--the best fellow out, come and take something with me," stammered the captain. "Let's see the vessel first," replied Noddy, tugging away at the arm of the drunken man. "She's a very fine--hic--fine vessel." "Let me see her, then." "Heave ahead, my jolly roebuck. I've got some of the best--hic--on board zever you tasted. Come along." Noddy and Mollie kept him going till they reached the part of the wharf where the captain's vessel was moored; and the end of their troubles seemed to be at hand, when the boys, aware that their sport was nearly over, became very bold and daring. They pressed forward, and began to push the drunken man, until they roused his anger to such a degree that he positively refused to go on board till he chastised them as they deserved. He had broken away from his feeble protectors, and in attempting to pursue them, had fallen flat upon the planks which covered the wharf. Mollie ran to his assistance; and as she did so, one of the boys pushed her over upon him. Noddy's blood was up in earnest, for the little girl's suffering made her sacred in his eyes. He leaped upon the rude boy, bore him down, and pounded him till he yelled in mortal terror. Some of the boldest of the ragamuffins came to his relief when they realized how hard it was going with him, and that he was in the hands of only one small boy. Noddy was as quick as a flash in his movements, and he turned upon the crowd, reckless of consequences. One or two of the boys showed fight; but the young lion tipped them over before they could make up their minds how to attack him. The rest ran away. Noddy gave chase, and in his furious wrath felt able to whip the whole of them. He pursued them only a short distance; his sympathy for poor Mollie got the better even of his anger, and he hastened back to her side. As he turned, the cowardly boys turned also, and a storm of such missiles as the wharf afforded was hurled after him. By this time two men from the vessel had come to the assistance of the captain, and raised him to his feet. He was still full of vengeance, and wanted to chastise the boys. The young ruffians followed Noddy down the wharf, and he was compelled, in self-defence, to turn upon them again, and in presence of the drunken man he punished a couple of them pretty severely. One of the sailors came to his aid, and the foe was again vanquished. The appearance of a policeman at the head of the wharf now paralyzed their efforts, and they disbanded and scattered. "You are a good fellow!" exclaimed Captain McClintock, extending his hand to Noddy as he returned to the spot. "The best fellow out," replied the little hero, facetiously, as he took the offered hand. "So you be! Now come on board, and--hic--and take something." "Thank you, captain. I should like to go on board of your vessel." "Come along, then, my jolly fellow," added the captain, as he reeled towards the vessel. "You are a smart little--hic--you are a smart little fellow. If you hadn't--hic--licked them boys, I should--hic." Noddy thought he did "hic;" but with the assistance of the sailors, the captain got on board, and went down into his cabin. His first movement was to bring out a bottle of gin and a couple of glasses, into which he poured a quantity of the fiery liquor. He insisted that Noddy should drink; but the boy had never tasted anything of the kind in his life; and from the lessons of Bertha and Ben he had acquired a certain horror of the cup, which had not been diminished by the incidents of the evening. He could not drink, and he could not refuse without making trouble with his intoxicated host. But Mollie saw his difficulty, and slyly substituted a glass of water for the gin, which he drank. Captain McClintock was satisfied, and overcome by his last potion, he soon sank back on the locker, and dropped asleep. With the assistance of the mate he was put into the berth in his state-room, to sleep off the effects of his debauch. "I'm so grateful to you!" exclaimed Mollie, when all her trials seemed to have ended. "O, never mind me." "Where do you live?" "Nowhere." "Have you no home?" "No." "Where do you stay?" "Anywhere." "Where were you going to sleep to-night?" "Anywhere I could." "Then you can sleep here." Noddy was entirely willing, and one of the eight berths in the cabin was appropriated by the mate to his use. CHAPTER XI. THE SCHOONER ROEBUCK. "What is your name?" asked Mollie, when the arrangements for the night were completed. "Noddy Newman." "Noddy? What a queer name! That isn't your real name--is it?" "Yes, I never knew any other." Mollie was certainly a very pleasing young lady, and Noddy had become quite interested in her, as we always are in those to whom we are so fortunate as to render needed assistance. She had a pretty face, and her curly hair might have challenged the envy of many a fair damsel who was wicked enough to cherish such a feeling. There was nothing rough or coarse about her, and one would hardly have expected to find so lady-like a person in such a situation in life. We make this statement in apology for the interest which Noddy took in the little maiden. The service he had rendered her was quite sufficient to create a kindly feeling towards her; and then she was so pretty, so modest, and so gentle, that his sympathy grew into admiration before she went to her little state-room. Mollie asked him a great many questions about his past life, and Noddy told her all he knew about himself--about Bertha, Fanny, and others at Woodville. He did not tell her about the affair of the boat-house, though he determined to do so at some future time, if he had the opportunity. In return for all this information, Mollie told him that the schooner in which they then were was called the Roebuck; that she belonged to her father, and that they were bound to the Sandwich Islands, where the vessel was to run as a packet between certain islands, whose names she had forgotten. Captain McClintock belonged in the State of Maine, where Mollie's mother had died two years before. Her father had some property, and learning that there was a good chance to improve his fortunes at the Sandwich Islands, he had built the Roebuck for this purpose. As these distant islands were to be his future home, he was to take his only child with him, and he had fitted up a state-room in the cabin, next to his own for her special use. Mollie told Noddy how much pleased she was with all the arrangements, and how happy she had been on the passage to Boston, where the Roebuck was to pick up an assorted cargo for the port of her destination. Then she wept when she thought of the terrible scenes through which she had just passed in the streets. She said her father did not often drink too much; that he was the very best father in the whole world; and she hoped he never would get intoxicated again as long as he lived. Noddy hoped so too; and when the little maiden had finished her story, he thought she was almost equal to Miss Bertha; and he could not think of such a thing as parting with her in the morning, again to buffet the waves of disappointment on shore. "Does your father want a boy on board of the vessel?" asked he. "I don't know. Do you want to go with us?" said Mollie, with a smile which spoke the pleasure the thought afforded her. "I should like to go with you first-rate," replied Noddy. "I want to do something, and earn some money for myself. I want to work." "Then you shall go with us!" exclaimed Mollie. "Out where we are going is a nice place to get rich. My father is going to get rich out there, and then we are coming home again." Poor child! She knew not what the future had in store for them. The bells of the city rang for nine o'clock, and Mollie said she went to bed at this time. "Can you read, Noddy?" asked she. "Yes, some." "I always read my Testament before I go to bed; I promised my mother, years ago, that I would; and I like to do it, too. I suppose you read your Testament every night--don't you?" "Sometimes; that is, I did once," replied Noddy, in some confusion, for he could not help recalling the teachings of Bertha on this subject. "Well, we will read it together. You would like to--wouldn't you?" "Yes; I don't care if I do." There was a want of enthusiasm on his part which was rather painful to the little maiden; but she got the Testament, and when she had read a few verses aloud, she passed the book to Noddy, who stumbled through his portion, and she then finished the chapter. She bade him good night, and retired to her state-room, leaving her new-made friend to meditate upon the singular events of the evening. He did not meditate a great while--he never did. His thoughts were disposed to stray from one subject to another; and from the little maiden, he found himself wondering whether Mr. Grant had finished searching for him in Albany, and whether Miss Fanny had "let the cat out of the bag" yet. Noddy was too tired and sleepy to think a great while about anything; and he turned into his berth, and went to sleep. Early in the morning Noddy was on his feet. He went on deck, and found that the Roebuck was a beautiful vessel, almost handsome enough to be a gentleman's yacht. He went upon the wharf, where he could obtain a fair view of her bow, and he was sure she would make good time with a fair breeze. When he had satisfied himself with the examination, he was more than ever inclined to go out in her. When he went down into the cabin again, Mollie was there, setting the table for breakfast. She looked as fair and as fresh as a country maiden. She gave him a very friendly greeting. "Do you do these things, Mollie?" asked he. "O, yes; I always work, and do what I can. I like to do something." "How old are you, Mollie?" "Eleven last May." "But you can't do this work when you are out at sea." "O, yes, I can." "You will be seasick." "I never was sick, and I have been to sea a great deal with my father." "How is the captain this morning?" "I don't know; I haven't seen him yet," replied she, looking very sad, as she thought of her kind father's infirmity. Captain McClintock soon came out of his state-room. He looked pale and haggard, and seemed to be thoroughly ashamed of himself for what he had done the evening before, as he ought to have been. Mollie sprang to him, as he stepped out of his room, and kissed him as lovingly as though he had never done a wrong thing in his life. He glanced at Noddy, as he entered the main cabin, and with a look of astonishment, as though his connection with the events of the previous evening were a blank to him. The captain did not say a word to Noddy, which made the boy feel as though he was an intruder in the cabin; and when he had the opportunity, he went on deck, leaving Mollie to say whatever the circumstances required in explanation of his presence. "I will never do it again, Mollie," said the fond father, as he kissed his daughter. "I am very sorry, and you must forgive me, my child." He was a penitent man, and felt how great was the wrong he had done the poor child. He had taken her out to walk, and to see the sights of the city, and had become intoxicated. He remembered the whole scene, when the boys had chased him; and to Mollie, whom he loved with all his heart, he was willing to own his fault, and to make her happy by promising never to do the wrong again. Mollie then told him about her conversation with Noddy, and of the boy's desire to go to sea with them. Captain McClintock remembered in part what the boy had done for them; and Mollie supplied what he had not seen, or had forgotten. "Why, yes; we want a cabin-boy. I should have shipped one at home, if I could have found the right one," replied the captain. "You say he is a good boy?" "I know he is. He wants to work." "Does he know anything about a vessel? I want one who can go aloft, and shake out the top-gallant sail." "He is used to boats and the water." "Well, we will see what he is good for, after breakfast." "I hope you will take him, for we have become fast friends." "If he is good for anything, I will, Mollie. Call him down. Here comes the doctor with the grub." The "doctor" was the black cook of the Roebuck, who was now descending the companion-way with the morning meal. Noddy was called, and Captain McClintock spoke very kindly to him. He inquired particularly into his knowledge of vessels, and wanted to know whether he would be afraid to go aloft. Noddy smiled, and thought he should not be afraid. He ate his breakfast with a boy's appetite, and then the captain took him on deck. "Do you see that fore-top-gallant yard?" asked the captain. "Yes, sir, I see it," replied Noddy, who had been thoroughly instructed in these matters by the old man-of-war's-man of Woodville, though he had no practical experience in seamanship, even on as large a scale as a topsail schooner, which was the rig of the Roebuck. "Well, my boy, that's a pretty high place. Should you dare to go up there?" "I think I should," answered Noddy. "Let me see you do it." "Now?" "Yes. I want to see what you are good for. If we can't make a sailor of you, it won't be worth while to take you out to the Pacific. Let me see how long it will take you to run up to that fore-top-gallant yard." Noddy started. Captain McClintock was evidently satisfied that it would make the boy dizzy; and that, perhaps, if he had to do this kind of work, he would not care to make a voyage. Mollie stood by her father's side, deeply interested in the experiment, and fearful that her heroic friend would fail to meet her father's expectations, thus depriving her of a pleasant companion on her long voyage. The candidate for a position on the Roebuck skipped lightly forward to the fore-shrouds of the vessel, ran up, as chipper as a monkey, to the mast head, then up the fore-topmast rigging to the yard. Planting his feet in the foot-ropes, he danced out to the port yard-arm. At this point he astonished the spectators below by performing certain feats which he had seen at the Great Olympian Circus. Descending from the yard, he grasped the main-topmast stay, and ran over upon it to the main-topmast, and then made his way to the deck by the main-topmast back-stay. "You'll do, my boy!" said the captain, emphatically. "You will make a smart sailor." "Am I to go with you, sir?" asked Noddy. "Yes, if you like." "What will you give me?" This was a more difficult question; but the captain finally agreed to give him eight dollars a month, and to advance money enough to buy him an outfit. Mollie actually danced about the deck with joy when the terms were arranged, and it was certain that Noddy was to go on the voyage. The boy's work had been carefully stated by the captain. He was to take care of the cabin, wait upon the captain and his daughter at table, and do duty forward when required. He was to have a berth in the cabin, and was not to be in either watch, unless the vessel became short-handed. "Now we shall be happy!" exclaimed Mollie, who had already formed many plans for the long and lonely cruise. "I think we shall. Do you know when we sail, Mollie?" "Perhaps to-day; perhaps not till to-morrow." "I want to write a letter to Miss Bertha before we go." "That's right, Noddy; never forget your friends. I will give you pen, ink, and paper, by and by." In the forenoon Captain McClintock took the young sailor ashore, and purchased for him a supply of clothing. Noddy always dressed like a sailor at Woodville. This was Ben's idea, and it was quite proper, as his work was in the boats. His new garments were not strange to him, therefore, though they were much coarser than those he wore. After dinner the captain went on shore alone to do his business, and Noddy wrote his letter. About five o'clock he returned, and poor Mollie was dreadfully grieved to find that he was partially intoxicated. He immediately gave the order to get under way, and went down into the cabin, leaving the mate to haul the vessel out of the dock. Noddy made himself as useful as possible, and in a short time the Roebuck was clear of the wharf. The captain came on deck again, when the jib was hoisted, and the sails began to draw. The voyage had actually commenced, and Noddy did not believe that Mr. Grant and the constables would be able to catch him. CHAPTER XII. THE DRUNKEN CAPTAIN. "Lay aloft, and help shake out the fore-topsail," said the captain to Noddy, who was standing by the wheel-man, watching the movements of the vessel. "Be lively! What are you staring at?" The captain's tones were stern and ugly. He had evidently taken another glass of gin since he came on board. He was sufficiently intoxicated to be unreasonable, though he could walk straight, and understood perfectly what he was about. Noddy did not like the harsh tones in which the order was given, and he did not move as lively as he would have done if the words had been spoken pleasantly. He had not yet learned the duty of prompt obedience, be the tones what they may. He went aloft, and helped the men who were at work on the topsail. As soon as the sheets were hauled home, the captain hailed him from the deck, and ordered him to shake out the fore-top-gallant sail. Noddy had moved so leisurely before, that the command came spiced with a volley of oaths; and the cabin-boy began to feel that he was getting something more than he had bargained for. He shook out the sail, and when the yard had been raised to its proper position, he went on deck again. The Roebuck was dashing briskly along with a fresh southerly breeze; and if Noddy had not been troubled with a suspicion that something was wrong, he would have enjoyed the scene exceedingly. He had begun to fear that Captain McClintock was a tyrant, and that he was doomed to undergo many hardships before he saw his native land again. "Don't be troubled, Noddy," said Mollie, in a low tone, as she placed herself by his side at the lee rail. "My father isn't cross very often." "I don't like to be spoken to in that way," replied he, trying to banish a certain ill feeling which was struggling for expression in his words and manner. "You mustn't mind that, Noddy. That's the way all sea captains speak." "Is it?" "It is indeed, Noddy. You must get used to it as quick as you can." "I'll try," answered the cabin-boy; but he did not feel much like trying; on the contrary, he was more disposed to manifest his opposition, even at the risk of a "row," or even with the certain prospect of being worsted in the end. Mollie, hoping that he would try, went aft again. She knew what her father was when partially intoxicated, and she feared that one who was high-spirited enough to face a dozen boys of his own size and weight, as Noddy had done in the street, would not endure the harsh usage of one made unreasonable by drinking. Some men are very cross and ugly when they are partially intoxicated, and very silly and good-natured when they are entirely steeped in the drunkard's cup. Such was Captain McClintock. If he continued his potations up to a certain point, he would pass from the crooked, cross-grained phase to that of the jolly, stupid, noisy debauchee. Entirely sober, he was entirely reasonable. "Here, youngster!" called the captain, as he stepped forward to the waist, where Noddy was looking over the rail. "Sir," replied Noddy rather stiffly, and without turning his head. "Do you hear?" yelled the captain, filled with passion at the contempt with which he was treated by the boy. "I hear," said Noddy, turning round as slowly as though he had a year in which to complete his revolution. "Swab up that deck there; and if you don't move a little livelier than you have yet, I'll try a rope's end to your legs." "No, you won't!" retorted Noddy, sharply, for he could endure a whipping as easily as he could a threat. "Won't I?" cried the captain, as he seized a piece of rope from one of the belaying pins. "We'll see." He sprang upon the high-spirited boy, and began to beat him in the most unmerciful manner. Noddy attempted to get away from him, but the captain had grasped him by the collar, and held on with an iron grip. "Let me alone!" roared Noddy. "I'll knock your brains out if you don't let me alone!" "We'll see!" gasped Captain McClintock, furious with passion and with gin. Unfortunately for him, he did see when it was too late; for Noddy had laid hold of a wooden belaying pin, and aimed a blow with it at the head of his merciless persecutor. He did not hit him on the head, but the blow fell heavily on his shoulder, causing him to release his hold of the boy. Noddy, puffing like a grampus from the violence of the struggle, rushed forward to the forecastle. The captain ordered the sailors to stop him; but either because they were not smart enough, or because they had no relish for the business, they failed to catch him, and the culprit ran out on the bowsprit. The angry man followed him as far as the bowsprit bitts, but prudence forbade his going any farther. "Come here, you young rascal!" shouted the captain. "I won't," replied Noddy, as he perched himself on the bight of the jib-stay. "Come here, I say!" "I'll go overboard before I go any nearer to you. I'm not going to be pounded for nothing." "You'll obey orders aboard this vessel," replied the captain, whose passion was somewhat moderated by the delay which kept him from his victim. "I'm ready to obey orders, and always have been," answered Noddy, who had by this time begun to think of the consequences of his resistance. "Will you swab up the deck, as I told you?" "I will, sir; but I won't be whipped by no drunken man. "Drunken man!" repeated the captain. "You shall be whipped for that, you impudent young villain!" The captain mounted the heel of the bowsprit, and was making his way up to the point occupied by the refractory cabin-boy, when Mollie reached the forecastle, and grasped her father in her little arms. "Don't, father, don't!" pleaded she. "Go away, Mollie," said he, sternly. "He is impudent and mutinous, and shall be brought to his senses." "Stop, father, do stop!" cried Mollie, piteously. He might as well stop, for by this time Noddy had mounted the jib-stay, and was halfway up to the mast head. "He called me a drunken man, Mollie, and he shall suffer for it!" replied Captain McClintock, in tones so savage that the poor girl's blood was almost frozen by them. "Stop, father!" said she, earnestly, as he turned to move aft again. "Go away, child." "He spoke the truth," replied she, in a low tone, as her eyes filled with tears, and she sobbed bitterly. "The truth, Mollie!" exclaimed her father, as though the words from that beloved child had paralyzed him. "Yes, father, you have been drinking again. You promised me last night--you know what you promised me," said she, her utterance broken by the violence of her emotions. He looked at her in silence for an instant; but his breast heaved under the strong feelings which agitated him. That glance seemed to overcome him; he dropped the rope's end, and, rushing aft, disappeared down the companion-way. Mollie followed him into the cabin, where she found him with his head bent down upon the table, weeping like an infant. Noddy leisurely descended from his perch at the mast head, from which he had witnessed this scene without hearing what was said; indeed, none of the crew had heard Mollie's bitter words, for she had spoken them in an impressive whisper. "Well, youngster, you have got yourself into hot water," said the mate, when the boy reached the deck. "I couldn't help it," replied Noddy, who had begun to look doubtfully at the future. "Couldn't help it, you young monkey!" Noddy was disposed at first to resent this highly improper language; but one scrap at a time was quite enough, and he wisely concluded not to notice the offensive remark. "I'm not used to having any man speak to me in that kind of a way," added Noddy, rather tamely. "You are not in a drawing-room! Do you think the cap'n is going to take his hat off to the cabin-boy?" replied the mate, indignantly. "I don't ask him to take his hat off to me. He spoke to me as if I was a dog." "That's the way officers do speak to men, whether it is the right way or not; and if you can't stand it, you've no business here." "I didn't know they spoke in that way." "It's the fashion; and when man or boy insults an officer as you did the captain, he always knocks him down; and serves him right too." Noddy regarded the mate as a very reasonable man, though he swore abominably, and did not speak in the gentlest tones to the men. He concluded, therefore, that he had made a blunder, and he desired to get out of the scrape as fast as he could. The mate explained to him sundry things, in the discipline of a ship, which he had not before understood. He said that when sailors came on board of a vessel they expected more or less harsh words, and that it was highly impudent, to say the least, for a man to retort, or even to be sulky. "Captain McClintock is better than half of them," he added; "and if the men do their duty, they can get along very well with him." "But he was drunk," said Noddy. "That's none of your business. If he was, it was so much the more stupid in you to attempt to kick up a row with him." Noddy began to be of the same opinion himself; and an incipient resolution to be more careful in future was flitting through his mind, when he was summoned to the cabin by Mollie. He went below; the captain was not there--he had retired to his state-room; and his daughter sat upon the locker, weeping bitterly. "How happy I expected to be! How unhappy I am!" sobbed she. "Noddy you have made me feel very bad." "I couldn't help it; I didn't mean to make you feel bad," protested Noddy. "My poor father!" she exclaimed, as she thought again that the blame was not the boy's alone. "I am very sorry for what I did. I never went to sea before, and I didn't know the fashions. Where Is your father? Could I see him?" "Not now; he has gone to his state-room. He will be better by and by." "I want to see him when he comes out. I will try and make it right with him, for I know I was to blame," said Noddy, whose ideas were rapidly enlarging. "I am glad to hear you say so, Noddy," added Mollie, looking up into his face with such a sad expression that he would have done anything to comfort her. "Now go on deck; but promise me that you will not be impudent to my father, whatever happens." "I will not, Mollie." Noddy went on deck. The Roebuck had passed out of the harbor. She was close-hauled, and headed to the southeast. She was pitching considerably, which was a strange motion to the cabin-boy, whose nautical experience had been confined to the Hudson River. But there was something exhilarating in the scene, and if Noddy's mind had been easy, he would have been delighted with the situation. The mate asked him some questions about the captain, which led to a further discussion of the matter of discipline on board a vessel. "I want to do well, Mr. Watts," said Noddy. "My best friend gave me the motto, 'Work and Win;' and I want to do the very best I know how." "I don't think you have begun very well. If you are impudent to your officers, I can assure you that you will work a great deal and win very little. Neither boy nor man can have all his own way in the world; and on board ship you will have to submit to a great many little things that don't suit you. The sooner you learn to do so with a good grace, the sooner you will be comfortable and contented." "Thank you, Mr. Watts, for your good advice, and I will try to follow it." "That's right," replied the mate, satisfied that Noddy was not a very bad boy, after all. Noddy was fully determined to be a good boy, to obey the officers promptly, and not to be impudent, even if they abused him. Captain McClintock did not come on deck, or into the cabin, again that night. He had probably drank until he was completely overcome, and the vessel was left to the care of Mr. Watts, who was fortunately a good seaman and a skilful navigator. Noddy performed his duties, both on deck and in the cabin, with a zeal and fidelity which won the praise of the mate. "Captain McClintock," said Noddy, when the master of the vessel came on deck in the morning. "Well, what do you want, youngster?" replied the captain, in gruff and forbidding tones. "I was wrong yesterday; I am very sorry for it, and I hope you will forgive me this time." "It is no light thing to be saucy to the captain." "I will never do so again," added Noddy. "We'll see; if you behave well, I'll pass it by, and say nothing more about it." "Thank you, sir." The captain did not speak as though he meant what he said. It was evident from his conduct during the forenoon, that he had not forgotten, if he had forgiven, Noddy's impudent speech. He addressed him rather harshly, and appeared not to like his presence. In the forenoon the vessel passed Highland Light, and before night Noddy saw the last of the land. There was a heavy blow in the afternoon, and the Roebuck pitched terribly in the great seas. The cabin-boy began to experience some new and singular sensations, and at eight bells in the evening he was so seasick that he could not hold up his head. CHAPTER XIII. THE SHARK. For two days Noddy suffered severely from seasickness, and Mollie was full of tenderness and sympathy. Captain McClintock still mocked the poor child's hopes, and still broke the promises which should have been sacred, for he was intoxicated each day. On the second, while Noddy was lying in his berth, the captain, rendered brutal by the last dram he had taken, came out of his state-room, and halted near the sick boy. "What are you in there for, you young sculpin?" said he. "Why are you not on deck, attending to your duty?" "I am sick, sir," replied Noddy, faintly. "Sick! We don't want any skulking of that sort on board this vessel. You want to shirk your duty. Turn out lively, and go on deck." "But he is sick, father," said Mollie. "Go away, Mollie. You will spoil the boy. Come, tumble out, youngster, or I shall bring down the rope's end," replied the captain. The daughter pleaded for her patient; but the father was ugly and unreasonable, and persisted in his purpose. Noddy did not feel able to move. He was completely prostrated by the violence of his disagreeable malady; and five minutes before, he would not have considered it possible for him to get out of his berth. He must do so now or be whipped; for there was no more reason in the captain than there was in the main-mast of the schooner. He was not able to make any resistance, if he had been so disposed. It was very hard to be obliged to go on deck when he was sick, especially as there was no need of his services there. He raised his head, and sat upright in the berth. The movement seemed completely to overturn his stomach again. But what a chance this was, thought he, to show poor Mollie that he was in earnest, and to convince her that he had really reformed his manners. With a desperate struggle he leaped out of his berth, and put on his jacket. The Roebuck was still pitching heavily, and it was almost impossible for him to keep on his feet. He had hardly tasted food for two days, and was very weak from the effects of his sickness. He crawled on deck as well as he was able, followed by Captain McClintock, who regarded him with a look of malignant triumph. Poor Noddy felt like a martyr; but for Mollie's sake, he was determined to bear his sufferings with patience and resignation, and to obey the captain, even if he told him to jump overboard. He did what was almost as bad as this, for he ordered the sick boy to swab up the deck--an entirely useless operation, for the spray was breaking over the bow of the Roebuck, and the water was rushing in torrents out of the lee scuppers. But Noddy, true to his resolution, obeyed the order, and dragged his weary body forward to perform his useless task. For half an hour he labored against nature and the elements, and of course accomplished nothing. It was all "work" and no "win." A boy who had the resolution and courage to face a dozen angry fellows as large as himself, certainly ought not to lack the power to overcome the single foe that beset him from within. Noddy was strong enough for the occasion, even in his present weakly condition. It was hard work, but the victory he won was a satisfactory reward. The captain's vision was rather imperfect in his present state, and he took it into his head that the foretop-gallant sail was straining the topmast. Mr. Watts respectfully assured him the topmast was strong enough to stand the strain; but the master was set in his own opinion. Apparently his view was adopted for the occasion, for he ordered Noddy to go aloft and furl the sail. Mollie protested when she heard this order, for she was afraid Noddy was so weak that he would fall from the yard. The cabin-boy, strong in the victory he had just won, did not even remonstrate against the order; but, with all the vigor he could command, he went up the fore-rigging. He was surprised to find how much strength an earnest spirit lent to his weak body. The pitching of the Roebuck rendered the execution of the order very difficult to one unaccustomed to the violent motion of a vessel in a heavy sea; but in spite of all the trials which lay in his path, he furled the sail. When he came down to the deck, the captain had gone below again, and the weary boy was permitted to rest from his severe labors. Instead of being overcome by them, he actually felt better than when he had left his berth. The fresh air, and the conquest of the will over the feeble body, had almost wrought a miracle in his physical frame. The mate told him that what he had done was the best thing in the world for seasickness; in fact, earnest exertion was the only remedy for the troublesome complaint. At supper-time Noddy took some tea and ate a couple of ship biscuits with a good relish. He began to feel like a new person, and even to be much obliged to the captain for subjecting him to the tribulations which had wrought his cure. The next morning he ate a hearty breakfast, and went to his work with the feeling that "oft from apparent ills our blessings rise." The captain kept sober during the next five days, owing, it was believed by Noddy, to the influence of his daughter, who had the courage to speak the truth to him. Shortly after the departure of the Roebuck, it had been ascertained that, from some impurity in the casks, the water on board was not fit for use; and the captain decided to put into Barbadoes and procure a fresh supply. When the schooner took a pilot, on the twelfth day out, it was found that the yellow fever was making terrible ravages in the island; but the water was so bad on board that the captain decided to go into port and remain long enough to procure new casks and a supply of water. If he had been entirely sober, he would undoubtedly have turned his bow at once from the infected island. The Roebuck came to anchor, and the captain, regardless of his own safety, went on shore to transact the business. The casks were purchased, but it was impossible to get them on board before the next morning, and the vessel was compelled to remain at anchor over night. The weather was excessively hot in the afternoon, but towards night a cool breeze came in from the sea, which was very refreshing; and Noddy and Mollie were on deck, enjoying its invigorating breath. The boat in which the captain had just returned lay at the accommodation ladder. The confinement of twelve days on board the vessel had been rather irksome, and both of the young people would have been delighted to take a run on shore; but the terrible sickness there rendered such a luxury impossible. They observed with interest everything that could be seen from the deck, especially the verdure-crowned hills, and the valleys green with the rich vegetation of the country. If they could not go on shore, they could at least move about a little in the boat, which would be some relief from the monotony of their confined home. They got into the boat with a warning from Mr. Watts not to go far from the schooner, and not to approach any other vessel, which might have the yellow fever on board. Noddy sculled about on the smooth water for a time, till it was nearly dark, and Mollie thought it was time to return on board. As she spoke, she went forward and stood up in the bow of the boat, ready to step upon the accommodation ladder. "Noddy, do you see these great fishes in the water?" asked she. "Yes, I see them." "Do you know what they are?" continued she, as she turned to receive the answer. She was accustomed to boats, and her familiarity with them made her as fearless as her companion. "I never saw any like them before," replied Noddy, still sculling the boat towards the Roebuck. "What do you think they are?" added she, with one of those smiles which children wear when they are conscious of being wiser than their companions. "I haven't any idea what they are; but they look ugly enough to be snakes." "I've seen lots of them before, and I know what they are. I like you very well, Noddy; and I ask you, as a particular favor, not to fall overboard," said she, with a smile, at what she regarded as a very pretty joke. "What are they, Mollie?" "They are sharks, Noddy." "Sharks!" exclaimed the boy, who had heard Ben tell awful stories about the voracity of these terrible creatures. "Yes, they are sharks, and big ones, too." "Sit down, Mollie. I don't like to see you stand up there. You might fall overboard," said Noddy, who actually shuddered as he recalled the fearful stories he had heard about these savage fish. "I'm not afraid. I'm just as safe here as I should be on board the Roebuck. I've seen sharks before, and got used to them. I like to watch them." At that moment the boat struck upon something in the water, which might have been a log, or one of the ravenous monsters, whose back fins could be seen above the water, as they lay in wait for their prey. It was some heavy body, and it instantly checked the progress of the boat, and the sudden stoppage precipitated the poor girl over the bow into the sea. Noddy's blood seemed to freeze in his veins as he realized the horrible situation of Mollie in the water, surrounded by sharks. He expected to see her fair form severed in twain by the fierce creatures. He could swim like a duck, and his first impulse was to leap overboard, and save the poor girl or perish with her in the attempt. A shout from the schooner laden with the agony of mortal anguish saluted his ears as Mollie struck the water. It was the voice of Captain McClintock, who had come on deck, and had witnessed the fearful catastrophe. The voice went to Noddy's soul. He saw the slight form of Mollie as she rose to the surface, and began to struggle towards the boat. The cabin-boy sculled with all his might for an instant, which brought the boat up to the spot; but he was horrified to see that she was followed by a monstrous shark. Noddy seized the boat-hook, and sprang forward just as the greedy fish was turning over upon his side, with open mouth, to snap up his prey. Noddy, aware that the decisive moment for action had come, and feeling, as by instinct, that a miscalculation on his part would be fatal to poor Mollie, poised his weapon, and made a vigorous lunge at the savage fish. By accident, rather than by design, the boat-hook struck the shark in the eye; and with a fearful struggle he disappeared beneath the surface. Grasping the extended arm of Mollie, he dragged her into the boat before another of the monsters could attack her. "O, Noddy!" gasped she, as she sank down upon the bottom of the boat, overcome by terror, rather than by her exertions,--for she had been scarcely a moment in the water. "You are safe now, Mollie. Don't be afraid," said Noddy, in soothing tones, though his own utterance was choked by the fearful emotions he had endured. "Our Father, who art in heaven, I thank thee that thou hast preserved my life, and saved me from the terrible shark," said Mollie, as she clasped her hands and looked up to the sky. It was a prayer from the heart, and the good Father seemed to be nearer to Noddy than ever before. He felt that some other hand than his own had directed the weapon which had vanquished the shark. "O, Noddy, you have saved me," cried Mollie, as she rose from her knees, upon which she had thrown herself before she uttered her simple but devout prayer. "I am so glad you are safe, Mollie! But was it me that saved you?" asked Noddy, as he pointed up to the sky, with a sincere feeling that he had had very little to do with her preservation, though he was so deeply impressed by the event that he could not utter the sacred name of the Power which in that awful moment seemed to surround him, and to be in his very heart. "It was God who preserved me," said she, looking reverently upward again; "but he did it through you; and I may thank you, too, for what you have done. O, Noddy, you have been my best earthly friend; for what would my poor father have done if the shark had killed me?" Noddy sculled towards the Roebuck, for he knew that Captain McClintock was anxiously awaiting their return. When the boat touched the accommodation ladder, the anxious father sprang on board, not knowing even then that his daughter was entirely safe. He had seen Noddy draw her into the boat, but he feared she had lost a leg or an arm, for he was aware that the harbor swarmed with the largest and fiercest of the merciless "sea-pirates." "My poor child!" exclaimed he, as he clasped her in his arms, dreading even then to know the worst. "Dear father!" replied she. "Are you hurt?" "Not at all." "Were there any sharks out there?" "I guess there were!" replied she, significantly. "One of them had just heeled over to snap at her," added Noddy. "I never was so frightened in my life." "Good Heaven!" gasped the captain. "I gave myself up for lost," said Mollie, shuddering, as she recalled that fearful moment. "Well, what prevented him from taking hold of you?" asked Captain McClintock, who had not been near enough to discern precisely what had taken place in the boat. "Noddy saved me, father. He jammed the boat-hook right into the shark's head. In another instant the creature would have had me in his mouth. O, father, it was such an awful death to think of--to be bitten by a shark!" "Horrible!" groaned the father. "Noddy, your hand! You and I shall be friends to the last day of my life." "Thank you, sir," replied the heroic boy, as he took the proffered hand. "I did the best I could; but I was so scared! I was afraid the shark would catch her in spite of me." "God bless you, Noddy! But come on board, and we will talk it over." Captain McClintock handed Mollie, still dripping with water, to Mr. Watts, who had been an interested spectator of the touching scene in the boat; and she was borne to the cabin amid the congratulations of the crew, with whom she was a great favorite. CHAPTER XIV. THE YELLOW FEVER. Mollie went to her state-room, and changed her clothes; and she did not come out till she had kneeled down and poured forth another prayer of thanksgiving for her safety from the horrible monster that would have devoured her. Her father kissed her again, as she returned to the cabin. He was as grateful as she was, and he took no pains to conceal the emotions which agitated him. "Now tell me all about it, Mollie," said he. "How happened you to fall overboard?" "I was careless, father. Noddy was persuading me to sit down at the moment when I went overboard," replied she. "I was afraid of the sharks as soon as I knew what they were; and I was thinking what an awful thing it would be if she should fall overboard," added Noddy. "If I had minded you, Noddy, I shouldn't have been in danger." The story was told by the two little adventurers, each correcting or helping out the other, till the whole truth was obtained. It was evident to the captain and the mate, that Noddy had behaved with vigor and decision, and that, if he had been less prompt and energetic, poor Mollie must have become the victim of the ravenous shark. "You have saved her life, Noddy; that's plain enough," said Captain McClintock, as he rose and went to his state-room. "You were smart, my boy, and you deserve a great deal of credit," added Mr. Watts. "I don't mind that; I was too glad to get her out of the water to think of anything else." "Well, Noddy, you did good work that time, and you have won a great deal of honor by it." "You shall win something better than that, Noddy," said the captain, as he returned to the cabin with a little bag in his hand. "Here are ten gold pieces, my boy--one hundred dollars." He handed Noddy the bright coins; but the little hero's face flushed, and he looked as discontented as though he had been robbed of the honor of his exploit. "You shall win a hundred dollars by the operation," continued the captain. "Thank you, sir, but I don't want any money for that," replied Noddy, whose pride revolted at the idea, however tempting the money looked to him. "Take it, Noddy. You have done a good piece of work, and you ought to win something for it," added the captain. "I don't want to win any money for a job like that, Captain McClintock. I am already well paid for what I have done. I can't take any money for it. I feel too good already; and I am afraid if I take your gold I should spoil it all." "You are as proud as a lord, Noddy." "I'm sure, if we had lost Miss Mollie, I should have missed her as much as anybody, except her father. I shouldn't feel right to be paid for doing such a thing as knocking a shark in the head. I hated the monster bad enough to kill him, if he hadn't been going to do any mischief." "Then you won't take this money, Noddy?" continued the captain. "I'd rather not, sir. I shouldn't feel right if I did." "And I shouldn't feel right if you didn't. You don't quite understand the case, Noddy." "I think I do, sir." "No, you don't. Let me tell you about it. You have done something which fills me with gratitude to you. I want to do something to express that gratitude. I don't know that I can do it in any other way just now than by making you a little present. I don't mean to pay you." "It looks like that." "No it don't look a bit like it. Do you think I value my daughter's life at no more than a hundred dollars?" "I know you do, captain." "If I expected to pay you for what you have done, I should give you every dollar I have in the world, and every dollar which my property would bring if it were sold; and then I should feel that you had not half got your due." "I don't care about any money, sir," persisted Noddy. "Let me make you a present, then. It would make me feel better to do something for you." "I'm sure I would do anything to accommodate you." "Then take the money." Noddy took it very reluctantly, and felt just as though he was stealing it. Mr. Watts joined with the captain in arguing the matter, and he finally felt a little better satisfied about it. When he realized that he was the honest possessor of so large a sum, he felt like a rich man, and could not help thinking of the pleasure it would afford him to pour all these gold coins into Bertha's lap, and tell how he had won them. Mollie had something to say about the matter, and of course she took her father's side of the question; and the captain concluded the debate by assuring Noddy, if his daughter had to die, he would give more than a hundred dollars to save her from the maw of a shark, that she might die less horribly by drowning. On the whole, the cabin-boy was pretty well satisfied that he had won the money honestly, and he carefully bestowed it with his clothing in his berth. Early in the morning Mr. Watts went on shore with a boat's crew, to commence bringing off the water casks. It required the whole forenoon to remove the old casks, and stow the new ones in the hold. About eleven o'clock the mate complained of a chilly sensation, and a pain in his back, which was followed up by a severe headache. He was soon compelled to leave his work, and take to his berth in the cabin. The next boat from the shore brought off a surgeon, who promptly pronounced the disease the yellow fever. Before the Roebuck could get off, two of the sailors were attacked by the terrible malady. The only safety for the rest was in immediate flight; and the schooner got under way, and stood out to sea. The doctor had left ample directions for the treatment of the disease, but the medicines appeared to do no good. Mr. Watts was delirious before night. The two men in the forecastle were no better, and the prospect on board the vessel was as gloomy as it could be. Mollie stood by the sufferer in the cabin, in spite of the protest of her father. She knew what the fever was; but she seemed to be endued with a courage which was more than human. She nursed the sick man tenderly, and her simple prayer for his recovery ascended every hour during the long night. One of the men forward died before morning, and was committed to the deep by his terrified messmates, without even a form of prayer over his plague-stricken remains. Towards night, on the second day out of Barbadoes, Mr. Watts breathed his last. By the light of the lanterns, his cold form was placed on a plank extended over the rail. Mollie would not permit him to be buried in his watery grave without a prayer, and Captain McClintock read one. Many tears were shed over him, as his body slid off into the sea. Noddy and Mollie wept bitterly, for they felt that they had lost a good friend. There was only one more patient on board, and he seemed to be improving; but before the morning sun rose, red and glaring on the silent ocean, there were three more. Captain McClintock was one of them. There was none to take care of him but Mollie and Noddy; and both of them, regardless of the demands of their own bodies, kept vigil by his couch. More faithful nurses a sick man never had. They applied the remedies which had been used before. On the following day two more of the crew were committed to their ocean graves, and despair reigned throughout the vessel. The captain grew worse every hour, and poor Mollie was often compelled to leave the bedside that he might not see her weeping over him. He soon became delirious, and did not even know her. "O, Noddy," exclaimed she, when she fully realized the situation of her father, "I shall soon be alone." "Don't give up, Mollie," replied the cabin-boy sadly. "I have prayed till I fear my prayers are no longer heard," sobbed she. "Yes, they are, Mollie. Don't stop praying," said Noddy, who knew that the poor girl had derived a great deal of hope and comfort from her prayers. He had seen her kneel down when she was almost overcome by the horrors which surrounded them, and rise as calm and hopeful as though she had received a message direct from on high. Perhaps he had no real faith in her prayers, but he saw what strength she derived from them. Certainly they had not warded off the pestilence, which was still seeking new victims on board. But they were the life of Mollie's struggling existence; and it was with the utmost sincerity that he had counselled her to continue them. "My father will die!" groaned the poor girl. "Nothing can save him now." "No, he won't die. He isn't very bad yet, Mollie." "O, yes, he is. He does not speak to me; he does not know me." "He is doing very well, Mollie. Don't give it up yet." "I feel that he will soon leave me." "No, he won't, Mollie. I _know_ he will get well," said Noddy, with the most determined emphasis. "How do you know?" "I feel that he will. He isn't half so bad as Mr. Watts was. Cheer up, and he will be all right in a few days." "But think how terrible it would be for my poor father to die, away here in the middle of the ocean," continued Mollie, weeping most bitterly, as she thought of the future. "But he will not die; I am just as sure that he will get well, as I am that I am alive now." Noddy had no reason whatever for this strong assertion, and he made it only to comfort his friend. It was not made in vain, for the afflicted daughter was willing to cling to any hope, however slight, and the confident words of the boy made an impression upon her. The morrow came, and the captain was decidedly better; but from the forecastle came the gloomy report that two more of the men had been struck down by the disease. There were but three seamen left who were able to do duty, and Mr. Lincoln, the second mate, was nearly exhausted by watching and anxiety. Fortunately, the weather had been fine, and the Roebuck had been under all sail, with a fair wind. Noddy had obtained a little sleep during the second night of the captain's illness, and he went on deck to report to the mate for duty. He was competent to steer the vessel in a light breeze, and he was permitted to relieve the man at the wheel. He stood his trick of two hours, and then went below, to ascertain the condition of the captain. As he descended the ladder, he discovered the form of Mollie extended on one of the lockers. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing heavily. Noddy was appalled at this sight, for he knew too well what these indications meant. "What is the matter, Mollie?" asked he, hardly able to speak the words from the violence of his emotion. "It is my turn now, Noddy," replied she, in faint tones. "Who will pray for me?" "I will, Mollie; but what ails you?" "I am burning up with heat, and perishing with cold. My back feels as if it was broken, and the pain darts up through my neck into my head. I know very well what it means. You will take care of my poor father--won't you, Noddy?" "To be sure I will. You must turn in, Mollie, and let me take care of you, too," said he, trying to be as calm as the terrible situation required of him. He assisted the stricken maiden to her state-room, and placed her in her berth. Taking from the medicine chest the now familiar remedy, he gave her the potion, and tenderly ministered to all her wants. She was very sick, for she had struggled with the destroying malady for hours before she yielded to its insidious advances. "Thank you, Noddy. I feel better now, and I shall soon be happy. Go now and see to my father; don't let him want for anything." "I will not, Mollie; I will take first-rate care of him," answered Noddy, as he smoothed down the clothing around her neck. "My father is the captain of the ship, you know," added she, with a smile. "He is a great man; bigger than any shark you ever saw." Her mind had begun to wander already; and her patient nurse could hardly keep down his tears, as he gazed at her flushed cheeks, and smoothed down the curls upon her neck. She was beautiful to him--too beautiful to die there in mid ocean, with none but rude men to shed great tears over her silent form. How he wished that Bertha was there, to watch over that frail little form, and ward off the grim tyrant that was struggling to possess it! She would not fear the pangs of the pestilence; she would be an angel in the little state-room, and bring down peace and hope, if not life, to the lovely sufferer. Noddy felt as he had never felt before, not even when the dread monster of the deep had almost snapped up the slight form before him. All the good lessons he had ever learned in his life came to him with a force they had never possessed in the sunny hour of prosperity. He wanted to pray. He felt the need of a strength not his own. Mollie could not pray now. Her mind was darkened by the shadows of disease. He went out into the cabin. It looked as cheerless, and cold, and gloomy, as the inside of a tomb. But God was there; and though Noddy could not speak the words of his prayer, his heart breathed a spirit which the infinite Father could understand. He prayed, as he had promised the sick girl he would, and the strength which prayer had given to her was given to him. "Here is work for me," said he, as he approached the door of the captain's state-room. "But I am able to do it. I will never give up this work." He did not know what he was to win by this work of love, amid trials and tribulation. He had struggled with the disposition to despond; he had worked like a hero to keep his spirits up; and that which he was called upon to do with his hands was small and trivial compared with that which was done by his mind and heart. He had conquered fear and despair. Thus prepared to battle with the giant ills which surrounded him, he entered Captain McClintock's room. CHAPTER XV. THE DEMON OF THE CUP. "Is that you, Noddy?" asked the captain, faintly. "Yes, sir. How do you feel, captain?" "I think I'm a little better. I wish you would ask Mollie to come in; I want to see her." "Does your head ache now, sir?" asked Noddy, who did not like to tell him that his daughter had just been taken with the fever. "Not so bad as it did. Just speak to Mollie." "I think you are ever so much better, sir. You will be out in a day or two." "Do you think so, Noddy?" "Yes, sir; I'm certain you will," answered the boy, who knew that faith was life in the present instance. "I'm glad you think so. I certainly feel a great deal better," replied the captain, as though he was already cheered by the inspiration of hope. "You must be careful, and keep still; and you will be all right in a week, at the most." "I hope so; for I couldn't help thinking, when I was taken down, what a bitter thing it would be to poor Mollie if I should die so far from home and friends." "You have got over the worst of it now, captain." "Is Mollie out in the cabin?" asked the sufferer, persistently returning to the subject near his heart. "No, sir; she is not, just now." "Has she gone on deck?" "No, sir." "Where is she, Noddy?" demanded he, earnestly, as he attempted to raise himself up in his cot. "Don't stir, captain; it will make you worse, if you do." "Tell me where Mollie is at once, or I shall jump out of my berth. Is she--is she--" "She is in her room, captain. Don't be worried about her," replied Noddy, who was afraid that the truth would have a bad effect upon the devoted father. "She laid down a little while ago." "Is she dead?" gasped the captain, with a mighty effort to utter the appalling word. "O, no, sir! She was taken sick a little while ago." "O, mercy!" groaned the sick man. "I know it all now." "It's no use to deny it, sir. She has got the fever." "And I lay here helpless!" "She said she felt a little better when I came out. I gave her the medicine, and did everything for her." "I must go to her." "You will worry her to death, if you do, captain. She is more troubled about you than she is about herself. If you lay still, so I can report that you are doing well, it will be the best thing in the world for her. It will do her more good than the medicine." "Tell her I am well, Noddy!" "It won't do to tell her too much; she won't believe anything, if I do," said Noddy, sorely troubled about the moral management of the cases. "Tell her I am well, Noddy; and I will go and sit by her," replied the sufferer, who was no more able to get out of his bed than he was to cure the fearful disease. "I can't do anything, captain, if you don't keep still in your bed. She is a little out just now; but I think she will do very well, if you only let her alone." Captain McClintock was in an agony of suspense; but Noddy succeeded in consoling him so that he promised to remain quietly in his bed. As physician and nurse, as well as friend and comforter, the cabin-boy found his hands full; but he had a heart big enough for the occasion; and all day and all night he went from one patient to another, ministering to their wants with as much skill and judgment as though he had been trained in a sick room. Mollie grow worse as the hours wore heavily away; but this was to be expected, and the patient nurse was not discouraged by the progressive indications of the disease. Towards morning the captain went to sleep; but it required all the faithful boy's energies to keep Mollie in her bed, as she raved with the heated brain of the malady. In the morning one of the seamen was reported out of danger, and the others in a hopeful condition. Noddy was completely exhausted by his labors and his solicitude. Mr. Lincoln saw that he could endure no more; and as he had obtained a few hours' sleep on deck during the night, he insisted that the weary boy should have some rest, while he took care of the sick. Noddy crawled into his berth, and not even his anxiety for poor Mollie could keep him awake any longer. He slept heavily, and the considerate mate did not wake him till dinner-time, when he sprang from his berth and hastened to the couch of the sick girl. Another day passed, and Mollie began to exhibit some hopeful symptoms. Her father was still improving. The patients in the forecastle were also getting better. Noddy felt that no more of the Roebuck's people were to be cast into the sea. Hope gave him new life. He was rested and refreshed by the bright prospect quite as much as by the sleep which the kindness of Mr. Lincoln enabled him to obtain. The schooner still sped on her course with favoring breezes; while Noddy, patient and hopeful, performed the various duties which the fell disease imposed upon him. He had not regarded the danger of taking the fever himself. He had no thought now for any one but poor Mollie, who was daily improving. One by one the crew, who had been stricken down with the malady, returned to the deck; but it was a long time before they were able to do their full measure of duty. In a week after Mollie was taken sick, her father was able to sit a portion of the day by her side; and a few days later, she was able to sit up for a few moments. The terrible scourge had wasted itself; but the chief mate and three of the crew had fallen victims to the sad visitation. Yellow fever patients convalesce very slowly; and it was a fortnight before Captain McClintock was able to go on deck; but at the same time, Mollie, weak and attenuated by her sufferings, was helped up the ladder by her devoted friend and nurse. The cloud had passed away from the vessel, and everybody on board was as happy as though disease and death had never invaded those wooden walls. But the happiness was toned to the circumstances. Hearts had been purified by suffering. Neither the officers nor the men swore; they spoke to each other in gentle tones, as though the tribulations through which they had passed had softened their hearts, and bound them together in a holier than earthly affection. As Mr. Watts and three sailors had died, the vessel was short-handed, but not crippled; and the captain decided to prosecute his voyage without putting into any port for assistance. Mr. Lincoln was appointed chief mate, and a second mate was selected from the forecastle. Everything went along as before the storm burst upon the devoted vessel. "How happy I am, Noddy!" exclaimed Mollie, as they sat on deck one afternoon, when she had nearly recovered her strength. "My father was saved, and I am saved. How grateful I am!" "So am I, Mollie," replied Noddy. "And how much we both owe to you! Wasn't it strange you didn't take the fever?" "I think it was." "Were you not afraid of it?" "I didn't think anything about it, any way; but I feel just as though I had gone through with the fever, or something else." "Why?" "I don't know; everything looks odd and strange to me. I don't feel like the same fellow." Mollie persisted in her desire to know how the cabin-boy felt, and Noddy found it exceedingly difficult to describe his feelings. Much of the religious impressions which he had derived from the days of tribulation still clung to him. His views of life and death had changed. Many of Bertha's teachings, which he could not understand before, were very plain to him now. He did not believe it would be possible for him to do anything wrong again. Hopes and fears had been his incentives to duty before; principle had grown up in his soul now. The experience of years seemed to be crowded into the few short days when gloom and death reigned in the vessel. The Roebuck sped on her way, generally favored with good weather and fair winds. She was a stanch vessel, and behaved well in the few storms she encountered. She doubled Cape Horn without subjecting her crew to any severe hardships, and sped on her way to more genial climes. For several weeks after his recovery, Captain McClintock kept very steady, and Mollie hoped that the "evil days" had passed by. It was a vain hope; for when the schooner entered the Pacific, his excesses were again apparent. He went on from bad to worse, till he was sober hardly a single hour of the day. In vain did Mollie plead with him; in vain she reminded him of the time when they had both lain at death's door; in vain she assured him that she feared the bottle more than the fever. He was infatuated by the demon of the cup, and seemed to have no moral power left. The Roebuck was approaching the thick clusters of islands that stud the Pacific; and it was important that the vessel should be skilfully navigated. Mr. Lincoln was a good seaman, but he was not a navigator; that is, he was not competent to find the latitude and longitude, and lay down the ship's position on the chart. The captain was seldom in condition to make an observation, and the schooner was in peril of being dashed to pieces on the rocks. The mate was fully alive to the difficulties of his position; and he told Mollie what must be the consequences of her father's continued neglect. The sea in which they were then sailing was full of islands and coral reefs. There were indications of a storm, and he could not save the vessel without knowing where she was. "Noddy," said the troubled maiden, after Mr. Lincoln had explained the situation to her, "I want you to help me." "I'm ready," replied he, with his usual promptness. "We are going to ruin. My poor father is in a terrible state, and I am going to do something." "What can you do?" "You shall help me, but I will bear all the blame." "You would not do anything wrong, and I am willing to bear the blame with you." "Never mind that; we are going to do what's right, and we will not say a word about the blame. Now come with me," she continued, leading the way to the cabin. "I am willing to do anything that is right, wherever the blame falls." "We must save the vessel, for the mate says she is in great danger. There is a storm coming, and Mr. Lincoln don't know where we are. Father hasn't taken an observation for four days." "Well, are you going to take one?" asked Noddy, who was rather bewildered by Mollie's statement of the perils of the vessel. "No; but I intend that father shall to-morrow." "What are you going to do?" She opened the pantry door, and took from the shelf a bottle of gin. "Take this, Noddy, and throw it overboard," said she, handing him the bottle. "I'll do that;" and he went to the bull's eye, in Molli's state-room, and dropped it into the sea. "That's only a part of the work," said she, as she opened one of the lockers in the cabin, which was stowed full of liquors. She passed them out, two at a time, and Noddy dropped them all into the ocean. Captain McClintock was lying in his state-room, in a helpless state of intoxication, so that there was no fear of interruption from him. Every bottle of wine, ale, and liquor which the cabin contained was thrown overboard. Noddy thought that the sharks, which swallow everything that falls overboard, would all get "tight;" but he hoped they would break the bottles before they swallowed them. The work was done, and everything which could intoxicate was gone; at least everything which Mollie and the cabin-boy could find. They did not tell Mr. Lincoln what they had done, for they did not wish to make him a party to the transaction. They were satisfied with their work. The vessel would be saved if the storm held off twelve hours longer. The captain rose early the next morning, and Noddy, from his berth, saw him go to the pantry for his morning dram. There was no bottle there. He went to the locker; there was none there. He searched, without success, in all the lockers and berths of the cabin. While he was engaged in the search, Mollie, who had heard him, came out of her room. The captain's hand shook, and his whole frame trembled from the effects of his long-inebriation. His nerves were shattered, and nothing but liquor could quiet them. Mollie could not help crying when she saw to what a state her father had been reduced. He was pale and haggard; and when he tried to raise a glass of water to his lips his trembling hand refused its office, and he spilled it on the floor. "Where is all the liquor, Mollie?" he asked, in shaken, hollow tones. "I have thrown it all overboard," she replied, firmly. He was too weak to be angry with her; and she proceeded to tell him what must be the fate of the vessel, and of all on board, if he did not attend to his duty. He listened, and promised not to drink another drop; for he knew then, even when his shattered reason held but partial sway, that he would be the murderer of his daughter and of his crew, if the vessel was wrecked by his neglect. He meant to keep his promise; but the gnawing appetite, which he had fostered and cherished until it became a demon, would not let him do so. In the forenoon, goaded by the insatiate thirst that beset him, he went into the hold, which could be entered from the cabin, and opened a case of liquors, forming part of the cargo. He drank long and deep, and lay down upon the merchandise, that he might be near this demon. Twelve o'clock came, and no observation could be taken. Mollie looked for her father, and with Noddy's help she found him in the hold, senseless in his inebriation. Mr. Lincoln was called down, and he was conveyed to his berth. The liquor was thrown overboard, but it was too late; before dark the gale broke upon the Roebuck, and fear and trembling were again in the vessel. CHAPTER XVI. NIGHT AND STORM. Sudden and severe was the gale which came down upon the Roebuck, while her captain was besotted and helpless in his berth. Mr. Lincoln did all that a skilful seaman could do, and while the wind and the waves were the only perils against which the schooner had to contend, there was no serious alarm for her safety. The night had come, and the time had passed by when even Captain McClintock could do anything more than the mate. Mr. Lincoln had kept the "dead reckoning" as well as he could without any knowledge of the currents; and it was evident that the vessel was in a perilous situation, and not far distant from the region of islands and coral reefs. The first hours of the stormy night wore gloomily away, for none knew at what moment the schooner might be dashed to pieces upon some hidden rock. When the captain revived a little from the stupor of intoxication, he seemed not to heed the situation of the vessel. Taking the cabin lantern, he went into the hold again. His only thought seemed to be of the liquor on which he lived. All the cases that Mollie and Noddy could find had been thrown overboard; but the drunkard overhauled the cargo till he found what he wanted, and taking a bottle of gin to his state-room, he was soon as senseless as the fiery fluid could make him. Mollie did all that she could do under these trying circumstances; she prayed that the good Father who had saved them before, would be with them now; and she knew that the strong arm of Omnipotence could move far from them the perils with which they were surrounded. She felt better every time she prayed. But the storm increased in fury, and she knew not the purposes of the Infinite in regard to them. "I am afraid we shall never see the light of another day, Noddy," said she, as the great seas struck with stunning force against the side of the vessel. "Why not? We have been out in a worse gale than this," replied Noddy, who felt that it was his peculiar office to keep hope alive in the heart of his gentle companion. "But we may be in the midst of the rocks and shoals." "We shall do very well, Mollie. Don't give it up." "I don't give it up; but I am ready for anything. I want to be resigned to my fate whenever it comes." "Don't be so blue about it, Mollie. It will be all right with us in the morning." "You heard what Mr. Lincoln said, and you know we are in great danger." "Perhaps we are." "You know we are, Noddy." "Well, we are; but for all that, the vessel will ride out the gale, and to-morrow you will laugh to think how scared you were." "I am not scared; I am ready to die. Promise me one thing, Noddy." "Anything," answered he, promptly. "You will not blame my father if the vessel is lost. He is insane; he can't help what he does. He never did so before, and I know he don't mean to do wrong." "I suppose he don't, and I won't blame him, whatever happens," replied he, willing to comfort the poor girl in any way he could. "I should not care so much if it didn't look as though it was all father's fault." "It will be all right to-morrow. We will throw the rest of the liquor overboard. We will search through the hold, and not leave a single bottle of anything there. Then we shall be safe." "It will be too late then," sighed Mollie. "No, it won't; the vessel will be saved. I _know_ it will," added Noddy, resolutely. "You don't know." "Yes, I do; I am just as certain of it as I am of my own existence." Noddy had hardly uttered these confident words, before a tremendous shock threw them upon the cabin floor. It was followed by a terrible crashing sound, as though every timber in the vessel had been rent and broken; and they could hear the rush of waters, as the torrents poured in through the broken sides. Noddy, without stopping to think of the vain prophecy he had made, seized the light form of Mollie, and bore her to the deck. The sea was running riot there; the great waves swept over the deck with a force which no human strength could resist, and Noddy was compelled to retreat to the cabin again. The lantern still swung from a deck beam, but the water had risen in the cabin so that his descent was prevented. The Roebuck had run upon a reef or shoal in such a manner that her bow was projected far out of the water, while her stern was almost submerged in the waves. Noddy's quick perception enabled him to comprehend the position of the vessel, and he placed his charge on the companion ladder, which was protected in a measure from the force of the sea by the hatch, closed on the top, and open only on the front. "My father!" gasped Mollie. "Save him, Noddy!" "I will try," replied Noddy. "Hold on tight," added he, as a heavy volume of water rolled down the companion-way. "Save him, and don't mind me," groaned the poor girl, unselfish to the last. The brave boy stepped down to the cabin floor, where the water was up to his hips. Creeping on the top of the lockers, and holding on to the front of the berths, he reached the door of the captain's state-room. In this part of the vessel the water had risen nearly to the top of the door, and the berth in which the unfortunate inebriate lay was entirely beneath its surface. He crawled into the room, and put his hand into the berth. The captain was not there. The water was still rising, and Noddy had no doubt that the poor man had already perished. The shock of the collision when the schooner struck, or the rising waters, had forced him from his position on the bed. The water was over Noddy's head in the state-room; but the agony of Mollie induced him to make a desperate effort to save her father. He dropped down on the floor, and felt about with his feet, till he found the body. The question was settled. Captain McClintock was dead. He was one of the first victims of his criminal neglect. It was not safe to remain longer in the state-room, even if there had been any motive for doing so, and Noddy worked his way forward again as he had come. He found Mollie still clinging to the ladder, suffering everything on account of her father, and nothing for herself. "My poor father!" said she, when she discovered her friend coming back without him. "Where is he, Noddy?" "I couldn't do anything for him, Mollie," replied he. "Is he lost?" "He is gone, Mollie; and it was all over with him before I got there. Don't cry. He is out of trouble now." "Poor father," sobbed she. "Couldn't you save him? Let me go and help you." "No use, Mollie," added Noddy, as he climbed up the ladder, and looked out through the aperture at the hatch. "Are you sure we can't do anything for him?" she asked, in trembling tones. "Nothing, Mollie. He was dead when I opened the door of his room. I found him on the floor, and had to go down over my head to find him. He did not move or struggle, and I'm sure he is dead. I am sorry, but I can't help it." "O, dear, dear!" groaned she, in her anguish. She heeded not the cracking timbers and the roaring sea. Her heart was with the unfortunate man who lay cold and still beneath the invading waters. She was ready to go with him to the home in the silent land. "You hold on tight a little while, and I will go on deck, and see if I can make out where we are," said Noddy. "It matters little to me where we are. I shall soon be with my father," replied Mollie. "Don't say that. Your father is at rest now." "And I shall soon be at rest with him. Do you hear those terrible waves beat against the vessel? They will break her in pieces in a few moments more." "Perhaps they will, and perhaps they won't. You mustn't give up, Mollie. If I should lose you now, I shouldn't care what became of me." "You have been very good to me, Noddy; and I hope God will bless you." "I want to save you if I can." "You cannot, Noddy, in this terrible storm. We are poor weak children, and we can do nothing." "But I am bound to work and win. I shall not give it up yet, Mollie. We have struck upon a rock or a shoal, and the land can't be a great ways off." "Such an awful sea! We could never reach the land." "We can try--can't we?" "Where is Mr. Lincoln?" "I don't know. I have not heard a sound but the noise of the sea since the vessel struck. I suppose he and the rest of the men were washed overboard." "How horrible!" "I don't know. They may have left in one of the boats." "I haven't any courage, Noddy. My poor father is gone, and I don't feel as though it made any difference what became of me." "Don't talk so, Mollie. Save yourself for my sake, if you don't for your own." "What can we do?" asked she, blankly, for the situation seemed utterly hopeless. "I don't know; I will see," replied Noddy, as he crawled through the aperture, and reached the deck. A huge wave struck him as he rose upon his feet, and bore him down to the lee side of the vessel; but he grasped the shrouds, and saved himself from being hurled into the abyss of waters that boiled in the fury of the storm on both sides of the stranded schooner. He ran up the shrouds a short distance, and tried to penetrate the gloom of the night. He could see nothing but the white froth on the waves, which beat on all sides. There was no land to be seen ahead, as he had expected, and it was evident that the Roebuck had struck on a shoal, at some distance from any shore. It was impossible to walk forward on the deck, for the savage waves that broke over the vessel would have carried him overboard. The sight suggested the manner in which the men had so suddenly disappeared. They had probably been swept away the moment the vessel struck. The rigging of the schooner was all standing, and Noddy decided to go forward to ascertain if there was any comfortable position there for Mollie. He went to the main-mast head, and, by the spring-stay, reached the fore-mast. Descending by the fore-shrouds, he reached the forecastle of the schooner. The bow had been thrown up so high on the shoal that the sea did not break over this part of the vessel with anything like the force it did farther aft. The hatch was on the fore-scuttle, and it was possible that the men had taken refuge in the forecastle. Removing the hatch, he called the names of Mr. Lincoln and others; but there was no response. He then went down, and attempted to make his way aft through the hold. This was impossible, and he was obliged to return by the way he had come. "My poor father!" sighed Mollie, as Noddy reached the ladder to which she was clinging; "I shall never see you again." "Come, Mollie. I want you to go with me now," said he, taking her by the arm. "Did you find any of the crew?" she asked. "Not a single one." "Poor men!" "I am afraid they are all drowned; but we may be saved if we only work. If we stay here we shall certainly be lost. If the sea should carry off the companion-hatch, we should be drowned out in spite of all we could do." "What can we do?" "We must go forward." "That is impossible for me, Noddy." "No, it isn't." "Save yourself, Noddy, if you can. I do not feel like doing anything." "I shall stay by you, and if you are lost I shall be lost with you." "Then I will go with you, and do anything you say," said she, earnestly; for when the life of another was at stake, she was willing to put forth any exertion. "The vessel holds together first-rate, and if we stick by her till morning, we may find some way to save ourselves. Don't give it up, Mollie. Work and win; that's my motto, you know." "I am ready to work with you, Noddy, whether you win or not." The persevering boy got a rope, which he made fast around the little girl's body, and watching his time, at the intervals of the breaking waves, he bore her to the main shrouds. She went up to the mast head without much difficulty, though the force of the wind was so great that Noddy had to hold on to her, to keep her from being blown from the ropes. At this point he made a sling for her on the spring-stay, in which she sat as a child does in a swing. It was adjusted to the big rope so that it would slip along, and permit her to hold on to the stay with her hands. The vessel seemed to be so wedged in the rocks or sand, on which she had struck, that she did not roll, and the only obstacle to a safe passage from one mast to the other, was the violence of the gale. By Noddy's careful and skilful management, the transit was made in safety through the most imminent peril. The descent to the deck, forward, was more easily accomplished, and the heroic youth soon had the pleasure of seeing his gentle charge safe, for the present, in the forecastle. He had worked and won, so far. He was satisfied with the past, and hopeful of the future. Having conducted Mollie to a safe place, he turned his attention once more to the situation of the vessel. Looking over the bow, he discovered the dark, ragged rocks, rising a few feet above the water, on which she had struck, but he could not see any land. CHAPTER XVII. AFTER THE STORM. The Roebuck had been built, under the direction of Captain McClintock, for the voyage around Cape Horn. She was a new vessel, and of extra strength, and she held together in spite of the hard thumping she received on the rocks. As she struck, a hole was knocked in her bottom; but her bow had been forced so far up on the rocks that the water which she made all settled aft. With tender care Noddy had wrapped up his frail companion in a pea jacket he found in the forecastle, and together they waited anxiously for the morning light. The waves beat fiercely against the side of the vessel, pounded on the decks as they rolled over the bulwarks; and the survivors were in continual fear that each moment would witness the destruction of their ark of safety. Noddy had made the best arrangements he could for a speedy exit, in case the worst should be realized. With the first signs of daylight Noddy was on deck endeavoring to obtain a better knowledge of the location of the wreck. It seemed to him then that the force of the gale had abated, though the sea was hardly less savage than it had been during the night. As the day dawned, he discovered the outline of some dark object, apparently half a mile distant. He watched this sombre pile till there was light enough to satisfy him that it was an island. "Hurrah!" shouted Noddy,--forgetting, in the joy of this discovery, that death and destruction had reigned on board the Roebuck. "What is it?" asked Mollie, hardly moved by the gladness of her companion. "Land ho!" replied he, as he descended the ladder to the forecastle. "Where is it?" said she, languidly, as though she did not feel much interested in the announcement. "Right over here, about half a mile off." "It might as well be a thousand miles off; for we can never get there." "O, yes, we can. We have the boat on deck. I'm afraid you are discouraged, Mollie." "I can't help thinking of poor father," said she, bursting into tears again. Noddy comforted her as well as he could. He told her she ought not to repine at the will of God, who had saved her, though he had permitted her father to be lost; that she ought to be grateful for her own preservation; and, what seemed to be the strongest argument to him, that weeping and "taking on" would do no good. He was but a poor comforter, and only repeated what he had often heard her say in the dark hours of their former tribulation. Her father was dead, and she could not help weeping. Whatever were his faults, and however great had been the error which had brought her to the present extremity, he was her father. In his sober days he had loved her tenderly and devotedly; and it seemed like sacrilege to her to dry the tears which so readily and so freely flowed. They were the natural tribute of affection from a child to a lost parent. Noddy did not dare to say all he believed, for he was convinced that the death of the captain was a blessing to himself and to his daughter. He was so besotted by the demon that life could henceforth be only a misery to him, and a stumbling-block to her. It required no great faith for him to believe, in the present instance, that the good Father doeth all things well. The daylight came, and with it the hope of brighter hours. The clouds were breaking away, and the winds subsided almost as suddenly as they had risen. Still the waves broke fiercely over the wreck, and it was impossible to take any steps towards reaching the land, whose green hills and bright valleys gladdened the heart of the storm-tossed sailor-boy. With an axe which he found in the forecastle, he knocked away a couple of the planks of the bulkhead which divided the seamen's quarters from the hold. He passed through, by moving a portion of the miscellaneous cargo, to the cabin, where he obtained some water, some ship bread, and boiled beef. Poor Mollie had no appetite; but to please her anxious friend, she ate half a biscuit. They passed the forenoon in the forecastle, talking of the past and the future; but the thoughts of the bereaved daughter continually reverted to her father. She talked of him; of what he had been to her, and of the bright hopes which she had cherished of the future. She was positive she should never be happy again. After much persuasion, Noddy induced her to lie down in one of the bunks, and being thoroughly exhausted by anxiety and the loss of rest, she went to sleep, which gave her patient friend a great deal of satisfaction. She slept, and Noddy went on deck again. The waves had now subsided, so that he could go aft. He found that the jolly-boat was gone from the stern davits. At first he supposed it had been washed away by the heavy sea; but a further examination convinced him that it had been lowered by the men. It was possible, if not probable, the crew had taken to the boat, and he might find them on the island, or a portion of them, for it was hardly to be expected that the whole crew had escaped. From the deck he went below. He had anticipated that the fall of the tide would enable him to enter the state-room of the captain; but there was no perceptible change in the height of the water. In this locality the whole range of the tide was not more than a foot. There were many things which might be of great value to Mollie, if they ever escaped from this region, and he was anxious to save them for her use. The captain had a considerable sum of money in gold and silver. The cabin-boy, knowing where it was, set himself at work to obtain it. He was obliged to dive several times before he succeeded; but at last he brought it up, and deposited it in the safest place he could find. Other articles of value were saved in the same manner, including the captain's chronometer and sextant, the sad neglect of which had caused the terrible disaster. Towards night a change in the wind "knocked down" the sea, and the waves no longer dashed against the shattered vessel. The galley had been washed away; but the boat on deck, though thrown from the blocks, was still uninjured; and Noddy was sorely perplexed to find a means of getting it overboard. It was too late, and he was too tired to accomplish anything that night. Mollie was awake when he went to the forecastle again; and rest and refreshment had made her more cheerful and more hopeful. She spoke with greater interest of the future, and dwelt less mournfully on the sad event which had made her an orphan. Noddy told her his plans for the morrow; that he intended to launch the long-boat, and visit the island the next day; that he would build a house for her; and that they would be happy there till some passing whaler picked them up. The tired boy, now secure of life, went to sleep. His fair companion wept again, as she thought of the pleasant days when her father had been a joy to every hour of her existence; but she, too, went to sleep, with none to watch over her but the good Father who had saved her in all the perils through which she had passed. The sun rose clear and bright the next morning, and Noddy went on deck to prepare their simple breakfast. He had constructed a fireplace of iron plates, and he boiled some water to make tea. Mollie soon joined him; and sad as she still was, she insisted that the cooking was her duty. She performed it, while Noddy employed himself in devising some plan by which, with his feeble powers, he could hoist the heavy boat into the water. The bulwarks had been partially stove on one side, and he cleared away the wreck till there was nothing to obstruct the passage of the boat over the side. They sat down on the deck to eat their breakfast; and during the meal Noddy was very quiet and thoughtful. Occasionally he cast his eyes up at the rigging over their heads. Mollie could not help looking at him. She had a great admiration for him; he had been so kind to her, and so brave and cheerful in the discharge of the duties which the awful catastrophe imposed upon him. Besides, he was her only friend--her only hope now. "What are you thinking about, Noddy?" asked she, perplexed by his unusually meditative mood. "I was thinking how I should get the boat into the water." "You can't get it into the water. What can a small boy like you do with a great boat like that?" "I think I can manage it somehow." "I am afraid not." "Don't give it up, Mollie; our salvation depends on that boat. I found out something more, when I went aloft this morning." "What?" "There is another island off here to the northward, just as far as you can see. We may wish to go there, and the boat would be wanted then." "Noddy, perhaps there are savages on those islands, who will kill us if we go on shore." "Two can play at that game," replied Noddy, in his confident tone. "What could a boy like you do against a mob of Indians?" "There are two or three pistols in the cabin, and I think I know how to use them; at any rate I shall not be butchered, nor let you be, without showing them what I am made of," answered Noddy, as he rose from the planks, and turned his attention once more to the moving of the boat. "You wouldn't shoot them--would you?" "Not if I could help it. I shouldn't want to shoot them; and I won't do it, if they behave themselves. But I must go to work on the boat now." "Let me help you, Noddy, I am real strong, and I can do a great deal." "I will tell you when you can help me, Mollie, for I may need a little assistance." "I don't see how you are going to do this job." "I will show you in a moment," replied Noddy, as he ran up the main shrouds. He carried a small hatchet in his belt, with which he detached the starboard fore-brace from the mast. This was a rope, the end of which was tied to the main-mast, and extended through a single sheaf-block at the starboard fore-yard-arm. After passing through this block, the brace returned to the main-mast, passed through another block, and led down upon the deck. There was another rope of the same kind on the port side of the vessel. They were used to swing round the yard, in order to place the sail so that it would draw in the wind. When Noddy cut it loose, the brace dropped to the deck. It was now simply a rope passing through a single block at the end of the yard. The little engineer made fast one end of the brace to the ring in the bow of the boat. He then unhooked the peak halliards of the fore-sail, and attached them to the ring in the stern of the boat. Now, if he had had the strength, he would have pulled on the yard-arm rope till he dragged the bow out over the water; the stern line being intended merely to steady the boat, if necessary, and keep it from jamming against the mast. When he had drawn the bow out as far as he could with the brace, he meant to attach the same rope to the stern, and complete the job. "That's all very pretty," said Mollie, who had carefully noticed all her companion's proceedings; "but you and I can't hoist the boat up with that rigging." "I know that, Mollie," replied Noddy, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "I haven't done yet." "I am afraid you won't make out, Noddy." "Yes, I shall. Work and win; that's the idea." "You are working very hard, and I hope you will win." "Did you know I made an improvement on Miss Bertha's maxim?" "Indeed! What?" "He that works shall win." "That's very encouraging; but it isn't always true." "It is when you work in the right way," answered Noddy, as he took the end of the yard-arm rope, and, after passing it through a snatch-block, began to wind it around the barrel of the small capstan on the forecastle. "Perhaps you haven't got the right way." "If I haven't I shall try again, and keep trying till I do get it," replied Noddy, as he handed Mollie the end of the rope which he had wound four times round the capstan. "Do you think you can hold this rope and take in the slack?" "I am afraid there will not be any to take in; but I can hold it, if there is," said she, satirically, but without even a smile. Noddy inserted one of the capstan bars, and attempted to "walk round;" but his feeble powers were not sufficient to move the boat a single inch. He tightened up the rope, and that was all he could accomplish. "I was afraid you could not stir it," said Mollie; but her tones were full of sympathy for her companion in his disappointment. He struggled in vain for a time; but it required a little more engineering to make the machinery move. Taking a "gun-tackle purchase," or "tackle and fall," as it is called on shore, he attached one hook to the extreme end of the capstan bar, and the other to the rail. This added power accomplished the work; and he made the capstan revolve with ease, though the business went on very slowly. He was obliged to shift back the bar four times for every revolution of the barrel. But the boat moved forward, and that was success. He persevered, and skill and labor finally accomplished the difficult task. The boat floated in the water alongside the wreck. He had worked; he had won. CHAPTER XVIII. THE BEAUTIFUL ISLAND. "There, Mollie, what do you think now!" exclaimed the youthful engineer, as he made fast the painter of the boat to a ring in the deck of the schooner. "You have worked very hard, Noddy, but you have succeeded. You must be very tired." "I am tired, for I have done a hard day's work." "You ought to rest now." "I think I will. We are in no hurry, for we are very comfortable here, and storms don't come very often." It was late in the afternoon when the work of getting out the boat was finished. Noddy had labored very hard, and he was perfectly willing to rest during the remainder of the day. Mollie made some tea, and they had supper at an early hour. It was a remarkably pleasant day, and the air was as soft and balmy as a poet's dream. Both the young workers were very much fatigued, and they sat upon the deck till dark. "Where is my father now?" asked Mollie, as she cast a nervous glance towards the beautiful island which they hoped to reach on the following day. "Where is he?" repeated Noddy, surprised at the question, and not knowing what she meant. "I mean his remains." "In his state-room," answered Noddy, very reluctant to have the subject considered. "Will you do one thing more for me, Noddy?" demanded she, earnestly and impressively. "Certainly, I will, Mollie." "It shall be the last thing I shall ask you to do for me." "Don't say that, for I've always been ready to do everything you wished me to do." "I know you have, Noddy; and you work so hard that I don't feel like asking you to do any extra labor." "I will do anything you wish, Mollie. You needn't be afraid to ask me, either. If you knew how much pleasure it gives me to work for you, I'm sure you would keep me busy all the time." "I don't wish to wear you out, and you may think this is useless work." "I'm sure I shall not, if you want it done." "If you knew how sad it makes me feel to think of my poor father lying in the water there, you would understand me," added she, bursting into tears. "I know what you mean, Mollie, and it shall be done the first thing to-morrow." "Thank you, Noddy. You are so good and so kind! I hope I shall see Miss Bertha, some time, and tell her what you have done for me," continued she, wiping away her tears. They retired to the forecastle soon after dark; and when Mollie had said her simple prayer for both of them, they lay down in the bunks, and were soon asleep. Noddy's first work the next morning was to rig a mast and sail for the long-boat. In this labor he was assisted by Mollie, who sewed diligently on the sail all the forenoon. While she was thus engaged, Noddy, without telling her what he was going to do, went into the cabin, carrying a boat-hook, and, with a feeling of awe amounting almost to superstitious terror, proceeded to fish up the body of Captain McClintock. He knew just where it lay, and had no difficulty in accomplishing the task. He dragged the remains out into the cabin, and floated the corpse in the water to the foot of the ladder. It was an awful duty for him to perform; and when he saw the ghastly, bloated face, he was disposed to flee in terror from the spot. Noddy was strong for his years, or he could not have placed the body on the locker, out of the reach of the water. He prepared the remains for burial precisely as those of Mr. Watts had been. The most difficult part of the task was yet to be performed--to get the corpse on deck, and lower it into the boat. He procured a long box in the hold, from which he removed the merchandise, and found that it would answer the purpose of a coffin. By much hard lifting, and by resorting to various expedients, he placed the remains in the box and nailed down the lid. He felt easier now, for the face of the corpse no longer glared at him. When he had bent on the sail, and shipped the rudder, he contrived to set Mollie at work in the forecastle, where she could not see what he was doing; for he thought his work must be revolting to her feelings, especially as it would be very clumsily performed. Having put a sling on the box, he rigged a purchase, and hoisted it out of the cabin. Then, with suitable rigging, he lowered it into the boat, placing it across the thwarts, amidships. "Come, Mollie," said he, in a gentle, subdued tone, at the fore-scuttle. "What, Noddy?" asked she, impressed by his voice, and by his manner, as she came up from below. "We will go on shore now." "To-day?" "Yes; but we will return. The boat is ready, and I have done what you asked me to do." "What?" "Your father." She was awed by his manner, and did not readily understand what he meant. He pointed to the long box in the boat, and she comprehended the loving labor he had performed. She did not inquire how he had accomplished the task, and did not think of the difficulties which attended it. Noddy did not allude to them. "I am ready, Noddy; but can you get me the prayer-book?" said she, her eyes filling with tears, as she prepared to perform the pious duty which the exigencies of the occasion required of her. The book was fortunately on a shelf to which the water had not risen, and he brought it up and gave it to her. He had before placed a pick and shovel, an axe, a couple of boards and some cords in the boat. He helped her to a seat in the stern-sheets, and shoved off. There was hardly a breath of wind, and Noddy sculled the boat towards an opening in the reef, which was of coral, and surrounded the island. The afflicted daughter gazed in silent grief at the box, and did not speak a word till the boat entered a little inlet, which Noddy had chosen as a landing-place. He stepped on shore, and secured the boat to a bush which grew on the bank. Mollie followed him in silence, and selected a place for the grave. It was at the foot of a cocoa palm. The spot was as beautiful as the heart could desire for such a holy purpose; and Noddy commenced his work. The soil was light and loose, and after much severe labor, he made a grave about three feet deep. It would be impossible for him to lower the box into the grave; and, from one end, he dug out an inclined plane, down which he could roll the corpse to its final resting-place. It required all his skill, strength, and ingenuity to disembark the box; but this was finally accomplished, with such assistance as the weeping daughter could render. The rude coffin was then moved on rollers to the foot of the tree, and deposited in the grave. Mollie opened the book to the funeral prayer, and handed it to her companion. Severe as the labor he had performed had been, he regarded this as far more trying. He could not refuse, when he saw the poor girl, weeping as though her heart would break, kneel down at the head of the grave. Fortunately he had read this prayer many times since it had been used at the obsequies of Mr. Watts, and it was familiar to him. Awed and impressed by the solemn task imposed upon him, he read the prayer in trembling, husky tones. But he was more earnest and sincere than many who read the same service in Christian lands. It touched his own heart, and again the good Father seemed to be very near to him. The reading was finished, and the loving girl, not content with what had been done, gathered wild flowers, rich and luxuriant in that sunny clime, and showered them, as a tribute of affection, on the rough coffin. Noddy filled up the trench first, and then, amid the sobs of the poor child, covered all that remained of her father. With what art he possessed he arranged the green sods, as he had seen them in the graveyard at Whitestone. Mollie covered the spot with flowers, and then seemed loath to leave the grave. From the beginning, Noddy had trembled lest she should ask to look once more on the face of the departed. He had been horrified at the sight himself, and he knew that the distorted visage would haunt her dreams if she was permitted to gaze upon it; but she did not ask to take that last look. Though she said nothing about it, she seemed to feel, instinctively, that the face was not that she had loved, which had smiled upon her, and which was still present in her remembrance. "Come, Mollie, it is almost dark, and we must go now," said he, tenderly, when he had waited some time for her. "I am ready, Noddy; and you cannot tell how much better I feel now that my poor father sleeps in a grave on the land--on the beautiful island!" replied she, as she followed him to the boat. "You have been very kind to do what you have. It has cost you a whole day's labor." "It is the best day's work I have done, Mollie, if it makes you feel better," replied Noddy, as he hoisted the sail. They did not reach the wreck till it was quite dark, for the wind was light. Mollie was more cheerful than she had been since the vessel struck. She had performed a religious duty, which was very consoling to her feelings in her affliction; and Noddy hoped that even her sadness would wear away amid the active employments which would be required of her. In the morning, Noddy loaded the boat with provisions, and such useful articles as they would need most on the island, and in the middle of the forenoon they again sailed for the land. They entered the little inlet, and moored the boat in a convenient place, for it was decided that they should explore the island before the goods were landed. "We are real Robinson Crusoes now, Noddy," said Mollie, as they stepped on shore. "Who's he?" She told him who Crusoe was, and some of the main features of his residence on the lonely island. She was surprised to learn that he had never read the story. "But we have everything we can possibly need, while Crusoe had scarcely anything. We have provisions enough in the vessel to last us a year," added she. "We shall do very well. I don't think we shall have to stay here long. There are whale ships in all parts of the South Seas, and if they don't come to us, we can go to them, for we have a first-rate boat." They walked up the hill which rose from the little plain by the sea-side, where they found a small table-land. But it did not take them long to explore the island, for it was hardly a mile in diameter. Portions of it were covered with trees, whose shape and foliage were new and strange to the visitors. No inhabitants dwelt in this little paradise; but the reason was soon apparent to Noddy; for, when Mollie was thirsty, their search for water was unavailing. There was none on the island. This was an appalling discovery, and Noddy began to consider the situation of the water casks on board the wreck. They returned to the boat, and having selected a suitable spot, the goods were landed, and carefully secured under a sail-cloth brought off for the purpose. For two weeks Noddy labored diligently in bringing off the most serviceable goods from the wreck. He had constructed a tent on shore, and they made their home on the island. For the present there was nothing but hard work, for a storm might come and break up the schooner. Noddy rigged a series of pulleys, which enabled him to handle the water casks with ease. Other heavy articles were managed in the same way. Farther up the inlet than his first landing-place he found a tree near the shore, to which he attached his ropes and blocks, to hoist the barrels out of the boat. We are sorry that our space does not permit a minute description of these contrivances, for many of them were very ingenious. The labor was hard, and the progress often very slow; but Noddy enjoyed the fruit of his expedients, and was happy in each new triumph he achieved. He had found a joy in work which did not exist in play. "Now, Mollie, we must build a house," said he, when he had brought off sufficient supplies from the wreck. "Do you think you can make a house, Noddy?" "I know I can." "Well, I suppose you can. I think you can do anything you try to do." "I have brought off all the boards I could get out of the wreck, and I am sure I can build a very nice house." The work was immediately commenced. Near the spot selected for the mansion of the exiles there was a grove of small trees. The wood was light and soft, and Noddy found that he could fell the trees with his sharp hatchet quickly and easily. Four posts, with a crotch in the top of each, were set in the ground, forming the corners of the house. The frame was secured with nails and with ropes. The sides and the roof were then covered with the hibiscus from the grove. Noddy worked like a hero at his task, and Mollie watched him with the most intense interest; for he would not permit her to perform any of the hard labor. The frame was up, and covered, but the house was like a sieve. It was the intention of the master builder to cover the roof with tough sods, and plaster up the crevices in the sides with mud. But Mollie thought the fore-topsail of the schooner would be better than sods and mud, though it was not half so romantic. They had whole casks of nails, small and large, and the sail was finally chosen, and securely nailed upon the roof and sides. A floor was made of the boards, and the house banked up so as to turn the water away from it when it rained. Two rooms, one for each of the exiles, were partitioned off with sail-cloth. A bunk was made in each, which was supplied with a berth-sack and bed-clothes from the schooner. Besides these two rooms, there was one apartment for general purposes. This important work occupied three weeks; but it was perfectly luxurious when completed. CHAPTER XIX. THE VISITORS. The house was finished, and the satisfaction which it afforded to the young exiles cannot be expressed in words. Noddy had exercised his ingenuity in the construction of a fireplace, a chimney, and a table. The stern-lights of the Roebuck furnished the windows of the principal apartment; while single panes of glass, obtained from the assorted cargo of the vessel, admitted the light to the sleeping-rooms. They had knives, forks, spoons, dishes, and cooking utensils in abundance. Everything they wanted was at hand; and in this respect they differed from all the Crusoes of ancient and modern times. The miscellaneous cargo of the schooner supplied the house with all the comforts and many of the luxuries of civilization; and if Noddy had been familiar with the refinements of social life, he would probably have added the "modern improvements" to the mansion. If the house had been an elegant residence on Fifth Avenue or Blackstone Square, the occupants could not have enjoyed it more. Day after day Noddy added some new feature of comfort, until he was as proud of the dwelling as though he had been the architect of St. Peter's. The work was done, and they had nothing to do but sit down under their "own vine and fig-tree," and enjoy themselves. They had provisions and water enough to last them six months. But Noddy had discovered that idleness was the sum of all miseries; and after he had thoroughly explored the island, and amused himself for a few days among the novelties of the place, he realized that work was a positive luxury. Even patient, plodding labor, without any excitement, was better than doing nothing. Though there had been a storm, the Roebuck still held together; and the most profitable employment that presented itself was bringing off the rest of the cargo from the wreck; and everything which it was possible for him to move was transferred to the shore. He built a storehouse of sail-cloth, in which all the merchandise and provisions were carefully secured, though it was not probable that any considerable portion of it would ever be of any value to the islanders. Noddy had built a fence around the grave of Captain McClintock, and on a smooth board had cut the name and age of the deceased. Every day Mollie visited the spot, and placed fresh flowers on the green sod. The sharp pangs of her great affliction had passed away, and she was cheerful, and even hopeful of the future, while she fondly cherished the memory of her father. The islands which were just visible in the distance were a source of interest and anxiety to the sailor-boy and his gentle companion. Noddy had carefully examined them through the spy-glass a great many times; and once he had seen a large canoe, under sail, with a ponderous "out-rigger" to keep it from upsetting; but it did not come near the home of the exiles. This proved that the other islands were inhabited, and he was in constant dread of a visit from the savages. He put all the pistols he had found in the cabin in readiness for use, and practised firing at a mark, that he might be able to defend himself and his fair charge if occasion required. They did not come, and there were no signs on the island that they ever visited it, and he hoped to avoid the necessity of fighting them. There were plenty of fish in the waters which surrounded the island, and Noddy had no difficulty in catching as many of them as he wanted. There were no animals to be seen, except a few sea-fowl. He killed one of these, and roasted him for dinner one day; but the flesh was so strong and so fishy that salt pork and corned beef were considered better. A two months' residence on the island had accustomed both the boy and the girl to the novelties of the situation; and though, as might be reasonably expected, they were anxious to return to the great world from which they had been banished, they were tolerably contented with the life they led. Noddy was continually planning some new thing to add to the comfort of their daily life, and to provide supplies for the future. As in many large cities, a supply of pure water was a question, of momentous importance to him, and he early turned his attention to the subject. He made spouts of canvas for the "mansion" and the storehouse, by which the water, when it rained, was conducted to barrels set in the ground, so as to keep it cool. This expedient promised a plentiful supply, for the rains were heavy and frequent, and the quality was much better than that of the water casks. When all the necessary work had been accomplished, and when the time at last hung heavily on his hands, Noddy began to consider the practicability of a garden, to keep up the supply of peas, beans, and potatoes, of which a considerable quantity had been obtained from the wreck. Mollie was delighted with the idea of a "farm," as she called it, and the ground was at once marked off. Noddy went to work; but the labor of digging up the soil, and preparing it for the seed, was very hard. There was no excitement about this occupation, and the laborer "punished" himself very severely in performing it; but work had become a principle with him, and he persevered until an incident occurred which suspended further operations on the garden, and gave him all the excitement his nature craved. "What's that, Noddy?" said Mollie, one day, when he was industriously striving to overcome his dislike to plodding labor. "Where?" asked he, dropping his shovel, for the manner of his companion betrayed no little alarm. "On the water," replied she, pointing in the direction of the islands which had given them so much anxiety. "It is a native canoe loaded with savages," said Noddy, hastening to the house for his spy-glass and pistols. He examined the canoe long and attentively. It was only four or five miles distant, and looked like quite a large boat. "They are coming here," said Noddy. "O, what shall we do?" exclaimed the timid maiden, recalling all she knew about cannibals and fierce savages found on the South Sea Islands. "Perhaps they will not come here," added Noddy; but it was more to cheer up his friend, than from any hope he cherished of avoiding the issue. "I hope they will not. What do you think they will do to us, if they do?" "I think I can manage them, Mollie. Don't be alarmed." "How many are there in the canoe?" "A dozen or fifteen, I should think," replied he, after he had again examined the object with the glass. "What can you do with so many as that?" asked she, in despair. "They are savages, you know; and they are afraid of powder. If I should shoot one of them, the rest would run away." "Can't we hide?" "That will do no good. They would certainly find us. The best way is to face the music." "And they will steal all our things, Noddy." "I won't let them steal anything," said he, examining his pistol. "I hope you won't have to shoot any of them. It would be awful to kill the poor creatures." "I won't fire if I can help it. They are all looking this way, and I'm sure they can see the house and the tent." "What shall we do?" cried Mollie, who certainly felt that the end of all things had come. "We can do nothing; and we may as well take it easy. I can't tell what to do now; but I think I will go down and hide the boat, for they may carry that off." Mollie went with him to the inlet, and the boat was moved up among the bushes where the savages would not be likely to find it. The wind was light, and the great canoe advanced but slowly. The men on board of her appeared to be watching the island with as much interest as its occupants regarded the approach of the intruders. Off the reef the big canoe came up into the wind, and the savages appeared to be debating what they should do next. They could see the remains of the wrecked schooner now; and the question appeared to be, whether they should visit that or the shore. But she soon filled away again, and passed through the opening in the reef. Noddy had three pistols, all of which he put in his belt, and finished this hostile array by adding a huge butcher-knife to the collection. He looked formidable enough to fight a whole army; but he intended only to make a prudent display of force. Mollie thought it was rather ridiculous for a small boy like him to load himself down with so many weapons, which could not avail him, if a conflict became necessary, against sixteen savages, full grown, and accustomed to fighting. But Noddy was general-in-chief of the forces, and she did not remonstrate any further than to beg him to be prudent. The canoe slowly approached the shore. Those in her seemed to be familiar with the land, for they steered directly up the little inlet which Noddy had chosen as his landing-place. The "lord of the isle," as our sailor-boy felt himself to be, moved down to the shore, followed by Mollie. The savages could now be distinctly seen. They were horribly tattooed, and they did not look very friendly. As the canoe touched the shore, they sprang to their feet, and Noddy's calculations were set at nought by the discovery that several were armed with guns. One of them stepped on shore. There was a broad grin on his ugly face, which was intended for a conciliatory smile. The savage walked towards Noddy with his hand extended, and with his mouth stretched open from ear to ear, to denote the friendly nature of his mission. The boy took the hand, and tried to look as amiable as the visitor; but as his mouth was not half so large, he probably met with only a partial success. "Americals?" said the savage, in tones so loud that poor Mollie was actually frightened by the sound. He spoke in a nasal voice, as a man does who has a cold in the head; but the lord of the isle was surprised and pleased to hear even a single word of his mother tongue. He pointed impressively to the American flag, which had been hoisted on a pole, as he had seen Captain McClintock do when he had a slight difficulty with a custom-house officer at Barbadoes, and politely replied that he and Mollie were Americans. "Big heap thigs," added the savage, pointing to the tent filled with stores and merchandise. "They are mine," said Noddy. "Americals--yes." "What do you want?" "Big wreck," said the visitor, pointing over to the schooner. "Big lot mel ol the other islal." "Americans?" asked Noddy, clearly understanding the speaker, whose enunciation was principally defective in the substitution of l's for n's. "Four Americals; big storm; come in boat." "Do you hear that, Mollie?" exclaimed Noddy. "He says that four Americans came to the other island in a boat." "They must be some of the crew of the Roebuck." "Big wreck; log time; fild it low," said the savage, pointing to the schooner again. They had been looking for the wreck from which the four men had been saved, but had not been able to find it before. "Whale ship over there," added he. "Take four mel off." "Is she there now?" asked Noddy, breathless with interest. "Go sool--to-morrow--lext week." This was not very definite; but the way to his native land seemed to be open to him, and he listened with deep emotion to the welcome intelligence. "Can we go over there?" asked Noddy, pointing to his companion. "Go with we." "We will." "Big heap thigs," added the savage, pointing to the storehouse again. "Walt to trade?" "Yes; what will you give for the lot?" asked Noddy, facetiously. "Big heap thigs," replied the man, not comprehending the wholesale trade. It was of no use to attempt to bargain with these people; they had no money, and they could help themselves to what they pleased. Noddy gave them heavy articles enough to load their boat, for he felt that he had no further use for them, if there was a whale ship at the other island. He questioned the savage very closely in regard to the vessel, and was satisfied that he spoke the truth. The welcome intelligence that a portion of the Roebuck's crew had been saved, rendered the exiles the more anxious to visit the island. The savages all landed and gazed at Mollie with the utmost interest and curiosity. Probably they had never before seen an American girl. But they were respectful to her, and she soon ceased to be afraid of them. She laughed with them, and soon became quite intimate with the whole party. They treated her like a superior being; and certainly her pretty face and her gentle manners were quite enough to inspire them with such an idea. The savages had loaded their goods into the canoe, and were ready to return. The man who spoke English offered them a passage in his craft; but Noddy decided that it would be better and safer for them to go over in their own boat. He proceeded to secure all his valuables, including all his own money and that he had saved from the state-room of the captain, which he concealed about his clothes. The boat was well loaded with such articles as he thought would be useful to Mollie, or would sell best when a chance offered. He had quite a cargo, and the savages began to be impatient before his preparations were completed. While he was thus employed, Mollie gathered fresh flowers, and paid her last visit, as she supposed, to the grave of her father. She wept there, as she thought of leaving him in that far-off, lonely island; but she was consoled by the belief that her father's spirit dwelt in the happy land, where spring eternal ever reigns. The boat was ready; she wiped away her tears, and stepped on board. Both of them felt sad at the thought of leaving the island; but home had hopes which reconciled them to the change. CHAPTER XX. HOMEWARD BOUND. Noddy shook out the sail of the boat, and pushing her off, followed the canoe. Though the exiles had been on the island but little over two months, they had become much attached to their new home, and it was with a feeling of sadness that they bade adieu to it. The house and other improvements had cost Noddy so much hard labor that he was sorry to leave them before he had received the full benefit of all the comfort and luxury which they were capable of affording. "Don't you think we ought to live on the island for a year or so, after all the work we have done there?" said Noddy, as the boat gathered headway, and moved away from the shore. "I'm sure I should be very happy there, if we had to stay," replied Mollie, "But I don't think I should care to remain just for the sake of living in the house you built." "Nor I; but it seems to me just as though I had done all the work for nothing." "You worked very hard." "But I enjoyed my work, for all that." "And you think you did not win anything by it," added she, with a smile. "I don't think that. I used to hate to work when I was at Woodville. I don't think I do hate it now." "Then you have won something." "I think I have won a great deal, when I look the matter over. I have learned a great many things." Noddy had only a partial appreciation of what he had "won," though he was satisfied that his labor had not been wasted. He had been happy in the occupation which the necessities of his situation demanded of him. Many a boy, wrecked as he had been, with no one but a weak and timid girl to support him, would have done nothing but repine at his hard lot; would have lived "from hand to mouth" during those two months, and made every day a day of misery. Noddy had worked hard; but what had he won? Was his labor, now that he was to abandon the house, the cisterns, the stores, and the garden,--was it wasted? Noddy had won two months of happiness. He had won a knowledge of his own powers, mental and physical. He had won a valuable experience in adapting means to ends, which others might be years in obtaining. He had won a vast amount of useful information from the stubborn toil he had performed. He had won the victory over idleness and indifference, which had beset him for years. He had won a cheerful spirit, from the trials and difficulties he had encountered. He had won a lively faith in things higher than earth, from the gentle and loving heart that shared his exile, for whom, rather than for himself, he had worked. His labor was not lost. He had won more than could be computed. He had won faith and hope, confidence in himself, an earnest purpose, which were to go through life with him, and bless him to the end of his days, and through the endless ages of eternity. He had worked earnestly; he had won untold riches. The wind was tolerably fresh after the boats passed the reef, and in two hours they were near enough to a large island to enable the young voyagers to see the objects on the shore. But they followed the canoe beyond a point of the land; and, after a run of several miles more, they rounded another point, and discovered the tall masts of a ship, at anchor in a small bay. "It may be many months before we can get home. This ship may have to cruise a year or two before she obtains her full cargo of oil." "I hope not." "But we may find some way to get home. I have all the money I saved from the vessel, and we can pay our passage home." The money reminded the orphan girl of her father, and she mused upon the past. The boat sped on its way, and in a short time reached the ship. "Hallo, Noddy!" shouted Mr. Lincoln, as the boat approached. "And Mollie too!" The mate was overjoyed to see them, and to find that they had been saved from the wreck. He leaped into the boat, took Mollie in his arms, and kissed her as though she had been his own child. He grasped the hand of Noddy, and wrung it till the owner thought it would be crushed in his grip. "I was sure you were lost," said Mr. Lincoln. "And we were sure you were lost," replied Noddy. "How did it happen? The cabin was full of water when we left the schooner." "You didn't wait long, Mr. Lincoln." "We couldn't wait long. The sea made a clean breach over the wreck. Only four of us were saved; the rest were washed away, and we never saw anything more of them!" Noddy and Mollie were conducted to the deck of the whale ship, where they were warmly welcomed by the captain and his officers. The three sailors who had been saved from the wreck of the Roebuck were rejoiced to see them alive and well. In the presence of the large group gathered around himself and Mollie, Noddy told his story. "Captain McClintock was lost, then?" "Yes," replied Noddy, breaking through the crowd, for he did not like to tell the particulars of his death in poor Mollie's presence. At a later hour he found an opportunity to inform his late shipmates of the manner in which the corpse of the captain had been found, and of its burial on the island. In return, Mr. Lincoln told him that he had cast off the boat a moment after the schooner struck the reef. The men who happened to be on the quarter-deck with him had been saved; the others were not seen after the shock. With the greatest difficulty they had kept the boat right side up, for she was often full of water. For hours they had drifted in the gale, and in the morning, when the storm subsided, they had reached the island. They had been kindly treated by natives, who were partially civilized by their intercourse with vessels visiting the island, and with which they carried on commerce, exchanging the products of the island for guns, ammunition, and other useful and ornamental articles. The savages knew that, if they killed or injured any white men, the terrible ships of war would visit them with the severest punishment. "What ship is this?" asked Noddy, when the past had been satisfactorily explained by both parties. "The Atlantic, of New Bedford," replied the mate. "She is full of oil, and is homeward bound." "Good!" exclaimed Noddy. "I suppose I have nothing further to do in this part of the world, and I may as well go in her." "This hasn't been a very profitable cruise to me," added Mr. Lincoln. "Well, I suppose there is no help for it; and I hope you will have better luck next time." "I don't grumble; these things can't always be helped. We were lucky to escape with our lives, and we won't say a word about the wages we have lost." "Perhaps you won't lose them," added Mollie; and there was a slight flush on her fair cheeks, for her pride and her filial affection were touched by the reflection that these men had suffered from her father's infirmity. The captain of the whale ship was entirely willing to take the exiles as passengers; and Noddy told him he had saved a great many articles, which might be of service to him. The next day, when the vessel had taken in her water, she sailed for the beautiful island. Outside the reef she lay to, and the boats were sent on shore to bring off such of the goods as would be useful on the voyage. Noddy and Mollie had an opportunity to visit their island home once more; and, while the former assisted the men in selecting and loading the goods, the latter gathered fresh flowers, and for the last time strewed them on the grave of her father. The "big heap thigs" was very much reduced by the visit of the boats; but there was still enough left to reward the natives who had befriended the young islanders for the service they had rendered. According to the captain's estimate,--which was rather low,--he took about four hundred dollars' worth of goods from the island. Mollie, as her father's heir, was the owner of the property, subject to Noddy's claim for salvage. With Mr. Lincoln's aid the accounts were settled. Mollie insisted upon paying the mate and the three seamen their wages up to the time they would reach their native land. This, with their own passage, consumed nearly the whole sum. Besides the property saved from the island, there were about sixteen hundred dollars in gold and silver, and the valuable nautical instruments of Captain McClintock, making a total of over two thousand dollars. Though the disposition of this property was properly a subject for the maritime courts to settle, Mr. Lincoln and the officers of the ship talked it over, and decided that one half belonged to Mollie, in right of her father, and the other half to Noddy, as salvage,--which is the part of property saved from a wrecked imperilled ship, awarded to those who save it. Noddy at first positively objected to this decree, and refused to take a dollar from the poor orphan girl; but when the captain told him that a court would probably award him a larger share, and when Mollie almost cried because he refused, he consented to take it; but it was with a determination to have it applied to her use when he got home. The whale ship filled away when the goods had been taken on board, and weeks and months she stood on her course, till the welcome shores of their native land gladdened the sight of the exiled children. Mollie had been a great favorite with the officers and crew during the voyage, and many of them were the wiser and the better for the gentle words she spoke to them. The captain sold the nautical instruments, and the money was divided according to the decision of the council and officers. Noddy was now the possessor of about twelve hundred dollars, which was almost a fortune to a boy of twelve. It had been "work and win" to some purpose, in spite of the disastrous conclusion of the voyage. CHAPTER XXI. THE CLERGYMAN AND HIS WIFE. The captain of the whale ship very kindly took the young voyagers to his own house until their affairs were settled up. He had dealt fairly and justly by them in all things, and both were grateful to him for the interest he had manifested in their welfare. "What are you going to do now, Noddy?" asked Mollie, after the instruments had been sold and the proceeds paid over to them. "I'm going to Woodville, now, to face the music," replied Noddy. "I suppose they will take me to the court-house; but I have made up my mind to submit to the penalty, whatever it may be, for setting the boat-house afire." "Fanny has told all about it before this time, you may be certain," added Mollie, to whom he had related the story of the fire. "I hope she has not; for I think I am the guilty one. She wouldn't have set the fire if it hadn't been for me. I am going to stand right up to it, and take the consequences, even if they send me to prison; but I hope they won't do that." "I'm sure they won't. But, Noddy, suppose Miss Fanny has not told the truth yet. Will you still deceive your kind friends? You told me you had been made over new since you left Woodville, and I know you have. You said you meant to live a good life, and not lie, or steal, or get angry, or do anything that is bad." "Well, I mean so, Mollie. I intend to stick to it. They won't know anything about that. They won't believe anything I say." "They must believe you. I'll go with you, Noddy!" exclaimed she, smiling at the happy thought. "I will tell them all about you." "That will be jolly; and the sooner we go the better." Their good friend the captain found a gentleman who was going to New York, and they accompanied him, though Noddy felt abundantly able to take care of himself and his fair charge. They arrived the next morning, and took an early train for Woodville. Noddy conducted Mollie down the road to the lawn in front of the house. His heart bounded with emotion as he once more beheld the familiar scenes of the past. As he walked along he pointed out to his interested companion the various objects which were endeared to him by former associations. He talked because he could not help it; for he was so agitated he did not know whether he was on his head or his heels. He heard a step on one of the side paths. He turned to see who it was, and Bertha Grant rushed towards him. "Why, Noddy! It that you?" cried she, grasping him with both hands. "I am so glad to see you!" "You'd better believe I'm glad to see you again," said he, trying to keep from crying. The poor fellow actually broke down, he was so much affected by the meeting. "I didn't expect to see you again for years, after the letter you wrote me." "Been cast away, Miss Bertha, and lived two months on an island where nobody lived," blubbered Noddy. "Who is this little girl with you? Is this Mollie, of whom you spoke in your letter?" "Yes, Miss Bertha, that's Mollie; and she is the best girl in the world, except yourself." "I'm very glad to see you, Mollie," said Bertha, taking her hand, and giving her a kind reception. "Now, come into the house." Bertha, finding Noddy so completely overcome by his emotions, refrained from asking him any more questions, though she was anxious to hear the sad story of the shipwreck. Mr. Grant had not yet gone to the city, and he received the returned exiles as though they had been his own children. "I've come back, Mr. Grant, to settle up old affairs, and you can send me to the court-house or the prison now. I did wrong, and I am willing to suffer for it." "I have told them all about it, Noddy," interrupted Miss Fanny, blushing. "I couldn't stand it after you went away." "It was my fault," said Noddy. "I said so then, and I say so now." "We won't say anything about that until after breakfast. We are very glad you have come back; and we don't care about thinking of anything else, at present," said Mr. Grant. Breakfast was provided for the wanderer and his friend, and Mollie was soon made quite at home by the kind attentions of Bertha and Fanny. When the meal was ended, Noddy insisted upon "settling up old affairs," as he called it. He declared that the blame ought to rest on him, and he was willing to suffer. Mr. Grant said that he was satisfied. Fanny was to blame, and she had already been severely punished for her fault. "You will not send poor Noddy to prison--will you?" interposed Mollie. "He is a good boy now. He saved my life, and took care of me for months. You will find that he is not the same Noddy, he used to be. He is made over new." "I'm glad to hear that," replied Mr. Grant. "But Noddy, did you really think I intended to send you to jail?" "Yes, sir; what was the constable after me for, if not for that?" "It's a mistake, and I told you so in Albany. Didn't I say you would be a rich man?" "You did, sir; but I thought that was only to catch me. All of them said something of that sort. I knew I couldn't be a rich man, because my father never had a cent to leave me. That's what they told me." "But you had an uncle." "Never heard of him," replied Noddy, bewildered at the prospect before him. "Your father's only brother died in California more than a year ago. He had no family; but an honest man who went with him knew where he came from; and Squire Wriggs has hunted up all the evidence, which fully proves that all your uncle's property, in the absence of other heirs, belongs to you. He left over thirty thousand dollars, and it is all yours." "Dear me!" exclaimed Noddy, utterly confounded by this intelligence. "This sum, judiciously invested, will produce at least fifty thousand when you are of age. I have been appointed your guardian." "I don't think I'm Noddy Newman after this," added the heir, in breathless excitement. "I know you are not," added Bertha, laughing. "Your real name is Ogden Newman." "How are you, Ogden?" said Noddy, amused at his new name. "I suppose Noddy came from Ogden," said Mr. Grant. "If that's what's the matter, I don't see what you wanted to take me to court for." "As you have come to years of discretion, you might have had the privilege of naming your own guardian; and we were going to take you to the court for that purpose. As you were not here to speak for yourself, I was appointed. If you are not satisfied, the proceedings can be reviewed." "I'm satisfied first rate," laughed Noddy. "But you said something about sending me off." "My plan was to send you to the Tunbrook Military Institute, where Richard is, and make a man of you." "I should like that--perhaps." "You gave me a great deal of trouble to find you; and I did not succeed, after all," added Mr. Grant. "I didn't know what you was after. If I had, I shouldn't have been in such a hurry. But I guess it was all for the best. I've been at work, Miss Bertha, since I went away," said Noddy, turning to his teacher and friend. "Did you win?" "I rather think I did," replied he, depositing his twelve hundred dollars on the table. "That's rather better than being a tinker, I reckon, Miss Bertha." "O, if you had seen him work. He did things which a great man could not have done," said Mollie, with enthusiasm. "And he's real good, too. He'll never do anything wrong again." "We must hear all about it now, Ogden," continued Mr. Grant. "Who?" "Ogden; that's your name now." Between Noddy and Mollie the story was told; and there was hardly a dry eye in the room when the parts relating to the yellow fever and the funeral of Captain McClintock were narrated. Noddy told the burden of the story; but he was occasionally interrupted by Mollie, who wanted to tell how her friend watched over her and her father when they were sick with the fever, and what kindness and consideration he had used in procuring and burying the remains of her father. Noddy only told facts; she supplied what she regarded as very important omissions. When the narrative was finished, Mr. Grant, and Bertha were willing to believe that Noddy had been made over new; that he had worked, morally as well as physically, and won, besides the treasure on the table, good principles enough to save him from the errors which formerly beset him; had won a child's faith in God, and a man's confidence in himself. The whole family were deeply interested in Mollie; they pitied and loved her; and as she had no near relatives, they insisted upon her remaining at Woodville. "This is your money, Ogden, and I suppose I am to invest it with the rest of your property," said Mr. Grant. "No, sir;" replied Noddy, promptly. "You know how I got that money, and I don't think it belongs to me. Besides, I'm rich, and don't want it. Mollie must have every dollar of it." "Bravo, Noddy," exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I approve of that with all my heart." "Why, no, Noddy. You earned it all," said Mollie. "One hundred dollars of it was yours before the wreck." "I don't care for that. Mr. Grant shall take care of the whole of it for you, or you may take it, as you please." Mollie was in the minority, and she had to yield the point; and Mr. Grant was instructed to invest all she had, being the entire net proceeds of what was saved from the wreck. After the story had been told, all the young people took a walk on the estate, during which Noddy saw Ben and the rest of the servants. The old man was delighted to meet him again, and the others were hardly less rejoiced. The boat-house had been rebuilt. It was winter, and every craft belonging to the establishment was housed. In the spring, Noddy, or Ogden, as he was now called, was sent to the Tunbrook Institute; while Bertha found a faithful pupil, and Fanny a devoted friend, in Mollie. Three months at Woodville convinced Mr. Grant and Bertha that the change in Noddy was radical and permanent. Though not now required to work, he was constantly employed in some useful occupation. He was no longer an idler and a vagabond, but one of the most industrious, useful, and reliable persons on the estate. He did not work with his hands only. There was a work for the mind and the heart to do, and he labored as perseveringly and as successfully in this field as in the other. At Tunbrook he was a hard student, and graduated with the highest intellectual honors. From there he went to college. The influence of those scenes when the yellow fever was raging around him, when the stormy ocean threatened to devour him, and perhaps more than all others, when he stood at the open, grave of Captain McClintock, was never obliterated from his mind. They colored his subsequent existence; and when he came to choose a profession, he selected that of a minister of the gospel. The Rev. Ogden Newman is not, and never will be, a brilliant preacher; but he is a faithful and devoted "shepherd of the sheep." The humble parish over whose moral and spiritual welfare he presides is not more rejoiced and comforted by his own ministrations than by the loving words and the pure example of the gentle being who now walks hand in hand with him in the journey of life, cheered by his presence and upheld by his strong arm, as she was in the days of the storm and the pestilence. Mollie McClintock is Mrs. Ogden Newman; and as together they work, together they shall win. [Illustration] [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 15, "fond" changed to "found" (found a ready) Page 28, line of repeated text was deleted. The original text read: except so far as their words went to convince his mistress of his guilt. What would she do to him? mistress of his guilt. What would she do to him? Page 119, "rooom" changed to "room" (pleasant room he) Page 126, "vanguished" changed to "vanquished" (was again vanquished) Page 220, line of repeated text was deleted. The original text read: "Come, Mollie," said he, in a gentle, subdued tone, at the fore-scuttle. tone; at the fore-scuttle. Page 222, "tremling" changed to "trembling" (prayer in trembling) 
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20384	----	* * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Dialect and unusual spelling have been retained in this | | document. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. For a complete list, please see the end of this | | document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * +----------------------------------------------+ | David Lannarck, Midget | | _An Adventure Story_ | | by GEORGE S. HARNEY | | | | | | _David was small, but Oh my!_ | | | | Circus life was exciting enough, but | | young David Lannarck was tired of being | | stared at and bullied because of his | | small size. So when a tall Westerner | | saved his life in Cheyenne, and David | | and he became friends, why, the circus | | midget decided to make his home in the | | wide open space. | | | | With big, rangy Sam Welborn, David | | started out to become a rancher and live | | out his days in peace and quiet. But | | excitement seemed to follow the circus | | midget wherever he went. The big man and | | the little one ran into gunman, thieves | | and rustlers, and where big Sam's | | strength was not enough, David's wit had | | to get them out alive. | | | | Circus life and Western adventure are a | | highly unusual as well as a delightful | | combination, but the author George S. | | Harney has a first-hand authentic | | knowledge of both. As a young man in | | Indiana, he was a personal friend of Lew | | Graham, the circus announcer for the Big | | Show, Barnam & Bailey's Circus. Lew | | Graham, handsomely dressed, told the big | | audience what came next on the program. | | During the long winter lay-ups, they | | would swap yarns in the unique circus | | lingo, which Harney has recorded in | | _David Lannarck, Midget_. | | | | Later, Mr. Harney served in the | | Spanish-American War. After the war, | | "Cap" Harney became active in the | | development of southern Idaho, and | | although he sold his holdings there | | 1945, he confesses that he is still | | "haunted by the wild isolation of that | | district west of Cheyenne." | | | | Mr. Harney is a native Hoosier, a | | resident of Crawfordsville, Indiana. | +----------------------------------------------+ David Lannarck, Midget _AN ADVENTURE STORY_ by GEORGE S. HARNEY EXPOSITION PRESS · NEW YORK Copyright, 1951, by George S. Harney _All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form_ Published by the Exposition Press Inc. 386 Fourth Avenue, New York 16, N.Y. Manufactured in the United States of America Consolidated Book Producers, Inc. Designed by Morry M. Gropper _It is very true, that the small things in life are sometimes the most important._ --CHURCHILL PART ONE 1 In all her days of presenting the spectacular, Cheyenne had never witnessed a more even contest than was now being staged this day in the early autumn of 1932, at the circus grounds in the city's suburbs. It was a race between a midget and a lout. The little man ducked under the garish banners portraying the wonders of the Kid Show, raced the interval to the "big top" of the Great International, then back again, closely followed by a lanky oaf whose longer strides evened the contest. "I'll cut yer ears off," the pursuer snarled, as the midget swung around the pole supporting the snake banner, thus gaining a distance on his enemy. "En I'll cut yer heart out," the big one yelled as he stumbled and almost fell. As evidence that he would make good his terrifying threat, the lout flourished a clasp-knife in his right hand; with his left, he made futile grabs at the midget's coat tail. The crowd that watched this contest was not of the circus. It was a gathering of those who came to the lot at an early hour to watch the Circus City set up shop for the one-day stand in this western metropolis. Some of the onlookers were railroad men, off duty; some were cow hands from nearby ranches; a few Indians from the reservation beyond the willow-fringed Lodgepole Creek, lent their stoical presence, while several soldiers from the newly christened Fort Warren with or without official sanction, were on hand to witness the setup. It was the accepted judgment of those present that the midget and the lout were staging a ballyhoo--a "come-on"--preliminary to the opening of the Kid Show. There was no applause as the little man outwitted his follower by an adroit dodge under the ticket wagon. No one tripped the lout as the race led through the assembled crowd. If the contest was a part of the day's program, no spectator seemed willing to play "stooge" in this preliminary performance. Some distance to the north where the two great tents of the main show came together, a group of workmen were operating a stake driver. In this gang the midget knew he would find understanding friends. If he could gain sufficient distance to undertake this straightaway, he would find help. He dived between a spectator's legs, turned to the right, and ran for this haven of hope. Two things interrupted his plans. A ramshackle auto moved across his path. To avoid collision, the midget veered his course to step in a hole and fall sprawling at the feet of the man clambering out of the machine. His pursuer was on him in an instant. "I tole ye I would cut yer heart out," he panted as he brandished the knife. But before he could execute the threat, the knife was struck from his uplifted hand. The lout screamed with pain as he grabbed his wrist. "Yu've broke my arm," he shouted as he danced around the big man. "Why don't ye pick on one of yer size?" The stranger took in the situation at a glance. The slanting forehead and the evil though childish face revealed a moron with whom words of reason would have little effect. He said nothing. It was the midget who took charge. He scrambled to his feet, took a few deep breaths, brushed the dust off his coat, and ordered the moron back to the side show. "Go back to your mother," he commanded. "Go right back to Mamie and tell her what you've been doing, and tell her all of it. Don't look for your knife; I'll get that for you when you get over your tantrum." The midget watched the retreating figure. "His mother is a fine woman," he explained to the stranger. "Has charge of costumes and assists in makeup. That dunce is with her on a few days vacation from a school for the feeble-minded. "And now, Mister, I want to thank you for your timely help. You probably saved my life, for you can't tell what a half-wit will do, when in a tantrum and armed with a knife. All my life I've had the enmity of half-wits. The big ones tease 'em and they take it out on the little fellow. "Well, that's that, as dear Marie Dressler says. I certainly am indebted to you, Mister. What's your name, Mister? I surely ought to know the name of the man that probably saved my life." "My name is Welborn, Sam Welborn. I live quite a distance back in the hills." "And my name is David Lannarck, and I've got a score of other names besides, to include Shorty, Prince, Runt, Half-Pint, and others. I'm with the Kid Show. I was getting my stuff in shape for the opening when Alfred decided to work on me with that knife. And he about got it done, because there were none of the show people around to take him off me. The spectators thought it was some sort of a pre-exhibition. "And now, Mr. Welborn, let's go down to the cook tent and get a cup of coffee, and then you can look around the lot until the shows open. I want you to be my guest for the day. I feel that I can never repay you for what you have done. If you ever want any help or aid that a little fellow like me can give, call on me; there are a few things that I can do." "Well I do need some help, right now," said Welborn. "I want to dispose of a couple of bears." "Bears? What kind of bears?" "Two black bear cubs, fat and fine and just ready to be trained. I caught them up in the hills, and find that I have about as much use for them as I would have for a yacht, or a case of smallpox. I've tried turning them loose, but they won't go. Knowing that the show was to be here today, I brought them down in the trailer, hoping some one wanted two healthy cubs to fit into an act or exhibition." "Bears, bears," mused the midget. "Truth is, Mr. Welborn, I'm not posted on the bear market. Offhand, I would say that they were not worth much to a show that was losing money by the bale. You see, this good old year of '32 is a bust. A depression hits a circus first and hardest. Just now, we are cutting the season and have planned a straightaway back to winter quarters. Instead of going down through Fort Collins, Greeley, Denver, Pueblo, with a swing through Texas, we have canceled everything. We play this Union Pacific right through to Omaha and thence back home by direct rails. So a pair of bear cubs wouldn't be much of an asset right now." "Anyhow, let's look 'em over while I think up a plan." The midget recovered Alfred's knife from the dust and walked over to the trailer that he noted had a wooden coop of slats aboard. He climbed up on the wheel where he could see two black, wooly objects, scarcely a foot high, and nearly that size in length and breadth. "They do look fat and in good fur," he commented, "and from the way they are working on the slat on yon side, you won't have them long. They would be out of the pen in another half-hour." "That's the point to the whole matter. You just can't keep 'em penned in, and you can't keep 'em barred out. They have reached the pest stage and are incorrigible. Now I didn't expect to get much out of them anyhow," continued Welborn. "If I could find a home for them, where they would earn their keep, I would be willing to give them to such a party. Oh, I know it sounds sort of mushy," he hastened to explain as he noted the questioning look on David's countenance, "but I killed their mother for raiding our truckpatch and hogpen and I found these little fellows up near the den, starving and unable to fend for themselves. I took them home, fed them milk and bread and sugar and brought them up to where they are. But they have reached the stage where something must be done. As you see, they are hard to pen up and it's worse to turn them loose. Life to them is one continuous round of wrestling, scrapping, knocking over anything that's loose, and tearing up anything in reach. Whipping them does no good. They cry and beg until you are sorry and then it's to do all over again. I just couldn't kill them; it would be like killing a pet dog. So I just thought that if I could find someone to take them and care for them, it would be good riddance and give me time to go back to my work." "Well, that solves the problem," said the midget, gleefully. "I've got your party. He's old Fisheye Gleason right here with the show. We can deal with that old buzzard as freely and as profitably as if we were in a cutthroat pawnshop. Hey, you fellows," he called to some passing laborers, "have any of you seen old Fisheye in the last hour?" "Fisheye is linin' up the wagons in the menag," said one of the men. "Er he may be up at the marquee tellin' the boss where to route the show," said another. "Maybe he's got Beatty cornered, tellin' him a new plan fer workin' the cats this afternoon," leered another. The leader pointed to the far end of the big animal tent. "I've got him located," said David. "Now you fix that slat so the bears won't leave for the next hour and we'll work on Fisheye. He has been with this plant ever since Uncle Ben took it out as a wagon show. Hear him tell it, he set Barnum up in business and loaned the Ringling boys their first money. Fisheye is a romancer, unhampered by facts. But he's a wise old man at that. "Fisheye Gleason still has his first dollar. He wears the same corduroy pants that Uncle Ben gave him on his twenty-first birthday. If we had the time he would tell us his personal experiences with every celebrity in the circus world. We haven't the time, and we've got to work fast and cautious. "Now Fisheye would balk and walk away on us if we offered him these bears for nothing; he just wouldn't understand it. He dickers in animals a little; trains 'em and has 'em doing things right away. He likes 'em and they like old Fisheye. Why, he can take these little bears and have 'em turning somersaults, dancing, and climbing to their perches in no time. Then he sells 'em into some big act. "Fisheye is our meat for this play, but don't sell out too quick." Leaving the cubs to the further destruction of their cage, the prospective salesmen wended their way through a maze of sidewalls, poles, unplaced wagons, cages. On past the refreshment booth that was setting up in the central area; past a score of elephants, swaying in contentment over the morning hay; past camels, llamas, zebras, and other luminaries, to the far end of the big tent where a group of laborers were aiding two elephants to line up the last of the cages and vans in a proper circle around the enclosure. It was all confusing enough to the big Westerner, but the little man knew where to go. He pressed forward to where a little, old, dried up "razorback" was regaling two of the workmen with words of experience if not wisdom. "'En I told Shako," he declared with emphasis, "that he never could win back old Mom's confidence, till he got a big armload of sugarcane en doled hit out to her. En shore enough when we got to Little Rock and Shako got holt of some sugarcane, he win that old elephant's respect instanter. En that ain't all! When we got to Memphis en hit into that big storm, why ole Mom--" But the audience died away to one man as the midget's voice interrupted. "Say, Fisheye, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Welborn. Meet Mr. Welborn, Mr. Gleason. Mr. Welborn here dickers a little in native animals and has a couple of the slickest, fattest, neatest bear cubs I've seen in years. He's got too much business to give any time to training them and I told him of your success with animals and he wants to make a deal with you." "What kind of a deal? And where's yer bars?" Fisheye was alert to the business up to knowing the full import of the deal. "They are out here in a coop--on a trailer. He brought them down out of the mountains this morning." "Did ye ketch 'em this mornin'?" queried Fisheye as he followed the two salesmen to the truck. "Naw, he's had 'em in training for two months. Best of all, he knows how to take care of their hair, how to feed 'em. Look, there they are, alike as two peas and ready to climb a pole or turn a somersault." Fisheye was peering through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar I could see 'em better. Now what's yer deal, Prince? Ye said somethin' about a deal?" "Well, it's like this, Fisheye. Mr. Welborn could go right on training these bruins and peddle them through an ad in _Billboard_ for a sure two hundred smackers, surely by Thanksgiving--" "Two hundred nothin's," retorted the wary Fisheye, who was not to let a fancy price go by without protest. "Thar's no bar in the world wuth a hundred dollars. Why up in the Yallerstone, they offer to give 'em away!" "Sure they do, or did last year. They are the old mangy bears that bother tourists, Jesse James bears, that they want to get rid of. But they wouldn't sell you a cub for love or money. Bears are scarce this year. They hint of a bear famine up there. "And anyhow, you didn't let me finish. Why if you owned these bears and had 'em climbing an injun ladder right up to their perch in the animal act, had 'em dancing, turning somersaults, you would ask a half grand for them and never bat an eye. They would be worth it, and you know it. But rather than go through the work of getting them ready, Mr. Welborn is willing to take an even hundred for the two. Better still, he'll let you make a note for the hundred due in ninety days--or say Christmas. By that time you've got the bears sold and your note paid, and jingling the difference." Fisheye was squinting through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar a man could see what he's buying." "Haven't you got an empty cage where we could turn them out in the daylight?" asked the sales manager. "Shore I have. I jist got pie Rip's cage all cleaned out an ready fer what come." "Well, get it open. Cut loose the trailer, Mr. Welborn, and we will back it in by hand. Here, Happy, you and Joe help push this trailer in to where Fisheye shows you. These cubs need initiating anyhow." The trailer was unhooked and carefully backed in through a passage laid out by the versatile Fisheye. A door was opened in one of the unplaced cages and the little bears pushed out into a new world. They scrambled to a far corner, faced about, and waited for the next move. "There they are," cried the midget enthusiastically, "black as midnight, fat as butterballs and ready for work." To be sure, the little salesman could not see up to the level of the cage floor, but his sales talk never ceased. "How much am I offered, men," he called out in a voice simulating an auctioneer. "How much for the two?" "Now you jist cut out yer comedy until I can squint 'em over," said Fisheye impatiently. "Kin ye move 'em around a little, Mister?" Welborn reached his hand through the bars and clucked to the little scared bruins. Hesitatingly they crept up to the extended hand and then sat up. They were surely butterballs as the midget proclaimed. "You can't tell which is Amos and which is Andy. Can you, Fisheye?" challenged the salesman. "Naw! I don't know 'em by name but that un is the oldest. In twins or even litters thar's one that's oldest. That un is the oldest, he starts to doin things fust. Now you jist tell me all over again, what's yer proposition about me owning these little b'ars?" "Well, it is as I said. Mr. Welborn here will take your note for an even hundred for both bears. The note will be due Christmas. We can go right over to the ticket wagon and have Lew draw the note, payable at the Wabash Valley Trust Company for an even hundred, and the cubs are yours. And here's another thing," David motioned Fisheye over to another wagon and out of Mr. Welborn's hearing. "Here's the rest of the plan. I am going to offer this man Welborn ninety dollars for your note. He won't be bothered by having to send it to the bank, and he'll take my offer. There's where I come in; I make a ten spot without any investment." "How come?" squawked the amazed Fisheye. "Ye don't own no bars, ye ain't out no cash, en ye draw a sawbuck. Now jist why can't this mountain man take ninety dollars in folding money offen me and cut out all this bankin' stuff. I don't want any note at the Wabash Valley nohow. They'd jist harass me into payin' it. Jist cut all that out and let him take the foldin' money." "Well, maybe he will," sighed the super salesman. "But I thought as cheap as they were, I ought to have a ten spot out of it. But I resign in your favor. It's all among us folks anyhow. Just you go over and spot him the ninety and see if you win." Fisheye went back of a neighboring cage to search himself for the needed cash. The salesman turned to Welborn who in the whole deal had said never a word. "It worked out all right," chuckled the midget. "Fisheye is saying spells over his bankroll and is kissing some of the tens and twenties a fond and reluctant farewell. He will offer you ninety dollars and you take it. It's better than I'd hoped. You see, Fisheye has his money sewed to him and it makes it hard to acquire. Some of it will be plastered together, for Fisheye hasn't taken a bath since part of the Barnum-Jenny Lind Special went off the bridge at Wheeling. The little bears will always know their Fisheye, day or night." At this juncture Fisheye returned and counted down the cash. Two of the twenties and one ten, were printed in the early twenties. "And now, Mister Welborn, we will have that cup of coffee and I must go to work. I want you to see the Kid Show and the Big Show as my guest. I'll have the boys park your machine and trailer right back of our show where it will be safe until you want it. After the main performance we will have dinner, say about four o'clock and we will call it a day." "I think you should have this money," said Welborn as they drank their coffee. He handed Fisheye's keepsakes to David. "I did not expect anything and I am satisfied that the bears are in good hands." "Not a cent," said David, waving the money aside. "I still owe you more than I can ever repay. Besides all this, we've done Fisheye a good turn. He'll have those cubs doing things before snow flies." "He has always wanted a Happy Family Act, and now he's got a start. From time to time he will add native animals like foxes, raccoons, badgers, and maybe a porky or two and label them 'Native Americans' and sell them to someone, cage and all, before next season." "Fisheye is versatile. Every winter he has a bunch of misfit dogs, and out of the outfit he'll get some smart ones that will train well. He is good, too, on a dog and pony act. Once a zebra got its leg broke in swinging one of the big poles in place. It looked like there was nothing to do but shoot it. But Fisheye salvaged the cripple; he taught it to get up and down with the leg in splints; cured him, except for a slight limp, and finally sold the beast as the only zebra that was ever broken to harness. Fisheye is a grand old liar but he's a fine animal man." 2 Circuses--the big ones, with menageries--have a tradition: "the show must go on." Storms, fires, rail disasters, major accidents--even death--shall not deter. The show _must_ go on. The Great International had lived fully up to this tradition. In all of its growing years, it had met and overcome any and all obstacles that might hinder its progress and promises. In the years past, a versatile routing agent could and did avoid many minor financial losses by routing the show to other fields. If a mine strike prevailed in one section, that district was missed by careful routings; if the boll weevil prevailed, the cotton belt was a closed field; if wheat failed in the Northwest, or mills were closed in Gary, the bookings were deflected to other marts. But the year 1932 was different; fertile fields there were not. It was not a case of dodging; it was a plain case of trying to hit. And there was no place. The Great International was making a brave effort to stem the tide of depression. Its great spread of canvas billowed over many new and novel attractions. It boasted of the largest herd of tame elephants in all the world. Its aerial acts were new to the circus lovers of America. Its grand opening was a riot of splendid colorings and beauty, never surpassed in all pageantry. Yet old Depression was winning at every stand. Historic Cheyenne, with its years of background in gathering humanity to its playdays, was little better than the rest. Business prudence dictated the routings from here on, and the route led to winter quarters. It was as David Lannarck said: "We play the U.P. to Omaha and then home." Sam Welborn, the man from the mountains, enjoyed the Kid Show, immensely. The trained cockatoos, the big snakes, the many freak people, the brief but snappy minstrel show, were some of the varied features. But best of all, Welborn watched the antics of his little friend of the morning adventure. He came on the little stage, first as a swaggering general, then as an admiral, last as a real doughboy of the United States Army. Dancing, bowing, and waving the flag, he won generous applause. Later, he came on as Cupid with bow and arrow, and made some fine shots into a target representing a heart. His song number was appropriate to this act. Following this performance, David conducted his friend to the marquee of the Big Show and passed him in to greater glories. "I will see you before the performance is over," he said in parting. The Big Show was not cut or curtailed. From the grand opening to the closing number the full production was given without a hitch. Sam Welborn, seated in the reserve section was back to boyhood days. He watched the many features of the bewildering panorama with childish enthusiasm. It was a great show. Just before the finale, he was joined by his little friend. "Our next stop will be the dining car," said Davy as they followed the crowd out the main entrance. "I have something I want to talk over with one of you Westerners and I think you are the man." "Maybe I am not a Westerner," said Welborn quietly. "Why you live out here, don't you?" retorted Davy. "Yes, I live out here, a great ways out, clear out to the rim of things. If it wasn't for the mountains hemming the horizon, our 'wide open spaces' would be without limit. I live beyond the Medicine Bow Mountains over next to North Park. My nearest neighbor is two miles away. I am fifteen miles from a filling station." "Why, I didn't know there was a place in America that was fifteen miles from a filling station. The oil companies are surely overlooking a bet. Anyhow, every word you speak confirms my opinion that you live at the right place." The two had arrived at the dining tent where a head waiter was assigning the guests to their places among the many tables. "We'll sit here, Tony, if you don't mind," said Davy as he ushered his guest to a table apart from the rest. He carried a high chair from another table and signaled a waiter. "This is what I have in mind, Mr. Welborn; I want to run away--run away from the yaps and yokels and the gawkers and get out where nobody can see me and where I can act just like a man. I am twenty-nine years old. For fifteen years I have been the 'objective' of the gawking squad. I'm sick of it. I want to run away when I see a crowd coming. When I am on the platform, I see nothing but dumb faces; if I am on the ground, I see nothing but legs. It's too tough a lifetime assignment. You understand I am not complaining of my lot as a midget, but I am fed up on the role. I want a rest--a change. And just now, is a good time to make the change from a game where I've grown stale. My financial affairs are in good shape, thanks to one of the finest men in all America, and I want to lay off this freak business until I can look on it without vomiting. "Two things woo me to this country: your wide open spaces, where seeing a human being is reduced to the very lowest limit; and second, I find that in playing vaudeville houses in the winter time, I develop a sinus trouble that sticks with me until I get back here to the mountains where it disappears entirely. Yes sir! When I hit the table lands of Denver, Pocatello, Casper, Rawling, Laramie, or this town, old Sinus passes right out of the system. For the last five years I have been planning to come to these Highlands and dig in--where humanity is the scarcest. Just awhile ago, you described the exact spot of my dreams. Now what's your reaction? Can I do it?" "Do you mean that you would want to spend the winter with me, back in the hills?" The big man's question was quietly put but he stopped eating, awaiting the answer. "Sure, that's what I mean. Next winter, next summer, and then some. I want to get away from this," waving his hand in a circle to include the showgrounds. "And get to that," and he pointed west. "I want to get out where I can wear overalls; have a dog--or maybe five dogs--out where I can ride a hoss and chaw scrap-tobacco and spit like a man. I want to get away from being gawked at during all my waking hours. This thing here, is getting on my nerves. I feel like I want to commit murder when a simpering Jane looks at me, snickers and says, 'ain't he cute?' I want a ball bat to club every country jake doctor that looks me over and asks about my pituitary gland. Gee, gosh, but I do want to get away from that. I want to exchange these human nitwits for cows, calves, sheep, hosses,--broncho hosses, pintos--but not little round-bellied shetlands. I want to boss around among chickens, geese, turkeys, pigs--" "How about a couple of burros?" interrupted the listener. "That's it! Burros! I hadn't thought of burros--me on one of 'em--slapping with my hat to get two miles to the gallon! That's it, burros! Two of them is better!" "And how about snows? There may be a snow yet this month that is deeper than you are tall." "Whoopee for the snow!" yelled the midget. "Me with a mackinaw and boots, and mittens and a shovel. Snow! Clean white snow! I love it! But I haven't seen any clean snow for years. All that you ever see now is the dirty slush that they scrape off the streetcar tracks. I sure would be disappointed, Mister Welborn, if you didn't have a lot of clean snow. And you have some sort of a shack, don't you? And we can cut a lot of wood, and have plenty of blankets--en books and magazines. And we can haul out a lot of grub, and a first-aid kit and such. And you don't have a big family, do you, Mister Welborn, and I wouldn't be much in the way, would I?" "No, I am all alone," said Welborn trying as best he could to answer the many questions. "I have no family and I do have a shack that is very comfortable. It has a fireplace and a stove. I have plenty of blankets and wood and grub. But what about sickness--home-sickness! What about the terrors of loneliness that sometimes drive people mad! The wide open spaces have their handicaps, as I well know. For a year or more I have had just that experience. I have suffered, along with the joys of being wholly alone. Truly, I went into it with a bigger aversion to human society than you have, and I have not escaped. "Yes, I have a shack, a good one, and a few score acres, but it's not a ranch. It's not stocked, has no barn or stables, and no crop but the native grass. It was a dreamer's plaything and I bought it with scant savings that should have been spent on another project. But it looked like I just had to own it in order to carry on." "What's your other project?" asked Davy, curious to know why a man with a ranch would not be ranching. "Mining," replied Welborn. "Placer mining back in a canyon or gulch that never felt a human footfall before I stumbled into it. It's a limited thing--limited to this ravine that is not more than fifty feet wide and a half a mile long. It was probably the old stream bed back before the Tertiary ages, but when the troubled mountain took another surge, it was left high and dry, twenty feet above water. I was working it this summer but the little bear cubs took most of my time. It takes a full day to lug enough water up to the canyon levels to wash out a pan of gravel. It takes the big part of the day to lower a sack of gravel down to the water, but at that, I have made wages. Now, I have an old rocker that was abandoned in the stream bed, but I need a pump so I can use the rocker right on the gravel bar. As it is a one-man job, it should be a force pump with a gasoline engine. All this costs money and it takes a long time to pan out enough dust to pay the bill. Really I had the money, but I just had to spend it in buying the cabin and land that was the only entrance to the placer bed. I just couldn't work the one without owning the other. Then too, I will have to blast a hole in the rock wall to get the pump located, after that, one year is all I want. One year's work will clean up all that one man ought to have. Of course I have practically lost this summer on account of the bear cub capers, and winter is at hand, but the outlook is better, thanks to your diplomacy and aid. With the money, I can live this winter and accomplish many things. By spring, I should be under full production." "But you wouldn't stay up there in that solitude with no person around but an old grouch that probably would not have a word to say for days at a time?" "Yes I think I would," said Davy slowly but firmly. "I think I can risk my case as to care and friendship with a man who is considerate to little bears." Some of the circus people had finished the meal and were filing out of the tent, but Davy stayed, grimly determined to win his point. "About what would be the cost of this proposed mine equipment, and could I do some ranching around there while this was going on?" "I figure it will take three hundred dollars to buy the pump, pump-jack and engine; these, with a few lengths of hose and some dynamite, are all that's required. Of course there will be some labor costs in getting the pump installed, but three hundred will pay all bills." "Is that all? Why we can get that amount from Lew up at the ticket wagon. He will cash my check for that amount and be glad to do it. Holdups, you know, pass up checks. Therefore, Lew likes checks. When do you want it? Let's get it now while there is a lull in business, and you can take the pump and pipe and other gadgets right back with you in the truck." "Do you mean that you will go with me--now--on the truck? It's more than a hundred miles to Carter's filling station and fully twenty miles more over the roughest roads--or rather no roads--to the Gillis place and then two miles more. Why, it's an all-night trip if we were to start right now!" "No, I am to stick with the show to Omaha. We are to be in North Bend, tomorrow; Grand Island, Friday; Omaha, Saturday; and then the payoff. I will have some things to do in Omaha. I want to telephone home and ask about some friends; I will talk to my financial boss and learn if he is still weathering the financial storm and then I am ready for the big jump out to your place. Can you meet me here with this truck-trailer outfit, say about Wednesday? I will have about three hundred pounds of baggage, and we must stock up with grub against getting snowed in. Can you meet me here Wednesday? Or, if you are too busy, can you send someone?" "Why sure I'll meet you--Wednesday or any other day--here or any other place you say." The man of the mountains was absorbing some of the little man's enthusiasm. "Sure I'll meet you, but you work so fast and drive right through that I can hardly keep up. Why, we hardly drive through with one thing until you have another. If I seem indifferent and not very responsive, it's because I haven't caught up yet. Think of it! Ten hours ago I was coming out of the hills with a serious problem that was hindering my work. Now, I am rid of the problem, have ninety dollars in cash; have the offer of all the funds I need, and prospects of a fine companion all through the dreaded winter. The change from poverty to riches has been so rapid that it's more like a dream than a reality. And here's the worst feature of the whole business," continued Welborn as the two made their way to the ticket wagon. "Here's the fly in the ointment. My side of the equation has been nothing but plus, plus. I am fearful that yours will be more than minus. You are tired of the mob; you want to get away from the crowds. You have a mental picture of the ranching business; horses, cattle, cowboys, knee-deep grass billowing through the great open spaces. It's your dream to land right in the midst of such surroundings, and your disappointments will be terrible to endure. I have no such ranch and there's none nearer than ten miles of my place. Most of the cattle nowadays are purebred; the cowboys are cow hands, feeders, and care-takers--without a mount--and many of them never saw a pair of chaps and few wear ten gallon hats like the picture books show. That stuff belongs to the rodeos and dude ranches. Why the Diamond A Ranch over on Mad Trapper Fork is a model for any manufacturing plant. It has bookkeepers, salesmen, feeders from 'aggy' schools. You won't like that; it's not up to the standards of your dream. Of course you will like old Jim Lough of the B-line Ranch. He's ninety and used to be a tough hombre of the old school. But now he's out of the picture, his son Larry runs the ranch, and he is soon to give way to a young college girl who is up on foreign markets and the like. "My fears are that what you see and experience will not be the picture of beauty and action that you had dreamed about. My poor little place, without livestock or feed--or action--will be a terrible disappointment." "Well we will make a ranch out of it. The building of a ranch will be more pleasure than the possession of the finished product," rejoined Davy stoutly. "We will raise some feed, buy a few sheep and from there on, watch us grow! But early in this venture, I must get me a pony--a pinto, preferably--small enough for me to ride and big enough to go places. Then I'm all set. Hi, Lew!" The midget had climbed up on the wheel of the ticket wagon and was tapping on the window. "Cash my check for three hundred dollars and meet my podner, Mister Welborn." "Your partner in what?" queried the accommodating Lew, as he slid back the window and began to count out the cash. "What's your racket now, Prince? Have you hooked up with Ben-a-Mundi in that Crystal Readings graft, or is it a short-change racket?" Lew aided Davy up to the shelf where he could sign the check. "Better look out, Mister Welborn, your partner here is a slicker--a regular city grafter. He skins his friends just to keep in practice. Paying you this little lump is just a bait. Later, he'll spring the trap for the big money." Lew slipped a rubber band around the money and handed it to Davy. "You had better look 'em over for counterfeit bills," retorted Davy as he handed the money to Welborn. "This bird puts out more counterfeit money than he does genuine. And say, Lew, you and Jess think of me when you are huddled around the stove this winter with a lot of razorbacks--me out in the great open spaces feeling fine, and clear of mobs and nitwits. You fellows will have the razorbacks throw another basket of cobs in the old smoky stove, and I and Mr. Welborn here, will be toasting our feet before a log fire in the big fireplace--" "Oh ho, it's that ranch thing that you have been chinning about for the last five years," chuckled the treasurer of the Great International. "How many calves will you brand next year? And where's your chaps and your spurs? And say, that three hundred won't buy your bridle, let alone a ranch and a hoss. You remember Carter, don't you, Prince? The broncho-buster that we had in the grand opening last year. Why his saddle cost an even grand and he paid fifty per for his Stetsons. Where's your outfit, kid?" "Why my outfit is still in the supply house in Omaha," countered the midget. "I am to take it out when you and Jess come back through here with the Adkins-Helstrom Great Congress of Living Wonders. I'll meet you here on that date in my full regalia. Anyhow, much obliged, Lew, and Mr. Welborn I will help you out with the car and trailer so that you can load out tonight." Down at the edge of the lot where the city streets pointed to the business district of the city, the ancient model paused for the final conference between the new partners. "Now what's your address, Mr. Welborn?" asked Davy, searching about for pencil and paper. "If any of our plans go haywire, I would want to let you know." "And that's just another inconvenience in the business," replied Welborn in a cautious manner. "My mail address is Adot. I get--" "Adot? Adot? Where? What?" interposed the midget. "A dot on what?" "The post office is Adot," replied the miner. "Capital _A-d-o-t_, Adot. It was probably so named from its importance on the map. It's just a wide spot in the road and a dirt road. We get mail twice a week and I am fifteen miles away. Neither will the telegraph lines help; there's no station nearer than this town. I have no telephone. The only way I could be reached, would be for you to go to the broadcasting station in Omaha and put through an S.O.S. on Tuesday night, as I have a radio. But you would have to put the call in early as I am going to be in this town bright and early Wednesday morning." "That's the spirit," crowed the little man. "Both of us, right here in Cheyenne, Wednesday morning. I will be here unless this Union Pacific folds up and quits. Why when you come to think of it, I wouldn't want to be where there was mail deliveries, telephones, and such; that's what I am running away from, that and the mob. Good-by, Sam," he called out, as the car took the green lights. "I'll meet you here on the A-Dot." "Good-by, Prince," said the big man as the car got under way. That night, an ancient model T followed by a ramshackle, home-made trailer, pulled away from the shipping platforms of the Cheyenne Outfitting & Supply Company loaded to the guards with pump, pump jack, pipe, lag-screws, wrenches, hand drills, dynamite, fuses and caps, and a hundredweight of groceries. Cramped under the wheel, driving as carefully as his cargo would warrant, sat Sam Welborn, the second happiest man west of the Missouri. The happiest man west of the big river was flouncing around in his berth on the third section of the Great International Circus trains bound for North Bend, Nebraska, planning his outfit to be purchased in a few days at Omaha. 3 An hour in advance of the arrival of the Pacific Limited, Sam Welborn paced the platform of the Union Pacific passenger station at Cheyenne, awaiting the arrival of his little partner from Omaha. He was a different man in appearance from the one who, the week before, had come down from the mountains in charge of two obstreperous bear cubs. On that occasion, he had worn overalls, a sheepskin jacket, heavy, clumsy shoes, and an eared cap of ancient vintage. On the day of his appointment, he was dressed as the ordinary business man about to take the train for Ogden or points west. His fairly well-worn, black, pin-striped suit, neatly pressed, fitted his six-foot-two frame as if built by a professional clothier; a rolled-collar shirt, a blue polka dot tie, freshly shined shoes, and a soft crush hat completed the outfit. Over his arm he carried an overcoat. Other prospective travelers wore their topcoats, but Sam Welborn was of the outdoors. He had parked the Ford with its trailer attachment at the west end of the platform. If his partner's impedimentia was not too bulky, the ancient model was ready for another trek to the hills. Back and forth along the long brick platform he strode in the bright autumn sun. It was no sloven's gait. An observer would have said that somewhere, sometime, in his career of maybe thirty years, he had faced a hardboiled old topper who insisted with piratical invectives that "heads up, shoulders back, stomachs in" was the proper posture for humans who were eating government grub and drawing government pay. Very true, Welborn was not in immediate need of exercise. In the last week he had worked, and worked hard, during every daylight hour. He had not slept in the last thirty hours. But these were figments, incidents, to be disregarded now that success was just back of the curtain. Now he was to meet the little man who had made this prospect of success possible. Now his greetings must be cordial and appreciative. Nothing should be left undone to overcome the disappointments the midget must endure. In his first meeting with Davy, Welborn had tried to discourage the plan of "holing up" in a remote section, far removed from the things to which he was accustomed. He pictured himself as an old grouch, soured on the world, and surely uncompanionable. He dwelt on the lonely hours, the big snows, and other bad features but it was of no avail. Davy was on his way. In other days, in vastly different surroundings, Sam Welborn had known the tactful duties of a genial host; now he would revert to that role. David Lannarck was the first passenger to alight as number twenty-one came thundering in from the east. The porter helped with his grips. Davy searched the platform for his friend. "Why, why, I didn't know you! You look like another fellow!" he exclaimed, as Welborn reached for his grips. "You are younger, better looking, different." "I am younger, but not different," chuckled Welborn. "I've been taking a tonic--the tonic of hard work. I've nearly completed my big job, and I've located your horse for you." "Hurray!" yelled Davy, "And can I get him right away?" "There you go, jumping the gun again. Why that little horse is a hundred miles from here. He's not broken to ride. He might not suit your fancy, and it might take a lot of diplomacy to get him. He belongs to a girl." The baggage--two trunks, a showman's keyster, two suitcases, a big duffle bag and handbags--was loaded on trailer and backseat. "Well, I don't see much room for groceries," said Davy, as he climbed in. "We've got to have pickles and beans, and plenty of vitamins and calories to balance the ration. Really, before starting, I should have consulted Admiral Byrd on outfitting a polar expedition. Aren't we to stock up on food--here--or somewhere?" He questioned, as he noted that Welborn drove across the tracks and away from the city. "The eating question is practically solved," said Welborn. "Solved through the providence and frugality of good neighbors. They are overstocked and it's up to us to reduce the surplus. I took out rice, sugar, salt, and a lot of extras on my last trip, and with their surplus of meat, fish, fowl, flour, fruits--canned and preserved, vegetables--canned and raw, we should live like pigs at a full trough. However, if you need tobacco, chewing gum, toothpaste, any special kind of medicine, we can get that at the Last Chance, further down the road." "No, I'll not need any such sidelines for many a week, but I thought you said we did not have any neighbors? Who runs this fine market and canning factory out in the wide open spaces?" Welborn laughed. "Wait till we get out of this traffic and on a straightaway; there's much to tell and we've got a lot of time. I have arranged for dinner about twenty miles down this road, and we will push things pretty hard this afternoon so that we can eat a late supper right at this Market and then you will understand. "You see, this old car, loaded like she is, and pulling a trailer, can do about twenty-five miles per, on this federal road, but it's not all federal road, and the last fifteen miles will take a lot of good luck and fully two hours to make the grade. I would like to get home in daylight." The general direction of the national roadway, was west. The traffic to and from Cheyenne at this noon hour was not heavy. Tourists were still touring, notwithstanding the fact that this section of the country might be snowed under at any time; truckloads of livestock, were encountered, and far down the highway, where the traffic thinned down, the partners met a big band of sheep that required care and diplomacy in passing. Presently, Welborn turned the car into a driveway at a neat farm home. "Hungry?" he asked. "Yes, I am always hungry, although I had breakfast somewhere this side of Julesburg." "Well, I arranged for dinner here, and we will also stock up on gas and oil for the long trek. Of course I carry an extra five gallons in the can on the running board, but this is about our last place to stock up on eats." A woman came to the door. "You are right on time," she said. "I hope you have brought your appetites, as the lunch is just ready." Somebody was thoughtful; there was a high chair at the dining table. After a very satisfying meal, Welborn shoved back his chair. He found a piece of wrapping paper that he spread in front of Davy and drew a rough map. "We are near the line of two states," he said. "The Medicine Bow Mountains are here. Geologists point out that this range so interrupted the route of the Continental Divide that it turned it back to the north in a big curve and made it hard to find. We go through a pass in the range. On this side, we run into the little streams that form the Laramie River. On yon side is the North Platte. Both run north and both find sources in the North Park. Those who know, say that for beauty and grandeur no section of the world beats the North Park country. Personally I do not know, as my contacts have been limited. It is said, too, that this is the northern limits of gold. At this point, the mountains seemed to have changed their content, or else those to the north were made at a different era. All these things are speculative and have their exceptions, as I well know. "North Park, however, is a great grazing country. Its grass wealth may be greater than its mineral. The government owns the land, except tracts here and there suitable for farming. Our destination is the Silver Falls Project, a fine body of rolling land, suitable for either grazing or farming. It was laid out in convenient tracts for homesteads. Each parcel was a half section. If there was rough land adjoining a tract, that was included for good measure. It was opened for settlers and many came, but none stayed. There was no central organization to hold them--no church to rally around--no one established a central trading post--no outstanding personage to collect and hold, as is always the case in community building in America. Then, too, there were no roads; therefore no market outlet. The road over which we are going, is the only inlet and there's no outlet. A half mile of blasting and building would have made an entrance to the Tranquil Meadows district and to trails and highways that led to market towns in two states, but the blasting and building was never done. The Silver Falls Project never grew big enough to make its decline noticeable. "Of those who came to try it out, only four stuck to a final deed. Two of these are at this end of the project. Carter runs a filling station at the forks of the road and Withrow, next to him, hunts, traps, and plays a fiddle. I acquired the two tracts at the far end of the project and Gillis, our enterprising neighbor, owns two parcels next to me and operates the abandoned tracts under grazing allotments. This is a real ranch; small, as compared to others, but modeled as a farm in the East, for Gillis is a real farmer. I make the guess that when you grow homesick and tired of the loneliness at my place you will headquarter at the Gillis place, in fact I have made that kind of arrangement with them. They have a telephone, a radio, a phonograph, and take plenty of newspapers and magazines, and, best of all, there is a kindly, enterprising woman there to manage, to cook and can the fruits and vegetables, and do the homey things that makes life fit to live. "They have cows, chickens, turkeys, pigs, and raise plenty of feed. But they are an oasis in a desert. Except for our place, they have no neighbors within fifteen miles. Mrs. Gillis is a worker and a planner. She sells pigs, turkeys and calves, in Laramie and Cheyenne, more than one hundred miles away; she has a working arrangement with the filling station down at the roadside, whereby they sell quite a lot of her canned stuff and preserves. She's always got something to sell and sells it, market or no market. "I depend on them for almost everything. Even the car and trailer out there belongs to them. I bought a stock of chickens off of them, and I rent a cow and calf from them. Really, while you have come out here to my place, you will subsist for the most part off the Gillis family." "Well the outlook gets better and better each time you add a chapter," said Davy as they walked out to the car. "How many in the Gillis family?" "Just two, Jim and his wife. But staying with them is Landy--Landy Spencer, Mrs. Gillis' brother. He's older, is an oldtime cow hand that has retired, when Mrs. Gillis will let him. He's been in the West since boyhood and knows the game, but doesn't play it. He just putters around, when Mrs. Gillis isn't after him to do something, and that's the reason he stays up at our place most of the time. You will like Landy. He is the one that located your horse over at Lough's B-line Ranch. I had told him of your wanting a little horse, and this week, while Gillis and I were blasting out the rock and setting the pump, Landy strayed over to Lough's and located the nag. Landy says as soon as he sees you, he can tell instantly if the horse will fit." "I've got a saddle in that keyster, and he can measure by that," said Davy, "and anyhow I don't want a little, low-headed, round-bellied hoss that can't go places. If he is a cowboy, he will know the kind." For five or more miles, the route led over a national highway. Then Welborn turned to the right, drove a few hundred feet and stopped. "Look out here to the left" he said. "See that big mound with its head in the clouds? That's Longs Peak, the highest in the country. On a clear day, it can be seen from Cheyenne. From here on, you are to see mountains and more mountains, but Longs Peak is the daddy of them all." Now the roadway was not so good, but the ancient car labored on in full vigor. Fences had disappeared; the roadway no longer held to section lines but took the course of least resistance, generally following the stream bed which it crossed and re-crossed many times. The direction was generally west and up. Twice on the trip, Welborn took a bucket out of the car, dipped water from the stream, and cooled the heated engine. On one of these occasions, he washed his face in the cooling waters, explaining that he did this to overcome drowsiness. Davy saw everything. This was his country. Except for meeting a lone herder in charge of a band of sheep, they had not met a human being in the last fifty miles. Yet there was plenty of life. They were never out of sight of cattle--not the big herds as Davy thought it would be--just a few here and there. There were some horses around the little pole barns off the roadway. High up on distant hills, bands of sheep were grazing. Overhead, but not too high, hawks skimmed the levels or tilted over knolls and hills in search of a quarry; larks gathered in flights for a final powwow before beginning the long trip southward. Magpies flitted through the shrubbery of the creek banks. In crossing a little wooden bridge near a waterfall, Davy saw an object in the water, then in the air, and then in the water where the spray fell and where foam formed. Later, he was to know this little slate-colored bird as the water ouzel, a bird that was neither wader nor swimmer, yet took his subsistence from the foam and spray. "That road leads to Laramie," said Welborn pointing out a trail to the right. "Laramie is closer to our place, and one less mountain range to cross." "Why didn't we come that way?" asked Davy. "Well, the big circus didn't show in Laramie, and I had to get to Cheyenne for contact. There I met a fellow who freighted me down with pump tools and I had to take back some of the wrenches I borrowed. Then this fellow made an appointment for Cheyenne, and I would not have missed the appointment for anything." "Oh yeah," said Davy, "I suppose out here, the matter of a few mountain ranges is all in a day's work. Anyhow, we are seeing some country, and the lizzie is going fine." For several miles it was downhill and around many hairpin turns. Then many small streams were crossed and followed. Several times the sun seemed to set, only to reappear again through a cleft in the hills. Where the terrain was level enough, hundreds of jack rabbits were seen. They were not the nervous, string-halt jacks of the prairies, but the smaller black-tailed variety. And then they came to a store and filling station. "Well of all the places for a filling station," exclaimed Davy. "Many times I've seen 'em located at places where there was little business, but I never before saw one located where there was absolutely no business. What's the big idea?" "He is probably like another fellow I know," answered Welborn. "He wanted to get somewhere, where he wouldn't see anyone. But at that, he does some business, seemingly as much as he wants." More gas was taken on, and the reserve tank filled. "Adot is on ahead about eight miles, but we turn here for the final dash." The final dash was but a creep. Except for the bridge over Ripple Creek, the roadway was just a trail. The sun had gone down for good. The lights, none too good, revealed little of the hazards. It was a long, steady grind, mostly uphill. At last a light appeared ahead. A dog barked. A lantern shone. Welborn turned the car through a gate. "Gillis Station," he called out to the midget who had remained very quiet. "Have them drive up next to the house," a woman's voice called from within. "We will throw a canvas over the trailer. They will stay here tonight. It's too cold to stay in a house that has had no fire." "There's your orders, Welborn. Drive right over here next to the chimney. Howdy, Mr. Lannarck, you and Welborn get out and limber up for there's prospect for a fine supper." It was Gillis speaking as he aided Davy out of the cab. "I am Davy to you folks," said the little man as he stamped around to limber up from the long confinement. "You are Mrs. Gillis, I know, and you are Landy, aren't you? Will I fit that hoss that the girl owns?" "You are about a half-hand short right now," the old man chuckled, "but after a few hikes up to Pinnacle Point, you should fit that little hoss jist like a clothespin fits the line." It was a fine supper. There was also a home-made high chair that just fit Davy's needs. "Before I go to bed," said Davy earnestly and firmly, "I am going to write down that supper menu and send it to poor old Lew and Jess, who are wearing out shoe leather trying to find a restaurant where the steaks aren't made out of saddle skirts and the potatoes and the candle grease have parted company. Lemme see, there was fried chicken and the best cream gravy I ever tasted, mashed potatoes, creamed peas, fluffier biscuits than those birds ever saw, two kinds of jelly, strawberry preserves, some other preserves, and apple pie with whipped cream on it. "A long time ago--it was my first year in vaudeville--Mr. Singer gave his midget performers a dinner at one of the celebrated New York restaurants, I think they called the place Shanley's, a swell place with a private dining-room, lots of waiters, food in courses. Well, that big feed would be a tramp's handout compared with this dinner tonight." Davy was either talking to himself or was trying to interest Welborn in the conversation as the two were undressing by the light of the kerosene lamp in Mrs. Gillis' spare room. Welborn seemed not interested. He was soon in bed and snoring. "Feathers, by golly," muttered Davy as he snuggled down deep in the bed. 4 The Gillis menage was well managed. Mrs. Gillis saw to that. Jim, aged fifty, slim of build, sinewy, even-tempered, quiet, willing, was the farmer and handyman. Crops grew, orchards bloomed, vines bore a full vintage, and bushes yielded because he made them do so. Without splutter or fuss, he did his work, and liked to do it. The teamwork of Mrs. Gillis was equally effective. One could not say however that her work was done as quietly. Landy, the cow hand brother was wont to say--not in her presence however--that "as a child, Alice was sorta tongue-tied, and she has to ketch up somehow." And Landy--well, Landy made his contributions. As a young cowboy, Landy had had his fling. He came into the game as the cattle-sheep wars were at their peak and he played it strenuously. But with it all, Landy Spencer kept his moral slate fairly clean. Then as the sober days of manhood came, and Landy witnessed the finish of the improvident and foolish, he began to save and skimp. "Hit's the pore house fer a cow hand," was his terse aphorism on the subject, and Landy had never seen a "fitten" poor house. Landy was working for the Crazy-Q outfit, at the time the government proposed to open the Silver Falls Project. He looked it over and filed on two of the homesteads. One for himself and one for James Gillis. Then he went to Illinois where his younger sister and her husband were share-cropping. "Come out whar yu've got room, whar ye own it, whar you do it your way. I'll pay freight on yer car to Laramie, and keep up the supplies for three years. Then if you're not satisfied, I'll move ye back." It was Landy too, that planned as to the cows and calves. He bought purebred cows from the B-line folks, and sold them the big, weaned calves. And in view of the fact that the calf sale in 1931 was larger than Alice's big turkey sale to the dealers in Laramie by fully two hundred dollars, Landy had a modicum of peace on finances. The Gillis menage was well managed. It made money in a depression. Davy was awakened by what he thought was gunfire. He bounded out of bed and ran to the window. Day was breaking. In the dawnlight he saw Welborn and Landy tinkering with the old model that had brought them so valiantly through the mountains. She was backfiring her protests but presently settled down to her accustomed smoothness. Davy hustled into his clothes. Mrs. Gillis knocked on the door. "There is a pan and water right here on the bench," she said. "I told them fellers not to monkey with the old car, but Mr. Welborn is anxious to git started, he thought he'd tune her up before breakfast." Gillis came from the barn with a brimming bucket of milk. "Howja rest, Davy?" he asked. "Fine! I hit the feathers and never moved until I heard this bombardment that I thought was an uprising of the Utes." "Breakfast is ready," called Mrs. Gillis. "How do you want your eggs, Davy?" "I want them the way you fix 'em," the little man replied promptly. "After that supper last night, I wouldn't have the nerve to tell you anything about cooking." Mrs. Gillis beamed her appreciation. "I hope you will tell that to Jim and Landy. To hear them complain, you would think I was serving their grub raw or burnt. Didn't the circus people feed ye?" "A circus always hires good cooks. It buys the best meats in the local markets, and that's about as far as they can go. The vegetables are out of cans, except the potatoes and cabbage, and the fruits are either dried or canned. Preserves and jellies are factory made, so it gets pretty monotonous. I had a good breakfast on the diner yesterday morning. We had a fine lunch out this side of Cheyenne, but the supper last night was far beyond anything I have ever enjoyed. I jotted down some of the menu and as soon as I unpack I am going to write to a couple of those old circus razorbacks and tell 'em what they have missed." Davy was talking and eating; the men were eating. "Now, Laddie, we are ready for the final dash," said Welborn, as he rose from the table. "The farther we go, the tougher it gets. And we are on the last leg." "Landy and I had better go along," said Gillis. "Ye might get stuck, and we will be needed to help unload." "You men come back here for dinner," called Mrs. Gillis from the doorway. "You will be too busy to stop and cook." The old machine described a big curve in getting out of the enclosure, but was again headed west. Gillis rode in the front seat with Welborn. Landy and Davy found room on the trailer. "I want to see everything," said Davy as he climbed to a perilous perch on one of the trunks. The mountains towered in the west, south, and southwest. The terrain was fairly level, but a spirit level would have shown a marked tilt to the east. There was a fringe of timberland on every side. Landy pointed out places of interest. "That's Ripple Creek off to the left. Ye crossed hit last night on the bridge, and we meet hit agin right up by the house. That's Brushy Fork over at the right. They 'most come together up here. Right up that canyon about two mile is whar Welborn found the b'ar cubs. Way 'round that timber-covered nose to the right is the B-line Ranch--hit's about ten miles. Right down that draw, in the timber and brush, I killed two wolves last year. And if yer on a hoss, ye can foller a trail down to brushy fork and out on yon side. That's a short cut to the B-line, else ye'd have to go cl'ar back to the fillin' station, then over to Adot and back across another bridge to git thar. It's twenty-five miles thataway. When ye git all settled, we'll sneak over to the B-line and take a squint at that little hoss." Landy continued to point out the places of interest. "Right along about here is Welborn's line. He's got two homesteads--bought 'em off a crazy bird that had bought out both homesteaders. That's one of the shacks over there and the other one he uses for a cowshed. En thar's yer home a-settin' up on that bench of land." Davy craned his neck as the trailer moved down hill. Perched up on a shelf, he saw a yellow dot against a gray wall that ran to the sky. As they neared the place he outlined a tiny cabin. Later it proved to be a two-roomed affair with a porch and lean to at the rear. This was to be his domicile--for how long, time would tell. The car described a big curve that took them to the brink of the Ripple Creek Canyon. In second gear it labored and twisted off to the right, and then left again, and came to a stop right at the front porch of the yellow-brown log cabin. Davy climbed down from his perch. He walked around the cabin, surveying it from three sides. "She's an Old Faithful," he announced at last. "Modeled, matched, and built by the man that built Old Faithful Inn. Why did he do it and when?" "It was built the summer before last and it took all summer," explained Welborn. "The crazy galoot called himself the Count of Como. He came barging in here and bought out Clark and Stanley, the homesteaders, and brought in two men who had been building fancy cabins in Rocky Mountain Park and tourist camps. He left them here on the job while he drove the roads like a madman, in a big, black, powerful coupe to Laramie, to Cheyenne, to Denver, anywhere he could get whiskey and dope. He would come back, rave around, threaten everybody with a gun, but paid out money like he had the mint back of him, and finally got it done. You notice that the logs are "treated," stained or shellacked, to retain their first color. The mechanics did that, and the count was mightily pleased until he found out that it made the shack stand out so that it could be seen for a long distance, and then he threw a fit. He went wild, ran 'em off the job, then I came into the picture. "I was prospecting down Ripple Creek Canyon and living in that shack that you can see from the rim over there. I was trying to locate a claim, mining claim. But from the homestead lines, this cabin was off the reservation, built off the edge of Stanley's claim and on the government's land where I wanted to stake off a mineral right. "I came up out of the canyon on the day he had gotten the men back and explained the error and showed him his predicament and then bought him out...." "Ah, tell hit right," growled Landy. "Tell him like them scairt men told hit to me." Landy took up the recitation of how the home was acquired. "He made that greasy counterfeit eat his gun that he whipped out from under his left arm. He kicked him in the ribs, he did, after he'd knocked him down a coupla times. Made him go down thar and look at the old survey stakes, he did, then made him drive his crazy car over to Adot, and old Squire Landry made out the deed and he signed hit and Welborn here paid him in a sack of gold dust that they weighed on the grocery scales. That's how 'twas done. Tell hit right, so's Davy here will know the story." Welborn laughed at Landy's recitals. "No, I didn't intimidate him. I made him see the matter in the right light. The proposition to sell-out came from him. I didn't want to buy him out, I had nothing to buy with, but the dust that it took me all summer to acquire. Truth is, this drink-crazed madman was a hoodlum gunman from Chicago or Saint Louis, that had lost his nerve. A killer who couldn't take the finish that was due him. He had run from it, and like an ostrich, he thought he was hidden up here. He didn't want me as a neighbor and when he found out that he had infringed on government land he was so scared that he would have given the place to me or anyone that wanted it. In fact, he didn't want to take the dust. He was afraid that the government would run him down for selling something that he didn't own, and maybe then find out about some of his killings back East. At any rate, he showed more speed in getting away from Adot than he had ever shown before, and that's saying a lot, for he surely burnt up the roads. We will unload your plunder right here on the porch, and we can place them as you want them later." Davy got his personal grip out of the car, but that was about as far as he could go in the matter of unloading the baggage. While the men were engaged in the task, he looked the house over carefully. One with artistic temperament would have turned his back to the house and looked on the tremendous spectacle that offered itself to view in the south, in the east, and north. A vast brown meadow, rimmed with the dark greenery of the ancient conifers; and high above, a blue arch that draped down curtains of white to hide the sombre shades of cliffs and hills and peaks innumerable. It was a wonderful sight. But Davy's eyes were on this house. He looked it over carefully. The general plan was as if a crib of logs had been built up to a square of, say, nine feet. Then another crib of logs built fifteen feet away. These were connected by a log structure in the center that allowed a recess in the porch at the front, and by a log extension enclosure that made a kitchen at the rear. It had been roofed with gray-green shingles and the porch ornamented by sturdy log columns, with rustic rails at the side. The logs had been closely fitted so that there was no space between that needed the chinking of the cabins of the pioneer. The floor was in narrow, rift-sawed planks. The walls and ceilings were covered with wallboard, properly paneled and carefully and tastefully decorated. There was a big fireplace in the east room. The west room was heated by a stove that found vent in the kitchen chimney. Entrance to any room was from the porch. The general plan of the structure was the same as that of many cabins being built in public parks and dude ranches. Davy had not seen these. His comparisons were with the fine, substantial inn, built at Old Faithful. There was little furniture in the cabin. "Well, what's your reaction, Laddie?" asked Welborn kindly as he marked the serious look on Davy's face. "Well, I don't know whether to sit out there on the porch and have a good cry or go in the spare room and put up a small dance. For five years I have been dreaming about this place, and now it's a reality. Outside of dreaming about it, and in sober moments, I just knew that there couldn't be such a place, so I contented myself with plans for a little shack, maybe a teepee, or a tent where I could spread out and rest up. But here it is--just like the dream said." "Wal, jist wait till a good winter blizzard comes through here like they do," interrupted Landy. "Jist wait, ye'll be sorry that ye ever had a dream. Why, it's six thousand feet up here, and the wind don't monkey and dally around, hit gits right down to business. Last winter hit most took the leg off 'en one of them burros old Maddy brought in here, 'en mighty nigh whipped the fillin' outen his shirt." "Let her blow," retorted Davy. "I've been in two circus blow-downs, and we had to stake the elephants down to keep 'em from blowing over into Texas." Landy was a good loser. He grinned, and began wrestling the trunks. All of Davy's plunder was moved into the fireplace room. "We will live in here this winter, and when spring comes, we can expand into the other room or out on the porch," explained Welborn. "And now, before you begin to unpack, I want you to see what Jim and I have been doing this last week. Let's take a look at the pump and engine before a snow comes and covers it all." Welborn led the way down near the brink of the canyon. "Over on the other side of the creek, you can see a shack. I headquartered there for several months and panned out some dust. From there I could see this opening here that looked like it had a floor, and maybe some prospects. Well, I climbed those trees down by the creek, but could not quite see what I wanted. As the madman was working over here, I climbed and slipped, and cut steps in the rock face of the cliff, on yon side. I wormed and twisted around until I got up to that coulee, and sure enough, it was what I thought. The floor of the old stream bed that had been thrown out of line and out of use, by some secondary action in mountain-making. "Ripple Creek has been noted for its placer workings. It has been panned and panned, many times, and always yields something. But here was a part of the stream bed that was virgin, that had never seen a miner or a pan. I walked over it and tested it. It stood the test. When it was the bed of the stream, gold was being ground out, washed out and carried down stream from the quartz-gold veins above. There it was! I couldn't get to it--couldn't work it without an entrance from this side of the creek. Landy has told you how I acquired the entrance, and a farm and a house with it." Still talking, Welborn led his guest back in the ravine back of the house, then through a tunnel in the razor-edge cliff, the party walked out on the floor of the old stream bed. "Jim and I made that tunnel. We dragged those logs through it, to make a foundation for the engine and pump. Now all we have to do, is blast out a sort of well-hole down at the creek so that the intake will be on the claim, and we are all set for production. We can do this today. Tomorrow, we will have water back on this old stream bed. Jim and I will take a hand drill, dynamite, fuse and caps into the gorge, and bust out a space about as big as a washtub, while you and Landy are unpacking your plunder. Build a fire, Landy, to take the chill off." Unpacking suited Davy. While Landy brought in some pine knots and lighted a fire against the charred backlog, Davy wrestled the dufflebag open and began to take out the contents. It was a hodge-podge of parts of every old costume he had ever used. The trunks and suitcases yielded good property. "There," he pointed to a separate pile, "there is my notion of where I was going, without seeing the place. That's a sleeping bag and these are a pair of Hudson Bay blankets. You see, I didn't know if I was to sleep out of doors or sleep in a barn--surely, I didn't plan that it was a place like this! Here's my mackinaw, boots, and mittens, and here's my hardware." He produced a small rifle that had been packed between the blankets and handed it to Landy for his inspection. "She's a thirty caliber, carries two hundred yards at point blank and won't kick over a little fellow like me. "And this is what I want you to see in particular." Davy fumbled in the keyster and brought out a small saddle with a fair leather bridle, to match. It was not a pad saddle such as jockey's ride, nor yet a civilian outfit without horn and only one web. It was a genuine western, with high horn and high cantle and two cinches, but much reduced in every dimension. "Will that fit the pony you saw over at the B-line?" Landy looked the saddle over carefully. "Hit's made by a saddle-maker all right, and will fit that hoss to a tee. They used to have some fancy saddles back in the early days. I've seen 'em that cost a thousand--Chauchaua--made and covered with silver do dads, en maybe they'd have 'em flung on a hoss that wasn't wuth his feed. I mind the time when ole Lem Hawks made a right smart lot of change, a-sellin' ole saddles that he swore come out'n the Custer massacre. Lem finally got to believin' that he was a survivor of that carnage. "They finally caught up with Lem however. He had sold more saddles than Custer had men, and the old cow saddles with their big horns and high cantles didn't look like an army saddle nohow. But Lem kept right on a-bein' a survivor--him en about a thousand others. Hit's like Lincoln's bodyguards--thar's been more of them folks died than Grant had in his whole army. Yer saddle is all right, son, and we shore ort to talk the B-line folks outa that little hoss." "I want to take the saddle over when we go," said Davy enthusiastically. "They could see how it fit, and that might influence their decision. I could put it on one of the burros and ride it over." Landy laughed uproarously. "Why son, ye wouldn't git thar by Febwary. A burro ain't geared to ride en go places. He will foller ye right up the side of a glacier, but he ain't mentally constructed to take the lead. Why, if ye was on one of 'em, backward, en paddlin' him with a clapboard, he'd back right up agin hit." "Well, what do they keep them for? Who do they belong to, anyhow?" "Them two a-roamin' around here, belong to ole Maddy, the ole miner gent. He left 'em here while he went romancin' around up Ripple Creek. He goes up thar, and has got a way out to the top. He goes in North Park, cl'ar over to Granby and Grand Lake. He swings 'round by Steamboat Springs and Hahns Peak, and comes a-driftin' back, mebbe from the north. He left 'em here three months ago. He'll git 'em when he gits 'em, en he won't lose much if he don't. "Ole Maddy has been in the hills--so hit's told--since the days of Jim Beck with and Bridger. Some say he was in Virginia Vale when Slade rubbed out Jules, the Frenchman. They say too, that he knew Carson, but that ain't so! Yit I do know that he pardnered with Will Drannon, the boy that ole Kit raised, because I heard Maddy tell a lot about Drannon, and later I read Drannon's book en right in the book, was ole Maddy. Oh, he's an oldster all right. He jist projects around in the hills, pans a little gold en rambles around by himse'f. He's not 'gold mad,' he jist likes to roam. He's clean, don't talk much, en anybody will keep him until he gits ready to pull out." "Well, I am sure disappointed about that burro thing," said Davy regretfully. "I wanted to ride that saddle over there and maybe they could see that the saddle, the hoss, and the midget ought not be separated." "Don't worry. We'll lengthen the girths, en I'll put ye on ole Frosty. When they see ye, way up thar', they'll know by every law of mathematics en justice, that the boy and the saddle belong on the colt." A roar reverberated out of the canyon. "Well, that's that," said Landy, "en now the next big job is to git Welborn out of the coulee fer dinner. If you leave him alone, he'd stay right thar messin' around till dark. I git provoked at his ways, but after I heard them decorators tell how he beat the gunman to the draw and busted him on the jaw en kicked him till he squawked like an ole hen, then I grew more tolerant. Welborn's all right, but he works too hard." Presently Welborn and Jim came up from the coulee. The auto was started and headed for the Gillis place. The original Gillis cabin had been augmented by the addition of two rooms on the south, a porch on the west, and another and better cabin on the north. It was sufficient for the family needs. The farm was fenced for the most part, and the neighboring range was alloted by the grazing master to Gillis, Landy, and their co-homesteaders at the far limits of the tract. Except for a small forty-acre tract, the Gillis land was dry farmed. The forty was irrigated from a spring developed on the premises. It was in alfalfa. Other meadows raised timothy mixed with alsike. Even in unfavorable years, the ranch yielded more than a hundred and fifty tons of hay. Besides hay, a lot of oats and barley was produced. "But thar's Jim's patent," Landy was showing Davy over the premises. "Jim keeps everything offen that big medder, en the grass comes on, en cures itse'f. Then hit snows, and the grass lays down like a carpet. Then hit blows the snow off en around, en stock can graze thar until near Christmas. Hit's a great savin' on hay. En a great saving on the hay feeder," Landy added with a grin. Besides three score cows with their calves, a dozen horses and colts, turkeys, chickens, ducks, and geese galore, the Gillis ranch had three dogs, two collies, and a short-tailed sheep dog. The dogs followed Davy around like they had found a friend. "They think I am a kid," Davy said. "Dogs sure like children." After another sumptuous meal, Welborn went out to tinker with the Ford. Mrs. Gillis called Davy to the kitchen. "I want you to speak to Welborn," she said. "He works too hard. From daylight to dark, he does two men's work at that old mine. He'll kill himself before he gets the money out of it. You can talk to him--he likes you. Why, he sat up all night, the night before he went to Cheyenne after you, pressing his pants, making your chair, tying his tie, tinkering on the Ford. He cautioned all of us not to talk about your being smaller than common, being a midget. He said you were coming out here to get away from "the mob," the people who stared and commented. He wanted everything here to be different. He likes you, would do anything for you, but he's got something pushing him, driving him, faster and harder than one man can stand. He'll break if he don't stop and take things easier. If you get a chance, talk to him, tame him down, make him rest, change his mind to something different. He's a fine man, big and rugged and a gentleman. He never hints at what's eating his life out, and we don't know. But it ought to stop." "I think you are right, Mrs. Gillis. Sam does work too hard and too long. I know nothing about his past, and I'll never ask him until he gets ready to tell it all. This I know, he's well educated, has trained in big business and is used to good society. I think he is rather hot-headed and maybe stubborn, if he thinks he's right. It will be a delicate thing to do, to try to switch him off from what he's doing and the way he's doing it, but I'll try, because I think it ought to be done." Landy did not go in the return trip to "Pinnacle P'int" as he termed the mine and its environments. He had some "cipherin' around" to do. "With that pump a-goin' and the water a-flowin', hit don't resemble a place of rest to me," he said. Mrs. Gillis brought a loaf of bread out to the car. "There's enough for your supper and breakfast, and you folks come back here for dinner tomorrow." "En say, Jim, you bring the kid's little saddle back with yer," called Landy. "I want to lengthen the cinches to fit old Frosty. Me en the kid are aimin' to do a lot of romancin' eround--mebbe tomorry." Arriving at the cabin, Welborn took a can of gasoline through the opening out to the pump. He tinkered with the engine and presently a steady "chug-chug-chug" reverberated down the valley. Mechanical mining was on at the Silver Falls Project. Welborn laid the hose at a favorable place on a gravel-bar and scooped up a pan of dirt and sand that he held under the stream while he whirled it around in the pan. The contents took up the motion and spilled over the pan-brim until there was little left. The miner examined the remainder and then gave it more water and more swirling around in the pan. This process he repeated several times. Presently he held the pan where Davy and Jim could see a fifth of a thimble full of tiny flakes and two small dots not much larger than pinheads. "That's the object of the meeting, gentlemen," Welborn said grimly. "That's gold.... Tomorrow," he added, "we will get the old rocker going, but just now, I want to 'sample around' for good locations." All this was nothing to Davy. He watched the men awhile and went back to the cabin to arrange his personal belongings. Pinnacle Point was a place of sudden sunsets and prolonged twilights. At near five o'clock, Davy built a fire in the little cook-stove and put several slices of bacon on to fry. He "set the table" as best he could and broke several eggs in the bacon grease. He set out a jar of jam, sliced the bread. Then he went to the tunnel and called: "Supper." "Say, Laddie, I don't want you to do this," said Welborn as he surveyed the supper. "You are my guest, you know, and I'll do what cooking there's to be done. We'll eat our dinners at Gillis', we'll sleep here, and I will get breakfast and supper. The fine dinners will offset my poor cooking, and besides you ought to stay outdoors and look around as much as you can, before we get snowed in for the whole winter." "Well, I do plan to go with Landy over to see about that colt," said Davy, "and I thought maybe you would want to go along." Welborn laughed. "Not for me! If you and Landy can't skin those B-line people out of one little horse, you are no traders. I've got to get that rocker going tomorrow. Look what we did today!" Welborn showed a little canvas bag that he took out of his pocket. "There is fully an ounce of dust in there, and we didn't try, just sampled around. With the rocker going, I can take out ten ounces a day by myself. It's fairly well distributed all over the tract, but better if you can hit the potholes right in the old stream bed." "And when you get it all out, then what?" Welborn looked rather perplexed. He studied a moment. "Then what?" he asked slowly, "Why we'll stock that ranch, lay out a flying field, and visit a lot of places. Truly, I had never planned so far ahead as to get to the place where I wouldn't be doing anything excepting clipping coupons." "Yes, the mine is a fine thing," Davy said earnestly. "Why, there is enough gold there to make a great fortune. But what's the use in taking it all out at once? It will keep. You can work awhile, rest awhile, play awhile, and still be just as rich as if you had worked yourself to death. You are young, strong, and healthy, just right to enjoy life. Why work so hard now?" "Yes, I am healthy, feel pretty strong, but not so young. Right now, I would like to take a few thousand dollars out of that gulch before snow flies, for we are going to have a lot of enforced loafing. We are in good shape to loaf however, all bills are paid and I still have thirty-five dollars of your money!" "That's fine. I have been wondering how I would pay for the colt, in the event we bought him. The B-line folks might not want to take my check, and it might take more cash than I have on me." "Mrs. Gillis will take care of that, she has money, plenty of it. She will tell Landy what to do, and Landy's word is like a bond. They do a lot of trading with the B-line. Buy cows, sell calves, and trade paper back and forth. Mrs. Gillis is better than a bank. Since the banking situation went bad, she has been accumulating government bonds. She hardly ever comes back from town without at least a hundred-dollar bond. She's a wonder, that woman. She's not an isolated hill billy that goes to town on Saturdays and anchors herself in the doorway of the five-and-ten-cent store to visit and gawk around. She's full of business. Sells her stuff, buys what she needs, and hits the trail for home. I expect Mrs. Gillis has seven or eight thousand dollars in bonds and cash stowed around in their cabin." "Now that's my notion of living," cried Davy as he edged his chair back from the cracking sticks that Welborn had added to the smouldering embers in the fireplace. "Own a fine little ranch, a decent run of livestock and poultry, raise plenty of feed, and have something to sell right along. They don't have to meet a daily schedule, don't have to spread canvas in the rain or look at a mob tittering yokels all the time. That's the life for me and the Gillis outfit is my pattern." "They are fine people," said Welborn. "We will keep in close contact with them. We need them now. The time may come when they will need us." 5 "Jim stayed to milk the cows," Landy explained as he rode up to Pinnacle Point the next morning leading Frosty, a rangy bay with a diminutive new saddle on his back. "Alice don't like my milkin' methods. I jist turn the calves in with the cows and let nature take her course, so she lets Jim do the milkin'. Put on yer jacket, son, hit's crimpy around the edges, and let's git goin'." Seated on Ole Gravy, a sturdy gray horse, Landy Spencer was like a picture page out of the book of the old west. His stubby, gray mustache, standing out under an aquiline nose and squinting eyes, failed to conceal a mouth much given to smiles and laughter. He had cautioned the little man that it was cool, yet his blue shirt was open at the neck. He wore a slouch hat, dented and battered to unconventional shape, a dingy knitted waistcoat, unbuttoned of course, gray jeans, tucked into high boots with long, pointed heels, and spurs of ancient pattern. Hung to the horn of his old, but generous saddle was a lariat. The chuck-chuck-chuck of the gas engine told that Welborn was already on the job at the mine. Davy ran into the house and returned wearing his mackinaw and boots. "My, he's a giraffe," he said, as he looked over Frosty and his equipment. Landy dismounted and lifted Davy to his saddle. "Did ye ever ride a hoss, son?" "Sure, I've ridden some of the big fat ring-horses, but I either had to lie down or stand up, they were too big around for my legs. Once I was to ride a shetland in the Grand Entry, but they had a monkey on another pony and I walked out on 'em." Davy picked up the reins and Frosty began tiptoeing around and arching his back. "Jist turn him loose, son," called Landy. "The old simpleton was expectin' some weight when ye got on, and he's disapp'inted." Landy led the way down the hill and Frosty followed like a pack horse. The sun had pushed above the clouds. Frost was flying in the air. It jeweled the grass of the table land and sparkled amid the green of the conifers along Ripple Creek. Farther down the indistinct path they met Jim in the car. "Are you fellers goin' to git back in time for dinner," he called to the horsemen. "Mebbe not," replied Landy. "We are aimin' to bring back that little hoss, en he may not want to come." Landy turned from the path and rode down a coulee that led to Brushy Fork. It was a winding way through brush and stunted hemlocks. Presently they came to the creek. "Thar's Steelheads en Rainbows up in them pools," said the leader. "These streams have been stocked en hit's good fishin', if ye know how." They followed down the stream bed for a distance and then Landy turned up a draw on the left bank, that finally led out to level land. At first it was a narrow way between the stream and foothill, but presently the landscape broadened to a meadow similar to that on the right bank of the creek. At one place, where the way was narrow, there was the crumbling remnant of rough walls of rock. "That's a relic of them ole wars in here, but I never could git the hang of the tale. Ole Jim Lough knows all about it but he's too shut-mouthed and contrary to tell the tale. "Ye see, I'm not a native son," explained Landy, as they rode abreast on the widened road. "I got started in the cattle game over to the north on Crazy Woman Creek en the range betwixt that en Sun Dance on the Belle Fourche. I was romancin' round when Teddy Roosevelt made camp up thar. Teddy liked to listen in on some of them Paul Bunyans of the cattle game, en they shore told some tall ones. I think he encouraged 'em in their romancin' jist to git a line on their capacity. Ye see, we were located jist betwixt ole Fort Fetterman and the Little Big Horn, sorta betwixt Red Cloud en Sittin' Bull, en one massacre en another. Ours was a period jist follerin' these history-makin' times en every man had a right to tell hit his way as they were all unhampered by airy lick of facts. "Therefore, I didn't git up here in the headwaters of the Platte until years after, but from what I ketch they had some right stirrin' time in here, 'twixt cattle rustlin' and sheep crowdin'. Ole Jim knows the whole story, but he don't broadcast none." Topping a swell of the meadow lands another stream basin was encountered. "Hit's a little Ranty," explained Landy. "That's a dam downstream aways en the B-line waters a couple o' hundred acres." In these meadows there were cattle--cows and calves and some scrub yearlings. Crossing the Ranty, the horsemen mounted to the levels again. Here, there were fences. Farther on, stables, sheds, and a cluster of houses. The B-line ranch. Landy maneuvered the horses through the gates without dismounting and rode up to the central stable. "Whar's yer reception committee eround here?" he yelled. "Call out the guard en parade them colors," he commanded as he dismounted and assisted Davy down. He threw the reins over the horses' heads. A man came out of the stable-room, two more came from back of a shed. "Well, if it haint the ole buzzard from Ripple Creek, a sailin' around lookin' fer his dinner. Nothin' dead around here Landy," said the short, stubby man that came from the stable room. "Howdy, Potter. 'Lo, Flinthead. Howdy, Hickory. All you cimarrons wipe yer hands real clean en shake with my friend Mister Lannarck. We jist took time outen our busy lives to come over here en watch you birds loaf eround," said Landy after introductions had been acknowledged. "En my pardner here has a broken handled knife that he would trade for a little hoss." "Well, it's a shame, Mister Lannarck," said Potter thoughtfully, "that ye have to carry sich a load as bein' introduced by sich a double-barreled, disreputable ole renegade of a crook like this. But we understand and will try to he'p ye live it down. Now, as to that little hoss. He belongs to Miss Adine. She's at the house. Flinthead, you move them hosses in here! Hickory, go tell Adine that the circus party that Landy told her about is here to see the colt." Both men set about their tasks. Flinthead led out a horse, mounted and rode down a lane, propping the gates open as he went. From a corral back of the stables came a drove of horses, mares, colts, and yearlings. Trotting, prancing, and snorting as they came down the lane, they settled down once they were in the stable lot. Davy was between two fires. He sought a safe place from being run down by the drove and yet he wanted to catch a glimpse of any kind of horse suitable to his size. He noted plenty of small ones but their short, bushy tails revealed colthood. The others were too large. As the drove settled down a colt came from out the center of the milling herd and walked up to Potter, extending his muzzle as if expecting something. "That's the one!" said Dave excitedly. He was a red sorrel with three white feet and legs and a flaxen mane and tail. Experts in such matters would have said he was nearly eleven hands high. Unlike his pony prototypes, his was a lengthy, arched neck, held high from narrowing withers and a short back. He was dirty. His mane and tail needed attention. Potter put out his hand. The colt walked near enough that he placed his arm over his neck and led him to a post where a rope dangled. This, he secured around the colt's neck. "Good morning, everybody." The colt parley was thus interrupted. Landy's several gallon headpiece was off and he nearly swept the ground with it. "Why, howdy, Miss Adine. We was a-lookin' this little hoss over to see if he'd fit a pattern. Meet Mister Lannarck here. He's the pattern." "My name is Lannarck all right," said Davy, acknowledging the abrupt introduction. "But among homefolks, I would rather be called Davy, as I have always been sceptical of anyone calling me Mister, afraid he would want to sell me something I didn't want." The girl laughed. "I am troubled that way myself. If anyone calls me Miss Lough, I pay no attention, thinking they mean someone else. Won't you men come to the house? Father is in Omaha on business and Mother and I are changing things around for the winter. Grandaddy picked out this busy time for one of his visits, so we are all together. Grandad will want to see you Landy, so come up to the house. I want to tell you about that colt, and tell you why it is that I am not to sell him." There was little else for the mystified Landy and the now, heartbroken midget to do but to follow along, through the gate and along the well-kept bordered path to the immense porch. They loitered at the gate for parley. "... and he's the handsomest horse I ever saw," complained the little man, "and she said she was not to sell him. I suppose it's some parental promise she's made, or some skin-game buyer has been through here and threw a wrench in the gears. Why, Landy, this is a high-school horse! He's showy, fine color, fancy markings and anyone can see that he's smart. We've just got to work it out somehow. A high-school horse, pony size, he's worth a thousand." "Well, I ain't up on school classifications for hosses," said Landy dryly. "He may be a colleger fer all I know. But, we're dealin' with a woman en thar's no accountin' fer what's the matter. Hit may be, yer complexion don't match, er she may be a-keepin' him to contrast with some letter paper she's goin' to buy. Ye jist can't tell a dern thing about hit till we hear her story. After that, well, we can tell if it's worthwhile to go on with the struggle." When first introduced, Davy was certain that Miss Adine Lough was about the handsomest girl he had ever seen. Surely not more than twenty years of age, of medium height, a peach complexion, tanned a little but fair to look at. She stood on the Colonial porch of the big Lough homestead, her hands in the pockets of her black horse-hide jacket awaiting the arrival of her reluctant guests. She ushered the two into the wide hallway. "You had better see Grandaddy first, Landy, he's camped in here by the fire. Then we'll go in the library and talk over our business." Jim Lough, ancient Nestor of the North Park district, was seated in a big Morris-chair in front of the smouldering fire. "Well, if it ain't ole Turkeyneck in person," he called in a high falsetto voice, as the two entered. "I've been wantin' to see you, Landy. I told the sheriff to bring you over the next time he had you in charge. I want to find somebody that can sing 'The Cowboy's Lament' and sing it right, as I am plannin' a funeral party and I want to work out all the details. Can you sing 'The Lament' so it's fitten to hear?" "Yer dern tootin' I can sing 'The Lament'," retorted Landy, "all forty-four verses of hit, en the chorus betwixt every verse. I'm a prima donna when it comes to singin' that ole favorite. I learned it off a master-singer, ole Anse Peters, up in God's country whar men are men--en the women are glad of it. But what's led ye off on that wagon track, Jim? Why don't ye git a saxophone en tune in on some jazz? Be modern, like the rest of us fellers. Here you are, slouchin' around without a dressin' jacket er slippers en talkin' 'bout an ole song that's in the discard. Shame on ye! But before ye apologize, meet my friend here, Mister Lannarck, lightweight circus man, who's visitin' us here en lookin' around for relics en sich. That's why I brought him over." Old Jim took the extended hand of the little man and held it while he talked. "Thar's been a lot of people had their necks stretched up in this deestrict for being caught in bad company, young man. You're borderin' on that condition right now in runnin' around with ole turkeyneck here. If the Vigilance Committee finds it out, you are a goner. "Circus man, hey? I mind the time when a lot of us fellers rode to Cheyenne to see Barnum. Last man in had to pay all bills--it was some pay, by the time we got through. We saw the show all right and we saw Barnum. He was a fine man. But circus er no circus, ye ain't a goin' to sidetrack me out'n them funeral arrangements. If ye can sing 'The Lament,' yer engaged." "Why, who's dead, Jim?" asked Landy innocently. "Did ole Selim die, er is hit yer favorite hound dawg?" "None sich," replied the old man heatedly. "It's me--my funeral--en I'm aimin' to make a splendid time outen it. The boys on hosses, firin' salutes as they see it, a preacher sharp to give it dignity, en the 'Cowboy's Lament,' as sung by ole Landy Spencer. That's a fitten program, en you are engaged fer the job." "En about when do ye plan to stage this splendid event?" drawled Landy. "Why, when I die, ye idiot, mebbe now, mebbe later, jist whenever I bed down fer the last time. Here I am, over ninety years old. I can't go on livin'! It's agin nature. I want to make ready when it comes. I'm ready and I want everything else to be jist as ready as I am." Landy Spencer drummed his knotty fingers on the armchair and looked thoughtfully at the old Nestor seated at his fireside. Ninety years old! Seventy years of activity in a territory where activity was enforced, if one were to live. Strange stories, legends now, were told of the doings of this gaunt, eagle-beaked, shaggy-browed old man who now, chatted complacently of death. Very true, none living was able to verify them. Those who had passed on told only fragments, and Jim Lough, neither verified nor denied. One legend persisted. Landy had heard it long before coming to the district. It related to the beginning days of the great cattle game of the grasslands--days before the coming of the vast herds and the problems they brought. It concerned the destinies of those who followed fast in the footsteps of the trailmakers and sought to establish a business where there was neither law nor precedent. Sordid days, these. The honest men were not yet organized; the dishonest and criminal were unrestrained by laws. Cattle and kine were taken furtively or openly to these very hills and vales where Jim Lough now lived in quietude and peace. Here they were held until a sufficient number was collected for the drive to the marches and markets that lay east of the Virginia Dale. Jim Lough was a youngster then, without ownership of herds or home, but he was not content to see the weak and unorganized robbed, without recourse. Alone, he made trips over the forbidden trails to the places of the illicit exchange; then back to the grasslands again he organized a posse of five and laid his trap. In a narrow pass this robber band was successfully ambushed and by effective gunfire, reduced from eight to three. The three surrendered. By every rule of the game, in a new land where there was neither law, nor courts nor sheriffs, the culprits must be hung, and hung on the spot where apprehended. But to this Jim Lough demurred. "We'll swing 'em where it counts," he announced grimly, and the cavalcade set out on the two-days' journey to the Skeel's cabin, the reputed hangout of the lawless and criminals of the new country. The posse found the cabin deserted, except for the presence of a lame, old man who was reported as the cook for the outfit. He was loaded on a horse and headed northward out of the country. The rest of the livestock was turned from the corrals and the cabin and stables set afire. Then, as a fitting finish to the work of the hour, the three culprits were hung on extended limbs of trees bordering the ruins. "Now the skunks will have something to look at when they come back here to plan their stealing," Jim Lough had said as the posse dispersed. But "the skunks" never came back, and through the long winter and most of the following summer the ghastly mementos of early justice swayed and swung, until the ravens and winds made merciful disposition of the bodies. In the next few years there was peace in the grasslands, and the settlers prospered as others joined. But it was not always so. For with more settlers came greed and avarice. Laws were made, regulations were had, rules announced and they were not always fair. Greed, sometimes sat in the councils, and the avaricious bent the rules. Then, there were other wars in which justice and fairness ran not parallel with Greed-made law. Grassland remembered young Jim Lough and his stern and speedy methods and now as an older man, he was often called to council and to lead. But the problems were not of easy solution; the 'right side' of the controversy was not always obvious, but under Jim Lough's leadership the greedy must surrender self-appropriated water holes, odious fences were banished and grazing allotments went to the needy as well as the greedy. In these things, Jim Lough made enemies as well as friends, but cared as little for the one as he appreciated the other. Landy Spencer, drummed knotty fingers on the arm of his chair as he listened to Jim Lough's explanations of his arrangements for a splendid funeral. At last he spoke. "Jim, I used to think that ye'd make a fine gov'ner. I know ye make a dandy good district marshal, but ye are slippin'--goin' addled 'bout this funeral business. A-settin' here tryin' to run things en you deceased, that-a-way. Ye know, well en' good, that the folks livin' will take charge of them obsequies; hit'll be about ten years from now, I figger; en yore plans will fit in about like a last-year's birdnest. Ye have jist about as much to do a-bossin' that party as ye'll have in selectin' yer harp en halo when ye git inside the pearly gates. Ten years from now, thar won't be a cow hand ner a gun outside a dude ranch er a rodeo. Singin' 'The Lament' would be about as well understood as recitin' a Latin epic." "Pshaw, Jim, yer wastin' valuable time," said Landy, wanting to get a last word, before the old man had time for a reply. "Come over next week--Alice is to have a turkey dinner with all the fixin's--en we'll plan a funeral that's modern. Aryplanes, automobiles, jazz, en dancin' en sich. That's the kind I'm plannin' en I ort to kick-in long before you do." Landy backed out and crossed the hallway before the ancient could reply. 6 Adine Lough ushered her guests across the hall into what seemed to be her workshop. Seated around a library table, Davy perched on a big dictionary, Landy at the end, drumming his fingers as usual, the girl plunged at once into the business at hand. "At the very start," she said in a serious manner, "I must tell some personal things. I've been going to school at Boulder. I am staying out this semester to work on my graduate thesis, 'Social Work in Rural Communities.' When you consider my restricted field, it's a big job. But I like that kind of work--studying people, their individualities, their shortcomings, their accomplishments. From what I hear of you, David, you have an aversion for those things--in fact have run away from the mob. I like it. I would want nothing better than to stand along side of you on a platform at the circus opening and watch the general populace pass in review. Then and there, I could study all phases of humanity; classify them as they passed; and then investigate each case personally to see if I had made the right appraisals at first sight." "--And right there is where you would miss the trapeze bar by a foot, and no net under you," interrupted Davy disgustedly. "They are all alike, from Bangor to Los Angeles. You can throw 'em all into one of two groups: yokels and shilabers. They are either out with a skin game or else they are goats, about to lose their hide." Adine laughed. "Oh, you surely could subdivide the Yokels. Why in my observations they alone, could be classified under many heads. But to go on with my story. Adot, the town, and the neighboring ranches, is my limited field of research and I have gone over the field in detail. Last month, I had up the matter of the Methodist church in Adot. It was a-once-a-month affair, the minister living in Weldon and no chance to ride circuit in the winter months. No budget, no money, and worse, yet, no outlook. "Now, I didn't go into the matter to do church work and help them; my business was to appraise them as they were; but I got involved. The few members thought I was trying to do a bit of missionary work. The upshot of the affair was, that I found myself with a roster of the church membership and a list of names of nearly everybody else. I had my own figures as to needs, debts, and community possibilities. So, carrying the thing to a finish, I took up the matter of putting them on a budget and providing the funds. "First I made them elect Brother Peyton treasurer. He wasn't doing anything except waiting for the bank to resume business. Then I canvassed all the names on the rosters and combed the neighboring ranches for small monthly contributions. I got enough subscriptions to pay the minister and paint the church house. But it was some job. It took two weeks. Two weeks of joy and rebuffs, of elations and disgust. I was tired. I planned to rest up a couple of weeks and wait for my halo, or wings, or whatever a Christian gets for doing his whole duty; when right on the heels of my labors, came the greatest catastrophe that could have happened." "Did the meetin' house burn down?" interrupted Landy, who had followed the recitals intently. "Did the preacher gent die, er did Brother Peyton jump the game, taking the jackpot with him?" "No, nothing like that. The Nazarenes moved in! You both know about the Nazarenes?" Davy did. He had noticed their meetings in cities. But with Landy, the subject was a blank page and he withheld comment. In later months he confessed that he thought that the Lough gal was nuts in tryin' to project the Saviour en some of his kin onto Adot. "The Nazarenes are new in this country," continued the girl, "and they have all the enthusiasm of the new convert. Really, they seem to have the early zeal that some of the churches have lost. And they are a stubborn lot. That the field seems barren, is nothing to them. They set up shop in a desert and carry on just the same. To them, poverty is an asset. Christ's admonition to the rich man, to give his substance away and follow Him, is a literal command to be obeyed. "In the week following my campaign for the Methodist, two Nazarenes, a young man and his wife, came barging into Adot and set up for business. She took up cooking and waiting table in Jode's restaurant for their board, and he went about the street preaching and about the house praying, day and night. They were both good singers and he played an accordion. In that week they talked Joe Burns into letting them have the use of the old mercantile warehouse, and they set up meetings in that big, barn of a place. That same week they came out here, in a truck they had borrowed, to get me to help them as I had the Methodists. "Well, of all things, you just cannot say 'no' to such people. Why, I almost insulted them; told them Adot was a barren field, overworked and already supplied with their spiritual needs. But I failed to impress them. They even wanted to pray for me. Me, who thought I was already sainted for my work with the Methodists! Then I went on another tack; I explained that I had already exhausted my resources in my work with others; that I had canvassed everyone and could not, consistently, go over the field asking for subscriptions for another organization. That failed. They insisted that they wanted only a start, just a little influence; and that I should come and assist them some night! "They trapped me. To get rid of them, I half-way promised to aid in some sort of an entertainment to help them get their first money; after that, they were to be on their own resources. And while I was berating myself and wondering how to get out of it, or how to get in it, Landy here came with the news that a little showman was to visit us here on the plateau and that he wanted a horse. Right then and there the clouds lifted; the problem was solved." Adine let her voice fall, pushed her chair back from the conference table and folded her arms. Landy drummed on the table and looked thoughtful. Davy wiggled around on his high perch and nearly fell off the dictionary. "Well, that's a fine story, Miss Adine, and well told, but I don't get the connection as to why you are not to sell the little horse." The girl laughed. "Sure, I will not sell him, but I'll trade him. Trade him for that entertainment that I promised those impractical and improvident Nazarenes." "Do you mean that me and Landy here must put on some sort of a show in Adot? Why--why, I don't know a soul here. I know nothing of the community's talent. Surely I am not a church entertainer; my dances and songs won't fit into a church entertainment. You can't preach or exhort, can you Landy?" asked Davy anxiously. "We've just got to have that horse. I will agree to go over to Adot and stand on my head, in some show-window if that gets him. But you wouldn't want to sponsor that kind of entertainment," the little man appealed to Adine. "What's needed is something half-way refined and where the patron would get his money's worth. And I can't produce that kind of a show." "Oh, yes, you can," said Adine smiling, "and the patron would get his money's worth. Why you, yourself know that little people--or what shall I call them?" "Midgets," interposed Davy, "midgets is our classification, not dwarfs, nor gnomes, nor half-pints, just midgets." "Thanks, that helps, and you see how little I know about it and how anxious I am to learn. Well, midgets, as a class are attractive and a rarity too. Except for yourself, I do not know of another. People want to see them. They go to circuses and theaters just to see little people. I have no doubt, that in many cases, people are ill-mannered--stare and giggle--and say uncalled for things, but that's to be expected from the run of persons, yet the fact remains, midgets are attractive. "Now you've been before the public, know how to handle crowds and know what they want. You could supplement your appearance with a lecture or talk on midgets, your experience with them, and something of your travels with the circus and with the troopers of the theater. Why, it's just what the public wants." "That little hoss is sold," said Landy exultantly. "One speech fer one hoss. Fair enough!" "Now you hold on, Landy," Davy interrupted. "You are getting me out in deep water and no oars. I am a good Presbyterian all right, but they wouldn't stand for my stuff in their church and these Nazarenes surely have the same standards of propriety. Now, Miss Adine, let me give you fifty or a hundred dollars for this colt and you give that to these needy Christians." "And leave me out as a promoter! Not much! Why, I want to see this show myself. I wouldn't miss it for anything." "Ner me," cried Landy in much glee. "Why me en Potter en Flinthead en Hickory and some of the boys from the Diamond-A, will git us front seats and cheer yer ev'ry utt'rance. Come to think of hit, we could hold a big afternoon parade, with a lot of yippin' around, and git up more excitement than they've had in that sleepy ole burg since the women swarmed down on Gatty's quart shop en wrecked hit." "Well, you and Mr. Potter and Mr. Flinthead just keep out of it," said Adine emphatically. "You would ruin everything." "No just let 'em come, I've been kidded by experts and their stuff might prove an added feature. But Adine, you had better let me hand you the cash...." "No, that would be a departure from what we are trying to do. The object of the affair is publicity, not cash. And besides, the colt isn't worth a dime to me--or anyone else but you. He's too little for anyone to ride, and he ought to be trained and made to be useful. As it is, he's just one in the drove and would remain so, until he died. "But you can take him, train him, and make a beautiful show-horse out of him. Why, I can see you riding, parading, and having him doing stunts such as are rarely seen in a circus. "Now I want you to ride him home today. The trade is made. You have the horse and are obligated to give an entertainment for the Nazarenes in Adot. I think we can arrange it for next Saturday night week. The little weekly newspaper, the _Adot Avalanche_, comes out Thursday. I will run a display ad that a famous Midget and circus performer will give a lecture at the warehouse Saturday night under the auspices of the Nazarenes. The little paper goes all over the district and the town won't hold the people. It will be Adot's premier event. "So you come over here Saturday morning, Davy," continued Adine, "we will drive over to Adot in the afternoon in my roadster. We'll lay the top back and drive over the town so the public will know that you are there in person! It will be Adot's biggest day." Landy had been ready to get back to the stables for some time. He was standing, twirling his ancient headpiece, awaiting the word to start. In all his years of dealing in horseflesh, this trade interested him deeply. He wanted his little friend to have that horse. As the three walked down the path to the stables, Adine was insistent that Davy should ride the colt home. "He's not a range horse," she explained, "not a westerner, as they sometimes describe horses that are out of a drove. This colt doesn't need to be broken. He was sired by our Allan-a-Dale, a registered saddle horse; his mother is Janie, that I used to ride barebacked and without a bridle. He was her last colt and will be three years old this month." Davy was just a little skeptical about attempting his first riding of the colt in company. He would much rather have him over on his own range with no other company but Landy. He wondered, as they walked along, if Potter and the boys at the stables had framed a rodeo spectacle for themselves and were to witness some worm-fence bucking by midget contestants. He was much relieved as Landy took charge, transferred the saddle from lofty Frosty to the diminutive colt, fitted the cinches and shortened the stirrup leathers to what he thought was about the right length. Then he slipped the bit in the colt's mouth and took up the cheek leathers of the bridle. Before Davy realized what was going on, Landy had lifted him to the saddle, mounted Gravy, clucked to Frosty and the procession moved out the gate. "I'll see you all in Adot, Saturday," called Davy without turning his head. "Good luck and bon voyage," called Adine. 7 On the way down to the Ranty, the colt behaved remarkably well. He followed closely in the wake of Frosty, occasionally shaking his head in an effort to throw the bit from his mouth. At the ford, Landy adjusted the bridle so as to withdraw the bit and allow the colt to drink his fill. It was a proud moment in the varied career of David Lannarck, midget and showman, as the little cavalcade gained the level land near Pinnacle Point after a strenuous half-hour on the hazardous trail that led up from Brushy Fork. He waved a cautious hand to a man and woman standing near a car parked in front of the cabin. Landy lifted Davy from his saddle, removed the bit from the colt's mouth, made an improvised halter out of his bridle and tied the reins to a sapling. The older horses were left standing with reins down. "Well! If it ain't my ole scatter-about-friend, James Madison Stark, in person!" cried Landy as he and Davy made their way to the car. "Now I know that winter is not two days away. Hi, Maddy! Howdy, Mis Carter! Must be big news in the wind, if you two hit Pinnacle Pint same time, same day. What's up?" "Maddy is anxious to see Mr. Welborn," Mrs. Carter replied gravely to Landy's facetious banter, "but I don't know how to get back to where that gas engine is chuffing. Welborn will have to come out here to Maddy, for the hoodlums over at Grand Lake have burnt his feet and tortured him until mind and body are a wreck." "Tell Sam to come out here," was Landy's command to Davy. "Well, somebody has shore mussed ye up a heap, en right in yer gaddin' about department," he added as he noted the bandaged feet and ankles of the old fellow. "Sandals and a crutch don't become ye at all, Oldtimer. Who's been disturbin' yer dogs that away?" "I got all that and a lot more, off the killer that built this cabin," said the oldster firmly, "and I want to warn this newcomer as to his threats to come over here and kill him." Welborn, accompanied by Davy, came through the arch and approached the car. He had never seen the oldster but had heard, in full, the story of his idiosyncrasies, his wanderings, and persistent research for the hidden mineral wealth of a vast and varied district. In his life's story there were no paragraphs that old Maddy was a hoarder of gold or a promoter or exploiter of things found. His research yielded amply for his needs. It was known that he owned the filling station and that his summer accumulations of mineral wealth was more than sufficient to meet the annual upkeep of that establishment. James Madison Stark's pleasures had been the joys of solitude rather than the raptures of vast accumulations. He preferred that the mineral wealth of earth remain in the veins of its native rock rather than be taken out en masse, to be later hoarded, manipulated, and juggled to create distress and poverty and want. Old Maddy had not reduced his life's philosophy to writing, but the midget, David Lannarck, as he had heretofore heard the fragments of the stories of this long and varied career, wondered if he too was not in the same groove. His present-day problem was the life-story of the ancient Nestor who preferred solitude to the mob; who would leave nature's treasures to remain hidden and unclaimed, awaiting the investigations and industry of the generations to follow. Davy gazed in awe at the old man, who in general appearance resembled the accepted portrayals of Santa Claus, but whose face was now seamed with lines of pain. Landy made hasty introductions. Maddy proceeded with the business at hand. "I've come to warn you," he said to Welborn, "that the mobster who built this cabin says he is going to kill you. He's been hiding out at some of the resorts over in the Grand Lake district, but like others of his kind, he just couldn't keep his mental cussedness hidden and the better element over there is making it too hot for him. It's his next move and he's evidently going to make a big jump, leaving the state, maybe the nation. But before he goes, he swears he is coming over here and kill the only man that ever beat him to the draw--that ever knocked him down. So be on your guard, my friend. He's a fiend, a maniac, and that incident preys on him." "Well, I am certainly obliged to you for this warning," said Welborn quietly. "If I only knew the date of his proposed visit, we would provide him with a fitting welcome--a welcome that would add a climax to his book of hate." "When he's to come, or how, I don't know," Maddy replied. "It's been a week since I heard him make the threat, then he made it twice in one night, accompanied by all the profanity he could muster. He and his gang were dissolving partnership on account of recent publicity. Two of 'em would go over to Las Vegas to look over the new dam at Boulder, one was returning to Denver and this Count Como--he has several other names--was to come here, get his revenge, and seek another hideout." Pressed by Landy as to how he contacted the gangsters and received his injuries, the oldster related the story of his summer's wanderings. He had spent some time on the other side of the Divide in the Hahns Peak district, skirted Steamboat Springs on his way to Oak Creek. In his wanderings, he had panned the alluvium of many small streams and had recovered more than the usual amount of gold. Now he would work his way back home through the Middle Park and cross the tortuous windings of the Divide by the way of his secret pass. Approaching the Grand Lake district he encountered two men who said they were looking for lost sheep. Both were maudlin drunk and each was trying to impress the other with his wisdom, his repartee and boldness. Upon Maddy's refusal to accompany them, they seized him bodily, searched him, searched the burro to find the gold and then pushed, dragged, and drove him and the burro to a nearby cabin. Here, he was to encounter two other drunken fanatics whose maudlin quarrels were interrupted by the exhibition of the pouches of gold. Now, they would know the exact location of the find. The explanation of the aged wanderer that the dust and particles came from many sources, seemed to enrage them further. "Just where was this mother-lode?" They wanted to know. "Here was wealth aplenty-enough to buy everything." And they applied the third degree with all the fiendish deviltries of their distorted minds, to get the exact location of this rival of the Comstock lode. The aged man was tied hand and foot and beaten and abused the whole night long. In pushing splinters under his toenails, the lamp was upset, kerosene was spilled over his feet to catch fire. A quarrel ensued as to whether the fire should be extinguished or allowed to burn. A fist-fight developed and they abandoned the cabin, leaving Maddy to his fate. "It was young Byron Goff that found me," concluded the aged narrator. "I recognized his voice when I came to, the next day. He was looking for lost sheep and stopped to inquire. He took me to his home, doctored me, cared for me, and brought me home. I owe him my life, not only for the rescue, but for his kindly nursing. Due to him, my feet will be all right in a few days. While he would accept nothing from Mrs. Carter, we've got a plan to part-pay him for his kindness." The disclosures as made by Maddy, awakened much interest among the five dwellers of Pinnacle Point. Mrs. Gillis arranged for the evening meal at the Gillis home where plans could be made to thwart an invader. Landy and Davy rode their horses to the Gillis barn; Welborn and Gillis came later in the car. It was following the meal that the problem was talked over in detail. It was agreed by all that the invader would come in his car; there was no other way. He would have to come to the filling station to gain the roadway to Pinnacle Point. He would have to pass the Gillis cabin and a warning could be phoned if a wire was strung from the Gillis home to Welborn's cabin. But in that case the wire would have to be extended to reach the mine as Welborn was up in that canyon during the day. Jim proposed a fence across the road with an electric alarm on it when the gate was opened. Landy suggested felling a tree across the road at a narrow place and thus reduce the uses of the thoroughfare to journeys on horseback; Davy offered to keep watch at a favorable place where he could shoot the tires of the intruder's auto. Welborn took but little part in the discussions. As the conversation lagged he briefly summarized the situation. "This gangster is a killer all right and drink and dope may have overcome the usual cautions of the breed. All of 'em are cowards; they prefer unarmed victims that are hog-tied. Sometime in his career this buzzard was the killer for some liquor gang. He evidently double-crossed his associates in getting this money that he's spending. He hides from them as well as the law. There is little we can do except to keep alert. I'll keep my gun with me up at the canyon and a shot through his windshield would drive him frantic. He's liable to miss the bridge in his zeal to get away. He will have to come in the daytime and the folks at the filling station will warn us now that they know his intentions." However the matter of the proposed visit of the killer had an exciting and ludicrous interruption when, on the next morning, Mrs. Gillis heard the labored chugging of a car coming up the hill to the east. Landy and Davy were at the barn. They too heard the noise and saw a small ancient roadster turn into the driveway and stop. A young man got out of the car and came to the door. This was not the killer but it might be news of his plans. Landy and Davy entered the house by the back door. "Why, it's young Goff," said Landy, interrupting the introduction. "I met you last spring over at Rawlins. You were in a confab with some sheep men over there." The visitor laughed. "Yes, these Rawlins folks are big operators," the young man explained. "I have to visit 'em about once a year to let 'em know that I am still alive and still grazing a few head over east of their allotment. Why, my little band isn't big enough to make up their summer shortage. If one of their herders rambles over in my district and there is a mixup, I could easily lose a lot of grass and some sheep. I can't talk Spanish, and the herder says that he no savvy 'Meriky' and it's up to me to sort and claim. "But they are a fine lot of fellows, these Rawlins operators, once they understand that you are on the square. I visit with them every spring when I sell my fur and pelts. Yes, I have to trap in the winter to get enough money to pay my grazing allotment, and in my contacts with these sheep owners, I find that they are always willing to cooperate." The young visitor had taken the proffered chair. Mrs. Gillis, Landy and Davy joined to complete the half-circle. It was apparent that he had a mission more important than reciting the details of herding and trapping. Landy had introduced Davy as a new-comer, "Wuth a lot more than his size would indicate." "I came over to Carter's last evening to buy some gas and see how old Maddy was getting along and to tell him how his friends, the gangsters, finished their orgy. I found the oldster was doing fine--would be fully recovered by next spring--but they wouldn't sell me any gas." The raconteur allowed an interval for the astonishing news to be absorbed. "No sir, not a spoonful would they sell me. They wanted to give it to me--by the tankful. And after I told my news of the gangster's finish and the complications incident thereto, Maddy and the Carters insisted that I take all the gas--that I come up here with the news, and the problem, and work out the solution. "You see, I was over to Northgate Saturday on the matter of trading some bucks with Andy Pelser and encountered the astonishing news that the whole gangster mob, those that stole Maddy's dust, were in jail. They had been arrested, and convicted, on about all the crimes in the book. Reckless driving, drunkeness, inciting a riot, possessing stolen property, and finally contempt of court, when they offered Judge Withers, Maddy's two sacks of dust if he would let 'em off. On this last charge the Judge added four months in jail. It was a grand finish of an awful mess. "I went over to the country seat to verify the news. It was no mere rumor, it was a fact. Sheriff Bill White had 'em all in hock; had the two bags of gold dust and their guns. He wants to get rid of the dust if he can find the true owner, and get a disclaimer of ownership from the gangsters. I told him it was Maddy's, and Bill wants Maddy to come and prove ownership and take the property. Maddy is willing, but there's a hitch to it. Just now, I want to see Mr. Gillis, or you Landy, and unhitch the hitch." "Well, Jim is up at Pinnacle Pint helpin' Welborn scrape the bottom of the canyon fer what dust he can find, en I'm shore busy gittin' this youngster acquainted with his new hoss," said Landy thoughtfully. "But we ort to take time out to recover Maddy's property. Let's go up to the canyon en sign Jim up fer the job. That dust up in the canyon won't run away. It will still be thar even if Jim knocks off work fer a couple a days." The young visitor readily concurred in the plan, he wanted to see the house that the gangster had built anyhow. He started out to the car, but was detained by Landy. "You wait here," the veteran cautioned, "ye might git a bullet through yer windshield if ye drive up thar unannounced. My podner here and I will saddle up and ride ahead, to prevent accidents." Following his equestrian escort, the visitor presently reached the Point where introductions were made and the purpose of the visit explained. Jim asked many questions and for the most part the answers were satisfactory. Really, the judge and sheriff wanted to get rid of these malefactors if the serious charge of robbery was eliminated. They were a burden to the state and community. "I begrudge feeding the dirty skunks," was the sheriff's scornful comment. "Hanging 'em would terminate expense and trouble." But two problems hindered a quick solution; would these culprits leave the country if given a suspended sentence. Judge Withers was giving them a few days for reflection. Meanwhile Sheriff White was making their stay as uncomfortable as possible in order to hasten a favorable decision. "What's the other problem?" asked Gillis, casually. "Why, if the dust is recovered, old Maddy wants to give it to me, says that I earned it. And I'm not going to take it." During the interview, Welborn had been a quiet listener. On hearing this last declaration from the visitor, he straightened up to make a quick inquiry. "Why won't you take it?" he demanded. "I haven't done anything to earn it," replied young Goff in a low but firm tone. There was an interval of silence. "You see, Maddy is old," the visitor explained. "The awful experience he's gone through affected him. He wants to contrast the little service I gave him with what the gangsters did to him. His sentiment outruns his judgment. I didn't do anything out of the ordinary--just fed him and doctored him as best I could. I didn't do any more--" "Is your mother living?" interrupted Welborn. "She must be a gentle, thoughtful woman, well-grounded in the old fashioned ideas of kindness in social service, to have raised a son with such ideals. People, now-a-days, expect pay, even for their charities. You will have much trouble and many disappointments if you approach a sordid world with such sentiments." "Hold on Mister," said the younger man, with much spirit. "Old Maddy's case is different. His case was not a business transaction, it was a duty." The young visitor ducked his head to chuckle a little while he scraped the gravel with the toe of his shoe. "If you run into Andy Pelser, in about a month from now, you will know what I mean. Andy is young and bright, but old in the sheep game. I had no scruples in giving him a good cross-lifting in that sheep trade we made. But this Maddy case is different. I don't want pay for being neighborly, for doing my duty to oldsters." "Back the car out, Jim!" commanded Welborn. "This young man is irresistible. We had as well take a day off to do our part in this entanglement. Back the car out while I spruce up a little to meet the law as well as the law-breakers." Presently Welborn came out of the house, dressed as a man of business. His attitude was as one in authority. "I have a plan in mind that might work. It has about one chance in fifty of fitting the case, but we'll take that chance. But we must do two things if it is to succeed," cautioned Welborn. "We must not let the Judge see poor old Maddy in his present plight. It would infuriate the Judge to sentence those buzzards to the hoosegow for life. Then too, I must see this sheriff alone, if the plan is made to work. Drive on, my boy," he said to Goff, "and we'll try to keep in sight. See you tomorrow night, maybe," he called to Landy and Davy as the two cars got underway. 8 A busy little man was David Lannarck in the week that followed. With a horse to break and a speech to make, the time was fully occupied. The colt was quartered at the Gillis barn. Davy stayed with the colt. Of mornings, Landy assisted with the colt's grooming and education. His white mane and tail were washed and brushed and his red coat fairly shone from the attention given. Landy rasped his feet to evenness and cautioned that he would have to be shod if used on hard-surfaced roads. "Potter can shoe him all right," he explained, "but we'll have to send an order for a set of little shoes to fit." The morning rides were usually on the rather level roadway that led up to Pinnacle Point, but there were sidetrips down ill-defined paths to the little creeks. Landy sometimes went along to advise as to road gaits. The Gillis dogs were constant companions. In fact, since the night of Davy's arrival they waited around until he made his appearance and followed him constantly. Except for the fact that he was scheduled to make a public appearance at Adot next Saturday night, David Lannarck was now enjoying the rest and joys that he had dreamed of and planned when he was oppressed by the mob. "I am not writing out a speech," Davy explained to Mrs. Gillis as he bent over the pad of paper, pencil in hand. "I am just jotting down some incidents of circus life that the public might want to know. This girl over at the B-line--My, oh, my, but she's got a compelling line of chatter. If she would do the ballyhoo for a Kid Show, she would pack 'em in to bust down the sidewalls. Now this girl said I was to talk about midgets and circuses. What I know about midgets and circuses would fill two books. My problem is to leave out the commonplace routine and tell 'inside stuff.'" Mrs. Gillis had cleared a side table where Davy, in his high chair, could jot down the items that he would use in his talk. It was while he was thus engaged of afternoons and evenings that Mrs. Gillis heard the life story of the only midget she had ever known. "My name wasn't always Lannarck," Davy explained one afternoon when Mrs. Gillis detailed something of her ancestry and early childhood. "My name was O'Rahan, and I was christened Daniel. I am Irish--both sides. My Dad was a young, happy-go-lucky Irish lad, a hard worker, a free liver, and surely improvident. Foot-loose and free he joined a party in the rush to the Klondike. Three years later he came back with enough money to fill a pad saddle. And they took it away from him as fast as he had accumulated it. "He met my mother, Ellen Monyhan, at a party, and he was as speedy at courting as he was at spending. They were married but a short while when the financial crash came. He was ashamed and humiliated but not beaten. He wanted another try at this fascinating game. He went back to the Klondike--and to his death at sea. "I was born in a hospital in Springfield. My young, heartbroken mother died there. There were no relatives nearer than cousins. In due time I was committed to an orphanage. I have no memory of either parent and my information concerning them is meager and second hand. Now this orphanage was well conducted, but it wasn't a home; it was an institution. With anywhere from thirty to sixty children to care for, it lacked the personal equation. It was mass production--you did things by rote, en-masse--no individuality. But I have no complaint. As a babe and child I was well-fed and clothed, in a uniform common to all. "And then I started to school along with all the others. But something was happening to me that did not happen to the others. I quit growing. Mentally I was like the others--kept up with my grades--but I never grew taller than thirty-two inches and never weighed more than thirty-eight pounds. Other children would shoot up like corn stalks, but I stayed right where I had been in the months and years past. "To me, it was a heart breaking disclosure. I wanted to play ball, to make the team, only to find that as the slow months crept on, I was assigned to the playground of the little kids, babes, toddlers. The balls, bats, mitts, and other playthings were too big for me. But I kept up with my classes in school and maybe the disappointments in sports urged me to win somewhere else. I won the eighth-grade prize in arithmetic and mechanical drawing. And then came high school, and the great disaster, quickly followed by an entrance into an Orphan's Heaven--a home in a private family. In the shifting personnel at the orphanage, there were fewer high-school pupils. We went to a different building over different streets. It was no doubt a singular sight to the residents to see a midget with six-footers, but it was just that way. And it must have been a singular sight to Loron Usark, a big childish lout that lived on Spruce Street. We would pass the end of the alley back of his house and he was out there every day to watch us go by. Now this Loron was too weak, mentally, for school. Ordered around by everybody and pestered and teased by many, the moronic-minded will seek a victim that he can abuse and bend to his own will, and this Loron party was on the lookout. One day he caught me tagging along behind the others. He grabbed me and would have beaten me, but my companions rescued me. After that, I had to be on the lookout. I was marked for slaughter by this fool. "Mrs. Gillis," Davy changed his tone of voice to a deeper bass, as was his wont when he desired to impress a listener. He shook his pencil at his deeply interested audience of one. "Mrs. Gillis, I've seen a lot of people in my time. Except for old-time circus people and theatrical troopers, I've seen a million more than my share. And you can set this down on your mental calendar as an established truth: whenever you see a Big One taunting a Little One, you can set him down as a big coward. And, whenever you see a Dub kidding a Lout, you can be assured that the dub is trying to lift himself above a similar rating. "Well, this Loron lout finally got me," said Davy, resuming the thread of his life story. "I was on my way back to the orphanage for a book and as I passed the alley he swept me down. They were good sidewalks out there, else he would have broken them in bits as he pounded my head on 'em. He kicked when he could and struck as often as he cared. His exultant cries must have attracted attention, for I was past even an outcry. Finally a lady rushed out of the nearby house and came to the rescue. The lout ran, of course. I stayed put. I couldn't do anything else. The lady gathered me up, carried me into the house, laid me on a couch as I passed out entirely. "When I came to, a doctor had been there to patch me up and pass judgment on my chances. He had washed off a lot of blood, plastered my cheek, clipped my hair to plaster some more places, eased some body welts, and announced that no bones had been broken. I was in a bed, most of my clothing had been removed, and the lady was offering me a drink of water. I took it. "Mrs. Gillis," here Davy gave his voice its lowest pitch, "Mrs. Gillis, that woman was Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Lannarck, and I know you won't condemn me or be jealous when I say that she was the kindest, most considerate woman that ever drew the breath of life. There have been a lot of noble women on this troubled earth, doing what they could to ease pain, to keep down strife, and to make the world a better place in which to live. They are all worthy of our praise, but to me, Mrs. Lannarck is sainted, and apart from the rest. Well, the rest of the story is in happier settings and more readable chapters," said Davy, as he noted that Mrs. Gillis was somewhat affected by the recital. "I really suspect that you would know more about these conditions than I. Personally, I think all women want to manage a home, want to boss the inmates. If there are no children, then they manage the men-folk, or the household pets. And I was Mrs. Lannarck's pet. She used me as a substitute for the children that never came into her life. I was little; I was injured; I was a fit object of her suppressed affections. "She telephoned Mrs. Philpott, matron at the orphanage, and when she called to see me, Mrs. Lannarck arranged to care for me until I was well. She explained the whole affair to Mr. Lannarck, when he came home to luncheon and that big, grave, silent man accepted her statements without comment. Sick as I was, I heard all this and I too, made some resolutions. I was not going to miss this chance of having a home, and a mother. The very next morning I offered to get up and help her do the dishes. She laughed like a girl, and vetoed my offer. In a day or two I limbered up enough to get into my clothes and I puttered around, offering to do things. My help was declined, but I could see that it had the right effect. "I didn't go to school for a few days. My face and head were still in bandages. The story of the attack was in the newspaper and the civil authorities committed the moron to an institution for the feeble-minded. Some of the orphan kids visited me and I got them to bring my little set of drawing tools. I was tinkering with these when Mister Lannarck came in. He looked at some of my sketches and asked if I could draft a plan in true proportions. I told him I thought I could, if I had the correct measurements. He put on his coat and left. "Now Mr. Lannarck was a carpenter-contractor. Not a big one, with an office and a draftsman, bookkeeper and such; just a carpenter with a desk in the front room where he kept his papers. He had little education but his figures were correct. He had built good buildings, but he specialized in repairs--in the upkeep of property--and he had many clients. He was honest and fair; he made money and saved it. He could read blueprints but he couldn't make 'em. His fingers were all thumbs when it came to outlining. "Presently he came back with some figures, and about the worst outline I had ever seen. He explained it was a church. It was to have an addition. There was a memorial window to be taken out and placed at the right place in the new part. He had the correct figures and he wanted a rough draft to show 'em. He gave me some big sheets to work on. "That night, Mrs. Lannarck had to order me to bed, I was that interested. The next morning I was up early. That evening I showed him my outline. He didn't say much. He took the drawings and his own figures to a meeting that night. When he came home he said he had closed the deal, that my outline was what had helped, said it would make money. My, oh, my, but there was a proud boy in a big bed at the Lannarck home that night. That was the first dollar I have ever earned. Of course, I didn't get the dollar, but I got much more. "It sounds sorta mushy, doesn't it, Mrs. Gillis," said Davy, interrupting the recital. "Kind of a Pollyanna tale with a Horatio Alger finish. But in none of his stories did Alger ever portray a tougher background or give it a bigger skyrocket finish. Just think of it, Mrs. Gillis! Here was a kid with the black thought that he was never to be a man; was never to do a man's work, never to win in any manly contest. Worse yet, he had never seen his father or felt a mother's caress. He never had had a place called home. Do you blame him for horning in? "Well, it worked out better than I hoped. The next day Mrs. Lannarck began moving the furniture in one of the bedrooms. She emptied dresser drawers, cleared out the closet and brought in other things. Then she invited me up there; told me that she had arranged every thing and this was to be my room, where I could put my things. "Things? Why, I had come into that home with a busted head and not a penny in my pocket. The very clothes that I wore belonged to the county. Except for the little drawing tools I had, you could have put all of my things in a thimble. Yet I was the richest man in Springfield. "I lived in that room four happy blessed years. They were years of few incidents and no friction. Mrs. Lannarck bought me a complete outfit of clothing, and she was as particular about the details as if it were a bride's trousseau. She even provided me with a weekly allowance, small, to be sure, but there was nothing I needed. I kept right on at school and helped around the house wherever I could. I kept Mr. Lannarck's books, made out his estimates, and drafted his plans. I checked up his payrolls, met his workmen, and his banker. I even met the judge of the court when they adopted me and changed my name. "I went to church with Mrs. Lannarck, went to Sunday School, and took part in the entertainments. They insisted I was a drawing card and they featured the appearance of a midget on the program. It was all right by me if it met the approval of the Lannarcks. "During the war, the committee featured me in the Bond Drives. There was a big fellow I teamed up with, named George Ruark. He was nearly a seven-footer and weighed three hundred. I could stand in his two hands as he held them in front of him and urged everybody to back up the war as strongly as I was backed. It made a hit; it got results. "And then inevitable but unwanted death stalked in, to ruin everything. Mister Lannarck died. He was older than I had thought. He was always careful and honest. He was putting a new roof on the Auditorium when he fell. Maybe it was a stroke. They took him to the hospital. He died on the third day after the fall. "This was the beginning of the end. A link was broken in the chain. It never mended. Mrs. Lannarck bore up bravely, but I could see that she had lost all earthly joys and simply awaited her summons. Mr. Lannarck's financial affairs were in good shape. He left quite an estate. The income was ample for our simple needs, but that was not enough. Mrs. Lannarck simply could not go on. She died in a little over a year following the death of her companion. For the second time in my life, I was an orphan. "But this time I was to have a guardian. I had been legally adopted. I was the heir. I was rich. In the first fifteen years of my life, I had never seen money, never a penny of my own. Now it was the other way. After the funeral I went down to the bank to consult with Mister Gaynor. He handed me a sealed envelope. It was a message from the dear, kind, motherly Mrs. Lannarck. It was a letter of kindly advice, personal and spiritual. She said that she never doubted but that I would walk in the right path, but she made this final appeal. If I never married, never had heirs or dependents, and if there was any of the Lannarck estate left at my death, would I make a will, leaving a portion of it to the Grace Avenue Presbyterian Church, in trust for its upkeep, and a portion to the county orphanage, for the occasional entertainment of its inmates. "Mrs. Gillis." Davy was the one now affected by the recitals. His voice was lower and slower. "Mrs. Gillis, after reading that message, I hadn't the tears out of my eyes nor my voice cleared up, until I was making that will. Gaynor did the work, he knew how, that was his business, and he made it read just as Mrs. Lannarck had requested. The Trust Department of the bank was made the trustee. One-half of all income from my estate was to be paid to the church, the other half for orphanage entertainment. It stands just that way yet, although the value of the estate has doubled. "The Lannarck estate was what the bank folks called Income Property. It included two suburban store rooms with apartments above. There were three very good residences, five shares of bank stock, bonds and notes and a considerable bank deposit. I made a resolution then and there, that I would never touch a penny of it, and that resolution has been kept. The income has piled up until it now nearly equals the principal. Poor old Gaynor, the next-best friend I ever had, keeps the income collected and invested, and if this depression would only let up and give him a chance, he could build those Presbyterians a new church and give the orphans a picture show every night. "Of course I've earned quite a lot of money, meanwhile, but Gaynor keeps that as a separate checking account; says circuses and vaudeville are not a dependable source of income and that I may go broke. This Ralph Gaynor is a wonder in his line, but it's not my kind of a line. He talks of interest, margins of safety, of unearned increments, corporate earnings, and things like that. His is not the big bank, with its long rows of figures. His is just a little 'Dollar-Down' concern, and he owns it all. Just now, in this depression, the Big Fellows are running to him asking, 'What to do?' And he's telling 'em to trim sails and stay close to shore. "Ralph Gaynor is the second helpful man to come into my life, but when I grew sick and tired of being gawked at, during all my waking hours and resolved to duck away from the mob, I didn't go back to Ralph Gaynor for advice. He just wouldn't understand. The word 'recreation' is not in his vocabulary. Colts, dogs, kid-saddles, horseback riding, Landy's wisecracks, and my present-day joys have no listed values with Ralph Gaynor, and I passed him up. If it were Mrs. Lannarck, she would understand and give it sympathetic approval. "Well, that's something of the life story of one midget, Mrs. Gillis. Add to this, twelve long summers with circuses and the winters spent in vaudeville (both with their mobs and gawking crowds) and it's almost a completed volume. There is yet one chapter to be added and I want to talk about it to the public. One man, Baron Singer, did more for midgets--little people--than any other person, in all time. He lifted them out of the mediocre; gave them standing and personality. I never met the Baron, but I want the public to know what great work he did for an underprivileged group. And I will tell 'em Saturday night." 9 Gillis and Welborn did not return from their mission the next day as they had planned. Sunday passed by without word of their whereabouts. The stay-at-homes wondered if it was to be peace or war with maudling gangsters. Did Welborn's fifty-to-one chance fail? Davy had planned to ride over to the B-line, and go over his speech-plans with his manager and promoter. Now, it seemed necessary that he and Landy ride down to the filling station seeking news of the missing ones. Monday noon, the faithful old Gillis car labored up the hill and came to a stop. Jim and Sam got out to inquire if dinner was ready. Little was said during the meal as to the outcome of their trip. Jim made a brief explanation that they had been as far as Rawlins, accompanying the sheriff in his disposition of his boarders. The sheriff explained that he wanted to take them past the penitentiary to show them what they missed, and where they would live if they ever came back to this section. He took them all to the railway station, loaded two on the east-bound train and two went west. The sheriff retained the count's car as security for advances made. That evening, however, after Davy had returned from delivering Welborn his supper, the four gathered in the Gillis sitting room and Jim gave more details. "This man Welborn musta been in the army," he declared. "Musta been a tough old top sergeant, er the general in command, the way he took charge. He managed every detail and managed it right. Everything worked out as planned. "We kept old Maddy out of the judge's sight, 'en it was well enough that we did, for Judge Withers was pretty hostile towards these crazy galoots that invaded the community and disturbed the peace. He would enforce the sentence, but he listened to the sheriff's complaint that four such prisoners were too many for his cramped quarters, too costly for the results obtained. The judge agreed to suspend sentence on condition that the sheriff would deport 'em and keep 'em deported. "We didn't have any trouble establishing Maddy's claim to the two sacks of dust. Maddy easily identified 'em and I knew they were his, but what about these gangsters? Would the count surrender title to the damaged car to compensate for rail transportation? And would they agree to leave and never come back? The sheriff had had several interviews with 'em on these matters and had never gained assent to the plan, especially as to the count and his car. The sheriff was bothered, didn't believe it could be done. "Again it was Welborn who made the plan and gave orders. 'Bring that count in here,' he said, 'and leave me alone with him for about ten minutes. I'll find out if he wants to live or die.' And the sheriff did as Welborn said, and before the ten minutes were up, the count had readily and eagerly accepted all the conditions. We took all of 'em over to court, the judge repeated the sentence, suspended it if they stayed out of the court's jurisdiction. We had 'em in Rawlins and on their way by Sunday noon. "No, I don't know what Welborn said to the count," was Jim's reply to Davy's eager question. "It must have been potent and terrifying, the way that gangster wet his lips and swollered." "Did young Goff accept Maddy's gift of the gold dust?" Jim laughed. "That's another Welborn plan and order and it wasn't ignored. This young Goff is a fine fellow. He took good care of Maddy during the whole trip. When we got back to the filling station and Goff was to go on his way, Maddy offered him the dust and he refused it. Here Welborn stepped in. He shook a little out of one sack to make 'em equal; he handed one sack to Mrs. Carter and placed the other in Goff's car. 'You keep that,' he ordered. 'This old man will live longer, happier, more contented in knowing he has a neighbor that he can freely call on for help who will respond to his call. He's got a right to this comfort and satisfaction. You take it.' And young Goff took it." The next morning David Lannarck was up bright and early, intent on his plans to visit the B-line ranch, but Mrs. Gillis had beat him to the draw. Landy was directed to change the stock cattle over into the ravine pasture while Jim did the milking. Davy would take Welborn's breakfast to him and wait at the Point until Landy, and the dogs, had finished their job. Like the rest of the men folk at the Gillis ranch, Davy accepted his orders. He saddled the colt, maneuvered him up to the kitchen door for the basket of breakfast, and rode to the Point alone. Early as it was, he found Welborn up the ravine examining the gravel in a sheltered nook. "I can work this area this winter, when the rest of the valley is covered with snow," Welborn explained as they walked back to the cabin and the basket of breakfast. "Yes, and if you had a dynamo and electric lights," retorted Davy, "you could work nights. What's all the rush? This stuff will keep." Welborn laughed, but he grew serious to explain: "I would like to take nine thousand dollars out of this hole by early spring, and as near as I estimate values, I've got the job about half done. There's nearly two hundred ounces in those little sacks. If my partner will be lenient in demanding his share, I think I can get it done this winter." "If I advance the nine thousand right now, say by the end of the week, will you let up on this drive-drive-drive stuff, and relax and be yourself?" Davy's question was a demand, earnestly stated. Welborn gave an inquiring look to see if he was being scolded or kidded. He decided that it was neither of these. "Why would you want to do that, Laddie?" he asked in a subdued tone. "Just to keep a good man from worrying himself to death," retorted the midget. "I want to prevent a funeral, make an asset out of a liability. I want to get a big, fine man back to his normal self. If you will agree to let up on this push-drive-urge stuff; stop long enough to read a book, to laugh at Jiggs or Popeye or Dagwood, or any of the other funnies, go with me over to Adot where the mine-run folks can see what a big, fine upstanding partner I've got, why I'll have that little, old nine thousand in here by Saturday. "Oh, I know that money is scarce, hard to get just now," Davy explained in response to Welborn's shake of the head, "but this money is idle, and there's plenty of security up in that ravine. It's not the loan, it's the results, I'm wanting. Of course, there's something eating you, some past catastrophe or mistake, that's got you down. You're worried, killing yourself trying to get it corrected. I don't know what it is, and don't want to know, until you are ready. Of course it will work out all right. There'll be a climax, a denouement, as old director Mecklin used to call the final act, and I want you to be right here, in person, in good health and spirits, to join with the rest of us in the applause and cheers." Welborn had walked over to the window, but not to look out. His head was down, he was taking punishment. Presently he lifted his shoulders and head. There was a smile on his face even if his voice was husky. "In all my varied years, Sonny Boy, I never heard finer compliments mixed up with some real truths. What you've said is worth more to me than your kindly offer of funds. I wouldn't take your money under any condition, it would add complications, but I am going to take your advice. From now on, I'll try to do as you say, try to save myself for the glorious finish that you picture." The arrival of Jim in the old car and Landy's clamorous calls broke up the conference. Davy hurried out to join his friend in their planned trip to the B-line ranch. He was very quiet in the hazards of Brushy Fork, but on arriving at the level stretch beyond he stopped Landy. "What am I going to name this colt, Landy? He's got to have a name, if he's to be taught to do things. Old Boss Fletcher had a name for every elephant in the herd, and they would step right out when their names were called. Horses, dogs, elephants, even the cats quickly learned their names and the short words like 'halt,' 'go,' 'kneel,' 'turn,' and the like. This colt is smart, wants to do things, if you're not too dumb in telling him what you want. But he's got to have a name." "Alice and I were talkin' about that the other night," replied the ex cow-hand. "She had some flossy ones: Emperor, Commander, President, en sich, but I vetoed that trash, the colt couldn't carry 'em and live. I suggested Red, er Monty, er some sich. Thar we adjourned and left the colt without a moniker. What's yer notion of a name fer this little hoss?" "I just can't think of the right one," said Davy resignedly. "It wouldn't do to name him after some of the folks around here, that would mix things up. The circus folks have worn out such names as Barnum, Ringling, Robinson, Bailey, Coles, Sells, Barnes, Wallace, and others and they don't fit a small hoss anyhow. I am in hopes that this fine, smart Adine girl at the B-line has some sort of a suggestion. Maybe, she's got a name that will do." At a favorable place on the narrow road where the travelers could gaze down on a bunch of the B-line cattle quietly grazing and where the morning sun splashed varied colors on the distant hills, Davy pushed his mount in front of old Gravy to halt the party. He flung his hand in a wide sweep to include everything in sight. "That's Paradise, Landy. It's what I've dreamed about for the last ten years. It's the wide open spaces filled with all the variations in old Nature's book of scenery. And best of all, there's no mob of nit-wits to titter and smirk. It's my Heaven. "Just now, two things blur the picture; I want to get this speech thing off my hands, and I want to find a resister, a sass-back, a contrary cuss, that will argue back at me. I want to keep him nearby to remind me of old times. Why back two years ago, I used to visit old Polo Garrett, who had the concession in the menagerie tent, just to get cussed out. Polo's vocabulary was limited to sassing back. 'What's eatin' ya?,' 'Git outa here,' 'Who's a-running this dump?' 'Whar do ya git that stuff?' were his mildest phrases. When I got fed up on a bunch of simpering women and their, 'ain't he cute?' stuff, all I had to do was to barge in on Polo and get cussed out and learn that the world wasn't all gush and guff. "And particularly I need this 'argufyer' right out here now. I'm getting tired of having my own way. The people are too kind, too considerate, regard me as a child to be petted and pampered. There's too much mushy sentiment. A day or two ago, I told Mrs. Gillis my life history. It was mushy and without climax. She wanted to cry over it. This morning, before you came to the Point, I gave Welborn a big going over about his working all the time. And he never sassed back. He should have kicked me out. Instead of that, he agreed with me. Him, a big, strong man that had made a gangster eat his gun and ordered the judge and sheriff what to do! The idea! Him letting a midget order him around! What we need here is a good cusser-outer." "You're too late," said Landy dryly. "You've missed yer appointment by about forty years. We had a party up state wunst, that filled all yer requirements. Hit was a woman. She'd fuss at the sun fer comin' up, an cuss hit fer goin' down. She buried three husbands en was deserted by several more. At her death, en in honor of the happy event, they named a little crick after her. They called hit Crazy Woman's Crick.... Hi, Potter," Landy called, as they approached the stables of the B-line ranch. "Git that gate opened and throw out yer welcome rug." "Troubles never come single, they come in bunches," grumbled Potter as he complied. "Two hosses go lame this mornin', en Jim Finch, the grazing commissioner, comes from up on the Mad Trapper Fork a-callin' on us fer help to round up some of old Hull Barrow's misfits of horns, hoofs, and hides, en to add further miseries, here you arrive on the scene. Why, Peaches gave out strict orders, that if old Turkeyneck came prowlin' around, to say, that she wasn't at home at all en to tell the little gent to ride right into the house." "Who said that?" demanded Davy, with alacrity. "Why, Peaches, Miss Adine, she said if old Landy--" "Ye, Ho!" yelled Davy excitedly. "This colt is named. That's it! Peaches! Why didn't we think of that before, Landy?" Davy patted the colt's neck affectionately. "That's your name, old boy, Peaches!" Hearing the outcry, Adine Lough came out of the house, and down the graveled way. "Good morning," she called. "I was expecting you. My, but he's handsome," she exclaimed, examining the little horse that arched his neck in approval of the inspection. "You look like a gallant cavalier out of the old picture books." "We've just named him," said Davy proudly. "We named him after you. His name is Peaches." "Ah, pshaw," said the girl, laughing and blushing. "That's just a nickname that these men out here call me behind my back, of course, and the poor colt deserves a better fate. But come in, both of you, I have good news." The girl led the way into the hall. "You go in and visit with grandpa, Landy, while we talk shop in the library. "I talked with the Nazarene preacher and he's very enthusiastic over the plan and prospects," Adine explained after they were settled in the workshop. "I told him of the ad, that I was to run in the paper and he's somewhat of an artist and is putting up signs all over town. It augurs a good crowd, the biggest ever to assemble in Adot. He plays an accordion and his wife sings and they have arranged for a quartette of girls to sing a couple of numbers and then you are to talk. The meeting is to be held in Joe Burns's big warehouse and it won't hold the people. Now this is not a church meeting, it's an entertainment. You can laugh and applaud at will. You can tell funny stories about circuses or what-have-you, it's informal, go as far as you like!" "Well, here's how I had mapped out the talk. I'll tell 'em something about midgets," said Davy, "for midgets seem to be a forgotten subject in literature. If you will comb your college library down at Boulder, you'll not find a single book on the subject, and I am not sure that I know enough about 'em to fill out a talk on the subject." "That's the very subject you ought to talk on. Why I can hardly wait to hear it. Who better can tell it? If you are short of facts, just romance a little, that's allowable where facts are scarce. Tell 'em personal incidents and don't make 'em too solemn or pathetic. Make 'em laugh. Personally, I'm going to get a close-up seat, for in that big barn of a place I doubt if you can reach the outer fringes." "Well, if the preacher gent can make himself heard, I can too," retorted Davy. "I practiced up on that stuff, there's where I specialized. You see, Miss Adine, when I joined up with the Singer Midgets at Saint Louis, I didn't have an act, a specialty, anything to give the public. I just joined up because Baron Singer was collecting midgets, showing 'em a good time, with no thought of making a profit. But it did make profit. The public wanted to see midgets. "It was my first contact with my clan. I noticed that midgets didn't change their voices when they reached maturity, still spoke in childish tones. Not having much to do, I practiced voice culture, deepened and strengthened my speech. I made my voice reach to the back seats. It earned me a job. I became the announcer; made the in-front-of-the-curtain talks. In the summer, with the Big Top, I often simulated the ringmaster to make announcements from the center ring. It was a feature all right, seeing a little guy doing a big man's job. "Oh I'll make 'em hear all right, but what they are to hear is the problem. To the midget stuff I thought I would add a few paragraphs about circus people, the different kinds and what they do. The general public never contacts the real circus people, just the ticket takers, ushers, and roustabouts. They never meet the managers and performers. And because grafters, shilabers, and skin-game artists follow circuses, the public thinks these are a part of it. It's only fair to circus people that this connection be denied." "Why, I didn't know that," exclaimed Adine, "I just supposed the grafters were a part of it. Here I am, learning a lot of things and school not yet started. Anyhow, I'm going to buy a ticket for Mrs. Carmody and inveigle her to the entertainment. She said circus people ought not be allowed to participate in a church benefit. "Now you are to come over here Saturday morning. Bring Landy with you, as we can all three ride to Adot in my roadster. There, we will lay the top back, and with you between us, sitting up on the back cushion, we'll parade the town. The door opens at seven o'clock. Performance begins at seven-thirty. Then we come back here for the night and you can ride home Sunday morning. You can talk for an hour if you want to, but you should speak for thirty minutes at least." 10 "Are you going to live here always?" asked Davy as he slid down off the dictionary and chair at the end of the conference. "What I mean is this, Adine," he added, noting the girl's questioning look. "Are you going to spend your life out here in the sticks, with cattle, horses, and a few yokels that you have to ride miles and miles, before you see two of 'em together?" "Why, this is my home, I belong here, the same as other young people live with their folks," replied the girl, somewhat startled by the abruptness of the question. "I haven't planned to shift pastures, as grandaddy would say. Why are you asking such an abrupt, personal question?" "Well, it is sorta personal and rather abrupt," agreed the midget in an appeasing tone. "I should have made the approach with more finesse. Abruptness is one of my defects. But now that I've blundered in, I'd just as well finish. You don't belong out here in the wide open spaces, in these sparse settlements. You belong in the congested areas, where big things are being done, where there's planning, execution, accomplishment. Why, you've taken over both ends of a little hoss trade, laid out all the plans, details and ground work for a community entertainment, and did it with the ease of a big executive lighting a cigarette. You need a big job, in a big place. With your personality and head-work, you can climb up the ladder to the top rung." "Well, of all things!" said the girl, embarrassed at the unexpected drift, but laughing at the implications. "And this from a guy that has fled the mob and wants me to take his place. Now just what big job have you laid out for me? Running a circus? Managing a theater? Or maybe operating a railroad?" "You could make a success with any or all of 'em," retorted Davy. "But none of these were in my mind. Some women want a career. Some gain it by their own efforts and some climb to success on a ladder supported by others. Then there is the big majority--many of 'em brilliant and capable--that just settle down in the doldrums of marriage and let their talents rust out in negligence and inattention." "Then I'm not to marry?" "You ought to. A gal as attractive, vivacious, and clever as you are, would have to marry--in self-defense, if for no other reason. Marriage need not interfere. It might help. With that hazard and gamble out of the way, it would allow you to expand your talents in planning, executing, and managing in any line you choose." "And about when do you plan that this defense marriage--this shotgun wedding--is to take place?" questioned Adine scornfully. "And who's the victim?" "Now that's a candle-flame that I'll keep my fingers out of," said Davy hastily. "Judge Vane told me once a person who advises or mixes in on the marriage relations of others is liable in damages. And anyhow, sane people don't run matrimonial agencies. In that debacle, you're on your own. I'm promoting talent, not running a marriage bureau. And I don't want the side show to dim the performance in the big top. You've got talent, personality, ability to influence others, and whether you are solo in the orchestra or doubling in brass in the matrimonial band makes no difference. You ought to be directing the mob instead of listening to a lone midget." Adine Lough laughed, not at the text, but the homely comparisons of the little man that, standing hat in hand, was earnestly and seriously throwing bouquets of compliments and darts of poignant facts right in her face. And both the flowers and darts were coming from an unexpected source. With the delicate matrimonial problem swept completely aside, she felt that this new-found friend, in his nation-wide travels and a million contacts, was really sincere in some of his estimates and was trying to be helpful in his blunt, abrupt appraisals. Anyhow, she was reconciled to that view. "Well, I never had so many compliments in all my life! I didn't know that you were a student of sociology--could estimate capabilities and get everyone in their right groove. I should have been conferring with you, for I have an unsolved problem, bigger than any you've mentioned." Adine had ceased her scorning tones; now she was asking for an answer. She motioned Davy to a footstool. "Why, I didn't know that you had a care in the world. As Polo Garrett used to say, 'What's eatin' ya?'" "My problem is my family. I'm the only one left that is able to do things. There is little I can do to aid the ones that are sick and I am making no progress in keeping these two big, clumsy ranches out of bankruptcy. "Father, as you know, is in the hospital in Omaha and mother was called there three weeks ago. The trivial ulcers have developed into something worse. Daddy went to Omaha to be near the market that was tumbling, crashing, and bringing on bankruptcy to stock raisers. He hoped to find a solution, hoped to learn that the end of the disaster was in sight. He had been cutting production for four years; surely a period of scarcity was at hand, he wanted to be ready. "Meanwhile he consulted a specialist on a matter of stomach ulcers, only to encounter a more serious condition. A dozen years ago, in one season, he had sold eighty thousand dollars worth of livestock from these two ranches. Just now, he has sold breeding stock until there's little left. Now these recent sales were made not to get money, but to reduce the supply, to meet conditions. Money needs were not serious until both banks failed two years ago, and then it became a calamity. And now, my young counselor, adviser, flatterer, and friend, do you think I should seek a job in the congested areas?" "Well, it does appear that you are involved in a lot of responsibility, and surely have a big problem on your hands. You speak of two ranches. Where's the other one?" "Really, it's all one," the girl explained, "but Grandaddy keeps up the pretense of operating one of his own--wants to compete with Father in management--in livestock, in methods. It's the Old Pioneer versus the Progressive. Longhorn versus thoroughbred, and Daddy indulges and encourages him in the plan. "You see, Grandfather had settled on Grant's Fork (that's about four miles west); he had built a cabin and stables, long before the surveyors came. 'They surveyed me in,' was his frequent statement. And there he lived and carried on until Father grew up, married, and built this home. Grandfather registered his cattle brand as the Bowline. It is a bent bow with a taut string. Father carried the same brand, but folks began calling it the B-line and both ranches go by that name. And it's really one to the outsider. The difference in methods and in management is best illustrated by the fact that in the fall, Grandfather takes a week to drive his finished product to the pens at the railroad siding, while Father trucks a full carload over there in the early morning. "But in all these years there never was any distinction in ownership of property or chattels. If Grandfather wanted a stack of hay or a roll of fencing he came and got it. He would call on Daddy's men for help as freely as he would call his own. They paid each other's bills without any accounting and there was never any friction, until now. Now, the problem of all these past years is dumped right in my lap. I don't know how to handle it. I am desperate for advice, so desperate that I now seek the counsel of the Oracle of the Footlights, the Mystic of the Sawdust Ring. Wilt thou help me, Sire?" concluded Adine, as she bowed in mock distress to the little man squirming on the footstool. "Well, I don't see that you need help. You've done all that is needful and possible. You can't heal the sick, stop a financial depression, or retard old age, but you've left nothing undone. Your problem is already solved." "We haven't reached the insoluble part," said Adine gravely. "I've just given you the details leading up to it. I have shown that there were two ranches, two plans of management, an intermingling of assets, and never the least bit of friction. Yet there is one thing in which they are as far apart as the two poles: Father always banks his money, and Grandaddy never did. It doesn't seem possible for a person to live as long as Grandfather has and not use a bank. Back in the early days, he wore a money belt with gold in it. In later years he had what he calls a keyster, a metal box with lock and key where he keeps paper money. He is not a miser; he pays bills promptly and gives generously. The keyster was never hidden. It might be left on the table or mantel or, because of its weight, it might be used as a door prop. So far as I know, no one ever cheated him, and surely no one had the nerve to try to take it by force. "Grandmother died before I was born. After her death, and while Father was setting up business over here, the Craigs moved in with Grandaddy. They were young people, brother and sister, Joe and Myrah, and they have been there ever since. Now just who the Craigs are I do not know. There is an old rumor among the cow hands that Grandaddy was paying off some sort of an old romantic debt when he took them in. It must have been a far-flung romance, for the Craigs reputedly came from up in the Wind River district. "At any rate there they are. Myrah is a good housekeeper and has been a good caretaker of an aged man. Joe was never a cow man. He has a crippled hand. In his young days he roamed the country as a hunter and trapper. He cuts the wood, builds the fires, and runs the errands; just a lackey boy, and is still just that. "When Father came to Omaha this last time, Grandaddy came over here occasionally. He would bring the keyster and pay the bills. Finally, as Father's stay was prolonged, I persuaded Grandfather to headquarter over here. I fixed up the front room for his convenience. He seems contented with the fireplace and Morris chair. I could have gotten along all right but the matter of finances bothered me. With the banks closed, we have little money available. Even if we had a considerable sum, I wouldn't know where to keep it. A cupboard or desk seemed an insecure place and my financial experience has been limited to a little money purse with small change and probably only one bill. Just now, Grandfather's keyster is the Rock of Gibraltar, the financial prop that is sustaining the whole structure. But what about this prop? How strong is it? Will it outlast the depression? I don't know. I doubt if Father would know, if he were here. He and Grandaddy might exchange quips or gibes over the matter of sales or production but they didn't broadcast as to funds on hand. "Truly, I don't care to know how much money is in Grandaddy's keyster, that's his affair. But it's irksome and tragic not to know one's limitations. Tomorrow the whole structure may crumble and fall, for lack of another dollar. "My relations with Grandaddy are peculiar. He was sorely disappointed that I wasn't a boy. He tolerates me and that's about all. To him, women are a liability, not an asset. He regards them as a necessary evil. If anything important is to be done, it must be done by a man. If he is irritated by some woman's accomplishments he growls out: 'Men fought for and won the territory and women followed in to take possession.' And for this reason it was an easy matter to induce him to come over here with his keyster and take charge. He just couldn't conceive that a girl could manage a business. "But notwithstanding his disappointments and my timidity, we've gotten along very well. When I go away to school he always slips me a bill or two for spending money. I could feel that he resented my buying a car, yet he pays for my gasoline without complaint. His bias, prejudice, and vindictiveness doesn't apply to the members of his immediate family, but it does apply intensely and vigorously to others. It's this peculiarity that might wreck the works at this critical time. "It's a family tradition that Grandaddy never went in debt for anything. If he hadn't the cash to pay, he didn't buy. But just now, they are closing out the Bar-O ranch lands, cattle, chattels, and it's ill repute. If Grandaddy knew of this sale, he would spend every dime in that keyster of his, and go in debt as far as he could, in order to own this thing that has been a life's obsession. And if he were to spend this money, be it much or little, this B-line would be bankrupt. I have tried to keep the news of this sale away from Grandaddy just to avoid this catastrophe. If it comes, I am helpless." During this recital, Adine was seated facing Davy on the footstool. There were lines in her face that Davy had never seen, a near quaver in her voice that he had never heard. The Sir Galahad of the Sawdust Ring had surely found a maiden in dire distress. He wriggled on his seat, mustering comforting words. "Well, I don't want to offend by poo-pooing your troubles," said Davy as consolingly as he could. "Sickness is always bad, but everything is being done that's possible; your grandfather's acts couldn't work much harm. You don't owe anything to anybody; your needs are few; your expenses are at a minimum. There will be a moratorium on taxes and your few employees would readily accept a note in lieu of cash, and friends like Mrs. Gillis would gladly come to the rescue if quick funds are needed. Frankly, you are a long way from Trouble River and you should not worry about crossing it until you reach the brink. "And that's that," said the little man, brushing his hands as if the matter were fully settled. "Now tell me about this Bar-O thing. Is this the same affair that Mister Potter spoke of? What's the grazing master got to do, in folding up a ranch? Why would your grandfather get all het up if he heard about it? Where is this Bar-O property? Maybe in this tragic drama, there is a comedy part that I could play." "There's no comedy in this local drama," said Adine, resuming her challenging attitude. "And you brush the tragedies into the wastebasket like mere dross. A while ago, you were assigning me to big jobs in the congested areas while you were to idle around in the wide open spaces. Just now, I would put you back in some city as a public relations officer, a Mister Fixit, to diagnose and cure personal and community ills. You would fix 'em or discard 'em instantly. "But, badinage aside, I know very little of the Bar-O entanglements and complications. It's an old story. Grandaddy knows all about it but he doesn't talk. There are few facts and many rumors. For three generations it's been a sort of a gnaw-bone, to be dug up and chewed on when there's nothing else. It's a musty old tradition, a sort of a remnant of the old days, that present day newsmongers use as a yardstick for comparisons. If a modern domestic complication breaks out, the current gossip outmatches it by the entanglements in the Barrow family. If it's murder, robbery, or arson, some of the Barrows did worse and got away with it. "Just now, some current chapters are being written. Mister Logan, the receiver of the bank of Adot, has foreclosed a mortgage on the real estate and seeks possession. Mister Finch, the grazing master, always lenient and forebearing, is seeking to recover past due payments. This may be the final chapter. Grim facts are taking the place of hearsay." "Well, just where is this land of romantic tragedy and domestic infelicity?" questioned Davy. "How come that the movie people haven't taken it over to fit their verbiage: thrilling, stupendous, smashing, wondrous, and so forth?" "Well, if the movie people have as much trouble getting on the property as the sheriff and Mister Finch are having, they wouldn't get a very clear picture and the story would be limited to their own misfortunes. Up to now, old Hulls Barrow has stood 'em off with a gun. They don't want to kill him and they can't get possession. "Now this Bar-O ranch is just over the hogback, south of us. There is no road, just a trail over the ridge. The Barrows use the other road. I don't know how big it is. The surveys in these hills stay in the valleys; the lines run from point to promontory. The units are miles, not rods. Tranquil Meadows, a fine area of grassland, is just south of the Bar-O. Had the Silver Falls project been a success, the government would have done the same with the Meadows tract. A road blasted through the hills would have connected the two tracts. "Old Matt Barrow was one of the early settlers. Grandfather's feud with him had early beginnings. I don't think it was personal, for they rarely met. Grandaddy was outstanding as a law enforcer and here was a petty offender right under his nose. Barrow had no cattle brand until they made him use one. He was uneducated, couldn't spell his own name, and his name, in the records, is spelled in several ways. He had no fences and would employ any misfit or doubtful that came along. He seemed to prey on one side of the ridge and sell on the other. But in all the years he escaped conviction of even a minor offense. In an early day, a lone prospector was missing. Everybody had ideas, but no evidence. Dan Hale's stacks were burned. No evidence. And so it ran through the years. "Barrow raised two boys. This Hulls, who is standing off the law with a gun, and Archie, who disappeared in about a year after Maizie came. The boys surely must have had a mother, but there is no record or rumor of a death or burial. The same is true of old Clemmy Pruitt, who went there to live. Old Matt Barrow must have maintained a private cemetery and conducted the funerals. "The boys, Hulls and Archie, grew up to be old bachelors. They carried on in about the same fashion as the old man. Maybe they visited the settlements and got drunk oftener than he did, but the Bar-O continued as a mystery and a sore spot in a neighborhood that was struggling up from primitive ways." Adine paused to chuckle a bit at the midget's interest in the recital. The little man's eyes were glued on the speaker, he missed never a word. "You are marveling how I know so much about a thing that is based on hearsay and rumors," continued the narrator as she pointed to a manuscript on the table. "There are my notes for my thesis, 'Social Work in Rural Communities.' It's full of notes and comments on the rumors and hearsay about the Barrow family. In every community the exception to the rule is played up as the feature story. In Pittsburgh it's steel; in Boston, the Back Bay district gets the headlines; in Charleston, it's the Colonial homes that are featured. The mine-run folks get no mention. Here in Henry County, it's the Barrow family. In my notes, I simply list 'em as rumors, letting the reader be the judge. And now, let's get along to the final chapter. "Maizie came to the Barrows about ten years ago. Where from, nobody knew, but there were many unconfirmed rumors. It was given out that her last name was Menardi. Whether this was her family name or acquired by marriage, was not stated. Maizie took over--house, corral, and ranch. She made but few changes in the material things, but the two old bachelors and the occasional cow hands were certainly speeded up. Old Jeff Stoups, who had been a retainer since the days of old Matt, quit. 'A woman boss is bad enough, but a hellion is wu's,' was Jeff's statement. "I have never seen Maizie in all these years. She is rarely away from the Bar-O. Her public appearances are limited to a few rare visits to the stores and a few days spent in court. Mr. Phillips, on her first visit to the drygoods store, described her as dazzling and imperious. Mrs. Phillips describes her as being near thirty years old, tall, rather graceful, regular features, a perpetual sneer, coal-black hair and a coppery skin never seen on another. Her dress was normal, with few adornments. She was bareheaded, wore mannish gloves, and sported large circlet earrings. She differed little in appearance from other women; her voice was low and deep; she could read. She bought books and magazines. "Our Charley Case (the comedians around the stables call him Flinthead) furnished the caricature of the lady. He was coming back from Grandaddy's south pasture and rode the trail past the Bar-O to see what he could see. He pictured Maizie as wearing overalls, a man's shirt with the tail out, a big slouch hat, and buckskin gloves. She was directing Jeff Stoups about digging a post hole. "And then came an added feature to the strange personnel. About a month after Maizie's arrival, a young man was occasionally seen around the Bar-O. He was neither cow hand nor laborer. His status was that of a constant visitor. He quartered with the family, if Hulls, Archie, and Maizie would be called a family, instead of living at the bunkhouse. Old Jeff referred to him as a dude, but the comment applied to mannerisms rather than clothes. He dressed as a townsman; he frequented the poolroom and Gatty's doggery. He announced his name as Steve Adams, said that he was Maizie's nephew. He played a fancy game of pool and drank in moderation. "Questioned by the curious, he talked freely but always about places and conditions elsewhere. He knew nothing about local affairs. That summer he made frequent trips. On his return he would report having been to Chicago, Kansas City, Denver. A later checkup revealed that he was telling the truth. And these truthful stories were exasperating. They explained nothing. The Bar-O, with its mixed up domestic complications, was still an isolated enigma. "That fall was the time of the great train robbery. The event occurred at the same time as the local raid on Gatty's Quart Shop. The world news was minimized by the local affair. We gave it little thought. In the week following, several cattle men headquartered here and at Grandaddy's. They inspected several herds to include the Bar-O outfit. And later still, they raided the Bar-O premises. They were railroad detectives, posing as cattle buyers. They were too late. They got nothing but some bits of evidence that the train robbers had used the Bar-O as a hangout. Maizie explained to the detectives and sheriff that the strangers represented themselves as mineral prospectors. They worked in the hills in the daytime. They left in the evening following the cattle inspection. She reported that her nephew, Steve Adams, was in Chicago, had been there for several weeks. A check up revealed that this was true. "A further check up revealed that these strangers had stayed all night at the Unicorn Ranch near Northgate. Abel Sneed, the Unicorn boss, as a matter of precaution went through their 'war bags' while they slept. He found nothing unusual, surely no money. "What became of this giant sum that was blasted out of the safe after wounding the messenger? Neither the detectives nor anyone else ever found a trace of it. But a further enigma was added to the mystery when a month later Archie Barrow, the younger brother, came to the Records office and made a deed of his undivided share in the Bar-O lands to his brother Hulls. Archie made the statement that he was through, was leaving for the Northwest, and that he would not return. "Hulls Barrow surely didn't get the Express Company's money. A year or two later Maizie brought him to town to give the bank a mortgage to secure funds to defend Steve Adams, charged with murdering Allie Garrett. Maizie hired a firm of Denver lawyers and the case went through all the complications of venue, trial, and appeal. "This trial was the community's biggest event, although it had origin in a barroom brawl. During its progress, business was suspended while the public swarmed in, hoping that the truth of the Barrow mysteries might be revealed. The public was disappointed. Steve Adams never took the witness stand, although many thought he had an even chance to convince a jury that he was not the aggressor. The prosecutor was materially aided in the case by Judge Griffith of Laramie. There was no record as to who paid Judge Griffith, but Grandaddy was highly gratified that the accused got a ten-year sentence. He was one man in the community that knew of Griffith's ability as a prosecutor. "And now that old mortgage is being foreclosed. The Bar-O is on the market at a forced sale. If Grandaddy knew about it, he wouldn't sleep until he owned it. If he were ten years younger he would go over there and shoot it out with Hulls Barrow for the possession. And he needs more land about as badly as he needs ten thumbs on one hand. He already owns all that joins his, his holdings envelope the Bar-O on three sides. He might covet the grazing rights in the Tranquil Meadows district, but two of our winter grazing meadows will lay idle this winter and our fifty ricks of hay are about four times more than we can use. "Really, Grandaddy doesn't want more land, wouldn't buy other adjoining land, but he would spend every available cent to get rid of the Barrows. I have two slender, lingering hopes. First, if he does find out about the sale and buys it, that there will still be money left in the keyster. And secondly, if he should buy it, I hope I can persuade him to sell it to some first class, reputable rancher. Someone with a family with whom we can be neighborly and the men folks can exchange work in the busy season." "How much is this mortgage thing?" questioned Davy, as the lengthy story seemed near the end. "What's due the grazing master? How many cattle are they running? When is this sale? Who can I see about the details? Maybe I could find somebody to take over. And anyhow, don't you worry about expense money. Mrs. Gillis has enough cash-on-hand to take care of all of us, unless this panic grows into a financial cyclone." "Mister Potter, out at the stables, knows most of the details. Mister Finch and a deputy sheriff were here this morning, talking it over with him. As I understand it, Mister Logan, the bank receiver, bought the land at the sale, but it seems that a bank receiver can't hold the land, he must sell it to make cash assets. Mister Logan has the bank's affairs in good shape, except for this item, and it's got him badly worried. Just now, he thinks it would have been better to have sold the note and mortgage to someone and let the buyer take the grief of getting possession. Anyhow, talk to Mister Potter, he has the answers to most of your questions. See him, by all means," urged Adine Lough as Davy prepared to join the impatient Landy standing at the door. 11 "We've got a lot of work cut out for us," said Davy as he and Landy walked down the drive to the stables. "I want to talk to Potter, but I don't want to show too much interest. I want to get some information about this Barrow resistance that's got 'em all stirred up. How big is this Bar-O ranch anyhow? How much money does this receiver gent need to have to get in the clear? How much is owed on the grazing allotment? And how come that a sheriff's posse can't depose one old man?" "Old Jim and I were jist talkin' about this same thing," said Landy as they paused at the yard gate. "Does Mr. Lough know about it?" exclaimed the astonished midget. "Adine didn't want him to know! Who tipped it off to him?" Landy chuckled as he fingered the gate latch. "Old Jim's been 'round a right smart time, en he don't confer with young women on business matters. He read the leetle fine print legal ad in the papers en he sent his handyman, Joe Craig, to Logan, the receiver gent, en got all the details." "Does he want the ranch?" questioned Davy. "Naw!" scorned Landy. "Old Jim says hit will be eight years before the ranchin' business can git back on hits feet, en by that time he'll be moulderin' dust en dry bones. Old Jim's still harpin' on that funeral business. Now he plans to hold a big barbecue en send out invitations. Jim's got the money all right, but he wants to spend hit on a big, spread-eagle funeral." "Adine should know about this. It will save her a lot of worry," said Davy, and he hastened back to the house. Presently he rejoined his companion, who was watching a party of horsemen coming down the lane back of the stables. "Looks like a retreat," was Landy's comment. "I don't see eny scalps a-hangin' on their spears." "How big is this Bar-O affair, how many acres?" questioned the little man. "They don't measure in acres," said Landy, still watching the approaching party. "Old Jim says hit's about eight sections, four wide and two deep." "How big is this judgment? How much money would this receiver and grazing master have to have to get 'em in the clear? What's the friction that they can't get these resisting parties to see the inevitable?" "Thar's Logan en Finch, with Flinthead en Hickory," exclaimed Landy, as the horsemen approached the far gate. "She's a water-haul. Old Hulls has stood 'em off ag'in. Now about yer questions. If ya would put' em through the chute, one at a time, 'stead of pushin' 'em up in droves, I could answer better. On the money question, I git this from old Jim. He gits hit from Joe Craig, en he got hit from Logan, so I guess hit's right. The original note was three thousand dollars. They overdrew en added some. The int'rest en costs runs hit to forty-two hundred. The grass bill is less'n three hundred. The whole biz is near forty-five hundred." "Why, a little performing elephant is worth that!" scorned the midget. "The script of a good vaudeville act would sell for twice as much. What's the matter with the local moneychangers? What's the whole thing worth anyhow? Why doesn't some diplomat wheedle old Hulls off? And why--" "How much is yer little elephant earnin' now, eatin' his head off in winter quarters?" interrupted Landy dryly. "Whar would ye show yer vaudeville act with the show places all closed? Hit's the same here en all over. "Ef I was a young man, I'd take a fling at this thing," said Landy soberly. "She's wuth about ten times the amount asked. Alice has a leetle money, not that much maybe, en she's purty tight, yit hit might be done. Old Jim Lough is cautious and reliable, but he's set the date of the comeback too far off. Cattle is gittin' scarcer every day and people must eat. I'm too old to mess in, but a youngster could take over en double his money in five years. In ten years he'd be asking ten times the price he'd paid. But with the banks closed en investors in a financial stampede, five thousand dollars can't be picked outen the sage...." "Why, Landy! I can have five thousand dollars here in five days," interrupted Davy. "If there was any way to move Hulls and Maizie out, I would deal with 'em before they dismounted." Davy waved his hand in the direction of the horsemen that had stopped at the farther corral to inspect the weaned calves. "Hulls en Maizie woulda been out long ago if they'd quit snoopin' around and let Hulls peddle a few cows to git money to travel on. I've got a musty but reliable tip Hulls is itchin' to go. Hit's too long a tale to tell without stim'lants, but Archie has sent fer Hulls en Maizie, wants 'em to come en he'p him with a roomin' house down in Arizony, whar they're a-buildin' a big dam, en things are boomin'. Hulls is shore plannin' a git-away. He thinks he can drive through en take some plunder with him. He's traded off his ridin' hosses fer harness critters. He's contracted Ike Steele fer a light spring wagon. With a little money in his pocket, Hulls is ready. You buy this thing, Son! Slip Hulls a hundred en he's out en gone. "Anyhow, let's listen to their talk. They've finished another failure en are worried. Sass 'em if ye want to, en kid 'em out of the hundred if ye can," was Landy's final caution as the party of horsemen dismounted and loitered to hear Potter and Landy's caustic comments before going to their car, parked outside the gate. Landy introduced Davy as a newcomer. "Ye should have had my podner here with ye this mornin'," badgered Landy. "His size en power mighta skeered Hulls en made him quit." Logan laughed as he pictured the midget in a contest with shaggy Hulls Barrow. "Maybe we could deal with Hulls," he said, "if we could get him away from the woman. If your young friend has a way with women, could lure Maizie out of hearing for a few moments, we could sure use him." "Well, I've never won any medals in contests for women's favors," said Davy, "but I've found that a bouquet of flattery sometimes helps. Have you tried the Rose-Chrysanthemum method?" "That's what we were trying today," said Logan resignedly, "but instead of roses and posies it turned out to be brickbats and cabbages. You see, we left the sheriff at home and took along the men from here, hoping to get past the guard line and count up what cattle is left on the place. But it was no use. The yard fence was the deadline. Maizie was right at Hull's elbow, commanding her one-man army to fire at will. Not being armed, we fell back to consolidate losses instead of gains. Have you any suggestions or plans?" Logan's reply and question was directed at Landy. Like others, in their first contact with midgets, he was giving Davy the status of a child. He could not credit him with experience or expect counsel from that source. Landy's reply was not comforting. "Wal, hit does look like a couple o' killin's en the expense of two funerals 'fore ye can git action. Old Matt, the daddy of 'em, is reported as havin' a private graveyard, scattered eround somewhar. Hit might come in handy in this emergency. In yer gaddin' around have ye ever seen enything like hit?" concluded Landy, turning to Davy. "I never did!" said the midget emphatically. "It's got more entanglements than the time Solly Monheim took the bankrupt law to escape bankruptcy. That's the way Solly explained it after his show went on the rocks at Lincoln. And anyhow," he added to Logan, "why don't you peddle the thing to someone else and let them take the grief and do the slaughtering?" "There's no slaughtering, as you call it, involved," said Logan with much dignity. "It's a lawful proceeding. If anyone is killed it will be done legally and in due process of enforcing the law." "So you left the law out of it, left the sheriff at home, and went prowling on your own. If the old belligerent had cut down on one of these cow hands this morning, everything would have been legal and orderly?" Davy's sarcasm struck home. Logan's face flushed. He realized that he was talking to an adult, not a child. He resented the criticism. But for the fact that the little man was a friend of Landy Spencer he would have made a harsh reply or ignored him entirely. "Well, just what is your interest in the matter?" he questioned. "I don't see your name on the list of bank stockholders. Maybe you are kin to the Barrows, sort of looking after their interests?" "No, I am not related to the Barrows. Never had the pleasure of ever seeing one of 'em. I don't know where they live, couldn't find the place without a guide. Wouldn't know how big it was after I'd seen it. I'm just an innocent bystander with big ears and a lot of curiosity. There is a rumor abroad that the ranch is in the hands of a receiver, that it's for sale, that the receiver is having some trouble about possession. If I could get just a few facts and find this receiver, I'd make him a proposition to buy it 'as is,' as the auctioneers sometimes say." "You have never seen the ranch?" questioned the astonished Logan. "You would bid sight-unseen for a property that you don't know where it's located--would accept a deed without possession? Young man, you need a guardian." "I had one once," retorted the midget, "and in the eight months of his management he turned over quite a lot of money to me, enough to gamble on, to buy a block of blue sky or a pig in a poke. Maybe there's enough to make a bid on a ranch, a property with a crazy man on it, armed with a gun and threatening to shoot intruders. If you are the receiver, I want to make a bid for the Bar-O ranch, as it is." "No bids are solicited," said Logan severely. "The judgment is for forty-two hundred dollars. I bid it in for that, and must account for that amount. Then there are expenses and costs being added from time to time--" "Now you've hit center," interrupted the midget. "You've pricked the sore spot. There are costs being added, and time being frittered, and nothing accomplished. It might run on this way for months, and you hoping to have the collection cleaned up and get the bank opened soon thereafter. "Now I'm wanting to help, wanting to get on the payroll. Here's how. Between now and next Thursday I'll pay you four thousand dollars for a deed to the Bar-O ranch. You make the consideration the full forty-two hundred and show, in your report, an expense of two hundred in getting possession. Then it's up to me to get old Shells, or Hulls, or what's his name, to move out. It might cost me the two hundred, it might cost a lot more; that's my lookout. Maybe the old guy won't move at all. But in any event, I shall not resort to law, won't call the sheriff to get killed or get action. With winter coming on and a woman mixed up in the case, it would be too bad to set 'em out in the snow without shelter or money." Adine Lough, more deeply interested in the outcome than any other person present, had come from the house to join the little party now congregated in front of Potter's little office building. She heard Davy's final proposition. She saw tough, seasoned old Landy Spencer furtively reach down and pat the little man on the back. "What about the cattle?" asked Finch, breaking the tension. "Are any cattle left, and how many?" Davy countered promptly. "I don't know," replied Finch sheepishly. "We didn't get to count 'em this morning. There's probably thirty or forty old cows with unweaned calves and a bull or two. Then there's a bunch of wild, unbranded yearlings, probably twenty or thirty, over on that pasture by the cliffs. He's got no feed, no hay put up, and has probably been selling off some of the better cows and calves." "How much are you set back in this debacle?" asked the midget, dropping his bantering tone. "The Bar-O ranch owes me, not the government; I have always advanced the money. Two hundred and eighty dollars. You see," Finch hastened to explain, "the government has an area in there that's rather inaccessible. They've been holding it for settlement. It's more than the Bar-O folks need, but there's no one else, unless I bring in sheep men and open up an old controversy. So, in the years past, I've haggled money out of the Barrows, just a little at a time, but we've kept friendly until now. Now, it looks like I'm up against the iron." "You're not so bad off," chuckled Davy, "you've had a fine lot of experience. Here's my proposition on your case. If the receiver accepts my offer of a deed without possession, I'll give you a hundred dollars. If I get possession in the next two years, and you allot me the grazing rights to that area, I'll pay you the balance. If I don't get possession in that time, you can charge off the balance due. Do I hear any takers?" said the little man, simulating the call of an auctioneer. "Well, I'm a taker," said Finch resignedly. "It's a rough road, but it seems the only way. What's your reaction, Logan? Are you a taker?" "I'm a taker, when there's anything to take. How are you to get the money in here?" he asked of Davy. "Without a bank, we can't handle checks or drafts. How do you plan the payment?" "Is there a telegraph station in Adot? No? Well, that's too bad. If there was a commercial pay station there, I could have the money here this afternoon. As it is, I suppose I would have to have the actual currency shipped by express to Laramie or Cheyenne. Where do you do banking?" he asked of Logan. "I have an account with the Guaranty at Laramie and with the First National at Cheyenne. I hope to have our bank here opened by the holidays." "The holidays would be too late. Hulls might kill somebody, or voluntarily move out and spoil the trade. Also, I'll have to have added money--have to open an account to get funds with which to appease Hulls or to live on, while I am working at it. I have never been in Laramie and I nearly got killed in Cheyenne, so I'll open an account at Cheyenne. If you say you'll trade, I'll get on the phone and have the cash or an acceptable draft in Cheyenne as soon as the mail can get it there." "Well, I guess I'll trade," said Logan resignedly. "This Barrow thing is the last outstanding debt due the bank. I hope the judge will approve my report of the matter, so that I can get the bank opened by Christmas. We will have to go to town and draw up a contract. Can you go today?" "Well, I will have to go somewhere to get on a long distance telephone about sending the money. Where to and how much. With the winter weather approaching, I may have to wallow through snowdrifts to get to Cheyenne, but that's a risk incident to the business." "We'll get you over to Cheyenne," interrupted Potter, who had shown deep interest in the conversation, "we'll get you over if we have to use a snow plow. Maybe you've got the magic to get this row settled. At any rate, it's worth a trial." "I have a telephone in my office at Adot," said Logan. "I am using the back room of the bank as an office. I've kept the phone." "Is there an extension on it?" asked Davy eagerly. "Yes? Fine. When I get this banker on the phone, I want you to listen in. It's an education to any man to hear Ralph Gaynor talk. He's the boss of the Dollar Savings Bank in Springfield. It isn't a big bank, just a stout one. And now all the others are looking to him for advice. Of course he'll razz me about making a venture in these hazardous times, but it will be worth your time to hear him do it." "How are we to get back from Adot?" asked the midget abruptly of Landy. "I'll take you over and bring you back," interposed Adine Lough. "I want to hear that man sass you over the phone, if he can get in a word edgewise, and you on the other end of the line." Davy laughed with the others. "Well, the parade starts promptly at eleven, the doors to the Big Show open at one, let's git goin'," said the little man, simulating a circus announcer. Adine went to the house for her hat. Potter maneuvered her roadster out to the driveway, after checking the gas and oil. Then a flushed girl, a midget man, and an aging Nestor of other days drove away on a mission that pleased them all. 12 The State Bank of Adot had been an important institution in an unimportant community. It employed three people and enlarged its chartered rights to perform many services in the little community. In the prosperous days following the World War it added to its surplus and paid fair dividends to scattered owners of limited shares. Its service was appreciated by home folks; its prosperity attracted the attention of Aaron Logan. Logan, with limited capital and an alert mind, operated a petty loan business. He traded for what-have-you. In the early twenties, he exchanged his chips and whetstones for single shares of bank stock. Arriving at a favorable status, he persuaded the bank directors to enlarge the capital to absorb his petty loan business. In 1924, he quit the "street" to accept a cushioned chair in the rear room of the bank. His experience would add caution and prudence. For, just now, the cattle business was slipping; prices were falling below the cost of production. Home folks were not buying; the rescued European nations forgot, as usual, their benefactor and dickered for meager supplies of meats and grains at other marts. America's foreign trade sank to a new low. Her thousands of merchant craft rocked listlessly and rusted quickly in stagnant waters while the false prophets of Mammon urged idle capital to pyramid a luring stock market to a glorious peak and final crash. The banks of America were the first to feel the pinch. Some waited too long--waited to dole out to a frenzied public all available cash and close the doors too late for solvency. But not so with the Bank of Adot. Aaron Logan got his order for receivership before his public went frantic and while cash was yet available. Under court order he was proceeding to thaw out the frozen items of assets, and planned to open the institution to those who would limit their withdrawals to stated amounts. He made progress in these endeavors until he bumped into the stone wall of the Barrow loan. Really, it wasn't a giant sum, as such sums are rated in banking circles, but in the present instance it represented the difference between opening a bank or keeping it closed. Aaron Logan had given the matter of this Bar-O affair much thought. He had canvassed every available prospect. In all the community there wasn't a person that would give a thin dime for a property with a defiant oldster thereon, who would certainly kill or be killed if possession was to be gained. And a killing was bad advertisement, a poor prelude to opening a bank. But in the very hour he planned to execute this last resort, a rank outsider, an unknown and uncanvassed source, a little runt of a man with more confidence and assurance than his size would warrant, was offering to take over the ranch and assume the problem. Aaron Logan regarded it as a slender chance--could not believe that one so small could have earned so much--but he would take the chance. He headed his car up Willow Street to stop at the bank's rear door. He waved Adine to a favorable parking space. "I will call Mr. Limeledge, my lawyer, to draw up a contract," he said as the party of five were seated in the back room. "Well, that's hardly necessary," said Davy. "If you jot down a memo that you will make a deed to David Lannarck to the Bar-O ranch upon payment, on or before October 18th, 1932, of four thousand dollars in cash and a probable expenditure of two hundred dollars in getting possession, and sign it, I will also sign it and it will be an agreement. But before we do anything, I want to get on the phone to see if I can contact Ralph Gaynor. None of you folks really know me. I want you to listen in so that we can get acquainted. Here's the money for the long distance call," he added. "Tell the operator that it's OK." Aaron Logan didn't like being told what to do, especially by a little cocksure midget. But there was the matter of getting rid of a bad problem. He complied with Davy's request. "This is David Lannarck at phone fifty. I want to talk to Ralph Gaynor, at phone BA two hundred in the Dollar Savings Bank in Springfield. Yes, that's the state. I should have said so, for it's a grand old commonwealth. I'll be right here for an hour." In the lull of waiting, Aaron Logan wondered--wondered how one so small hoped to depose one so fierce and stubborn. He would find out. "Do you think you can get Hulls and Maizie out of there by Thanksgiving?" he inquired politely. "It doesn't really matter," said David languidly. "But I must try to get acquainted with 'em; make friends with 'em if I can." "Why do you hope to persuade 'em to get off?" exclaimed the astonished receiver. "I've seen 'em. They're impossible." "Maybe you didn't see 'em at their best," replied the midget quietly. "I've never seen either of them, but I've had several descriptions from others and this Maizie shows possibilities." "Possibilities for what?" snorted Logan. "That woman is a she-devil that would commit murder to gain her ends. She wouldn't listen to a governor granting her a reprieve. And anyhow, what are her possibilities?" "I understand, from descriptions, that she is of the gypsy type--dark, languid, glamorous. If she's all that, I can place her." Davy's reply was slow and indifferent. Now he brightened up to add: "Say, when I get on the phone, shall I tell him to send me a draft on a Denver bank or shall I tell him to ship the cold cash by express, or wire it to Cheyenne by Western Union?" "Cold cash is never out of place in paying a bill, but if you have a draft sent to the First National in Cheyenne, we can go there and make the transfer. I need to go to Cheyenne anyhow." "And I need some added cash," said Davy Lannarck. "I'll have 'em make the draft for five thousand. The First National can split it as we direct." Davy made much of jotting down notes; Landy Spencer sat quietly, his face immobile; Adine Lough went to the window ostensibly to dab on make-up, but really to suppress smiles and stifle laughter. A man of importance--a bank receiver, an arm of the court--was being kidded and he didn't know it. In the drive across country from the B-line ranch, the three in the roadster planned and outlined their conduct at this proposed conference at the bank. Landy related fully the incident as to why he knew that Hulls Barrow and Maizie planned a quick getaway. Landy had contacted Ike Steele only a day or two ago and Ike's story of the wagon trade unfolded the plot. Stripped of inconsequential details, Ike's story follows: Ugly Collins, a former resident, was back on important business. Ugly had left the country a decade ago, following his acquittal for petty thieving. In his driftings about, he landed in Las Vegas. There he contacted another former resident in the person of Archie Barrow. Archie was in the money. He was sole proprietor of a big rooming house in a community that was being congested with trainloads of steel, cement, derricks, and cluttered with humanity who had come to build, and were building, a great dam in the nearby Colorado River. Archie needed help to carry on a business that had increased a hundredfold. He recalled his brother Hulls, who might be useful, but he particularly recalled the executive capacities of Maizie. She was badly needed to prod the Mexican women in their labors of making beds and sweeping rooms that were occupied twice daily. But Archie knew it would be useless to write to a brother that never went to the post office and was remote from rural deliveries. He was happy to contact Ugly Collins. And just now, Ugly had two objectives: one, to get away from a place where work was paramount; the other, to get back to Adot and look after a possible inheritance. He understood that his mother had died, leaving the little homestead that surely should have sold for more than mere funeral expenses. A deal was quickly made. Archie would pay train fare and Ugly would contact Hulls and Maizie; would move the bankrupts out of trouble and poverty to an Eldorado of prosperity. For once in his varied and useless career Ugly performed a successful mission. Hulls and Maizie readily agreed to the plan. They would drive through--taking with them needed and useful plunder. Having seen Maizie, Ugly decided he would travel back with them. All details for the trip were now completed, except that a little more expense money was badly needed. Landy cautioned Ike Steele not to disclose the proposed move to anyone else. Vaguely, Landy entertained the hope that someone--just who, he had not planned--would buy the Bar-O. Acting on a hunch, he "touched" his sister Alice for a hundred. On the drive-in, Adine stopped the car while Davy invoiced his available cash at sixty-five dollars. These conspirators now planned that immediately after a contract was signed, Landy would search out Ike Steele, give him the hundred dollars, to be given to Ugly Collins when the party was loaded and on their way. Ike would be paid a personal ten, if he got it done. And these conspirators made other plans. Knowing that in the interval of getting phone connections they would be beset with furtive questions from a curious executive. What was he going to do with the ranch? how did he plan to get the resisters off? and other pertinent questions, they planned for evasive answers. "Leave that to me," said Mr. Lannarck. "I think I can parry every thrust, can lead him through a mystic maze of information that will pile up a lot of useless knowledge." And the little man was getting along very well with his assignment, as Adine polished her nose at the window and Landy Spencer sat quietly, seeming uninterested in mere worldly affairs. "You were speaking of employment awhile ago," said the persistent Logan. "You spoke of 'placing' Maizie. Do you conduct that kind of an agency?" "No," said Davy, still busy with his notes. "In Maizie's case, I would have to buy out the business, plan the details of her dress and appearance, and 'plant' her as a 'front'--a 'come-on'--for the suckers' money." The bewildered receiver had let the craft of conversation drift into strange waters. Was he dealing with a moron or a maniac? Except that this was the only bid he had ever had--the only prospect in sight--for a deal that would open a bank, he would take the phone, cancel the call and dismiss the conference. In desperation he would make another try. "Well, I don't know what you are talking about, but I do know this Maizie woman. If these places you speak of call for a stubborn hellion, then you've got the right party. But I would like to know just where she could be made into a useful thing?" "I wasn't thinking of her temperament," said Davy as he folded up his memorandum. "She's described as the gypsy type. Such a type is valuable when properly placed. Were you ever at Coney Island?" he asked abruptly. "No? Well, it's a resort, a playground, down New York way. Henry Hudson landed here, and many another Dutchman has been 'landed' and made regrettable discoveries right on this same spot. It has a bathing beach where the gals show what they've got and fat men flounder and cavort far beyond their capacities. Up from the beach is the midway proper--a carnival or street fair, with bandstands and dance platforms, peep shows, free shows, and legits. At the proper season these places are alive with spenders. They bring in carloads of money and take away nothing more tangible than experience. Why, Mister Logan, a man of your talents could spend profitable days at Coney Island in the study of financial circulation, could write a book, entitled 'The Slippery Dollar; Its Origin, Its Travels, Its Destination'! Some of these dollars have origin in work and sweat and some stem from blood and tears, but all--" "And just where in this mess would this Maizie woman belong?" interrupted Logan desperately. "Your recital is interesting, but it doesn't get to the point. Where and why would you place her?" "Why, I'd place her as a 'front' down at the fortune-teller's booth," replied Davy quickly. "I'd either buy out--or buy in--with Tony Garci, who has a concession, and plant Maizie right at the tent-flap as a 'come-on.' Her name would have to be Madame Tousan, or Princess Caraza, or some such, and she would have to dress the part. Black and red, maybe, with plastered hair and a coppery skin. A quart of rings and bracelets on each hand and arm, horseshoe earrings, and a big ostrich fan. Never a word of English, mind you! She'd just wave the fan to the entrance and inner glories where Tulu Garrat, Tony's wife, would read palms, or the crystal ball, and take the money." Davy, too, was getting a bit anxious. He was running out of details. He glanced at the phone, hoping for relief. None came. He rambled on. "If I ran this fortune-telling dump, I'd lift it out of the ten-twent'-thirt' class, to an even smacker--maybe two. I'd give 'em a written reading with 'a hunch' in it. They all play hunches down there. Hoss racing, stock market, numbers rackets, and such. They'd play my hunches. If they win, I'd have wide advertisement; if they lose, nothing said. "Off hand, I'd say the racket was good for a 'grand' a week. Maizie would get fifty, Tony and his wife a hundred smackers, another fifty for the concession. In ten weeks, I could pay for the Bar-O and have--" The telephone rang. "If that's for me," said the little man to Aaron Logan, "get on that extension and listen to the story of a misspent life, for I'll try to get him to tell it." As the conversation was both spoken and heard, both are here given. "Hello, hello. Yes, this is David Lannarck. Hello, Ralph. This is your midget friend Davy. I'm in Adot--yes, that's what I said--what they all say.... A dot on what? It's out of Cheyenne--a good ways out. But I want to do business as of Cheyenne. I want you to send a Denver draft to The First National Bank at Cheyenne for five thousand dollars, to arrive there before the eighteenth of October." The phone was working splendidly; even those without an earpiece could hear the over-production. "This is a fine time to separate a bank from assets. What are you buying? Blue sky or a phony gold mine?" "Neither one," said Davy promptly. "It's a ranch--with an old man on it--with a gun, defying all comers." "Why, I thought the old cattle wars were all over," came the reply. "I suppose, on account of your size, you hope to slip through the guard line." "Naw," replied Davy, "it really doesn't matter whether the old man gets off or stays on. It's ten sections. If things brighten up a bit, it looks worth the money." "Ten sections?" came the astonished inquiry. "How will you ever see it all--you with short legs?" "Why, I've got a hoss," said Davy proudly, "I've got the finest hoss west of the Big River. He can do tricks too. By spring I can have him doing stunts that will make Bill Reviere's act look like a practice stunt." "Well, God help poor sailors on a night like this, and midgets too. But at that, I think you are in the right groove. Things will loosen up; they've got to. Have your title examined carefully. See that your grantor is responsible." "I'm buying it from a bank receiver. It's a part of the frozen assets," interrupted Davy. "The bank is to reopen when this is settled." "Now let me get this right. You want a Denver draft, sent to you, care of the First National Bank in Cheyenne, Wyoming, for five thousand dollars." The words were slowly said as if a memorandum was being made. "All right. The item will go out this evening. Good luck and a prosperous investment." "Hold on, Ralph, just a minute. I'm in that bank that's to reopen. The phone here has an extension. The fellow with whom I am dealing is on that extension. No one out here knows me--I need an introduction. Will you briefly tell 'em who I am?" "Well, that's bad," came a laughing reply. "It might ruin everything. But here goes. Mister Receiver, David Lannarck, with whom I am talking, is a midget--nearly forty inches tall and about thirty years of age. He was born here, inherited a comfortable estate that we manage--collect his rents, pay his taxes and repair bills. We also pay his generous church contributions and charity donations. He has never drawn a cent from the accumulations. For the last decade I have seen little of him. He travels extensively--in vaudeville, with circuses. He comes back about once a year to deposit his earnings. These we keep separately because that's the way he wants it. He writes no checks. Simply tells us what to do, and we do it. Only once before this has he called on us. That was a train wreck and an injury that interrupted his routine. He phoned for us to pay bills and we paid 'em, as we are paying this one. "He's affable, charitable to those he likes, talks the jargon of the circus people, and is, with all, a truthful, likeable chap. Is there anything else, Mister Receiver?" "Thank you, Ralph, and good-by," said Davy as he hung up. Hastily Aaron Logan prepared a memo stating the terms of the sale. Adine Lough made a copy. Both were signed by both interested parties, then Davy paid Finch fifty dollars on his contract and the meeting adjourned. Davy and Adine went to Jode's restaurant for a bite to eat. Landy went in search of Ike Steele to post a deposit for a quick getaway and, strange as it may seem, Aaron Logan sought the same person and with a similar purpose. 13 Adine Lough had high rating in the community affairs of Adot. Her zeal for higher education, her church work, and her general deportment gave her contact with the better element that was trying to modernize--trying to lift a community up and out of the rawness of frontier days. But if the critics, the estimators of social standing, had seen her and her associates on this fine October afternoon, they would have moved her down several rungs on the social ladder. She was in close conference with a midget, an ex-circus man, out of work and advertised widely to give a talk at the warehouse Saturday night! (They would hear this talk before making a final estimate.) And Adine's other conferee was old Landy Spencer, a notorious resister of progress, who spoke in the language of other days, whose appearance--from battered hat to narrow bootheels--simply pictured the undesirable past; his associates, when he came to town, were of the rabble--the lower stratum. Very true, in other days, the bank had given him a rating as not needing endorsers if he sought a loan. Very true, Judge Sample had stated publicly that he would accept Landy Spencer's word without the formalities of being sworn, but as a social factor in the community, Landy didn't know where the social ladder was located, let alone about reaching the lower rung. And all afternoon Adine Lough was in close conference with such as these! Landy returned to Jode's place sooner than he was expected. There was a sheepish grin on his weathered face. "They beat me to hit," he said in a low voice as Jode went back to the stove for his steak and potatoes. (His companions were munching wafers and drinking chocolate milk.) "Ike had already been en done hit." Being served, and with Jode in the kitchen, the aged courier disclosed the results of his mission. "Ye don't tell Ike what's on yer mind; jist give him rope, git him started, en he'll come from under cover. I went to his shop en he wasn't workin'. Seemed to be waitin'. I prodded in, en he unfolded that he was waitin' for Logan. Our Logan, ye understand. Hit whetted my int'rest; I prodded ag'in, en with results. Ike said that Logan came to his shop Tuesday. He'd seen Ugly Collins a-hangin' 'round Ike's place, en he wanted a quick move by Ugly. He slipped Ike two new twenty-dollar bills en told him to loan 'em to Ugly if he made a quick git-away. Ike did as d'rected. Ugly come en got the wagon this atternoon. Promised that he'd load tonight en be on the road by midnight. "Well! That settled the coffee! I didn't keer to hang eround eny more. But I did want a whit more information. Did Logan know that old Hulls en Maizie were included? 'Naw,' scorned Ike, 'Logan didn't even know that Ugly knew 'em--didn't know that Ugly had ever been at the Bar-O. Logan didn't know about the wagon. Thought the forty was about right for train fare. He jist wanted Ugly out of the country en I got hit done,' says Ike. "I didn't keer to meet Logan--then. I remembered that I had some boots at Billy's fer half solin', en I slipped Ike a five spot with the caution that he was to say nothin' in his report to Logan about who was in Ugly's party. Ike wanted me to stay en listen to his ideas as to why Logan wanted a quick move by Ugly, but I already had my notions about that. I slipped away fast. But in comin' here I remembered that I hadn't left eny boots with Billy." Landy finished his steak and story about the same time. "Well, do you think they will get away tonight?" asked Davy eagerly. "Is there any way that we can hang around and find out? Why would Logan want this Ugly party to get out of the country? Why can't we--" "Thar ye go! Crowdin' the question-chute. Son, ye orta number 'em, en I could answer by number. Anyhow, let's git goin'! Hit's a long ways home--with a change of cars at the B-line, en the last lap ain't fit fer night ridin'. We can talk while we ride. Out thar, Jode won't be hangin' around, shufflin' the dishes en tryin' to get an earful. Let's go." On the way home, Adine Lough was the happy one of the trio. The revealing incidents of the day had cleared away the threatening dark financial cloud. Now if her father could only be brought home with the assurance of his getting well, her cup of happiness would be overflowing. Just now, she was planning an added chapter to her thesis, "Welfare Work in Rural Communities." She would touch on the subject of "Aid from Unexpected Sources," for she had experienced just that! In the events of the day, it was revealed that a little, unknown midget of a man, with a doubtful background, was indeed a man, mentally, morally, and financially. Back of his cynicism--often expressed in the jargon of the underworld--was an alert mind that could lead an inquisitor into a maze of unaccomplishments. Too, in said thesis, she would make some radical changes in the paragraphs touching on "influences of pioneer habits and traits in community upbuilding, etc." The recent conduct and tactful accomplishments of Landy Spencer were the reasons for such a change. Heretofore, she had welcomed old Landy as a visitor to the B-line for the reason that Grandaddy liked him, wanted to confab and badger about the old days. She had casually learned that Landy had had to work as a boy, as a youth, and as a young man, that he had accumulated enough so that he could now enjoy the play-days once denied him. Yes, she would change her notes to say: "uncouth verbiage and slatternly dress are often assets in gaining information and are no hindrance in granting loyalty and devotion." The journey home, despite the uncertainties pending, was a joy-ride for the two. Landy, as was his wont, clutched the armrest of the car and said nothing. Time was, when safe in a saddle, he had thrown reins to the wind "en allowed that critter a spell of fancy worm-fence buckin', but a-ridin' a auto wuz dangerous business." Arriving at the B-line stables, the party paused for a final conference. Tomorrow would be Friday. In the early hours Davy and Landy would make a furtive visit to the Bar-O ranch to see if Ugly Collins had carried out his plans to evacuate the resisters. "Maybe they set fire to the house or poisoned the cattle," suggested Davy. Landy poo-pooed the idea. "They're on a slow train," he explained. "In that outfit they can't do over six miles an hour. A fire would announce their malice, en a sheriff would overtake 'em before they reached North Gate. They don't know about cattle-pizen--thar's no loco weed around here." Saturday was the date of the entertainment in Adot. Davy and Landy would ride over to the B-line and go to town in Adine's roadster. In Adot, Davy would again contact Logan and fix the date to meet him in Cheyenne on Monday. "That check--the draft thing--will be there by that time," was Davy's opinion. "I hope I can pry Welborn loose from his digging and delving long enough to take me over that road again." "You don't have to do that," interposed Adine. "I'll drive you to Cheyenne. I'm as anxious as anyone to get this thing settled. This Bar-O thing has been a neighborhood problem, an obsession, a thorn in the flesh, ever since Grandaddy was a young man. I want to be a party in removing the thorn. I'll have Joe and Myrah to look after Grandaddy, and I'll have Mister Potter to look after Joe and Myrah and everything will be all right. "But you'll have to meet me at Carter's filling station," she cautioned. "I'll have to drive through Adot and around that way. I can't drive across the valleys and ridges as you horsemen ride them. So we'll meet at the filling station at seven-thirty. We will be in Cheyenne long before noon." "Hi ya, Potter," called Landy as they were saddling the horses. "I want you to order a set of shoes for this colt." "I've got a set. I tried 'em; they fit. But he won't need shoes this winter; he's better off without 'em. If a bunglin' mechanic over thar will leave his feet alone he'll be all right till spring." Landy regarded the gibe as irrelevant. The saddle invited. Once aboard and before they reached the Ranty he was detailing answers to some of Davy's questions. "This Logan party ain't exactly crooked but thar's some noticeable bends in his career. When they baptized him they ought to have given him another dip. 'Course, he gits his money by pinchin' en scrougin' en this Ugly Collins affair goes a leetle beyond the limit. "This Ugly was borned here. His right name is Clarence, but early someone branded him Ugly, en because he resented hit, the name stuck. He wasn't so ugly--jist ornery. His daddy died; his mother lived on a little place in town, up-crick from the bridge. Ugly wasn't a roarin' success as a producer--jist idled and fuddled until he got to be a man. Then he got indicted with others fer robbin' a little tannery that was operatin' down the crick. This tannery was mostly out of doors. They was charged with stealin' leather, but in the testimony it showed that Ugly didn't steal leather--jist knives en other plunder. He was flung loose. He left the country. That was twelve years ago. In all these years, no one in Adot was compelled to look on Ugly Collins. Not till last week did the public know he was alive. Even then thar was no gineral rejoicin'--nobody killed a fatted calf. "Now Ugly's mother died three years ago. A dear, uncomplainin' old soul, the funeral was conducted by Romine, the undertaker, and was attended by many. Of course Romine would have to be paid. He got Logan to administer the estate. He had had Logan to do this in other cases. They understood each other very well. "They found but little personal property. Although Ann Griggs, a neighbor, said the old lady Collins had been savin' funeral money fer years--had it hidden in a fruit jar, no sich fund was found. The real estate would have to be sold to pay the claim. "Except fer Ugly, they was no heirs, en Ugly didn't answer roll-call. By order of the court, Ugly was pronounced dead. Simmy Gordon, the village cut-up, said hit was a cheap funeral fer Ugly en good riddance. But Simmy was wrong, as usual. The home was sold--by fine print--hit was bid in by Romine fer about the price of his bill and the costs. Later Romine deeded hit to another, who in turn deeded hit to Logan, who now owns hit, en the yearly income would pay a funeral bill--with flowers. "Ugly's return at this critical time rather upset Logan's plans. Hit would interfere with his gittin' a bank opened and himself back on the payroll. If Ugly had been flush with funds, had employed lawyer Gregory to git Ugly's death-order rescinded, en pried into the details of the old lady's estate, hit would have blowed the lid off. Hit would have shore been bricks and cabbages fer Logan, right when he's plannin' a posie shower. "Forty dollars was none too big to fend off the disaster. But where Logan missed the gap in the fence was that he didn't inquire as to details. He knew Ugly come in by train. He thought the forty would be expended in the same way." The two reached the Gillis home as the lady was lighting the lamp and setting out the evening meal. "Why, you and that girl must be preparing a lengthy address," she said to Davy jestingly. "That gal and I have surely had a busy day. We've certainly upset some precedents, broken some rules, and maybe some laws. Your brother here was a full participant, a co-conspirator, and was awarded the Medal of Intrigue by Mister Potter, when the meeting closed. But excuse me," said the now jovial midget as he walked away. "I just can't look at those baking-powder biscuits without grabbing one; I'm that wolfish." During the meal, Davy invited Landy to tell of the day's happenings. "Yer new boarder here bought the Bar-O ranch--trouble en all," said Landy quietly. "En he's plannin' to promote the circus business by raisin' a lot more lions, tigers, hyenas, en sich. He's got a good start now, en he plans a glorious finish." The news electrified the Gillises. It provoked much discussion and required many explanations. It allowed Davy time to eat a hearty meal. Finishing, he pushed back his chair to state some final conditions. "And I'll not complete the final contract, not pay down a cent and throw up the whole thing, unless Mister Landy Spencer, here seated, pledges that he will join in with me in working the thing out to a final victory. No, I don't mean that he's to pay out anything, I'll pay all, but he's to say that he will stay with me, that he'll manage the thing, plan production, hire the help, and get things going. And we'll divide the profits. This depression can't last. Already the wise ones are hearing the death rattle and last gasp. But it will take some time to recover and we must be ready when the bulge comes. Maybe there are some old cows over there that Landy says are dear at ten dollars a head. There are some unweaned calves, and a few unbranded yearlings that will just about pay the cost of their roundup. But that's the foundation on which we are to build. What do you say, podner? Are you with me?" "In yer listin' of assets, ye haven't invoiced Maizie," said Landy. "Early this afternoon, I heard ye pricin' her to Logan at a thousand dollars a week. En ye haven't catalogued Hulls en the bulls, mebbe they're wuth more than all the rest. Shore I'll he'p ye. Hit'll be a pleasure to hear ye try to mesmerize Maizie like ye did Logan, tellin' her of this Coony Island place en the fortune tellers. We'll go over thar in the mornin' early en I'll watch ye hypnotize her en Hulls, like ye did Logan. 'Course, if they're gone, that's our loss. We'll invoice the remnants en leavin's, en take a fresh start." Davy was early to bed but his rest was broken in trying to picture the probable conduct of two persons he had never seen. In his dreams, old Hulls and his threatening gun was a commonplace figure. But back of him, and in command, was the garish image of a black-haired, copper-complexioned virago, whose imperious death-dealing edicts recalled his early readings of Sir Walter and his vivid picturings of Helen, wife of Rob Roy, in her judgments of the fate of a common enemy. He was glad that daylight came to dispel the mental mirage. "I never saw Landy so interested," said Mrs. Gillis, as she placed Davy's high chair at the table. "He was out feeding the horses long before Jim did the milking, and that's unusual. Landy likes you--likes to do the things you plan. Of course Landy has earned a rest, but there's too many that rust out when they rest up. Landy is that kind. He needs to be interested in something. He's had a lot of experience in the cattle business, and with your energy and planning and his experience, you ought to make a lot of money when this depression is over." "Well, I'm not so interested in the money-making as I am in making a success out of this liability. Of course I want it to pay its own way, pay for improved livestock, buildings, fencing, and the like. But I'm not much interested in piling up useless money in a resisting bank. Of course, when Ralph Gaynor comes out to visit us--he's the gent that introduced me over the phone--when Ralph comes out, he'd like to see a fat bank account and talk woozy stuff of safety margins, earned increments and that crazy rot, but I yearn to show him a going concern, a likeable thing, prideful of its upbuilding. "Landy and I will get along all right. He's the only one of you that sasses back, offers objections, overrules plans. He won't like it at all if I'm out with the colt and a couple of beagle hounds chasing jack rabbits when there's hay to put up, but that's the way we'll get along. "Landy will fuss if we can introduce electricity on the ranch, but he will weaken a little when he finds that it grinds the feed, refrigerates a whole beef, and cooks a meal without splitting kindling. And if a little surplus money accumulates, he would totally veto the plan of laying out a Spanish patio enclosing fine white buildings with red tile roofs and fancy grilles--" "Why, that would be fine!" exclaimed the listener. "Would you do that?" "Naw," said the midget, "but if the occasion arises, I will introduce the subject just to see my old mentor paw around and fling dirt. It will keep him from rusting out, as you call it." "Do you plan moving over there--if you get possession?" "No, I will live, or rather headquarter, with Welborn as long as he lets me. Landy says that a rough, hazardous trail just back of our house leads directly to the near corner of the property. It's the route of the old proposed road to the Tranquil Meadows. We're to try that trail this morning, and I will have to stop and tell Welborn what I am doing. He will be surprised, but not interested. Welborn is self-centered on getting some 'quick' money. When he gets that done he's going to be busy using it, either to straighten out his own financial affairs or to down or suppress some financier that has busted in on his plans. In either event, we will lose him. Welborn doesn't belong out here. He belongs in the jam, the crush, the mob, where they strive only for personal gain--either in bulking up a lot of money or acquiring personal rank or status. He's young, industrious and impetuous; he might get it done. It's a great game, I'm told; it engenders some joy and a lot of grief. Personally, I'd rather put in the time handling a pup or growing a clutch of chickens." Landy's appearance with the saddled horses interrupted the discussion. 14 The path over which Landy guided his little partner may have been an animal trail before the days of the intrusion of the white men. It had its beginnings in a little unnoticeable niche at the Welborn cabin. It wound a narrow way along the face of the cliff and led down and around to cross a quick-flowing brook that farther down was to take the name "Mad Trapper's Fork." Halfway down, Landy pointed out that some blasting here and a bridge there would make a serviceable thoroughfare. Davy was fairly busy in retaining his saddle-seat as Peaches followed old Frosty around the dangerous turns. At the halt, and during Landy's remarks, he gazed at the towering peaks on the one side and the yawning ravine on the other, and suggested that he, Landy, could no doubt construct the proposed improvement some afternoon when he was resting from his strenuous work in the hay field. The sarcasm was ignored. Landy searched out a convenient crossing of the little stream. Once out of the stream bed the party was to encounter a vast tableland of grazing ground that seemed bounded by hills and peaks on all sides--the Tranquil Meadows. It was Davy's time to halt the procession. As was his custom, he rode Peaches in front of Frosty and stopped for an extended inspection. "A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou Beside me, singing in the Wilderness--Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!" chanted the little man as he gazed from peak to pinnacle. "Say, Landy! I once dreamed of this place, and I didn't leave out a detail. I was waiting for a delayed train at Peru for a jump to Buffalo to join up a Keith circuit. At the station there was a pestering drunk with his 'how-come' stuff and two simpering women with their 'ain't-he-cute' rot. I was tired. I'd had a tough season. That summer, there was a big crop of gawks and I had encountered all of 'em. I wanted to quit the game--wanted to hide out. On the sleeper, I dreamed of this place. I was on a horse--a big, fat ring-horse, with a pad. I rode right through a bunch of cattle. I held on with more zeal than did old Fisheye Gleason when he fell on the back of the hippopotamus at the start of the Grand Entry.... Say," the midget interrupted his reverie, "just about how far away from this Paradise Bowl is this Bar-O hangout?" "The Bar-O is the lid to yer Gravy Bowl," replied the Nestor. "Hit's that line of hills to the no'th, en winds up in this crumpled mess of hills here at the east end. This last section is called The Cliffs. If thar's any loose yearlin's left, they'll be thar. We'll edge around that away en then swing over to where old Matt laid out a path to the southern settlements." On the way to the Cliffs, Landy recounted much local history. "They wuz wild cattle in these ravines long before the surveyors surrounded old Matt with their lines. No one knew whar they come from nor to who they belonged. Old Matt simply absorbed 'em, as he did anything else that was loose. They were his foundation stock. That's why there are so many yaller-hammers en pennariles among 'em. Once er twice old Matt forgot to put up hay en his livestock wintered in them ravines en pawed in the snow fer what grass they got. Hit wasn't so bad. A cow-brute won't thrive in close quarters; they're better off with jist a wind-break en rain-shelter. But look out when hit's calvin' time! A cow will pick out the night of the big snow en drop her calf right in hit. I've often wondered if the colleges that teach farmin' en sich, ever tackled en solved that heavy problem: 'Is hit better to fret en worry a cow by pennin' her up in a clean box-stall, er allowin' her in cheerful contentment to go off by herse'f en have her calf in the fringe of a mudhole at the far away corner?'" Davy was looking about as he listened. Here was the tremendous spectacle of which he had dreamed. It was a spoken drama in technicolor. Frosty pricked up his ears. Landy veered the course to the right. A bunch of yellowish red calves were startled out of a willow clump and turned to watch the intruders. As the horsemen rode around to the east and north they resumed their grazing. Near the mouth of another ravine a few more were encountered. "There're thirty-seven of 'em," said Landy, as the party completed the circle, "en that's about twice as many as I expected. They're in good flesh. With plenty of hay this winter en a mite of grain, they would do for quick feeders next fall." "Well, you couldn't feed 'em away off out here, could you?" demanded Davy. "Shore!" said the expert. "There's more shelter out here than in them propped-up stables at the Bar-O. The B-line's got about five times as much hay as they need. We ought to be able to wheedle that gal out of a few stacks. But haulin' hay in breast-deep snow is some job. Hit ought to be under way right now. If old Hulls has quit out, en we git action, I'll talk to Potter en them loafers at the B-line en try to git a few ricks tucked away in here before snow comes. A few blocks of salt, scattered around, will keep 'em from diggin' dirt er huntin' a lick." And now the inspectors turned west to follow cattle paths over an undulating terrain for at least two miles. Here a double trail was encountered. Landy rode for a distance in both directions looking intently for signs. "Ugly Collins has either lost his time-card er has traded his wagon fer a airyplane," said the mentor. "Mebbe Maizie has delayed the take-off to finish her war with Logan. At any rate, they haven't left a wagon track. Let's go by the house. I'll introduce ye as a circus man from Springfield that's visitin' en lookin'. If ya can interest Maizie so I kin talk to Hulls private, hit will he'p a lot." "Not me!" interposed the little man hastily, "just leave me out of this local war. I've got a date with some church folks tomorrow night. But I don't want to be carried in feet foremost and hear the preacher talk about 'the many mansions and green pastures.' Isn't there some way that we can by-pass this Maizie and her orders 'to kill on sight'?" "Why, I thought ya wanted to meet Maizie," chuckled Landy, "thought ye wanted to contract her fer fortune tellin' down at that island place? Anyhow," continued the raconteur in a serious vein, "there's no chance fer a row. I know Hulls, I knew his daddy, old Matt. He knows I'm no sheriff a lookin' fer trouble. He'll talk to me like a friend. I'm jist out here a-showin' my circus friend the scenery. He'll talk to me all friendly like, en Maizie will be tickled at yer size en talk about circuses en sich. Speak up to her. Tell her that she belongs in this fortune-tellin' business. Cut up a few of yer dance capers--git her interested--en I'll find out why they ain't on the road to a getaway." Landy turned into the double track that led north followed by a reluctant midget. He watched the paths for signs of recent travel but continued his recitations of local history. "These Barrow folks ain't bad--jist ornery. Hit's due to breedin' en custom, fer they are part Injun. Old Matt told me so, one time when I was over here a-lookin' fer lost horses. Matt said his mother was a Ute--full-blooded en tribe-raised. Now, Injuns don't have much regard fer personal property. Except fer their arms en blanket all else is jist common plunder fer anyone. The deer in the thicket, the fish in the streams, and the birds in the air belong to the feller that gits 'em. 'Course, Matt absorbed the wild cattle, en any other cattle he found on the loose. He didn't want any cattle brand--jist play the game his fashion, 'finders are takers,' same as fish er wild ducks. "Sich a plan didn't set well with the white settlers that was tryin' to put down cattle thefts. Old Matt got a bad reputation en he didn't try to correct hit. He matched Injun cunnin' agin the 'white laws' en got ostracized. He raised his boys by the same standards. This Hulls is jist dumb en ornery but Archie was smart. He l'arned to read, en when Maizie came, he l'arned to write en cipher after he was a grown man. If Archie got the express company's money--en hit sorta looks like he did--he was smart enough to 'duck out' with hit. Maizie knows that Archie is smart. She wants-- "Look thar!" he interrupted to point at wagon tracks in the dust. "Hit looks like a getaway had been vetoed. Changed their minds," he added as he pointed to a sharp turn in the tracks and a return to the beaten way farther along to the north. "Now hit's anybody's guess as to what's happened." Landy was about to dismount for a closer examination when he again interrupted. "They went back to git a fresh start," he exclaimed as he pointed to a two-horse wagon approaching from between the low hills. "Now jist keep yer shirt on," he cautioned Davy. "Yer a circuser, out here on a visit. I'm a-showin' ye the neighborhood. Let's keep ridin' en be surprised like." The two rode the double trail to turn out when the wagon stopped. "Howdy, folks," was Landy's greeting. Ugly Collins was driving. Hulls Barrow was in the seat beside him with a rifle across his knees. Maizie was on a low chair in the rear, surrounded by bedding, boxes, tables, chairs, and all manner of household wares that piled high, were held in place by stakes and stout ropes. "Why, hit's old Landy Spencer," said Hulls as he returned the gun to its place on his knees. "What's got ye outen the bed so early?" "I was harassed outa bed by this pesterin' friend of mine who left the circus at Cheyenne to come out fer a visit en to view the scenery. I want ye to meet him, en he'p me answer his questions. Folks, meet Mister Davy Lannarck, a circuser, that's curious to see how en whar we live. Davy, that's my old friend Mister Hulls Barrow, en that's Mister Collins, en you are Miss Maizie, I take hit," Landy added as Maizie stood up to see what was going on. "My young friend here was cut down to a boy's size in heft en stature but he shore makes up the difference in askin' questions en in gaddin' about. When he roused me out this mornin' to go gaddin', I planned to swing around this way en let you all he'p me. But from the looks of things, you folks musta got word that we were comin' en are makin' a hasty move to avoid sich a visit." The men may have smiled at Landy's quip but Maizie laughed aloud. "It's the other way," she said. "You put off your visit until you saw that we were moving; then you come, expecting to be entertained. Had you come two weeks ago we could have helped." "I wasn't here two weeks ago," interposed Davy. "Then we were in the Northwest, looking for a town with enough money to pay the feed bills and freight on a lot of circus animals. In fact, we had put in the summer looking for such a place and never did find it." "Well, we're going to where there's money--plenty of it," said Maizie. "Take me along," pleaded the midget. "I haven't seen 'loose money' since we opened the ticket wagon at Grand Park in April." "What's this, Hulls!" demanded Landy. "Are ye shiftin' pastures?" "I shore am!" replied Hulls emphatically. "I'm gittin' outa the thistles en sage to whar thar's decent folks. I'm a-leavin' these hellions to rot in their tracks while I have a few days of peace en quiet. But don't say anything, Landy, until we git goin' en outa the country." "Shore I won't!" pledged Landy. "That's your business--not theirs. Have ye laid out a considerable trip?" "Yes, we're goin' to Nevady, down whar they're buildin' a big water-dam. Archie's down thar; makin' money a-plenty. There's a big stir on down thar. Everybody's a-workin' en Archie wants our he'p." "Well, I'm sorry yer a-leavin' but I'm glad fer this chance. I've wanted to see Archie ever since he he'ped me git them cattle across the Ranty that time. I owe him and now I've got a chance to pay." Here Landy searched a bill out of his billfold and handed it to Hulls. "Tell Archie that that ought to take keer of debt en int'rest. Ye see, I didn't have any money with me that day, en anyhow, Archie poo-pooed the idee of pay at the time, but I always want to pay for he'p thataway. But I never saw Archie again en I'm glad of this chance to ease my mind." Hulls folded the bill and put it in his pocket. He looked at the sun. "I expect that we'd better git goin'; we've put in the whole night a-loadin' up, en we got down here a piece en found out that we forgot the dog en we had to go back. En say, Landy," he called as the wagon started, "I forgot to turn them bulls out to worter. If ye go out that way, will ye open the gate en let 'em out?" The rattle of the wagon repressed the eager reply. Landy resumed the way to the north; Davy waited to watch the wagon and its little cloud of dust disappear over a distant swell. When he rejoined his friend he rode in front of Frosty to halt for a conference. "You've made the right estimate, Landy, they're not bad people. As hurried as they were, they had time to go back a mile or two for the dog. People that do that sort of things are not bad. I feel sorry for 'em." "Well, yer sorrow is sorta misplaced; they're havin' the time of their young lives. Hulls is a-gettin' out of a mess that had no other outlet; Maizie is to see a lot of new scenery en will git to he'p Archie spend the money; Ugly is a-gittin' to hang around Maizie while he eats at least two steady meals a day. I was jist figgerin', Hulls has got more money in his pocket than he ever had in all his born days. He's evidently sold off about ten cows en calves to Mooney Whitset of the Diamond outfit; he's got the forty--if Ugly give hit to him, en the five I jist handed him--that Archie will never see--so, all told, they are in clover. Hit will take 'em about two weeks to make the trip, en with all that plunder aboard Archie will give 'em a royal welcome. "Ye see, son, old Matt--ner the boys--ever made a dime out of this place--never wanted to. Jist fiddled around, huntin', fishin' en loafin'. The whole thing wasn't any bigger an asset than a job as a section hand on the U P. Their sales of scrawny cattle jist about paid the taxes en bought their salt en terbacker. "Now, son, ye are on the Bar-O. The line runs from them peaks in the Cliffs to a bend in the crick at that fringe of trees. Then add two sections of rough land around the Cliffs, en that's hit. The Barrows never did much fencin'. Jist a bresh fence around the truck patch en a fairly good corral at the stables is about all. The cows are down thar by the spring. We'll turn the bulls out en go down en count 'em." While Landy was engaged in the requested task Davy took hasty survey of the surroundings. The stables and house were of the same architecture: rambling log structures that seemed to have been erected after many an afterthought. The front door of the house was open. Landy closed it, and circled the house to see that all other openings were closed. He then mounted and motioned Davy to follow the bulls to water. Here, Landy circled the cows and calves. "Thar's twenty-six of 'em," he commented, "en ye owe Finch the full amount of his claim. "Now," commented the aged Nestor, "we'll not go over by the B-line. What they don't know won't hurt 'em. We'll jist slip back home the way we come. Tomorry will be plenty of time to go over the hay-he'p matter, en on Monday we must cinch the deal." 15 The great Burns warehouse in Adot was built back in the impulsive days following the construction of the Union Pacific Railroad. Notwithstanding the fact that the young nation was engaged in a civil war that challenged its existence, there was faith that right would prevail, hope in the future of national expansion, and charity assumed her wonted place. In 1862 Congress incorporated the road, borrowed the funds to build, and bonused the enterprise with grants of land--greater in area than the State of Pennsylvania. And there was need for national expansion and the development of the vast empire west of the Mississippi. At the close of the Civil War, more than a million soldiers were discharged to seek new homes in an uncongested area. A million immigrants came from impoverished Europe in the four succeeding years, begging for freedom and a place to live. These millions too were given bonuses of grants of land, and soon the uninhabited West was dotted with primitive homesteads and scattered ranches that must be served. Food, in all its varieties, is a primal necessity. Warehouses, clumsy predecessors of modern stores, must be constructed at advantageous points to shelter foods and make distribution to remote sections. Some called them trading posts. And so, back in the colorful days of the building of the fast-growing West, young Isaac Burns constructed his warehouse. It was high and wide, if not handsome. It had a driveway through it--handy for the four or six teams that came to unload flour, sugar, salt, spices, bolts of fabrics, farm implements, or what-have you. Handy, too, for the rancher or miner that came to buy at retail (but in wholesale quantities) a full year's supply of merchandise and food. But in the changing economies of a fast-growing republic, the warehouse plan was to take its place with the ox yoke, the spinning wheel, the mustache cup, and the Prince Albert coat. Hard roads and bridges took the place of ill-defined trails, and gasoline brought the rancher to trading marts daily, instead of once a year. Young Jethro Burns added a corral to the now useless warehouse and traded in livestock. Joe Burns, of the next generation, closed off one side of the driveway to make a storage room. But notwithstanding its favorable location in the center of town, the room remained idle. Except as a repository for a few odds and ends and its occasional uses on election days, the old warehouse rested in its past glories. It was an easy conquest for the persuasive, zealous Paul Curtis, the newly arrived Nazarene minister, to gain permission for its use for church purposes. Seemingly easy it was to commandeer many of the community's extra chairs, benches, settees, and kegs to accommodate the limited but growing congregation. A small platform was built at one end, lights were added. And now, exhortations and songs of praise filled the air that was once vibrant with the bawling of restless calves and the bleating of timid lambs. In the week preceding the event, a great muslin banner hung across the warehouse front proclaiming: UNIQUE ENTERTAINMENT! Saturday Eve, 7:30 CIRCUS-SHOW MIDGET WILL RELATE EXPERIENCES Songs and Music Admission--Free Will Offering. COME! David Lannarck was up bright and early Saturday morning. After feeding and brushing Peaches, he dressed himself in his best clothes. Landy, too, sensing the importance of coming events, improved his appearance by buttoning up his shirt-front. The ride to the B-line was unimportant. Adine Lough was ready with the roadster. By ten or eleven o'clock the party was in Adot. At the bridge they stopped to lay back the top. Adine drove slowly up Main Street; Davy stood in the middle with his hand on Landy's shoulder. There were but few persons on the street as the car passed but on its return, everybody in the stores was out on the sidewalk. "Take off that old barn-door hat, Landy, so we can see what ye got," called someone from the walk. Landy complied with the request. Davy waved his greetings to the curious. The party halted at Jode's hotel and restaurant. A woman came out. Presently a young fellow, coatless and hatless, came running from the old warehouse. "We should have had a band to head the parade," he exclaimed apologetically, "but you are surely welcome. I have been adding more camp chairs to our seating capacity. We'll need them all." It was the young preacher. Adine made the introductions. "Do you want another parade this afternoon?" asked Davy. "Getting out the Standing Room Only sign is always an asset for future entertainments." "And will you be with us again?" asked the young minister quickly. "No, this is my last public appearance," said Davy firmly. "In this matter, I am fulfilling an agreement. I want to give all I've got; because I got just what I wanted. But if Adine is willing, we'll parade this afternoon." And parade they did, at three o'clock. Davy insisted that Landy participate. The aged Nestor--a perfect representative of other days--held grimly to his seat as the car, driven by a very handsome and smiling young lady, moved slowly up and down the thoroughfare, packed with people who had come to see--a midget! Adine, Davy, and Landy were joined in the evening meal by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Gillis and Welborn, who had come in Jim's car, via the Carter filling station. The Silver Falls project was well represented. On the way over, Welborn figured he could have taken fully an ounce of dust from the company holdings, but he was loyal to his friend--and promise. The audience that assembled for the entertainment at the Burns warehouse exceeded the young minister's estimates. The standing audience was greater than the number that found seats. A few venturesome lads who had never seen a midget climbed up to the braces that held sill to pillar to get a better view. But withal it was a quiet, orderly gathering of the men, women, and children of the little city and its far-reaching suburbs. While the crowd was assembling young Paul Curtis, the preacher, acted as usher. He seated Adine Lough and her party of five on the platform. Occasionally he consulted with Brother Peyton, the doorkeeper. And finally, as capacity was reached, he came to the rostrum. "Friends and neighbors," he said, "it's too bad that our program must be preceded by an apology. As a stranger in your midst, I did not properly estimate your interest and enthusiasm. I accept the blame for not providing a larger auditorium and I want, at this time, to give credit to Miss Adine Lough, of the B-line ranch, for her zeal in providing the feature of the entertainment and giving it the wide publicity it deserves. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can and we will proceed with our offerings." The young minister was a real artist with an accordion. He played several popular numbers, interspersed with old-time classics such as "The Flower Song," "The Blue Danube," and others. It was good music, well played, and received generous applause. These were followed by a solo and encore by the minister's wife and then a quartette of young girls sang a couple of popular selections. Paul Curtis had preceded each number by a brief statement as to what it was to be. Now he came to the rostrum. "We are now at the feature number of our program," he announced. "I understand it had its beginnings in a horse trade. Back in other days, a horse trade was often tinged with fraud and chicanery. This one has ended in a great good; really, it's the most fortuitous happening in my brief career as a minister of the Gospel. It has given me a quick and hearty contact with all the people where I am to work. It goes to show that a great good can spring from lowly origins. The Saviour of men, you know, was from lowly Nazareth and born in a manger. "But we will let the next speaker tell of the hoss trade, although he is scheduled to talk about midgets and tell us something about life with a circus-show. Both of these topics interest me deeply, as I know nothing about either, and am anxious to learn about them. "Folks, neighbors, and friends of Adot and community, allow me to introduce my new-found young friend and our near-neighbor, Mister David Lannarck, lately a feature with the Great International Circus, and now a resident of the Silver Falls neighborhood. Mister Lannarck." Davy slid down from an uncomfortable chair and climbed up on the little platform that had been placed at the side of the pulpit proper. "Howdy, folks, and thank you, Brother Curtis, for the kindly introduction. Calling me your young friend is a compliment I hardly deserve. Yet it's a form of praise encountered by midgets. I recall that a white-haired, gray-whiskered employee of the hotel in Philadelphia, where we were quartered, persistently called Admiral Blair, our leading midget, 'Sonny Boy.' When comparisons were made, the Admiral was ten years the older. I am not very adept in guessing the ages of either grown persons or midgets, but I suspect, Brother Curtis, that I was in the fourth grade in school about the time you were born; and that when you arrived at the fourth grade, I was doing a man's job on the Keith vaudeville circuit. Such things occur to midgets. "But let's get the Side-Show out of the way before we start the performance in the Big Top--let's clear up the hoss trade first. In that transaction I was simply the innocent bystander. The principals in that event are with us tonight. Acting as Master of Ceremonies of this Floor Show, let me introduce them." Turning to his guests of the evening, the speaker cautioned: "Stand up, folks, and take your bow as your name is called. "First, I want to present the party who contributed the Hoss, who made all the plans, and who through the untiring labors of this young minister is largely, if not wholly responsible for this splendid gathering, Miss Adine Lough." The applause was generous and lasting. Blushing, smiling, and embarrassed, Adine took her bow and resumed her seat. "And the next principal in the transaction--the man who discovered the hoss and led me to it--my friend, mentor, guide, and boon companion, Mister Landy Spencer." The applause was generous but more boisterous. It was evident that Mister Spencer had many boon companions in the audience. Landy's bow was a mixture of bends at the waist, neck, and knees. "And the next two, while not direct parties to the hoss trade, are responsible for my upkeep, who shelter and feed me--and the hoss, Mister and Mistress James Gillis." Again the applause was generous and hearty. "And last, but not least, is the man who came to me in my greatest hour of distress--of disgust with the mob and a fixed determination to get away from it all; the man who came to me when the circus was about to fold up, and I was yearning for quiet and peace but didn't know where to find it, and he found it for me. Right where I wanted to be, the place I had dreamed of, but never could find, the man who as my podner does the easy manual labor, while I do the hard thinking, the man who owned it all and staked me out a half interest, Mister Sam Welborn." Again the applause was generous. "And that completes the hoss trade episode, my friends. I got the best little horse west of the Mississippi River, and Miss Lough got nothing but the satisfaction of having planned and promoted a worthy enterprise in which all of you are participants. Now, let's get on to the main event in the Big Top; let's talk about midgets and circuses." Earlier, Davy had asked Paul Curtis to find if his voice was reaching the remote fringes of the audience. Being assured by a friendly nod that he was making himself heard, he placed his elbows on the pulpit and rested his chin in his cupped hands to gaze at the curious. "I wish I knew something of my subject other than my own personal experiences," he said in a slow, lowered voice. "General literature is silent on the classification and accomplishments of midgets. Except for Dean Swift's recitals of the Lilliputians--which is pure fiction and the limited paragraphs in the encyclopedias on dwarfs--which is the wrong name for the subject--in literature the midget is the forgotten man. "Even the Bible, in its wide comprehension of all classes of man, to include the race of giants, before the flood, the stalwart sons of Anak, and the giant adversary of little David, makes no mention of the little people except in the third book of Mosaic writings, the 'Crookbackt' or dwarfs are warned not to come nigh the altar-fires where sacrifices are offered. A severe banishment, truly, but as a good Presbyterian, I attribute the severity of such a decree to the grudging envy of the jealous old 'kettle-tender' who maybe scorched the stew; and I get my solace in the comforting words of the Master who pledges that 'the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart and the peacemakers--large or small--shall be called the children of God.' "Yes, there's confusion in literature--even in dictionaries--as to the proper classification of midgets. Their status is better established by elimination--by stating what they are not. Midgets are neither dwarfs, runts, pygmies, nor Lilliputians. Dwarfs may have normal bodies but with either short legs or arms, or both; a runt is a small specimen in a litter or drove; pygmies were a mythical creation of the Greeks, but the name was later given to a tribe in South Africa, whose stature was considerably less than their neighbors; and Lilliputians were the creation of a mind that was later to go haywire--but not over midgets, mind you--it was that other enigma in human life: the beckoning lure of two women, and the great creator of 'Gulliver and His Travels' went nuts in trying to decide which way to go." A wave of stillness blanketed the audience that had come to see--and maybe laugh at--the antics of a midget. Up to now, the address was not in the expected pitch. It was far afield from the anticipated humor of frivolous incidents. Dissertations on literature, science, and philosophy came as an unexpected jolt. Davy Lannarck, who had spent his adult life in facing the public, now knew that he had 'em mesmerized. "Who, then, composes this exclusive class in the human family? Who are midgets?" Davy gave the question its full emphasis to include the dramatic pause. "Well, I've lived the life of one for more than a quarter of a century. If literature, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and Holy Writ fail to sort us into the proper herd, why, I'll heat my own runnin' iron and brand the ones I think are eligible. "Midgets are people. Out of a million or more of babies born one, at least, is destined not to reach adult stature. Normal in every way and perfectly proportioned, this millionth babe stops growing, while yet a babe, and thereafter not an inch is added to his stature and very little to his Weight. 'Arrested development' the scientist terms it; 'a malfunctioning of the pituitary gland' is the doctor's diagnosis of the disaster. "So, one out of a million or more babies born is destined to go through life bumping his head against other people's knees. If it's a boy, he can never bust one over the fence for a home run, never look squarely into the face of the receiving teller at the bank or of the room clerk at the hotel. He is never to referee a prize fight or run for president. If he wants a drink at the public fountain, he must ask someone to get it for him. If he goes to school, church, or a public meeting he must either get a front seat or he'll get a back view. On trains, busses, and Pullmans he pays the same adult fare as the two-hundred-pounder across the aisle. "In the meager information about midgets, one writer, in an excellent article, estimates one midget to every million of population. He must have lived in New York City, as the little people flock to that metropolis, seeking employment in theaters and museums. My personal estimate of the ratio is that not one babe in two million is destined to go through life looking through the wrong end of opera glasses. In my brief career I have never seen more than twenty-two midgets in one group, and that only after Baron Singer had combed the civilized world in an effort to get 'em all in one assemblage. "I have said that literature is almost silent concerning midgets and their activities. Yet, if one would compile all the scattered paragraphs of the ages past, it might be a sizeable volume. Back in the days when chivalry ran parallel with human bondage, midgets were rated as personal property. Kings and emperors called them to court for amusement purposes; offered them as gifts to appease the powerful or seduce the weak. And at courtly banquets, when the liquor was potent enough to inspire adventuresome bravery, midgets were tossed like medicine balls, from guest to guest, to provide entertainment for the ladies and gallants there present. However, the meager paragraphs failed to reveal if the ball was dribbled or if free throws were allowed in the event of fouls being made on the brave participants. "Midgets marry same as other people, and strange to relate, fully half of them wed full grown adults. Just why this is I do not know. While I have acted the part of Dan Cupid in several stage productions, I've had no actual experience with the attachments and jealousies of humans--big or little. Midgets do have love-longings and jealousies, and love-making is carried on with all the zeal of modern warfare. Also, it has some of the elements of modern international diplomacy in its double-talk and duplicity. I witnessed one of these incidents as an innocent bystander. "André, a very competent juggler, had come to America with the Singer Midgets. He was a Frenchman and spoke not a word of English. In America, the Singer Company was rallying to its organization all the little people it could induce to join up in a tour of the big circuit. Among the new arrivals was Lorette Sanford, a beautiful little trick of a girl. André was much impressed with her beauty and vivacity. Here was his soulmate! But he just couldn't tell her of his undying affection on account of the language handicap. Lorette knew not a word of French. "But love laughs at locksmiths and Cupid has many assistants. André sought out Jimmy Quick, who had toured France and could make himself understood. Jimmy was commissioned to anglicize a proper proposal and André spent hours in repeating the verbiage as taught. At the proper moment, he met the object of his adoration back of the scenes and fired his volley of transposed endearments. It had a tremendous effect all right, but it was in reverse gear. Lorette screamed and ran, but quickly returned to slap André's face, kick his shins, and push him sprawling into a mess of paint cans and brushes. Surely a disastrous ending for a well meant intention. "Of course it turned out that Jimmy Quick, who secretly had notions of his own as to the beauty and desirability of the object of André's affections, had composed a proposal of all the vile and abusive words in the English language. Jimmy was too big for André to chastise, but as the rumor of the incident spread and the comedians began to quote freely some of the indecent phrases of the hoax, André fled the scene of torment. He left the company at Buffalo and went to Quebec where English was in limited use, and the story unknown. "But André's juggling act was invaluable among so many amateurs. The manager went to Canada to urge his return. But by the time he succeeded, Jimmy Quick had eloped with the fair Lorette and had joined up with Cairstair's Congress of Living Wonders. And to give the matter a modern and adult finish, it turned out that André already had a wife and child in France. "Yes, midgets--small in size and few in number--marry and raise families in about the same proportions as 'the big ones.' It is a matter of record that Mrs. Judith Skinner, herself a midget, gave birth to fourteen children. They were all of normal size. In fact, the mystery of midget existence is further complicated by the added truth that no midget ever gave birth to a midget. "Midgets never grow bald and are usually vain in the matter of dress, probably due to the fact that in the past they were attachés of royalty. A midget is usually suave in manners and not easily embarrassed in public. Several instances are related that midgets, back in the conspiring and deceitful days of royalty, gave their patrons much information of enemy intrigues and adverse plottings against the crown. "This story is told of a midget's participation in imperial intrigue. Richebourg, only twenty-three inches tall, was an attaché of the royal family of Orleans, deeply involved in the French Revolution. Swaddled in baby garments, he was allowed to be carried through enemy lines by an ignorant maid, bearing vital messages to friends of imprisoned royalty. "But notwithstanding their limitations in size and number, midgets have made material contributions in science, art, and invention. Many of the present day comforts and much of our current beauty in art came from these Lilliputians. And set this down to the credit of the midget populace: few midgets, or maybe none at all, are ever convicted of the major crimes of murder, mayhem, arson, or theft. If the 'big ones' were as law-abiding as the 'little ones' there would be little need for criminal courts and jails. "It was the establishment of democracies that gave midgets a status as a citizen. In the dark ages of the past, he had been a creature of derision, a thing to be bandied about in trade or gift. And it was in our own blessed United States of America that he began taking his proper place as a communal asset. Our own Tom Thumb and his genial wife, Lavinna Warren, traveled extensively over the world to prove that midgets were intelligent and companionable people. Later came Admiral Dot, Commodore Nutt, and others of the fraternity, to travel widely over the country, and by contact prove the worth of midgets. "But it was Baron Leopold von Singer, an Austrian citizen and a man of great wealth, who lifted midgets out of the mental mire of being regarded as children and gave them their rightful place. The story is told that the baron became interested in little people through the pleadings of an invalid daughter. He invited several midgets to his home. Finding them agreeable and companionable, he founded a midget city with all the conveniences and accessories of a municipality to include a theater where much talent was revealed. "In the midst of these activities Austria became a center of strife in the World War. The baron hastily moved his theatrical activities to London, and later to the United States where he toured all the larger cities to exhibit his little troupers and their talents. "Really, the baron never planned this tour of the Singer Midgets as a money making venture. He had learned to love the little people and took keen pleasure and joy in the development of their genius to entertain the public. He paid good salaries with no thought of commercialism. But the enterprise did make money. It was a major means of revealing to the public that midgets have talents. And best of all, it furnished a wide field of employment to little people. The public wants to see midgets and fully fifty percent of these are now engaged in some form of show business. "My personal contact with show business was made through the Singer Midgets. As a youngster I had planned to study architecture, as I had developed some talent at the drawing board. But the death of my parents interrupted my home life. I sought diversion. I visited the Singer Show at St. Louis. I had no specialty--no act--that would amuse the public, but the manager signed me up, hoping to develop something useful. And I did develop. On account of my voice being in the right pitch, I expanded into a spieler, a front man, the person who makes the announcements in front of the curtain, that does the ballyhoo for the side show or bawls out, from the center ring, the features of the concert 'that will immediately fallaawftah this pawfo'mance.' "And for twelve years, winter and summer, night and day, I have traveled about to see our dear America at its best and its worst. In that time, I have looked into the faces of half the people of the nation and, as a corollary, I was the object of their scrutiny and comment. I got tired of the job. I wanted to get out where I could meet them, one at a time, to tell jokes, hear the news, complain about the depression, cuss Congress, and sympathize with those in distress. "But please do not think that my aversion of the public extends to a meeting such as we have here tonight. Here, I feel happy in being permitted to meet my neighbors and grateful for the opportunity to give such publicity as I can to the accomplishments of the little people who for centuries were held in a bondage of ridicule and derision, but who now, by industry and mental accomplishments, stand side by side with all who seek to make this a better world. "And now let's go to the circus where--" Davy's further remarks were interrupted by applause. Led by the young minister, the seated audience rose to cheer his simple, earnest story of midget life and accomplishments. "Now, I am doubly paid," said the little speaker, showing his first signs of embarrassment. "Maybe the double pay is for overtime; maybe you are glad that I am nearing the end of the story. At any rate, let's go out to the circus lot, even if we do not get inside the Big Top. That will shorten the program. "I love the circus. Inside the ring of its glamorous pageantry is a circle of closely knit friendships and sociability not found in any other organization. From management to roustabout there are common ties of interest. And because a destination must be reached on the hour, and a pageant presented, there is teamwork such as I have never seen elsewhere. Personally, I think circuses, in their precision of movement and volume of property handled, have been used as models for our great United States' Armies in their muster of men and equipment and in the accuracy of transportation. "Think of it! A big circus, in property and personnel, is the equal of a small city. On Monday, this city sets up shop in a Des Moines suburb to give two exhibitions. Tuesday it shows in Omaha; Wednesday, in Kansas City. It sets up and tears down, the same day. It changes location while you sleep. All details, from elephants to tent stakes, from kid-show banners to the great arena that shelters and seats ten thousand patrons, all must be torn down, transported, and set up between sunset and sunrise. I know of no other private enterprise that so truly represents the skill, aptitude, and energy of American genius. "But pshaw! All of you have been to circuses! Yet there are erroneous impressions abroad that should be corrected. Circuses are, for the most part, privately owned and have grown up from small beginnings. The owners are business men such as you meet in other industries. They employ the best talent available in each department. They try to get young bank employees to handle bookkeeping and finances. Surely the man on the ticket wagon must be a wizard to handle the volume of business done within the limited time; and the boss canvasman, to lay out and erect a circus city in two hours, must know his men and property in every detail. "But the important part of the circus business is transacted in the winter months and in remote and strange places. What are we to exhibit in the coming season? The entire world is scouted to find new and sensational features and spectacles. Not only are the jungles combed for the little known and strange creatures of earth, but the highly civilized quarters of the world should yield new accomplishments in the acrobatic field and in the latest achievements of science and art. And in these later years, all history is carefully explored for the dramatic incident that can be portrayed in glamorous pageantry for the amusement and education of those who come to the circus. "And then comes the gravest problem of all. Where will we exhibit this planned program? Routing a circus is a technical matter. Every feature of the locale must be studied. Stock markets and boards of trade must be consulted as to the financial outlook. Crop estimates, factory production, and foreign markets are big factors in the planning. Droughts, floods, crop failures, labor troubles, and great fires are some of the many things to be avoided in the routings. All this must be planned before a pitch is made. "Aside from the management the personnel of a circus naturally divides itself into three groups: the ring performers, the animal trainers, and the roustabouts. The first named, consisting of acrobats, tumblers, jugglers, aerial artists, and equestrians, are an exclusive class that eat at the same table and use the same Pullmans. They are not 'snooty,' just reserved. There are many foreigners among them. In some acts the entire family takes part. They are a sober lot. Hard liquor has no place on the refreshment list of a class whose life is dependent on a clear brain and a sure hand and foot. Many of them are good church folk. We could always tell when Sunday morning came by the bustle and stir to attend early Mass. "Roustabouts, the labor battalion of the circus army, join up out of curiosity and quit when satiated. A wise boss never fixes a specific payday or else, on the day following, not enough of 'em would be left to light the cook's fire. They are the first to be rousted out in the morning and never go to bed. They are supposed to catch naps during the afternoon performance and of evenings before the menagerie is torn down for another move. However, these naps are canceled if they can contact the public for a 'touch' or gain an audience for their weird, fantastic tales of personal heroism in their life with the circus. "And because Mister John Q. Public contacts these ne'er-do-wells and romancers, he forms wrong estimates of the business. Mister Public is further deceived in believing that the 'con man' who has a pitch nearby is connected with the enterprise. Circuses are widely advertised to appear at a certain place on a fixed date. The skin-game artists and shilabers, cheaters, flimflammers, and medicine men flock to these gatherings as flies to a picnic. They are as barnacles on a fast-moving ship, flies in the ointment of circus management. Happily much of this odium has been erased. By close cooperation with local authorities, the con man and shilaber is moved out before he starts. Unhappily the stigma of past incidents still persists. "And now, you are happy that I am approaching the end of the chapter, and I am happy to say a final word in behalf of my favorites among the circus folks, the animal trainers. To me, these patient, hard workers are the cream of the crop. Whenever I had time to spare I was a visitor in their schools. We marvel that we can communicate by telephone and radio, but animal trainers not only make themselves understood, but they must first teach their subjects the language in which they speak. At these training schools I've seen horses, dogs, elephants, seals, and birds told in pantomime what certain words mean; they are then told to execute the exact meaning of the word. Those who teach young humans have an easy task as compared with these patient teachers of dumb, but brainy brutes. "Animal trainers are born with the 'gift.' None, so far as I know, would shine in educational circles and none are dilettanti in the arts and sciences, yet they have that mysterious 'it' of influence and command. I've seen a great herd of elephants move in unison at a whispered word, and a dog will venture to death's door if a little, old ragged master bids him to do so. A queer relationship this! It has always fascinated me. "But, I want you to understand, my admiration for the game does not extend to the cat family. I always turn my back and walk away when I see Beatty walk into a cage of tigers, leopards, lions, or cougars. I admire his pluck but condemn his judgment. I cannot join the general public in admiring the sinuous majesty of the cats. I was always glad to hear the final slam of the gate and to wonder if the latch caught as Clyde backed out. "But with the rest of the trainees I am in good standing. I love to ramble around in the menagerie and hear the big talk of the gang in charge. Elephants like children and midgets. Old Mom always had a friendly greeting for me and knew in which pocket I had parked the peanuts. Seals know a lot more than they let on. However, they are a jealous set. They sulk and pout, worse than humans, if one act wins more applause than another. "As a sort of a summary of my happy hours spent with animal trainers, I offer the opinion that dogs, because of their centuries of contact with man, are the most faithful creatures of the animal kingdom; that horses are the most useful, for this great western empire would still be a desert or a roaring wilderness had it not been for the horse. Elephants are smarter than many of the other creatures. They can reason from cause to effect. This I know, for one dark, rainy night when we were stuck in the mud trying to get off the lot at Columbus, old Canhead Fortney was using two of the smaller Asiatics to shove the big cages out of the mire. Jerry Quiggle had six horses on a chain and was surging away to get the wagons out to the pavement. Canhead moved the little elephants around back of the big rhinoceros cage and fixed the head-pads for the big shove. But they didn't shove. Canhead bawled and fussed around in the dark and thought he had a mutiny on his hands. Presently he heard Jerry, up in front, hooking on the chain and clucking to the horses. Then the little Asiatics, without further orders, bent to their task and the big cage rolled out to the hard surface. Canhead apologized for his error. He stopped at a hydrant and washed the mud off the elephants' legs and gave 'em an extra feed. "But of all the animals under training, I think seals are the smartest. They are uncanny in their reasoning. They do unexpected things. When seals are associated with human beings as long as dogs they will speak our language and do it correctly. I think seals like to tour the country in the hope that some day they can go back to the ocean, to the rocks and cliffs and slides, to tell the other seals just how dumb we humans are. "And that's about all, my friends. I realize that my rambling remarks are poor pay for the splendid little horse I got. Really, if my time and talk is the value of exchange, I would be here for a week, telling of the tragedies and comedies I've seen in this vast, fast-moving business. I could tell of the big blow-down we had in Texas; of the train wreck in the Carolinas; of the near elephant stampede we had when the woman raised her parasol as the parade was forming in Frankfort. And to show how closely tragedy and comedy are interwoven, I'll ring down the final curtain by telling this incident. "At Toledo, the Grand Entry was forming for the night performance. In the menagerie tent the animals, chariots, Roman soldiers, and attendants were being lined up for the Grand March. In the lineup were two hippopotamuses. It was a new feature, having these big brutes free and unrestrained in a parade. Just as the march started, old Fisheye Gleason, a seasoned old retainer who cleaned out cages, fed the animals, and who claimed he was with Noah when he landed his animal collection on Mount Ararat; old Fisheye was climbing down from the top of a cage when he stumbled and fell right on the back of a hippo. Now a hippo isn't classed with the smart animals. He makes up in bulk what he lacks in brains. He is billed as being the 'Blood-Sweating Behemoth of Holy Writ.' "But it was Fisheye that did the sweating. He didn't want to fall off to be run over by the chariots and it was hard to stick on the round, fat hippo. And the poor, scared hippo ran through the band, scattering musicians and horns, ran round the arena with Fisheye aboard, and finally scrambled up about four tiers in the reserved seats to an entangling stop. So far as I know, this was the only parade that Fisheye ever headed, and Toledo was the only city to witness such a Grand Entry. "Thank you, one and all, for your kindly indulgence." Again the young minister headed the prolonged applause, but he motioned for the audience to remain seated for a final word. "This is one of the happy events of my life," he said enthusiastically. "I have been well entertained, and have gained much valuable information on two subjects that I knew little about. And now that I am to add a further paragraph as to our material gains, I hope our guest and entertainer will understand our deep appreciation of his presence with us and his thoughtful remarks. "Brother Peyton informs me that the receipts of the evening amount to four hundred and seventy-one dollars. This is a giant sum to be collected voluntarily, in a small community, in a time of depression and for an entertainment that was wholly home talent and given at little expense. "Our parent church provides for loans to be made, to match sums donated for building purposes. I am making application for such a loan. I have contracted for the purchase of the old Hartman home at the corner of Laramie Street. It needs a new roof and new paint. If a partition is torn out it will be ample for our church needs just now. Tomorrow I will canvass the community for volunteers to do this work. I have already made some inquiry on this matter and feel sure that we can get donations of three hundred manpower hours for this task. "So what you two have accomplished this night," said the youthful preacher in closing, "will be shown in our church records. It will be recorded that a handsome, enthusiastic young girl and a former circus performer made the initial contributions that established a church in a community where it was said that such a thing was impossible. I thank you all for your presence here, for your labors, and your contributions." 16 Sunday was a quiet day at the Gillis home. It was freighted with both doubt and hope. Landy and Davy were out of bed at four o'clock Monday morning. At five they were in the saddle; at six-thirty they were at the Carter filling station. Adine had just arrived and had introduced herself to old Maddy, seated on the porch. She heard a brief recital as to the cause of his injuries and as Landy and Davy rode up she invited the invalid to accompany the party. "It will do you good," she explained, "for after the snows come you must stay in the house for a long time. We three ride the front seat but there is a long, narrow seat at the rear where you can prop up your injured feet and view the scenery." Maddy laughed. "I've seen too much scenery already. I feel more like resting than I do gadding. I am, however, deeply interested in your project. If you take over that Barrow ranch and get Hulls out of the country, I want to recommend a tenant--a companionable fellow and a hard worker that will make a good neighbor and bring decency out of that disgrace. It's young Goff, who saved my life. He lives over the state line; raises sheep and cattle; has no family, and needs expansion. He would make that Tranquil Meadow area bloom like a rose." "Well, I'm not the buyer," cautioned Adine, "but I will certainly use my influence. Your benefactor has already proven his worth as a citizen, and we need that kind of folks to live down the past. I will do my best." Landy and Davy had parked their horses in the Carter corral to take their place in the awaiting car. At near the noon hour they parked in front of the National Bank in Cheyenne. "What's your birthday?" inquired the gentlemanly cashier, as Davy made inquiry as to the receipt of the draft. "May thirtieth," responded Davy promptly. The cashier laughed as he produced the expected document. "Your sending party seems to know you very well, and know how to solve our problem of identification. Do you want to open an account?" "Well, I suppose that's the way it should be handled. I want to pay the most of it to Mr. Logan, if he's prepared to accept it. I want to pay Mr. Spencer here one hundred dollars and he wants to add that to the account of Mrs. Gillis and I should add fully fifty dollars to that account to keep sweet with the best cook I ever encountered. Then, too, I should pay Mr. Finch fifty dollars. After that, if there is any left, I hope you can keep it for me until I can add it up to a profitable figure." "Ah! here's Mr. Logan," interrupted the cashier. "You gentlemen just come into the customers' room and we will work out the details." "You are prompt. I thought I would beat you here," said Logan to Davy and his party. "Saturday I had a deed prepared to the Barrow ranch and had the judge approve the sale with the conditions of possession as stated agreed. I have it here and ready for delivery." It was Mr. Gore, the courteous cashier, who took charge of the business. He secured the endorsement of Davy's draft, took his verified signature, drew the required checks, saw them signed and exchanged. The entire transaction was completed in a few minutes. "You will see Mr. Finch before I do," said Davy to Logan. "Will you please hand him this check for fifty which completes my obligations to him and tell him that I am having the cattle remaining on the ranch appraised. If the appraisal warrants, I will pay the balance of his bill and send the remainder to Hulls Barrow." "Appraised! Bosh!" snorted the bank receiver. "You'll not get close to see any part of the ranch, let alone counting the scrub cattle. I've been up against old Hulls and his gun, and I know what I'm talking about." "The cattle have already been counted," said Davy quietly, "and I had my first view of the Bar-O Friday. The cattle seem in good flesh but the general property needs a lot of repair. I was very sorry to see Mr. Barrow leave; I could have used a man of his firm determination...." "Leave?" demanded Logan. "Is Hulls gone?" "Left Friday morning early, taking with him his gun, dog, chickens, household plunder, and worst of all, Maizie. And that woman was the exact type I needed." "Where did they go?" questioned the astonished receiver. "Except for the coop of chickens and the household goods, it looked like a picnic. However, their guide, mentor, and boss had a faraway look in his eye--seemed impatient to get going. Who was he? Well, I don't know the folks hereabouts." Turning to Landy, Davy drawled, "Who was that fellow that was driving?" "Hit was Collins, Ugly Collins, en from the way he was bossin' en pushin' along, he was tryin' to make hit to Denver by nightfall." "Well, he certainly upset my plans," said Davy resignedly. "But that's what one encounters in making trades, Mr. Logan. You plan out what you are going to do, only to find out that others also make plans. "Well, folks," said Davy, picking up the new account book and pad of checks, "where is that famous restaurant that you've been talking about? Landy's breakfasts have no stretch in 'em, don't last. I'm wolfish. Well, good-by, Mister Logan, and good-by, Mister Gore. I hope we have pleasant relations. Good-by all." And Davy ushered his party to the street. Seated in the Little Gem, awaiting service, it was Adine Lough that opened the conversation. "I hardly know how I am to get home," she said. "I don't like driving alone, but I certainly don't want to be found in the company of two heartless comedians who seek to inject their comedy into staid business transactions. I thought Mr. Logan's lower jaw would drop off when you fastened the blame of the entire move on his friend Ugly Collins. I could hardly repress my tears in your great loss of Maizie's services. I think Mr. Logan was affected too. Shame on both of you for being so heartless." "Yes, Logan kinda got his fingers bruised in his own b'ar trap," said Landy thoughtfully. "I hope his bankin' efforts won't git tangled up in some of his deep plannin'. Logan will git his bank started all right; but when this depression lifts en things git goin' Adot will still need a bank; this one will turn out to be 'Logan's Tradin' Post' er 'Logan's Deadfall.' Ye can revive a bank by man-made laws, but hit takes more than a slicker to keep hit goin'. Have you two settled the hay trade?" "Yes," said Adine, "you are to have all the stacks and ricks in the south field. I think Mr. Potter estimated it at near one hundred tons. You can have the use of one of our trucks for hauling, but you will probably have to hire help to move it. Our folks have never exchanged work with the Bar-O. Our help will probably want to wait to see if the new management is any improvement on the former control." The raillery of the youngest and happiest of the trio was seemingly lost on the two, now immersed in heavy responsibilities. Davy returned to the car; Adine Lough would telephone a school friend and window shop while Landy went to the hardware store to buy some needed kitchen accessories as directed in a brief note that he had crumpled in a deep pocket. Before two o'clock the party was well on the way to Carter's. Less than a month ago David Lannarck had traveled this same road. Then he was amazed at the shifting changes, the glory of its loneliness, and the utter absence of the curious and gawking. In his decade of travel he never encountered the land of his dreams, the wide open spaces that reached from here to the horizon and free of human beings. His business led him to the congested spots on the earth. If and when he traveled with a circus he spent his spare hours in the animal tent. Here he was not taunted with verbal gibes. Maybe this was his reason for liking animals. Always, he dreamed of the day when he could own dogs, horses, or any living thing that didn't smirk or titter. And now, on this fine October afternoon, all past hopes and dreams had come true; his foot was in the doorway to an earthly heaven. He was the owner of a ranch (maybe Ralph Gaynor would condemn the investment) and it had length and breadth and the desirable loneliness. He was the owner of a grand little horse (maybe Jess and the gang of the circus would scorn his size and color). He was the sole owner of a herd of cattle (surely the experts and maybe the general public would classify them as scrubs and yellow-hammers) and best of all, he had acquired a few understanding friends, true and loyal. During the time of the long trip back to their horses he was in deep thought. His meditations did not concern finances, nor that other pressing question: when will this depression end? Truly he was trying to muster arguments and reasons whereby he could persuade his mentor to move the scrub yearlings, now quartered at the Cliffs, up to the stables and corrals with the rest of the cattle. For this midget, David Lannarck, was very human. Possessed of an alert and active mind, he had, throughout adulthood, ever been classified as a child. He would use his recent accomplishments and present status to frustrate that persistent impression. Secretly but in all details he planned the coup. First, he would persuade Landy to round up those yearlings in a group with the rest of the cattle; second, on the basis that a general picture of the enterprise was sorely needed to bolster his financial standing, he would have a photographer present, taking views of all phases of the adventure; thirdly, and most important, he, Davy, would be astride Peaches, mingling with the several cow hands against a background of milling cattle, either in the wide open spaces or in the corrals at the stables. Copies of these pictures he would send to all his old associates in vaudeville or in the circus business. Particularly, he would send several copies to Ralph Gaynor, president of the Dollar Savings, hoping that one of them might be displayed where the general public could see that a midget, a former resident, was active with other adults in the most fascinating business in America. He was not seeking to establish financial credit; that he had, in substantial deposits and other well known securities, but he wanted to get away from the persistent notion of classifying midgets as children. Meanwhile Adine and Landy, having exhausted merry quips and scornful comparisons of the past and future management of the Bar-O, now gave serious exchanges of opinions as to who would make a suitable tenant for the property that was to be built up to a going concern. Landy mentioned the names of a dozen old-time cattle men, now unemployed and surely available. None of these suited the notions of the young lady whose persistent idea was building up the neighborhood. She, too, mentioned the names of many, few of them known to the old timer. Finally the girl mentioned the name of Maddy's benefactor, young Goff, now residing across the state line. "He's in cramped quarters over there, I understand," said the girl casually. "He's the best man in the deestrict," said Landy thoughtfully. "But he's got the same problems we have. He's got critters to feed, en he can't run two places when the snow is here. I hope, however, that Davy here can make him a permanent offer that will move him at once. "But we've got to git them yearlin's outa the Cliffs en up to the stables," Landy announced emphatically. "We can't haul hay, wean calves, en be traipsin' all over ten sections to feed a few critters. We've got to bunch 'em en show 'em that we mean business." "That's right, Landy," was Davy's prompt approval. "Can we get that young Goff tomorrow? Is there a good photographer in Adot? When can we haul the hay?" "Thar ye go crowdin' the question chute," complained Landy as the party arrived at the filling station. "Tomorry we've got to be in Adot. We've got a deed to record; got to buy some ground feed, if them calves are to be weaned; got to hire a lot of exter hay hands en enough he'p to corral them yearlin's. En besides all that," he cautioned, "we've got to go to the register's office en git a substitute brand, fer old Hulls has shorely carried off the old irons outa pure cussedness. Kin ye he'p us tomorry?" His question was directed to Adine Lough as the two got out of the car. "Yes, I've enlisted for the duration. I am anxious to learn if the new management is an improvement over the old. Recent happenings have created doubts. Come over in the morning; I want to see the finish." 17 A veteran cow hand or a frequenter of the modern rodeo would have walked out on the roundup of the scattered kine of the Bar-O ranch on this gray October day. There was scarcely a thrill in the entire performance. At Welborn's insistence, Davy invited young Byron Goff to help out in the work to be done. "I may not be here always," explained Welborn, "and Landy won't be here forever. Young Goff is your bet. He's a square shooter, a good worker, and his sheep and your cattle are too few to awaken the old-time cattle and sheep wars. Tie in with Goff." And Goff came to look the place over and make a tentative contract. A day or two before the general roundup Landy and Flinthead had turned out the gentle cattle that stayed around the barns and sheds to mingle with nervous yearlings that headquartered at the Cliffs. On the morning of the roundup young Goff and Flinthead made a wide detour to appear at the easternmost side. The startled kine moved west, and kept moving west as they found scattered riders on either side. At the gate, where trouble was expected, a few "yip-yips" and a hurried push sent the entire herd through the gates to a safe enclosure. To David Lannarck, this was the climax of his varied career. He had a photographer present to take many successful shots, although the day was raw and gray. His circus friends may not have been impressed as they viewed the pictures but Davy spent happy hours in looking them over, especially the one where he, mounted on Peaches, was heading off an obstinate calf. The hay hauling from the B-line was interrupted by a snow storm that persisted for several days. Davy had to stay at home to train Peaches in many fancy tricks and to keep a path open to the Gillis home. Welborn, however, took no part in these activities. He continued his work at the ravine and expressed joy that a heavy snow would prevent a deep freeze of the gravel. In fact, much of his time was consumed in insulating the pumps, the waterpipes and the area where he was to work. He was often delayed by the severity of the weather but as the dreary weeks passed the heap of little sacks that contained his gleanings grew to a considerable pile. And in these monotonous months of near-solitude Davy Lannarck found the satisfaction and contentment of his former dreams. In five months he saw less than a half score of people. In his waking hours his time was spent in training Peaches and playing with the Gillis dogs. Most of the time he kept the way open to the Gillis demesne, but on two occasions at least, he was denied that privilege; the heavy, swirling snows that swept over this mountain region were too much for a midget man and a midget horse. It was Landy Spencer and the larger horses that conquered the big drifts and made a passable thoroughfare between the Point and the Gillis home. But spring came as is its wont; the great snowdrifts yielded to the demands of the sun and southern winds and the returning flights of birds heralded the change of seasons. But the big change in conduct and occupation was in Sam Welborn. In the short, dark, snowy days he labored in the recesses of the canyon from early dawn to nightfall, but as the days lengthened and brightened, he puttered about the house sorting and packing some of his personal effects, pressing his limited supply of clothing, constructing a strong box to contain his gleanings, and losing no chance to learn of the conditions of the roads to Cheyenne and points beyond. It was apparent to his few acquaintances that he was now prepared to overcome some past adversities that had hindered his progress in other fields. One evening after supper at the Gillis home Welborn made a limited disclosure of his future plans. "As soon as the roads are fit, I want to go to the assay office in Denver and cash up on past efforts," was his opening statement. "I hope Jim can take time out to drive me there and bring the car back, for I want to make a trip back East to be gone for a week or two. After I have finished up my business in that area I want to come back here and loaf around a spell and get acquainted with my neighbors and benefactors. As Davy has often said, 'The gold up in the ravine will keep.' The claims are registered in our names, and we can, from time to time, work 'em to keep 'em alive. "At the assay office," Welborn continued, "I will cash in the little dab that I had accumulated before Davy advanced the money to buy the pump and accessories; the rest is partnership funds to be divided and depos--" "Hold on!" interrupted Davy. "You've sheltered me, fed me--" "--with grub bought with your money," interposed Welborn. "You can't avoid past contributions by present-day denials, Laddie. Without your help it would have taken me ten years to do what I've now done in six months. And speed was and is the important requirement. In addition to all you've done in the past months I've still got another problem for you to work on." Welborn paused, seemingly embarrassed as to how to proceed. His little audience waited breathlessly. "Folks, I am not a criminal!" he said after a prolonged pause. "But I did get involved with gangsters. Although I made a temporary clean-up on some of them, domestic affairs and financial disasters made it impossible to stay on. It seemed cowardly to quit but there was no other way. I had no plans, no trade, no profession. I simply stumbled in on this method of financial recovery, and thanks to your kindly indulgence I am prepared to go back and make good some financial matters that were not of my making. "But in going back," Welborn continued, "I would like to know something about conditions there before they know who I am. There seems to be two ways to do this. One would be to camp nearby and send someone to investigate and report back as to conditions; the other would be for me to disguise myself and loaf around as a laborer, unemployed and looking for work. "You know something about make-up and disguises, Laddie; could I be made up as a laborer or a village loafer so I could sit around and listen in?" "You would have to let them shoulders down and pad a hump in your back," replied the little man. "Appearances can be radically changed but size is a handicap. There is a woman in Denver by the name of Wallace that can make you up to look like either an angel or a tramp. She used to be in vaudeville with costumes and makeup, now she's settled down in the legit--furnishes costumes for plays, charades, and the like. She's on one of those little side streets near the business district. She'll clip your head, deck you out in scraggy iron-gray hair and whiskers until a bank clerk would turn you down, even if you were identified. She'll tell you about your clothing; that's her specialty. Your ragged coat ought to have a hump in the back to offset erectness and if you carry a cane, you should use it--not twirl it like a baton. "But there's one of your assets, or weaknesses, that she will not be able to disguise," said Davy earnestly. "I take a chance in wrecking a fine friendship, to tell you about it." "Go right on, Sonny Boy," said Welborn, "you couldn't wreck our friendship if you were to spit in my face." "Well, we folks here know nothing about your past. We don't want to know until you release it, but I'll bet my interest in the Bar-O against a thin dime that you've served in the army and were a tough old 'top-kick' at that. You want things done your way. You resist being told. You want to correct the other fellow if he's wrong; even if disguised, you would interrupt and correct and maybe jam the whole works. Of course we want you to win but you've got to be careful--even if it hurts." Welborn's face flushed but he laughed sheepishly as he pondered the charges made. "You've got me dead-to-rights, Laddie; I am impatient and domineering, but I think I still have control. Just now I need information. I want to know if I am classed as a criminal or a citizen back in my home town. Personally, I would like to go back there, loaf around and listen in. "Well, it can be done," said Davy emphatically, "and I think I ought to be an assistant. You saved my life, now I want to be a party to saving your reputation. You are not a criminal; you couldn't be one if you tried. Just tell me the name of your home town and I will go there as the advance man for Lannarck's Congress of Living Wonders. I'll be seeking a site to assemble the company and plan the rehearsals. While there I will want the history of the town and the chamber of commerce will give it to me. In that history, your affair in all its details will be recited. Later on, you can stumble in as a laborer, seeking work. I will be quartered at the leading hotel, and you at a boarding house out by the junction. But we will meet at the picture show or at a local poolroom and I will hire you to take care of the baggage and the accessories as they come in. It won't take us long to get your status, pay your fine, or get the judge to suspend your sentence. "Let's get going, podner," said Davy, as he clambered down from his chair. "We'll both go to Cheyenne; you go to Denver to cash up and fade out; I'll go to your town to pay out and horn in." Welborn smiled as he listened to Davy's enthusiasm and slang. He drummed his fingers on the table as he considered his proposals. "I hadn't thought of involving any of our home-folks in my troubles," said he thoughtfully, "but maybe your assistance and plan will be the thing that's needed. I want information. People will stare at and talk to a midget and they will pay little attention to the badly dressed old gent with whom he associates. Anyhow, it won't hurt to try it out." Davy insisted that the party should start for Cheyenne the very next morning. James Gillis, who was to do the driving, would wait until he learned of road conditions. Welborn occupied much of the time in fitting himself with old shoes, overalls, hickory shirts, and a slouch hat. On Monday, Jim learned that the nearby trails were fit for travel to the paved highway and on Tuesday morning the party of three loaded the little car with boxes of metal, bundles of clothing, and the like, and started for Cheyenne. During the long drive, Welborn took up much of the time in instructing Davy as to his destination and duties. "Bransford, a near suburb of Chicago, is your destination," he explained, "and the man who insulted the better element of the community by his insistence that the prevailing lawlessness was wholly due to their negligence was named Shirley Wells. And this same Wells, when he found that gangsters had taken over the management of the old family bank and brought disrepute to an honored name, staged a battle with these invaders that sent two of 'em to the hospital and maybe resulted in the death of one or both. Was he indicted? Did a mob form? He did not wait to see. With the family estate squandered, this Wells boarded a night freight train to avoid present responsibilities and to seek a new start in life. His linen and underwear was marked S.W. He changed his name to Samuel Welborn. You know the rest of the story, Davy, but there is a lost chapter in the tale. What's the present-day status of Shirley Wells in his home town? "In Bransford, you will headquarter at the Grand Union Hotel. Following your 'broadcast' about establishing a training ground for the Kid Show, you must quietly go to the office of Fred Townsend for information. He's a lawyer. If he's alive, I've got a chance; if he's dead, Shirley Wells is still Sam Welborn and the Silver Falls district must continue as his hideout. "In your contact with Townsend, tell him that I sent you--that you are my A.Z.--and he will understand. What you tell him is casual; your objective is to find out all about the standing of Shirley Wells. Shirley is surely a bankrupt, but is he a murderer? Are indictments pending? Can he be cleared of these charges? And what about the Wells National Bank? And where is Carson Wells? These are the things we must know if I am to live as a citizen or a criminal. "I will be in Denver for a few days. We surely have more than sixty thousand dollars' worth of metal in those containers. Some of it may be in bad shape. Some of it may have to be rectified, as they term it, and that will cause delay. Then, too, I am not certain if your lady friend in Denver can do her job effectively. I wouldn't want to be caught in a disguise. At any rate, I will be in Chicago or Bransford some day next week." At the railway station Jim Gillis maneuvered the ancient model to unload the metal and clothing at the Denver platform. Davy purchased a ticket for Chicago. Welborn's read "to Denver and return." PART TWO 18 Because of duties in maintaining peace along the uncertain boundary lines that divided a defeated people from those who had triumphed, Captain Shirley Wells was detained in the border lands of France and Germany long after his badly reduced regiment had returned to their homeland. Wells had been the first sergeant of a company that became noted for its discipline within and its activities afield. His promotion to a commission had been earned. Shirley had entered the service as an enthusiastic youth. In a few brief years he had grown to a serious-minded man. A six-footer, deep-chested, broad of shoulders, he had the physical ability to enforce the decrees and orders of his superiors while the general terms of boundaries were being formulated. Patiently and firmly he worked with the peasantry of any district where he was assigned to gain their confidence and earn the praise of his superiors. On July 2nd, 1921, his nation and the others interested having completed the general terms of boundaries and occupation, the service by regulatory groups was ended. Shirley Wells had been gratified in earning a commission, now he was happy indeed to know that he was to return to civilian pursuits, for he might have to work out some peace terms in his home town. More than eighteen months ago, while his regiment was resting after an effective foray against the enemy in the vicinity of Lyons, he received a letter informing him of the death of his father and indicating that a telegram had been sent. He never received the telegram, and judging by a lack of replies to his letters, he doubted that one had been sent. Now he was an orphan. In letters from friends he learned that his elder brother, Carson, was in charge of the family bank at Bransford, a suburb of Chicago, and that he was connected with active interests in that city. He learned, too, that Carson now lived in the ancient but beautiful home formerly occupied by his parents. What about the boys and girls with whom he was associated in school days? Was Loretta Young married? Was the strong little bank, the pride of two generations, still rendering the service that had made it famous? And what of the other family assets? This returning soldier was deeply involved in the complications that come to all veterans who are hastily transferred back to civilian duties and are to encounter the radical changes that have been made to maintain a vast fighting force in distant lands. However, Shirley Wells noted little difference in conditions in the cities of Washington and Chicago as he hastened homeward. Buildings and streets appeared about as usual but the general populace appeared indifferent and unconcerned. Unemployment prevailed, but he seemed to contact more women in business places than he did in former days. At Chicago he transferred to the morning local for Bransford. He was disappointed that he found no old-time acquaintances among those who were bound for the suburbs. The first person to recognize him was the station agent at Bransford and his greeting was casual as he trundled the truck of empty milk cans to the far end of the platform. "Maybe these London tweeds are taboo in this central zone," he grumbled as he made his way up the shaded street to the business district. At the bank, he planned to walk right up to the receiver's window and ask old Powell if this was Tellson's bank and was Mr. Tellson in? As a schoolboy he had often kidded the aged cashier as to the close resemblance of these quarters to the little, gloomy, narrow affair described by author Dickens as being located at Temple Bar in the city of London. But the aged cashier's place was occupied by an alert young man who asked to be of service and Shirley could only inquire if Carson was in. The aged woman working at a filing cabinet turned quickly when she heard the voice of the inquirer. She walked to the counter to get a better view. "Why, it's Shirley!" she cried as she ran out in the corridor. "It's Shirley!--twice as big!" She made ineffective attempts to hug and caress the big man, who laughingly lifted her up to plant a kiss on either cheek. "That's the first--and best--welcome I've had since I landed in America, Aunt Carrie," said he. "Now I feel that I am home." Carson Wells came from the little private room at the rear. The greetings of the brothers were not so effusive. Shirley was invited to the private room by his brother. "I want to loaf around for a week or two," the veteran explained. "I want to hunt up a few old friends and hear 'em detail the awful experiences they suffered during the war. If you can find me a temporary hangout where I can store some keepsakes while I get myself oriented, it will be quite all right." "The housing situation is a little tight just now," said Carson, "but we should be able to find quarters somewhere. The Grand Union is badly congested of weekends and rooming houses are full up. I live in the three west rooms of our old home and Mr. Breen and his family occupy the rest. However, there's plenty of room at the farmhouse, and Davis, the tenant, certainly needs a lot of personal supervision, the way things have been going lately. At times I have felt that I should share the big house at the farm but my wife protests--" "Are you married?" interrupted Shirley. "And who is the fortunate lady?" "Why, sure I'm married. Didn't you get our announcement? I married Loretta Young a year ago last April." Shirley Wells occupied quarters at the family farmhome for nearly four years. In the first few weeks he drove an ancient model back and forth to the little city to renew acquaintances. The American Legion, quartered in a small room over a meat market, was one of his hangouts. Here, two or three of the unimportant members were in constant attendance quibbling and complaining that the general public did not plan and build for their uses the ornate structure they had in mind. For a week or two he frequented the local movies, but compared with past experiences he failed to find the production up to the announcements that the portrayals were stupendous and thrilling. Social affairs in the community seemed confined to "groups." Luncheon clubs, such as Rotary, Kiwanis, and Lions seemed to dominate commercial activities while the Dramatic Club and P.T.A. organizations took care of other community gatherings. But to Shirley Wells, the one big change from old-time conditions was in the liquor business. The saloons that flourished in the days before his enlistment were not now operating. Of the seven places where liquor was sold only one maintained a resemblance to former conditions. Dinty O'Neal's place, across the tracks, appeared about as disreputable as it was in former days. Some of the young sports laughingly insisted that Dinty's home-brew was in a fair way of making the city famous. Two of the uptown places continued to operate a few pool tables and sell soft drinks. One room, formerly occupied by a saloon, was now the office of a trucking company with headquarters in Chicago. Shirley was later to learn that young Anzio, the new bank employee, was a nephew of the manager of the trucking company. Shirley gave little attention to the affairs at the bank. Carson seemed unwilling to share the responsibilities of a business that was severely affected by the growing depression. As a youngster Shirley knew much of the details of the business but he realized that he had no present-day knowledge of credits and loans. He made no effort to intrude. Knowing that he must rely on his own efforts to earn a living, Shirley secured desk-room in the elaborate offices of Fred Townsend, a personal friend and a leading lawyer in the community. Here he acted as a receiver in several complicated cases and was often busy in securing evidence. This employment occupied much of his time and gave opportunity to note the trend in community affairs. Meanwhile, Carson found a customer for the family farm. "The Model Trucking Company wants the place for storage," he explained, "and they are the only concern on our books that has a growing account." Shirley moved into town to an apartment over the Banner office. Indeed, the trucking company was an active concern. Trucks grew in number. Night shipping was a principal activity. Local "night hawks" were to learn that coal and corn composed most of the incoming loads, and the finished product went to Chicago. Local distributors were supplied only from that central city. As is usually the case, revulsion follows negligence. Now sober-minded but financially distressed citizens would correct the prevailing evil. The eighteenth amendment must be repealed. The people of the nation were voting to undo what had been done. Locally, Reverend James Branch of the Fourth Avenue Church called a meeting of ministers and church officials to discuss the probable loss of the amendment that was to have been the cure for liquor evils. The call to the meeting was announced in the local newspapers. Shirley Wells had not been specifically invited to the conference. He was curious to learn, however, if there was a cure for this festering ailment that afflicted the nation other than the repeal of the amendment. He quietly took a back seat at the small but select gathering in the church parlors to listen to the protests and complaints. And there was little else in the several talks--protests against the lack of law enforcement; complaints that Chicago gangsters were broadening their sphere of activity to include adjacent cities and suburbs in the distribution and sale of raw alcohol and needled beer. In these discussions no speaker offered a solution to the problem. The Reverend Branch presided. Following the several talks he recognized Shirley Wells and in an elaborate introduction, reciting his war service, he asked Shirley if he had a solution for the problem now under discussion. "I came here seeking information," said Shirley quietly. "I surely must be the most ignorant one present. I wasn't in the States when the amendment was passed and have had limited opportunity to note the effects. It is apparent, however, that there is something wrong, radically wrong, with the whole population--both the criminal and the law-abiding." "Why! what's wrong with the better element?" demanded the chairman quickly. "It was the law-abiding citizen that planned and urged and voted for the eighteenth amendment to the Constitution. Our planning and work was effective. And now, they would nullify our past labors." "And then, what did you do?" demanded Shirley as he rose to his feet to emphasize what was to follow. "You, figuratively, folded fat hands across pudgy stomachs and left the enforcement of your edict to the officers who were friends of the bootleggers. Your failure to act causes this repeal." "Is it your idea that the better element of a community must quit their business to take up the matter of law enforcement?" the chairman asked in scornful tones. "It's my idea," retorted Shirley as he advanced from the rear to the center of the gathered group, "it's my idea that anyone who launches a new, untried craft in unexplored waters had better stay at the helm instead of leaving the management of the boat to those who deride the plan. It wouldn't have taken much of your time, Doctor Branch, to have organized an enforcement committee to assist the policeman who was a friendly acquaintance of the former liquor man, who has now turned bootlegger. Policemen are selected because of their acquaintance with the underworld and they are very human. Void of any contacts with the better element of the community, they allow their friends to run wild in lawlessness until the affair gets beyond control. That's what happened in Bransford; that's what happened everywhere. Lawless greed flourishes in the atmosphere of negligence. "But I didn't come here to quarrel with the better element of my home town," concluded Shirley as he reached for his hat. "I had hoped that you had a solution, a plan, to meet the oncoming conditions. Just now the States are voting to repeal the amendment. It seems certain that it will be repealed and within the next year or two, the old saloon will be functioning as in former days. It will pay a tax to the government on the product sold, it will pay a tax to the city, it will furnish a bond to operate legally and at stated hours, and its return will be welcomed by many. But remember that the greedy and grasping back of it all will overdo, as always, and the amendment will be re-enacted. This time, if it has the support of a well-organized enforcement committee, it will function despite the efforts of the greedy." 19 The Bransford Morning Herald contained no account of the meeting at the Fourth Avenue Church. News of the rebuff as administered to the better element by a rank outsider was slow in gaining circulation. But the incident was not wholly suppressed. Judge Parker, who had been present, chuckled the incident to a few friends; Holstroff, the merchant, recited the details to a few customers as they discussed the probable outcome of the state elections now being held; and Joe Dansford, the church janitor, told the incident of how the meeting ended in a general row, without the formality of a motion to adjourn. Lacking a correct account, the general public of the little city elaborated the story to include fisticuffs and swear words. Carson Wells, of the Wells National, heard the story and was much concerned. It affected his leading customer. Just now, banks were closing in increasing numbers, local factories were shut down, retailing limited to bare necessities, and only one concern in the community earned money. Carson, as well as the managers of the Model Trucking Company, realized that in the event of the repeal of the amendment, ruin was inevitable. It was Carson's problem to stop such publicity. Shirley must be silenced. He was found at the public library and was invited to come to the bank after three o'clock. "That vindictive speech you made at the church meeting is proving very costly," said Carson as the brothers seated themselves in the little consultation room in the rear of the bank. "It affects your own personal affairs, and seeks to wreck the only concern in the city that is functioning and making money. Your interest in this bank demands a retraction of what you said at that meeting." "Why, I didn't know I had an interest in this bank," said Shirley in even tones. "In the years past, I have been shunted around from pillar to post, living on the few small fees received from receiverships and bankruptcy petitions. And I didn't think that I had banking interests. I certainly am an object of personal negligence, but hereafter the matter will have my attention." Carson was nonplused at both the answer and attitude. He had planned his remarks, however, and he proceeded along prepared lines. "Your remarks at that meeting were uncalled for. Your insistence created enemies. No one at the meeting was in favor of repealing the amendment and restoring the unwanted saloon. Yours was the attitude of the drinking ne'er-do-wells of the underworld. Two of those present at that meeting have withdrawn their account, others will do the same. You were simply undermining your own foundations." "And just what sort of a structure stands on my foundations?" drawled Shirley. "I am a sort of a misfit in the community structure. I do not live in my family home, am not employed in my family bank, was moved away from my family's farm, have never been consulted on business or social affairs since my parents died. Really, I have no foundations that could be undermined." Carson's face reddened as he listened to the truth. He walked to the water-cooler, took a drink, and returned to his seat. "In some things you are right," he confessed. "When you came home from France, I hoped you would seek a professional career--would turn to politics and make a name for yourself and the family. It seemed my business to work hard and aid in building that career, but you didn't go the way I hoped." "Just what aid did you render in building such a career? It takes money to acquire a profession. How much did you contribute?" Again Carson was unable to make a specific answer to the cutting, personal questions. He cleared his throat. "I didn't make any contributions. I wasn't asked. I was...." "Do you have to ask for your own property, in this day and age?" demanded Shirley. "When Father died, I was an heir to one half of what he possessed: home, farm, bank, bonds, and money on hand. Very properly, in the absence of the other heir, you took charge of the property and managed the business. But on the return of the other heir you made no accounting. In fact, you resented his interest in anything connected with the business." "When you returned from the war," said Carson, "we were approaching a depression that grew to disastrous proportions. Banks are the first to feel such a calamity. My whole time has been devoted to curtailment--to restricting loans and seeking deposits. Truly, we haven't earned a cent since the war ended." "So that's the reason you bought the fancy, high-priced limousine and gave several parties at the country club! That's the reason why you maintain those luxurious quarters in Chicago! You were wanting to show the public that...." "Never mind what I was doing," interrupted Carson angrily. "It's what you have done that is the matter under discussion, and we are getting nowhere. We might as well adjourn." "Not yet," demanded Shirley hastily. "Keep your seat. The show has now reached the second act. Let's sit it out." It was Shirley who stood up as Carson resumed his seat. "Our family was always reticent. We avoided publicity; didn't want Mister John Q. to know about our affairs. You surely remember how reluctant our father was when it was found that his private bank must be nationalized. One little share was issued to Aunt Carrie, one to John Powell, his old, trusted employee, and he held the rest. He didn't want the public to know about his private affairs. "I think I inherited most of his secretive qualities," Shirley continued. "I listened to a lot of rumors and then I began to investigate. My findings lead to but one conclusion: you allied yourself with gangsters in the hope of participating in their enormous gains only to find that you are the biggest sucker on their list." "I didn't favor anybody," said Carson hotly. "Our relations were simply that of banker and customer." "And to maintain cordial relations you deeded to them a fine but isolated farm where, uninterrupted, they could produce 'rotgut' to supply the entire Chicago area. Have you been out there lately? Father used to call it Forest Home. The Hereford cattle that he reared topped the market. It's different now. The gates are locked. A thug stands out in the roadway to divert traffic. In the night, truckloads of corn and coal arrive to produce the 'hell-fire' that is bottled, labeled, and distributed over the district." In the midst of this recital Carson dropped his head down on his arms, folded on the table. "I don't know a thing about the conditions here at the bank," Shirley continued in softer tones, "but there are public records that tell an incriminating story. The records at the courthouse show a mortgage to the Reliable Insurance Company on our home here in the city. My signature on such a mortgage was forged. I didn't know about this until I was forced into this investigation. You, and your bank, must have needed money very badly and you committed forgery to get it. Based on this fact alone, one has a right to believe that you are fooling the busy bank examiners with forged securities. It's just a question as to what hour you will be uncovered and convicted." Carson still reclined his head on folded arms. Shirley was preparing to leave. "We are broke, Carson. I haven't a dime and you have less. But I am not going to stay in Bransford and be a party to your downfall. My word alone would prove your guilt. I don't know where I am going, but I intend hiding out until this thing blows over. But before I go, Carson, I want an interview with your criminal friends to tell 'em what a set of dirty, crooks they are." Late in the afternoon, as Shirley was busy in clearing his desk of unneeded papers, his friend Townsend dropped in to confer on some pending matters. "I am sorry, Fred, to tell you I am leaving," said Shirley as he closed the desk. "I don't know where I am going and I don't want the public to know where I am located. If you have the time, I would like to tell you the cause of it all and put you wise to some incidents that seem sure to happen." "I think you are going to confirm some suspicions I had formed in connection with the Larwell estate. The account at the Wells Bank didn't conform to the little credit slips as issued." "You are on the right road, oldtimer," said Shirley, and he proceeded to relate what was said in his recent conference with Carson. He cited the incident of the forged deed and detailed conditions at the farm. "The Wells National is not only broke," he added, "but Carson is involved in several criminal activities. I don't want to be present when the crash comes; I don't want my evidence to convict him. I am going to hide out where a summons-server cannot find me." "Maybe you are right," said Townsend thoughtfully, "but there are some things you should do before you leave. The crash will come, no doubt; Carson's share of the estate will be charged with his criminal actions; yours is not involved. Before you go, you should give to someone a full power of attorney to take care of your interests. In the midst of juggled accounts and forgeries, there may be something left, and anyhow, the receivership cannot be closed without your consent." "You are right, as always, Fred, and you are the very person to have that power. Let's get it done right away. I have another thing on hand that must be taken care of after supper." "When are you leaving, and have you enough money to get you out of town?" asked Townsend as the two returned from across the hall where the instrument had been notarized. "I think I will leave tonight. The bubble may not burst for a while. I want the public to become accustomed to my absence. As for money, when I pay for my supper, I may have as much as forty cents left." "You are braver than I thought and as stubborn as I suspected," said Townsend as he searched his pocketbook. "Here's a twenty. That may get you across the river and on your way. You will make your way all right, but if your case becomes desperate draw on me under the name A.Z., and I will understand. Your financial affairs are in desperate condition but the case is not hopeless. You are young and healthy but you lack a definite plan of life. If someone will throw you a line while you are floundering in this slough you will come out all right. Now what's this thing you are to do after the evening meal?" "I've made a phone date to tell Anzio and his set of crooks what a rotten set of gangsters they are. It won't take me long to tell 'em and then I am ready to leave." "You might not be able to make a get-away from those mobsters. Taking an enemy for a final 'ride' is one of their favorite pastimes. And anyhow, you can't tell 'em anything that they don't already know. You have no right to do such an uncalled for thing." "Oh, yes I have," said Shirley as he took his hat preparing to leave. "My visit might precipitate an incident. Anyhow, I'm on my way." Shirley left the office. Townsend went to the telephone in the front room. 20 Shirley had delayed his evening meal to fit his appointment at the Model Trucking Company. Near eight o'clock he crossed the street to go up the alley to Cherry Street. At the crossing of the dark alley he encountered a policeman and was greeted casually by that officer. In front of the lighted office he accosted another officer, standing in a darkened area near a car parked in front. "Maybe this is a warning," he thought, as he stepped into the well-lighted office. He was greeted cordially by Anzio and was introduced to the two others present. "This is Don Carlin, our custodian here, and this is Jan Damino, our most trusted employee." Carlin was a slight young man, but his companion differed much in size and considerably in age. Damino, aging to baldness, was a commanding figure. Thick-chested, with arms and legs of considerable size, his seamed face revealed a ragged scar from temple to chin. Both nodded acknowledgment of the introduction and Carlin brought a chair for the visitor. "I'm glad you've come," said Anzio in pleasing tones. "Your brother reports that you have been badly informed as to what this company is doing. We want to correct any such wrong ideas." "No one has given me any information about you," said Shirley scornfully. "I was out to the old farm and saw with my own eyes just what's going on." "Ah! You paid us a visit and we didn't know it. Somebody has been negligent." "That's right! Your carefully guarded distillery had a visitor. I used to live out there. Knowing about your locked gates and posted guard, I went on the farm from the rear. I edged up to see your still in operation in the old shed. I saw your bottling plant in the big barn. It recalls the old adage: 'You can't fool all the people all the time.'" Anzio's face clouded as he planned a reply. "You didn't go in close enough to see what was being bottled and labeled? You are willing to spread a false report without having the facts? "What you glimpsed in your casual snooping was the details of the one business in this community that is prospering. Out in your family's old farm, Doctor David Allen, formerly of St. Louis, is preparing, mixing, bottling, and labeling 'Allen's Stomach Bitters' that has been famous in the South and Southwest for many years. He is now pushing sales in the North and East. Because of its vegetable content, just a small amount of alcohol is a part of the mixture. "You saw only the sidelines in your snooping and you are putting out a lot of misinformation," concluded Anzio, "and to set you right, I have arranged for our trusted employee, Damino, to take you out there and show you the whole works. The night shift is on and I want 'em to show you every detail of the business." "Will Damino furnish a round trip ticket?" asked Shirley, as he arose from his chair. "I don't quite know what you mean," countered Anzio. "Oh, yes you do," said Shirley emphatically. "Damino here is a 'one-way' man. It's his business to destroy opposition. I wouldn't ride with him down State Street, let alone a country road. With him at the wheel, we couldn't get past that thicket down by the bridge." "Get him out of here," roared Anzio as he waved to Damino to obey his commands. Damino approached his quarry cautiously. With his right hand he fingered an inside pocket of his coat; withdrew the hand to place it on Shirley's shoulder. "Let's git goin'," he said as he shoved Shirley toward the door. Shirley had seen a move that he thought important. He grabbed the extended right arm to give it a jujitsu move up and to the back of the body. It made the assailant grunt and his left knee buckled in its uncertain stance. Quickly Shirley reached in the inside pocket to withdraw a lengthy Colt revolver. Shifting the weapon to his right hand, he brought it down in a mighty blow on the temple of his assailant. Damino fell to the floor. Carlin fled the room by the back door. Shirley turned to find Anzio frantically searching the contents of a drawer in the nearby cabinet. Placing the gun in his pocket, Shirley seized a tall, steel-legged stool to bring it down on Anzio's unprotected head. Anzio joined Damino on the floor. Shirley walked out the front door. On the sidewalk Shirley encountered the policeman. "What's going on in there?" he demanded. "Not much, just now," was the reply, "but I was certainly busy for a short time. Why are you here?" "Your friend, Fred Townsend, is responsible. Fred is seemingly not in touch with our present city administration, but he sure has a strong pull with our chief. Fred phoned him to send two or three of the force down here to see that you were not killed or taken for a ride. We don't know what it's all about, but we're here. Ah, here's company," the officer added as another policeman came out of the alley, shoving Carlin in front of him. "Is this the finish?" inquired the alley officer. "This fellow," pointing to Carlin, "came out of the back door rather hurriedly and began searching in a pile of junk. I thought that was a part of that play. What's it all about anyway?" "This is the finish, my friends, and I am very much obliged for your presence," said Shirley as he prepared to leave. "But there's a couple in there that may need first aid. Go right in; give what assistance you can, and call me if I'm needed." Shirley watched the perplexed officers as they went into the front office. Then he walked leisurely up the alley to Oak Street. Nearing the railroad, he heard a freight train slowing down at the water-tank. Now he hurried to pass down the train to a boxcar with an open door. He crawled in. As the train pulled out, he went to a front corner, sat down to pull off his shoe and place a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill on the inner sole. Whatever his future was to be, Shirley Wells was on his way. PART THREE 21 David Lannarck arrived in Chicago in the late afternoon. Wanting to see Bransford in the daylight hours, he stayed the night with a friend at the Miami Patio to take a morning train to his destination. He had never been in Bransford and he preferred to take an open cab to the Grand Union so that he might look around. At the hotel he was assigned the parlor suite with telephone and bath, probably because the clerk had never before registered a three-footer with the face and voice of an adult. Davy was not yet ready to announce his plans for rehearsals. He wanted to know more of local conditions. He phoned the Fred Townsend office. "Mr. Townsend is in court this morning," the secretary reported, "but he will be available this afternoon." "Save me the first hour," said Davy. "It's important to both of us." After luncheon Davy tipped the bellhop to accompany him. "I could probably find the place," he explained, "but I go better if I am haltered and led to the spot." As the caller hoped, Townsend was in. The secretary ushered Davy into the private office. "I was sent here by a Mister Sam Welborn," Davy explained. "He wants to learn of the legal status and community standing of a former resident by the name of Shirley Wells." "Shirley Wells! Do you know Shirley Wells?" Townsend sprang to his feet and walked around the desk. "Is Shirley Wells alive? Available? Can I get in touch with him right away?" "Say, Mister Townsend, out in my blessed locality, where men are men, and the women are glad of it, they accuse me of asking eight or ten questions before the first one is answered. I want to take you out there to show 'em I am an amateur. For a year or more I have been associated with an upstanding gent who gave out his name as Sam Welborn. In all my public career I've never met a person more honest in business or more fearless with thugs and undesirables. Ten devils couldn't stop him if he thought he was right and even a midget could, and did, shame him out of some of his atrocious efforts. When he reached a certain goal in his persistent activities he disclosed to us four at the home where he headquartered that he was going back to his old home town to find out just where he stood--criminal or citizen. He planned to go back there in disguise; to listen in, to read old newspaper files, and to learn the truth. "And then I horned in. This man Welborn had saved my life; he got me planted where I wanted to be; I owed him everything. I didn't ask--I just told him--that I would go to his town and, under the pretext of rehearsing a midget show, I would get the needed dope. He fell right in with my proposal. He disclosed that his name was Shirley Wells, that his home town was Bransford, and here I am." Townsend went to the door of the office. "I will be busy for the next hour," he said to the secretary as he closed the door. "Just where, and how soon, can I contact this Shirley Wells?" Townsend asked as he seated himself alongside of Davy. "This is really the only time I've needed him since he left. Where is he? I'll send him all the funds needed to get him home." "He's in Denver, just temporarily. I do not have his address, but he will be in this Chicago vicinity by the end of this week. Maybe he will be disguised, but I hope not. He will phone me at the Grand Union to know how he stands in his home town. That's what I've come here to find out. Is he under indictment? Will he have to serve time? How much money is needed to clean his slate? Will a mob form if he shows up on your city streets? What was it he did, anyhow?" Fred Townsend laughed quietly. "We are both so anxious to get information that our cross-questioning is confusing. However, when you described your man as honest, persistent, and fearless in dealing with crooks and thugs, I would have known that you were talking about Shirley Wells, even if you had omitted the name. He's just that! "Shirley Wells is not under indictment, and when he returns the general public will give him a hearty welcome. In fact, had he stayed here for a day or two after the incident he would have been a hero. Would have been carried at the head of the mob of women that paraded the streets of our city in protest of conditions. He would have been a part of the orderly crowd of men that went out to the old farm to destroy the offending distillery. Shirley Wells started the clean-up here, and it spread to all affected localities. This is the story." Then Fred Townsend told the story, to include the history of the Wells bank, of Shirley's army service, of Carson's banking relations with the Chicago mobsters. "For nearly a decade this Shirley Wells was a silent do-nothing. He seemingly hesitated to claim his property rights and yet had nerve to invade the stronghold of these gangsters and tell 'em the truth. He nearly killed two of 'em and the other disappeared." And then Townsend detailed what followed as the morning paper gave big headlines of the desperate adventure. It not only recited that the two were hospitalized in a critical condition but it gave inside information as to the illegal business being conducted at the farm. "That evening, nearly a thousand women paraded our streets to the mayor's office, with banners flying, to insist that there be a clean-up of the entire illegal business. "The next day, fully fifty automobiles assembled at Fifth and Cedar Streets to drive out to the farm and burn down the old shed where the still was located. I was in that party and I easily persuaded them to allow the house and big barn to remain unharmed, but all bottles, labels, cans of liquids, crates, and containers were thrown in the fire. The house-furnishings revealed that it was the headquarters for the many employees, but none were present, either to welcome or protest. "On returning to town it was learned that Carson Wells had committed suicide. His worthy wife was not at home, was not present at the funeral. She is reported as living in Chicago, a housemother at a sorority of one of the universities. "The Wells National Bank was of course closed. I was appointed the receiver. Things were in a terrible mess; negligence and forgeries caused a lot of added work, but the bank had a valuable asset in that the stock was held in one family--wasn't scattered to cause contentions and delays. I recovered the farm, held on to the bank building, and charged the forgeries and shortages to Carson's account. Shirley is possessed of the remainder, but it's not enough to do what's required. "This city needs a bank. The nation is recovering from the depression and very soon business will be back to normal. The Wells National must be restored to service and Shirley Wells, the man who started the clean-up, must be connected with it. His service in cleaning out those crooks was, and is, the big asset. "Here in my office I have prepared a list of names of those who can, and should, take stock in a bank. With Shirley here, we can canvass this list for the needed subscriptions. Surely we can...." "Just how much money will it take to revive a bank?" asked Davy quietly. "Forty or fifty thousand dollars will be required to complete the subscriptions and show a small surplus and I think we can----" "Why, Shirley will have that much, and more, in his upper vest pocket when he arrives," and then Davy told his lengthy story to an eager listener. "I have known him for nearly two years," said Davy in concluding his lengthy recital, "and in that time he worked hard--too hard. I upbraided him for it. Now, knowing why he was so continuously busy, working to restore his family name and credit in his home town, I should have kept my mouth shut." "Do you think he will consent to taking charge of the restored family bank?" asked Townsend. "Will he apply the money to that end?" "I'll see that he puts up the money. He says that half of it is mine, but he may balk on taking charge. And that's our present job. I have a friend in Springfield that's the greatest little banker the world ever produced. I'll get him here, or send Welborn--I mean Shirley--to him to learn the game." "This has certainly been my lucky day," said Townsend as the party broke up. "This morning the judge approved my settlement of the long-standing Norris case, I received a letter containing a draft of an outstanding debt, and now the important Wells bank receivership settles itself. Let me know the minute Shirley arrives." Davy's hours of impatience were interrupted on Saturday morning by a telephone call from Chicago. The booth at the Grand Union afforded the privacy needed. "If you are in your own clothes...." Davy's directive was interrupted by a hearty laugh, and a prompt inquiry: "Am I under indictment?" "Naw! You're not under anything. You're at the top of the heap. Your scrap started things. Get out here on the first train--there's a lot to do and I've pledged you to carry out all the plans as proposed by your friend Townsend. There's lots to do. Get here at once." And Shirley Wells of the East, Sam Welborn of the West, did as he was directed. He arrived in Bransford shortly after the noon hour. And the rest of the afternoon he was listening to Davy's story and Davy's plans. Sunday morning, at the Fourth Avenue Church, he was cordially greeted by many, some of whom he had ridiculed at a former session. Monday, the full day was spent in the office of his friend Townsend. Tuesday, Ralph Gaynor of Springfield arrived in Bransford in response to Davy's telegram, wherein it was suggested that "one carfare was cheaper than two." Shirley Wells admired Ralph Gaynor but he marveled at his methods. Instead of taking him down to the bank building to review the former methods of conducting the business, Gaynor persisted in interviewing any and all with whom he came in contact: business and professional men, farmers and laborers, women clerks and housewives. His questions were casual, the extended answers were his reward. That evening, in Townsend's office, he delivered his estimates and opinion. "Banking service is badly needed in your city. Your present plans are timely. A news story should go out tomorrow that the organization is formed and will be functioning next week--this to prevent others from invading this fine prospect. You have present opportunity to secure the services of young Nelson, down at the Wide-Awake, as a receiving teller. He is fast and accurate in money matters. The young lady that compiled Mr. Townsend's reports can, and should, take care of the growing bookkeeping. You will not make a great deal of money in this first year of operation. After that, you will have the best banking investment I know of." "But what about our new cashier, Shirley Wells?" inquired Townsend. "What's his job? He and his little friend here own practically all the stock." "The banking business," said Gaynor, "has its peculiarities. Back of the counter, it's simply a matter of accuracy. In front of the counter, however, it's a question of diplomacy and good judgment. Shirley Wells is an asset. His business is in front of the counter, greeting the trade and broadening the field for service. A bank must have assets if it is to make loans." The Wells National Bank, with its tidy and growing millions of assets, is functioning at 201 North Oak Street, Bransford, U.S.A. Just where should these ramblings end? A tragedy ends at the death of any or all; a comedy ends with one of the revived jokes of former years; a biography should terminate at the grave, and a romance finishes as the groom carries his hard-won prize across the threshold of the cottage or palace. What's the finish here? A start was made to tell the life story of a midget, but complications arose that could not be avoided. Instead of traveling the infrequent paths of the Lilliputians the journey has, in many instances, swept down the traffic-filled thoroughfare of the big adults. But midgets are few in number, they have few contacts with each other. In most every instance, their employment is to exhibit themselves to the thousands and thousands who come to see and comment. Midgets do not go to war, cannot win a prize fight, or bust one over the right field fence for a home run. Their field for service is limited to public exhibitions; their contacts wholly with the questioning adult. The tragedies of a midget are of the lighter sort, comedies prevail only in a minor degree, romance is a limited factor, and in this particular instance, these ramblings cannot be classed as biography--the principal characters are still alive. And because they are still alive and functioning, the reader is invited out to the Adot vicinity to see--and maybe participate--in the continuing story. * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 42: ditsance replaced with distance | | Page 54: expained replaced with explained | | Page 68: insistant replaced with insistent | | Page 71: hastry replaced with hasty | | Page 94: 'wth' replaced with 'with' | | Page 157: bookeeping replaced with bookkeeping | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * 
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27702	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER [Illustration: MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER MISBEHAVES HIMSELF [See p. 205]] MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER A Sequel to "TOBY TYLER" BY JAMES OTIS AUTHOR OF "TIM AND TIP," ETC. ILLUSTRATED [Illustration: Logo] HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON COPYRIGHT, 1882, 1910, BY HARPER & BROTHERS COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY JAMES OTIS KALER PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE SCHEME 1 II. THE BLIND HORSE 14 III. ABNER BOLTON 31 IV. THE PONY 40 V. OLD BEN 54 VI. THE GREAT EVENT 66 VII. ATTRACTIONS FOR THE LITTLE CIRCUS 78 VIII. THE DINNER PARTY 91 IX. MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER 105 X. THE ACCIDENT 119 XI. CHANGE OF PLANS 131 XII. A REHEARSAL 143 XIII. THE RESULTS OF LONG TRAINING 156 XIV. RAISING THE TENT 170 XV. STEALING DUCKS 183 XVI. A LOST MONKEY 197 XVII. DRIVING A MONKEY 208 XVIII. COLLECTING THE ANIMALS 218 XIX. THE SHOW BROKE UP 231 XX. ABNER'S DEATH 237 ILLUSTRATIONS MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER MISBEHAVES HIMSELF _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE PLANNING THE CIRCUS 14 MR. AND MRS. TREAT EXHIBIT PRIVATELY 92 TOBY RESCUES THE CROWING HEN FROM MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER 234 MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER CHAPTER I THE SCHEME "Why, we could start a circus jest as easy as a wink, Toby, 'cause you know all about one an' all you'd have to do would be to tell us fellers what to do, an' we'd 'tend to the rest." "Yes; but you see we hain't got a tent, or bosses, or wagons, or nothin', an' I don't see how you could get a circus up that way;" and the speaker hugged his knees as he rocked himself to and fro in a musing way on the rather sharp point of a large rock, on which he had seated himself in order to hear what his companions had to say that was so important. "Will you come down with me to Bob Atwood's, an' see what he says about it?" "Yes, I'll do that if you'll come out afterwards for a game of I-spy 'round the meetin'-house." "All right; if we can find enough of the other fellers, I will." Then the boys slipped down from the rocks, found the cows, and drove them home as the preface to their visit to Bob Atwood's. The boy who was so anxious to start a circus was a little fellow with such a wonderful amount of remarkably red hair that he was seldom called anything but Reddy, although his name was known--by his parents, at least--to be Walter Grant. His companion was Toby Tyler, a boy who, a year before, had thought it would be a very pleasant thing to run away from his Uncle Daniel and the town of Guilford in order to be with a circus, and who, in ten weeks, was only too glad to run back home as rapidly as possible. During the first few months of his return, very many brilliant offers had been made Toby by his companions to induce him to aid them in starting an amateur circus; but he had refused to have anything to do with the schemes, and for several reasons. During the ten weeks he had been away, he had seen quite as much of a circus life as he cared to see, without even such a mild dose as would be this amateur show; and, again, whenever he thought of the matter, the remembrance of the death of his monkey, Mr. Stubbs, would come upon him so vividly, and cause him so much sorrow, that he resolutely put the matter from his mind. Now, however, it had been a year since the monkey was killed; school had closed during the summer season; and he was rather more disposed to listen to the requests of his friends. On this particular night, Reddy Grant had offered to go with him for the cows--an act of generosity which Toby accounted for only on the theory that Reddy wanted some of the strawberries which grew so plentifully in Uncle Daniel's pasture. But when they arrived there the strawberries were neglected for the circus question, and Toby then showed he was at least willing to talk about it. There was no doubt that Bob Atwood knew Reddy was going to try to induce Toby to help start a circus, and Bob knew, also, that Reddy and Toby would visit him, although he appeared very much surprised when he saw them coming up the hill towards his house. He was at home, evidently waiting for something, at an hour when all the other boys were out playing; and that, in itself, would have made Toby suspicious if he had paid much attention to the matter. Bob was perfectly willing to talk about a circus--so willing that, almost before Toby was aware of it, he was laying plans with the others for such a show as could be given with the material at hand. "You see we'd have to get a tent the first thing," said Toby, as he seated himself on the saw-horse as a sort of place of honor, and proceeded to give his companions the benefit of his experience in the circus line. "I s'pose we could get along without a fat woman, or a skeleton; but we'd have to have the tent anyway, so's folks couldn't look right in an' see the show for nothin'." Reddy had decided some time before how that trifling matter could be arranged; and, as he went industriously to work making shavings out of a portion of a shingle, he said: "I've got all that settled, Toby; an' when you say you're willin' to go ahead an' fix up the show, I'll be on hand with a tent that'll make your eyes stick out over a foot." Bob nodded his head to show he was convinced Reddy could do just as he had promised; but Toby was anxious for more particulars, and insisted on knowing where this very necessary portion of a circus was coming from. "You see a tent is a big thing," he said seriously; "an' it would cost more money than the fellers in this town could raise if they should pick all the strawberries in Uncle Dan'l's pasture." "Oh, I don't say as the tent Reddy's got his eye on is a reg'lar one like a real circus has," said Bob slowly and candidly, as he began to draw on the side of the wood-shed a picture of what he probably intended should represent a horse; "but he knows how he can rig one up that'll be big enough, an' look stavin'." With this information Toby was obliged to be satisfied; and with the view of learning more of the details, in case his companions had arranged for them, he asked: "Where you goin' to get the company--the folks that ride, an' turn hand-springs, an' all them things?" "Ben Cushing can turn twice as many hand-springs as any feller you ever saw, an' he can walk on his hands twice round the engine-house. I guess you couldn't find many circuses that could beat him, an' he's been practising in his barn all the chance he could get for more'n a week." Without intending to do so, Bob had thus let the secret out that the scheme had already been talked up before Toby was consulted, and then there was no longer any reason for concealment. "You see we thought we'd kinder get things fixed," said Reddy quickly, anxious to explain away the seeming deception he had been guilty of, "an' we wouldn't say anything to you till we knew whether we could get one up or not." "An' we're goin' to ask three cents to come in; an' lots of the fellers have promised to buy tickets if we'll let 'em do some of the ridin', or else lead the hosses." "But how are you goin' to get any hosses?" asked Toby, thoroughly surprised at the way in which the scheme had already been developed. "Reddy can get Jack Douglass's blind one, an' we can train him so's he'll go 'round the ring all right; an' your Uncle Dan'l will let you have his old white one that's lame, if you ask him. I ain't sure but I can get one of Chandler Merrill's ponies," continued Bob, now so excited by his subject that he left his picture while it was yet a three-legged horse, and stood in front of his friends; "an' if we could sell tickets enough, we could hire one of Rube Rowe's hosses for you to ride." "An' Bob's goin' to be the clown, an' his mother's goin' to make him a suit of clothes out of one of his grandmother's curtains," added Reddy, as he snapped an imaginary whip with so many unnecessary flourishes that he tumbled over the saw-horse, thereby mixing a large quantity of sawdust in his brilliantly colored hair. "An' Reddy's goin' to be ring-master," explained Bob, as he assisted his friend to rise, and acted the part of Good Samaritan by trying to get the sawdust from his hair with a curry-comb. "Joe Robinson says he'll sell tickets, an' 'tend the door, an' hold the hoops for you to jump through." "Leander Leighton's goin' to be the band. He's got a pair of clappers; an' Mrs. Doak's goin' to show him how to play on the accordion with one finger, so's he'll know how to make an awful lot of noise," said Reddy, as he gave up the task of extracting the sawdust, and devoted his entire attention to the scheme. "An' we can have some animals," said Bob, with the air of one who adds the crowning glory to some brilliant work. Toby had been surprised at the resources of the town for a circus, of which he had not even dreamed; and at Bob's last remark he left his saw-horse seat as if to enable him to hear more distinctly. "Yes," continued Bob, "we can get a good many of some kinds. Old Mrs. Simpson has got a three-legged cat with four kittens, an' Ben Cushing has got a hen that crows; an' we can take my calf for a grizzly bear, an' Jack Havener's two lambs for white bears. I've caught six mice, an' I'll have more'n a dozen before the show comes off; an' Reddy's goin' to bring his cat that ain't got any tail. Leander Leighton's goin' to bring four of his rabbits an' make believe they're wolves; an' Joe Robinson's goin' to catch all the squirrels he can--we'll have the largest for foxes, an' the smallest for hyenas; an' Joe'll keep howlin' while he's tendin' the door, so's to make 'em sound right." "Bob's sister's goin' to show him how to sing a couple of songs, an' he's goin' to write 'em out on paper so's to have a book to sell," added Reddy, delighted at the surprise expressed in Toby's face. "Nahum Baker says if we have any kind of a show he'll bring up some lemonade an' some pies to sell, an' pass 'em 'round jest as they do in a reg'lar circus." This last information was indeed surprising, for, inasmuch as Nahum Baker was a man who had an apology for a fruit-store near the wharves, it lent an air of realism to the plan, this having a grown man connected with them in the enterprise. "But he mustn't get any of the boys to help him, an' then treat them as Job Lord did me," said Toby earnestly, the scheme having grown so in the half-hour that he began to fear it might be too much like the circus with which he had spent ten of the longest and most dreary weeks he had ever known. "I'll look out for that," said Bob confidently, "If he tries any of them games we'll make him leave, no matter how good a trade he's doin'." "Now, where we goin' to have the show?" and from the way Toby asked the question it was easily seen that he had decided to accept the position of manager which had been so delicately offered him. "That's jest what we ain't fixed about," said Bob, as if he blamed himself severely for not having already attended to this portion of the business. "You see, if your Uncle Dan'l would let us have it up by his barn that would be jest the place, an' I almost know he'd say yes if you asked him." "Do you s'pose it would be big enough? You know when there's a circus in town everybody comes from all around to see it, an' it wouldn't do to have a place where they couldn't all get in," and Toby spoke as if there could be no doubt as to the crowds that would collect to see this wonderful show of theirs. "It'll have to be big enough, if we use the tent I'm goin' to get," said Reddy decidedly; "for you see that won't be so awful large, an' it would make it look kinder small if we put it where the other circuses put theirs." "Well, then, I s'pose we'll have to make that do, an' we can have two or three shows if there are too many to come in at one time," said Toby in a satisfied way that matters could be arranged so easily; and then, with a big sigh, he added, "If only Mr. Stubbs hadn't got killed, what a show we could have! I never saw him ride; but I know he could have done better than any one else that ever tried it, if he wanted to, an' if we had him we could have a reg'lar circus without anybody else." Then the boys bewailed the untimely fate of Mr. Stubbs, until they saw that Toby was fast getting into a mood altogether too sad for the proper transaction of circus business, and Bob proposed that a visit be paid Ben Cushing, for the purpose of having him give them a private exhibition of his skill, in order that Toby might see some of the talent which was to help make their circus a glorious success. CHAPTER II THE BLIND HORSE Reddy had laid his plans so well that all the intending partners were where they could easily be found on this evening when Toby's consent was to be won, and Ben Cushing was no exception. On the hard, uneven floor of his father's barn, with all his clothes discarded save his trousers and shirt, he was making such heroic efforts in the way of practice, that while the boys were yet some distance from the building they could hear the thud of Ben's head or heels as he unexpectedly came in contact with the floor. When the three visitors stood at the door and looked in, Ben professed to be unaware of their presence, and began a series of hand-springs that might have been wonderful, if he had not miscalculated the distance, and struck the side of the barn just as he was getting well into the work. [Illustration: PLANNING THE CIRCUS] Then, having lost his opportunity of dazzling them by showing that even when he was alone he could turn any number of hand-springs simply in the way of exercise, he suddenly became aware of their presence, and greeted his friends with the anxiously asked question as to what Toby had decided to do about entering the circus business. Bob and Reddy, instead of answering, waited for Toby to speak; it was a good opportunity to have the important matter settled definitely, and they listened anxiously for his decision. "I'm goin' into it," said Toby after a pause, during which it appeared as if he were trying to make up his mind, "'cause it seems as if you had it almost done now. You know when I got home last summer I didn't ever want to hear of a circus or see one, for I'd had about enough of them, an' then I'd think of poor Mr. Stubbs, an' that would make me feel awful bad. I didn't think, either, that we could get up such a good show; but now you fellers have got so much done towards it, I think we'd better go ahead--though I do wish Mr. Stubbs was alive, an' we had a skeleton an' a fat woman." Reddy Grant cheered very loudly as a means of showing how delighted he was at thus having finally enlisted Toby in the scheme, and Bob, as proof of the high esteem in which all the projectors of the enterprise held this famous circus-rider, said: "Now you know all about circuses, Toby, an' you shall be the chief boss of this one, an' we'll do just what you say." Toby almost blushed as this great honor was actually thrust upon him, and he hardly knew what reply to make, when Ben ceased his acrobatic exercises, and, with Bobby and Reddy, stood waiting for him to give his orders. "I s'pose the first thing to do," he said at length, "is to see if Jack Douglass is willin' for us to have his hoss, an' then find out what Uncle Dan'l says about it. If we don't get the hoss, it won't be any use to say anything to Uncle Dan'l." Reddy was so anxious to have matters settled at once that he offered to go up to Mr. Douglass's house then, if the others would wait there for his return, which proposition was at once accepted. Mr. Douglass was an old colored man who lived fully half a mile from the village; but Reddy's eagerness caused quick travelling, and in a surprisingly short time he was back breathless and happy. The coveted horse was to be theirs for as long a time as they wanted him, provided they fed him well, and did not attempt to harness him into a wagon. The owner of the sightless animal had expressed his doubts as to whether he would ever make much of a circus-horse, owing to his lack of sight and his extreme age; but he argued that if, as was very probable, the animal fell while being ridden, he would hurt his rider quite as much as himself, and therefore the experiment would not be tried so often as seriously to injure the steed. It only remained to consult Uncle Daniel on the matter, and of course that was to be attended to by Toby. He would have waited until a fitting opportunity presented itself; but his companions insisted so strongly, that he went home at once to have the case decided. Uncle Daniel was seated by the window as usual, looking out over the distant hills as if he were trying to peer in at the gates of that city where so many loved ones awaited him, and it was some moments before Toby could make him understand what it was he was trying to say. "So ye didn't get circusin' enough last summer?" asked the old gentleman, when at last he realized what it was the boy was talking about. "Oh yes, I did!" replied Toby, quickly; "but you see that was a real one, an' this of ours is only a little make-believe for three cents. We want to get you to let us have the lot between the barn an' the road to put our tent on, an' then lend us old Whitey. We're goin' to have Jack Douglass's hoss that's blind, an' we've got a three-legged cat, an' one without any tail, an' lots of things." "It's a kind of a cripples' circus, eh? Well, Toby boy, you can do as you want to, an' you shall have old Whitey; but it seems to me you'd better tie her lame leg on, or she'll shake it off when you get to makin' her cut up antics." Then Uncle Daniel returned to his reverie, and the show was thus decided upon, the projectors going again to view the triangular piece of land so soon to be decorated with their tents and circus belongings. Each hour that passed after Toby had decided, with Uncle Daniel's consent, to go into the circus business made him more eager to carry out the brilliant plan that had been unfolded by Bob Atwood and Reddy Grant, until his brain was in a perfect whirl when he went to bed that night. He was sure he could ride as well as when he was under Mr. Castle's rather severe training, and he thought over and over again how he would surprise every one who knew him; but he did not stop to think that there might be a difference between the horse he had ridden in the circus and the lame one of Uncle Daniel's, or the blind one belonging to Mr. Douglass. He had an idea that it all depended upon himself, with very little reference to the animal, and he was sure he had his lesson perfectly. Early as he got up the next morning, his partners in the enterprise were waiting for him just around the corner of the barn, where he found them as he went for the cows, and they walked to the pasture with him in order to discuss the matter. Ben Cushing was in light-marching and acrobatic costume, worn for the occasion in order to give a full exhibition of his skill; and Reddy had been up so long that he had had time to procure Mr. Douglass's wonderful steed, which he had already led to the pasture so that he could be experimented upon. "I thought I'd get him up there," he said to Toby, "so's you could try him; 'cause if we don't get money enough to hire one of Rube Rowe, you'll have to ride the blind one or the lame one, an' you'd better find out which you want. If you try him in the pasture the fellers won't see you; but if you did it down by your house, every one of 'em would huddle 'round." Toby thought the general idea was a good one; but he was just a trifle uncertain as to how the blind horse would get along on such uneven ground. However, he said nothing, lest his companions should think he was afraid to make the attempt; and when Ben and Bob proceeded to mark out a ring, he advised them as to its size. The most level piece of ground that could be found was selected as the place for the trial, but several small mounds prevented it from being all a circus-rider could ask for. Bob volunteered to lead the horse around the track several times, hoping he would become so accustomed to it as to be able to go by himself after a while; and Toby made his preparations by laying his hat on the ground with a stone on it, so that he should be sure to find it when his rehearsal was done. It was a warm job Bob had undertaken, this leading the blind animal along the ill-defined line that marked the limits of the ring, for the sun shone brightly, and there were no friendly trees to lend a shelter; but he paid no attention to his discomfort because of the fact that he was doing something towards the enterprise which was to bring them in both honor and money. The poor old horse was the least interested of the party, and he stumbled around the circle in an abused sort of way, as if he considered it a piece of gross injustice to force him on the weary round when the grass was so plentiful and tender just under his feet. Ben was busily engaged in lengthening Mr. Douglass's rather weak and aged bridle with a small piece of rope, and from time to time he encouraged the ambitious clown in his labor. "Keep it up, if it is hot!" he shouted; "an' when we get him so's he can do it alone, he'll be jest as good a circus-hoss as anybody would want, for we can stuff him with hay an' grass till he's fat," and Ben looked at the clearly defined ribs in a critical way, as if trying to decide how much food would be necessary to cover them with flesh. "Oh, I can keep on as long as the hoss can," said Bob, as he wiped the perspiration from his face with one hand, and clung firmly to the forelock of the animal with the other; "but we've been round here as many as six times already, an' he don't seem to know the way any better than when we started." "Oh yes, he does," cried Reddy, who was practising for his duties as ring-master, anxious that his education should advance as fast as the horse's did; "he's got so he knows enough to turn out for that second knoll, though he does stumble a little over the first one." By this time Ben had the bridle adjusted to suit him, Toby was ready to make his first attempt at riding since he left the circus, and the more serious work was begun. Ben bridled the horse after some difficulty, Reddy drew out from its hiding-place a whip made by tying a piece of cod-line to an alder branch, and Toby was about to mount, when Joe Robinson came in sight. He had been running at full speed, and was nearly breathless; but he managed to cry out so that he could be understood after considerable difficulty: "Hold on! don't go to ridin' till after we get some hoops for you to jump through." "I guess I won't try any jumpin' till after I see how he goes," said Toby as he looked rather doubtfully first at the horse's weak legs, and then at his sharp back; "besides, we can't use the hoops till he gets more used to the ring." Joe threw himself on the ground as if he felt quite as much aggrieved because he was thus left out of the programme as the horse apparently did because he was in it, and Bob consoled him by explaining that he had no reason to feel slighted, since he, who, as the clown, was to be the life of the entertainment, could take no other part in these preparatory steps than to lead a blind horse around a still blinder ring. "Hold him while I get on," said Toby as he clutched the mane and a portion of the prominent backbone, drawing himself up at some risk of upsetting the rather shaky steed. But there was no necessity of his giving this order, for, although four boys sprang to do his bidding, the weary horse remained as motionless as a statue, save for his hard breathing which proclaimed the fact that the "heaves" had long since singled him out as a victim. Toby succeeded in getting on the animal's back after some exertion; but he found standing there an entirely different matter from standing on the broad saddles that were used in the circus, and the boy and the horse made a shaky-looking pair. "Shall I start him?" asked Bob, while Reddy stood as near the centre of the ring as he could get, prepared to snap his cod-line whip at the first signal. Toby hesitated a moment; he knew that to attempt to stand upon, or on either side of, that prominent backbone, after its owner was in motion, would be simply to invite his own downfall; and he said, as he seated himself carefully astride the bone: "Let him walk around once till I see how he goes." Reddy cracked his whip without producing any effect upon the patient steed, but, after much coaxing, Bob succeeded in starting him again, while Toby bounced up and down much like a kernel of corn on a griddle, such a decided motion did the horse have. "He won't ever do for a ridin' hoss," said Toby with much difficulty, when he was half-way around the circle, "'cause you see his bones is so sharp that he feels as if he was comin' to pieces every time he steps." "Jest get him to trottin' once, an' then you can tell what he's good for," suggested Reddy, anxious to try the effect of his whip; and, without waiting for the rider's permission, he lashed the unfortunate animal with the cod-line until he succeeded in rousing him thoroughly. It was in vain Toby begged him to stop, and Bob shouted that such a course was not the proper one for a ring-master to pursue. Reddy was determined the rider should have an opportunity of trying the horse under full speed, and the result was that the animal broke loose from Bob's guiding hand, rushing out of the imaginary ring into the centre of the pasture at a rate of speed that would have surprised and frightened Mr. Douglass had he been there to see it. Shaken first up, then down, and from one side to the other, Toby stretched himself out at full length, clasping the horse around the neck as the patched bridle broke, and shouting "Whoa!" at the full strength of his lungs. After running fully fifty yards, until it seemed to Toby that his head and his body had been pounded into one, the horse stopped, leaned one heel up against the other, and stood as if dreamily asking whether they wanted any more circus out of him. "Couldn't anybody ride him, he jolts so," said Toby to his partners, as they came running up to where he stood trying to find out whether or not his tongue was bleeding, and fearing it was, because his teeth had been pounded down on it so hard two or three times. "You see, in the circus they had big, wide saddles, an' the hosses didn't go anything like him." "Well, we can fix a saddle," said Bob, thoughtfully; "but I don't know as we could do anything to the hoss." "Perhaps old Whitey'll go better, 'cause she's lame," suggested Reddy, feeling that considerable credit was due him for having made it possible to test the animal's qualities in so short a time. "I wouldn't wonder if this one would be all right when he gets a saddle on an' is trained," said Joe, and then he added, quickly, "I hain't got anything more to do to-day, an' I'll stay up here an' train him." The partners were only too glad to accept this offer; and while Joe led the horse back to the supposed ring, Ben gave a partial exhibition of his acrobatic feats, omitting the most difficult, owing to the uneven surface of the land. Then the partners retired to the shade of some alder bushes, where they could fight mosquitoes and talk over their plans at the same time, while Joe was perspiring in his self-imposed task of educating the blind horse. CHAPTER III ABNER BOLTON "Now I'll see about makin' the saddle," said Bob, "'cause I've seen 'em a good many times in a circus, an' I know jest how they're made. While I'm doin' that you fellers must be fixin' 'bout who else we'll have in the show. Leander Leighton will come up here to-morrow, so's we can hear how he plays, an' we must have everything fixed by then." "Why didn't he come to-day?" asked Ben, thinking that all the members of the firm should have been present at this first rehearsal. "Well, you see, he had to split some wood, an' he had to take care of the baby. I offered to help him with the wood; but he said he couldn't get away any quicker if I did, for just as soon as the baby saw another feller waitin' 'round, she'd yell so awful hard he'd have to stay in all day." This explanation as to the absence of the band appeared to be perfectly satisfactory to those present, and they began to discuss the merits of certain of their companions in order to decide upon the proper ones to enlist as members, since the number of their performers was not so large as they thought it should be in a show where an admission fee of three cents was to be charged. Just as they were getting well into their discussion, and, of course, speaking of such matters as managers should keep a profound secret from the public, Bob cried out: "There comes Abner Bolton! He's always runnin' 'round where he hain't wanted; an' I wonder how he come to know we was here? I'll send him off mighty quick now, you see." The boy who had disturbed Bob so greatly was so near when he was first discovered that by the time the threat had been uttered he was close upon them. He was a small boy, not more than eight years old, and hardly as large as a boy of six should be; he walked on crutches because of his deformed legs, which hung withered and useless, barely capable of supporting his slight weight. "Now, what do _you_ want?" asked Bob, in an angry tone. "I don't want anything," was the mild reply, as the cripple halted just outside the shade, as if not daring to come any farther until invited. "I heard you was goin' to get up a circus, an' I thought perhaps you'd let me watch you, 'cause I wouldn't bother you any." "You would bother us, an' you can't stay 'round here, for we hain't goin' to have anybody watchin' us. You may come to the show if you can get three cents." "I don't s'pose I could do that," said the boy, looking longingly towards the shade, but still standing in the sun. "I don't have any chance to get money, an' I do wish you boys would let me stay where you are, for it's so awful lonesome out to the poor-farm, an' I can't run around as you can." "Well, you can't stay here, an' the sooner you go back to the village the better we'll like it, for we don't want anybody to know what we're talkin' about." Toby had attempted to speak once or twice while Bob was engaged with the cripple from the poor-farm; but he did not get an opportunity until Abner turned to go away, looking thoroughly sad and disheartened. "Don't go, Abner, but come and set down here where it's cool, an' perhaps we can fix it for you." The cripple turned as Toby spoke, and the look which came into his face went right to the heart of the boy, who for ten long weeks had known what it was to be almost entirely without a friend. "I don't see what you want him 'round here for," said Bob, petulantly, as Abner seated himself by Toby's side, thoroughly exhausted by his long walk. "He can't do nothin'; an' if he could, we don't want no fellers from the poor-farm mixed up with the show." "It don't make any difference if he does live to the poor-farm," said Toby, as he put his little brown hand on Abner's thin fingers. "He has to stay there 'cause his father and mother's dead, an' perhaps I'd been there, 'cept for Uncle Dan'l. If I'd thought before about his bein' lonesome an' not bein' able to play like the rest of us, I'd gone out to see him; an' now we do know it we'll let him stay with us, an' perhaps he can do something in the circus." "The fellers will laugh at us, an' say we're runnin' a poorhouse show," replied Bob, sulkily. "Well, let 'em laugh; we'll feel a good deal better'n they do, 'cause we'll know we're tryin' to let a little feller have some fun what don't get many chances;" and, in his excitement, Toby spoke so loudly that Joe came running up to see what was the matter. "Let him stay 'round here to-day, 'cause we've got all through practisin', an' then tell him to keep away," said Ben, thinking this idea a very generous one. "He can belong to the show jest as well as not; an' if you fellers will let him, I'll give you my part of all the money we make." This proposition of Toby's put the matter on a very different basis, and both Ben and Bob now looked favorably inclined towards it. "Don't you do that, Toby," said Abner, his eyes filling with tears because of the kindness shown him. "I'll go right away, an' I won't come into the village again to bother you." "You shall come into the village every day, Abner, an' you won't bother us at all, for you shall go 'long of me everywhere I do, an' I won't never walk any faster'n you can;" and Toby moved his seat nearer Abner, to show that he took him under his especial care. "He might help tend the door," said Joe, kindly, anxious to please Toby, "an' that'll give me a chance to do more howlin' for the hyenas, 'cause that'll be 'bout all I oughter do if I have to hold the hoops." "Yes, he can do that," and Toby was very eager now, "an' we can get him a stool to sit on, an' he can do jest as much as if he could stand up." By this time Bob and Ben had decided that, in consideration of Toby's offer, Abner should be counted as one of the company, and the matters under discussion that had been interrupted by the cripple's coming were again taken up. Owing to the possible chance that Joe could not succeed in training the blind horse sufficiently to make him useful in the ring, it was necessary to know just what animals they could procure, and Bob offered to see Chandler Merrill for the purpose of securing the services of his Mexican pony, who had never allowed any one to ride him without first having a severe battle. "We can train him down all right," said Bob; "an' you fellers come down now while I find out 'bout the pony, so's we can come back here after dinner." As it was very important that this matter should be settled as soon as possible, Bob's advice was acted upon; and as the boys started to go, Toby said: "Come, Abner, you come home with me an' get some dinner, an' then you can come back here when I do." Bob was disposed to make sport of this sudden friendship; but Toby paid no attention to what he said, and if any of them wanted to talk with him, they too were obliged to walk with the boy from the poor-farm. By the time they arrived at Uncle Daniel's, Toby had formed many plans for making the life of the homeless boy more cheerful than it ever had been. CHAPTER IV THE PONY Toby's interest in the crippled boy whom he had taken under his charge was considerably greater than in the contemplated circus; and both Bob and Ben felt angry and injured when, in the midst of some brilliant plan for startling those of the good people of Guilford who should come to their circus, Toby would stop to say something to Abner, who was hobbling along as fast as possible in order that he might not oblige the party to wait for him. For a number of years Toby had known that there was a crippled orphan at the poor-farm; but it so happened that he had not met him very often, and even then he had no idea of the lonely life the boy was obliged to lead. On the way to the village he had formed several plans by which he might aid Abner; but none of them could be put into operation until after he had consulted Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive. It was nearly noon, and the understanding was that each one should get his dinner and go to the pasture again, when it would be known whether they were to be able to number Chandler Merrill's pony among the attractions of their show, or be wholly dependent upon the disabled horses that as yet made up their collection. "You're comin' to get dinner with me, Abner," said Toby, as he stopped in front of Uncle Daniel's gate, while the little fellow was continuing on his way to the only place he could call home, there to get his dinner with the other paupers. "I'm afraid your aunt won't want me," he said, shyly, while it was plain to be seen that he would be more than well pleased to accept the invitation. "Aunt Olive won't care a bit, an' she'll be glad to have you, I know, 'cause she says it always does her good to see hungry people eat, though if that's so I must have done her an awful sight of good lots of times, for it don't seem to me I ever set down to the table in my life but what I was awful hungry. Come on now, so's we'll have time to get our hands an' faces washed before the dinner-bell rings." Abner followed Toby in a hesitating way, much as if he expected each moment to be ordered back; and when they arrived at the door he stood on the threshold, not daring to enter until permission had been given. "This is Abner Bolton, Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, as he saw that his newly made friend would not come in without an invitation from some one besides himself. "He lives out to the poor-farm, an' he don't have any such nice home as I've got, so I thought you wouldn't care if I brought him in to dinner." "You've got a good heart, Toby, boy, and the Lord will reward you for it," said Uncle Daniel, as he stroked the boy's refractory hair; and then he said to Abner, "Come in, my lad, and share Toby's dinner, nor need you ever hesitate about accepting any such invitation when it leads you here." Then Aunt Olive greeted Abner so kindly that the poor boy hardly knew whether it was reality or a dream, so strange was it all to him. During the dinner Toby told of the difficulty he had had in getting his partners to consent to Abner's being one of the company, and Aunt Olive, who had shown considerable interest in the circus scheme, said: "Why don't you let him keep a stand, and then he can make some money for himself. I will bake him a lot of doughnuts and ginger-snaps, and your Uncle Dan'l will lend him money enough to buy lemons an' sugar. It will be a deal better than to have Nahum Baker there with his pies that are as heavy as lead, an' doughnuts that have soaked up all the fat in the pan." Toby was delighted with the plan, and Abner's eyes glistened at the mere idea that it might be possible for him to do, once in his life at least, as did other and more fortunate boys. It certainly seemed, when they arrived at the pasture again, as if everything was conspiring in favor of their circus, for Chandler Merrill had willingly consented to let them use his pony; but he had done so with the kindly prophecy that the little animal would "kick their brains out" if they were not careful with him. In order to make sure that the consent would not be withdrawn, and at the same time to prove that he told the truth, Bob had brought the pony with him, and, judging from his general appearance as he stood gazing suspiciously at the Douglass horse, he deserved all that was said of him regarding his vicious qualities. He was about half the size of an ordinary horse, and his coat was ragged-looking, owing to its having been rubbed off in spots, thus giving him the air of just such a pony as one would suppose willing to join a party of boys in starting a circus. "Now, there's a hoss that hain't either lame or blind," said Bob, proudly, as he led the pony once around the ring to show his partners how he stepped. If he was intending to say anything more, he concluded to defer it while he made some very rapid movements in order to escape the blow the "hoss" aimed at him with his hind-feet. "Kicks, don't he?" said Toby, in a tone which plainly told he did not think him very well suited to their purpose. "Well, he did then," and Bob fastened the halter more securely by putting one end of the rope through the pony's mouth; "but you see that's 'cause he hain't been used much, an' he's tickled 'cause he's goin' to belong to a circus." "How long before he'll get over bein' tickled?" asked Joe. "I'm willin' to train Jack Douglass's hoss; but I don't know 'bout this one till he gets sorry enough not to kick." "Oh, he'll be all right jest as soon as Toby rides him 'round the ring a little while." "Do you think I'm goin' to ride him?" asked Toby, beginning to believe his partners expected more of him than ever Mr. Castle did. "Of course; a feller what's been with a circus ought to know how to ride any hoss that ever lived," replied Bob, with considerable emphasis, owing to the fact that the pony kicked and plunged so that his words were jerked out of him, rather than spoken. "I s'pose some fellers can; but I wasn't with the circus long enough to find out how to ride such hosses as them," and Toby retired to the shade of the alder bushes, where Abner was sitting to wait until Bob and the pony had come to terms. It was quite as much as Bob could do to hold his prize, without trying to make any arrangements for having him ridden, and he called Reddy to help him. Now, as the ring-master of the contemplated circus, Reddy ought to have known all about horses, and he thought he did until the pony made one plunge, just as he came up smiling with whip in hand. Then he said, as he ran towards Toby: "I don't believe I want to be ring-master if we're goin' to have that hoss." "Here, Joe, you help me," cried Bob, in desperation, growing each moment more afraid of the steed. "I want to get him up by the fence, where we can hitch him, till we find out what to do with him." Joe was perfectly willing to assist the unfortunate clown in his troubles; but, as he started towards him, the pony wheeled and flung his heels out with a force that showed he would do some damage if he could, and Joe also joined the party among the bushes. Bob was thus left alone with his prize, and a most uncomfortable time he appeared to be having of it, standing there in the hot sun clinging desperately to the halter, and jumping from one side to the other when the pony attempted to bite, or strike him with his fore-feet. "Let him go; he hain't any good," shouted Reddy from his secure retreat. "If I let go the halter, he'll jump right at me," and there was a certain ring in Bob's voice that told he was afraid. "Hitch him to the fence, an' then climb over," suggested Joe. "But I can't get him over there, for he won't go a step," and Bob continued to hold fast to the halter, afraid to do so, but still more afraid to let go. He had borrowed the pony; but it certainly seemed as if the animal had borrowed him, for his fear caused him to cling desperately to the halter as the only possible means of saving his life. The boys under the alder bushes were fully alive to the fact that something should be done although they were undecided as to what that something should be. Joe proposed that they all rush out and scare the pony away, but Bob insisted that he would be the sufferer by such a course. Reddy thought if Bob should show more spirit, and let the vicious little animal see that he was not afraid of him, everything would be all right; but when it was proposed that he try the plan himself, he concluded, perhaps, there might be serious objections to such a course. Ben thought if all of them got hold of the halter, they could pull the pony to the fence, and this plan was looked upon with such favor that it was adopted at once. Every one, except Abner, took hold of the halter, after some little delay in getting there, owing to the readiness of the pony to use his heels at the slightest provocation; and, just when they were about to put forth all their strength in pulling, the pony jumped towards them suddenly, rendering their efforts useless, and starting all, save Bob, back to the alder bushes in ignominious flight. Bob still remained at his post, or, more correctly speaking, the halter, and it was very much against his will that he did so. "I wish Chandler Merrill would come up here an' get his old hoss, for I don't want him any longer," he said, angrily. "He ought to be prosecuted for lettin' us have such a old tiger." Bob did not seem to remember that, if he had refused the loan of the pony, he would have considered Chandler Merrill very selfish; in fact, he hardly remembered anything save his own desire to get rid of the animal, and as quickly as possible. "What shall I do?" he cried, in desperation. "I can't stand here all day, an' the hoss don't mean to let me get away." "We've got to help Bob," said Toby, decidedly, as he arose to his feet again, and went towards the unfortunate clown. "If you fellers will try to hold him, I'll get on his back, an' then Bob can get away." "But he'll throw you off, an' hurt you," objected Abner, trying to prevent his newly made friend from going. "I can stop him from doing that, an' it's the only way I know of to help Bob." "You get on, Toby, an' then I'll scoot jest as soon as you get hold of the halter," said Bob, happy at this prospect of being relieved. "Then, when you get a chance, you jump off, an' we'll let somebody else take him home." It was a hard task, and they all ran considerable risk of getting kicked; but at last it was accomplished, so far as mounting was concerned. Toby was on the pony's back with a firm grasp of the rope that was made to serve as bridle. "Now, be all ready to run," he said; and there was no disposition to linger shown by any of his friends. "Let go!" he shouted, and at the sound of his voice the boys went one way and the pony another at full speed. It was not until the would-be circus managers were within the shelter of the clump of bushes that they stopped to look for their partner, and then they saw him at the further end of the pasture, the pony running and leaping as if doing his best to dislodge his rider. Even the Douglass horse seemed to be excited by the display of spirit, for he capered around in a manner very unbecoming one as old and blind as he. Only for a few moments could they watch the contest, and then the distant trees hid Toby Tyler and Chandler Merrill's pony from view. CHAPTER V OLD BEN Some time the boys watched for Toby's return, and just as they were beginning to think they ought to go in search of him, and fearing lest he had been hurt by the vicious pony, they saw him coming from among the trees, alone and on foot. "Well," said Bob, with a sigh of relief, "he's got rid of the hoss, an' that was all we wanted." Toby's story, when at last, hot and tired, he reached the alder bushes, was not nearly so exciting as his partners anticipated. He had clung to the pony until they entered the woods, where he was brushed off by the branches of the trees as easily as if he had been a fly, and with as little damage. How they should get the pony back into its owner's keeping was a question difficult to answer, and they were all so completely worn out by their exertions to get rid of him that they did not attempt to come to any conclusion regarding it. While they were resting from their labors, and before they had ceased to congratulate each other that they had succeeded in separating themselves from the pony, Leander Leighton, his accordion under his arm and his clappers in his hand, made his appearance. His struggle with the baby had evidently come to an end sooner than he had dared hope, and the managers were happy at this speedy prospect of hearing what their band could do in the way of music. "Boys!" shouted Leander, excitedly, while he was some distance away, "there's a real circus comin' here next week--the same one Toby Tyler run away with--an' the men are pastin' up the bills now, down to the village!" The boys looked at each other in surprise; it had never entered into their calculations that they might have a real circus as a rival, and certainly Toby had never thought he would again see those whom he had first run away with and then run away from. He was rather disturbed by the prospect at first, for it seemed certain that Job Lord and Mr. Castle would try to compel him to go with them; but a moment's thought convinced him that Uncle Daniel would not allow them to carry him away, and he grew as eager for more news as any of the others. Leander knew no more than he had already told; after having been relieved from his care of the baby, he had started for the pasture, and had seen the show-bills as he came along. He was certain it was the same circus Toby had gone with, for the names on the bills were the same, and he had heard some of the townspeople say so as he came along. "An' I shall see the skeleton an' the fat woman again," said Toby, delighted at the idea of meeting those kind friends from whom he had thought himself parted with forever. "Don't you s'pose you could get 'em to leave that show an' come with ours?" asked Bob, thinking perhaps some kind fortune had thrown this opportunity in their way that they might the better succeed in their project. Toby was not sure such a plan could be made to work, for the reason that they were only intending to give two or three performances, and Mr. and Mrs. Treat might not think it worth their while to leave the circus they were with on the strength of such uncertain prospects. "And you shall go to the show, Abner," said Toby, pleased at the opportunity he would have of making the crippled boy happy for one day at least; "an' I'll take all of you fellers down, an' get the skeleton to talk at you, so's you can see how nice he is. You shall see his wife, an' old Ben, an' Ella, an'--" "But won't you be afraid of Job Lord?" interrupted Leander, fearful lest Toby's dread of meeting his old employer might prevent them from having all this promised enjoyment. "Uncle Dan'l wouldn't let him take me away, an' now I'm home here I don't believe old Ben would let him touch me." There was evidently no probability that they would transact any more business relative to their own circus that day, so intent were they on talking about the one that was to come, and it was not until nearly time to drive the cows home that they remembered the presence of their band. Ben proposed that Leander should show them what he could do in the way of music, so that he need not be at the trouble of bringing his accordion up into the pasture again, and the boys ceased all conversation for the purpose of listening to the so-called melody. After considerable preparation in the way of polishing his clappers on the cuff of his jacket and fingering the keys of his accordion to make sure they were in proper working order, Leander extracted with one finger a few bars of "Yankee Doodle" from the last-named instrument, and gave an imitation of a drum with the clappers, in a manner that won for him no small amount of applause. "Now, we'll go home," said Toby, "'cause Uncle Dan'l will be waitin' for me an' the cows, an' to-morrow I'll meet you down-town where the circus pictures be." Then he helped Abner on to his crutches, and walked beside him all the way, wishing, oh, so much! that he could save the poor boy from having to go out to the poor-farm to sleep. "You come in just as early as you can in the mornin', Abner, an' you shall eat dinner with me," he said, as he parted with the boy at Uncle Daniel's gate, "an' perhaps you'll make so much money at our circus that you won't ever have to go out to the poor-farm again." Abner tried to thank his friend for the kindness he had shown him; but the sobs of gratitude came into his throat so fast that it was impossible, and he hobbled away towards his dreary home, while Toby ran into the house to tell the astounding news of the coming of the circus. "So all the people who were so kind to you will be here next week, will they?" said, rather than asked, Aunt Olive. "Well, Toby, we'll kill one of the lambs, an' you shall invite them up here to dinner, which will kind of encourage them to be good to any other little boy who may be as foolish as you were." Toby lay awake a long time that night, thinking of the pleasure he was to have in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Treat, old Ben and little Ella, eating dinner in Uncle Daniel's home, and of how good a boy he ought to be to repay his uncle and aunt for their loving-kindness to him. Operations were almost entirely suspended by the would-be circus managers in view of the coming of the real show. It would have been commercial folly to attempt to enter into competition with it; the real circus would, without a doubt, prove too strong a rival for them to contend against; and by waiting until after it had come and gone they might be able to pick up some useful ideas regarding the show they proposed to give. This delay would be to their advantage in a great many other ways. The band would have so much time for practice that he might learn another tune, or even be able to play with more than one finger; their acrobat would have so many rehearsals that he could, perhaps, double his present allowance of hand-springs, and Joe would be able to bring his horses to a more perfect state of training. Mr. Douglass, having no use for his horse, was perfectly willing he should remain under Joe's tuition, providing it was done in Uncle Daniel's pasture; but matters were not in so good a condition regarding the pony. Chandler Merrill was anxious to have his property returned to him, and not willing to go after it. Besides, Mr. Douglass's horse was in great danger of being kicked to death so long as the vicious little animal remained in the same pasture. Very many were the discussions the boys had on the subject; but nothing could be suggested which promised any relief, after Bob's brilliant idea of driving the pony out, and letting him find his way home as best he might, was tried without success. The pony not only refused to go out, but he actually drove the boys away by the liberal use he made of his heels. Slowly the time passed until the day before the one on which the circus was to arrive, Toby had almost been counting the hours and Abner, who was to see the interior of a circus tent for the first time in his life, was quite as excited as he. The lamb had been killed as Aunt Olive had promised, and a rare store of good things in the way of apple-pies, cake, doughnuts, and custards had been prepared, until the pantry looked like a large-sized baker's shop just opened for inspection. Everything was ready for the guests, who were to be invited to dinner next day; and when Toby went to bed that night, it seemed as if he would never get to sleep for thinking of all the friends he was to see. Abner was in quite as sleepless a condition as Toby; Aunt Olive had invited him to remain overnight, so that he might see everything that was going on, and as he lay in the soft, geranium-scented bed, his eyes were kept wide open by his delight with what seemed to him the magnificence of the room. It seemed as though each boy in the village considered himself Toby's particular and intimate friend during the week that preceded the coming of the circus; and the marbles, balls, and boats that were showered upon him in the way of gifts would almost have stocked a small shop. Then, on this day before the circus, all the boys in town were most anxious to know just where Toby proposed meeting the cavalcade, at what time he was to start, and other details which showed quite plainly it was their intention to accompany him if possible. When Toby went to bed, it was with the express understanding with Uncle Daniel that he was to be called at daylight, in order that he might start out to meet the circus when it stopped to prepare for its entrance into the town. The place where the procession was usually formed was fully two miles from town, and as Abner could hardly walk that distance, and certainly could not walk so fast as Toby would want to go, he had agreed to drive the cows to pasture, after which he was to go to the tenting-ground, where his friend would introduce him to all the celebrities. CHAPTER VI THE GREAT EVENT Uncle Daniel seemed quite as anxious as Toby that he should leave the house in time to meet his circus friends before the entrée was made, and Aunt Olive afterwards said he didn't sleep a wink after two o'clock for fear he might not waken in time to rouse the anxious boy. It was fully an hour before sunrise when Uncle Daniel awakened Toby, and cautioned him to eat as much of the lunch Aunt Olive had set out as possible, insisting that what he could not eat he should put into his pocket, as it would be a long while before he would get his dinner. The two miles Toby was obliged to walk seemed very short ones, and at nearly every house on the road one or more boys were watching for him quite as eagerly as for the show itself, so that by the time he arrived at the place where two or three of the wagons had drawn up by the side of the road, he had as many as a hundred boys for an escort, all of whom were urging him to get the manager to take out a few lions and tigers for their inspection before starting for the village. Toby could hold out no promise to them; on the contrary, he insisted that he hardly knew the manager, save by sight, and explained to them that they were unwise to come with him on any such errand, since none of the curiosities could be seen there, and if old Ben were still with the company he should ride back with him. But the boys put very little faith in what he said, seeming to have the idea that he simply wanted to get rid of them, and, instead of going away, they surrounded him more closely. Toby watched anxiously as each wagon came up, and he failed to recognize any of the drivers. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps those whom he knew were no longer with this particular company, and his elation gave way to sadness. Fully twenty wagons had come, and he had just begun to think his fears had good foundation, when in the distance he saw the well-remembered monkey-wagon, with the burly form of old Ben on the box. Toby could not wait for that particular team to come up, even though it was driven at a reasonably rapid speed; but he started towards it as fast as he could run, and, following him something like the tail of a comet, were all his friends, who, having come so far, were determined not to lose sight of him for a single instant, if it could be prevented by any exertions on their part. Old Ben was driving in a sleepy sort of way, and paid no attention to the little fellow who was running towards him, until Toby shouted, and then the horses were stopped with a jerk that nearly threw them back on their haunches. "Well, Toby, my son! I declare, I am glad to see you;" and old Ben reached down for the double purpose of shaking hands and helping the boy on to the seat beside him. "Well, well, well, it's been some time since you've been on this 'ere box, hain't it? I'd kinder forgotten what town it was we took you from; I knew it was somewhere hereabouts though, an' I've kept my eye peeled for you ever since we've been in this part of the country. So you found your Uncle Dan'l all right, did you?" "Yes, Ben, an' he was awful good to me when I got home; but Mr. Stubbs got shot." "No? you don't tell me! How did that happen?" Then Toby told the story of his pet's death, and, although it had occurred a year before, he could not keep the tears from his eyes as he spoke of it. "You mustn't feel bad 'bout it, Toby," said Ben, consolingly, "for, you see, monkeys has got to die jest like folks, an' your Stubbs was sich a old feller that I reckon he'd died anyhow before long. But I've got one in the wagon here that looks a good deal like yours, an' I'll show him to you." As Ben spoke he drew his wagon, now completely surrounded by boys, up by the side of the road near the others, and opened the panel in the top so that Toby could have a view of his passengers. Curled up in the corner nearest the roof, where Mr. Stubbs had been in the habit of sitting, Toby saw, as Ben had said, a monkey that looked remarkably like Mr. Stubbs, save that he was younger and not so sedate. Toby uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy as he pushed his hand through the bars of the cage, and the monkey shook hands with him as Mr. Stubbs used to do when greeted in the morning. "Why, I never knew before that Mr. Stubbs had any relations!" said Toby, looking around with joy imprinted on every feature. "Do you know where the rest of the family is, Ben?" There was no reply from the driver for some time; but instead, Toby heard certain familiar sounds as if the old man were choking, while his face took on the purplish tinge which had so alarmed the boy when he saw it for the first time. "No, I don't know where his family is," said Ben, after he had recovered from his spasm of silent laughter, "an' I reckon he don't know nor care. Say, Toby, you don't really think this one is any relation to your monkey, do you?" "Why, it must be his brother," said Toby, earnestly, "'cause they look so much alike; but perhaps Mr. Stubbs was only his cousin." Old Ben relapsed into another spasm, and Toby talked to the monkey, who chattered back at him, until the boys on the ground were in a perfect ferment of anxiety to know what was going on. It was some time before Toby could be persuaded to pay attention to anything else, so engrossed was he with Mr. Stubbs's brother, as he persisted in calling the monkey, and the only way Ben could engage him in conversation was by saying, "You don't seem to be very much afraid of Job Lord now." "You won't let him take me away if he should try, will you?" Toby asked, quickly, alarmed at the very mention of his former employer's name, even though he had thought he would not be afraid of him, protected as he now was by Uncle Daniel. "No, Toby, I wouldn't let him if he was to try it on, for you are just where every boy ought to be, an' that's at home; but Job's where he can't whip any more boys for some time to come." "Where's that?" "He's in jail. About a month after you left he licked his new boy so bad that they arrested him, an' he got two years for it, 'cause it pretty nigh made a cripple out of the youngster." Toby was about to make some reply; but Ben continued unfolding his budget of news. "Castle stayed with us till the season was over, an' then he went out West. I don't know whether he got his hair cut trying to show the Injuns how to ride, or not; but he never come back, an' nobody I ever saw has heard anything about him." "Are Mr. and Mrs. Treat with the show?" "Yes, they're still here; he's a leetle thinner, I believe, an' she's twenty pound heavier. She says she weighs fifty pounds more'n she did; but I don't believe that, even if she did strike for five dollars more a week this season on the strength of it, an' get it. They keep right on cookin' up dinners, an' invitin' of folks in, an' the skeleton gets choked about the same as when you was with the show. I don't know how it is that a feller so thin as Treat is can eat so much." "Uncle Dan'l says it's 'cause he works so hard to get full," said Toby, quietly, "an' I shouldn't wonder if I grew as thin as the skeleton one of these days, for I eat jest as awful much as I used to." "Well, you look as if you got about all you needed, at any rate," said Ben, as he mentally compared the plump boy at his side with the thin, frightened-looking one who had run away from the circus with his monkey on his shoulder and his bundle under his arm. "Is Ella here?" asked Toby, after a pause, during which it seemed as if he were thinking of much the same thing that Ben was. "Yes, an' she keeps talkin' about what big cards you an' her would have been if you had only stayed with the show. But I'm glad you had pluck enough to run away, Toby, for a life like this hain't no fit one for boys." "And I was glad to get back to Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, with a great deal of emphasis. "I wouldn't go away without he wanted me to, if I could go with a circus seven times as large as this. Do you suppose young Stubbs would act bad if I was to take him for a walk?" "Who?" asked Ben, looking down at the crowd of boys with no slight show of perplexity. "Mr. Stubbs's brother," and Toby motioned to the door of the cage. "I'd like to take him up in my arms, 'cause it would seem so much like it used to before his brother died." Ben was seized with one of the very worst laughing spasms Toby had ever seen, and there was every danger that he would roll off the seat before he could control himself; but he did recover after a time, and as the purple hue slowly receded from his face, he said: "I'll tell you what we'll do, Toby. You come to the tent when the afternoon performance is over, an' I'll fix it so's you shall see Mr. Stubbs's brother as much as you want to." Just then Toby remembered that Ben was to be his guest for a while that day, and, after explaining all Aunt Olive had done in the way of preparing dainties, invited him to dinner. "I'll come, Toby, because it's to see you an' them that has been good to you," said Ben, slowly, and after quite a long pause: "but there hain't anybody else I know of who could coax me out to dinner; for, you see, rough fellows like me hain't fit to go around much, except among our own kind. But say, Toby, your Uncle Dan'l hain't right on his speech, is he?" Toby looked so puzzled that Ben saw he had not been understood, and he explained: "I mean, he don't get up a dinner for the sake of havin' a chance to make a speech, like the skeleton, does he, eh?" "Oh no, Uncle Dan'l don't do that. I know you'll like him when you see him." "And I believe I shall, Toby," said Ben, speaking very seriously; "I'd be sure to, because he's such a good uncle to you." Just then the conversation was interrupted by the orders to prepare for the parade; and as the manager drove up to see that everything was done properly, he stopped to speak with and congratulate Toby on being home again, a condescension on his part that caused a lively feeling of envy in the breasts of the other boys, because they had not been so honored. CHAPTER VII ATTRACTIONS FOR THE LITTLE CIRCUS While he stood there, the wagon in which the skeleton and his wife travelled rolled past; but Toby knew they were still sleeping, and would continue to do so until their tent was ready for them to go into. The carriage in which the women of the company rode also passed him, and he almost fancied he could see Ella sitting in one of the seats sleeping with her head on her mother's shoulder, as she had slept on the stormy night when his head was nearly jerked from his body as he tried to sleep while sitting upright. There were but three of the drivers who had been with the circus the year before, and, after speaking with them, he stood by the side of the road, and watched the preparations for the entrée with feelings far different from those with which he had observed such preparations in that dreary time when he expected each moment to hear Job Lord order him to attend to his work. The other boys crowded quite as close to him as they could get, as if by this means they allied themselves in some way with the show; and when a drove of ponies were led past, Joe Robinson said, longingly: "There, Toby, if we had one or two of them to train, it would be different work from what it is to make the Douglass boss remember his way round the ring." "You wouldn't have to train them any," began Toby; and then he had no time to say anything more, for Ben, who had been talking with the manager, called to him. "Has your Uncle Dan'l got plenty of pasturage?" asked Ben, when the boy approached him. "Well, he's got twenty acres up by the stone quarry, an' he keeps three cows on it, an' Jack Douglass's hoss, that don't count, for he's only there till we boys have our circus," said Toby, never for a moment dreaming of the good fortune that was in store for him. "So you're goin' to have a circus of your own, eh?" asked Ben, with a smile that alarmed Toby, because he feared it was a signal for one of those terrible laughing spells. "We're only goin' to have a little three-cent one," replied Toby, modestly, noting with satisfaction that Ben's mirth had gone no further than the smile. "Two of our ponies are about used up," said the manager, "and we've got to leave them somewhere. Ben tells me he is going to see your Uncle Dan'l this noon, so suppose you take one of these boys and ride them up to the pasture. Ben will make a bargain with your uncle for their keeping, and you can use them in your circus if you want to." Joe Robinson actually jumped for joy as he heard this, and Toby's delight spread itself all over his face, while Bob Atwood and Ben Gushing went near the fence, where they stood on their heads as a way of expressing their elation at thus being able to have real live ponies in their circus. A black and a red pony were the ones pointed out for Toby to take away, and they were not more than twice as large as Newfoundland dogs; they were, in fact, just exactly what was wanted for a little circus such as the boys were about to start. Joe was so puffed up with pride at being allowed to ride one of these ponies through the village that if his mind could have affected his body he would not have weighed more than a pound, and he held his head so high that it seemed a matter of impossibility for him to see his feet. Very much surprised were Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive at seeing Toby and Joe dash into the yard astride of these miniature horses, just as they were sitting down to breakfast; and when the matter had been explained, Abner appeared quite as much pleased that the boys would have this attraction in their circus as if he were the sole proprietor of it. It was with the greatest reluctance that either of the boys left his pony in the stable-yard and sat down to breakfast, so eager was Joe to get back to the tenting-ground to see what was going on, and so anxious was Toby to see the skeleton and his wife as soon as possible. But they ate because Uncle Daniel insisted that they should do so; and, when breakfast was over, he advised that the ponies be left in the stable until Chandler Merrill's pony could be removed from the pasture. When they started down town again, Abner went with them, and it was so late in the morning that Toby was sure the skeleton and his wife would be prepared to receive visitors. When Toby, Abner, and Joe reached the tenting-ground, everything was in that delightful state of bustle and confusion which is attendant upon the exhibition of a circus in a country town, where the company do not expect that the tent will be more than half filled, and where, in consequence, the programme will be considerably shortened. It did not require much search on Toby's part to find the tent wherein the skeleton and his wife exhibited their contrasting figures, for the pictures which hung outside were so gaudy, and of such an unusually large size, that they commanded the attention of every visitor. "Now I'm goin' in to see 'em," said Toby, first making sure that the exhibition had not begun; "an' Joe, you take Abner over so's he can see how Nahum Baker keeps a stand, an' then he'll know what to do when we have our circus. I'll come back here for you pretty soon." Then Toby ran around to the rear of the tent, where he knew he would find a private entrance, thus running less risk of receiving a blow on the head from some watchful attendant, and in a few moments he stood before Mr. and Mrs. Treat, who, having just completed their preparations, were about to announce that the exhibition could be opened. "Why, Toby Tyler, you dear little thing!" cried the enormous lady, in a joyful tone, after she had looked at the boy intently for a moment, to make sure he was really the one whom she had rescued several times from Job Lord's brutality; and then she took him in her fat arms, hugging him much as if he were a lemon and she an unusually large squeezer. "Where did you come from? How have you been? Did you find your Uncle Daniel?" Her embrace was so vigorous that it was some seconds after she had released him before he could make any reply; and while he was trying to get his breath the fleshless Mr. Treat took him solemnly by the hand, and cleared his throat as if he were determined to take advantage of the occasion to make one of his famous speeches. "My dear Mr. Tyler," he said, squeezing Toby's hand until it ached, "it is almost impossible for me to express the joy I feel at meeting you once more. We--Lilly and I--have looked forward to such a moment as this with a great deal of impatience, and even during our most prosperous exhibitions we have found time to speak of you." "There, there, Samuel, don't take up so much time with your long-winded talk, but let me see the dear little fellow myself;" and Mrs. Treat lifted her slim husband into a chair, where he was out of her way, and again greeted Toby by kissing him on both cheeks with a resounding smack that rivalled anything Reddy Grant had yet been able to do in the way of cracking his whip. Then she fairly overwhelmed him with questions, nor would she allow her husband to say a word until Toby had answered them all. He was again obliged to tell the story of Mr. Stubbs's death; of his return home, and everything connected with his running away from the circus; while all the time the fat lady alternately kissed and hugged him, until it seemed as if he would never be able to finish his story. "And, now that you are home again, don't ever think of running away, even though I must admit that you made a wonderful success in the ring;" and Mr. Treat crossed one leg over the other in a triumphant way, pleased that he had at last succeeded in getting a chance to speak. Toby was very emphatic in his assurances that he should never run away again, for he had had quite as much experience in that way as he wanted; and, after he had finished, Mrs. Treat, by way of further showing her joy at meeting him once more, brought out from a large black trunk fully half a dozen doughnuts, each quite as large among their kind as she was among women. "Now eat every one of them," she said, as she handed them to Toby, "an' it will do me good to see you, for you always used to be such a hungry little fellow." Toby had already had two breakfasts that morning, but he did not wish to refuse the kindly proffered gift, and he made every effort to do as she requested, though one of the cakes would have been quite a feast for him at his hungriest moment. The food reminded him of the dinner-invitation he was to deliver, and, as he forced down the rather heavy cake, he said: "Aunt Olive's killed a lamb, an' made an awful lot of things for dinner to-day, an' Uncle Dan'l says he'd be glad to have you come up. Ben's coming an' I'm goin' to find Ella, so's to have her come, an' we'll have a good time." "Lilly an' I will be pleased to see your aunt's lamb, and we shall be delighted to meet your Uncle Daniel," replied the skeleton, before his wife could speak, and then a "far-away" look came into his eyes, as if he could already taste, or at least smell, the feast in which he was certain he should take so much pleasure. "That's just the way with Samuel," said Mrs. Treat, as if she would offer some apology for the almost greedy way in which her husband accepted the invitation; "he's always thinking so much about eating that I'm afraid he'll begin to fat up, and then I shall have to support both of us." "Now, my dear"--and Mr. Treat used a tone of mild reproof--"why should you have such ideas, and why express them before our friend, Mr. Tyler? I've eaten considerable, perhaps, at times; but during ten years you have never seen me grow an ounce the fatter, and surely I have grown some leaner in that time." "Yes, yes, Sammy, I know it, and you shall eat all you can get, only try not to show that you think so much about it." Then, turning to Toby, she said, "He's such a trial, Sam is. We'll go to see your uncle, Toby, and we should be very glad to do so even if we wasn't going for dinner." "Ben an' me will come 'round when it's time to go," said Toby, and then, in a hesitating way, he added, "Abner's out here--he's a cripple that lives out to the poor-farm--an' he never saw a circus or anything. Can't I bring him in here a minute before you open the show?" "Of course you can, Toby, my dear, and you may bring all your friends. We'll give an exhibition especially for them. We haven't got a sword-swallower this year, and the albino children that you used to know have had to leave the business, because albinos got so plenty they couldn't earn their salt; but we've got a new snake-charmer, and a man without legs, and a bearded lady, so--" "So that our entertainment is quite as morally effective and instructively entertaining as ever," said Mr. Treat, interrupting his wife to speak a good word for the exhibition. Toby ran out quickly, that he might not delay the regular business any longer than was absolutely necessary; and at the very entrance of the tent, looking at the pictures in wonder that almost amounted to awe, he found Abner with his partners, and about a dozen other boys. "Come right in quick, fellers," said Toby, breathlessly, "an' you can see the whole show before it commences." CHAPTER VIII THE DINNER PARTY The invitation was no sooner given than accepted; and in a twinkling every one of those boys was inside the tent, looking at the skeleton and the fat woman as though they had been old acquaintances. Toby had told Mr. and Mrs. Treat of the little circus they were intending to have, and he introduced to them his partners in the enterprise. The fleshy Lilly smiled encouragingly upon them, and the skeleton, moving his chair slightly to prevent his wife from interrupting him, said: "I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen, principally, and I might almost say wholly, because you are the friends of my old friend, Mr. Tyler. Whatever business relations you may have with him, whether in the great profession of the circus, or in the humbler walks of life, I am sure he will honor the connection." From appearances Mr. Treat would have continued to talk for some time, but his wife passed around more doughnuts, and the attention of the visitors was so distracted that he was obliged to stop. "And this is Abner," said Toby, taking advantage of the break in the skeleton's speech to lead forward his crippled friend. Abner limped blushingly towards the gigantic lady, and when both she and her thin husband spoke to him kindly, he was so covered with confusion at the honor thus showered upon him that he was hardly able to say a word. But the time was passing rapidly, and as there were many persons outside, probably, waiting for an opportunity to pay their money to see the varied attractions of the show, Mrs. Treat gave the signal for the snake-charmer to begin the entertainment, which was given as a mark of respect, as the skeleton explained, to their friend Toby Tyler. [Illustration: MR. AND MRS. TREAT EXHIBIT PRIVATELY] This private exhibition lasted about fifteen minutes, and when, at its close, the doors were thrown open to such of the public as were willing to pay to come in, the boys were not at all anxious to leave. "Let them stay as long as they want to, Toby," said the skeleton indulgently. The boys were only too glad to avail themselves of this permission, and Toby said to Abner: "I want to see if I can find Ella, an' you stay here till I come back." "I'll keep him right here by me," said Mrs. Treat, "and he'll be safe enough." Remembering how she had served Job Lord, Toby had no fears for the safety of his friend; he went at once, therefore, to deliver the invitation to the last of Aunt Olive's expected guests. When, after some little time, Toby returned, the boys had satisfied their curiosity so far as the side-show was concerned, and all except Abner had left the tent. That he had found Ella was evident, as that young lady herself skipped along by his side in the greatest possible delight at having met her former riding companion; and that she had accepted his invitation to dinner was shown by the scrupulous care with which she was dressed. "It's time to go up to Uncle Dan'l's," Toby whispered to Mrs. Treat, "an' Ben's harnessin' the hosses into your wagon, so's you won't have to go to the trouble of puttin' on your other clothes." "I don't know as we ought to go up there in this rig," said Mrs. Treat doubtfully, as she looked down at her "show dress," made to display her arms and neck to the greatest advantage, and then at her husband's costume, which was as scanty as his body. "I wanted to dress up when we went there; but I don't see how I'll get the chance to do it." "I wouldn't bother, 'cause Uncle Dan'l will like you jest as well that way, an' it will take you too long," said Toby impatiently. The skeleton, on being consulted as to the matter, decided to do as Toby wished, because by adopting that course they would the sooner get the dinner about which he had been thinking ever since he had received the invitation. But while Mrs. Treat was ready to believe that her costume might be reasonably fit to wear to a dinner party, she was certain that something more than tights and a pair of short, red velvet trousers was necessary for her husband. Mr. Treat tried to argue with his much larger half, insisting that Uncle Daniel would understand the matter; but his wife insisted so strongly, and with such determination to have her own way, that he compromised by adding to his scanty wardrobe a black frock-coat and a tall silk hat, which gave him a rather more comical than distinguished appearance. The audience were dismissed as soon as possible; Abner was helped into the wagon, perfectly delighted at being allowed to ride in a circus van, and the party started for Uncle Daniel's. Toby sat on the box with Ben, to show him the way; and when the gaudily painted cart stopped in front of the farm-house; it was much as if a peacock had suddenly alighted amid a flock of demure hens. Uncle Daniel was out in the yard to receive his strangely assorted guests, and the greeting they received from both him and Aunt Olive was as hearty as if they had been old acquaintances. There was a look of calm satisfaction on the skeleton's face as the odor of roast lamb was mingled with Uncle Daniel's welcome when he descended from the wagon; and as the company were ushered into the "fore-room," the air of which was pungent with the odors of herbs used to keep the moths from carpet and furniture, a restful feeling came over them such as only those whose lives are dreary rounds of travelling can feel. Uncle Daniel insisted on taking care of the horses himself, for his idea of the duties of host would not allow that Ben should help him, and almost as soon as he had finished this work dinner was ready. When all the guests were at the table, and Uncle Daniel bowed his head to invoke a blessing on those who had befriended the fatherless, the look of general discomfort old Ben had worn from the time he reached the house passed away, and in its place came the peaceful look Toby had seen on Sundays after the old driver had come from church. It seemed to Toby that he had never really known Uncle Daniel before, so jolly was he in his efforts to entertain his guests; and the manner in which he portioned out the food, keeping the plates well filled all the time, was in the highest degree pleasing to Mr. Treat. Of course very much was said about the time when Toby was an unwilling member of the circus, and Mrs. Treat and Ben told of the boy's experiences in a way that brought many a blush to his cheeks. Mr. Treat was too busy with Aunt Olive's lamb, as he affectionately spoke of it, to be able to say anything; he was wonderfully fortunate in not choking himself but once, and that was such a trifling matter that it was all over in a moment. Old Ben told Toby that night, however, that Treat would not have got on so well, if his wife had not trodden on his toes frequently, as a hint to eat more slowly. Although Abner had spent several hours in the side-show, it seemed as if he would never tire of gazing at Mrs. Treat's enormous frame, and so intently did he look at her that he missed a good chance of getting a second piece of custard pie, though Toby nudged him several times to intimate that he could have more as well as not. Ben told a number of stories of circus life; Mrs. Treat related some of her experiences in trying to prevent her husband from eating too fast; Ella told Aunt Olive of the home she and her mother lived in during winter; and the hour which had been devoted to this visit passed so pleasantly that every one was sorry when it was ended. "You've got a trim little farm here," said Ben to Uncle Daniel, when the two went out to harness the horses; "an' I reckon that a man who has got land enough to support him is fixed jest about as well as he can be. I don't know of anything I'd rather be than a farmer, if I could only get away from circus life." "Whenever you want to leave that business," said Uncle Daniel solemnly and earnestly, "you come right here, and I'll show you the chance to become a farmer." "I'd like to," said Ben, with a sigh of regret that the matter seemed so impossible; "but I've been with a circus now, man an' boy, goin' on forty-one years, an' I s'pose I shall always be with one." Then he changed the conversation, making an arrangement with Uncle Daniel for pasturing the ponies that were to be left behind, and by the time the bargain was completed the horses were at the door. While Uncle Daniel and old Ben had been at the stables, Mr. Treat had been showing his liberality by giving Aunt Olive tickets for the side-show and circus, and inducing her to promise that she and Uncle Daniel would see both shows. He had also given Toby fully a dozen circus tickets for distribution among his friends; and then, as Uncle Daniel entered, he said: "I wish to express thanks--both for myself and my wife Lilly--for the very kind manner in which you have entertained us to-day." Before he could say anything more the others came to say good-bye, and he was disappointed again. Aunt Olive kissed Ella several times, while the parting with the others was almost as between old friends, and the guests started for the tent again, more than satisfied with their visit. "Now, Toby, you look me up jest after the show is out this afternoon, an' we'll fix it so's you shall have a chance to talk with Mr. Stubbs's brother," said Ben, as they were driving along. As a matter of course Toby promised to be there, and to bring Abner with him. "You said that little cripple had to live at the poor-farm, didn't you?" asked Ben, after quite a long pause. "Yes, an' it's 'cause he hain't got no father or mother, nor no Uncle Dan'l like I've got," said Toby sadly. "Hain't he got any relations anywhere?" "No; Uncle Dan'l said he didn't have a soul that he could go to." "It must be kinder hard for him to live there alone, an' I don't s'pose he'll ever be able to walk." Toby was not at all certain whether or not Abner could ever be cured; but he told the old driver what he knew of the lonely life the boy led. Ben did not appear to hear what was said, for he was in one of his deep studies and seemed unconscious of everything except the fact that his horses were going in the proper direction. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Toby," he said, after remaining silent until they were nearly at the tent. "I hain't got a child or a chick in the world, an' I'll take care of that boy." Toby looked up in surprise, as he repeated, in a puzzled way: "You'll take care of him?" "I don't mean that I'll take hold an' tote' him 'round; but he shall have as much as he needs out of every dollar I get. I'll see your Uncle Dan'l, an' fix it somehow so he'll be taken out of the poorhouse." "Why, Ben, how good you are!" and Toby looked up at his friend with sincere admiration imprinted on his face. "It hain't 'cause I'm good, my lad; but if I didn't help that poor fellow in some way, I'd see them big eyes an' that pale face of hisn every night I rode on this box alone; so you see I only do it for the sake of havin' peace," said Ben, with a forced laugh; and then he stopped the horses at the rear of Mr. Treat's tent. "Now you jump down, Toby, so's to see the skeleton don't break himself all to pieces gettin' out, for I'm kinder 'fraid he will some day. I'd rather drive a hundred monkeys than one sich slim man as him." Then Ben had a fit of internal laughter caused by his own remark, and Uncle Daniel's guests were ready to resume their duties at the circus. CHAPTER IX MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER It was so near the time for the circus to begin that Toby was obliged to hurry considerably in order to distribute among his friends the tickets the skeleton had given him, and he advised Abner to remain with Mrs. Treat while he did so, in order to escape the crowd, among which he might get injured. Then he gave his tickets to those boys who he knew had no money with which to buy any, and so generous was he that when he had finished he had none for himself and Abner. That he might not be able to witness the performance did not trouble him very greatly, although it would have been a disappointment not to see Ella ride; but he blamed himself very much because he had not saved a ticket for Abner, and he hurried to find Ben that he might arrange matters for him. The old driver was easily found, and still more easily persuaded to grant the favor which permitted Abner to view the wonderful sights beneath the almost enchanted canvas. From one menagerie wagon to another Toby led his friend as quickly as possible, until they stood in front of the monkeys' cage, where Mr. Stubbs's supposed brother was perched as high as possible, away from the common herd of monkeys which chatted familiarly with every one who bribed them. Toby was in the highest degree excited; it seemed as if his pet that had been killed was again before him, and he crowded his way up to the bars of the cage, dragging Abner with him, until he was where he could have a full view of the noisy prisoners. Toby called to the monkey as he had been in the habit of calling to Mr. Stubbs, but now the fellow paid no attention to him whatever; there were so many spectators that he could not spend his time upon one, unless he were to derive some benefit in return. Fortunately, so far as his happiness was concerned, Toby had the means of inducing the monkey to visit him, for in his pocket yet remained two of the doughnuts Mrs. Treat had almost forced upon him; and, remembering how fond Mr. Stubbs had been of such sweet food, he held a piece out to the supposed brother. Almost immediately that monkey made up his mind that the freckle-faced boy with the doughnut was the one particular person whom he should be acquainted with, and he came down from his perch at a rapid rate. So long as Toby was willing to feed him with doughnuts he was willing to remain; but when his companions gathered around in such numbers that the supply of food was quickly exhausted, he went back to his lofty perch, much to the boy's regret. "He looks like Mr. Stubbs, and he acts like him, an' it must be his brother sure," said Toby to himself as Abner hurried him away to look at the other curiosities. When he was at some distance from the cage he turned and said, "Good-bye," as if he were speaking to his old pet. During the performance that afternoon Abner was in a delightful whirl of wonder and amazement; but Toby's attention was divided between what was going on in the ring and the thought of having Mr. Stubbs's brother all to himself as soon as the performance should be over. He did, however, watch the boy who sold peanuts and lemonade, but this one was much larger than himself, and looked rough enough to endure the hardships of such a life. Toby was also attentive when Ella was in the ring, and he was envied by all his acquaintances when she smiled as she passed the place where he was sitting. Abner would have been glad if the performance had been prolonged until midnight; but Toby, still thinking of Mr. Stubbs's brother, was pleased when it ended. He and Abner waited by the animal's cages until the crowd had again satisfied their curiosity; and as the last visitor was leaving the tent old Ben came in, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Treat, both in exhibition costume. Toby was somewhat surprised at seeing them, for he knew their busiest time was just at the close of the circus, and while he was yet wondering at their coming he saw Ella approaching from the direction of the dressing-tent. He had not much time to spend in speculation, however, for Ben said, as he came up: "Now, boy, you shall see Mr. Stubbs's brother, and talk to him just as long as you want to." The skeleton and his wife and Ella looked at each other and smiled in a queer way as Ben said this; but Toby was too much excited at the idea of having the monkey in his arms to pay any attention to what was going on around him. Ben, unlocking the door of the cage, succeeded, after considerable trouble, in catching the particular inmate he wanted, and, handing him to Toby, said: "Now let's see if he knows you as well as Stubbs did." Toby took the monkey in his arms with a glad cry of delight, and fondled him as if he really were the pet he had lost. Whether it was because the animal knew that the boy was petting him, or because he had been treated harshly, and was willing to make friends with the first one who was kind to him, it is difficult to say; certain it is that as soon as he found himself in Toby's arms he nestled down with his face by the boy's neck, remaining there as contentedly as if the two had been friends for years. "There, don't you see he knows me!" cried the boy in delight, and then he sat down upon the ground, caressing the animal, and whispering all sorts of loving words in his ear. "He does seem to act as if he had been introduced to you," said old Ben, with a chuckle. "It would be kinder nice if you could keep him, wouldn't it?" "'Deed it would," replied Toby earnestly. "I'd give everything I've got if I could have him, for he does act so much like Mr. Stubbs it seems as if it must be him." Then Ella whispered something to the old driver, the skeleton bestowed a very mysterious wink upon him, the fat woman nodded her head till her cheeks shook like two balls of very soft butter, and Abner looked curiously on, wondering what was the matter with Toby's friends. He soon found out what it was, however, for Ben, after indulging in one of his laughing spasms, asked: "Whose monkey is that you've got in your arms, Toby?" "Why, it belongs to the circus, don't it?" And the boy looked up in surprise. "No, it don't belong to the circus; it belongs to you--that's who owns it." "Me? Mine? Why, Ben--" Toby was so completely bewildered as to be unable to say a word, and just as he was beginning to think it some joke, Ben said: "The skeleton an' his wife, an' Ella and I, bought that monkey this forenoon, an' we give him to you so's you'll still be able to have a Mr. Stubbs in the family." "Oh, Ben!" was all Toby could say; with the monkey tightly clasped in his arms, he took the old driver by the hand; but just then the skeleton stepped forward holding something which glistened. "Mr. Tyler," he said, in his usual speech-making style, "when our friend Ben told us this morning about your having discovered Mr. Stubbs's brother, we sent out and got this collar for the monkey, and we take the greatest possible pride in presenting it to you; although, if it had been something that my Lilly could have made with her own fair fingers, I should have liked it better." As he ceased speaking, he handed Toby a very pretty little dog-collar, on the silver plate of which was inscribed: +---------------------------------+ | MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER. | | PRESENTED TO | | TOBY TYLER | | | | BY | | | | THE SKELETON, THE FAT WOMAN, | | OLD BEN, LITTLE ELLA. | +---------------------------------+ Toby took the collar, and as he fastened it on the monkey's neck he said, in a voice that trembled considerably with emotion: "You've all of you been awful good to me, an' I don't know what to say so's you'll know how much I thank you. It seems as if ever since I started with the circus you've all tried to see how good you could be; an' now you've given me this monkey that I wanted so much. Some time, when I'm a man, I'll show you how much I think of all you've done for me." The tears of gratitude that were gathering in Toby's eyes prevented him from saying anything more, and then Mrs. Treat and Ella both kissed him, while Ben said, in a gruff tone: "Now carry the monkey home, an' get your supper, for you'll want to come down here this evening, an' you won't have time if you don't go now." Ella, after making Toby promise that he would see her again that night, went with Mr. and Mrs. Treat, while old Ben, as if afraid he might receive more thanks, walked quickly away towards the dressing-rooms, and there was nothing else for Toby and Abner to do but go home. It surely seemed as if every boy in the village knew that Toby Tyler had remained in the tent after the circus was over, and almost all of them were waiting around the entrance when the two boys came out with the monkey. If Toby had stayed there until each one of his friends had looked at and handled the monkey as much as he wanted to, he and Abner would have remained until morning, and Mr. Stubbs's brother would have been made very ill-natured. He waited until his friends had each looked at the monkey, and then he and Abner started home, escorted by nearly all the boys in town. The partners in the amateur-circus scheme were nearly as wild with joy as Toby was, for now their enterprise seemed an assured success, since they had two real ponies and a live monkey to begin with. They seemed to consider it their right to go to Uncle Daniel's with Toby; and when the party reached the corner that marked the centre of the village, they decided that the others of the escort should go no farther--a decision which relieved Toby of an inconvenient number of friends. As it was, the party was quite large enough to give Aunt Olive some uneasiness lest they should track dirt in upon her clean kitchen floor, and she insisted that both the boys and the monkey should remain in the yard. Toby had an idea that Mr. Stubbs's brother would be treated as one of the family; and, had any one hinted that the monkey would not be allowed to share his bed and eat at the same table with him, he would have resented it strongly. But Uncle Daniel soon convinced him that the proper place for his pet was in the wood-shed, where he could be chained to keep him out of mischief, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was soon safely secured in as snug a place as a monkey could ask for. Not until this was done did the partners return to their homes, or the centre of attraction--the tenting-grounds--nor did Toby find time to get his supper and go for the cows. Not once during the afternoon had Toby said anything to Abner of the good fortune that might come to him through old Ben; but when he got back from the pasture and met Uncle Daniel in the barn, he told him what the old driver had said about Abner. "Are you sure you heard him rightly, Toby, boy?" asked the old gentleman as he pushed his glasses up on his forehead, as he always did when he was surprised or perplexed. "I know he said that; but it seems as if it was too good to be true, don't it?" "The Lord's ways are not our ways, my boy, and if he sees fit to work some good to the poor cripple, he can do it as well through a circus driver as through one of his elect," said Uncle Daniel reverentially, and then he set about milking the cows in such an absent-minded way that he worried old Short-horn until she kicked the pail over when it was nearly half full. CHAPTER X THE ACCIDENT That night Toby and Abner went to the circus grounds with Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive; and when old Ben approached the party as they were nearing the tent, Toby motioned the cripple to come with him, for he thought it might be better that the boy should not hear the conversation concerning himself. It had been decided by Uncle Daniel that the boys should go to the circus grounds that evening, and stay there until it was nearly dark, when they were to go home and go to bed; for he never believed it could do boys any good to be out after dark, while he was certain it was better for their health if they went to bed early. Therefore Toby intended to make this visit simply one of farewell, after Abner should see a little more of the bustle and confusion that had so fascinated him in the afternoon. To that end the boys walked around the enclosure, listened to the men who were loudly crying the wonderful things they had for sale, and all the while kept a bright lookout in the hope of seeing some of their circus friends. It was nearly time for the performance to begin when the boys went into the skeleton's tent, and said good-bye to the thin man and his fat wife. Then Toby, anxious to run around to the dressing-rooms to speak with Ella, and not daring to take Abner with him, said to the boy: "Now you wait here for a minute, an' I'll be right back." Abner was perfectly contented to wait; it seemed to him that he would have been willing to stay there all night, provided the excitement should be continued, and he gazed around him in perfect delight as he leaned against one of the tent ropes. Toby found Ella without much difficulty; but both she and her mother had so much to say to him that it was some time before he could leave them to go in search of Ben. The old driver was curled up on his wagon, taking "forty winks," as he called a nap, before starting on the road again. When Toby awakened him, he explained that he would not have taken the liberty if it had not been for the purpose of saying good-bye, and Ben replied, good-naturedly: "That's all right, Toby; I should only have been angry with you if you had let me sleep. I've fixed it with your uncle about that little cripple; and now, when I get pitched off and killed some of these dark nights, there'll be one what'll be sorry I'm gone. Be a good boy, Toby; don't ever do anything you'd be afraid to tell your Uncle Dan'l of, and next year I'll see you again." Toby wanted to say something; but the old driver had spoken his farewell, and was evidently determined neither to say nor to hear anything more, for he crawled up on the box of the wagon again, and appeared to fall asleep instantly. Toby stood looking at him a moment, as if trying to make out whether this sudden sleep was real, or only feigned in order to prevent the parting from being a sad one; and then he said, as he started towards the door: "Well, I thank you over and over again for Mr. Stubbs's brother, even if you have gone to sleep." Then he went to meet Abner. When he reached the place where he had left his friend, to his great surprise he could see nothing of him. There was no possibility that he could have made any mistake as to the locality, for he had left him standing just behind the skeleton's tent. Toby ran quickly around the enclosure, asked some of the attendants in the dressing-room if they had seen a boy on crutches, and then he went into Mr. Treat's tent. But he could neither hear nor see anything of Abner, whose complete disappearance was, to say the least, very strange. Toby was completely bewildered by this sudden disappearance, and for some moments he stood looking at the place where he had left his friend, as if he thought that his eyes must have deceived him, and that the boy was still there. There were but few persons around the outside of the tent, those who had money enough to pay for their admission having gone in, and those who were penniless having gone home, so that Toby did not find many of whom to make inquiries. The attachés of the circus were busily engaged packing the goods for the night's journey, and a number of them had gathered around one of the wagons a short distance away. But Toby thought it useless to ask them for tidings of his missing friend, for he knew by experience how busy every one connected with the circus was at that hour. After he had looked at the tent rope against which he had seen Abner leaning, until he recovered his presence of mind, he went into the tent again for the purpose of getting Uncle Daniel to help him in the search. As he was passing the monkey wagon, however, he saw old Ben--whom he had left apparently in a heavy sleep--examining his wagon to make sure that everything was right, and to him he told the story of Abner's strange disappearance. "I guess he's gone off with some of the other fellows," said Ben, thinking the matter of but little importance, but yet going out of the tent with Toby as he spoke. "Boys are just like eels, an' you never know where to find 'em after you once let 'em slip through your fingers." "But Abner promised me he'd stay right here," said Toby. "Well, some other fellows came along, an' he promised to go with them, I s'pose." "But I don't believe Abner would; he'd keep his promise after he made it." While they were talking they had gone out of the tent, and Ben started at once towards the crowd around the wagon, for he knew there was no reason why so many men should be there when they had work to do elsewhere. "Did you go over there to see what was up?" asked the old driver. "No, I thought they were getting ready to start, an' I could see Abner wasn't there." "Something's the matter," muttered the old man, as he quickened his pace, and Toby, alarmed by the look on his friend's face, hurried on, hardly daring to breathe. One look into the wagon around which the men were gathered was sufficient to show why it was that Abner had not remained by the tent as he had promised; for he lay in the bottom of the cart, to all appearances dead, while two of the party were examining him to learn the extent of his injuries. "What is the matter? How did this boy get hurt?" asked Ben, sternly, as he leaped upon the wagon, and laid his hand over the injured boy's heart. "He was standing there close by the guy ropes when we were getting ready to let the canvas down. One of the side poles fell and struck him on the head, or shoulder, I don't know which," replied a man. "It struck him here on the back of the neck," said one of those who were examining the boy, as he turned him half over to expose an ugly-looking wound around which the blood was rapidly settling. "It's a wonder it didn't kill him." "He hain't dead, is he?" asked Toby, piteously, as he climbed up on one of the wheels and looked over in a frightened way at the little deformed body that lay so still and lifeless. "No, he hain't dead," said Ben, who had detected a faint pulsation of the heart; "but why didn't some of you send for a doctor when it first happened?" "We did," replied one of the men. "Some of the village boys were here, and we started them right off." Almost as the man spoke, Dr. Abbott, one of the physicians of the town, drove up and made his way through the crowd. Toby, too much alarmed to speak, watched the doctor's every movement as he made an examination of the wounded boy, and listened to the accounts the men gave of the way in which the accident had happened. "His injuries are not necessarily fatal, but they are very dangerous. He lives at the poor-farm, and should be taken there at once," said the doctor after he had made a slight and almost careless examination. Toby was anxious that the poor boy should be taken to his home rather than to the comfortless place the doctor had proposed; but he did not dare make the suggestion before asking Uncle Daniel's consent to it. He was about to ask them not to move Abner until he could find his uncle, when Ben whispered something to the doctor that caused him to look at the old driver in surprise. "I'll ask Uncle Dan'l to take him home with us," said Toby as he slipped down from his high perch and started towards the tent. "I'll take care of that," said Ben as he went towards the tent with him. "I had just fixed it with your uncle so's he'd take Abner from the poor-farm an' board him, an' now there's all the more reason why he should do it. You go back an' stay with Abner, an' I'll bring your Uncle Dan'l out." Then Toby went back to the wagon where the poor little cripple still lay as one dead, while the blood flowed in a tiny stream from one of his arms, where the physician had opened a vein. Not understanding the reason for this blood-letting, and supposing that the crimson flow was due to the injuries Abner had received, Toby cried out in his fear; but one of the men explained the case to him, and then he waited as patiently as possible for the driver's return. Both Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive came out with Ben, and within a very few moments Abner was being carried to the farm-house, in the same wagon that had taken him there before in company with the skeleton and his party, for that famous dinner. It frightened Toby still more to see the unconscious boy carried into the house by Ben and the doctor as though he were already dead; and when Aunt Olive led them into the best room, where no one had slept since Uncle Daniel's sister died, it seemed as if every one believed Abner could not live, or they would not have carried him there. Toby hardly knew when Ben went away, or whether he said anything before he left, or, in fact, anything else, so sad and confused was he. He did not even think about Mr. Stubbs's brother, but remained in one corner of the room, almost hidden by one of the flowing chintz curtains, until Uncle Daniel heard him sobbing, and led him away to his room. "There is good reason to hope Abner will recover," said the old man as he stroked Toby's hair; "but he is in the keeping of the One who never errs, and whatsoever He does is good." Then Uncle Daniel actually kissed the boy, as he told him to go to bed and go to sleep. Toby went to bed as he was commanded, though it seemed impossible he should sleep while it might be that Abner was dying. CHAPTER XI CHANGE OF PLANS Toby was thoroughly surprised, when he awoke, to find that it was morning, and that his slumber had been as sweet as if nothing had happened. He dressed himself as quickly as possible, and ran down-stairs, and Uncle Daniel told him the doctor had just left, after saying he thought Abner would recover. It was a sad visit Toby paid Mr. Stubbs's brother that morning; and, as he petted him, the tears came into his eyes when he thought of poor Abner, until he was obliged to leave the monkey to himself, after having tied him so that he could take a short run out of doors. Then he visited the ponies in the stable, and when he returned to the house he found all his partners in the circus enterprise, as well as several other boys, waiting to hear an account of the accident. Dr. Abbott had reported that Abner had been injured; but, as he had not given any particulars, the villagers were in a state of anxious uncertainty regarding it. After Toby had told them all he knew about the matter, and had allowed them to see the monkey and the ponies, which some of them seemed to regard as of more importance than the injured boy, Bob asked: "Well, now what about our circus?" "Why, we can't do anything on that till Abner gets well," said Toby, as if surprised that the matter should even be spoken about. "Why not? He wasn't goin' to do any of the ridin', an' now's the time for us to go ahead while we can remember what they did at the show yesterday. It don't make any difference 'bout our circus if he did get hurt," and Bob looked around at the others as if asking whether they agreed with him or not. "I think we ought to wait till he gets better," said Joe, "'cause he was goin' in with us, an' it don't seem jest fair to have the show when he's so sick." "That's foolish," said Ben, with a sneer. "If he hadn't come up to the pasture the other day, you wouldn't thought anything 'bout him, an' he'd been out to the poor-farm where he belongs." "If he hadn't come up there," said Toby, "I'd never known how lonesome he was, an' I'd gone right on havin' a good time without ever once thinkin' of him. An' if he hadn't come up there, perhaps he wouldn't got hurt, an' it seems almost as if I'd done it to him, 'cause I took him to the circus." "Don't make a fool of yourself, Toby Tyler!" and Ben Gushing spoke almost angrily. "You act awful silly 'bout that feller, an' father says he's only a pauper anyway." "It wouldn't make any difference if he was, 'cause he's a poor lonesome cripple; but he hain't a pauper, for old Ben's goin' to take care of him, an' he pays Uncle Dan'l for lettin' him stay here." This news was indeed surprising to the boys, and as they fully realized that Abner was under the protection of a "circus man," he rose considerably in their estimation. They were anxious to know all about the matter, and when Toby told them all he could, they looked at the case in such an entirely different light that Ben Gushing even offered to go out in the field, where he could be seen from the windows of the room in which Abner lay, and go through his entire acrobatic performance in the hope the sight might do the invalid some good. Leander Leighton also offered to come twice each day and play "Yankee Doodle" with one finger on the accordion, in order to soothe him. But Toby thought it best to decline both these generous offers; he was glad they had been made, but would have been much better pleased if they had come while it was still believed Abner's only home was at the poorhouse. When the boys went away, Toby pleaded so hard that Aunt Olive consented to his sitting in the chamber where Abner lay, with the agreement that he should make no noise; and there he remained nearly all the day, as still as any mouse, watching the pale face on which death seemed already to have set its imprint. Each day for two weeks Toby remained on watch, leaving the room only when it was necessary, and he was at last rewarded by hearing Abner call him by name. After that, Aunt Olive allowed the two boys to talk a little, and a few days later Mr. Stubbs's brother was brought in to pay his respects to the invalid. Many times during Abner's illness had the boys been up to learn how he was getting on, and to try to persuade Toby to commence again the preparations for the circus; but he had steadily refused to proceed further in the matter until Abner could at least play the part of spectator. Uncle Daniel had had several letters from Ben inquiring about Abner's condition; and as each one contained money, some of which had been sent by the skeleton and his wife to "Toby Tyler's friend," the sick boy had wanted for nothing. Ben had also written that he had gained the consent of the proprietors of the circus to have the ponies driven for Abner's benefit, and had sent a dainty little carriage and harnesses so that he could ride out as soon as he was able. Chandler Merrill had grown tired of waiting for his pony, and had taken him from the pasture, while Reddy had long since returned the blind horse to its owner. But during all these five weeks the work had gone slowly but steadily on circusward. Leander had become so expert a musician on the accordion, that he could play "Yankee Doodle" with all his fingers, "Old Hundred" with two; and was fast mastering the intricacies of "Old Dog Tray." As to Ben Gushing, it would be hard to say exactly how much progress he had made, the reports differed so much. He claimed to be able to turn hand-springs around the largest circus ring that was ever made, and to stand on his head for a week; but some of the boys who were not partners in the enterprise flatly contradicted this, and declared that they could do as many feats in the acrobatic line as he could. Joe Robinson had practised howling until Reddy insisted that there was little or no difference between him and the fiercest and strongest-lunged hyena that ever walked. Bob could sing the two songs his sister had taught him, and had written out twelve copies of them in order to have a good stock to sell from; but Leander predicted that he would not be able to dispose of many, because one was the "Suwanee River," and the other "A Poor Wayfaring Man," the words of which any boy could get by consulting an old music-book. Reddy had made a remarkably large whip, which he could snap once out of every three attempts, and not hit himself on the head more than once out of five. Thus the circus project was as promising as ever, and Abner, as well as the other partners, had urged Toby to take hold of it again; but he had made no promises until the day came when Abner was able to sit up, and Dr. Abbott said that he could go out for a ride in another week, if he still continued to improve. Then it was that Toby told his partners he would meet them on the first day Abner went out for a ride, and tell them when he would take up the circus work again, which made every one more anxious than ever to see the poor-farm boy out of doors. From the time when the tiny little carriage and the two sets of harness glistening with silver had come, Toby had been anxious for a drive with the ponies; but he had resolutely refused to use them until Abner could go with him, although Uncle Daniel had told him he could try them whenever he wished. He had waited for his other pleasures until Abner could join him, and he insisted on waiting for this one. One day, when Aunt Olive spoke to him about it, he said: "If I was sick, an' had such a team sent to me, I'd feel kinder bad to have some other boy using it, an' so I'm goin' to let Abner be the first one to go out with the ponies." It was hard not even to get into the little carriage that was so carefully covered with a white cloth in the stable; but Toby resisted the temptation, and when at last the day did come that Aunt Olive and Uncle Daniel helped the sick boy down-stairs, and lifted him into the prettiest little pony carriage ever seen in Guilford, he felt amply rewarded for his denial. They drove all over the town, stopping now and then to speak with some of their friends, or to answer questions as to Abner's health; and when it was nearly time to return home Toby turned the ponies' heads towards the pasture, where he knew his partners were waiting for him according to agreement. "We'll go on with the circus now," he said to Abner, "for I can take you with me in this team, an' you can stay in it all the time we're practising so's it'll be 'most as good as if you could do something towards it yourself." Abner was quietly happy; the tender, thoughtful care that had been bestowed upon him since his mishap had been such as, in his mind at least, repaid him for all the pain. "I hope you will have it," he said, earnestly, "for, even if I can't be with you all the time, I won't feel as if I was keepin' you from it." Then he put his hand in a loving way on Toby's cheek, and the "boss of the circus" felt fully repaid for having waited for his pleasure. At the pasture all the partners were gathered, for Toby had promised to tell them when he would begin operations; and as he drove the ponies up to the bars, he shouted: "Abner an' me will be up here about nine o'clock to-morrow morning, an' we'll bring Mr. Stubbs's brother with us." There was a mighty shout, and Ben Cushing stood on his head, when this announcement was made, and then Toby and Abner drove home as quickly as their ponies could scamper. CHAPTER XII A REHEARSAL When Toby told Uncle Daniel that night of their intention to go on with the work of the long-delayed circus, and that Abner was to ride up to the pasture where he could see everything that was going on, the old gentleman shook his head doubtingly, as if he feared the consequences to the invalid, who appeared very much exhausted even by the short ride he had taken. Abner, interpreting Uncle Daniel's shake of the head the same way Toby did, pleaded hard to be allowed to go, insisting that he would be no more tired sitting in the little carriage than he would in a chair at home; and Aunt Olive joined in the boys' entreaty, promising to arrange the pillows in such a manner that Abner could lie down or sit up, as best suited him. "We'll see what the doctor has to say about it," replied Uncle Daniel, and, with much anxiety, the boys awaited the physician's coming. "Go? Why, of course he can go, and it will do him good to be out-of-doors," said the medical gentleman when he made his regular afternoon visit and Uncle Daniel laid the case before him. Toby insisted on bringing Mr. Stubbs's brother into the invalid's room as a signal mark of rejoicing at the victory the doctor had won for them, and Abner was so delighted with the funny pranks the monkey played that it would have been difficult to tell by his face that the morning ride had tired him. Mr. Stubbs's brother was quite as mischievous as a monkey could be; he capered around the room, picking at this thing and looking into that, until Aunt Olive laughed herself tired, and Uncle Daniel declared that if the other monkey was anything like this one, Toby was right when he named him Steve Stubbs, so much did he resemble that gentleman in inquisitiveness. The day had been so exciting to the boy who had been confined to one room for several weeks, that he was quite ready to go to bed when Aunt Olive suggested it; and Toby went about his evening's work with a lighter heart than he had had since the night he found his crippled friend lying so still and death-like in the circus wagon. The next morning Toby was up some time before the sun peeped in through the crevices of Uncle Daniel's barn to awaken the cows, and he groomed the tiny ponies till their coats shone like satin. The carriage was washed until every portion of it reflected one's face like a mirror, and the harnesses with their silver mountings were free from the slightest suspicion of dirt. Then after the cows had been driven to the pasture Mr. Stubbs's brother was treated to a bath, and was brushed and combed until, losing all patience at such foolishness, he escaped from his too cleanly-disposed master, taking refuge on the top of the shed, where he chattered and scolded at a furious rate as he tried to explain that he had no idea of coming down until the curry-comb and brush had been put away. But when the pony team was driven up to the door, and Toby decorated the bridles of the little horses with some of Aunt Olive's roses, Mr. Stubbs's brother came down from his high perch, and picked some of the flowers for himself, putting them over his ears to imitate the ponies; then he gravely seated himself in the carriage, and Toby had no difficulty in fastening the cord to his collar again. Aunt Olive nearly filled the little carriage with pillows so soft that a very small boy would almost have sunk out of sight in them; and in the midst of these Abner was placed carefully, looking for all the world, as Toby said, like a chicken in a nest. Mr. Stubbs's brother was fastened in the front in such a way that his head came just above the dash-board, over which he looked in the most comical manner possible. Then Toby squeezed in on one side, declaring he had plenty of room, although there was not more than three square inches of space left on the seat, and even a portion of that was occupied by a fan and some other things Aunt Olive had put in for Abner's use. Both the boys were in the highest possible state of happiness, and Abner was tucked in until he could hardly have been shaken had he been in a cart instead of a carriage with springs. "Be sure to keep Abner in the shade, and come home just as soon as he begins to grow tired," cried Aunt Olive as Toby spoke to the ponies, and they dashed off like a couple of well-trained Newfoundland dogs. "I'll take care of him like he was wax," cried Toby as they drove out through the gateway, and Mr. Stubbs's brother screamed and chattered with delight, while Abner lay back restful and happy. It was just the kind of a morning for a ride, and Abner appeared to enjoy it so much that Toby turned the little steeds in the direction of the village, driving fully a mile before going to the pasture. When they did arrive at the place where the first rehearsal was to be held, they found the partners gathered in full force; and, although it was not even then nine o'clock, they had evidently been there some time. Joe Robinson ran to let the bars down, while the ponies pranced into the field as if they knew they were the objects of admiration from all that party, and they shook their tiny heads until the petals fell from the roses in a shower upon the grass. Mr. Stubbs's brother stood as erect as possible, and was so excited by the cheers of the boys that he seized the flowers he had tucked over his ears, and flung them at the party in great glee. The carriage was driven into the shade cast by the alders; the ponies were unharnessed, and fastened where they could have a feast of grass; and Toby was ready for business, or thought he was. But, just as he was about to consult with his partners, a scream from both Abner and the monkey caused him to turn towards the carriage quickly. From the moment they had entered the pasture, Mr. Stubbs's brother had shown the greatest desire to be free; and when he saw his master walking away, while he was still a prisoner, he made such efforts to release himself that he got his body over the dash-board of the carriage, and, when Toby looked, he was hanging there by the neck as if he had just committed suicide. Toby ran quickly to the relief of his pet; and when he had released him from his uncomfortable position, the other boys pleaded so hard that Toby gave him his freedom, which he celebrated by scampering across the pasture on all four paws, with his tail curled up over his back like a big letter O. It seemed very much as if Mr. Stubbs's brother would break up the rehearsal, for he did look so comical as he scampered around that all the partners neglected their business to watch and laugh at him, until Toby reminded them that he could not stay there very long because of Abner's weakness. Then Bob and Reddy straightened themselves up in a manner befitting circus proprietors, and began their work. "Leander is goin' to commence the show by playin' 'Yankee Doodle,'" said Bob, as he consulted a few badly written words he had traced on the back of one of his father's business cards, "an' while he's doin' it Joe'll put in an' howl all he knows how, for that's the way the hyenas did at the last circus." The entire programme was evidently to be carried out that morning, for, as Bob spoke, Leander marched with his accordion and a great deal of dignity to a rock near where a line representing the ring had been cut in the turf. "Now you'll see how good he can do it," said Bob, with no small amount of pride; and Leander, with his head held so high that it was almost impossible to see his instrument, struck one or two notes as a prelude, while Joe took his station at a point about as far distant from the ring as the door of the tent would probably be. Leander started with the first five or six notes all right, and Joe began some of the most wonderful howling ever heard, which appeared to disconcert the band, for he got entirely off the track of his original tune, and mixed "Yankee Doodle" with "Old Dog Tray" in the most reckless manner, Joe howling louder at every false note. Almost every one in that pasture, save possibly the performers themselves, was astonished at the din made by these two small boys; and Mr. Stubbs's brother, who had hung himself up on a tree by his tail, dropped to his feet in the greatest alarm, adding his chatter of fear to the general confusion. But the two performers were not to be daunted by anything that could occur; in fact, Joe felt rather proud that his howling was so savage as to frighten the monkey, and he increased his efforts until his face was as red as a nicely boiled beet. For fully five minutes the overture was continued; then the band stopped and looked around with an air of triumph, while Joe uttered two or three more howls by way of effect, and to show that he could have kept it up longer had it been necessary. "There! what do you think of that?" asked Reddy, in delight. "You couldn't get much more noise if you had a whole band, could you?" "It's a good deal of noise," said Toby, not feeling quite at liberty to express exactly his views regarding the music; "but what was it Leander was playin'?" "I played two tunes," replied Leander, proudly. "I can play 'Yankee Doodle' with the whole of one hand; but I think it sounds better to play that with my thumb and two fingers, an' 'Old Dog Tray' with the other two fingers. You see, I can give 'em both tunes at once that way." The monkey went back to the tree as soon as the noise had subsided; but, from the way he looked over his shoulder now and then, one could fancy he was getting ready to run at the first sign that it was to commence again. "Didn't that sound like a whole cageful of hyenas?" asked Joe, as he wiped the perspiration from his face, and came towards his partners. "I can keep that up about as long as Leander can play, only it's awful hard work." Toby had no doubt as to the truth of that statement; but before he could make any reply, Bob said: "Now, this is where Ben comes in. He starts the show, an' he ends it, an' I sing right after he gets through turnin' hand-springs this first time. Now, Leander, you start the music jest as soon as Ben comes, an' keep it up till he gets through." Ben was prepared for his portion of the work. His trousers were belted tightly around his waist by a very narrow leather belt, with an enormously large buckle, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up as high as he could get them, in order to give full play to his arms. "He's been rubbin' goose-grease all over him for as much as two weeks, an' he can bend almost any way," whispered Reddy to Toby, as Ben stood swinging his arms at the entrance to the ring, as if limbering himself for the work to be done. Leander started "Yankee Doodle" in slow and solemn strains; Ben gathered himself for a mighty effort, and began to go around the ring in a series of hand-springs in true acrobatic style. CHAPTER XIII THE RESULTS OF LONG TRAINING Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on, probably to guard against another sudden fright such as the overture had given him, and the moment Ben commenced to revolve he leaped from the tree, running with full speed towards the whirling acrobat. Toby started to catch him, but the monkey was too quick in his movements: before any one could prevent him he had caught the revolving boy by one leg, and for a few seconds it was difficult to tell which was Ben and which the monkey. Of course such an interruption as that broke up the performance for the time being, and Toby was obliged to exert all his authority to disentangle the monkey from the performer. "I knew it wouldn't do to let him be loose," said Toby, in a half-apologetic tone. "Now I'll set here an' hold him while you commence over again, Ben." "Well, now, be sure you hold him," said Ben, seriously, "for I don't want him to catch me again when I'm goin' 'round so fast, for it hurts a feller to tumble the way he made me." Bob offered to help hold the unruly monkey, and, when he and Toby had taken a firm grip on the collar, the music was started again, and Ben recommenced his performance. This time he got through with it in a highly successful and creditable manner; he proved to be a really good acrobat, so far as turning hand-springs and standing on his head were concerned, and Toby felt certain that this portion of the entertainment would be pleasing. Bob now went into the ring, and began to sing the "Suwanee River" in a manner which he intended should captivate his audience; but he had neglected to give the band any orders, and the consequence was that, when he commenced to sing, Leander began to play "Old Dog Tray," a proceeding which mixed the musical matters considerably. "You mustn't do that, Leander," Bob said, sharply, after he had done his best to sing the band down, and failed in the attempt. "It won't do for you to play one thing while I'm tryin' to sing something else. Now, you be restin' while I'm doin' my part." Leander was so deeply interested in the enterprise that he was perfectly willing to keep on playing without ever thinking of taking a rest; but in deference to Bob's wishes he ceased his efforts, although he did venture to remark that he noticed particularly, when the real circus was there, that the band always played when the clown sang. Bob got along very well with his portion of the rehearsal after the first mistake had been rectified; and when he finished he bowed gracefully in response to the applause bestowed upon him. "Now's the time when you come in, Toby," said Bob; "an' if you'll see how you can ride the ponies, Joe'll run around the ring with 'em." Toby was willing to do his share of the work, and all the more so because he could see that Abner, from his cosy seat under the bushes, was deeply interested in all that was going on. Joe got one of the ponies while Toby made his preparations; and after the little horse had been led around the circle two or three times to show what was expected of him, Toby got on his back. This was Reddy's opportunity to act the part of ring-master, and he seized his long whip, standing in the centre of the ring, in what he believed to be the proper attitude. "Run around with him till I tell you to let go," said Toby, as he tied the reins together to form a bridle, and then stood on the pony's back as Mr. Castle had taught him to do. There was so great a difference between the motion of this horse and that of the one owned by Mr. Douglass, that Toby began to understand it might be quite as necessary to train the animal as its rider. Owing to his lack of practice he was a little clumsy; but after one or two attempts he went around the ring standing on one foot, almost as well as he had done it when with Ella. The boys, who had never seen Toby ride before were thoroughly elated by the brief exhibition he gave them; and if he had done as they wanted, he would have tired both himself and the pony completely. "I'll practise some, now Abner can come out," said Toby, as he led his steed to a spot where he could get more grass, but neglected to fasten him; "an' I wouldn't wonder if I could ride two at once, after a little while." His partners in the enterprise were more than delighted with their rider, and they already began to believe they should have such a circus as would, in some points, eclipse the real one that had lately visited the town. After the excitement caused by Toby's riding had in a measure died away, Ben continued with his feats according to the programme, and then Bob commenced his second song. The audience of partners were listening to it intently, the more because it seemed to them that Bob had made a mistake as to the tune, and they were anxious to see what he was going to do about it--when the pony Toby had been riding suddenly dashed into the ring, with what looked very like a boy on his back. The partners were amazed at this interruption, and Bob continued to sound the note he was wrestling with when he first saw the pony coming towards him, until it ended almost in a shriek. "Who is it?" cried Joe, as the pony dashed across the pasture, urged to full speed by its rider, and in an instant more all saw a long curling tail, which showed unmistakably who the culprit was. "It's Mr. Stubbs's brother!" cried Toby, in alarm, "and how shall we catch him?" It was, indeed, the monkey, and during the next ten minutes it seemed to the boys that they ran over every square foot of that pasture, scaring the cows and tiring themselves, until the frightened little horse was penned up in one corner, and his disagreeable rider was taken from him. This last act of the rehearsal had occupied so much time, and the monkey was making himself so troublesome, that Toby decided to go home, the others promising to come to Uncle Daniel's barn that afternoon, when Reddy was to explain how the tent was to be procured, a matter which, up to this time, he had kept a profound secret from all but Bob. Short as the time spent at the rehearsal seemed to the boys, it was considerably too long for one in Abner's weak condition, as was evident from his face when Aunt Olive came to the door to help him out of the carriage. He seemed thoroughly exhausted, and, as soon as he got into the house, asked to be allowed to lie down--a confession of weakness that gave Aunt Olive a great deal of uneasiness, because she considered herself in a great measure responsible for the ride and its results, as she had urged Abner to go before the doctor's advice had been heard in the matter. Toby's fears regarding the invalid were always reflections of Aunt Olive's; but when he saw Abner go to sleep so quickly, he thought she was alarmed without cause, and believed his friend would be quite himself so soon as he should awaken. Dinner-time came and passed, and Abner was still sleeping sweetly. Therefore Toby could see no reason why he should not join his partners, whom he saw going into the barn before dinner was over. "The boys have come up to see 'bout the tent," he said to Aunt Olive, "an' I'm goin' out to the barn, where they're waitin' for me. Will you call me when Abner wakes up?" Aunt Olive promised that he should be informed as soon as the sick boy could see him, and Toby joined his partners with never a fear but that Abner would soon be able to participate in all his sports. That the boys had come to Uncle Daniel's barn on very serious business was evident from their faces, and the two large packages they brought. Two rolls of what looked to be sail-cloth were lying on the barn floor, and around them Bob, Reddy, Joe, Ben, and Leander were seated with a look on their faces that was very nearly a troubled one. "What's them?" asked Toby, in surprise, as he pointed to the bundles. "The tent," and Reddy gave a big sigh as he spoke. "What, have you got two?" asked Toby, a look of glad surprise showing itself on his face. Reddy shook his head. "What's the matter? If there hain't two tents here, what makes the two bundles?" And Toby was almost impatient because he could not understand the matter. "Well, you see, this is just how it is," said Reddy, as he began to untie the fastenings from the rolls of canvas. "When I told you I could get a tent, I'd asked Captain Whetmore to lend me two of the sails what he took off his schooner, an' he told me yes." "An' you've got 'em, haven't you?" and Toby looked meaningly at the canvas. "Yes, we've got 'em," replied Joe; "but now we don't know how to fix 'em, 'cause you see we've got to put 'em up like a roof, an' we hain't got anything for the ends." Reddy had planned to use each of the sails as a side to the tent, fastening them along the top to a ridge-pole; and it had never occurred to him, in all the time he had had to think the matter over, that as yet he had nothing with which to form the ends. It was a question that puzzled the boys greatly, and caused their faces to grow very long, until Toby said: "I'll tell you how we can fix one end. We can put it right up against the barn, where the little door is, an' then we can have the stalls for a dressin'-room." The faces of the partners lightened at once, and each wondered why he had not thought of such a plan. "An' I'll tell you how we could fix the other end," said Toby, quickly, as another happy thought presented itself. "If Mr. Mansfield would lend us his big flag, it would jest do it." "That's the very thing, an' I'll go an' ask him now;" and Bob started out of the barn at full speed, while Reddy, now that the important question was settled, displayed great alacrity in unrolling his treasures. The sails were not in a remarkable state of preservation, or Captain Whetmore would not have taken them from his vessel; but Reddy explained that the holes could be closed up by pasting paper over them, or by each boy borrowing a sheet from his mother and pinning it up underneath. One of the sails was considerably larger than the other; but Reddy had also thought of this, and proposed to make them look the same size by "tucking one in" at the end. Bob returned before the sails had been thoroughly inspected, and brought with him the coveted flag, thus showing he had been successful in his mission. "Now let's put it right up, an' then we can build our ring, an' do our practisin' there instead of goin' up to the pasture," suggested Ben. Since there was no reason why this should not be done, Bob and Ben started for the woods to cut some young trees with which to make a ridge-pole and posts, while the others carried the canvas out-of-doors, and made calculations as to where and how it should be put up. When they commenced work, they had no idea but that it would be completed before supper-time; but when the village clock struck the hour of five, they had not finished making the necessary poles and pegs. "We can't come anywhere near getting it done to-night," said Toby, surprised at the lateness of the hour, and wondering why Aunt Olive had not called him as she had promised. "Let's put the sails back in the barn, an' to-morrow mornin' we can begin early, an' have it all done by noon." There was no hope that they could complete the work that night Therefore Toby's advice was followed; and when the partners separated, each promised to be ready for work early the next morning. CHAPTER XIV RAISING THE TENT Toby went into the house, feeling rather uneasy because he had not been called; but when Aunt Olive told him that Abner had aroused from his slumber but twice, and then only for a moment, he had no idea of being worried about his friend, although he did think it a little singular he should sleep so long. That evening Dr. Abbot called again, although he had been there once before that day; and when Toby saw how troubled Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive looked after he had gone, he asked; "You don't think Abner is goin' to be sick, do you?" Uncle Daniel made no reply, and Aunt Olive did not speak for some moments; then she said: "I am afraid he stayed out too long this morning; but the doctor hopes he will be better to-morrow." If Toby had not been so busily engaged planning for Abner to see the work next day, he would have noticed that the sick boy was not left alone for more than a few moments at a time, and that both Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive seemed to have agreed not to say anything discouraging to him regarding his friend's illness. When he went to bed that night, he fancied Uncle Daniel's voice trembled, as he said: "May the good God guard and spare you to me, Toby, boy;" but he gave no particular thought to the matter, and the sandman threw dust in his eyes very soon after his head was on the pillow. In the morning his first question was regarding Abner, and then he was told that his friend was not nearly so well as he had been; Aunt Olive even said that Toby had better not go into the sick-room, for fear of disturbing the invalid. "Go on with your play by yourself, Toby, boy, and that will be a great deal better than trying to have Abner join you, until he is much better," said Uncle Daniel, kindly. "But hain't he goin' to have a ride this mornin'?" "No, he is not well enough to get up. You go on building your tent, and you will be so near the house that you can be called at any moment, if Abner asks for you." Toby was considerably disturbed by the fact that he was not allowed to see his friend, and by the way Uncle Daniel spoke; but he went out to the barn where his partners were already waiting for him, feeling all the more sad now because of his elation the day before. He had no heart for the work, and, after telling the boys that Abner was sick again, proposed to postpone operations until he should get better; but they insisted that as they were so near the house, it would be as well to go on with the work as to remain idle, and Toby could offer no argument to the contrary. Although he did quite as much towards the putting-up of the tent as the others did, it was plain to be seen that he had lost his interest in anything of the kind, and at least once every half-hour he ran into the house to learn how the sick boy was getting on. All of Aunt Olive's replies were the same: Abner slept a good portion of the time, and during the few moments he was awake said nothing, except in answer to questions. He did not complain of any pain, nor did he appear to take any notice of what was going on around him. "I think it's because he got all tired out yesterday, an' that he'll be himself again to-morrow," said Aunt Olive, after Toby had come in for at least the sixth time, and she saw how worried he was. This hopeful remark restored Toby to something very near his usual good spirits; and when he went back to his work after that, his partners were pleased to see him take more interest in what was going on. The tent was up firmly enough to resist any moderate amount of wind, but it did not look quite so neat as it would have done had it not been necessary to perform the operation of "tucking in" one end, which made that side hang in folds that were by no means a pleasing addition to the general appearance. The small door of the barn, over which the tent was placed, served instead of a curtain to their dressing-room; and at one side of it, on an upturned barrel, arrangements were made for a band-stand. Mr. Mansfield's flag covered the one end completely, and all the boys thought it gave a better appearance to the whole than if they had made it wholly of canvas. The ring, which Reddy marked out almost before the tent was up, occupied nearly the whole of the interior; but since they did not intend to have any seats for their audience, it was thought there would be plenty of room for all who would come to see them. The main point was to have the ring, and to have it as nearly like that of a regular circus as possible, while the audience could be trusted to take care of itself. The animals to be exhibited were to be placed in small cages at each corner. Reddy had at first insisted that each cage should be on a cart to make it look well; but he gave up that idea when Bob pointed out to him that six mice or two squirrels would make rather a small show in a wagon, and that they would be obliged to enlarge their tent if they carried out that plan, even provided they could get the necessary number of carts, which was very doubtful. In the matter of getting sheets from their mothers they had not been as successful as they had anticipated. No one of the ladies who had been spoken to on the subject was willing to have her bed-linen decorating the interior of a circus-tent, even though the show was to be only a little one for three cents. Reddy was quite sure he could mend one or two of the largest holes if he had a darning-needle and some twine; but after he got both from Aunt Olive, and stuck the needle twice in his own hand, once in Joe Robinson's, and then broke it, he concluded that it would be just as well to paste brown paper over the holes. It was a hard job to dig the ground up in order to make as large a ring as the boys had marked out, but by persistent work it was accomplished, as almost everything can be; and then Ben went to practising, in order that he might, as he expressed it, "get the hang of the thing." Of course, the fact that a tent had been put up by the side of Uncle Daniel's barn was soon known to every boy in the village, and the rush of visitors that afternoon was so great that Joe was obliged to begin his duties as door-keeper in advance, in order to keep back the crowd. The number of questions asked by each boy who arrived kept Joe so busy answering them that, after every one in town knew exactly what was going on, Reddy hit upon the happy plan of getting a large piece of paper, and painting on it an announcement of their exhibition. It was while he was absent in search of the necessary materials with which to carry out this work that the finishing touches were put on the interior; and the partners were counting the number of hand-springs Ben could turn without stopping, when a great shout arose from the visitors outside, and the circus owners heard a pattering and scratching on the canvas above their heads. "Mr. Stubbs's brother has got loose, an' he's tearin' 'round on the tent!" shouted Joe, as he poked his head in through a hole in the flag, and at the same time struggled to keep back a small but bold boy with his foot. Toby, followed by the other proprietors, rushed out at this alarming bit of news, and, sure enough, there was the monkey dancing around on the top of the tent like a crazy person, while the rope with which he had been tied dangled from his neck. It seemed to Toby that no other monkey could possibly behave half so badly as did Mr. Stubbs's brother on that occasion. He danced back and forth from one end of the tent to the other, as if he had been a tight-rope performer giving a free exhibition; then he would sit down and try to find out just how large a hole he could tear in the tender canvas, until it seemed as if the tent would certainly be a wreck before they could get him down. Toby coaxed and scolded, and scolded and coaxed, but all to no purpose. The monkey would clamber down over the end of the tent as if he were about to allow himself to be made a prisoner, and then, just as Toby was about to catch the rope, he would spring upon the ridge-pole again, chattering with joy at the disappointment he had caused. The visitors fairly roared with delight, and even the proprietors, whose borrowed property was being destroyed, could not help laughing at times, although there was not one of them who would not have enjoyed punishing Mr. Stubbs's brother very severely. "He'll break the whole show up if we don't get him off," said Bob, as the monkey tore a larger hole than he had yet made, and the crowd encouraged him in his mischievous work by their wild cheers. "I know it; but how can we get him down?" asked Toby, in perplexity, knowing that it would not be safe for any one of them to climb upon the decayed canvas, even if there were a chance that the monkey would wait for them to catch him after they got there. "Get a long pole, an' scrape him off," suggested Joe; but Toby shook his head, for he knew that to "scrape" a monkey from such a place would be an impossibility. Bob had an idea that if he had a rope long enough to make a lasso, he could get it around the animal's neck and pull him down; but just as he set out to find the rope, Mr. Stubbs's brother settled the matter himself. He had torn one hole fully five inches long, and commenced on another a short distance from the first, when the thin fabric gave way, the two rents were made one, and down fell Mr. Monkey, only saved from falling to the ground by his chin catching on the edges of the cloth. There he hung, his little round head just showing above the canvas, with a bewildered, and, at the same time, discouraged look on his face. Toby knew that it would be but a moment before the monkey would get his paws out from under the canvas, and thus extricate himself from his uncomfortable position. Running quickly inside the tent, he seized Mr. Stubbs's brother by his long tail, pulling him completely through, and the mischievous pet was again a prisoner. It was a great disappointment to the boys on the outside when this portion of the circus was hidden from view; but it was equally as great a relief to the partners that the destruction of their tent was at last averted. After the excitement had nearly subsided, and Toby was reading his pet a lesson on the sin of destructiveness, Reddy arrived with the materials for making his circus poster--a sheet of brown paper, a bottle of ink, and a brush made by chewing the end of a pine stick. He began his work at once. It was a long task, but was at last accomplished, and when the partners went to their respective homes that night, the following placard adorned one side of the tent: +-------------------------+ | BiG CiRCUS | | | | DOORS OpEn PuTTy SOOn | | | | PRiCe 3 CEnTS | +-------------------------+ CHAPTER XV STEALING DUCKS After Toby had secured Mr. Stubbs's brother so that he could not liberate himself, he ran into the house to inquire for Abner. The news this time was more encouraging, for the sick boy had awakened thoroughly after his long sleep, and had asked how the work on the tent was getting on. Aunt Olive thought Toby could see him, and, after promising that he would not remain very long, or allow Abner to talk much, he went up-stairs. The crippled boy was lying in the bed bolstered up with pillows, looking out of the window that commanded a view of the tent, and evidently puzzled to know whether the large sheet of brown paper which he saw on one side was there as an ornament, or to serve some useful purpose. Toby explained to him that it was the poster Reddy had made, and then told him all that had been done that day towards getting ready for the great exhibition which was to dazzle the good people of Guilford, as well as to bring in a rich reward, in the way of money, to the managers. Abner was so interested in the matter, and seemed so bright and cheerful when he was talking about it, that Toby's fears regarding his illness were entirely dispelled; he came to the conclusion that Abner had simply been tired, as Aunt Olive had said, and that he would be better than ever by morning. This belief was strengthened by the doctor, who came while Toby was still with his friend, and who, in answer to a question, said, cheerily: "Of course he'll be all right; he may not be quite smart enough to go out to-morrow, but before the week is ended I'll guarantee that you'll have hard work to keep him in the house." Toby's heart was light again as he attended to his evening's work; and when he met Joe, on his way to the pasture, he laid plans for the coming exhibition with a greater zest than he had displayed since the matter was first spoken of. Now that the tent was up, and Abner on the sure and rapid road to recovery, Toby thought it quite time that Mr. Stubbs's brother should be taught to take some part in the performance. Joe was of the same opinion, and they decided to commence the education of the monkey that very night, giving him two or three lessons each day until he should be thoroughly trained. The cows were not exactly hurried on the way home that night; but they were not allowed to loiter by the roadside when they saw particularly tempting tufts of grass, and as soon as they were in the barn Mr. Stubbs's brother was taken to the tent. He was in anything rather than a good condition for training, for he evidently remembered his frolic of the afternoon, and was anxious to repeat it. Toby thought he could be made to leap through hoops as a beginning of his circus education, and all the energies of the boys were bent to the accomplishment of this. But the monkey was either remarkably stupid just then, or determined to take no part in the show, for although Joe held the hoops until his arms ached, and Toby coaxed and scolded till he was hoarse, Mr. Stubbs's brother could not be persuaded even to attempt to leap. "It's no use to try any more to-night," said Toby, impatiently, when it was nearly dark inside the tent, and his pet was showing signs of anger. "We'll commence the first thing in the mornin', an' I guess he'll do it." "I'd whip him if I was you," said Joe, who was thoroughly tired, and angry at the monkey's obstinacy. "If you would give him a good switchin', he'd know he's got to do it." "I wouldn't whip him if he never did anything," said Toby, as he hugged his pet tightly, almost as if he feared Joe might attempt, as one of the partners in the enterprise, to whip the unwilling performer. "'Tain't my monkey, so I hain't got nothin' to say about it," and Joe was impatient now; "but if he was mine, I'll bet he'd do what I told him to." It seemed almost as if Mr. Stubbs's brother knew what had been said about him, for he nestled close to Toby, hiding his face on the boy's neck in a way that would have prevented his master from whipping him even if he had been disposed so to do. "We'll put him in the shed, an' I guess he'll be good enough to-morrow," said Toby, cheerfully; and then, after fastening the flag in the front of the tent in such a way that the wind would be kept out, if nothing more, he and Joe walked towards the house, discussing the question of the kind of tickets they should use at the show. While they were yet some distance from the wood-shed in which Mr. Stubbs's brother was lodged, Aunt Olive called Toby to come quickly to the house. "You put him in the wood-shed, an' fasten him in snug," said Toby, as he handed the monkey to Joe, and started for the house at full speed. Now Joe knew perfectly well where Mr. Stubbs's brother was kept; but, as he had never seen him put away for the night, he was uncertain whether he should be tied there, or simply shut in. It hardly seemed to him that Toby would leave the monkey tied up by the neck all night, so he set him up comfortably on a bench, and carefully shut the door. Toby had been called to go to the druggist's for some medicine, and he came out of the house in such haste, calling to Joe to follow him, that nothing more was thought of the insecurely prisoned monkey. When Toby returned, it was so late that Uncle Daniel advised him to go to bed if he had any desire to be "healthy, wealthy, and wise," and he obeyed at once. Positive that Abner was on the road to recovery, sure that all his work had been done, and with nothing to trouble him, it was not very long that Toby lay awake after he was once in bed. It seemed to him that he had been sleeping a long while, when he was awakened by the sound as of some one hunting around in his room; and, before he had time to call out, the candle was lighted, showing that the intruder was Uncle Daniel, only partially dressed and in a high state of excitement. "What is it? What's the matter?" asked Toby, in alarm, thinking at once of Abner, and fearing that something had happened to him. "Hush!" said Uncle Daniel, warningly; "don't make a noise, for some one is trying to get into the hen-house, an' I am going to make an example of him. I suppose it's one of the tramps who went by here to-day, an' I want to find that gun I saw in here yesterday." There was such a weapon in Toby's room, or, at least, what had once been a gun was there, for a hired man whom Uncle Daniel had employed left it there. It had been an army musket, and appeared to have been used as a collection of materials to repair others guns with, for the entire lock, ramrod, and at least four inches of the stock had been taken away, leaving it a mere wreck of a gun. "It's up there in the corner behind the wash-stand," said Toby, coming out of the bed as quickly as if he had tumbled out, and alarmed at the thought of burglars. "It hain't no good, Uncle Dan'l, for there's only a little of it left." "It will do as well for me as a better one," said Uncle Daniel, grimly. "I don't want to shoot anybody, only to give them a severe fright, and perhaps capture them." "Then what'll you do with 'em?" asked Toby in a whisper, almost as much alarmed by Uncle Daniel's savage way of speaking as by the thought of the burglars. "I don't know, Toby, boy--I don't know. The tramps do trouble me greatly, an' I'd like to make an example of these; but I suppose they must be hungry, or else they wouldn't try to get into the hen-house, I guess if we catch one we'll give him a good breakfast, and try to persuade him to go to work like an honest man." Uncle Daniel's anger usually had some such peaceful ending, as Toby knew; but he did look bloodthirsty as he stood there in his shirt-sleeves, with one stocking on, and his night-cap covering one ear and but a small portion of his head, while he handled the invalid gun recklessly. By the time he was ready to go in search of the supposed chicken-thief, Aunt Olive, looking thoroughly frightened, came into the room with his other stocking and his boots in her hand, insisting that he should put them on before he ventured out. It must have been a very tame burglar who would have continued at his work after the lights had warned him that the inmates of the house were aroused; but Toby did not think of that. He saw that Aunt Olive had armed herself with the fire-shovel, that Uncle Daniel kept a firm hold of the gun even while he was trying to put his boots on, and he was frightened by the warlike preparations. Toby put on his trousers and shoes as quickly as possible, and when Uncle Daniel was ready to start, he stationed himself directly behind Aunt Olive, a position which he thought would afford him a fair view of what was going on, and at the same time be safe. "Now be careful of that gun, Dan'l, an' don't go so far that they can hurt you, for there's no telling what they will do if they find out you mean to catch them," and Aunt Olive looked quite as badly frightened as did Toby. "There, there, Olive, don't be alarmed," said Uncle Daniel, soothingly, "they will probably run as soon as they see the gun, and that will end it. I only hope that I can catch one," and Uncle Daniel went down the stairs as determined and savage looking a man as ever started in search of a supposed chicken-thief. Aunt Olive insisted on carrying the candle, though Uncle Daniel urged that it would not be possible for him to surprise the burglars if she held this light as a warning; but she had no idea of allowing him to go out where there was every probability that he would be in danger, unless she could see what was going on. When the party reached the kitchen, the sounds which came from the hen-house told plainly that the party they were in search of had not ceased his work because the household had been alarmed. The snapping of wood could be heard, and if Aunt Olive had not been thoroughly aroused before, she was then, for laths were being broken, and one of her choicest broods of ducks was secured only by such frail barriers against either two or four-legged thieves. "Stop them quick, or all the ducks will be out," she screamed; and, thus urged, Uncle Daniel made a bold stand. "Get behind me, and hold your hand over the light," he whispered, and then he shouted, as he brought the gun up to his shoulder in a very threatening manner, "Come out here, and give yourselves up at once." There was no answer made to this peremptory command, and, strangely enough, the work of destruction was continued as vigorously as if Uncle Daniel and his broken gun were a thousand miles away, instead of on the spot and ready for action. "Come away from there instantly, and save yourself any further trouble," shouted Uncle Daniel in a louder voice, stamping his foot, while Aunt Olive brandished the fire-shovel to give emphasis to his words. There was silence for a moment, as if the burglar had stopped to consider the matter, and then the work was continued with greater energy than before. "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Daniel, as he brought the butt of his gun down on his own foot with such force that he was obliged to give immediate attention to the wounded member. Toby had always had a wholesome dread of a gun; but his fear became greater than ever when he saw how much mischief could be done with one as near a total wreck as that was, for Uncle Daniel had seated himself on the grass, regardless of the dew, and was hugging his foot as if he feared he should lose it. CHAPTER XVI A LOST MONKEY Even though her husband was wounded, Aunt Olive could not stop to offer any aid while her precious ducks were in such peril, as the breaking of the laths proved they were; and she started forward alone and unarmed, save with the shovel, until a loud quacking indicated that the robber had made at least one prisoner. Dropping the shovel, but still clinging to the candle, Aunt Olive seized the gun, and, dragging it along by the muzzle, she cried: "I'll shoot you if you don't let them ducks alone, and go right straight away from here!" The loud quacking of another duck proved that she had not alarmed the burglar; and as she was now quite near the bold robber, by holding her candle above her head she could discern in the darkness what looked like a boy, with a duck tightly clutched in each hand. "It's only a boy," she cried to Uncle Daniel, who had given over attending to his foot, and was coming up; and then, as she ran towards the thief, she cried, "Put down them ducks, you little rascal, or I will whip you soundly!" The boy did not put the ducks down, nor did he stay for the whipping; but, with both the noisy prizes held in one hand, he began to climb the hen-house in a manner surprising in one so small. By this time both Toby and Uncle Daniel were on the spot, and the former saw that the supposed boy was using a long tail in his work of climbing the hen-house. "It's Mr. Stubbs's brother; don't shoot him!" he cried, forgetting, in his excitement, that the gun was dangerous only when dropped on one's foot; and then he too tried to climb upon the hen-house. "The monkey?" cried Uncle Daniel, as he felt on his forehead for his spectacles to enable him to see better. Aunt Olive made use of almost the same words; but, instead of feeling for her spectacles, she ran towards the building, as if she fancied it to be the easiest thing in the world to catch a mischievous monkey. Toby knew, if Aunt Olive did not, that it would be the work of some time to catch Mr. Stubbs's brother, and that no threats would induce him to come down. Therefore he put forth all his energies in the vain hope of overtaking him. Although the monkey was encumbered by the two ducks he had stolen, he could climb twice as fast as Toby could, and Aunt Olive realized the fact very soon. "Scare him till he drops the ducks," she cried to Toby; and then, to do her portion of the "scaring," she brandished the fire-shovel, and cried "shoo!" in a very energetic manner. Uncle Daniel waved his arms, and shouted, "Come down! come down!" as he ran from one side of the building to the other; but the only reply to his shout was the quacking of the half-strangled ducks. "Catch him, Toby, catch him, before he kills the ducks," cried Aunt Olive, in an agony of fear lest these particular inmates of her poultry-yard should be killed. "That's what I'm tryin' to do," panted Toby, as he chased Mr. Stubbs's brother from one end of the roof to the other without even a chance of catching him. The quacking of the ducks was growing fainter every moment, and, knowing that something must be done at once, Uncle Daniel hunted around until he found a long pole, with which he struck at the monkey. This had the desired effect, for Mr. Stubbs's brother was so nearly hit two or three times that he dropped the almost dead ducks, curled his tail over his back, and leaped to the ground. He alighted so near Aunt Olive that she uttered a loud shriek, nearly falling backward over the wood-pile; but the monkey was out of sight in an instant, going in the direction of the road. As his pet disappeared in the darkness, Toby scrambled down from the roof of the building and started in pursuit; but before he had gone far he heard Uncle Daniel calling to him, while at the same time he realized that pursuit would be useless under the circumstances. "He's run away, an' I won't ever find him again," he said, in so mournful a tone that Uncle Daniel knew the tears were very near his eyelids. "He won't go very far, Toby, boy," said Uncle Daniel, consolingly, "and you can soon find him after the sun rises." "He'll be more'n seven miles off by that time," said Toby, as he choked back his sobs, and tried to speak firmly. "I don't know much about the nature of monkeys," replied Uncle Daniel, speaking very slowly; "but I am inclined to the belief that he will remain near here, since he has come to consider this his home. But it will be daylight in less than an hour, and then you can start after him. I will drive the cows to the pasture, so that you will have nothing to delay you." Aunt Olive had caught up the ducks as soon as Mr. Stubbs's brother had dropped them, and, believing it was yet possible to save their lives, she had started towards the house for the purpose of applying some remedies. "It's so near morning that I sha'n't go to bed again," she said, "and I'll get you something to eat, and put up a lunch for you, so you can stay out until you find him." This offer on Aunt Olive's part seemed doubly kind, since the monkey had done so much mischief among her pets, and Toby realized that it would be ungrateful in him to complain, more especially as Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive were willing to do all in their power to enable him to catch the fugitive. "I'll mend the duck-pen," he said, resolutely putting from his mind the thought of Mr. Stubbs's brother, who he firmly believed was trudging up the road in the direction taken by the circus when it left town. Uncle Daniel thought it would be just as well to remain up also, and he dragged the wreck of the gun into the house, putting it carefully away lest some one should be injured by it, before he commenced to build the fire. Mr. Stubbs's brother had labored industriously when he set about reducing the duck-pen to kindling-wood; and although Toby worked as fast as possible, it was nearly time for the sun to rise before he finished the job of repairing it. By that time Aunt Olive had a nice breakfast ready for him, and a generous lunch done up neatly in paper. Abner had not wakened, therefore Toby was obliged to go away without knowing whether he was better or worse; but Aunt Olive told him that she thought he need have no fear regarding the invalid, for she felt certain he would be much better when he awoke. Toby ate his breakfast very hurriedly, and then started down the road in the direction of his partners' homes, for he thought there would be a better chance of capturing the runaway if four or five boys set out in pursuit than if he went out alone. Fully two hours were spent in arousing his partners, explaining what had happened, and waiting for them to get their breakfast; but at the end of that time every one of the circus managers was ready for the search. There was a decided difference of opinion among them as to which direction they should take, some believing the monkey had gone one way and some another, and the only plan by which the matter could be settled was to divide the force into two parties. Bob, Reddy, and Ben formed one division, and they started into the woods in a nearly straight line from Uncle Daniel's house. Toby, Joe, and Leander, making up the other party, went up the road, Toby insisting on this course because he was sure that Mr. Stubbs's brother would attempt to follow the circus of which he had once been a member, although so many weeks had elapsed since it had passed along there. Leander was of the opinion that they ought to have borrowed a dog, with which to track the monkey more easily, and even offered to go back to get one; but Toby thought that would be a waste of valuable time, more especially as it was by no means certain that Leander could procure the dog if he did go back. Joe thought each inch of the road should be examined with a view to finding tracks of the monkey; but that plan was given up in a very few moments after it was tried, for the good reason that the boys could not distinguish even their own footprints, the road was beaten so hard; and so they could only walk straight ahead, hoping to come up with the fugitive, or to hear some news of him. At each house on the road they stopped to ask if a stray monkey had been seen; but they could hear nothing encouraging until they had walked nearly three miles, and were just beginning to think it would have been wiser to remain with the party who went into the woods. At last, however, a farmer told them that he had seen an animal come up the main road, just about sunrise, and that it had gone up through his field into an oak grove. He had had no idea at the time that it was a monkey, and had intended to take his gun and go in search of it as soon as he could spare the time. Toby trembled as the man said this, for Mr. Stubbs's death was too vivid in his mind for him to think without a shudder of any one going in search of this monkey with a gun. He started for the grove at full speed, fearing that some one with more time at his disposal had seen his pet, and might even now be in pursuit of him. Of course the boys did not know certainly that the animal the farmer had seen was Mr. Stubbs's brother, but all were quite sure it was; and, before they had been in the oak grove ten minutes they saw the monkey himself, hanging by his tail and one paw from the branch of a tree. CHAPTER XVII DRIVING A MONKEY Toby was so delighted at seeing his pet safe and alive that he set up a great shout; and the monkey, thus warned that boys who would chain him down to the drudgery of a circus ring were on his track, started off at full speed, scolding furiously as he went. To catch a monkey in the woods was even a harder task than to "scrape" him from the tent, or to capture him on the roof of the hen-house; but he must be caught, and the three boys started after him, fully aware of the difficult task before them. To Mr. Stubbs's brother this flight and pursuit was simply the wildest kind of a frolic, and he fairly screamed with delight as he leaped from one tree to another, sometimes allowing them almost to touch him, and then starting off at full speed until nearly out of sight. For an hour this tantalizing work was continued, and the pursuers were nearly exhausted. Half the time they had been running at full speed, and the only chance for rest had been when they were trying to creep upon Mr. Stubbs's brother unawares, which was just about no rest at all. Leander, who was naturally a very slow-moving boy, and quite fleshy, was more quickly tired than the others. When, for at least the twentieth time, they thought they had the monkey within their grasp, and he darted to the top of one of the tallest trees, Leander declared he could not take another step, even though the life of the monkey and the success of the circus depended upon it. Of course, it was not to be thought of that they should leave their band there exhausted and alone, so Toby decided they should rest as long as Mr. Stubbs's brother remained in the tree, and it was determined to occupy the time by eating the luncheon Aunt Olive had prepared. During the last ten minutes of the chase, Leander's face had worn a very gloomy expression; but it lighted wonderfully when the package of food was opened, and Toby helped him to a very generous slice of bread and meat. Nor was Leander the only one who looked with favor upon the food. Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on at the foot of the tree in which he had taken refuge, and he showed every disposition to make one of the eating party. Seeing his evident hunger, Toby was sure it would be possible to capture the monkey by means of the food, and he walked around the trunk of the tree, holding a piece of ginger-bread temptingly in his fingers. The monkey came down from branch to branch, as if he had decided to allow himself to be made a prisoner for the sake of the food; but, just as Toby was about to seize him, he jumped back with a cry that sounded much as if he were laughing because of the disappointment he had caused. Then Joe tried his skill at monkey-catching, coming about as near success as Toby had done; and Leander was roused to action by the new phase the chase had assumed. He too held out some food in order to give Mr. Stubbs's brother the impression that all he had to do was to come and get it. In thus trying the coaxing plan, all three of the boys got on one side of the tree, while the greater part of their provisions was on the opposite side. The monkey descended again, first towards one boy and then towards another, as if it were his purpose to allow all three to catch him, and all were equally certain they were about to succeed, when Mr. Stubbs's brother suddenly ran along the branches towards the food. Before it was possible for any of the boys to intercept him, he had dropped to the ground, seized two of the very largest pieces of cake, and was up in the tree again so quickly that but for the cake he had in his paws it might have been doubted whether or not he had been on the ground at all. Now Mr. Stubbs's brother could laugh at his pursuers, if it is possible for a monkey to laugh; for, without any thanks to them, he had a trifle more than his share of the provisions, and was still at liberty. "It hain't any use," said Joe, in despair, as he threw himself on the ground and attacked the luncheon savagely, "I don't believe we shall ever get him; an' if we don't, it won't be much use for us to have our show, for every real circus has a monkey." "We _must_ catch him," replied Toby, mournfully, looking up into the tree where his pet sat eating the stolen food with the greatest possible enjoyment. "I wouldn't go home an' leave him here if I had to stay all night." "One might watch here while the others went back to the village an' got every feller there to come out an' help catch him," suggested Leander, who was famous for having ideas so brilliant that no one could carry them into execution. "We're goin' away from home all the time this way," said Toby, after he had studied the matter carefully, without paying any attention to the suggestion made by Leander; "now let's get a little ways the other side of the tree, an' when he comes down again he'll have to go towards home. Even if we can't catch him, perhaps we can drive him into the village." Even Leander could see the wisdom of this plan, and the party moved their luncheon and themselves to the side of the tree opposite to that on which they had approached it. Of course there was nothing to do but await Mr. Stubbs's brother's pleasure in the matter, and he seemed to be in no haste to make a move. He ate his cake in the most leisurely fashion possible, and then appeared to be wonderfully interested in the leaves, for he would spend several minutes pulling one apart, probably to see how it was made. But he was obliged to come down at last, and he chose the time just as Leander had settled himself comfortably for a nap, which did not tend to make the band regard him with additional favor. As Toby had thought, the monkey started back in the direction they had come; and, as he was going towards home, they did not make any effort to hurry him. If they could not catch him, they could at least drive him, and they were satisfied to let him go as slowly as he chose--a plan which met with hearty approval from Leander. For some time Mr. Stubbs's brother moved along as if it were his greatest desire to be back at Uncle Daniel's again, and then Toby saw him run along swiftly as if he had found something under a tree which interested him greatly. Afraid that the monkey had done this simply to avoid being driven, and that he might dart through the underbrush and get in rear of them again, Toby ran forward quickly; but before he had taken more than a dozen steps he heard piercing shrieks, which evidently came from the monkey, while the commotion among the bushes indicated that a struggle of some kind was taking place there. With but one thought, and that for the safety of his pet, Toby ran ahead regardless of the bushes that tore his clothing and scratched his face. A struggle was going on, as he saw when he pulled the branches of the trees away, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was getting decidedly the worst of it. A small, prickly ball curled up at the foot of the tree, and the monkey striking at it savagely with his paws, while porcupine quills were sticking in his face and body, told the whole story. The monkey had seen the porcupine, and, much to his discomfort, had tried to make that animal's acquaintance. As every boy knows, when one of these animals is attacked it immediately rolls itself up into a ball, with the quills or spines sticking straight out, and the attacking party generally gets plentifully supplied with them in a very short time. It was some moments before Toby could persuade his pet to stop trying to inflict punishment when he was getting the greater part himself; but he pulled him away at last, and the porcupine, unrolling himself with a grunt of satisfaction, trotted away into the bushes. There was no disposition on the part of Mr. Stubbs's brother to run away again. He stood there looking as sad and discouraged as a monkey ought to look who had commenced his day's work by stealing ducks, and concluded it by fighting a porcupine. The quills stood out from his face, making him look as if sadly in need of shaving, while on almost every inch of his body there was one of these natural weapons, giving him a decidedly comical appearance. As he stood there holding out his paws to Toby as if asking him to extract the spines, and squinting down now and then at those in his face, the boys did not try to restrain their laughter, which appeared to make the inquisitive monkey very angry. He screamed and scolded in the shrillest tones until Toby set about picking out the quills for him, and Joe took a firm hold of his collar, to make sure he should not escape when he was relieved from the effects of his introduction to the porcupine. CHAPTER XVIII COLLECTING THE ANIMALS It was quite a task to extract the porcupine quills from Mr. Stubbs's brother, because the operation was painful, and he danced about in a way that seriously interfered with the work. But the last one was out after a time, and the monkey was marched along between Joe and Toby, looking very repentant now that he was in his master's power again. "I tell you what it is," said Joe, sagely, after he had walked awhile in silence as if studying some matter, "we'd better get about six big chains an' fasten Mr. Stubbs's brother to the tent; 'cause if we keep on tryin' to train him, he'll keep on gettin' loose, an' before he gets through with it, we sha'n't have any show left." "I think that's the best thing we can do," panted Leander; "'cause if all hands of us has to start out many times like this, some of the boys will come up while we're off, an' pull the tent down." "We can tie him in the tent, and have him for a wild man of Borneo," suggested Joe. "I guess we won't train him," replied Toby, rather sorry to deprive his pet of the pleasure of being one of the performers, and yet fearing the trouble he would cause if they should try to make anything more than an ordinary monkey out of him. The pursuit had led the boys farther from home than they had imagined, and it was noon when, weary and hungry, they arrived at the tent, where they found the other party, who had given up the search some time before. They had travelled through the woods without hearing or seeing anything of the runaway, and had returned in the hope that the others had been more successful. Leaving Mr. Stubbs's brother in charge of the partners, who, it was safe to say, would now take very good care to prevent his escape, Toby hurried into the house to see Abner. The sick boy was no better, Aunt Olive said, neither did he appear to be any worse--he was sleeping then; and, after eating some of his dinner at the table, and taking the remainder in his hands, Toby went out to the tent again. He found his partners indulging in an animated discussion as to when the performance should be given. Reddy was in favor of having it within two or three days at furthest; Bob thought that, as Mr. Stubbs's brother was not to be one of the performers, there was no reason for delay. All the others were of the same opinion, but Toby urged them to wait until Abner could take part in it. To this Bob had a very reasonable objection: in two weeks more school would begin, and then, of course, the circus would be out of the question. If their first exhibition should be a success, as it undoubtedly would be, they could give a second performance when Abner should get well enough to attend it; and that would be quite as pleasing to him as for all the talent to remain idle while waiting for his recovery. Toby felt that his partners asked him to do only that which was fair; the circus scheme had already done Abner more harm than good, and, as he did not seem to be dangerously sick, it would be unkind to the others to insist on waiting. "I'd rather Abner was with us when we had the first show," said Toby; "but I s'pose it'll be just as well to go ahead with it, an' then give another after he can come out." "Then we'll have it Saturday afternoon; an' while Reddy's fixin' up the tickets, Ben an' I'll get the animals up here, so's to see how they'll look, an' to let 'em get kinder used to the tent." Reddy was a boy who did not believe in wasting any time after a matter was decided upon, and almost as soon as Toby consented to go on with the show, he went for materials with which to make posters and tickets. His activity aroused the others, and all started out to bring in the animals, leaving Toby to guard Mr. Stubbs's brother and the tent. The canvas would take care of itself, so long as it was unmolested, but the other portion of Toby's charge was not so easily managed. After much thought, however, he settled the monkey question by tying Mr. Stubbs's brother to the end pole, with a rope long enough to allow him to climb nearly to the top, but short enough to keep him at a safe distance from the canvas. By the time this was done, Ben arrived with the first instalment of curiosities. His crowing hen he had under his arm, and Mrs. Simpson's three-legged cat and four kittens he brought in a basket. "Joe's got a cage 'most built for the hen, an' I'll fix one for the cat this afternoon," he said, as he seated himself on the basket, and held the hen in his lap. "You can't fix it if you've got to hold her," said Toby, as he brought from the barn a bushel-basket, which was converted into a coop by turning it bottom side up, and putting the hen underneath it. Ben was about to make a search of the barn for the purpose of finding some materials with which to build the cat's cage, when a great noise was heard outside, and the two partners left the tent hurriedly. "It's Bob an' his calf," said Ben, who had got out first, and then he started towards the newcomers at full speed. It was Bob and his calf; but the animal should have been mentioned first, for it seemed very much as if he were bringing his master, instead of being brought by him. In order to carry his cage of mice and lead the calf at the same time, Bob had tied the rope that held this representative of a grizzly bear around his waist, and had taken the cage under his arm. This plan had worked well enough until just as they were entering the field that led to the tent, when Bob tripped and fell, scaring the calf so that he started at full speed for the barn, of course dragging the unfortunate Bob with him. Sometimes on his face, sometimes on his back, screaming for help whenever his mouth was uppermost, and clinging firmly to the cage of mice, Bob was dragged almost to the door of the tent, where the frightened animal was finally secured. "Well, I've got him here, an' I hain't lost a single mouse," said Bob, as he counted his treasures before even scraping the dirt from his face. Ben and Toby led the calf into the tent after some difficulty, owing to the attempts of Mr. Stubbs's brother to frighten him, and then they did their best to separate the dirt from their partner. In this good work they had but partially succeeded, when Reddy arrived with a large package of brown paper, and his cat without a tail. This startling curiosity he carried in a bag slung over his shoulder, and from the expression on his face when he came up it seemed almost certain that the cat's claws had passed through the bag and into her master's flesh. "There," he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, as he threw his live burden at the foot of the post to which Mr. Stubbs's brother was tied, "I've kept shiftin' that cat from one shoulder to the other ever since I started, an' I tell you she can scratch as well as if she had a tail as long as the monkey's." It surely seemed as if the work of building the cages had been too long neglected, for here were a number of curiosities without anything in which they could be exhibited, and the audience might be dissatisfied if asked to pay to see a cat in a bag, or a hen under a bushel-basket. Toby spoke of this, and Bob assured him that it could easily be arranged as soon as all the partners should arrive. "You see, we've got to carry Mrs. Simpson's cat an' kittens home every night, 'cause she says the rats are so thick she can spare her only day-times, an' we don't need a cage for her till the show comes off," said Bob, as he bustled around again to find materials. Mr. Stubbs's brother demanded his master's attention about this time, owing to his attempts to make friends with the calf. From the time that this peaceful animal, who was to be transformed into a grizzly bear, had been brought into the tent, the monkey had tried in every possible way to get at him, and the calf had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to butt the monkey; but the ropes which held them both had prevented the meeting. Now, however, Bob detected Mr. Stubbs's brother in trying to bite his rope in two, and it was considered necessary to set a guard over him. Reddy was already busily engaged in painting the posters, despite the confusion that reigned, and, as his work would keep him inside the tent, he was chosen to have general care of the animals, a task which he, without a thought of possible consequences, accepted cheerfully. Leander and Joe came together, the first bringing his accordion, and four rabbits in a cage, and the last carrying five striped squirrels in a paste-board box. Leander was the only one who had been thoughtful enough to have his animals ready for exhibition, and the cage in which the long-eared pets were confined bore the inscription, done in a very fanciful way with blue and red crayons, "Wolves. Keep off!" This cage was placed in the corner near the band-stand, where the musician could attend to his musical work and have a watchful eye on his pets at the same time. Reddy had been busily engaged in painting a notice to be hung up over the calf; and, as he fastened it to the barn just over the spot where the animal was to be kept, Bob read, with no small degree of pride in the thought that he was the fortunate possessor of such a prize, GRIzsLee BARE FROM THE ROCKY MOunTAINS Then the artist went back to his task of painting posters, while the others set to work, full of determination to build the necessary number of cages if there was wood enough in Uncle Daniel's barn. They found timber enough and to spare; but, as it was not exactly the kind they wanted, Toby proposed that they should all go over to the house, explain the matter to Aunt Olive, and ask her to give them as many empty boxes as she could afford to part with. As has been said before, Aunt Olive looked upon the circus scheme with favor, and when she was called upon to aid in the way of furnishing cages for wild animals, she gave the boys full permission to take all the boxes they could find in the shed. They found so many that they were able to select those best suited to the different species of animals, and yet have quite a stock to fall back upon in case they should make additions to their menagerie. Now that the boys had found cages ready made, and needing only some bars or slats across the front, they did not think it necessary to hurry. They stayed for some time to talk of Abner, and to test some doughnuts Aunt Olive was frying. It is very likely that they would have remained even longer than they did, if the doughnut-frying had not been completed, and the tempting dainties placed upon a high shelf beyond their reach, as a gentle intimation that they had had about as many as they would get that afternoon. After leaving the house, they walked leisurely towards the barn, little dreaming what a state of confusion their property was in--until Reddy rushed out of the tent, his jacket torn, his face bleeding, and his general appearance that of a boy who had been having rather a hard time of it. CHAPTER XIX THE SHOW BROKE UP "Why, what's the matter? Why don't you stay an' watch the animals?" asked Bob, in a tone intended to convey reproach and surprise that one of the projectors of the enterprise should desert his post of duty. "Watch the animals?" screamed Reddy, in a rage; "you go an' watch 'em awhile instead of eatin' doughnuts, an' see how you like it. Mr. Stubbs's brother picked a hole in the bag so my cat got out, an' she jumped on the calf, an' he tore 'round awful till he let the hen an' Mrs. Simpson's cat loose, an' I got knocked down an' scratched, an' the whole show's broke up." Reddy sat down on the ground, and wiped the blood from his face after he had imparted the painful news; and all the party started for the tent as rapidly as possible. It was a scene of ruin which they looked in upon after they had pulled aside Mr. Mansfield's flag, and one well calculated to discourage amateur circus proprietors. Mr. Stubbs's brother was seated amid Reddy's paper and paint, holding the crowing hen by the head while he picked her wing-feathers out one by one. Mrs. Simpson's cat and kittens each had one of Bob's mice in its mouth, while Reddy's cat was chasing one of the squirrels with a murderous purpose. The calf was no longer an inmate of the tent; but a large rent in the canvas showed that he had opened a door for himself when the cat scratched him; and afar in the distance he could be seen, head down and tail up, as if fleeing from everything that looked like a circus. The destruction was as complete as it could well have been made in so short a time, and the partners were, quite naturally, discouraged. Toby retained sufficient presence of mind, amid the trouble, to rescue the crowing hen from the murderous clutches of Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the monkey scampered up the tent-pole, brandishing two or three of poor biddy's best and longest wing-feathers, while he screamed with satisfaction that he had accomplished at least a portion of the work of stripping the fowl. "The show's broke up, an' that's all there's to it," said Bob, sorrowfully, as he gazed alternately at the hole in the canvas and his rapidly vanishing calf. "Are the squirrels all gone?" asked Joe, driving the cat from her intended prey long enough to allow Master Bushy-tail to gain a refuge under the barn. "Every one," replied Reddy. "The calf kicked the box over when he come towards me, an' it looked as if there was as many as a hundred come out jest as soon as the cover was off. I could have caught one or two; but somehow Mrs. Simpson's cat got out of the basket jest then, an' she flew right on to my face." The marks on Reddy's cheeks and nose told most eloquently with what force the cat "flew," and search was at once made for that pet of the Simpson family. She, with her kittens, had taken refuge under the barn as soon as the boys entered, and thus another trouble was added to the load the circus managers had to bear, for that cat must be returned to her mistress by night, or trouble might come of it. The mice were entirely consumed, two tails alone remaining of what would have been shown to the good people of Guilford as strange animals from some far-off country. The squirrels were gone, the calf had fled, the hen was in a thoroughly battered condition, and nothing remained of all that vast and wonderful collection of animals except Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the rabbits, protected by the cage which their master's thoughtfulness had provided. [Illustration: TOBY RESCUES THE CROWING HEN FROM MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER] "I guess I'll take the rabbits home," said Leander, as he lifted the box to his shoulder. "It wouldn't do to have only them for animals, an' it hain't very certain how long they'll stay alive while that monkey's 'round." "He's broke up the whole show, that's what he's done," and Ben shook his fist at Mr. Stubbs's brother, while he tried to soothe his half-plucked hen. "What _are_ we goin' to do?" asked Toby, almost in despair. "I know what I'm goin' to do," said Ben, as he again placed the hen under the basket; "I'm goin' to crawl under the barn an' try to catch that cat, an' then I'm goin' home with my hen." It seemed to be the desire of all the partners to get home with what remained of their pets, and as Ben went under the barn on his hands and knees, Leander started off with his rabbits, Bob went to look for his calf, Reddy gathered up his bundle of paper, and Joe seized his pasteboard box, all going away where they could think over the ruin in solitude. But high up on the post the cause of all this trouble chattered and scolded, while his master sat on the ground, looking at him as if he wondered whether or not it would ever be possible to reform such a monkey. CHAPTER XX ABNER'S DEATH After Toby was left alone in the tent, he remained for some time looking at the triumphant monkey, and listening to Ben's attempts to crawl around under the barn as fast as the cat could, when suddenly, as if such a thought had not occurred to him before, he cried out: "Don't you want me to come an' help you, Ben?" "You keep that monkey back, that's all the helpin' I want," Ben replied, almost sharply, and then the sounds indicated that the cat had suddenly changed her position to one farther under the barn, while the boy was trying to frighten her out. "Give it up, Ben," shouted Toby, after waiting some time longer, and not seeing any sign of success on the part of his friend. "If you come up here about dark you'll have a chance to catch her, for she'll have to come out for something to eat." "You take the monkey into the house, an' I'll get along all right," was the almost savage reply. "She smells him, an' jest as long as he's there she'll stay under here." It seemed to Toby almost cruel to desert his friend and partner just at a time when he needed assistance; but he could do no less than go away, since he had been urged so peremptorily to do so, and, catching his pet without much difficulty, he carried Mr. Stubbs's brother away from the scene of the ruin he had caused. Ben's remark, that the monkey had "broke the show all up," seemed to be very near the truth; for the boys would not think of going on with so small a number of animals; and, even if they decided to do without the menagerie, Bob's calf had wrecked one side of the tent so completely that that particular piece of canvas was past mending. "I don't know what we'll do," said Toby, mournfully, after he had finished telling the story to Aunt Olive. "The boys act as if they blamed me, because Mr. Stubbs's brother is so bad, and Joe's squirrels an' Bob's mice are all gone. Ben's hen don't look as if she'd ever 'mount to much, an' it don't seem to me that he can get Mrs. Simpson's cat an' every one of the kittens out from under the barn." "Now don't go to worryin' about that, Toby," said Aunt Olive, as she patted him on the head, and gave him a large piece of cake at the same time. "You can get a dozen cats for Mrs. Simpson if she wants 'em; and as for mice, you tell Bob to set his trap out in the granary two or three times, an' he'll have as many as he can take care of. I'm glad the squirrels did get away, for it seems such a sin to shut them up in a cage when they're so happy in the woods." Toby was cheered by the very philosophical view that Aunt Olive took of the affair, and came to the conclusion that matters were not more than half so bad as they might have been. "You be careful that your monkey don't get out again, an' go to cuttin' up as he did last night, for I shall get provoked with him if he hurts my ducks any more," and, with this bit of advice, Aunt Olive went up-stairs to see Abner. Toby went out to the shed to assure himself that Mr. Stubbs's brother was tied so that he could not escape, and while he was there Uncle Daniel came in with an armful of strips of board. "There, Toby, boy," he said, as he laid them on the floor, and looked around for the hammer and nails, "I'm going to build a pen for your monkey right up here in one corner, so that we sha'n't be called up again in the night by a false alarm of burglars. Besides, it's almost time for school to begin again, an' I'm 'most too old to commence chasing monkeys around the country in case he gets out while you're away." Had it been suggested the day before that Mr. Stubbs's brother was to be shut up in a cage, Toby would have thought it a very great hardship for his pet to endure; but the experience he had had in the last twenty-four hours convinced him that the imprisonment was for the best. He helped Uncle Daniel in his labor to such purpose that, when it was time for him to go to the pasture, the cage was built, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was in it, looking as if he considered himself a thoroughly abused monkey, because he was not allowed to play just such pranks as had roused the household as well as broken up the circus scheme. On his way to the pasture, Toby met Joe, and the two had a long talk about the disaster of the afternoon. Joe believed that the enterprise must be abandoned--for that summer at least--as it would take them some time to repair the damage done, and his short experience in the business caused him to believe that they could hardly hope to compete with real circuses until they had more material with which to work. Joe promised to see the other partners that evening or the next morning; and, if they were of the same opinion, the tent should be taken down and returned to its owner. "Perhaps we can fix it all right next year, an' then Abner will be 'round to help," said Toby, as he parted with Joe that night; and thus was the circus project ended very sensibly, for the chances were that it would have been a failure if they had attempted to give their exhibition. During that afternoon Toby had worried less about Abner than on any day since he had been sick; he had felt that his friend's recovery was certain, and a load was lifted from his shoulders when he and Joe had decided regarding the circus; for, that out of the way, he could devote all his attention to his sick friend. Surely, with the ponies and the monkey they could have a great deal of sport during the two weeks that yet remained before school would begin, and Toby felt thoroughly happy. But his happiness was changed to alarm very soon after he entered the house, for the doctor was there again, and, from the look on the faces of Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive, he knew Abner must be worse. "What is it, Uncle Dan'l? is Abner any sicker?" he asked, with quivering lip, as he looked up at the wrinkled face that ever wore a kindly look for him. Uncle Daniel laid his hand affectionately on the head of the boy, whom he had cared for with the tenderness of a father since the day he repented and asked forgiveness for having run away, and his voice trembled as he said: "It is very likely that the good God will take the crippled boy to Himself to-night, Toby, and there in the heavenly mansions will he find relief from all his pain and infirmities. Then the poor-farm boy will no longer be an orphan or deformed, but, with his Almighty Father, will enter into such joys as we can have no conception of." "Oh, Uncle Dan'l! must Abner really die?" cried Toby, while the great tears chased each other down his cheeks, and he hid his face on Uncle Daniel's knee. "He will die here, Toby, boy, but it is simply an awakening into a perfect, glorious life, to which I pray that both you and I may be prepared to go when our Father calls us." For some time there was silence in the room, broken only by Toby's sobs; and, while Uncle Daniel stroked the weeping boy's head, the great white-winged messenger of God came into the chamber above, bearing away with him the spirit of the poor-farm boy. THE END 
28642	----	[Illustration: Cover art] JOE STRONG ON THE TRAPEZE OR _THE DARING FEATS OF A YOUNG CIRCUS PERFORMER_ BY VANCE BARNUM Author of "Joe Strong, the Boy Wizard," "Joe Strong, the Boy Fish," "Joe Strong on the High Wire," etc. WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO. RACINE, WISCONSIN BOOKS FOR BOYS BY VANCE BARNUM THE JOE STRONG SERIES JOE STRONG, THE BOY WIZARD _Or, The Mysteries of Magic Exposed_ JOE STRONG ON THE TRAPEZE _Or, The Daring Feats of a Young Circus Performer_ JOE STRONG, THE BOY FISH _Or, Marvelous Doings in a Big Tank_ JOE STRONG ON THE HIGH WIRE _Or, Motor-Cycle Perils of the Air_ JOE STRONG AND HIS WINGS OF STEEL _Or, A Young Acrobat in the Clouds_ JOE STRONG--HIS BOX OF MYSTERY _Or, The Ten Thousand Dollar Prize Trick_ JOE STRONG, THE BOY FIRE EATER _Or, The Most Dangerous Performance on Record_ COPYRIGHT, 1916 GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY Printed by WESTERN PRINTING & LITHOGRAPHING CO. Racine, Wisconsin Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE FIRE TRICK II. JOE'S RESPONSIBILITY III. ANOTHER OFFER IV. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER V. OFF TO THE CIRCUS VI. JOE MAKES A HIT VII. JOE TURNS A TRICK VIII. HELEN'S LETTER IX. BILL WATSON'S IDEA X. IN THE TANK XI. HELEN'S DISCOVERY XII. JUST IN TIME XIII. A BAD BLOW XIV. HELEN'S INHERITANCE XV. A WARNING XVI. THE STRIKE XVII. IN BEDFORD XVIII. HELEN'S MONEY XIX. JOE IS SUSPICIOUS XX. A FALL XXI. JOE HEARS SOMETHING XXII. BAD NEWS XXIII. HELEN GOES XXIV. JOE FOLLOWS XXV. THE LAST PERFORMANCE JOE STRONG ON THE TRAPEZE CHAPTER I THE FIRE TRICK "Better put on your pigeon-omelet trick now, Joe." "All right. That ought to go well. And you are getting ready for----" "The fire trick," interrupted Professor Alonzo Rosello, as he and his young assistant, Joe Strong, stood bowing and smiling in response to the applause of the crowd that had gathered in the theatre to witness the feats of "Black Art, Magic, Illusion, Legerdemain, Prestidigitation and Allied Sciences." That was what the program called it, anyhow. "The fire trick!" repeated Joe. "Do you think it will work all right now?" "I think it will. I've had the apparatus overhauled, and you know we can depend on the electric current here. It isn't likely to fail just at the wrong moment." "No, that's so, still----" Again Joe had to bow, as did Professor Rosello, for the applause continued. They were both sharing it, for both had taken part in a novel trick, and it had been successfully performed. Joe had taken his place in a chair on the stage, and, after having been covered by a black cloth by the professor, had, when the cloth was removed a moment later, totally disappeared. Then he was seen walking down the aisle of the theatre, coming in from the lobby. There was much wonder as to how the trick was it done, especially since the chair had been placed over a sheet of paper on the stage, and, before and after the trick, the professor had exhibited the sheet--the front page of a local paper--apparently unbroken. (This trick is explained in detail in the first volume of this series, entitled, "Joe Strong, the Boy Wizard.") "The audience seems to be in good humor to-night," observed the professor to Joe, as they bowed again. The two could carry on a low-voiced conversation while "taking" their applause. "Yes, I'm glad to see them that way," answered the youth. "It's not much fun playing to a frosty house." "I should say not! Well, Joe, get ready for your pigeon-omelet trick, and I'll prepare the fire apparatus." The professor, with a final bow, made an exit to one side of the stage, which was fitted up with Oriental splendor. As he went off, and as Joe Strong picked up some apparatus from a table near him, a disturbed look came over the face of the boy wizard. "I don't like that fire trick," he mused. "It's altogether too uncertain. It's spectacular, and all that, and when it works right it makes a big hit, but I don't like it. Well, I suppose he'll do it, anyhow--or try to. I'll be on the lookout though. If the current fails, as it did last time----" Joe shrugged his shoulders, and went on with his trick. Since he had become associated with Professor Rosello, Joe had adopted the philosophic frame of mind that characterizes many public performers, especially those who risk bodily injury in thrilling the public. That is, he was willing to take the chance of accident rather than disappoint an audience. "The show must go on," was the motto, no matter how the performer suffered. The public does not often realize its own cruelty in insisting on being amused or thrilled. "Yes, I'll have to keep my eyes open," thought Joe. "After all, though, maybe nothing will happen. And yet I have a feeling as if something would. It's foolish, I know,, but----" Again Joe shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing he could do to avoid it, as far as he could see. Joe was beginning to acquire the superstition shared by many theatrical persons. The theatre, filled with persons who had paid good prices to see Professor Rosello's performance was hushed and still now, as Joe, his preparations complete, advanced to the edge of the stage. He was smiling and confident, for he was about to perform a trick he had done many times, and always with success. For the time being he dismissed from his mind the risk Professor Rosello would run in doing the "fire trick," for which the chief performer was even then preparing. "Persons in the audience," began Joe, smilingly addressing the house, "often wonder how we actors and professional people eat. It is proverbial, you know, that actors are always hungry. Now I am going to show you that it is easier for us to get food than it is for other folk. "For instance: If I were to be shipwrecked on a desert island I could reach out into the seemingly empty air, and pick money off invisible tree branches--like this." Joe stretched up his hand, which seemed to contain nothing, and in an instant there appeared between his thumb and finger a bright gold coin. "So much for a start!" he exclaimed with laugh. "We'll drop that on this plate, and get more." There was a ringing sound as the coin dropped on the plate, and Joe, reaching up in the air, seemed to gather another gold piece out of space. This, too, fell with a clink on the plate. And then in rapid succession Joe pulled in other coins until he had a plateful. Probably it has been guessed how that trick was done. Joe held one coin in his hand, palmed so that it was not visible. A movement of his well-trained muscles sent it up between his thumb and finger. Then he seemed to lay it on a plate. But the plate was a trick one, with a false bottom, concealed under which was a store of coins. A pressure on a hidden spring sent one coin at a time out through a slot, and it seemed as if Joe deposited them on the receptacle as he gathered them from the air. "But we must remember," Joe went on, as he laid the plate of coins down on a table, "that I am on a desert island. Consequently all the money in the world would be of no use. It would not buy a ham sandwich or a fresh egg. Why not, then, gather eggs from the air instead of coins? A good idea. One can eat eggs. So I will gather a few." Joe stretched his hand up over his head, made a grab at a seemingly floating egg and, capturing it, laid it on the table. In like manner he proceeded until he had three. This trick was worked in the same way as was the coin one, Joe holding but one egg, cleverly palmed, in his hand, the others popping up from a secret recess in the table. But the audience was mystified. "Now some persons like their eggs raw, while others prefer them cooked," resumed Joe. "I, myself, prefer mine in omelet form, so I will cook my eggs. I have here a saucepan that will do excellently for holding my omelet. I will break the eggs into it, add a little water, and stir them up." Joe suited the action to the words. He cracked the three eggs, one after another, holding them high in the air to let the audience see the whites and yolks drip into the shining, nickel pan. "But a proper omelet must be cooked," Joe said. "Where shall we get fire on a desert island, particularly as all our matches were made wet when we swam ashore? Ah, I have it! I'll just turn this bunch of flowers into flame." He took up what seemed to be a spray of small roses and laid it under the saucepan. Pointing his wand at the flowers Joe exclaimed: "Fire!" Instantly there was a burst of flame, the flowers disappeared, and flickering lights shot up under the saucepan. "Now the omelet is cooking," said Joe, as he clapped on a cover. "We shall presently dine. You see how easy it is for actors and magicians to eat, even on a desert island. I think my omelet must be cooked now." He took the cover off the saucepan and, on the instant, out flew two white pigeons, which, after circling about the theatre, returned to perch on Joe's shoulders. There was loud applause at this trick. The boy wizard bowed and smiled as he acknowledged the tribute to his powers, and then hurried off the stage with the pigeons on his shoulders. He did not stop to explain how he had chosen to make the omelet change into pigeons, the surprise at the unexpected ending of the illusion being enough for the audience. Of course, one realizes there must have been some trick about it all, and there was--several in fact. The eggs Joe seemed to pick out of the air were real eggs, and he really broke them into the saucepan. But the saucepan was made with two compartments. Into one went the eggs, while in another, huddled into a small space where there were air holes through which they might breathe, were two trained pigeons, which Joe had taught, not without some difficulty, to fly to his shoulders when released. After he had put the cover on the saucepan Joe caused the fire to appear. The flowers were artificial ones, made of paper soaked in an inflammable composition, and then allowed to dry. As Joe pointed his wand at them an assistant behind the scenes pressed an electric button, which shot a train of sparks against the prepared paper. It caught fire, the flowers were burned, and ignited the wick of an alcohol lamp that was under the saucepan. Then, before the pigeons had time to feel the heat, Joe took off the cover, opening the secret chamber and the birds flew out. Easy, indeed, when you know how! Joe walked off the stage, to give place to Professor Rosello, who was going next to give his "fire trick." This was an effective illusion, and was worked as follows: Professor Rosello came out on the stage attired in a flowing silk robe of Japanese design. His helpers wheeled out a long narrow box, which was stood upright. The professor, after some "patter," or stage talk, announced that he would take his place in the small box, or cabinet, which would then be lifted free from the stage to show that it was not connected with hidden wires. As soon as the cabinet was set down again, the house would be plunged in darkness, and inside the cabinet would be seen a bony skeleton, outlined in fire, the professor having disappeared. This would last for several seconds, and then the illuminated skeleton would disappear and the magician again be seen in the box. "And in order to show you that I do not actually leave the box while the trick is in progress except in spirit," the professor went on to state, "I will suffer myself to be tied in with ropes, a committee from the audience being invited to make the knots." He took his place in the upright cabinet, and three men volunteered to tie him in with ropes which were fastened at the back of the box, two ends being left free. The cabinet containing the professor was lifted up, and set down on the stage again. Then the ropes were tied, Joe supervising this. "Tie any kind of knot you like, gentlemen," Joe urged, "only make them so you can quickly loosen them again, as the professor is very much exhausted after this illusion." This, of course, was merely stage talk for effect. Finally the knots were tied, the committee retired, and Joe, taking his place near the imprisoned performer, asked: "Are you ready?" He looked keenly at the professor as he asked this. "It's all right Joe--I guess it's going to work properly," was the low-voiced response. Then aloud Professor Rosello replied: "I am ready!" "Light out!" called Joe sharply. This was a signal for the stage electrician to plunge the house into darkness. It was done at once. Then, to the no small terror of some in the audience, there appeared in the upright cabinet the figure of a grinning skeleton, outlined in flickering flames. It was startling, and there was a moment of silence before thunderous applause broke out at the effectiveness of the trick. The clapping was at its height when Joe, who always stood near the cabinet when this trick was being done, heard the agonized voice of the professor calling to him: "Joe! Joe! Something has gone wrong! There must be a short circuit! I'm on fire! Joe, I'm being burned! Help me!" CHAPTER II JOE'S RESPONSIBILITY Joe Strong was in a quandary. He did not quite know what to do. To give an alarm--to let the audience know something had gone wrong with the trick--that the professor was in danger of being burned to death--to even utter the word "Fire!" might cause a terrible panic, even though the heavy asbestos curtain were rung down on the instant. On the contrary, Joe could not stand idly by without doing something to save his friend, Professor Rosello, from the great danger. The applause kept up, none in the audience suspecting anything wrong. "Quick, Joe!" whispered the performer. "The current is burning me. I can't stand it any longer." "I'll save you!" hoarsely answered the young magician; and then, on the darkened stage, he lifted the cabinet, performer and all to one side. This was not an easy feat to do. The professor was no light weight, and the cabinet itself was heavy. But Joe was a powerful youth, and by raising the cabinet on his back, much as a porter carries a heavy trunk, he shifted it to one side. This took it away from the hidden electrical connections sunk in the floor of the stage, and the flickering, playing, shimmering electric lights went out. The stage, the whole house, was in dense darkness. There was a sudden silence which might precede a panic of fear. Joe's work was not yet done. What could he do to reassure the audience and, at the same time, to bring the illusion to a satisfactory conclusion? While he is quickly debating this in his mind, I will take just a moment to tell my new readers something of Joe Strong, and how he came to be following the calling of a stage magician. In the first volume of this series, entitled "Joe Strong, the Boy Wizard; Or, The Secrets of Magic Exposed," Joe was introduced as a youth of about seventeen years, living in the country town of Bedford. He was talking one day with some of his chums, and explaining to them how this same Professor Rosello had done a trick in the local theatre the night before, when suddenly there came a fire-alarm from a fireworks factory near by. Some powder exploded and Joe managed to save the professor, whose real name was Peter Crabb, from severe injury, if not from death. In doing this Joe spoiled his suit of clothes, and on returning home his foster-father, Deacon Amos Blackford threatened to punish him. Joe was an orphan. His mother, Mrs. Jane Strong, had been a famous circus bareback rider, known to the public as Madame Hortense. Joe's father was Alexander Strong, or, to give him his stage name, Professor Morretti. He had been a magician, even better than Professor Rosello. Both Joe's parents had died when he was a small boy. For a time the boy was cared for by his mother's circus friends, but finally Joe was adopted by the Blackfords. His life with them was not a happy one, and the climax came when the deacon punished Joe for spoiling his suit in rescuing Professor Rosello. In the night, Joe ran away. He decided to appeal to the magician who had gone on to another town to give a show. Joe had a half-formed plan in mind. The boy was of great strength, and fearless. When a mere child he had attempted circus feats, and now he was an expert on the trapeze and flying rings, while he had also made a study of "magic," and could perform many tricks. Joe was absolutely fearless, and one of his delights was to execute daring acts at great heights in the air. When a boy he climbed up the village church steeple. Thus, taking matters into his own hands, Joe ran away and joined Professor Rosello, who hired him as an assistant. Joe had a natural aptitude for tricks of magic and was a great help to the professor. He even invented some tricks of his own. So Joe and Professor Rosello toured the country, making a fairly good living. The night Joe ran away Deacon Blackford was robbed in a strange manner, and, for a time, suspicion was thrown on Joe, a warrant being issued for his arrest. Among the other adventures which Joe had was a meeting with the ring-master of Sampson Brothers' Colossal Circus. Joe had done a favor for Benny Turton, the "human fish," and Benny made it possible for Joe to try some tricks on the circus trapezes. As a result Jim Tracy, the ring-master and one of the owners of the show, made Joe an offer to join the circus. Joe would have liked this, as he had taken quite a fancy for Helen Morton--billed as Mademoiselle Mortonti--a fancy rider on her trick horse, Rosebud. But Joe thought it best to remain with Professor Rosello for a time. The circus went on its way, and Joe and the professor went on theirs. Joe progressed in his chosen work, and he and Mr. Crabb found themselves becoming well-known performers. On the road Joe met several persons who had seen his father's feats of magic, and the youth learned of the great respect in which his parent had been held by the members of the "profession." "And I suppose," Professor Rosello had said, "if you could meet some circus folks they would remember your mother, even if Jim Tracy did not know her." So Joe had became a traveling magician. And it is in that capacity that the readers of this volume first meet him. But, as Joe stood there on the darkened stage, realizing the great danger to which his friend was subjected, and wondering what he could do to relieve him and not have the trick a failure, he, for an instant, wished he had chosen some other calling. It was a great responsibility for a young fellow, for now the fate of the whole remaining performance was in Joe's hands. There was much yet to be done, and it was not to be thought that, after being burned, as he said he was, the professor could go on. There was uneasiness now among the stage hands. The electrician from the wings was cautiously whispering to Joe to let him know what to do. As yet the audience had not realized anything was wrong. "Are you badly hurt?" Joe asked the professor in a whisper, standing near the now dark cabinet. "I'm burned on my back, yes. I'm glad you shut off the current when you did, or I'd have been killed." "I didn't shut off the current," Joe answered. "I just pulled the connecting legs of the cabinet out of the sockets in the stage floor." "That was just as good. The current's off. But something has to be done." "What went wrong?" asked Joe. "One of the wire connections in here. I can feel it now with my fingers. A wire has broken. If I could twist it together----" "I'll do it," volunteered Joe. He had to work the dark, as a glimmer of light would show that the cabinet had been moved, and the audience would suspect that something was wrong. But Joe knew every inch of the cabinet, for he and the professor had worked this trick out between them. In an instant he had twisted the wire ends together, pushing them to one side so they would not come in contact with the professor's body, for the ends were not now insulated. "It's all right," Joe whispered. "Can you manage to finish the trick if I put the cabinet back the connections?" "Yes, I think so. Go ahead." Joe called to the leader of the orchestra: "Louder!" The musicians had been softly playing some "shivery" music. At once they struck into a blare of sound. This would cover any noise Joe might make in putting the cabinet back in place, so that the two metal legs would rest in the electric sockets in the stage, which contained the conductors that supplied the electric current needed. In another moment Joe lifted the cabinet, Professor Rosello and all, back to where it had stood at first. Again there was the grinning, glowing skeleton showing. The applause was renewed, and then the glow died out, and as the house lights flashed up there stood the professor in the cabinet, as at first, in his flowing silk robe. Close observers might have noticed that he was quite pale, and he had to grit his teeth to keep back a moan of pain from the burns he had received. "Now, gentlemen," said Joe to the committee, which had stepped down off the stage, "if you will kindly examine the knots, and loosen them, I shall be obliged to you. Quickly, if you please, as this act is very trying on the professor." Joe wanted to get his friend back of the scenes as soon as he could, to have his burns dressed. "Are the knots just as you tied them?" asked Joe. The men admitted they were. "Proving conclusively," the young wizard went on, "that the professor did not leave the cabinet to produce the effect you have just witnessed." The professor bowed to the applause as he stepped out of the cabinet, which was at once taken away by assistants. Then Joe walked back of the scenes with his friend, a pantomimist engaging the attention of the audience while the next part of the program was being prepared. But could the show go on with the professor disabled? That was what Joe wondered. He felt, more than ever, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. CHAPTER III ANOTHER OFFER Professor Rosello sank into a chair when he reached his dressing room. "Quick! Get a doctor!" called Joe to one of the two helpers who traveled with them. "Bring him in through the stage door! Don't let it be known out in front." One of the stage hands gave the helper the address of the nearest physician, and, fortunately, he was in his office. The doctor came at once and put a soothing ointment on the burns of the professor's back, where the electric sparks had penetrated his clothing. "That's better," remarked the magician with a sigh of relief. "I guess we'll have to ring down the curtain, Joe. I can't go on." "I'll finish the show," declared the boy wizard. "Can you do it?" "Not as well as you, of course. But I think I can keep them interested, so they will feel they have had their money's worth. I'll carry on the show. I can vary my egg and watch tricks a bit, and I'll do that wine and water one, bringing the live guinea pig out of the bottle." "All right, Joe, if you think you can. I'm not equal to any more. I think I'd better go to the hotel." "I think so too, Professor. Now don't worry. I'll carry on the show as best I can." "And I think you can do it well, Joe. I'm proud of you. If it hadn't been for you stopping the electric current when you did I would be dead now." "Oh, I hardly think it was as bad as that." "Yes it was. One of those wires broke. After this I'll examine every connection a minute before I go into the cabinet. You saved my life--this is the second time. Once at the fireworks factory, and again to-night. I'll be so deeply in your debt, Joe, that I can never pay you." "Oh, don't worry about that," laughed the boy wizard, now much relieved in mind. With the professor safe he could go out on the stage with a light heart and an easy mind. He was used to facing the public, but this meant that he would have to do more tricks than usual, and some that were particularly the professor's own, though Joe knew how they were worked. When the physician had relieved the sufferer, Joe called a carriage and sent the magician to the hotel where they were staying. Then the pantomimist having finished, Joe prepared to go on with some illusions. And right here, while Joe is making his preparations, a description of the "fire trick" can be given. The cabinet was, of course, a trick one. That is, it was provided with hidden electric contrivances so that when the professor stepped into it, by merely pressing a button he could have a shower of sparks shot out all around him. As he was insulated, these sparks could not injure him. On the heavy silk robe he wore there had been painted the grinning skeleton. It was painted with a secret chemical paint, and when subjected to a flow of electricity the bones and skull showed outlined in fire. The professor, keeping well back toward the rear of the cabinet, was invisible. Tying the ropes about him was not necessary as he did not leave the cabinet anyhow, but it added to the effectiveness of the illusion. But on this evening, after the electric wire broke causing a short circuit, the tying of the ropes was well-nigh fatal, for the professor could not move in order to escape, and had to stay while the current burned him. Luckily, however, Joe acted in time. As has been intimated, the two front legs of the cabinet were really the positive and negative termini for the wires that were inside the box. These legs stood in two sockets in the floor of the stage, and to them ran the wires from the theatre's circuit. When the helpers lifted the cabinet up, to show, ostensibly, that it had no connection with the floor, they put the legs down in the hidden sockets. Thus the connections were made. As can be seen, Joe had but to lift the cabinet away to break the connection. In spite of the accident, the trick had ended satisfactorily, thanks to the quick work of Joe Strong. His strength, too, played not a little part in this, for ordinarily the cabinet required two men to shift it. But Joe had a knack of using his powerful muscles to the best advantage, and it was this, with his most marvelous nerve, that enabled him to do so many sensational things, about which this and future volumes concerning our hero will tell. The professor having been sent to his hotel to rest, and the pantomimist having finished his act, Joe went out on the stage to continue the performance. He made no reference to the non-appearance of the chief performer, letting it be taken for granted that Professor Rosello had finished his part in the entertainment. "I would now like to borrow a gold gentleman's watch," began Joe; this misplacement of words never failing to bring out a laugh. He then proceeded to perform the trick of apparently smashing a borrowed watch, firing the fragments from a pistol at a potted plant, and causing the reunited watch to appear among the roots of the pulled-up flower. As this trick has been described in detail in the first volume of this series, exposing just how it is done, the description will not be repeated here. In that book will also be found the details of how Joe made an ordinary egg float or sink in a jar of water, at his pleasure. (This is a trick one can easily do at home without apparatus.) Joe did that trick now, and also the one of lighting a candle, causing it to go out and relight itself again while he stood at one side of the stage, merely pointing his wand at the flickering flame. (See the first volume.) Joe now essayed another trick. He brought out a bottle, apparently empty, and said that it was a magical flask. "From this I am able to pour three kinds of drinks," he stated. "Some persons like water, others prefer milk, while nothing but grape juice will satisfy some. Now will you kindly state which drink you like?" and he pointed to a man in the front row. "I'll have grape juice," was the answer. "Very good," returned Joe. "Here you are!" He tilted the bottle, and a stream of purple grape juice ran from the flask into a goblet. Joe handed it to the man. "It's perfectly good grape juice," Joe said, smilingly. "You need not be afraid to sample it." The man did so, after a moment's hesitation. "Is it all right?" Joe asked. "Just tell the audience." "It's good," the man testified. "Take it all. I have other drinks in the bottle," Joe said. "Save me some!" cried a boy up in the gallery, as the man drained the glass of grape juice. "Now who'll have milk?" Joe asked. "I will," called a boy in the second row. Without moving from where he stood Joe picked up a glass, and, from the same bottle, poured out a drink of milk which he passed to the boy, who took it wonderingly. "Is it the real stuff?" asked Joe, smiling at the lad. "That's what it is!" was the quick answer. "Drink it then. And now for water. Here we are!" And from the same bottle, out of which the audience had seen milk and grape juice come, Joe poured sparkling water and passed it to a lady in the audience. "Hello! What's this? There appears to be something else in the bottle!" exclaimed Joe, apparently surprised, as he held the flask up to his ear. "Yes, I'll let you out--right away," he said aloud. "There must be some mistake," he went on, "there is an animal in this bottle. I'll have to break it open to get it out." He went quickly back on the stage with the bottle, took up a hammer, and holding the flask over a table gently cracked the glass. In an instant he held up a little guinea pig. There was a moment's pause, and then the applause broke out at the effectiveness of the trick. How was it done? A trick bottle, you say at once. That is right. The bottle was made with three compartments. One held milk, another grape juice and the third water. Joe could pour them out in any order he wished, there being controlling valves in the bottom of the bottle. But how did the guinea pig get inside? It was another bottle. The bottom of this one had been cut off, and, after the guinea pig had been put inside, the bottom was cemented on again. This was done just before the trick was performed. On his way back to the stage, after having given the lady the glass of water, Joe substituted the bottle containing the guinea pig for the empty one that had held the three liquids. This was where his quick sleight-of-hand work came in. When he gently broke the bottle it was easy enough to remove the little animal, which had been used in tricks so often that it was used to them. Joe brought the show to a satisfactory conclusion, perhaps a little earlier than usual, as he was anxious to get to the hotel and see how the professor was. The audience seemed highly pleased with the illusions the boy wizard gave them, and clapped long and loud as Joe made his final bow. He left the theatrical people and his helpers to pack up, ready for the trip to the next town, and hastened to the hotel. There he found Professor Rosello much better, though still suffering somewhat. "Do you think you will be able to go on to-morrow night?" asked Joe. "I don't know," was the answer. "I can tell better to-morrow." But when the next day came, after a night journey that was painful for Mr. Crabb, he found that he could not give his portion of the performance. And as Joe alone was not quite qualified to give a whole evening's entertainment it was decided to cancel the engagement. It was not an important one, though several good "dates" awaited them in other towns on the route. "I think I need a rest, Joe," the professor said "My nerves are more shattered than I thought by that electrical accident. I need a good rest to straighten them out. I think we'll not give any performances for at least a month--that is I sha'n't." Joe looked a little disappointed on hearing this. His living depended on working for the professor. "I say I'll not give any more performances right away, Joe," went on the professor, "but there's no reason why you shouldn't. I have been watching you of late, and I think you are very well qualified to go on with the show alone. You could get a helper, of course. But you can do most of my tricks, as well as your own. What do you say? I'll make you a liberal offer as regards money. You can consider the show yours while I'm taking a rest. Would you like it?" "I think----" began Joe, when there came a knock on the door of their hotel room. "Telegram for Joe Strong!" called the voice of the bellboy. CHAPTER IV A CHANCE ENCOUNTER Professor Rosello and Joe Strong looked at each other. It was not unusual for the magician to receive telegrams in reference to his professional engagements, but Joe up to now had never received one of the lightning messages which, to the most of us, are unusual occurrences. "Are you sure it's for me?" Joe asked the boy, as he opened the door. "It's got your name on it," was the answer. That seemed proof enough for any one. "Maybe it's from your folks--the deacon," suggested the professor. "Something may have happened." He really hoped there had not, but, in a way, he wanted to prepare Joe for a possible shock. "I wonder if it can have anything to do with the deacon's robbery," mused Joe as he took the message from the waiting lad. "But, no, it can't be that. Denton and Harrison are still in jail--or they were at last accounts--and the robbery is cleared up as much as it ever will be. Can't be that." And then, unwilling and unable to speculate further, and anxious to know just what was in the message Joe tore open the envelope. The message was typewritten, as are most telegrams of late, and the message read: "If you are at liberty, can use you in a single trapeze act. Forty a week to start. Wire me at Slater Junction. We show there three days. Jim Tracy--Sampson Bros. Circus." "What is it?" asked the professor as he noted a strange look on Joe's face. In fact, there was a combination of looks. There was surprise, and doubt, and pleased anticipation. "It's an offer," answered Joe, slowly. "An offer!" "Yes, to join a circus." "A circus!" The professor did not seem capable of talking in very long sentences. "Yes, the Sampson Brothers' Show," Joe went on. "You know I went to see them that time they played the same town and date we did. I met the 'human fish' and----" "Oh, yes, I remember. You did some acts on the trapeze then." "Yes, and this Jim Tracy--he's ring-master and one of the owners--made me a sort of offer then. But I didn't want to leave you. Now he renews the offer." The boy wizard handed the message to the professor who read it through carefully. Then after a look at Joe he said: "Well, my boy, that's a good offer, I'd take it. I sha'n't be able to pay you forty a week for some time, though you might make it if you took my show out on the road alone, or with one assistant. Then, too, there's always a chance to make more in a circus--that is, if you please your public. I might say thrill them enough, for your trapeze act will have to be mostly thrills, I take it." "Yes," assented Joe. And, somehow, a feeling of exultation came to him. While doing puzzling tricks before a mystified audience was enticing work, yet Joe had a longing for the circus. He was almost as much at home high in the air, with nothing but a slack wire or a swaying rope to support him, as he was on the ground. Part of this was due to his early attempts to emulate the feats of circus performers, but the larger part of it was born in him. He inherited much of his daring from his mother, and his quickness of eye and hand from his father. Moreover, mingled with the desire to do some thrilling act high up on a trapeze in a circus tent, while the crowd below held its breath, Joe felt a desire to meet again pretty Helen Morton, whose bright smile and laughing eyes he seemed to see in fancy now. "It's a good offer," went on the professor, slowly, "and it seems to come at the right time for both of us, Joe. We were talking about your taking out my show. I really don't feel able to keep up with it--at least for a time. Are you ready to give me an answer now, Joe, or would you like to think it over a bit?" "Perhaps I had better think of it a bit," the youth answered. "Though I have pretty nearly made up my mind." "Don't be in a hurry," urged Professor Rosello. "There is no great rush, as far as I am concerned. One or two days will make no difference to me. Though if you don't take up my offer I shall probably lease the show to some professional. I want to keep my name before the public, for probably I shall wish to go back into the business again. And besides, it is a pity to let such a good outfit as we now have go into storage. But think it over carefully. I suppose, though, that you will have to let the circus people know soon." "They seem to be in a hurry--wanting me to telegraph," responded Joe. "I'll give them an answer in a few hours. I think I'll go out and walk around town a bit. I can think better that way." "Go ahead, Joe, and don't let me influence you. I want to help you, and I'll do all I can for you. You know I owe much to you. Just remember that you have the option on my show, such as it is, and if you don't take my offer I won't feel at all offended. Do as you think right." "Thank you," said Joe, feelingly. There was not much of interest to see in the town where they had come, expecting to give a performance, but Joe did not really care for sights just then. He had some hard thinking to do and he wanted to do it carefully. Hardly conscious of where he was walking, he strolled on, and presently found himself near the outskirts of the town, in a section that was more country than town. A little stream flowed through a green meadow, the banks bordered by trees. "It looks just like Bedford," mused Joe. "I'm going to take a rest there." He sat down in the shade of a willow tree and in an instant there came back to him the memory of that day, some months ago, when he had come upon his chums sitting under the same sort of tree and discussing one of the professor's tricks which they had witnessed the night before. "Then there was the fireworks explosion. I rescued the professor--ran away from home--was chased by the constables--hopped into the freight car--the deacon's house was robbed and set on fire and---- Say! what a lot has happened in a short time," mused Joe. "And now comes this offer from the circus. I wonder if I'd better take it or keep on with the professor's show. Of course it would be easier to do this, as I'm more familiar with it." Just then there recurred to Joe something he had often heard Deacon Blackford say. "The easiest way isn't always the best." The deacon was not, by any means, the kindest or wisest of men, and certainly he had been cruel at times to Joe. But he was a sturdy character, though often obstinate and mistaken, and he had a fund of homely philosophy. Joe, working one day in the deacon's feed and grain store, had proposed doing something in a way that would, he thought, save him work. "That's the easiest way," he had argued. "Well, the easiest way isn't always the best," the deacon had retorted. Joe remembered that now. It would be easier to keep on with the professor's show, for the work was all planned out for him, and he had but to fulfil certain engagements. Then, too, he was getting to be expert in the tricks. "But I want to get on in life," reasoned Joe. "Forty dollars a week is more than I'm getting now, nor will I stick at that point in the circus. It will be hard work, but I can stand it." He had almost made up his mind. He decided he would go back and acquaint the professor with his decision. As Joe was passing a sort of hotel in a poor section of the town he almost ran into, or, rather, was himself almost run into by a man who emerged from the place quickly but unsteadily. Joe was about to pass on with a muttered apology, though he did not feel the collision to be his fault, when the man angrily demanded: "What's the matter with you, anyhow? Why don't you look where you're going?" "I tried to," said Joe, mildly enough. "Hope I didn't hurt you." "Well, you banged me hard enough!" The man seemed a little more mollified now. Joe was at once struck by something familiar in his voice and his looks. He took a second glance and in an instant he recognized the man as one of the circus trapeze performers he had seen the day he went to the big tent, or "main top," of Sampson Brothers' Circus to watch the professionals at their practice. The man was one of the troupe known as the "Lascalla Brothers," though the relationship was assumed, rather than real. Joe gave a start of astonishment as he sensed the recognition. He was also surprised at the great change in the man. When Joe had first seen him, a few months before, the performer had been a straight, lithe specimen of manhood, intent, at the moment when Joe met him, on seeing that his trapeze ropes were securely fastened. Now the man looked and acted like a tramp. He was dirty and ragged, and his face bore evidences of dissipation. He leered at Joe, and then something in our hero's face seemed to hold his attention. "What are you looking at me that way for, young fellow?" he demanded. "Do you know me?" "No, not exactly," was the answer. "But I've seen you." "Well, you're not the only one," was the retort. "A good many thousand people have seen me on the circus trapeze. And I'd be there to-day, doing my act, if it hadn't been for that mean Jim Tracy. He fired me, Jim did--said he was going to get some one for the act who could stay sober. Huh? I'm sober enough for anybody, and I took only a little drink because I was sick. Even at that I can beat anybody on the high bar. But he sacked me. Never mind! I'll get even with him, and if he puts anybody in my place--well, that fellow'd better look out, that's all!" The man seemed turning ugly, and Joe was glad the fellow had not connected him with the youth who had paid a brief visit to the trapeze tent that day, months before. "I wonder if it's to take his place that Jim Tracy wants me?" mused Joe, as he turned aside. "I guess Jim put up with this fellow as long as he could. Poor chap! He was a good acrobat, too--one of the best in the country." Joe knew the Lascalla Brothers by reputation. "If I take his place----" Joe was doing some quick thinking. "Oh, well, I've got to take chances," he told himself. "After all, we may never meet." Joe had fully made up his mind. Before going back to the professor he stopped at the telegraph office and sent this message to Jim Tracy. "Will join circus in two days." CHAPTER V OFF TO THE CIRCUS "Well?" questioned Professor Rosello, as Joe came back to the hotel. "Is it my show or----" "The circus," answered Joe, and he did not smile. He was rather serious about it, for in spite of what his friend had said Joe could but feel that the magician might be disappointed over the choice. But Professor Rosello was a broad-minded man, as well as a fair and generous one. "Joe, I'm sure you did just the right thing!" he exclaimed, as he shook hands with the boy wizard, or rather with the former boy wizard, for the lad was about to give up that life. Yet Joe knew that he would not altogether give it up. He would always retain his knowledge and ability in the art of mystifying. "Yes, I thought it all over," said Joe, "and I concluded that I could do better on the trapeze than at sleight-of-hand. You see, if I want to be a successful circus performer I have to begin soon. The older I get the less active I'll be, and some tricks take years to polish off so one can do them easily." "I understand," the professor said. "I think you did the right thing for yourself." "Of course if I could be any help to you I wouldn't leave you this way," Joe went on earnestly. "I wouldn't desert in a time of trouble." "Oh, it isn't exactly trouble," replied the magician. "I really need a rest, and you're not taking my offer won't mean any money loss to me, though, personally, I shall feel sorry at losing you. But I want you to do the best possible thing for yourself. Don't consider me at all. In fact you don't have to. I am going to take a rest. I need it. I've been in this business nearly thirty years now, and time is beginning to tell. "I think there is more of a future for you in the circus than there would be in magic. Not that you have exhausted the possibilities of magic by any means, but changes are taking place in the public. The moving pictures are drawing away from us the audiences we might otherwise attract. Then, too, there has been so much written and exposed concerning our tricks, that it is very hard to get up an effective illusion. Even the children can now guess how many of the tricks are done. "It may be that I shall give up altogether. At, any rate I will lease my show out for a time. I'm I going to take a rest. And now about your plans. What are you going to do?" "I don't exactly know," was the hesitating answer. "I have telegraphed to Mr. Tracy that I would join his circus in two days. I think I'll need that much time to get ready." "Yes. We can settle up our business arrangements in that time, Joe. As I said, I'll be very sorry to lose you, but it is all for the best. We may see each other occasionally. Shall you tell the deacon of the change?" "I think not. He and I don't get along very well, and he hasn't much real interest in me, now that he feels I am following in the footsteps of my father. And if he knew that I was taking up the profession my mother felt called to, he would have even less regard for me. I'll not write to him at all." "Perhaps that is wise. I wonder, Joe, if in traveling about with Sampson Brothers' Show you will meet any one who knew your mother?" "I wish that would happen," Joe answered. "I'd like to hear about her. I shall ask for information about her." Joe related his encounter with one of the Lascalla Brothers--which one he did not know. "I wonder if he'll try to make trouble?" he asked. "I hardly think so," answered the professor. "He's probably a bad egg, and talks big. Just go on your own way, do the best you can, keep straight and you'll be all right." They talked for some little time further, discussing matters that needed to be settled between them, and making arrangements for Joe to leave. Now that he had come to a decision he was very glad that he was going with the circus. "I'll be glad to meet Benny Turton, the 'human fish,' again," said Joe to himself. "His act is sure a queer one. I wonder if I could stay under water as long as he does. I'm going to try it some day if I get a chance at his tank. And Helen--I'll be glad to see her again, too." Joe did not admit, even to himself, just how glad he would be to meet the pretty circus rider again. But he surely anticipated pleasure in renewing the acquaintance. "That is, if she'll notice me," thought Joe. "I wonder what the social standing is between trick and fancy riders and the various trapeze performers." The next day was a busy one. Joe had to pack his belongings. Some he arranged to store with the professor's things. He also helped his friend, the magician, to prepare an advertisement for the theatrical papers, announcing that The Rosello Show was for lease, along with the advance bookings. Joe also went over the apparatus with the professor, making a list of some necessary repairs that would have to be made. "And now, Joe," said the professor, when the time for parting came, "I want you to feel free to use any of my tricks, or those you got up yourself, whenever you want to." "Use the tricks?" queried Joe. "Yes. It may be that you'll find a chance to use them in the circus, or to entertain your friends privately. I want you to feel free to do so. There will not be any professional jealousy on my part." Joe was glad to hear this. The professor was unlike most professional persons who entertain the public. "Well, good-bye," said Joe, as the professor went with him to the railroad station, the burns having progressed rapidly in their healing. "You'll always be able to write me in care of the circus." "Yes, I can keep track of your show through the theatrical papers, Joe. Let me hear from you occasionally. Write to the New York address where I buy most of my stuff. They'll always have the name of my forwarding post-office on file. And now, my boy, I wish you all success. You have been a great help to me--not to mention such a little thing as saving my life," and he laughed, to make the occasion less serious. "Thank you," said Joe. "The same to you. And I hope you will soon feel much better." "A rest will do me good," responded the professor. Then the train rolled in, and Joe got aboard with his valise. He waved farewell to his very good friend and then settled back in his seat for a long ride. Joe Strong was on his way at last to join the circus. As he sat in his comfortable seat, he could not help contrasting his situation now with what it had been some months before, when he was running away from the home of his foster-father in the night and riding in a freight car to join the professor. Then Joe had very few dollars, and the future looked anything but pleasant. He had to sleep on the hard boards, with some loose hay as a mattress. Now, while he was far from having a fortune, he had nearly two hundred dollars to his credit, and he was going to an assured position that would pay well. It was quite a contrast. "I wonder if I'll make good," thought Joe. Involuntarily he felt of his muscles. "I'm strong enough," he thought with a little smile--"Strong by name and strong by nature," and as he thought this there was no false pride about it. Joe knew his capabilities. His nerves and muscles were his principal assets. "I guess I'll have to learn some new stunts," Joe thought. "But Jim Tracy will probably coach me, and tell me what they want. I wonder if I'll have to act with the Lascalla bunch? They may not be very friendly toward me for taking the place of one of their number. Well, I can't help it. It isn't my doing. I'm hired to do certain work--for trapeze performing is work, though it may look like fun to the public. Well, I'm on my way, as the fellow said when the powder mill blew up," and Joe smiled whimsically. It was a long and tiresome trip to the town where the circus was performing, and Joe did not reach the "lot" until the afternoon performance was over. The sight of the tents, the smell that came from the crushed grass, the sawdust, the jungle odor of wild animals--all this was as perfume to Joe Strong. He breathed in deep of it and his eyes lighted up as he saw the fluttering flags, and noted the activity of the circus men who were getting ready for the night show--filling the portable gasoline lamps, putting on new mantles which would glow later with white incandescence to show off the spectacle in the "main top." As Joe took in all this he said to himself: "I'm to be a part of it! That's the best ever!" It was some little time before he could find Jim Tracy, but at length he came upon the ring-master, who was trying to do a dozen things at once, and settle half a dozen other matters on which his opinion was wanted. "Oh, hello, Joe?" Jim called to the young performer. "Glad you got here. We need you. Want to go on to-night?" "Just as you say. But I really need a little practice." "All right. Then just hang around and pick up information. We don't have to travel to-night, so you'll have it easy to start. I'll show you where you'll dress when you get going. I'll have to give you some one else's suit until we can order one your size, but I guess you won't mind." "No, indeed." Joe was looking about with eager eyes, hoping for a glimpse of Helen Morton. However, he was not gratified just then. "Now, Joe," went on the ring-master, coming over after having settled a dispute concerning differences of opinions between a woman with trained dogs and a clown who exhibited an "educated" pig, "if you'll come with me, I'll----" "Well, what is it now?" asked Jim Tracy, exasperation in his voice. A dark-complexioned, foreign-looking man had approached him, and had said something in a low voice. "No, I won't take him back, and you needn't ask!" declared Jim. "You can tell Sim Dobley, otherwise known as Rafello Lascalla, that he's done his last hanging by his heels in my show. I don't want anything more to do with him. I don't care if he is outside. You tell him to stay there. He doesn't come in unless he buys a ticket, and as for taking him back--nothing doing, take it from me!" The foreign-looking man turned aside, muttering, and Joe followed the ring-master. CHAPTER VI JOE MAKES A HIT "Those fellows are always making trouble," murmured the ring-master, as he walked with Joe toward a tent where the young performer could leave his valise. "What fellows are they?" the lad asked, but he felt that he knew what the answer was going to be. "The Lascalla Brothers," replied Jim. "There were two brothers in the business, Sid and Tonzo Lascalla. They used to be together and have a wonderful act. But Sid died, and Tonzo got a fellow-countryman to take his place, using the same name. They were good, too. Then about four years ago they added a third man. Why they ever took up with Sim Dobley I can't imagine, but they did. "Whatever else I'll say about Sim, I'll give him credit for being a wonder on a trapeze--that is when he was sober. When he got intoxicated, or partly so, he'd take risks that would make your hair stand up on end. That's why I had to get rid of him. First I knew, he'd have had an accident and he'd be suing the circus. So I let him go. Sim went under the name Rafello Lascalla, and became one of the brothers. "For a while the three of them worked well together. And it's queer, as I say, how Sid and Tonzo took to Jim. But they did. You'd think he was a regular brother. In fact all three of 'em seemed to be real blood brothers. Sid and Tonzo are Spaniards, but Sim is a plain Yankee. He used to say he learned to do trapeze tricks in his father's barn." "That's where I practised," said Joe. "Well, it's as good a place as any, I reckon. Anyhow, I had to get rid of Sim, and now Tonzo comes and asks me to put him back. He says Sim is behaving himself, and will keep straight. He's somewhere on the grounds now, Tonzo told me. But I don't want anything to do with him. I'll stand a whole lot from a man, but when I reach the limit I'm through for good. That's what I am with Sim Dobley, otherwise known as Rafello Lascalla. You're to take his place, Joe." "I am!" There was no mistaking the surprise in the youth's voice. "Why, what's the matter? Don't you want to?" asked Jim, in some astonishment. "Yes, of course. I'll do anything in the show along the line of trapeze work you want me to. But--well, maybe I'd better tell you all about it." Then Joe related his encounter with the discharged circus employee. "Hum," mused Jim, when Joe finished. "So that's how the wind sets, is it? He's hanging around here now trying to find out who is going to take his place." "And when he finds that I have," suggested Joe hesitatingly, "he may cause trouble." Jim Tracy started. "I didn't think of that!" he said slowly. "You say he threatened you?" "Well, not exactly me, for he didn't know who I was," replied Joe. "But he said he'd make it decidedly hot for you, and for the man who took his place." Jim Tracy snapped his fingers. "That's how much I care for Sim Dobley," he said. "I'm not afraid of him. He talks big, but he acts small. I'm not in the least worried, and if you are----" "Not for a minute!" exclaimed Joe quickly. "I guess I can look after myself!" "Good!" exclaimed Jim. "That's the way I like to hear you talk. And don't you let Sim Dobley, or either of the Lascalla Brothers, bluff you. I'm running this show, not them! If they make any trouble you come to me." "I guess I can fight my own battles," observed Joe calmly. "Good!" said the ring-master again. "I guess you'll do. This is your dressing room," he went on. "Just leave your grip here, and it will be safe. You won't have to do anything to-night but look on. I'll get you a pair of tights by to-morrow and you can go on. Practise up in the morning, and work up a new act with Sid and Tonzo if you like. I'll introduce you to them at supper." "Do you think they'll perform with me?" Joe wanted to know. "They'll have to!" exclaimed the ring-master with energy. "This is my circus, not theirs. They'll do as I say, and if there is any funny business---- Well, there just won't be," he added significantly. "Do Tonzo and Sid want Sim to come back and act with them?" asked Joe, as he deposited his valise in a corner of a dressing room that was made by canvas curtains partitioning off a part of a large tent. "That's what they say. Tonzo told me that Sim would behave himself. But I'm through with Sim, and he might as well understand that first as last. You're going to take his place. Now I'll have to leave you. You'll put up at the hotel with some of the performers. Here's your slip that you can show to the clerk. I'll see you in the morning, if not before, and make arrangements for your act. To-night you just look on. Now I've got to go." Joe looked about the dressing room. It was evidently shared with others, for there were suits of men's tights scattered around, as well as other belongings. Joe left his valise and went outside. He wanted to see all he could--to get familiar with the life of a circus. It cannot be said that Joe was exactly easy in his mind. He would much rather have joined the circus without having supplanted a performer of so vindictive a character as Sim Dobley. But, as it had to be, the lad decided to make the best of it. "I'll be on the watch for trouble," he murmured as he went out of the dressing tent. A busy scene was being enacted on the circus lots. In fact, many scenes. It was feeding time for some of the animals and for most of the performers and helpers. The latter would dine in one of the big tents, under which long tables were already set. And from the distance Joe could catch an odor of the cooking. "My, but that smells good!" he told himself. He was hungry. The Sampson Brothers' Show was a fair-sized one. It used a number of railroad cars to transport the wagons, cages and performers from place to place. On the road, of course, the performers and helpers slept in the circus sleeping cars. But when the show remained more than one night in a place some of the performers were occasionally allowed to sleep at the local hotels, getting their meals on the circus grounds, for the cooking for and feeding of a big show is down to an exact science. As Joe wandered forth he heard a voice calling to him: "Well, where in the world did you come from?" "Oh, hello!" cried our hero, as, turning, he saw Benny Turton, the "human fish," walking toward him. "I'm glad to see you again!" went on Benny, as he shook hands with Joe. "And I'm glad to see you." "What are you doing here?" the "human fish" asked. "Oh, I'm part of the show now," replied Joe, a bit proudly. "Get out! Are you, really?" "I sure am!" And Joe told the circumstances. "Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Ben. "Real glad!" "How's your act going?" asked Joe. The "human fish" paused a moment before answering. "Oh, I suppose it goes as well as ever," he said slowly. "Only I---- Oh, what's the use of telling my troubles?" he asked, with a smile. "I reckon you have some of your own." "Not very big ones," confessed Joe. "But is anything the matter?" "No, oh, no. Never mind me; tell me about yourself." Joe told something of his experiences since last seeing Ben, and, as he talked, he looked at the youth who performed such thrilling feats under water in the big tank. Joe thought Benny looked paler and thinner than before. "I guess the water work isn't any too healthy for him," mused Joe. "It must be hard to be under that pressure so long. I feel sorry for him." "What are you two talking about--going to get up a new act that will make us all take back seats?" asked a merry voice. Joe recognized it at once, and, with a glad smile, he turned to see Helen Morton coming toward him. "I thought I knew you, even from your back," she told Joe, as she shook hands with him. "Does Rosebud want any sugar?" he asked, smiling. "No, thank you! He's had his share to-day. But it was good of you to remember. I must introduce you to my horse." "I shall be happy to meet him," returned Joe, with his best "stage bow." Helen laughed merrily, as she walked across the grounds with Joe and Benny. "It's almost supper time," she said, "and I'm starved. Can't we all eat together?" "I don't see why not," Ben answered, and they were soon at a table where many other performers sat, all, seemingly, talking at once. Joe was very much interested. He was more than interested in two dark-complexioned men who regarded him curiously. One was the person who had spoken to Jim Tracy. The other Joe had not seen before. "They're the Lascalla Brothers," Ben informed him. "That is, there are two of them. The third----" "I'm to be the third," Joe broke in. "You are?" asked Ben, and he regarded his friend curiously. "Well, look out for yourself; that's all I've got to say." "Why has he to look out for himself?" inquired Helen, who had caught the words. "Are you going to eat all there is on the table, Ben, so there won't be any for Mr. Strong? Is that why he must look out?" "No, not that," Ben answered. "It--it was something else." "Oh, secrets!" and Helen pretended to be offended. "It wasn't anything," Joe assured her. And he tried to forget the warning Ben had so kindly given him. Joe attended the performance that night as a sort of privileged character. He went behind the scenes, and also sat in the tent. He was most interested in the feats of the two Lascalla Brothers, and he decided that, with a little practice, he could do most of the feats they presented. That night, at the hotel, Joe was introduced to Sid and Tonzo. They bowed and shook hands, and, as far as Joe could see, they did not resent his joining their troupe. They seemed pleasant, and Joe felt that perhaps the difficulties had been exaggerated. Nothing was said of Sim Dobley, and though Joe had been on the watch for the deposed performer that afternoon and evening, he had not seen him. "You will, perhaps, like to practise with us?" suggested Tonzo, after a while. "I think it would be wise," agreed Joe. "Very well, then. We will meet you at the tent in the morning." Bright and early Joe was on hand. Jim Tracy found him a pair of pink tights that would do very well for a time, and ordered him a new, regular suit. At the request of Tonzo Lascalla, Joe went through a number of tricks, improvising them as he progressed. Next the two Spaniards did their act, and showed Joe what he was to do, as well as when to do it, so as to make it all harmonize. Then hard practice began, and was kept up until the time for the afternoon show. Joe did not feel at all nervous as he prepared for his entrance. His work on the stage with Professor Rosello stood him in good stead. In another moment he was swinging aloft with his two fellow-performers, in "death-defying dives," and other alliterative acts set down on the show bills. "Can you catch me if I jump from the high-swinging trapeze, and vault toward you, somersaulting?" Joe asked Tonzo, during a pause in their act. "Of a certainty, yes, I can catch you. But can you jump it?" "Sure!" declared Joe. "I've done it before." "It is a big jump, Mr. Strong," Tonzo warned him. "Even your predecessor would have hesitated." "I'll take the chance," Joe said. "Now this is the way I'll do it. I'll get a good momentum, swinging back and forth. You stand upon the high platform, holding your trapeze and waiting. When I give the word and start on my final swing, you jump off, hang by your knees, hands down. I'll leap toward you, turn over three times, and grab your hands. Do you get me?" "Of a certainty, yes. But it is not an easy trick." "I know it--that's why I'm going to do it. Do you get me?" "If he doesn't 'get you,' as you call it, Mr. Strong," put in Sid, "you will have a bad fall. Of course there is the life net, but if you do not land right----" "Oh, I'll land all right," said Joe, though not boastingly. The time for the new trick came. Joe climbed up to a little platform near the top of the tent and swung off, swaying to and fro on a long trapeze. On the other side of the tent Tonzo took his place on a similar platform, fastened to a pole. He was waiting for Joe to give the word. To and fro, in longer and longer arcs, Joe swung. He hung by his hands. Carefully his eye gauged the distance he must hurl himself across. Finally he had momentum enough. "Come on!" he cried to Tonzo. The latter leaped out on his trapeze, swinging by his knees. Right toward Joe he swung. "Here I come!" Joe shouted, amid breathless silence among the spectators below him. They realized that something unusual was going on. "Go!" shouted Sid, who was waiting down on the ground for the conclusion of the trick. Joe let go. He felt himself hurling through the air. Quickly he doubled himself in a ball, and turned the somersaults. Then he straightened out, dropped a few feet, and his hands squarely met those of Tonzo. The latter clasped Joe's in a firm grip, and, holding him, swung to and fro on the long trapeze. A roar of applause broke out at Joe's daring feat. He had made a hit--a big hit, for the applause kept up after he had dropped to the life net. He stood beside Tonzo and Sid, all three bowing and smiling. CHAPTER VII JOE TURNS A TRICK "That's the idea!" exclaimed Jim Tracy, hurrying over to where the three gymnasts stood. "Give 'em some more of that, Joe!" "I haven't any more like that--just now," answered the young circus performer, panting slightly, for he was a bit out of breath from his exertion and the anxiety lest his trick should fail. "Well, do it again at to-night's performance, then," urged the ring-master, and Joe nodded in agreement. "It was a good trick, my boy," said Tonzo Lascalla, "but don't try it too often." "Why not?" Joe asked. "Because it is risky. I might not catch you some day." "I'd only fall into the life net if you did miss," said Joe coolly, though, for a moment, he thought there might be a hidden meaning in what his fellow-performer said. "Well, it is not every one who knows how to fall into a life net," put in Sid Lascalla. "If one lands on his head the neck is likely to be dislocated." "I know how to fall," Joe declared, and, though he spoke positively, he was not in the least boastful. "Here, I'll show you," he went on. Their act was not quite finished, but before going on with the next gymnastic feat Joe caught hold of a hoisting rope that ran through a pulley, and, at a nodded signal, one of the ring-men hauled the lad up to the top of the tent to the little platform where Joe had stood when taking his place on the high trapeze. Joe signaled to the ring-master that he was going to make a jump into the net from that height, and at once the crowd again became aware that something unusual was going on. It was a jump seldom made, at least in The Sampson Brothers' Circus. The platform was fully twenty feet higher than the trapeze from which Joe and his fellow-performer had dropped a few minutes before. And, as Sid Lascalla had said, there was a risk even in jumping into a life net. But Joe Strong seemed to know what he was about. "Say, he's going to do some jump!" exclaimed Benny Turton, who came into the ring at that moment, dressed in his shimmering, scaly suit, ready to do his "human fish" act. "That's what!" cried Jim Tracy. "Give him the long roll and the boom!" he called to the leader of the musicians. As Joe poised for his jump the snare drummer rattled out a "ruffle," and as it started Joe leaned forward and leaped. Down he went, for a few feet, as straight as an arrow. Then he suddenly doubled up into a sort of ball, and began turning over and over. The crowd held its breath. The drum continued to rattle out its thundering accompaniment. How many somersaults Joe turned none of the spectators reckoned, but the youthful performer kept count of them, for he wanted to "straighten out," to land on his feet in the net. "He'll never do it!" predicted Tonzo Lascalla. And it did begin to look as though Joe had miscalculated. But no. Just before he reached the springy life net he straightened out and came down feet first, bouncing up, and down like a rubber ball. The instant he landed the bass drum gave forth a thundering "boom," and as Joe rose, and came down again, the drummer punctuated each descent with a bang, until the crowd that had applauded madly at the jump was laughing at the queer effect of Joe's bouncing to the accompaniment of the drum. "He did it!" cried Jim Tracy. "It was a great jump. We'll feature that now." He looked at Sid and Tonzo Lascalla, as though asking why they had not worked something like this into their acts previously. But the Spaniards only shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows. "That was great, Joe!" exclaimed Benny Turton, as Joe leaped to the ground over the edge of the life net. "Great!" Joe smiled happily. "It was wonderful," added Helen Morton, who was about to put her trick horse, Rosebud, through his paces. "It was wonderful--but I don't like to see anybody take such risks." "Anybody?" asked Joe in a low voice. "Well, then--you," she whispered, as she ran off to her ring. "Well, I did it, you see," observed Joe to his two partners. "I guess I know how to fall into a net." "You sure do!" averred the ring-master. "Try that at each performance, Joe." "Only--be careful," added Tonzo Lascalla. "We do not want to have to get another partner." The act of Joe and the two other "Lascalla Brothers" came to an end with Joe and Sid hanging suspended from the legs of Tonzo, who supported himself on a swinging trapeze. It made an effective close. Joe was through then, and could watch the rest of the show or go to bed, as he pleased. He elected to stay in the "main top" and watch Helen in her act. He was also much interested in the "human fish." "Pshaw!" Joe heard Jim Tracy murmur, as he, too, looked at Benny in the tank. "He isn't staying under as long as he used to, not by half a minute. I wonder what's the matter with him. First we know he'll be cutting the time, and we'll hear a howl from the public. That won't do! I'll have to give him a call-down." Joe felt sorry for Ben, who did not seem at all well. Joe thought he had better not interfere, but he resolved to speak to the water-performer privately, and see if he could not help him. Joe repeated his sensational acts at the next day's performances, and that night he and the others in the circus moved on to the next stand. Joe wrote a line to Professor Rosello, telling him of the success. It was a quite novel experience for Joe, traveling with a circus. But he was used to sleeping cars by this time, on account of the going from town to town with the magician. However, he had never before had a berth in a train filled with circus performers, and, for a time, he could not sleep because of the strangeness. But he soon grew used to it, and in a few nights he could doze off as soon as he stretched out. Joe's new suit of pink tights arrived. It matched those of the Lascalla Brothers. In fact, Joe was now billed as one of that trio, though, of course, he went by his own name in private. He was sufficiently dark as to hair and complexion to pass for a Spaniard. To quote his own words, Joe was "taking to the circus life as a duck does to water." He seemed to fit right in. He made some new friends, but of all the men or youths in the show he liked best Benny Turton and the ring-master. Joe and the Lascalla Brothers got along well, but there was not much intimacy between them, though they worked well in the "team." Joe was on the lookout for any signs of Sim Dobley, but that unfortunate man did not appear, as far as our hero could learn. If Sid or Tonzo made further appeals for his reinstatement they said nothing about it to Joe. As the show went on, playing from town to town, Joe become more and more used to the life. He liked it very much, and each day he was becoming more proficient on the trapeze. One day, about two weeks after he had joined the circus, Joe had an idea for a new feat. It involved his jump from a distance, catching Tonzo Lascalla by the legs and hanging there. It was harder than making a leap for the other performer's hands, since, if Joe missed his clutch, Tonzo would have a chance to grab him with his hands. But when Joe leaped for his partner's feet a certain margin of safety was lost. It was not that a fall would be dangerous if Joe missed, for the life net was below him. But the effect of the trick would be spoiled. They practised the trick in private--Joe and Tonzo--and for a time it did not seem to work. Joe fell short every time of grasping the other's legs. "You will never do it," said Sid, and there was a queer look on his face as he glanced at Tonzo. The other seemed to wink, just the mere fraction of a wink, and then, like a flash, it came to Joe. "He doesn't want me to do it," thought our hero. "Tonzo wants me to fail. He doesn't want me to be successful, for he thinks maybe he can get Sim back. But I'll fool him! I think he has been drawing up his legs the instant I jumped for them, so I would miss. I'll watch next time." This Joe did, and found his surmise right. Just before he reached with outstretched hands for Tonzo's legs, the man drew them slightly up, and, as a result, Joe missed. "Here's where I turn a trick on him," mused the young performer, as he failed and landed in the net In his next attempt Joe leaped unusually high, and though Tonzo drew up his legs he could not pull them beyond Joe's reach. "That's the time I did it!" cried Joe, as he made the catch and swung to and fro. Sid, on the ground below, shrugged his shoulders, and said something to Tonzo in Spanish. CHAPTER VIII HELEN'S LETTER "Now I wonder," mused Joe as he leaped out of the net, "what they said to each other. I'm sure it was about me. Well, let it go. I did the trick, and I guess he won't pull his legs away again. If he does he'll have to pull 'em so far that it will be noticed all over, and he can't say it was an accident. I'll take care to make a high jump." Joe practised the trick again and again, until he felt he was perfect in it. Tonzo seemed to have given up the idea of spoiling it, if that had been his intention, and he and Joe worked at it until they could do it smoothly. "When are you going to put it on?" Jim Tracy inquired, when told there was a new feature to the Lascalla Brothers' act. "Oh, in a couple of nights now," Joe answered. "You sure are making good, all right," the ring-master informed him. "I didn't make any mistake booking you. I didn't know whom to turn to in a hurry when Sim Dobley went back on me, and then I happened to think of you. Got your route from one of the magazines, and sent you the wire." "I was mighty glad to come," confessed Joe. The new act created more applause than ever for the Lascalla Brothers when it was exhibited, but the louder applause seemed to come to Joe, though he did not try to keep his fellow performers from their share. And, as might be expected, there was not a little professional jealousy on the part of some of the other performers. If Sid and Tonzo were jealous of him they took pains to hide that fact from Joe, but some of the others were not so careful. A few of the other gymnasts openly declared that the Lascalla Brothers were getting altogether too much public attention. "They detract from me," declared Madame Bullriva, the "strong woman," whose star feat was to get beneath a board platform on which stood twelve men, and raise it from the saw-horses across which it lay. True, she only raised it a few inches, but the act was "billed big." "I don't get half the applause I used to," she complained to Jim Tracy. "You let those 'Spanish onions' have too much time in the ring, and give that Joe Strong a ruffle of drums and the big boom every time he makes the long jump." "But it's worth it," said the ring-master. "It's a big drawing card." "So's my act, but I don't get a single drum beat. Can't I have some music with my act?" "I'll see," promised the ring-master, but he had many other things to think of, and the act of Madame Bullriva went unheralded, to her great disgust. "Talk about footlight favorites," she complained to Helen Morton, as they dressed together for a performance, "that Joe Strong is getting all that's coming to him." "Oh, I don't think he tries to take away from any of us," Helen answered. "No, he doesn't personally. He's a nice boy. But Tracy makes too much fuss over him. I like Joe, but he and his partners are 'crabbing' my act, all right." "Perhaps if you spoke to him----" "What! Me? Let him know I cared? I guess not! I'll join some other circus first." "You might put another man on the platform, and lift thirteen," the young trick rider suggested. "What! Lift thirteen? That would be unlucky, my dear. I did it once when I was on the Western circuit in a Wild West show, and believe me--never again! I strained a shoulder muscle, and I had to lie up in a hospital five weeks. Twelve men are enough to lift at once, take it from me! But Joe is a nice boy, I'll say that. Don't you like him?" Helen's answer was not very clear, but perhaps that was because she was fixing her hair in readiness for the entrance into the ring with her trained horse, Rosebud. Joe, Helen and Benny Turton seemed to have formed a little group among themselves. They sat together at the circus table, and when they were not "on," they were much in the company of one another. They were about the same age, and they enjoyed each other's society greatly, being congenial companions. Joe was "introduced" to Rosebud and, being naturally fond of animals, he made friends with the intelligent horse at once, which pleased Helen. She and Joe were getting very fond of one another, though perhaps neither of them would have admitted that, if openly taxed with it. But, somehow or other, Joe seemed naturally to drift over near Helen when they were both in the tent, awaiting their turns. And when their acts were over they either took walks together in and about the town where the circus was playing, or they sat in their dressing tent talking. Often Benny Turton would join them, always being made welcome. But Benny did not have much time. His shimmering, scaly, green suit was quite elaborately made, and it took him some time to get into it. It took equally as long to get out of it, and after his act he was always more or less exhausted and had to rest. "I don't know what's the matter with me," he said one day to Helen and Joe, as he joined them after having been in the big glass tank. "But I feel so tired after I come out that I want to go to bed." "Maybe you stay under water too long," Helen said sympathetically. "I don't stay under as long as I used to," Benny remarked. "In fact Jim Tracy was sort of kicking just now. Said I was billed to stay under water four minutes, and I was cutting it to three. I can't help it. Something seems to hurt me here," and he put his hands to his ears and to the back of his head. "Maybe you ought to see a doctor," suggested Joe. "I can't," said Benny shortly. "In this circus business if they find out you're sick the management begins to think of booking some one else for your act. No, I've got to keep on with it. But some days I don't feel much like it." Joe and Helen felt sorry for Benny, but there was little they could do to aid him. It was not as if they could take some of the burden of work off his shoulders. His act was peculiar, and he alone could do it. "Though I think," said Joe to himself one day after watching Benny perform, "I think I could stay under water almost as long as he does after I'd practised it a bit. I'm going to try some time. I think deep breathing exercises would help. I'm going to begin on them." Joe had to have good "wind" for his own acts, but, as he was naturally ambitious, he started in on systematic breathing exercises. These would do him much general good even if he should never enter the water-tank. Occasionally Joe would do some simple sleight-of-hand tricks for the amusement of Benny and Helen. He did not want to lose the art he had acquired. "I may want to quit the circus some day and go back in the illusion business," he said. "Quit the circus! Why?" Helen asked him. "Oh, I'm not thinking seriously of it, of course," he said quickly. "But I don't want to get rusty on those tricks." Joe heard occasionally from Professor Rosello, who had leased his show and was taking a much needed rest. He inquired as to Joe's progress, and was glad, he said, to hear our hero was doing well. One day, when the circus was playing a large manufacturing city on a two days' date, Joe had another glimpse of the man he had supplanted. The young trapeze artist went out of the tent when his share in the afternoon performance was over, and as he paused to look at the crowd in front of the sideshow tent he heard some one addressing him. "So you're the chap that took my place, are you?" a vindictive voice asked. "I've been wanting to see you!" Joe turned to, behold Sim Dobley, who seemed worse off than when the young performer had first met him. "Yes, I've been wanting to see you!" and there was a sneer in Sim's words. Joe decided nothing could be gained by temporizing, or by showing that he was alarmed. "Well, now you've seen me, what are you going to do about it?" he coolly asked. "That's all right. You wait and you'll see!" was the threatening response. "Nobody can knock me out of an engagement and get away with it. You'll see!" "Look here!" exclaimed Joe. "I didn't knock you out of your place. No one did except yourself, and you know it. And I'm not going to stand for any talk like that from you, either." "That's right, give it to him!" said another voice, and Jim Tracy came up. "Don't let him bluff you, Joe. As for you, Dobley, I've told you to keep away from this circus, and I mean it! I heard you'd been following us. Rode on one of the canvas wagons last night, didn't you?" "Well, what if I did?" "This! If you do it again I'll have you arrested. I'm through with you and I want you to keep away." "I guess this is a free country!" "Yes, the _country_ is free, but our _circus_ isn't. You keep out in the country and you'll be all right. Keep off our wagons. Moreover, if I catch you making any more threats against our performers I'll---- But I guess Joe can look after himself all right," finished the ring-master. "Just you keep away, that's all, Dobley." The man slunk off in the crowd. Joe really felt sorry for him, but he could do nothing. Dobley had thrown away his chances and they had come to Joe, who was entitled to them. Later that day Joe saw Sid and Tonzo in close conversation with their former partner, but our hero said nothing to the ring-master about it, though he was a bit uneasy in his own mind. The next afternoon when Joe came out of his dressing room after his trapeze act, he met Helen Morton. The fancy rider held an open letter in her hand, and she seemed disturbed at its contents. "No bad news, I hope," remarked Joe. "No, not exactly," Helen answered. "On the contrary it may be good news. But I don't exactly understand it. I wish Bill Watson were here, so I could ask his advice." "Who is Bill Watson?" asked Joe. "He's one of our clowns, one of the oldest in the business, I guess. He was taken ill just before you joined the show, but he's coming back next week. I often ask his advice, and I'd like to now--about this letter." "Why don't you ask mine?" suggested Joe, half jokingly. CHAPTER IX BILL WATSON'S IDEA Helen Morton gave Joe a glance and a smile. Then she looked at the open letter in her hand. "That's so," she said brightly. "I never thought of that. I wonder if you could advise me?" "Why, I'm one of the best advisers you ever saw," returned Joe, laughingly. "I know you're good on the trapeze," Helen admitted, "but have you had any business experience?" "Well, I was in business for myself after I ran away from home and joined the professor," answered Joe. "That is, I had to attend to some of his business. What is it all about?" "That's just what I want to know," answered the young circus rider. "It's a puzzle to me." She again referred to the letter, then with a sort of hopeless gesture held it out to Joe. He took it and cried: "Why, what's this? It's all torn up," and he exhibited a handful of scraps of paper. "Oh--Joe!" Helen gasped. "How did that happen?" "Just a mistake," he replied. With a quick motion of his hand he held out the letter whole and untorn. "Oh--oh!" she stammered. Then, laughing, added: "Is that one of your sleight-of-hand tricks?" "Yes," Joe nodded. When Helen handed him the letter he happened to be holding the scraps of a circular letter he had just received and torn up. It occurred to him, just for a joke, to make Helen believe her letter had suddenly gone to pieces. It was one of Joe's simplest tricks, and he often did them nowadays in order to keep in practice. "You certainly gave me a start!" Helen exclaimed. "I had hardly read the letter myself. It's quite puzzling." "Do you want me to read it--and advise you?" asked Joe. "If you will--and can--yes." Joe hastily glanced over the paper. He saw in a moment that it was from a New York firm of lawyers. The body of the letter read: "We are writing to you to learn if, by any chance, you are the daughter of Thomas and Ruth Morton who some years ago lived in San Francisco. In case you are, and if your grandfather on your father's side was a Seth Morton, we would be glad to have you notify us of these facts, sending copies of any papers you may have to prove your identity. "For some years we have been searching for a Helen Morton with the above named relatives, but, so far, have not located her. "We discovered a number of Helen Mortons, but they were not the right ones. Recently we saw your name in a theatrical magazine, and take this opportunity to inquire of you, sending this letter in care of the circus with which we understand you are connected. Kindly reply as soon as possible. If you are the right person there is a sum of money due you, and we wish, if that is the case, to pay it and close an estate." Joe read the letter over twice without speaking. "Well," remarked Helen, after a pause, "I thought you were going to advise me." "So I am," Joe said. "I want to get this through my head first. But let me ask you: Is this a joke, or are you the Helen Morton referred to?" "I don't know whether it's a joke or not, Joe. First I thought it was. But my father's name was Thomas, and my grandfather was a Seth Morton, and he lived in San Francisco. Of course that was when I was a little girl, and I don't remember much about it. We lived in the West before papa and mamma died, and it was there I learned to ride a horse. "When I was left alone except for an elderly aunt, I did not know what to do. My aunt took good care of me, however, but when she died there was no one else, and she left no money. I tried to get work, but the stores and factories wanted experienced girls, and the only thing I had any experience with was a horse. "I got desperate, and decided to see if I couldn't make a living by what little talent I had. So one day, when a circus was showing in our town, I took my horse, Rosebud, rode out and did some stunts in the lots. The manager saw me and hired me. Oh, how happy I was! "That wasn't with this show. I only joined here about two years ago. Of course my friends--what few I had--thought it was dreadful for me to become a circus rider, but I've found that there are just as good men and women in circuses as anywhere else in this world," and her cheeks grew red, probably at the memory of something that had been said against circus folk. "I know," said Joe, quietly. "My mother was a circus rider." "So you have told me. But now about this letter, Joe. I wish Bill Watson were here--he might know what to do about it." "Well, I can't say that I do, in spite of my boast," Joe answered. "It may be a joke, and, again, it may be the real thing. You may be an heiress, Miss Morton," and Joe bowed teasingly. "I thought you were going to call me Helen--if I called you Joe," she said. "So I am. That was only in fun," for soon after their acquaintance began these two young persons had fallen into the habit of dropping the formal Miss and Mister. "Well, what would you do, Joe?" Helen asked. "I think I'd answer this letter seriously," replied the young performer. "If it is a joke you can't lose more than a two cent stamp, and, on the other hand, if it's serious they'll want to hear from you. You may be the very person they want. This letter head doesn't look much like a joke." The paper on which the letter was written was of excellent quality, and Joe could tell by passing his fingers over the names, addresses and other matter that it was engraved--not printed. "If it's a joke they went to a lot of work to get it up," he continued. "Have you any papers, to prove your identity?" "Yes, I have some birth and marriage certificates, and an old bible that was Grandfather Seth's. I wouldn't want to send them off to New York though." "It won't be necessary--at least not at first. I'll help you make copies of them, and if these lawyers want to see the real things let them send a man on. That's my advice." "And very good advice it is too, Joe," Helen said. "I don't believe Bill Watson could give any better. He's a real nice elderly man, and he's been almost a father to me. I often go to him when I have my little troubles. I wish he were here now. But you are very good to me, Joe. I'm going to take your advice." "I'll help you make the copies," Joe offered. "Did you ever have any idea that your grandfather left valuable property?" "No, and I don't believe papa or mamma did, either. We were not exactly poor, but we weren't rich. Oh, wouldn't it be nice if I were to get some money?" "You wouldn't stay with the circus then, would you?" "Oh, I don't know," she answered musingly. "I think I like it here." "I know I do," Joe said. "But if you don't want to take my advice you can wait until Mr. Watson comes back. You say he's expected?" "Yes. Mr. Tracy said he'd join us at Blairstown in a few days. But, anyhow, I'm going to do as you said, Joe. And if I get a million dollars maybe I'll buy a circus of my own," and she laughed at the whimsical idea. Taking some spare time, she and Joe made copies of certain certificates Helen had in her trunk, and they also copied the record from the old Bible. Joe got the press agent of the show to typewrite a letter to go with the copies, and they were sent to the New York lawyers. "Now we'll wait and see what comes of it," Helen said. "But I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. I never inherited a fortune, and I don't expect to." A few days later, when the show reached Blairstown, Bill Watson, a veteran clown, joined the troupe of fun-makers. He was made royally welcome, for his presence had been missed. "Bill, I want to introduce to you a new friend of mine," said Helen, when she had the opportunity. "He's one of our newest and best performers, aside from you and me," she joked. "What's the name?" asked jovial Bill, holding out his hand. "Joe Strong." "Been in the business long?" "Not very. I was with Professor Rosello before I came here." "Never heard of him," and Bill shook his head. "He was a conjurer," explained Joe. "My father was, too. He was Professor Morretti, and my mother----" "Was Madame Hortense. She was Janet Willoughby before her marriage," broke in Bill Watson, speaking calmly. "What!" cried Joe. "Did you know her--them?" "I knew both of them," said Bill. "I didn't connect your name with them at first, Strong not being uncommon. But when you mentioned your father, the professor, why, it came to me in a flash. So you're Madame Hortense's son, eh?" "Did you know my mother well?" asked Joe. "Know her?" cried the veteran clown. "I should say I did! Why, she and I were great friends, and so were your father and I, but I did not see so much of him, as he was in a different line. But your mother, Joe! Ah, the profession lost a fine performer when she died. I never thought I'd meet her son, and in a circus at that. "But I'm glad you're with us, and I want to say that if you have Helen, here, on your side, you've got one of the finest little girls in all the world." "I found that out as soon as I joined," said Joe. "Trust you young chaps for not losing any chances like that," chuckled the clown. "Well, I'm glad you two are friends. They tell me you're quite an addition to the Lascalla troupe." "I'm glad I've been able to do so well," Joe said. "And how have you been, Helen?" the old clown wanted to know. "First rate. And, oh, Bill. We have _such_ a mystery for you--Joe and I!" "A mystery, Helen?" "Yes; I'm going to be an heiress. Wait until I show you the letter," which she did, to the no small astonishment of Bill Watson. "Well, well," he said over and over again, when Helen and Joe told of the answer they had sent the New York lawyers. "Suppose you do get some money, Helen?" "It's too good to suppose. I can't imagine any one leaving me money." "I wish I knew a fairy godmother who would leave me some," murmured Joe. "But that wouldn't happen in a blue moon." Bill Watson turned, and looked rather curiously at the young circus performer. "Well, now, do you know, Joe Strong," he said, "I have an idea." "An idea!" cried Helen gaily. "How nice, Bill. Tell us about it!" "Now just a moment, young lady. Don't get too excited with an old man just off a sick bed. But Joe's speaking that way--I call you Joe, as I knew your folks so well--Joe's speaking that way gave me an idea. I wouldn't be so terribly surprised, my boy, if you did have money left you some day." "How?" asked Joe in surprise. "Why, your mother, whom, as I said, I knew very well, came of a very rich and aristocratic family in England. She was disowned by them when she married your father--as if public performers weren't as good as aristocrats, any day! But never mind about that. Your mother certainly was rich when she was a girl, Joe, and it may be she is entitled to money from the English estates now, or, rather, you would be, since she is dead. That's my idea." CHAPTER X IN THE TANK "Are you really serious in that?" asked Joe of the old clown, after a moment's consideration. "Of course I am, Joe. Why? Would it be strange to have some one leave you money?" "It certainly would! But it would be a nice sort of strangeness," replied the young performer. "I never dreamed that such a thing might happen." "Oh, I don't say it _will_," Bill Watson reminded him. "But the fact remains that your mother came from what is sometimes called 'the landed gentry' of England, and the estates there, or property, descend to eldest sons differently than property does in this country. It may be worth looking into, Joe." "But I don't know much about my mother," Joe said. "I hardly ever meet any one who knew her. My foster-parents would never speak of her--they were ashamed of her calling." "More shame to them!" exclaimed the clown. "There never was a finer woman than your mother, Joe Strong. And as for riding--well, I wish we had a few of her kind in the show now. I don't mean to say anything against your riding, my dear," he said to Helen. "But Janet Strong did a different sort, for she was a powerful woman, and could handle a horse better than most men." "I guess I must get my liking for horses from her," Joe remarked. "Very likely," agreed Bill Watson. "Some day I'll have a long talk with you about your mother, Joe, and I'll give you all the information I can. There may be some of her old acquaintances you can write to, to find out if she was entitled to any property." "Wouldn't it be fine if we both came into fortunes!" gaily cried Helen, with sparkling eyes. "Wouldn't it be splendid, Joe?" "Too good to be true, I'm afraid. But you have a better chance than I, Helen." "Perhaps. Would you leave the circus, Joe, if you got rich?" "Oh, I don't know. I guess I'd stay in it while you did--to sort of look after you," and he smiled quizzically. "Trying to get my job, are you?" chuckled Bill. "Well, we are young only once. But I must say, Helen, that this young man gave you as good advice as I could, and I hope it turns out all right." Joe liked Bill Watson--every one did in fact--and the young performer was pleased to learn something of his mother, and glad to learn that he would be told more. The enforced rest Bill Watson had taken on account of a slight illness, seemed to have done the old clown good, for he worked in some new "business" in his acts when he again donned the odd suit he wore. His presence, too, had a good effect on the other clowns, so that the audiences, especially the younger portion, were kept in roars of merriment at each performance. Joe, also, did his share to provide entertainment for the circus throngs. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that Joe provided the thrills, for some of his feats were thrilling indeed. Not that the other members of the Lascalla troupe did not share in the honors, for they did. Both Sid and Tonzo were accomplished and veteran performers on the flying rings and trapeze bars, but they had been in the business so long that they had become rather hardened to it, and stuck to old tricks and effects instead of getting up new ones. Joe was especially good at this, and while some of his feats were not really new, he gave a different turn to them that seemed to make for novelty. "But I don't like to see you take such risks," Helen said to him on more than one occasion. "I'm afraid you'll be hurt." "You have to take risks in this business," Joe stated. "I don't think about them when I'm away up at the top of the tent, swinging on the bar. I just think of the trick and wonder if Sid or Tonzo will catch me or me one of them when the jump is made. Besides, the life net is always below us. "Yes, but suppose you miss the net or it breaks?" "I don't like supposes of that sort," laughed Joe, coolly. Truly he had good nerves, under perfect control. He was adding to his muscular strength, too. Constant and steady practice was making his arms and legs powerful indeed. For a while Joe had been on the watch for some overt act on the part of Sid or Tonzo that would spoil an act and bring censure down on himself. But following that one attempt neither of the Spaniards did anything that Joe could find fault with. They were enthusiastic over some of the feats he performed, and worked in harmony with him. If they were jealous over Joe's popularity and the applause he often received as his share alone in some trick, they did not show it. "Oh, Joe!" exclaimed Helen one day, when they were in the small tent getting ready for the afternoon performance. "I have a letter from the New York lawyers." "What do they say?" Joe asked eagerly. "Did they send the money?" "No. But they thanked me for the copies of the proofs I sent, and they said they believed they were on the right track. They will write again soon. So it wasn't a joke, anyhow." "It doesn't look so," the youth agreed. "Is everything all right--Rosebud safe, and all that?" "Yes. He's feeling himself again." The trick horse had been ailing the day before, and Helen was a little worried about her pet. Joe and Helen wandered into the main tent, which was now set up. Joe wanted to get in a little practice on the trapeze, while Helen went in to watch, as she often did. The men were setting up the big glass tank in which the "human fish" performed, and when Joe came down from his trapeze, rather warm and tired, the water looked very inviting. "I've a good notion to go in for a swim," he said to Helen. "Why don't you?" she dared him. "It would do you good. It's such a hot day. I almost wish I could myself." "I believe I will," Joe said. "I've got a bathing suit in my trunk." The big tent was almost deserted at this hour, for the parade was in progress. Joe and Helen did not take part in this. Joe came back attired for a swim, and going up the steps by which Benny mounted to the platform on the edge of the tank before he plunged in, Joe poised there. "Here I go," he called to Helen. "Got a watch?" "Yes, Joe." "Time me then. I'm going to see how long I can stay under water." In he went head first, making a clean dive, for Joe was an adept in the water. He swam about in the limpid depths, Helen watching him admiringly through the glass sides of the tank. Then Joe settled down on the bottom as Benny was in the habit of doing. Helen nervously watched the seconds tick off on her wrist watch. When two minutes had passed, and Joe was still below the water, the girl became nervous. "Come on out, Joe!" she called. Joe could not hear her, of course. He waved his hand to her. He could not stay under much longer, he felt sure, but he did not want to give up. It was not until three seconds of the third minute had passed that he found it impossible to hold his breath longer, and up he shot, filling his lungs with air as he reached the surface. At that moment Benny Turton came into the tent, and saw some one in his tank. "What happened?" he cried, running forward. "Did some one fall in?" "It's all right," Helen informed the "human fish." CHAPTER XI HELEN'S DISCOVERY Joe Strong climbed out of the tank. He grinned cheerfully at Benny. "It was so hot I took a bath in your tub," he explained. "It sure was fine! Hope you don't mind?" "Not a bit," returned Benny, cheerfully. "Come in any time you like. It isn't exactly a summer resort beach, but it's the best we have." "And Joe stayed under water over three minutes," Helen said. "Did I, really?" Joe cried. "You certainly did." "I was just giving myself a try-out," Joe explained to Benny. "That's pretty good," declared the "human fish," as he tested the temperature of the water. "I couldn't do that at first." "Oh, you see I've lived near the water all my life," Joe explained, "and it comes sort of natural to me. Don't be afraid that I'm going after your act though," he added, with a laugh. "I almost wish you would," and Benny spoke wearily. "What's the matter?" asked Helen, with ready sympathy. "Oh, I don't know. I don't feel just right, somehow or other. It's mostly in my head--back here," and Benny pointed to the region just behind his ears. "I've got a lot of pain there, and going under water and staying so long seems to make it worse." "Why don't you see a doctor?" asked Joe. "Well, you know what that would mean. I might have to lay off, and I don't want that. I need the money." Benny had a widowed mother to support, and it was well known that he sent her most of his wages, keeping only enough to live on. "Well, I wish I could help you," said Joe, "but I can't do all the stunts you can under water, even if I could hold down both jobs." "The stunts are easy enough, once you learn how to hold and control your breath," Benny said. "That's the hardest part of it, and you seem to have gotten that down fine. How was the water, cold?" "No, just about right for me," Joe declared. "I don't like it too warm." Benny again tested the temperature by putting his hand in the tank. "I think I'll have 'em put a little hot water in just before I do my act," he said. "I have an idea that the cold water gets in my ears and makes the pain in my head." "Perhaps it does," Joe agreed. Preparations for the afternoon performance were now actively under way. The big parade was out, going through the streets of the town, and soon those taking part in the pageant would return to the "lot." Then, at two, the main show would start. Joe had a new feat for that day's performance. He and the two Spaniards had worked it out together. It was quite an elaborate act, and involved some risk, though at practice it had gone well. Joe was to take his place on the small, high elevated platform at one side of the tent, and Tonzo would occupy a similar place on the other side. Joe was to swing off, holding to the flying rings, which, for this trick, had been attached to unusually long ropes. Opposite him Tonzo was to swing from a regulation trapeze, which also was provided with a long rope. After the two had acquired sufficient momentum, they were to let go at a certain signal and pass each other in the air, Joe under Tonzo. Then Joe would catch the trapeze bar, and Tonzo the rings, exchanging places. Once they had a good grip, Sid was to swing from a third trapeze, and, letting go, grasp Tonzo's hands, that performer, meanwhile, having slipped his legs through the rings, hanging head downward. When Sid had thus caught bold, he was to signal to Joe, who was to make a second flying leap, and grasp Sid's down-hanging legs. As said before, the feat went well in practice and the ring-master was depending on it for a "thriller." But whether it would go all right before a crowded tent was another matter. Joe was a little nervous over it--that is as nervous as he ever allowed himself to get, for he had evolved the feat, and Sid and Tonzo had not been over-enthusiastic about it. However, it must be attempted in public sooner or later, and this was the day set for it. Before the show began Joe, Sid and Tonzo went over every rope, bar and ring. They wanted no falls, even though the life net was below them. "Is everything all right?" Joe asked his partners. "Yes," they told him. The usual announcement was made of the Lascalla Brothers' act, and on this occasion Jim Tracy, who was making the presentation, added something about a "death-defying double exchange and triple suspension act never before attempted in any circus ring or arena throughout the world." That was Joe's trick. The three performers went through some of their usual exploits, ordinary enough to them, but rather thrilling for all that. Then came the preparations for the new feat. Joe and Tonzo took their places on the small platforms, high up on the tent poles. The eyes of all in their vicinity were watching them eagerly. Sid was in his place, ready to swing off when the two had crossed each other in the air and had made the exchange. "Are you ready?" called Jim Tracy in his loud voice. "Ready," answered Joe's voice, from high up in the tent. "Ready," responded Tonzo, after a moment's hesitation, during which he pretended to fix one slipper. This was done for dramatic effect, and to heighten the suspense. Helen, who had just finished her tricks with Rosebud, paused at the edge of a ring to watch the new act. "Then go!" shouted the ring-master. Joe and Tonzo swung off together, and then swayed to and fro like giant pendulums, Joe on the rings and Tonzo on the trapeze. "Ready?" cried Joe to his swinging partner. "Yes," answered Tonzo. "Come on!" Joe said. It was time to make the exchange. This was one of the critical parts of the trick. Joe let go the rings and hurled himself forward his eyes on the swinging trapeze bar, his hands out stretched to grasp it. He passed the form of his partner in mid-air, and the next instant he was swinging from the trapeze. He could not turn to look, but he felt sure, from the burst of applause which came, that Tonzo had successfully done his part. Again Tonzo and Joe were swinging in long arcs, so manipulating their bodies as to give added momentum to the long ropes. "Ready down there?" asked Joe of Sid. "Ready," he answered. "Then go!" Sid swung off, as Tonzo hung head downward with outstretched hands. Sid easily caught them, for this was a trick they often did together. Now must come Joe's second leap, and it was not so easy as the first, nor did he have as good a chance of catching Sid's legs as he would have had at Tonzo's hands. However, it was "all in the day's work," and he did not hesitate at taking chances. He reached the height of his swing and started downward in a long sweep. "Here I come!" he called. He let go the trapeze bar, and made a dive for Sid's dangling legs. For the fraction of a second Joe thought he was going to miss. But he did not. He caught Sid by the ankles and the three hung there, swinging in mid-air, Tonzo, of course, supporting the dragging weight of the bodies of Joe and Sid. But Tonzo was a giant in his strength. There was a burst of music, a rattle and boom of drums, as the feat came to a successful and startling finish. Then, as Joe dropped lightly into the life net, turning over in a succession of somersaults, the applause broke out in a roar. Sid and Tonzo dropped down beside Joe, and the three stood with arms over one another's shoulders, bowing and smiling at the furor they had caused. "A dandy stunt!" cried Jim Tracy, highly pleased, as he went over to another ring to make an announcement. "Couldn't be better!" This ended the work of Joe and his partners for the afternoon, the new feat being a climax. They ran out of the tent amid continuous applause, and Joe saw Helen waiting for him. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she whispered. "So glad!" It was about a week after this, the show meanwhile having moved on from town to town, that one of the trapeze performers who did a "lone act," that is all by himself, was taken ill. "I'll just shift you to his place, Joe," said Jim. "You can easily do what he did, and maybe improve on it." "But what about my Lascalla act?" "Oh, I'm not going to take you out of that. You'll do the most sensational things with them, but they can have some one else for the ordinary stunts. I want you to have some individual work." Joe was glad enough for this chance, for it meant more money for him, and also brought him more prominently before the public. But the Lascalla Brothers were not so well pleased. They did not say anything, but Joe was sure they were more jealous of him than before. He was going above them on the circus ladder of success and popularity. But it was none of Joe's planning. His success was merited. The mail had been distributed one day, and Helen had a letter from the New York lawyers, stating that a member of the firm was coming on to inspect the old Bible and the other original proofs of her identity. "I must tell Joe," she said, and on inquiry learned that he was in the main tent, practising. As she walked past the dressing room which Joe and the Lascalla Brothers used, she saw a strange sight. Sid and Tonzo were doing something to a trapeze. They had pushed up the outer silk covering of the rope--covering put on for ornamental purposes--and Tonzo was pouring something from a bottle on the hempen strands. "I wonder what he is doing that for," mused Helen. "Can it be that----" She got no further in her musing, for she heard Sid speaking, and she listened to what he said. CHAPTER XII JUST IN TIME "This ought to do the business," said Sid. "Yes," agreed Tonzo, "and not so quickly that it will be noticed, either. It will work slowly, but surely." "That's what we want," commented the other. "We're in no hurry. Any time inside of a week will do. Now we'll put this away to ripen." "That's queer," thought Helen, and she passed on, for by the movement in the canvas dressing room she thought the men were about to come out, and she did not want them to see her at what they might consider spying on them. "I never heard of ripening a rope before," the girl said. "But it may be they have to for a trapeze. I'll ask Joe about it. He might fix some of his ropes that way." Helen went on, anxious to find the young performer, and show him her letter from the lawyer. "I'll tell Bill Watson, too," Helen decided. As she expected, both Joe and the old clown were much interested in her news. "It does really begin to look as though you would come into some money, doesn't it?" Joe said. "I'm beginning to believe it myself," Helen answered, "though I don't really count on it as yet." "Yes, it's best to go a little slowly," advised Bill. "Not to count your chickens before they're hatched is a good motto. But this looks like business. I'd like to interview that lawyer when he comes." "I'll turn him over to you," Helen said with a laugh. "To you and Joe, and you can arrange about getting my money for me. I'll make you two my official advisers." "I accept with pleasure," Joe answered, with a bow. "And that reminds me," went on Bill. "I'm going to give you the addresses of some people who might know about your mother's folks in England, Joe. As I told you, they disowned her when she married your father, though there wasn't a finer man going. But he was an American, and that was one thing they had against him, and another was that he was a public performer. "I think, too, that they rather blamed him for your mother's going into the circus business, Joe. Your mother was always a good horsewoman, so I have understood. She took part in many a fox hunt in England, and in cross-country runs, always coming out in front. And when your father met her he, as I understand it, suggested that, just for fun, she try circus work. She took it up seriously, and Madame Hortense became one of the foremost circus riders of her time. But from then on her name was forgotten by her relatives, and her picture was, so to speak, turned to the wall." "I wish I could get one of those pictures," said Joe thoughtfully. "I have only a very small one that was in my father's watch. I'd like a large one, for I can't remember, very well, how she looked." "She was a handsome woman," said the clown. "It may be that you can get a picture of her from England--that is, if they saved one. I'll give you the address of some folks you can write to. It might be well to get a firm of lawyers here to take the matter up for you." "I believe it would be best," agreed Joe. "Why not let my lawyers--notice that, _my_," laughed Helen. "Why not let my lawyers act for you, Joe? That is, after we see what sort they are. They seem honest." "Another good idea!" commented the young performer. "I'll do it. You say one of them is coming to see you?" "So he says in this letter." "Does he know where to find you?" "Yes; I have told him the places where the circus will show for the next two weeks. He can find the place easily enough, and inquire for me. Oh, I'm so anxious to know how rich I'm going to be!" "I don't blame you," chuckled Bill. "Now, Joe, if I had a pencil and paper I'd give you those addresses I spoke of." Joe supplied what was needed, and obtained the names of some men and women--circus performers who had been associated with his mother. Joe wrote to them, asking the names of his mother's relatives in England, and their addresses. Helen's attention was so taken up with the affairs of her inheritance that she forgot about the queer actions of Sid and Tonzo until after the performance that night. Then, as she and Joe were going to the train to take the sleeping cars for the next stop, Helen asked: "Joe, did you ever hear of ripening trapeze ropes?" "Ripening trapeze ropes?" he repeated. "No. What do you mean?" Helen then told what she had seen and heard in the dressing tent. Joe shook his head. "It may be some secret process they have of treating ropes to make them tougher, so they'll last longer," Joe said. "They may call it ripening, but I never heard of it. I'll ask them." "Don't tell them I saw them," Helen cautioned him. "Of course not," Joe answered. "Perhaps it may be a professional secret with them, and they won't tell me anyhow. But I'll ask." But when Joe, as casually as he could, inquired of Sid and Tonzo what they knew of ripening trapeze ropes, the two Spaniards shook their heads, though, unseen by Joe, a quick look passed between them. "I sometimes oil my ropes, to make them pliable," Tonzo admitted. "Olive oil I use. But it does not make them ripe." "I guess that must have been it," thought Joe. "Helen was probably mistaken. It might have been a word that sounded like ripening." So he said no more about it then, though when he reported to Helen the result of his questioning, she shook her head. "I'm sure I heard aright," she declared. "And they were pouring something from a bottle on the trapeze rope from which they had pushed the silk covering." "It might have been olive oil," Joe said. "It might," Helen admitted, '"but I don't believe it was. They don't handle any of your ropes, do they?" "I always look after my own. Why?" "Oh, I just wanted to know," and that was all the answer Helen would give. As Joe went to his dressing room for that afternoon's performance he passed Señor Bogardi, the lion tamer. Something in the man's manner attracted Joe's attention, and he asked him: "Aren't you feeling well to-day, Señor?" "Oh, yes, as well as usual. It is my Princess who is not well." "Princess, the big lioness?" "Yes. I do not know what to make of her actions. She is never rough with me, but a little while ago, when I went in her cage, she growled and struck at me. I had to hit her--which I seldom do--and that did not improve her temper. I do not know what to make of her. I have to put her through her paces in the cage this afternoon, and I do not want any accident to happen. "It is not that I am afraid for myself," went on the tamer, and Joe knew he spoke the truth, for he was absolutely fearless. "But if she comes for me and I have to--to do--something, it may start a panic. No, I do not like it," and he shook his head dubiously. "Oh, well, maybe it will come out all right," Joe assured him. "But you'd better tell Jim, and have some extra men around. She can't get out of her cage, can she?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. Well, we shall see." It was almost time for the performance to begin. The crowd was already streaming into the animal tent and slowly filtering into the "main top," where the performance took place. Before that, however, there was a sort of "show" in the animal arena, Señor Bogardi's appearance in the cage with the lioness being one of the features. Joe had gone to his dressing tent and was coming out again, when he heard unusual roars from the animal tent. The lions often let their thunderous voices boom out, sometimes startling the crowd, but, somehow or other, this sounded differently to Joe. "I wonder if that's Princess cutting up," he reflected. "Guess I'll go in and have a look. I hope nothing happens to the señor." Though lion tamers, as well as other performers with wild beasts, seem to take matters easily, slipping into the cage with the ferocious creatures as a matter of course, they take their lives in their hands whenever they do it. No one can say when a lion or a tiger may suddenly turn fierce and spring upon its trainer. And there is not much chance of escape. The claws of a lion or a tiger go deep, even in one swift blow of its powerful paws. Joe started for the animal tent, and then remembered that he needed in his act that day a certain short trapeze, the ends of the ropes being provided with hooks that caught over the bar of another trapeze. He hurried back to get it, and then, as the unusual roars kept up in the arena, he hastened there. As he had surmised, it was Princess who was roaring, her fellow captives joining in. Señor Bogardi had slipped into the cage, and was waiting until the creature had calmed down a little. Cages in which trainers perform with wild beasts are built in two parts. In one end is a sort of double door, forming a compartment into which the trainer can slip for safety. The señor had opened the outer door of the cage and slipped in, it being fastened after him. But he was still separated from Princess by another iron-barred door that worked on spring hinges. And Princess did not seem to want this door opened. She sprang against it with savage roars and thrust her paws through, trying to reach her trainer. He sought to drive her back into a far corner, so that he would have room to enter. Once in, he felt he could subdue her. But Princess would not get back sufficiently, though Señor Bogardi ordered her, and even flicked her through the bars with the heavy whip he carried. "I guess you'd better cut out the act to-day," advised Jim Tracy, as he saw how matters were going. The women and children were beginning to get nervous, some of them hastening into the other tent. Men, too, were looking about as if for a quick means of escape in case anything happened. "No, no. I must make her obey me," insisted the performer. "If I give in to her now I will lose power over her. Get back, Princess! Get back! Down!" he ordered. But the lioness only snarled and struck at the bars with her paws. Then she threw herself against the spring door, roaring. The cage rocked and shook, and several women screamed. "Cut out the act!" ordered the ring-master. "It isn't safe with this crowd." "That's right," chimed in a man. "We know it isn't your fault, professor." "Thank you!" Señor Bogardi bowed. "For the comfort of the audience I will omit my act to-day. But I will subdue Princess later." There was a breath of relief from the crowd as the trainer prepared to leave the cage. Men who had fastened the door after him raised the iron bar that held it so he could emerge. The lion-tamer slipped from the cage through the outside door, which was about to be shut when Princess, with all her force, threw herself against the inner spring door. Whether it was insecurely fastened or whether she broke the fastenings, was not disclosed at the moment, but the door gave way and the enraged beast sprang into the smaller compartment and toward the outer door. "Quick!" cried the trainer. "Up with that bar! Fasten the door, or she'll be out among us!" The circus men raised the bar, but the cage was swaying so from the leapings of the lioness that they could not slip the iron in place. It almost dropped from their hands. Joe Strong saw the danger. He stood near the cage, the crowd having rushed back, men and women yelling with fright. Joe saw the outer door swing open. In another instant the lioness would be out. At that moment the men dropped the iron bar. "Quick! Something to fasten the door--to hold it!" cried the lion-tamer. Joe acted in a flash and not an instant too soon. He forced the strong hickory bar of his small trapeze into the places meant to receive the iron bar, and as the lioness, with a roar of rage, flung herself against the door, it did not give way, but held. Joe had prevented her escape. CHAPTER XIII A BAD BLOW "Quick now! With the iron bar!" cried Señor Bogardi. "That trapeze stick won't hold long!" But it held long enough. As the lioness, flung back into a corner of her cage by her impact against the steel door, gathered herself for another spring, the men slipped into place the iron bar, Joe pulling out his trapeze. "It's all right now--no more danger!" called Jim Tracy. "Take it easy, folks, she can't get out now!" This was true enough. The beast, after a fruitless effort to force a way out of the cage, retreated to a corner and lay down, snarling and growling. "I don't know what's gotten into Princess," said the trainer as he looked at her. "She never acted this way before." "It's a good thing she showed her temper before you got in the cage with her, and not afterward," remarked Joe, as he was about to pass on to the performance tent. "That's right," agreed Señor Bogardi. "And you did the right thing in the nick of time, my boy. Only for your trapeze bar she'd have been out among the crowd," and he looked at the men, women and children, who were now calming down. The small panic was soon over, and in order to quiet the lioness a big canvas was thrown over her cage, so she would not be annoyed by onlookers. "I guess she needs a rest," her trainer said. "I'll let her alone for a day or so, and she may get over this." Joe went on into the tent where he was to do his trapeze acts. It was nearly time for him to appear, and the other two Lascalla Brothers were waiting for him. They would do an act together, and Joe one of his single feats, however, before the three appeared in a triple act. The young performer was straightening out the ropes attached to his trapeze, when he noticed that the bar of the small one, which he had thrust into the door of the lioness' cage, was cracked. "Hello!" exclaimed Joe. "This won't do. I can't risk doing tricks up at the top of the tent on a cracked bar. It might hold, and again it might not." He tried the cracked bar in his hands. It gave a little, but seemed fairly strong. "I wonder if I could get another," mused Joe. "Guess I'd better try." He walked over to where the Lascalla Brothers stood near their apparatus. "What's the matter?" asked Sid, seeing Joe trailing the broken trapeze after him. "This bar is cracked. It's my short trapeze that I fasten to the big one. I used it just now to hold the door so the lioness wouldn't get out, and the wood is cracked. I was wondering if you had a spare one like this." "We have!" exclaimed Tonzo quickly. "Get the little short one--the one with the silk coverings on the ropes," he said to Sid. "Joe can use that." "I'll be back with it in a second," Sid stated, as he hurried off to the dressing tent, for it was nearly time for the performance to begin. Sid returned presently with another trapeze. At this moment Helen came in with her horse, Rosebud, for she was about to do her act. "What's the matter, Joe?" asked Helen, for she knew that at this point in the performance he ought to be on the other side of the tent doing his act. "Oh, I cracked a trapeze bar," Joe replied, as he stepped up beside the girl and patted Rosebud. "Sid is going to get me another. Here he comes now with it." At the sight of the trapeze the circus man was bringing up, Helen was conscious of a strange feeling. She saw the silk-covered ropes, and the recollection of that scene in the tent came vividly to her. "I guess this will do you, Joe," remarked Sid, holding out the trapeze. "It's the only one we have like yours." "Thanks," responded the young performer. "That will do nicely. I've got to hustle now and----" Joe turned away, but became aware that Helen was leaning down from the saddle and whispering to him. "Joe! Joe!" she exclaimed, making sure the Lascalla Brothers could not hear her, for they were On the other side of Rosebud. "Joe, don't use the trapeze!" "Why not?" "Because I'm sure that's the one I saw those two men 'ripening,' as they call it. They had pulled back the silk cover, and were pouring something on the rope. Look at it before you use it. Be careful!" Then she flicked Rosebud with the whip and rode into the ring to do her act amid a blare of trumpets. Joe stood there, holding the trapeze. The two Spaniards were starting their act now, and were high up in the air. "Whew!" whistled Joe. "I wonder what's up. Can it be that this rope is doctored? I won't let them see me looking at it." He hurried over to his own particular place in the tent. "Lively, Joe!" called Jim Tracy. "You're late as it is!" "I'll be right on the job in a moment," the young performer answered. "I had to get another trapeze--the lioness cracked mine." "Oh, all right--but hustle." Under pretense of fastening the short trapeze to the larger one Joe pushed back the loose silk covering the ropes. To his surprise, on one rope was a dark stain. Joe rubbed his fingers over the strands. They were rotten, and crumbled at the touch. Joe smelled of the dark stain. "Acid!" exclaimed Joe. "Some one spilled acid on this rope. Talk about putting on something to ripen it! This is something to rot it!" He tested the rope in his hands. It did not part, but some of the strands gave, and he did not doubt but that if he trusted his weight to it it would break and give him a fall. "Now I wonder if they did that on purpose to queer me," mused Joe. "If they did they waited for a most opportune time to give me the doctored trapeze. They couldn't have known I was going to break mine. I wonder if they did it on purpose. "Of course I wouldn't have been killed, and probably not even much hurt, if the rope did break," thought Joe. "I'd only fall into the life net, but it sure would spoil my act and make me look like an amateur. Maybe that's their game! If it was----" Joe paused, and looked over in the direction of the two Spaniards. They were going through their act, but Joe thought he had a glimpse of Tonzo looking over toward him. "They want to see what happens to me," thought Joe. "Well, they won't see anything, for I sha'n't use this trapeze. I'll change my act." "Hey, what's the matter over there, Joe?" called Jim Tracy to him. "You ought to be up on the bar." "I know it, Mr. Tracy. But I've got to make a change at the last minute. I can't use this extra trapeze." "All right; do anything you like, but do it quick!" Joe signaled to his helper, who began hoisting him to the top of the tent by means of rope and pulley. Once on his own regular trapeze, which he had tested but a short while before, Joe went through his act. He had to improvise some acts to take the place of those he did on the short trapeze. But he did these extra exploits so well and so easily that no one in the audience suspected that it was anything but the regular procedure. Then Joe, amid applause, descended and went over to work with the two Spaniards. He carried the doctored trapeze with him. "I didn't use this," he said, looking closely at Tonzo. "It seems to have been left out in the rain and one of the ropes has rotted." "Rotted?" asked Sid, his voice trembling. "Something like that, yes," answered Joe. "Ah, that is too bad!" exclaimed Tonzo, and neither by a false note nor by a change in his face did he betray anything. "I am glad you discovered the defect in time." "So am I," said Joe significantly. "Come on, now. "Probably they fixed the rope with acid, and kept it ready against the chance that some day I might use it," reflected Joe. "The worst that could happen would be to spoil my tricks--I couldn't get much hurt falling into the net, and they knew that. But it was a mean act, all right, and I sha'n't forget it. I guess they want to discourage me so they can get their former partner back. But I'm going to stick!" "Did you find out anything, Joe?" asked Helen, when she had a chance to speak to him alone. "I sure did, thanks to you, little girl. I might have had a ridiculous fall if I'd used their trapeze. You were right in what you suspected." "Oh, Joe! I'm so glad I saw it in time to warn you." "So am I, Helen. It was a mean piece of business, and cunning. I never suspected them of it." "Oh, but you will be careful after this, won't you, Joe?" "Indeed I will! I want to live long enough to see you get your fortune. By the way, when is that lawyer coming?" "He is to meet me day after to-morrow." "I'll be on hand," Joe promised. It rained the next day, and working in a circus during a rain is not exactly fun. Still the show goes on, "rain or shine," as it says on the posters, and the performers do not get the worst of it. It is the wagon and canvas men who suffer in a storm. "And this is a bad one," Joe remarked, when he went in the tent that afternoon for his act. "It's getting worse. I hope they have the tent up good and strong." "Why?" asked Helen. "Because the wind's increasing. Look at that!" he exclaimed as a gust careened the big, heavy canvas shelter. "If some of the tent pegs pull out there'll be trouble." Helen looked anxious as she set off to put Rosebud through his tricks, and Joe was not a little apprehensive as he was hoisted to the top of the tent. He saw the big pole to which his trapeze was fastened, swaying as the wind shook the "main top." CHAPTER XIV HELEN'S INHERITANCE Joe Strong had scarcely begun his act when he became aware that indeed the storm was no usual blow and bluster, accompanied by rain. He could feel his trapeze swaying as the whole tent shook, and while this would not have deterred him from going on with his performance, he felt that an accident was likely to occur that would start a panic. "It surely does feel as if the old 'main top' was going to fall," thought Joe as he swung head downward by his knees, preparatory to doing another act. He could see that many in the audience were getting uneasy, and some were leaving their seats, though the red-capped ushers were going about calling: "Sit still! Keep your seats! There is no danger. The tent is perfectly safe." Jim Tracy had ordered this done. As a matter of fact the tent was not perfectly safe, but under the circumstances it was best to tell the people this to quiet them and to avoid having them make a rush to get out, as in that case many would be hurt--especially the women and the children. "It's a good thing it isn't night," reflected Joe. "Whew! That was a bad one!" he exclaimed as a terrific blast seemed fairly to lift one side of the tent. Men started from their seats and women and children screamed. "Just keep quiet and it will be all right," urged the ring-master, but the crowd was fast getting beyond control. Joe saw Jim Tracy sending out a gang of men to drive the tent pegs deeper into the ground. The rain softened the soil, and thus made the pegs so loose that they were likely to pull out. At the same time the rain, wetting the ropes, caused them to shrink, and thus exert a stronger pull on the pegs and poles. So the ropes had to be eased off, while the pegs were pounded farther into the ground with big mauls. "Lively now, men!" called the ring-master. The big tent swayed, sometimes the top of it being lifted high up by the wind which blew under it. Again the sides would bulge in, making gaps by which the rain entered. But the band kept on playing. Jim saw to that, for nothing is more conducive to subduing a panic than to let the crowd hear music. The performers, too, kept on with their acts, and some of the audience began to feel reassured. But the wind still kept up, blowing stronger if anything, and Joe and others realized that it needed but a little accident to start a rush that might end fatally for some. Joe was just about to go into the second series of his gymnastic work when he heard a tent pole beneath him snap with a breaking sound. At first he thought it was the big one to which his apparatus was made fast, but a glance showed him this one was standing safe. It was one of the smaller side poles. That part of the tent sagged down, the wind aiding in the break, and there were cries of fear from scores of women, while men shouted all sorts of directions. But the circus people had gone through dangers like this before, and they knew what to do. Under the direction of Jim Tracy and his helpers, extra poles were quickly put in place to take the weight of the wet canvas off the broken one. This at once raised the tent up from those on whom it had partly fallen. And then something else happened. One of five horses which were being put through a series of tricks by a man trainer, suddenly bolted out of the ring. Joe, high up in the tent, saw him running, and noted that the animal was headed for the ring where Helen Morton was performing with Rosebud. "He's going to run into her!" thought Joe. "I've got to do something!" He must think and act quickly. While attendant's were running after the bolting horse Joe, looking down, saw that the animal would pass close to his life net. In an instant Joe had decided what to do. He poised on the small platform, from which he made his swings, and dropped straight into the big net. Just as he had calculated, he bounced up again, and as he did so he sprang out to one side. Joe's quick eyes and nerves had enabled him to judge the distance correctly. He leaped from the net just as the horse was opposite him, and landed on his back in a riding position. It was the work of but a second to reach forward, grasp the little bridle which the animal wore, and pull him to one side. And it was not a second too soon, either, for the horse was on the edge of the ring in which Helen was performing with Rosebud. If the maddened animal had gone in, there would have been a collision in which the girl performer would, undoubtedly, have been injured. "Good work, Joe!" cried the ring-master. "But there's plenty more to be done. I guess we'll have to get all the men performers to help hold down the tent. I'm afraid she's going." "It does look so," Joe admitted as he leaped from the horse and gave him in charge of one of the attendants. "What can we do?" "Help drive in extra pins and attach more ropes. I'm going to dismiss the audience. We'll stay over here to-morrow, and give an extra performance to make up for it." "I'll get a crowd together and we'll help the canvasmen," offered Joe. "And I'll help," said Benny Turton, who had finished his tank act. "Come on!" cried Joe, as he led the way. Meanwhile Jim Tracy had requested the audience to file out as quickly and in as orderly a manner as possible. The crowd was not large, as the weather had been threatening in the morning and many had stayed at home. But it was no easy matter to dismiss even a small throng in such a storm. However, it was accomplished, the band meanwhile playing its best, and under hard conditions, as part of the tent over them split and let the rain in on them. But the music served a good turn, and while the people were hurrying out the canvasmen, aided by the performers, Joe among them, drove in extra pegs, tightening those that had become loose, put on additional ropes, so that, by hard work, the big tent was prevented from blowing down. Once outside, the audience, though most of them were soon drenched, took it good-naturedly. They were given emergency tickets as they passed out, good for another admission. And then the storm, which seemed to have reached its height, settled down into a heavy rain. The wind died out somewhat, and there was no danger from the collapse of the tent. "Good work, boys!" said the ring-master, as the performers, all of them wet through, and in their performing suits too, came in. "Good work! If it hadn't been for you I don't know what we would have done. I'll not forget it." There had been some trouble in the animal tent during the storm; the beasts, especially the elephants, evincing a desire to break loose. But their trainers quieted them, and soon the circus was almost normal again. Of course the afternoon had been lost, but there was hope of a good attendance at night if the storm were not too bad. And by remaining over another afternoon the deficiency could be made up. Word was telegraphed ahead to the next town announcing a postponement in the date. The broken pole was replaced with another, and then the performers enjoyed an unexpected vacation. "I want to thank you, Joe, for what you did," said Helen, coming up to him in the dining tent, where an early supper was served. "I saw what you did--stopping that runaway horse." "Oh, it wasn't anything," Joe said, modestly enough. "Wasn't it?" asked Helen, with a smile. "Well, I consider myself and Rosebud something worth saving." "Oh, I didn't mean it that way," Joe said quickly. "But the runaway might not have gone near you." "Yes, I'm afraid he would. But you saved me." "Well, if you feel that way about it," laughed Joe, for he did not want Helen to take the matter too seriously, "why then we're even. You saved me from a bad fall on the trapeze." The storm subsided somewhat by night, and there was a good attendance. And the receipts the next day were very large in the afternoon, for the story of what the circus men had done was widely spread, and served as a good advertisement. Joe was applauded louder than ever when he did his acts. The two wily Lascalla Brothers never referred to the incident of the rotted trapeze rope, and Joe did not know whether to believe them guilty or not. At most, he thought, they only wanted to give him a tumble that might make him look ridiculous, and so discourage him from continuing the work. In that case their deposed partner might get a chance. But Joe did not give up, and he kept a sharp lookout. He redoubled his vigilance regarding his ropes, bars and rings, inspecting all of them just before each performance. On arriving at the next town Helen received a note in her mail asking her to call at the principal hotel in the place. It was signed by one of the members of the law firm. "You come with me, Joe," she begged. "I don't want to go alone." "All right," agreed the young performer. "We'll go and get your inheritance." "If there's any to get," laughed Helen. "Oh, Joe, I'm so nervous!" "Nervous!" he answered. "I wish I could be afflicted with nervousness like that--money-nervousness, I'd call it!" They found Mr. Pike, the lawyer, to be an agreeable gentleman. He had requested Helen to bring with her the proofs of her identity, the old Bible and other books, which she did. These the lawyer examined carefully, and asked the girl many questions, comparing her answers with some information in his notebook. Finally he said: "Well, there is no doubt but you are the Miss Helen Morton we have been looking for so long, and I am happy to inform you that you are entitled to an inheritance from your grandfather's estate." "Really?" cried Helen, eagerly. "Really," answered the lawyer, with a smile. "It isn't a very large fortune, but it will yield you a neat little income every year. In fact there is quite an accumulation due you, and I shall be happy to send it on as soon as I get back to New York. I congratulate you!" CHAPTER XV A WARNING Helen could hardly believe the good news. Though she had hoped, since hearing from the law firm, that she might be entitled to some money, Helen had always been careful not to hope too much. "For I don't want to be badly disappointed," she told Joe. "Well," he remarked, "I wish my chances were as good as yours." For the answers he received from the letters he wrote concerning his mother's relatives in England were disappointing. As far as these letters went there was no estate in which Joe might share, though Bill Watson insisted that the late Mrs. Strong came of a wealthy family. "Anyhow, you've got yours, Helen," said Joe. "Well, I haven't exactly got it yet," and she looked at Mr. Pike. "Oh, the money is perfectly safe," the lawyer assured Helen. "I have part of it on deposit in my bank, and the rest is safe in California." "Just how did it happen to come to me?" Helen inquired. "Well," answered the lawyer slowly, "it's a long and complicated story. Your grandfather on your father's side was quite a landholder in San Francisco. Some of his property was not worth a great deal, and other plots were very valuable. In time he sold off most of it, but one large tract was considered so worthless that he could not find a buyer for it. When he died he still owned it, and it descended to your father. "He thought so little of it that he never tried to put it on the market. But during the last few years the city has grown out in the direction of this land, and recently the property was sold. "An effort was made to find the owner, your father, but as he was dead, and no one knew what had become of his heirs, the land was sold, and the money deposited with the state, to be turned over to the right owner when found. We have a branch office in San Francisco, and we were engaged to try to find any Morton heirs. Finally we found you, and now I am glad to say that my work in this connection is so happily ended. "As I told you, I have some cash ready for you. The rest of your inheritance is in the form of bonds and mortgages, which will bring you in an income of approximately sixty dollars a month." "That's fifteen a week!" exclaimed Helen, who was used to calculating that way, as are most circus and theatrical persons. "Of course you could sell these bonds and mortgages, and get the cash for them," said the lawyer, "but I would not advise you to. You will have about three thousand dollars in cash, as it is, and this ought to be enough for your immediate needs, especially as I understand you have a good position." "Yes, I am earning a good salary," Helen admitted, "but I have not been able to save much. I am very glad of my little fortune." "And I am glad for you, my dear young lady. Now, as I said, as soon as I get back to New York I will send one of my clerks on to you with the cash. I may be old fashioned, but I don't like to trust too much to the mails. Besides, I want to get your signature to certain documents, and you will have to make certain affidavits to my clerk. So I will send him on. Let me have a note of where you will be during the next week." Helen gave the dates when the circus would play certain towns, and Mr. Pike left. "Well, it's true, little girl, isn't it?" cried Joe as they walked back to the circus together. "Yes, and I'm very glad. I've always wanted money, but I never thought I'd have it--at least as much as I'm going to get. I wish you would inherit a fortune, Joe." "Oh, don't worry about me. I don't expect it, and what one never has had can't be missed very much. Maybe I'll get mine--some day." "I hope so, Joe. And now I want you to promise me something."' "What?" "That if ever you need money you'll come to me." Joe hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said: "All right, Helen, I will." To Joe the novelty of life in a circus was beginning to wear off. To be sure there was something new and different coming up each day, but he had now gotten his act down to a system, and to him and the other performers one day was much like another, except for the weather, perhaps. They did their acts before crowds every day--different crowds, to be sure; but, after all, men, women and children are much alike the world over. They want to be amused and thrilled, and the circus crowds in one place are no different from those in another. The Sampson Brothers' Show was not one of the largest, though it was considered first class. Occasionally it played one of the large cities, but, in the main, it made a circuit of places of smaller population. Joe kept on with his trapeze work, now and then adding new feats, either by himself or with the Lascalla Brothers. On their part they seemed glad to adopt Joe's suggestions. Occasionally they made some themselves, but they were more in the way of spectacular effects--such as waving flags while suspended in the air, or fluttering gaily colored ribbons or strands of artificial flowers. But Joe liked to work out new and difficult feats of strength, skill and daring, and he was generally successful. He had not relaxed his policy of vigilance, and he never went up on a bar or on the rings without first testing his apparatus. For he never forgot the strangely rotted rope. That it had been eaten by some acid, he was sure. He did not again get sight of that particular small trapeze, nor did he ask Sid or Tonzo what had become of it. He did not want to know. "It's best to let sleeping dogs lie," reasoned Joe. "But I'll be on the lookout." Matters had been going along well, and Joe had been given an increase of salary. "Well, if I can't get a fortune from some of my mother's rich and aristocratic ancestors," Joe thought with a smile, "I can make it myself by my trapeze work. And, after all, I guess, that's the best way to get rich. Though I'm not sure I'll ever get rich in the circus business." But the calm of Joe's life--that is if, one can call it calm to act in a circus--was rudely shaken one day when in his mail he found a badly scrawled note. There was no signature to it, but Joe easily guessed from whom it came. The note read: "You want to look out for yourself. You may think you're smart, but I know some smarter than you. This is a big world, but accidents may happen. You want to be careful." "Some of Sim Dobley's work," mused Joe, as he tore up the note and cast it aside. "He's trying to get my nerve. Well, I won't let that worry me. He won't dare do anything. Queer, though, that he should be following the circus still. He sure does want his place back. I'm sorry for him, but I can't help it." Joe did not regard the warning seriously, and he said nothing about it to Helen or any one else. "It would only worry Helen," he reflected. The show was over for the night. Even while the performers in the big tent had been going through with their acts, men had taken away the animal cages and loaded them on the flat railroad cars. Then the animal tent was taken down and packed into wagons with the poles and pegs. As each performer finished, he or she went to the dressing tent and packed his trunk for transportation. From the dressing tent the actors went to the sleeping car, and straight to bed. Joe's acts went very well that night. He was applauded again and again and he was quite pleased as he ran out of the tent to make ready for the night journey. He saw Benny Turton changing into his ordinary clothes from his wet fish-suit, which had to be packed in a rubber bag for transportation after the night performance, there being no time to dry it. "Well, how goes it, Ben?" asked Joe. "Oh, not very well," was the spiritless answer. "I've got lots of pain." "Too bad," said Joe in a comforting tone. "Maybe a good night's sleep will fix you up." "I hope so," said the "human fish." The circus train was rumbling along the rails. It was the middle of the night, and they were almost due at the town where next they would show. Joe, as well as the others in his sleeping car, was suddenly awakened by a crash. The train swayed from side to side and rolled along unevenly with many a lurch and bump. "We're off the track!" cried Joe, as he rolled from his berth. And the memory of the scrawled warning came vividly to him. CHAPTER XVI THE STRIKE The circus train bumped along for a few hundred feet, the engine meanwhile madly whistling, the wheels rattling over the wooden sleepers, and inside the various cars, where the performers had been suddenly awakened from their sleep, pandemonium reigned. "What's the matter?" called Benny Turton from his berth near Joe's. "Off the track--that's all," was the answer, given in a reassuring voice. For Joe had, somehow or other, grasped the fact there was no great danger unless they ran into something, and this, as yet, had not happened. The train was off the track (or at least some of the coaches were) but it was quickly slowing down, and Joe, by a quick glance at his watch, made a mental calculation of their whereabouts. For several miles in the vicinity where the accident had occurred was a long, and comparatively straight stretch of track, with no bridges and no gullies on either side. A train running off the track, even if going at fairly fast speed, would hardly topple over. Before starting out that night Joe had inquired of one of the men about the journey, and, learning that they were approaching his former home, the town of Bedford, he had looked up the route and the time of arrival at their next stopping place. He had a quick mind, and he remembered about where they should be at the time the accident occurred. In that way he was able to determine that, unless they struck something, they were in comparatively little danger. "Off the track--that's all!" repeated Benny Turton as he looked down from his berth at Joe. "Isn't that enough? Wow! What's going on now?" The train had stopped with a jolt. The air brakes, which the engineer had flung on at the first intimation of danger, had taken hold of the wheels with a sudden grip. "This is the last stop," said Joe, and he smiled up at Benny. He could do so now, for he felt that their coach, at least, was safe. But he was anxious as to what had happened to the others. Helen, with many of the other women performers, was in the coach ahead. Benny crawled down from his berth, and stood looking at Joe. "It doesn't seem to worry you much," he remarked. "Not as long as there's nothing worse than this," Joe answered. "You're not hurt, are you?" "Only my feelings." "Well, you'll get over that. Let's see what's up." By this time the aisle of the car was filled with excited men performers. They all wanted to know what had happened, their location and various other bits of information. "The train jumped the track," said Joe, who appeared the coolest of the lot. "We don't seem to have hit anything, though at first I thought we had. We're right side up, if not exactly with care." "Where are we?" demanded Tonzo Lascalla. "We ought to be near Far Hills, according to the time table," Joe answered. "If I could get a look out I could tell." He went to the end of the car and peered out. It was a bright moonlight night, and Joe was able to recognize the locality. As a boy he had tramped all around the country within twenty-five miles of Bedford, in the vicinity of which they now were, and he had no difficulty in placing himself. He found that he had guessed correctly. By this time there was an excited crowd of trainmen and circus employees outside the coaches which had left the rails. Joe and some of the others slipped on their clothes and went out to see what had happened. Joe's first glance was toward the coach in which he knew Helen rode. He was relieved to see that though it had also left the rails it was standing upright. In fact, none of the cars had tilted more than was to be expected from the accident. "Well, this is a nice pickle!" exclaimed Jim Tracy, bustling up. "This means no parade, and maybe no afternoon show. How long will it take you to get us back on the rails?" he asked one of the brakemen. "Hard to say," was the answer. "We'll have to send for the wrecking crew. Lucky it's no worse than a delay." "Yes, I suppose so," agreed the ring-master. It was only one train of the several that made up the circus which had left the rails. The animal cars were on ahead, safe, and the sections following the derailed coaches had, by a fortunate chance, not left the rails. "What caused us to jump?" asked Benny. "There was a fish plate jammed in a switch," answered one of the brakemen. "We found it beside the track where we knocked it out, and that saved the other trains from doing as we did." "A fish plate in the switch?" repeated Joe. "Did it get there by accident?" "Ask me something easier," quoted the brakeman. "It might have, and again it might not. I understand you discharged a lot of men at your last stop, and it may be some of them tried to get even with you." It was true that a number of canvasmen had been allowed to go because they were found useless, but none of the circus men believed that these individuals would do so desperate a deed as to try to wreck the train. Joe thought of the threatening letter he had received--Sim Dobley was the writer, he was sure--but even Sim would hardly try anything like this. He might feel vindictive against Joe, and try to do him some harm or bring about Joe's discharge. But to wreck a train---- "I don't believe he'd do that," reasoned Joe. "I won't mention the letter--it would hardly be fair. I don't want to get him into trouble, and I have no evidence against him." So Joe kept quiet. The circus trains ahead of the derailed one could keep on to their destination. After some delay those in the rear were switched to another track, and so passed around the stalled cars. Then the wrecking crew arrived, and just as the first gray streaks of dawn showed the last of the cars was put back on the track. "Well, we're off again," remarked Joe, as, with Benny and some of their friends, they got back in their berths. "Not much more chance for sleep, though," the "human fish" remarked, dolefully enough. "Oh, I think I can manage to get some," said, Joe, as he covered up, for the morning was a bit chilly. "I hope my glass tank didn't get cracked in the mix-up," remarked Benny. "It wouldn't take much to make that leak, and I've had troubles enough of late without that." "Oh, I guess it's perfectly safe," remarked Joe, sleepily. The excitement caused by the derailing was soon forgotten. Circus men are used to strenuous happenings. They live in the midst of excitement, and a little, more or less, does not bother them. Most of them slept even through the work of getting the train back on the rails. Of course the circus was late in getting in--that is the derailed train with its quota of performers was. Early in the morning, when they should have been on the siding near the grounds, the train was still puffing onward. Joe arose, got a cup of coffee in the buffet car, and went on ahead to inquire about Helen and some of his friends in the other coach. "Oh, I didn't mind it much," Helen said, when Joe asked her about it. "I felt a few bumps, and I thought we had just struck a poor spot in the roadbed." "She hasn't any more nerves than you have, Joe Strong," declared Mrs. Talfo, "the fat lady." "Did you mind it much?" Joe asked. "Did I? Say, young man, it's a good thing I had a lower berth. I rolled out, and if I had fallen on anybody--well, there might have been a worse wreck! Fortunately no one was under me when I tumbled," and Mrs. Talfo chuckled. "And you weren't hurt?" asked Joe. The fat lady laughed. Her sides shook "like a bowlful of jelly," as the nursery rhyme used to state. "It takes more than a fall to hurt me," said Mrs. Talfo. "I'm too well padded. But we're going to get in very late," she went on with a look at her watch. "The performers should be at breakfast at this time, to be ready for the street parade." "We may have to omit the parade," said Joe. "I wouldn't care," declared the fat lady with a sigh. "It does jolt me something terrible to ride over cobble streets, and they never will let me stay out." "You're quite an attraction," said Joe, with a smile. "Oh, yes, it's all right to talk about it," sighed Mrs. Talfo, "but I guess there aren't many of you who would want to tip the scales at five hundred and eighty pounds--advertised weight, of course," she added, with a smile. "It's no joke--especially in hot weather." The performers made merry over the accident now, and speculated as to what might happen to the show. Their train carried a goodly number of the "artists," as they were called on the bills, and without them a successful and complete show could not be given. "We may even have to omit the afternoon session," Joe stated. "Who said so?" Helen demanded. "Mr. Tracy." "Well, it's better to lose that than to have the whole show wrecked," said the snake charmer. "I remember being in a circus wreck once, and I never want to see another." "Did any of the animals get loose?" asked Joe. "I should say they did! We lost a lion and a tiger, and for weeks afterward we had to keep men out hunting for the creatures, which the excited farmers said were taking calves and lambs. No indeed! I don't want any more circus wrecks. This one was near enough." This brought up a fund of recollected circus stories, and from then on, until the train stopped on the siding near the grounds, the performers took turns in telling what they had known of wrecks and other accidents to the shows with which they had been connected. Joe listened eagerly. It was all new to him. "I only hope my glass tank isn't cracked," said Benny again. He seemed quite worried about this. "Well, if it's broken they'll have to get you another," Joe told him. The tank was carried in one of the cars of the derailed train. "They might, and they might not," said Benny. "My act hasn't been going any too well of late, and maybe they'd be glad of a chance to drop it from the list. I only hope they don't, though, for I need the money." Benny spoke wistfully. He seemed greatly changed from the boy Joe had known at first. Benny had grown thinner, and he often put his hand to his head, as though suffering constant pain. Joe and Helen felt sorry for him. Still there was little they could do, except to cheer him up. Benny had to do his own act--which was a unique one that he had evolved after years of practice. It was not alone the staying under water that made it popular, it was the tricks that the lad did. "Well, we're here at last," said Joe, as he and his friends alighted from their sleeping car. "Better late than never, I suppose." Men were busy on the circus grounds, putting up tents, arranging the horses and other animals, putting the wagons in their proper places and doing the hundred and one things that need to be done. "I wonder what's going on over there," said Helen, as she pointed to a group of men about the place where the canvas for the main tent had been spread out in readiness for erection. "It looks like trouble." "It does," agreed Joe, as he saw Jim Tracy excitedly talking to the canvasmen. "I'm going to see what it is." He approached the ring-master, who was also one of the owners of the show. "Anything wrong?" Joe asked. "Wrong? I should say so! As if I didn't already have troubles enough here, the tent-men go on a strike for more money. I never saw such luck!" CHAPTER XVII IN BEDFORD Joe Strong looked from the group of sullen, lowering canvasmen to Jim Tracy. On the ring-master's face were signs of anxiety. "Is it really a strike?" Joe asked. "That's what they call it," replied the circus owner. "I didn't know they belonged to a union, and I don't believe they do. They just want to make trouble, and they take advantage of me at a time when I'm tied up because we're late with the show." "What is it they want?" asked Helen. "More money," Jim Tracy replied. "I wouldn't mind giving it to them if I could afford it, or if they weren't getting the same wages that are paid other canvasmen in other circuses. But they are. As a matter of fact, they get more, and they have better grub. I can't understand such tactics!" "It looks as if some of them were coming over to speak to you," remarked Joe, as he observed one of the strikers detach himself from the group, and approach the ring-master. "Let him come," snapped Jim. "He'll get no satisfaction from me." The man seemed a bit embarrassed as he approached, chewing a straw nervously. He ignored several of the circus performers, Joe and Helen among them, who were grouped about Jim Tracy, and, addressing the owner, asked: "Well, have you made up your mind? Is it to be more money for us or no show for you?" "It's going to be 'no' to your unreasonable demand, and I want to tell you, here and now, that the show's going on. You can go back to your cowardly crowd, that tries to hit a man when he's down, and tell 'em Jim Tracy said that!" cried the ring-master with vigor. "You'll get no more money from me. I'm paying you wages enough as it is!" "All right, no money--no show!" said the fellow, impudently. "We gave you half an hour to make up your mind, and if that's your answer you can take the consequences." He started to walk away, and Tracy called after him: "If you try to interfere or make trouble, and if you try to stop the show, I'll have you all arrested if I have to send for special detectives." "Oh, we won't make any trouble except what you make for yourself," declared the striker. "We just won't do anything--that'll be the trouble. There's your 'main top,' and there she'll stay. We won't pull a rope or drive a peg!" He pointed to the pile of canvas with its mass of ropes, poles and pegs that lay on the ground ready for erection. It should have been up by this time, and the parade ought to have been under way. But with the railroad accident, the delay and the strike, the big tent in which Joe, Helen and the others were to perform was not yet raised. "The cowards!" exclaimed Jim in a low voice; looking at Joe. "I wonder if I'd better give in to 'em?" "Can you get others to take their places?" the young trapeze acrobat wanted to know. "Not here. I could if I were nearer New York. But as it is----" He threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. "I guess I'll have to give in," he said. "I can't afford not to give a show. Here, you----" He called to the departing striker. "Wait a minute!" Joe quickly exclaimed to the ring-master. "I think we can find a way out of this." "How?" "Have you any men who know something about putting up the tent?" "I know all there is to be known about it myself. But it takes more than one man to raise the 'main top.' There are a lot of the animal men and wagon drivers who used to be canvas hands. They haven't struck. But there aren't enough of them. It's no use." "Yes, it is!" cried Joe. "We men performers will turn canvasmen for the time being. Give us some hands who know how to lay out the canvas, how to lace up the different sections, which ropes to pull on; men to show us how to drive stakes and to haul up the poles--do that and we'll have the tent up in time for the show!" "Can you do it?" cried the ring-master, in an eager tone. "Sure we can!" exclaimed Joe. "There are enough of us, and we're willing to turn in. You get the men who know how, and we'll be their assistants." "It might work," said Tracy, reflectively. "I'm much obliged to you, Joe. It's worth trying. But do you think the performers will do it?" "I'll talk to 'em," said the trapeze artist. "They'll be glad to raise the tent, rather than see a performance given up. Go get your men and I'll talk to the others." "All right--I will." "Did you call me?" asked the striker who had been appointed to wait on the ring-master and learn his decision. "I did _not_!" cried Jim Tracy. "I'm through with you. We don't need your services." "Ha!" laughed the man. "Let's see you get up the 'main top' without us." "Stick around long enough and you'll see it," said Joe Strong. Joe found a group of the men performers gathered in the dressing tent, discussing the situation. And while the ring-master hastened to gather up such forces as he could muster, Joe made his little talk. "You're just the very one we want," he said to Tom Jefferson, "the strong man." "You ought to be able to put up the tent alone. Come on now, gentlemen, we must all work together," and rapidly he explained the situation to some who did not understand it. "Will you help raise the tent?" Joe asked. "We will!" cried the performers in a chorus. Soon there was a busy scene in the circus "lots." Not that there is not always a busy time when the show is being made ready, but this was somewhat different. Led by Joe, the performers placed themselves under the direction of some veteran canvasmen who had been working in other departments of the circus. Jim Tracy, who had in his day been a helper, took the part of the striking foreman of the canvas-workers, and the "main top" soon began to look as it always did. The big center poles were put in place and guyed up. The sections of canvas were laced together in the regular manner, so that they could be taken apart quickly simply by pulling on a rope. Knots tied in erecting a circus tent must be made so they are easily loosed, even in wet weather. For a while the striking canvasmen stood and laughed at the efforts of those who were taking their places. But they soon ceased to jeer. For the tent was slowly but correctly going up. "We'll give the show after all!" cried Joe, as he labored at lifting heavy sections of canvas, pulling on ropes or driving stakes. "I believe we will," agreed the ring-master. "I don't know how to thank you, Joe." "Oh, pshaw! I didn't do anything! I'm only helping the same as the rest." "Yes, but it was your idea, and you persuaded the men to pitch in." And, in a sense, this was true. For Joe was a general favorite with the circus performers, though he had been with them only a comparatively short time. But he had his mother's reputation back of him, as well as his father's, and Bill Watson had spoken many a good word for the young fellow. Circus folk are always loyal to their own kind, and there were many, as Joe learned later, who knew his mother by reputation, and some personally. So they were all glad to help when Joe put the case to them vividly, as he did. Joe's popularity stood him in good stead, even though there were some who were jealous of the reputation he was making. But jealousies were cast aside on this occasion. Even the Lascalla Brothers did their share, working side by side with Joe at putting up the tent, as they worked with him on the trapeze. The strong man was a great help, doing twice the work that the others did. The performers wore their ordinary clothes, laying aside coats and vests as they labored. And the men who knew how circus tents must go up, saw to it that the amateurs did their work well, so there would be no danger of collapse. While the big tent was being put up the other preparations for the show were proceeded with. Mr. Boyd and Mr. Sampson, who were part owners with Jim Tracy, arranged for a small parade, since it had been advertised. On the back of one of the elephants rode the fat lady, with a banner which explained that because of a strike of the canvasmen the usual street exhibition could not be given. The assurance was made, though, that the show itself would be the same as advertised. "That will prevent the public from being too sympathetic with the strikers," said Jim Tracy. "The public, as a rule, doesn't care much for a strike that interferes with its pleasure." At last the big tent was up, and all was in readiness for the afternoon performance, though it would be a little late. "It won't be much fun taking down the tent after the show to-night," said Joe. "Perhaps you won't have to," stated the ring-master. "I may be able to hire men to take the strikers' places before then." "But if you can't, we'll help out," declared the young trapeze performer, though he knew it would be anything but pleasant for himself and the others, after high-tension work before a big audience, to handle heavy canvas and ropes in the dark. The public seemed to take good-naturedly to the circus, not being over-critical of the lack of the usual big street parade. And men, women and children came in throngs to the afternoon performance. The circus people fairly outdid themselves to give a good show, and Joe worked up a little novelty in one of his "lone" acts. He gave an exhibition of rope-climbing, Jim Tracy introducing the act with a few remarks about the value of every one's knowing how to ascend or descend a rope when, thereby, one's life might some time be saved. "Professor Strong will now entertain you," announced the ring-master, "and tell you something about rope-work." Joe had hardly bargained for this, but his work as a magician, when he often had the stage to himself and had to address a crowded theatre, stood him in good stead. He was very self-confident, and he illustrated the way a beginner should learn to climb a rope. "Don't try to go up hand over hand at first," Joe said. "And don't climb away up to the top unless you're sure you know how to come down. You may get so exhausted that you'll slip, and burn your hands severely, for the friction of rapidly sliding down a rope will cause bad burns." Joe showed how to begin by holding the rope between the soles of the feet, letting them take the weight instead of the hands and arms. He went up and down this way, and then went up by lifting himself by his hands alone, coming down the same way--which is much harder than it looks. Joe also illustrated the "stirrup hold," which may be used in ascending or descending a rope, to get a rest. The rope is held between the thighs, the hands grasping it lightly, and while a turn of the rope passes under the sole of the left foot and over the toes of the same, the right foot is placed on top, pressing down the rope which passes over the left foot. In this way the rope is held from slipping, and the entire weight of the body can rest on the side of the left leg, which is in a sort of rope loop. Thus the arms are relieved. Joe showed other holds, and also how to sit on a rope that dangled from the top of the tent. Half way up he held the rope between his thighs, and made a loop, which he threw over his left shoulder. Then, by pressing his chin down on the rope, it was held between chin and shoulder so that it could not slip. Grasping the rope with both hands above his head, Joe was thus suspended in a sitting position, almost as easily as in a chair. The crowd applauded this. Then Joe went on with his regular trapeze work--doing some back flyaway jumps that thrilled the audience. This trick is done by grasping the trapeze bar firmly at arm's length, swinging backward and downward until the required momentum is reached. When Joe was ready he suddenly let go and turned a backward somersault to the life net. The trick looked simple, but Joe had practised it many times before getting it perfectly. And he often had bad falls. One tendency he found was to turn over too far before letting go the bar. This was likely to cause his feet to strike the swinging bar, resulting in an ugly tumble. The evening performance was even better attended than that of the afternoon. Jim Tracy succeeded in hiring a few men to assist with the tents, but he had not enough, and it began to look as though the performers would have to do double work again. But there occurred one of those incidents with which circus life is replete. The place they were showing in was a large factory town, and at night crowds of men and boys--not the gentlest in the community--attended. At something or other, a crowd of roughs felt themselves aggrieved, and under the guidance of a "gang-leader" began to make trouble. They threatened to cut the tent ropes in retaliation. "That won't do," decided Jim Tracy. "I've got to tackle that gang, and I don't like to, for it means a fight. Still I can't have the tent collapse." He hurriedly gathered a crowd of his own men, armed them with stakes, and charged the gang of roughs that was creating a small riot, to the terror of women and children. The rowdies finding themselves getting the worst of it, called for help from among the factory workers, who liked nothing better than to "beat-up" a circus crowd. Jim Tracy and his men were being severely handled when a new force took a hand in the mêlée. "Come on, boys. We can't stand for this!" shouted Jake Bantry, the leader of the striking canvasmen. "They sha'n't bust up the show, even if the boss won't give us more money." The canvasmen were used to trouble of this kind. Seizing tent pegs, and with cries of "Hey Rube!"--the time-honored signal for a battle of this kind--the striking canvasmen rushed into the fracas. In a short time the roughs had been dispersed, and there was no more danger of the tents being cut and made to collapse. "I'm much obliged to you boys," said Jim Tracy to the strikers, when the affray was over. "You helped us out finely." "It was fun for us," answered Jake Bantry. "And say, Mr. Tracy, we've been talking it over among ourselves, and seeing as how you've always treated us white, we've decided, if you'll take us back, that we'll come--and at the same wages." "Of course I'll take you back!" exclaimed the owner heartily. "And glad to have you." "Good! Come on, boys! Strike's broken!" cried Bantry. So Joe and his fellow-artists did not have to turn to tent work that night. In looking over the advance booking list one day, Joe saw Bedford marked down. "Hello!" he cried. "I wonder if that's my town." It was, as he learned by consulting the press agent. "Are you glad?" asked Helen. "Well, rather, I guess!" Joe said. And one morning Joe awakened in his berth, and looked out to see the familiar scenes of the town where he had lived so long. "Bedford!" exclaimed Joe. "Well, I'm coming back in a very different way from the one I left it," and he chuckled as he thought of the "side-door Pullman," and the pursuing constables. CHAPTER XVIII HELEN'S MONEY After breakfast Joe, who did not take part in the parade, set out to see the sights of his "home town," or, rather, he hoped to meet some of his former friends, for there were not many sights to see. "The place hasn't changed much," Joe reflected as he passed along the familiar streets. "It seems only like yesterday that I went away. Well, Timothy Donnelly has painted his house at last, I see, and they have a new front on the drug store. Otherwise things are about the same. I wonder if I'd better go to call on the deacon. I guess I will--I don't have any hard feelings toward him. Yes, I'll go to see him and----" Joe's thoughts were interrupted by a voice that exclaimed: "Say! Look! There goes Joe Strong who used to live here!" The young circus performer turned and saw Willie Norman, a small boy who lived on the street where Joe formerly dwelt. "Hello, Willie," called Joe in greeting. "Hello," was the answer. "Say, is it true you're with the circus? Harry Martin said you were." "That's right--I am," Joe admitted. He had kept up a fitful correspondence with Harry and some of the other chums, and in one of his letters Joe had spoken of his change of work. "In a circus!" exclaimed Willie admiringly. "Do they let you feed the elephant?" he asked with awe. "No, I haven't gotten quite that far," laughed Joe. "I'm only a trapeze performer." "Say, I'd like to see you act," Willie went on, "but I ain't got a quarter." "Here's a free ticket," Joe said, giving his little admirer one. In anticipation of meeting some of his friends in Bedford that day, Joe had gotten a number of free admission tickets from the press agent, who was always well supplied with them. Willie's eyes glistened as he took the slip of pasteboard. "Geewillikens!" he exclaimed. "Say, you're all right, Joe! I'm going to the circus! I wish I could run away and join one." "Don't you dare try it!" Joe warned him. "You're too small." He went on, meeting many former acquaintances, who turned to stare at the boy whose story had created such a stir in the town. Joe was looked upon by some as a hero, and by others as a "lost sheep." It is needless to say that Deacon Blackford was one who held the latter opinion. Joe called on his former foster-father, but did not find him at the house. Mrs. Blackford was in, however, and was greatly surprised to see Joe. She welcomed and kissed him, and there were traces of tears in her eyes. "Oh, Joe!" she exclaimed. "I am so sorry you left us, but perhaps it was all for the best, for you must live your own life, I suppose. I never really believed you took the money," she added, referring to an incident which was related in the book previous to this. "I'm glad to hear that," Joe said. "I want to thank you for all your care of me. I didn't like to run away, but it seemed the only thing to do. And, as you say, I think it has turned out for the best. The circus life appeals to me, and I'm getting on in the business." Mrs. Blackford was really glad to see Joe. She had a real liking for him, in spite of the fact that she had a poor opinion of circus folk and magicians, and she did not believe all the deacon believed of Joe. She could not forget the days when, while he was a little lad, she had often sung him to sleep. But these days were over now. Joe found the deacon at the feed store. The lad's former foster-father was not very cordial in his greeting, and, in fact, seemed rather embarrassed than otherwise. Perhaps he regretted his accusation against our hero. "Would you like to see the circus?" Joe inquired, as he was leaving the office. "I have some free tickets and----" "What! Me go to a circus?" cried the deacon, with upraised hands. "Never! Never! Circuses and theatres are the invention of the Evil One. I am surprised at your asking me!" Joe did it for a joke, more than for anything else, as he knew the deacon would not take a ticket. Bidding him good-bye, Joe went out to find his former chums. They, as may well be supposed, were very glad to see him. And that they envied Joe's position goes without saying. "Well, well! You certainly put one over on us!" exclaimed Charlie Ford admiringly. "How did you do it, Joe?" "Oh, it just happened, I guess. More luck than anything else." "When you got Professor Rosello out of the fire you did a good thing," commented Tom Simpson. "Yes, I guess I did--in more ways than one," admitted Joe. "And are you really doing trapeze acts?" inquired Henry Blake. "Come and watch me," was Joe's invitation. "Here is a reserved seat ticket for each of you." "Whew!" whistled Harry Martin. "Talk about the return of the prodigal! You'll make the folks here open their eyes, Joe. It isn't everybody who runs away from home who comes back as you do." Joe told his chums some of his experiences, and they went with him out to the circus grounds, where he took them about, as only a privileged character can, showing them how the show was "put together." "It sure is _great_!" exclaimed Charlie, ruffling up his red hair. Joe fairly outdid himself in the performances that day. He went through his best feats, alone and with the Lascalla Brothers, with a snap and a swing that made the veteran performers look well to their own laurels. Joe did some wonderful leaping and turning of somersaults in the air, one difficult backward triple turn evoking a thundering round of applause. And none applauded any more fervently than little Willie Norman. "I know him!" the little lad confided to a group about him. "That's Joe Strong. He gave me a ticket to the show for nothing, mind you! I know him all right!" "Oh, you do not!" chaffed another boy. "I do so, and I'm going to speak to him after the show!" This Willie proudly did, thereby refuting the skepticism of his neighbor. For the word soon passed among the town-folk that Joe Strong, who used to live with Deacon Blackford, was with the circus, and after the show he held an informal little reception in the dressing tent which a number of men and boys, and not a few women, attended. All were curious to see behind the scenes, and Joe showed them some interesting sights. He invited his four chums to have supper with him, and the delight of Harry, Charlie, Henry and Tom may be imagined as they sat in the tent with the other circus folk, listening to the strange jargon of talk, and seeing just how the performers behaved in private. Altogether Joe's appearance in Bedford made quite a sensation, and he was glad of the chance it afforded him to see his former friends and acquaintances, and also to let them see for themselves that circus people and actors are not all as black as they are painted. Joe was glad he could do this for the sake of his father and mother, as he realized that the wrong views held by Deacon and Mrs. Blackford were shared by many. Joe bade good-bye to his chums and traveled on with the show, leaving, probably, many rather envious hearts behind. For there is a glamour about a circus and the theatre that blinds the youthful to the hard knocks and trouble that invariably accompany those who perform in public. Even with Joe's superb health there were times when he would have been glad of a day's rest. But he had it only on Sundays, and whether he felt like it or not he had to perform twice a day. Of course usually he liked it, for he was enthusiastic about his work. But all is not joy and happiness in a circus. As a matter of fact Joe worked harder than most boys, and though it seemed all pleasure, there was much of it that was real labor. New tricks are not learned in an hour, and many a long day Joe and his partners spent in perfecting what afterward looked to be a simple turn. But, all in all, Joe liked it immensely and he would not have changed for the world--at least just then. The circus reached the town of Portland, where they expected to do a good business as it was a large manufacturing place. Here Helen found awaiting her a letter from the law firm. "Oh, Joe!" the girl exclaimed. "I'm going to get my money here--at least that part of my fortune which isn't tied up in bonds and mortgages. We must celebrate! I think I'll give a little dinner at the hotel for you, Bill Watson and some of my friends." "All right, Helen. Count me in." The letter stated that a representative of the firm would call upon Helen that day in Portland, and turn over to her the cash due from her grandfather's estate. That afternoon Helen sent word to Joe that she wanted to see him, and in her dressing room he found a young man, toward whom Joe at once felt an instinctive dislike. The man had shifty eyes, and Joe always distrusted men who could not look him straight in the face. "This is Mr. Sanford, from the law firm, Joe," said Helen. "He has brought me my money." "Is he your lawyer?" asked Mr. Sanford, looking toward Joe. "No, just a friend," Helen answered. "Is he going to look after your money for you?" "I think Miss Morton is capable of looking after it herself," Joe put in, a bit sharply. "Oh, of course. I didn't mean anything. Now if you'll give me your attention, Miss Morton, I'll go over the details with you." "You needn't wait, Joe, unless you want to," Helen said. "I'd like to have you arrange about the little supper at the hotel, if you will, though." "Sure I will!" Joe exclaimed. The circus was to remain over night, and this would give Helen a chance for her feast, which she thought had better take place at the Portland hotel, as it would be more private than the circus tent. Joe went off to arrange for it, leaving Helen with the lawyer's clerk. CHAPTER XIX JOE IS SUSPICIOUS Joe's day was already a full one, though he did not tell Helen so. He gladly undertook to arrange the little supper for her at the hotel, and it was only a coincidence that it happened on the night of a day when he had decided to work in a new trick on his trapeze, when he performed alone. It was not exactly a new trick, in the sense that it had never been done before. In fact there is very little new in trapeze work nowadays, but Joe had decided to give a little different turn to an old act. It required some preparation, and he needed to do this during the day. He was going to "put on" the trick at night, and not at the matinee. But for the time being he gave up his hours to arranging for Helen the supper which would take place after the night performance. Joe saw the hotel proprietor and arranged for a private room with a supper to be served for twenty-five. Helen had many more friends than that among the circus folk, but she had to limit her hospitality, though she would have liked to have them all at her little celebration. She chose, however, after Joe and Bill Watson and Benny Turton, the women performers who were more intimately associated with her in her acts, and some of the men whose acquaintance she had made since joining the Sampson show. Joe hurried to the hotel, did what was necessary there, and then went back to the tent. He intended, when the afternoon show was over, to do some practice on his new act. As he passed into the big tent, which was now deserted, he met Jim Tracy, who, of course, was invited to Helen's supper. "What's all this I hear about our little lady?" asked the ring-master. "Well, I guess it's all true," Joe answered. "She has come into a little money." "Glad to hear it! I'll be with you to-night. Oh, by the way, Joe, I had a letter from the railroad people about our wreck, or, rather, derailment." "Did you? What did they say?" "They couldn't find any evidence that the fish plate was put in the switch purposely. It might have dropped there. Of course some tramp might have put it there to get revenge for being put off a train, but it would be hard to prove. And as for getting evidence against Sim Dobley--why, it's out of the question. But you want to keep on looking out for yourself." "I will," Joe promised. After thinking the matter over Joe had decided it would be best to speak to the ring-master about the threatening letter, which had been received so close to the time when the derailment occurred. Jim Tracy had at once agreed with Joe that the discharged acrobat might possibly have been mad and rash enough to try to wreck the train, and the railroad detectives had been communicated with. But nothing had come of the investigation, and the accident had been set down as one of the many unexplained happenings that occur on railroads. A search had been made for Dobley, but he seemed to have disappeared for the time being, and Joe was glad of it. "Ready for the new stunt?" asked Tracy, as he passed on. "Yes; I'll pull it off to-night if nothing happens," Joe said. He was glad there were few people in the big tent when he entered it after the afternoon performance, to put in some hard practice. Joe's own trapeze was in place, but he lowered it to the ground, and went carefully over every inch of the ropes, canvas straps, snaps, and the various fastenings to make sure nothing was wrong. He found everything all right. It was not exactly that he was suspicious of the Lascalla Brothers, but he was taking no chances. Joe's act worked well in practice. When he had performed his trick for the last time he saw Benny Turton, the "human fish," coming into the tent to look after his tank, about which the young performer was very particular. "How do you like that, Ben?" asked Joe, as he finished the new trick. "First rate. That's a thriller all right, Joe! That'll make 'em sit up and take notice. I'll have to work in something new myself if you keep on piling up the stuff." "Oh, I guess you could do that, Ben." The "human fish" shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "I don't know what's the matter with me lately, Joe, but I don't seem to have ambition for anything. I go through my regular stunts, but that's all I want to do. I don't even stay under water as long as I used to, and Jim Tracy was kicking again to-day. He said I'd have to do better, but I don't see how I can. Of course he was nice about it, as he always is, but I know he's disappointed in me." "Oh, I guess not, Ben. Maybe you'll do better to-night." "I hope so. Anyhow you'll have a thriller for them." "You're coming to Helen's party, aren't you?" "Oh, sure, Joe. I wouldn't miss that. I'm glad she's got some money," and Ben spoke rather despondently. Joe made arrangements with his helper to look after the special appliances needed for the new trick, and went to supper. He did not see Helen, and guessed that she was still busy with the law clerk. "I hope she doesn't trust too much to that chap," mused Joe. "I don't just like his looks." The big tent was crowded when Joe began his performance that night. He received his usual applause, and then gave the signal that he was about to put on his new act. He was hoisted up to the top trapeze, which was a short one, and to this Joe had fastened a longer one. He sat upon the bar of this, swinging to and fro, working himself into position until he was resting on the "hocks," as performers call that portion of the leg just above the knee. Suddenly Joe seemed to fall over backward, and there was a cry of alarm from the crowd. But he remained in position, swinging by his insteps. In the trapeze world this is known as "drop back to instep hang." Joe had done it most effectively, but that was not all of the trick. Quickly he grasped the ropes of the lower trapeze. He twined his legs about these, and then, with a thrilling yell, he let himself slide, head down along the ropes, holding only by his intertwined legs and insteps, which he had padded with asbestos to take up the heat of friction. Down the long ropes he slid until he came to a sudden stop as his outstretched hands grasped the lower bar. There he hung suspended a moment, while the audience sat thrilled, thinking it had been an accidental fall and a most miraculous escape. But Joe had planned it all out in advance, and knew it was safe, especially as the life net was under him. He suspended himself on the bar a moment, and then made a back somersault, and amid the booming of the drum he dropped into the net and made his bows in response to the applause. The new feat was appreciated at once, but it was some time before the crowd realized that the fall backward was not accidental. Joe was congratulated by his fellow performers, though, as might be expected, there was some little jealousy. But Joe was used to that by this time. It was a merry little party that gathered later in the hotel room for Helen's supper. She sat at the head of the table, with Joe on one side and Bill Watson, the veteran clown, on the other. "Well, did you make out all right with your lawyer friend?" Joe asked. "Oh, yes, Joe, I never had so much money at one time in my life before." "What did you do with it?" "I kept out enough to pay for this supper, and the rest I put in the circus ticket wagon safe." "What, all your cash?" "Oh, I didn't take it all, Joe." "You didn't take it all?" "No. Mr. Sanford--he's the law clerk, you know--said I ought not to have so much money with me, so he offered to take care for me all I didn't want to use right away." "He's going to take care of it for you?" Joe repeated. "Yes. He says he can invest it for me. But eat your supper, Joe." Somehow or other Joe Strong did not feel much like eating. He had a sudden and undefinable suspicion of that law clerk. CHAPTER XX A FALL There were merry hearts at the little celebration given by Helen Morton--"Mademoiselle Mortonti"--in recognition of coming into her inheritance. That is, the hearts were all merry save that of Joe Strong. For a few seconds after Helen had made the statement about having left her money with the law clerk for investment, Joe could only stare at her. On her part the young circus rider seemed to think there was nothing unusual in what she had done. "Congratulations, Miss Morton!" called Bill Watson, as he waved his napkin in the air. "Congratulations!" "Why don't you call me Helen as you used to?" asked the girl. "Oh, you're quite a rich young lady now, and I didn't think you would want me to be so familiar," he replied with a laugh. "Goodness! I hope every one isn't going to get so formal all at once," she remarked, with a look at Joe. "I won't--not unless you want me to," he answered. "But why don't you eat?" she asked him. "You sit there as if you had no appetite. I'm as hungry as a bear--one of our own circus bears, too. Come, why don't you eat and be happy?" "I--I'm thinking," Joe remarked. "This isn't the time to think!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so glad I have a little money. I won't have to worry now if I shouldn't be able to go on with my circus act. I could take a vacation if I wanted to, couldn't I?" "Are you going to?" asked Joe. Somehow he felt a sudden sinking sensation in the region of his heart. At least he judged it was his heart that was affected. "No, not right away," Helen answered. "I'm going to stay with the show until it goes into winter quarters, anyhow." "And after that?" "Oh, I don't know." The little celebration went merrily on. Helen's health was proposed many times, being pledged in lemonade, grape juice and ginger ale. She blushed with pleasure as she sat between Joe and the veteran clown, for many nice things were said about her, as one after another of her guests congratulated her on her good fortune. "Speech! Speech!" some one called out. "What do they mean?" asked Helen of Bill Watson. "They want you to say something," the clown said. "Oh, I never could--never in the world!" and Helen blushed more vividly than before. "Try it," urged Joe. "Just thank them. You can do that." Much confused, Helen arose at her place. "I'd rather ride in a circus ring ten times over than make a speech," she confessed in an aside to Joe. "Go on," he urged. "My dear friends," she began tremblingly, "I want to thank you for all the nice things you have said about me, and I want to say that I'm glad--glad----" She paused and blushed again. "Glad to be here," prompted Joe. "Yes, that's it--glad to be here, and I--er--I---- Oh, you finish for me, Joe!" she begged, as she sat down amid laughter. Then the supper went on, more merrily than before. But it had to come to an end at last, for the show people needed their rest if they were to perform well the next day. And most of them, especially those like Joe and the acrobats, who depended on their nerve as well as their strength, needed unbroken slumber. As Joe walked back to the railroad, where their sleeping cars were standing on a siding, the young trapeze performer asked Helen about her business transaction with the law clerk. He had not had a chance to do this at the supper. "Well," began the girl, "as you know, he brought me the cash, Joe. Oh, how nice those new bills did look. He had it all in new bills for me. Mr. Pike told him to do that, he said, as they didn't know whether I could use a check, traveling about as I am. Anyhow he had the bills for me--about three thousand dollars it was. The rest of my little fortune, you know, is in stocks and bonds. I only get the interest, but this cash was from the sale of some of grandfather's property." "Then you didn't keep the cash yourself?" Joe asked. "No. Mr. Sanford said it wouldn't be safe for me to carry so much money around with me. Do you think it would?" "Of course not," Joe agreed. "But you could have let our treasurer keep it for you. He could have banked it." "Yes; Mr. Sanford thought of that, he said. But he also said if my money was in the bank I wouldn't get more than three per cent. on it. I don't know exactly what he means--I never was any good at fractions, and I know nothing about business. But, anyhow, Mr. Sanford kindly explained that I would get more interest on my money if it was invested than if it was in a bank. And he offered to invest for me all I didn't need at once. Wasn't he kind?" "Perhaps," admitted Joe, rather dubiously. "How is he going to invest it?" "Oh, he knows lots of ways, he said, being in the law office. But he said he thought it would be best to buy oil stock with it. Oil stock was sure to go up in price, he said; and I would make money on that as well as interest, or dividends--or something like that. Wasn't he good?" "To himself maybe, yes," answered Joe. "What do you mean?" inquired Helen. "Oh, well, maybe it's all right," Joe said. He did not want to alarm the girl unnecessarily, but he had a deeper suspicion than before of Sanford. "I think it's just fine," Helen went on. "I have quite some cash with me--I'm going to let our treasurer keep that, and give me some when I need it. Then, from time to time, I'll get dividends on my oil stock." "Maybe," said Joe, in a low voice. "What?" asked Helen, quickly. "What do you mean?" "Never mind," proceeded Joe. "Anyhow we had a good time to-night." "Did you enjoy it?" "I certainly did, Helen." They parted near the train, Joe to go to his car and Helen to hers. "Oh, by the way," Joe called after her. "Did Mr. Sanford say what oil company it was he was going to invest your money in?" "Yes, he told me. It's the Circle City Oil Syndicate. He has some stock in it, he told me, and it's a fine concern. Oh, Joe, I'm so glad I have inherited a little fortune." "So am I," Joe returned, wondering at the same time if he would ever hear anything encouraging of his mother's relatives in England. "The Circle City Oil Syndicate," Joe murmured as he entered his car. "I must look them up. This fellow, Sanford, may be all right, but he struck me as being a pretty slick individual, who would look out for himself first, and the firm's clients afterward. He'll bear investigating." However, nothing could be done that night. The clerk had gone back with the larger part of Helen's money, and Joe did not want to cause her worry by speaking of his suspicions. The circus did a good business the next day, drawing even larger throngs than to the previous performances. The story of Helen's good fortune was printed in the local paper, with an account of the celebration supper she gave, and when she rode into the ring on Rosebud the applause that greeted her was very pronounced. Joe repeated his "drop back to instep hang" that afternoon. It was rather a perilous feat and he was not so sure of it as he was of his other exercises. But it was a "thriller" and that was what the public seemed to want--something that made them gasp, sit up, and hold their breath while they waited to see if "anything would happen" to the reckless performer. Joe climbed up to his small trapeze, swung on it and then fell backward for his first instep hang. He accomplished this successfully, and then came the thrilling slide down the longer ropes. Down Joe shot, depending on stopping himself with his outstretched and down-hanging hands when he reached the second bar. But the inevitable "something" happened. Joe's hands slipped from the bar, his head struck it a glancing blow, and the next instant he felt himself falling head first down toward the life net. CHAPTER XXI JOE HEARS SOMETHING Women and children screamed, and there were hoarse shouts from the men who witnessed Joe's fall. At first some thought it was only part of the acrobatic trick, but a single glance at the desperate struggles of the young trapeze performer dispelled this idea. For Joe was struggling desperately in the air to prevent himself from falling head first into the life net. It might be thought that one could fall into a loose, sagging net in any position and not be hurt. But this is not so. A fall into a net from a great height is often as dangerous as landing on the ground. Circus folk must know how to fall properly. If the person falling lands on his head he is likely to dislocate, if not to break, his neck, and falling on one's face may sometimes be dangerous. The best way, of course, is to land on one's feet, and this was what Joe was trying to bring about. When he realized that he had missed grasping the bar of the second trapeze (though he could not understand his failure) he knew he must turn over, and that quickly, or he would strike on his head in the net. He tried to turn a somersault, but he was at a disadvantage, not having prepared for that in advance. "I've got to turn! I've got to turn!" he thought desperately, as he fell through space. He did manage to get partly over and when he landed in the net he took the force of the blow partly on his head and partly on his shoulder. Everything seemed to get black around him, and there was a roaring in his ears. Then Joe Strong knew nothing. He had been knocked unconscious by the fall. The circus audience--or that part of it immediately near Joe's trapezes--was at once aware that something unusual had occurred. Some women arose, as though to rush out. Others screamed and one or two children began to cry. A slight panic was imminent, and Jim Tracy realized this. From where she was putting her horse, Rosebud, through his paces Helen saw what happened to Joe. In an instant she jumped from the saddle, and ran across the ring toward the net in which he lay, an inert form. Other circus performers and attendants rushed to aid Joe, and this added to the confusion and excitement. Many in the audience were standing up, trying to see what had happened, and those behind, whose view was obstructed, cried: "Sit down! Down in front!" "Give us some music!" ordered Jim Tracy of the band, which had stopped playing when Joe performed his trick in order that it might be more impressive. A lively tune was started, and though it may seem heartless, in view of the fact that a performer possibly was killed, it was the best thing to do under the circumstances, for it calmed the audience. Tender hands lifted Joe out of the net, and carried him toward the dressing room. "Go on with the show!" the ring-master ordered the performers who had left their stations. "Go on with the show. We'll look after him. There are plenty of us to do it." And the show went on. It had to. "Is he--is he badly hurt?" faltered Helen, as she walked beside the four men who were carrying Joe on a stretcher which had been brought from the first aid tent. The circus was always ready to look after those hurt in accidents. "I don't think so--he took the fall pretty well--only partly on his head," said Bill Watson, who had stopped his laughable antics to rush over to Joe. "He may be only stunned." "I hope so," breathed Helen. "You'd better get back to your ring," suggested Bill. "Finish your act." "It was almost over," Helen objected. "I can't go back--now. Not until I see how he is." "All right--come along then," said the old clown, sympathetically. He guessed how matters were between Helen and Joe. "I don't believe the boss will mind much. There's enough of the show left for 'em to look at." He glanced down at Joe, who lay unconscious on the stretcher. They were now in the canvas screened passage between the dressing tent and the larger one, where the performance had been resumed. Helen put out her hand and touched Joe's forehead. He seemed to stir slightly. "Have they sent for a doctor?" she asked. "They'll get one from the crowd," replied Bill. "There's always one or more in a circus audience." And he was right. As they placed Joe on a cot that had been quickly made ready for him, a physician, summoned from the audience by the ring-master, came to see what he could do. Silently Helen, Bill and the others stood about while the medical man made his examination. "Will he die?" Helen asked in a whisper. "Not at once--in fact not for some years to come, I think," replied the physician with a smile. "He has had a bad fall, and he will be laid up for a time. But it is not serious." Helen's face showed the relief she felt. "He'll have to go to a hospital, though," continued the medical man. "His neck is badly strained, and so are the muscles of his shoulder. He won't be able to swing on a trapeze for a week or so." Bill Watson whistled a low note. He knew what it meant for a circus performer to be laid up. "Please take him to a hospital," cried Helen impulsively, "and see that he has a good physician and a nurse--I mean, you look after him yourself," she added quickly, as she saw the doctor smiling at her. "And have a trained nurse for him. I'll pay the bill," she went on. "I'm so glad that money came to me. I'll use some of it for Joe." "She just inherited a little fortune," explained Bill in a whispered aside to the medical man. "They're quite fond of each other--those two." "So it seems. Well, he'll need a nurse and medical treatment for a while to come. I'll go and arrange to have him taken to the hospital. Has he any friends that ought to be notified--not that he is going to die, but they might like to know." "I guess he hasn't any friends but us here in the circus. His father and mother are dead, and he ran away from his foster-father--a good thing, too, I guess. Well, the show will have to go on and leave him here, I suppose." "Oh, yes, certainly. He can't travel with you." The ambulance came and took Joe away. Jim Tracy communicated with the hospital authorities, ordering them to give the young trapeze performer the best possible care in a private room, adding that the management would pay the bill. "That has already been taken care of," the superintendent of the hospital informed the ring-master. "A Miss Morton has left funds for Mr. Strong's case." "Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Jim Tracy. Then he smiled. The circus neared its close. The animal tent came down, the lions, tigers, horses and elephants were taken to their cars. The performers donned their street clothes and went to their sleeping cars. Helen, Benny Turton and Bill Watson paid a visit to the hospital just before it was time for the circus train to leave. Joe had not recovered consciousness, but he was resting easily, the nurse said. "Tell him to join the show whenever he is able," was the message Jim Tracy had left for Joe, "and not to worry. Everything will be all right." "Good-bye," whispered Helen close to Joe's ear, But he did not hear her. And the circus moved on, leaving stricken Joe behind. It was nearly morning when he came out of his unconsciousness with a start that shook the bed. "Quiet now," said the soothing voice of the nurse. Joe looked at her, wonder showing in his eyes. Then his gaze roved around the hospital room. He looked down at the white coverings on his enameled bed and then, realizing where he was, he asked: "What happened?" "You had a fall from your trapeze, they tell me," the nurse said. "Oh, yes, I remember now. Am I badly hurt?" "The doctor does not think so. But you must be quiet now. You are to take this." She held a glass of medicine to his lips. "But I must know about it," Joe insisted. "I've got to go on with the show. Has the circus left?" "Hours ago, yes. It's all right. You are to stay here with us until you are better. A Mr. Tracy told me to tell you." "Oh, yes, Jim--the ring-master. Well I--I guess I'll have to stay whether I want to or not." Joe had tried to raise his head from the pillow, but a severe pain, shooting through his neck and shoulders, warned him that he had better lie quietly. He also became aware that his head was bandaged. "I must be in pretty bad shape," he said. "No, not so very," replied the trained nurse cheerfully. "But you must keep quiet if you are to get well quickly. The doctor will be in to see you soon." Joe sunk into a sort of doze, and when he awakened again the doctor was in his room. "Well, how about me?" asked the young performer. "You might be a whole lot worse," replied the medical man with a smile. "It's just a bad wrench and sprain. You'll be lame and sore for maybe two weeks, but eventually you'll be able to go back, risking your neck again." "Oh, there's not such an awful lot of risks," Joe said. "This was just an accident--my first of any account. I can't understand how my hands slipped off the bar. Guess I didn't put enough resin on them. How long will I be here?" "Oh, perhaps a week--maybe less." "Did they bring my pocketbook--I mean my money?" "You don't have to worry about that," said the doctor. "It has all been attended to. A Miss Morton made all the arrangements." "Oh," was all Joe said, but he did a lot of thinking. Joe's injury was more painful than serious. His sore muscles had to be treated with liniment and electricity, and often massaged. This took time, but in less than a week he was able to be out of bed and could sit in an easy chair, out on one of the verandas. Of course Joe wrote to Helen as soon as he could, thanking her and his other friends for what they had done for him. In return he received a letter from Helen, telling him how she--and all of the circus folk--missed him. There was also a card from Benny Turton, and a note from Jim Tracy, telling Joe that his place was ready for him whenever he could come back. But he was not to hurry himself. They had put no one in his place on the bill, simply cutting his act out. The Lascalla Brothers worked with another trapeze performer, who gave up his own act temporarily to take Joe's position. "Well, I guess everything will be all right," reflected our hero. "But I'll join the show again as soon as I can." Joe was sitting on the sunny veranda one afternoon in a sort of doze. Other convalescent patients were near him, and he had been listening, rather idly, to their talk. He was startled to hear one man say: "Well, I'd have been all right, and I could have my own automobile now, if I hadn't been foolish enough to speculate in oil stocks." "What kind did you buy?" another patient asked. "Oh, one of those advertised so much--they made all sorts of claims for it, and I was simple enough to believe them. I put every cent I had saved up in the Circle City Oil Syndicate, and now I can whistle for my cash--just when I need it too, with hospital and doctor bills to pay." "Can't you get any of it back?" "I don't think so. In fact I'd sell my stock now for a dollar a share and be glad to get it. I paid twenty-five. Well, it can't be helped." Joe looked up and looked over at the speaker. He was a middle-aged man, and he recognized him as a patient who had come in for treatment for rheumatism. Joe wondered whether he had heard aright. "The Circle City Oil Syndicate," mused Joe. "That's the one Helen has her money in--or, rather, the one that San ford put her money in for her. I wonder if it can be the same company. I must find out, and if it is----" Joe did not know just what he would do. What he had overheard caused him to be vaguely uneasy. His old suspicions came back to him. CHAPTER XXII BAD NEWS Joe Strong waited until he had a chance to speak privately to the man who had admitted losing money in oil stocks. This hospital patient was a Mr. Anton Buchard, and his room was not far from Joe's. "Excuse me," began the young trapeze performer in opening the talk. "But a short time ago I happened to overhear what you were telling your friend about some oil stocks--the Circle City Syndicate. I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't help hearing what you were saying." "Oh, don't let that part worry you," said Mr. Buchard. "It's no secret that I lost my money in that wild-cat speculation. But are you interested in it?" "To a certain extent I am," Joe answered. "I hope you didn't buy any of the worthless stock." "No, but a friend of mine was induced to. That is--er--she--she has some stock of the Circle City Oil Syndicate. It may not be the same as that you were speaking of." "No, that is true. There are many oil concerns in the market, and lots of them are legitimate, and are making money. But there are plenty of others which are frauds. And the one I invested in is that kind. "Of course, as you say, it may not be the same as that in which your friend holds stock, even if it has the same name. Would you know any of the officers or directors of the concern in which your friend holds stock?" "I'm afraid not," Joe replied. "I did not see her stock certificates. She bought them through a law clerk named Sanford." Mr. Buchard shook his head. "I don't recognize that name," he said. "But of course anybody could sell the stock. How did your friend ever come to be interested in this concern?" Thereupon Joe told of Helen's inheritance, mentioning the fact that he and she both were in the circus. "The circus, eh!" exclaimed the man. "Well, now that's interesting! I remember, when I was a boy, it was my great ambition to run away and join a circus. But I dare say it isn't such a life of roses as I imagined." "There's plenty of hard work," Joe told him, "and then something like this is likely to happen to you at any time--especially if you are on the trapeze," and he motioned to the bandages still around his neck and shoulders. "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mr. Buchard, when Joe had finished telling of Helen's fortune. "I'm going out of here in a couple of days. I'm getting much better--that is until the next attack. I'll get out my worthless certificates of stock in the Circle City Oil Syndicate, and bring you one. You can then see the names of the officers and directors, and can compare them with the names on Miss Morton's stock. If they are the same it's pretty sure to be the same company." "And if it is," asked Joe, "would you advise her to sell out?" "Sell out! My dear boy, I only hope she will be able to. I wish I had known in time--I'd have sold out quickly enough. I never should have bought the stuff. But it's too late to worry about that now. The money is lost. "Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll bring you a stock certificate and you can compare it with Miss Morton's when you see her. Are you going out soon?" "In a few days, I hope. I want to get back to the circus." "I don't blame you. It isn't very cheerful here, though they do the best they can for you." Mr. Buchard was as good as his word. The day after he left the hospital he came back to call on Joe. "Here's a certificate," he said, handing over an elaborately engraved yellow-backed sheet of paper. "Take it with you, and show it to Miss Morton." "Thank you," the young trapeze performer responded. "I'll mail yours back to you as soon as I've compared the names." "Oh, you don't need to do that," said Mr. Buchard with a rueful laugh. "It isn't worth the price of a good cigar." Joe wrote to Helen, telling her he would soon be with the circus again, but he did not mention the stock certificate. "There'll be time enough to tell her when I find out if it's the same concern," he reasoned. "It may not be. After all, the stock Sanford sold her may be valuable." But Joe's hope was a faint one. The day came when he was able to leave the hospital. He found that not only had all bills been paid, but that there was an allowance to his credit. Helen had thought he would need money to travel with, and had left him a sum. "Of course I'll pay her back when I get the chance," Joe reflected. "The circus will pay the hospital and doctor's bills--they always do. And I've got money enough saved up to pay Helen back." Joe was really making a good salary, and he was careful of his money, not wasting it as some of the more reckless performers did. He said good-bye to his nurse, to the orderlies and to the physician who had attended him. "Now don't try to rush things," the doctor warned Joe. "You must favor your neck and shoulder muscles for a couple of weeks yet. They will be lame and sore if you don't. Take it easy, and gradually work up to your former exploits. If you do that you'll be all right." Joe promised to be careful, and then, with the stock certificate safely in his pocket--though it was of no value, he reflected--he set out to rejoin the circus, which had moved on several hundred miles since his accident. "I wonder if she'll lose her money," mused Joe, as he rode on in the train. "It would be too bad if she did. Of course it isn't all in this oil syndicate, but enough of it is to make a big hole in her little fortune. Hang it all, if this oil stock turns out bad I'll take that Sanford up to the top of the tent and drop him off." He smiled grimly at this novel form of revenge. But really he was very much in earnest. "Something will have to be done," Joe decided. But he did not know just what. In due time he reached the town where the circus was showing. As Joe's train pulled in he saw, on a siding, the big yellow cars, with the name Sampson Brothers painted on their sides. There were the flat vehicles on which the big animal cages stood, box cars for the horses and elephants and the sleeping cars in which the company traveled. "Oh, but it's good to get back!" exclaimed Joe. The parade was in progress as he walked along the main street. He did not stop to watch it, having seen it often enough. Besides he was anxious to talk to Helen, and he knew he would find her at the tent at this hour, since she was not in the parade. As Joe turned in at the circus lots he saw several of the attendants and canvasmen. "Hello!" they called cheerily. "Glad to see you with us again!" "And I'm glad to be back!" Joe exclaimed heartily. "How's everything?" "Oh, fine." "Had any trouble?" "Not much since you had yours. Had to shoot Princess a couple of towns back." "You mean the lioness?" "Yes. She went on a rampage and there was nearly a bad accident, so we had to kill her." "Too bad," remarked Joe, for he knew what a loss it meant to a show when a fine animal, such as Princess was, must be disposed of. "Still it was better than to have her kill her trainer or some one," he added. "That's right," agreed a canvasman. Joe passed on to the dressing tent. Helen saw him coming and ran to meet him. "Oh, Joe!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad to see you! Are you all right again?" "Quite, thank you. I'm a little lame and stiff yet, but I'll soon get limbered up when I get in my tights and feel myself swinging from a trapeze." "Oh, but you must be careful, Joe."' "I will. I don't want to have another accident. And now about yourself. How have you been?" "Fine." "And Rosebud?" "The same as ever. I've taught him a new trick. I must show you. I haven't put it on in public yet." "I shall like to see him. Well, you haven't had any more fortunes left to you, have you?" "No, indeed. I wish I had. But I can increase what I have." "How?" "Just buy more oil stock. I had a letter from Mr. Sanford, saying he could get me some more. It's going up in price; so he advised me to buy at once." "Are you going to?" "Would you?" Helen asked. "I'll tell you later," Joe answered. "Have you one of the stock certificates you did buy?" "Yes. In my trunk. Do you want to see it?" Joe did and said so. Helen got it for him and Joe compared it with the one the man in the hospital had given him. His heart sank as he saw that the names of the officers and directors were the same. The Circle City Oil Syndicate was a failure. Joe's face must have reflected his emotions, for Helen asked him: "What's the matter? Is anything wrong?" "I am afraid I have bad news for you," Joe replied. "In what way? You're not going to----" "It's about your stock. I'm sorry to tell you that your oil stock is worthless--part of your fortune is gone, Helen!" CHAPTER XXIII HELEN GOES Helen looked dazed for a few seconds. She stared at Joe as though she did not understand what he had said. She looked at the oil stock certificates in his hand. Joe continued to regard them dubiously. "Worthless--my investment worthless?" Helen asked, after a bit. "That's what I'm afraid of," Joe replied. "Of course I don't know much about stocks, bonds and so on, but a man said this stock certificate wasn't worth the price of a good cigar," and he held up the one the hospital patient had given him. "Yours is the same kind, Helen, I'm sorry to say." "How do you know, Joe? Let me see them." Joe gave her the two papers--elaborately printed, and lavishly enough engraved to be government money, but aside from that worthless. Then Joe told of the incident in the hospital--how he had accidentally heard the man speak of the Circle City Oil Syndicate, and the conversation that followed. "If what he says is true, Helen, your money is gone," Joe finished. "Yes, I'm afraid so." she said slowly. "Oh, dear, isn't it too bad? And I was just thinking how nice it would be if I could increase my fortune. Now I am likely to lose it. I wish I had known more about business. I'd never have let this man fool me." "I wish I had, too," remarked Joe. "Then I'd have advised you not to risk your money in oil. But perhaps it isn't too late yet." "What do you mean?" "I mean we may be able to sell back this stock. Of course it would hardly be right to sell it to an innocent person, who did not know of its worthlessness, for then they would lose also. But I mean the Syndicate might buy it back, rather than have it become known that the concern was worthless. I don't know much about such things." "Neither do I," agreed Helen. "I'll tell you what let's do, Joe. Let's ask Bill Watson. He use to be in business before he became a clown, and he might tell us what to do." "A good idea," commented Joe. "We'll do it." The old clown was in the dressing room, but he came out when Helen and Joe summoned him, half his face "made up," with streaks of red, white and blue grease paint. "Oh, Bill, we're in such trouble!" cried Helen, "Trouble!" exclaimed Bill. The word seemed hardly to fit in with his grotesque character. "What trouble?" "It's about my money," Helen went on. "I'm going to lose it all, Joe thinks." "Oh, not all!" exclaimed the young trapeze performer quickly. "Only what you invested in oil stock. Here's the story, Bill," and Joe related his part of it, Helen supplying the information needed from her end. "Now," went on Joe, as he concluded, "what we want to know is--can Helen save any of this oil money?" Bill Watson was silent a moment. Then he slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he answered. "Money invested in wild-cat oil wells is seldom recovered. Of course you could bring a lawsuit against this Sanford, but the chances are he's skipped out by this time." "Oh, no, he hasn't," Helen exclaimed. "I had a letter from him only the other day. He asked me if I didn't want to buy some more stock. I know where to find him." Once more the veteran clown shook his head. "He might allow you to find him if he thought you were bringing him more cash for his worthless schemes," he said, "but if he found out you wanted to serve papers on him in a suit, or to get hold of him to make him give back the money he took from you, Helen, that would be a different story. I'm afraid you wouldn't see much of Mr. Sanford then. He'd be mighty scarce." "Could we sell back the stock to the oil company?" Joe wanted to know. "Hardly," answered the clown. "They make that stock to sell to the public, and they never buy it back unless there's a chance for them to make money. And, according to Joe's tale, there isn't in this case." "Not by what that man said," affirmed the young trapeze performer. "I suppose the only thing to do," went on the old clown, "would be to give the case into the hands of a good lawyer, and let him see what he could do with it. Turn over the stock to him, give him power to act for you, Helen, and wait for what comes. You'll be traveling on with the show, and you can't do much, nor Joe either, though I know he would help you if he could, and so would I." "That's what!" exclaimed Joe heartily. "I'll do just as you say," agreed Helen. "But it does seem too bad to lose my money, and I counted on doing so much with it. But it can't be helped." She was more cheerful over it than Joe thought she would be. He suspected that she had not altogether lost hope, but as for himself Joe counted the money gone, and it was not a small sum to lose. "Come on, Helen," he said. "I noticed a lawyer's office on the main street as I was looking at the parade. We'll go there and get him to take the case. We'll be out of here to-night and we can leave matters in his hands, with instructions to send us word when he has the money back." "And I'm afraid you'll never get that word," said the old clown. There was time enough before the afternoon performance for Joe and Helen to pay a visit to the law office. Joe also reported to Jim Tracy, who was glad to see him. "I don't want you to get on the trapeze to-day," said the ring-master. "Take a little light practice first for a few days. And do all you can for her," he added in a low voice, motioning to Helen. "I sure will!" Joe exclaimed fervently. The lawyer listened to the story as Joe and Helen told it to him, and agreed to take the case against Sanford and the Circle City Oil Syndicate for a small fee. "I'll do the best I can," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't promise you much in results. Let me have the papers and your future address." Joe put on his suit of tights for that afternoon, though he did not take part in the trapeze work. He fancied that the Lascalla Brothers were not very glad to see him, but this may have been fancy, for they were cordial enough as far as words went. "Maybe they thought I would be laid up permanently," reasoned Joe. "Then they could have their former partner back. I wonder if he's been around lately?" He made some inquiries, but no one had noticed Sim Dobley hanging about the lots as he had done shortly after his discharge. Nor had there been, as Joe had a faint suspicion there might be, any connection between the train wreck and the discharged employee. "I don't believe Sim would be so desperate as to wreck a train just to get even with me," decided Joe. "I guess it was just a coincidence. He only wrote that threatening letter as a bluff." Helen Morton did not allow her distress over the prospective loss of her money to interfere with her circus act. She put Rosebud through his paces in the ring, and received her share of applause at the antics of the clever horse. Helen did a new little trick--the one she had told Joe about. She tossed flags of different nations to different parts of the ring, and then told Rosebud to fetch them to her, one after the other, calling for them by name. The intelligent horse made no mistakes, bringing the right flag each time. "And now," said Helen at the conclusion of her act, "show me what all good little children do when they go to bed at night." Rosebud bent his forelegs and bowed his head between them as if he were saying his prayers. "That's a good horse!" ejaculated Helen. "Now come and get your sugar and give me a kiss," and the animal daintily picked up a lump of the sweet stuff from Helen's hand, and then lightly touched her cheek with his velvety muzzle. Then with a leap the pretty young rider vaulted into the saddle and rode out of the ring amid applause. "You're doing beautifully, Helen!" was Joe's compliment, as Helen rode out. "I may be all right on a horse," she answered, "but I don't know much about money and business." The show moved on that night, and the next day, when the tent was set up, Joe indulged in light practice. He found the soreness almost gone, and as he worked alone, and with the Lascalla Brothers, his stiffness also disappeared. "I think I'll go on to-night," he told the ring-master. "All right, Joe. We'll be glad to have you, of course. But don't take any chances." Mail was distributed among the circus folk that day following the afternoon performance. Joe had letters from some people to whom he had written in regard to his mother's relatives in England. One gave him the address of a London solicitor, as lawyers are designated over there, and Joe determined to write to him. "Though I guess my chances of getting an inheritance are pretty slim," he told Helen. "I'm not lucky, like you." "I hope you don't call me lucky!" she exclaimed. "Having money doesn't do me any good. I lose it as fast as I get it." She had a letter from her lawyer, stating that he had looked further into the case since she had left the papers with him, and that he had less hope than ever of ever being able to get back the cash paid for the oil stock. Joe did not intend to work in any new tricks the first evening of his reappearance after the accident. But when he got started he felt so well after his rest and his light practice, that he made up his mind he would put on a couple of novelties. Not exactly novelties, either, for they are known to most gymnasts though not often done in a circus. Joe went up to the top of the tent. Near the small platform, from which he jumped in the long swing, to catch Tonzo Lascalla in the trapeze, Joe had fastened a long cotton rope about two inches in diameter. He caught hold of the rope in both hands and passed it between his thighs, letting it rest on the calf of his left leg. He then brought the rope around over the instep of his left foot, holding it in position with pressure by the right foot, which was pressed against the left. "Here I come!" Joe cried, and then, letting go with his hands, Joe stretched out his arms, and came down the rope in that fashion, the pressure of his feet on the rope that passed between them regulating his speed. It was a more difficult feat than it appeared, this descending a rope without using one's hands, but it seemed to thrill the crowd sufficiently. But Joe had not finished. He knew another spectacular act in rope work, which looked difficult and dangerous, and yet was easier to perform than the one he had just done. Often in trapeze work this is the case. The spectator may be thrilled by some seemingly dangerous and risky act, when, as a matter of fact, it is easy for the performer, who thinks little of it. On the other hand that which often seems from the circus seats to be very easy may be so hard on the muscles and nerves as to be actually dreaded by the performer. Having himself hauled up to the top of the tent again, Joe once more took hold of the rope. He held himself in position, the rope between his legs, which he thrust out at right angles to his body, his toes pointing straight out. Suddenly he "circled back" to an inverted hang, his head now pointing to the ground many feet below. Then he quickly passed the rope about his waist, under his right armpit, crossed his feet with the rope between them, the toes of the right foot pressing the cotton strands against the arch of his left foot. "Ready!" cried Joe. There was a boom of the big drum, a ruffle of the snare, and Joe slid down the rope head first with outstretched arms, coming to a sudden stop with his head hardly an inch from the hard ground. But Joe knew just what he was doing and he could regulate his descent to the fraction of an inch by the pressure of his legs and feet on the rope. There was a yell of delight from the audience at this feat, and Joe, turning right side up, acknowledged the ovation tendered him. Then he ran from the tent--his part in the show being over. For a week the circus showed, moving from town to city. It was approaching the end of the season. The show would soon go into winter quarters, and the performers disperse until summer came again. Helen had heard nothing favorable from the lawyer, and she and Joe had about given up hope of getting back the money. The circus had reached a good-sized city in the course of its travels, and was to play there two days. On the afternoon of the first day, just before the opening of the performance, Joe went to Helen's tent to speak to her about something. "She isn't here," Mrs. Talfo, the fat lady, told him. "She's gone." "Gone!" echoed Joe. "Isn't she going to play this afternoon?" "I believe not--no." "But where did she go?" "You'll have to ask Jim Tracy. I saw her talking to him. She seemed quite excited about something." "I wonder if anything could have happened," mused Joe. "They couldn't have discharged her. That act's too good. But it looks funny. She wouldn't have left of her own accord without saying good-bye. I wonder what happened." CHAPTER XXIV JOE FOLLOWS Some little time elapsed before Joe found a chance to speak to Jim Tracy. There had been a slight accident to one of the circus wagons in unloading from the train for that day's show, and the ring-master was kept very busy. One of the elephants was slightly hurt also. But finally the confusion was straightened out, and our hero had a chance to ask the question that was troubling him. "What had become of Helen?" "Why, I don't know where she went," Jim Tracy said. "She came to me almost as soon as we got in this morning, and wanted to know if she could have the afternoon off." "Cut out her act?" Joe asked. "That's it. Of course I didn't want to lose her out of the show, but as long as we're going to be here two days, and considering the fact that she hadn't had a day off since the show started out this season, I said she might go. And so she went--at least I suppose she did." "Yes, she's gone," Joe replied. "But where?" Jim Tracy did not know and said so. He was too busy to talk much more about it. "She'll be back in time for the evening performance--that's all I know," he told Joe. The young trapeze' performer sought out the old clown and told him what had taken place. "Helen gone!" exclaimed Bill. "That's queer!" "I thought maybe you'd know about it, Bill." "Me? No, not a thing. She never said a word to me. Are you sure you and she didn't have any--er--little tiff?" "Of course not!" and Joe blushed under his tan. "She didn't tell me she was going." "Oh, well, she'll be back to-night, Jim says. I guess she's all right. Now I've got to get busy." But Joe was not satisfied. It was not like Helen to go off in this way, and he felt there was something strange about it. "I do hope she isn't going to try to make any more investments with her money--that is with what she has left," he mused. "Maybe she heard of some other kind of stock she can buy, and she thinks from the profits of that she can make up for what she is sure to lose in the oil investment. Poor Helen! It certainly is hard luck!" Joe thought so much of his new theory that he visited the circus treasurer with whom Helen had left some of her money. "No, it's here in the safe--what she left with me," the treasurer said. "Too bad about her losing that nice sum, wasn't it? It will take her quite a while to save that much." "I wish I had hold of the law clerk who tricked her into buying the oil stock," said Joe with energy. "I'd make him eat the certificates, and then I'd--well, I don't know what I would do." "But you haven't got him," said the treasurer, "and I guess their kind take good care to keep out of the way of those they've swindled." "I guess so," Joe agreed. There was nothing he could do at present, and he had soon to go on with his act. But Joe Strong made up his mind if Helen were not back early to make a thorough search for her. "That is if I can get any trace of her," he went on. "She may run into danger without knowing it, for she hasn't had much experience in life, even if she is a circus rider." Joe was himself again now. His muscles seemed to have benefited by the rest, and the young trapeze performer went through all his old acts, alone and with the Lascalla Brothers, and Joe also put on one or two new things, or, rather, variations of old ones. In one part of his performance he balanced himself upon his neck and shoulders on a trapeze high up in the top of the tent. He was almost standing upon his head. While this is not difficult for a performer to do when the trapeze is stationary it is not easy when the apparatus is swinging. Joe was going to try that. A ring hand pulled on a light rope attached to the trapeze on which Joe was thus balanced on his neck and set the bar and ropes in motion. They moved slowly, and through only a short arc at first. But in a little while Joe, in his perilous position, was executing a long swing. His feet were pressed against the ropes and his hands were on his hips. He balanced his body instinctively in this posture. But this was not all of the trick. When the trapeze was swinging as high as he wanted it, Joe suddenly brought his legs together. For an instant he poised there on the bar, supporting himself on his neck and shoulders, as straight as an arrow. Then, with a shout to warn those below, he fell over in a graceful curve, and began a series of rapid somersaults in the air. Down he fell, the hushed attention of the big crowd being drawn to him. Just before reaching the life net, Joe straightened out and fell into the meshes feet first, bouncing out on a mat and from there bowing his thanks for the applause. Thus Joe brought his act to a close for that afternoon, and he was glad of it for he wanted to go out and see if Helen had returned. As soon as he had changed to his street clothes he sought her tent. The women of the circus dressed together, each one in a sort of canvas screened apartment, and in the Sampson Brothers' Show they also had a sort of ante-room to the dressing tent, where they could receive their friends. There was no one in this room when Joe entered, save some of the maids which the higher-salaried circus women kept to help them dress, "make up" and so on. "Is Miss Morton in?" asked Joe of a maid who knew him. "No, Mr. Strong. I don't believe she has returned yet. I'll go and look in her room, though." The maid came back shaking her head. "She isn't there," she told Joe. "I wonder where she can be," he mused. "Why didn't she leave some word? Are you sure there wasn't a letter or anything on her trunk?" he inquired of the maid. "Well, I didn't look. You may go in if you like. I guess it will be all right." None of the performers were in the dressing tent then, being out in the big one doing their acts. Joe knew his way to Helen's room, having been there many times, for there would often be little impromptu gatherings in it to talk over circus matters between the acts. He looked about for a letter, thinking she might have left one for him before going away. He saw nothing addressed to himself, but on the ground, where it had evidently dropped, was an open note. Joe could not help reading it at a glance. To his surprise it was signed by Sanford, the tricky law clerk. "I shall be glad to see you if you will call on me when you reach Lyledale," the letter read. "I am glad you think of buying more stock. I have some to sell. I will be at the Globe Hotel." "Whew!" whistled Joe. "It's just as I feared. She's been doing business with Sanford again--trying to make good her loss on the oil stock. He has an appointment with her here in Lyledale. That's where she's gone--to meet him. She must have sold some of her other securities to get money to buy more stock. I must stop this. I've got to follow her. Poor Helen!" Joe had found out what he wanted to know by accident. Helen, he reasoned, must have received the letter that day, or perhaps the day before, and had planned to meet Sanford on reaching Lyledale where the circus was then playing. In order to do this she had to be excused from the afternoon performance. "But I'll put a stop to that deal if I can," Joe declared. "I'll tell her how foolish and risky it is to invest any more money with Sanford. I only hope she'll believe me." Joe's time was his own until the night performance. He decided he would at once follow Helen to the hotel and there remonstrate with her, if it were not too late. "Queer that she kept it a secret from all of us," remarked Joe as he started for town. "I guess she knew we'd try to stop her from throwing good money after bad, as they say. Well, now to see what luck I'll have." The Globe Hotel was the best and largest in town. Joe had no difficulty in finding it, and on inquiring at the desk was told that Mr. Sanford was a guest at the place. "He has two rooms," the clerk told Joe. "One he uses as an office, where he does business." "Oh, then he's been here before?" Joe asked. "Oh, yes, often. I don't know what his business is, but I think, he is a sort of stock and bond dealer." "More like a stock and bond swindler," thought Joe. "Mr. Sanford will see you in a few minutes," the bellboy reported to Joe, having come back from taking up our hero's card. "There's a lady in the office with him now." "A young lady?" Joe asked. "Yes," nodded the bellboy. "I'll go up now!" decided Joe. "I think he might just as well see me now as later." "Maybe he won't like it," the clerk warned him. "I don't care whether he likes it or not!" cried Joe. "It may be too late if I don't go up now. You needn't bother to announce me," he said to the bell-boy who offered to accompany Joe to show the way. "I guess I can find the room all right." Joe rode up in the elevator, and turned down the corridor leading to the two rooms occupied by Sanford. Pausing at the door of the outer room, Joe heard voices. He recognized one as Helen's. "She's there all right," mused Joe. "I hope I'm not too late!" He was about to enter when he heard Helen say: "Please give it back to me. It isn't fair to take advantage of me this way." "You went into this with your eyes open," Sanford replied. "It was a straight business deal, and I'm not to blame for the way it turned out. Now this stock----" Joe waited no longer. He fairly burst into the room, crying: "Helen, don't waste any more money on his worthless investments!" CHAPTER XXV THE LAST PERFORMANCE It would have been difficult to say who was the more surprised by the sudden entrance of Joe Strong--Helen or the law clerk. Both seemed startled. Once more Joe cried: "Helen, don't throw away any more of your money on his stocks!" "How dare you come in here?" demanded Sanford. "Never mind about that," answered Joe coolly. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to see you get any more of her money." "Oh, Joe. How did you know I was here?" asked Helen. "I didn't want any one to know I came." "I found out. I feared this was what you'd do." "Do what, Joe?" "Buy more stock in the hope of making good your losses on the Circle City investment." "But, Joe, I'm not doing that. I don't want to buy any more stock. I've had too much as it is." "Then what in the world did you come here for?" cried Sanford. "You intimated that you wanted more stock. That's why I met you here--to sell it to you." "Yes, I thought that's what you'd think," replied Helen, and she seemed less excited now than Joe Strong. "But what I came for was to sell you back these worthless oil certificates. I want my money back." "Well, you won't get it!" sneered the law clerk. "You bought that stock and now----" "Now she's going to sell it again," put in Joe. He seemed to understand the situation now. "Helen," he went on, "I think it would be well if you left this matter in my hands. If you'll just go downstairs and to the nearest police station and ask an officer to step around here, I think we can find something for him to do." "Police!" faltered Sanford. "Oh, well, perhaps we won't need one," said Joe coolly, "but it's always best, in matters of this kind, to have one on hand. It doesn't cost anything. Just get an officer, Helen, and wait downstairs with him. I'll have a little talk with Sanford." "Oh, Joe! I--I----!" "Now, Helen, you just leave this to me. Run along." Joe Strong seemed to dominate the situation. He displayed splendid nerve. Helen went slowly from the room. "The clerk will tell you where to find a policeman," Joe called to her. "You needn't tell him why one is needed. It may be that we shall get along without one, and there's no need of causing any excitement unless we have to." "Joe--Joe," faltered Helen. "You will be careful--won't you?" "Well," and Joe smiled quizzically, "I'll be as careful as he'll let me," and he nodded toward the law clerk. "What do you mean?" demanded Sanford, uneasily. "You'll see in a few minutes," said Joe calmly. When Helen went out Joe, with a quick movement, closed and locked the hall door. "What's that for?" cried Sanford. "So you won't get out before I'm through with you." The law clerk made a rush for Joe, endeavoring to push him to one side. But muscles trained on a typewriter or with a pen are no match for those used on the flying rings and trapeze. With a single motion of his hand Joe thrust the clerk aside, fairly forcing him into a chair. "Now then," said Joe calmly, "you and I will have a little talk. You needn't try to yell. If you do I'll stuff a bedspread in your mouth. And if you want to try conclusions with me physically--well, here you are!" With a quick motion Joe caught the fellow up, and raised him high in the air, over his head. "Oh--oh! Put me down! Put me down!" Sanford begged. "I--I'll fall!" "You won't fall as long as I have hold of you," chuckled Joe. "But there's no telling when I might let go. Now let's talk business." Trembling, Sanford found himself in the chair again. "Did you sell Miss Morton any more stock?" demanded Joe. "No--I--she--came here to buy, I thought, but----" "Well, as long as she didn't it's all right. Now then about that oil stock you got her to invest her money in--is that stock good?" "Why, of course it----" "Isn't!" interrupted Joe, "and you knew it wasn't when you sold it to her. Now then I want you to take that stock back and return her money. And I don't want you to sell that stock to some other person, either. You just tear it up. It's worthless, and you know it. I want Miss Morton's money back for her." "I haven't it!" whined the clerk. "Then you know where to get it. I fancy if I tell Mr. Pike, of your law firm, what you've been up to----" "Oh, don't tell him! Don't tell him!" whined the clerk. "He doesn't know anything about it. I--I just did this as a side line. If you tell him I'll lose my position and----" "Well, I'll tell him all right, if you don't give back Miss Morton's money!" said Joe grimly. "I tell you I haven't the cash." "Then you must get it. You've been doing business here before, the hotel clerk tells me. Come now--hand over the cash--get it--and I'll let you go, though perhaps I shouldn't. If you don't pay up--well, the officer ought to be downstairs waiting for you now. Come!" cried Joe sharply. "Which is it to be--the money or jail?" Sanford looked around like a cornered rat seeking a means of escape. There was none. Joe, big and powerful, stood between him and the door. "Well?" asked Joe significantly. "I--I'll pay her back the money," faltered Sanford. "But I'll have to go out to get it." "Oh, no, you won't," said Joe cheerfully. "If you went out you might forget to come back. Here's a telephone--just use that." Sanford sighed. His last chance was gone. Just what or to whom he telephoned does not concern us. But in the course of an hour or so a messenger called with money enough to make good all Helen had risked in oil stock. The cash was handed to her. "Here, you keep it for me, Joe," she said. "I don't seem to know how to manage my fortune." "What about those stock certificates?" asked Sanford. "I want them back." "They are worthless, by your own confession," replied Joe, "and you're not going to fool some one else on them. "We'll just keep them for souvenirs, eh, Helen?" "Just as you say, Joe," she answered with a blush. Sanford blustered, but to no purpose. He was beaten at his own game, and the fear of exposure and arrest brought him to terms. "But you shouldn't have gone to him alone, Helen," remonstrated Joe, when they were on their way back to the circus with the recovered cash. "Well, I'd been so foolish as to lose my money, that I wanted to see if I couldn't get it back again," she said. "I didn't want any of you to help me, as I'd already given trouble enough." "Trouble!" cried Joe. "We would have been only too glad to help you." "Well, you did it in spite of me," Helen said, with a smile. "I did not intend you should know where I had gone. How did you find out?" "I saw a letter you dropped in the tent, and I followed. But how did you happen to locate Sanford?" "By adopting just what Bill Watson said was the only plan. I made believe I wanted to buy more stock. Bill said that was the only way to catch Sanford. If I had tried to find him to get my money back he would have kept out of my way. But when he thought I might have more cash for him, he wrote and told me where I could find him. So I just waited until our show came here and then I called on Mr. Sanford. "I was just begging him to give me back the money for the oil stock when you came in on us, Joe." "Well, I'm glad I did." "So am I. I hardly think he'd have paid me if it had not been for you. How did you make him settle?" "Oh, I just sort of 'held him up' for it," but Joe did not explain the way he had actually "held up" the swindler. "I'm so glad to get my money back!" Helen sighed as they reached the circus grounds, over which dusk was settling, for it was now early fall. "And I'm glad, too," added Joe. "Then next time you buy oil stock----" "There'll not be any next time," laughed Helen, as she went to give Rosebud his customary lumps of sugar. And that night, in the Sampson Brother's Show, there was an impromptu little celebration over the recovery of Helen's money. Later Joe learned that Sanford gave up his place in the law office. Perhaps the swindler was afraid Mr. Pike would find out about his underhand transactions. Sanford, it seemed, had done some law business for the oil company, and they let him sell some of the worthless stock for himself, allowing him to keep the money--that is what Joe did not make him pay back. It was the night of the final performance. The performers went through their acts with new snap and daring, for it was the last time some of them would face the public until the following season. A few would secure engagements for the winter in theatres, but most of them would winter with the circus. When the tents came down this time they would be shipped to Bridgeport, where many shows go into winter quarters. "Well, Joe," remarked Helen, as she came out of the ring just as Joe finished his last thrilling feat, "what are you going to do? Will you be with us next season?" "I don't know. I've had several offers to go with hippodrome exhibitions, and on a theatrical circuit." "Oh, then you are going to leave us?" Joe looked at Helen. There seemed to be a new light in her eyes. And though she was smiling, there was something of disappointment showing on her face. With parted lips she gazed at Joe. "I thought perhaps you would stay," she murmured, her eyes downcast. "I--I guess I will!" said Joe in a low voice. "This is a pretty good circus after all." And so Joe stayed. And what he did in the show will be related in the next volume of this series, to be called: "Joe Strong, the Boy Fish; Or, Marvelous Doings in a Big Tank." The chariots rattled their final dusty way around the big tent. The "barkers" came in to sell tickets for the "grand concert." The animal tent was already down for the last time that season. With the ending of the concert the bugler blew "taps." The torches went out. "Good night, Joe," said Helen. "Good night, Helen," he answered, and as they clasped hands in the darkness we will say good-bye to Joe Strong. The End 
31371	----	THE LITTLE CLOWN BY THOMAS COBB AUTHOR OF 'THE BOUNTIFUL LADY,' 'COOPER'S FIRST TERM,' ETC. LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS 1901 _CONTENTS_ 1. _How it began_ 2. _Jimmy goes to London_ 3. _At Aunt Selina's_ 4. _Aunt Selina at Home_ 5. _At the Railway Station_ 6. _The Journey_ 7. _Jimmy is taken into Custody_ 8. _Jimmy runs away_ 9. _The Circus_ 10. _On the Road_ 11. _Jimmy runs away again_ 12. _Jimmy sleeps in a Windmill_ 13. _The Last_ The Little Clown CHAPTER I HOW IT BEGAN Jimmy was nearly eight years of age when these strange things happened to him. His full name was James Orchardson Sinclair Wilmot, and he had been at Miss Lawson's small school at Ramsgate since he was six. There were only five boys besides himself, and Miss Roberts was the only governess besides Miss Lawson. The half-term had just passed, and they did not expect to go home for the Christmas holidays for another four or five weeks, until one day Miss Lawson became very ill, and her sister, Miss Rosina, was sent for. It was on Friday that Miss Rosina told the boys that she had written to their parents and that they would all be sent home on Tuesday, and no doubt Jimmy might have felt as glad as the rest if he had had a home to be sent to. But the fact was that he had never seen his father or mother--or at least he had no recollection of them. And he had never seen his sister Winnie, who was born in the West Indies. One of the boys had told Jimmy she must be a little black girl, and Jimmy did not quite know whether to believe him or not. When he was two years of age, his father and mother left England, and although that was nearly six years ago, they had not been back since. Jimmy had lived with his Aunt Ellen at Chesterham until he came to school, but afterwards his holidays were spent with another uncle and aunt in London. His mother wrote to him every month, nice long letters, which Jimmy always answered, although he did not always know quite what to say to her. But last month there had come no letter, and the month before that Mrs. Wilmot had said something about seeing Jimmy soon. When he heard the other boys talk about their fathers and mothers and sisters it seemed strange that he did not know what his own were like. For you cannot always tell what a person is like from her photograph; and although his mother looked young and pretty in hers, Jimmy did not know whether she was tall or short or dark or fair, but sometimes, especially after the gas was turned out at night, he felt that he should very much like to know. On Monday evening, whilst Jimmy was sitting at the desk in the school-room sticking some postage-stamps in his Album, he was told to go to the drawing-room, where he found Miss Rosina sitting beside a large fire. 'Is your name Wilmot?' she asked, for she had not learnt all the boys' names yet. 'James Orchardson Sinclair Wilmot,' he answered. 'A long name for such a small boy,' said Miss Rosina. 'It is very strange,' she continued, 'that all the boys' parents have answered my letters but yours.' 'Mine couldn't answer,' said Jimmy. 'Why not?' asked Miss Rosina. 'Because they live such a long way off.' 'I remember,' said Miss Rosina; 'it was to your uncle that I wrote. I asked him to send someone to meet you at Victoria Station at one o'clock to-morrow. But he has not answered my letter, and it is very inconvenient.' 'Is it?' asked Jimmy solemnly, with his eyes fixed on her face. 'Why, of course it is,' said Miss Rosina. 'Suppose I don't have a letter before you start to-morrow morning! I shall not know whether any one is coming to meet you or not. And what would Miss Roberts do with you in that case?' 'I don't know,' answered Jimmy, beginning to look rather anxious. 'I'm sure I don't know either,' said Miss Rosina. 'But,' she added, 'I trust I may hear from your uncle before you start to-morrow morning.' 'I hope you will,' cried Jimmy; and he went back to the school-room wondering what would happen to him if his Uncle Henry did not write. Whilst the other boys were saying what wonderful things they intended to do during the holidays, he wished that his father and mother were in England the same as theirs. He could not go to sleep very early that night for thinking of to-morrow, and when the bell rang at seven o'clock the next morning he dressed quickly and came downstairs first to look for Miss Rosina. 'Please, have you had a letter from Uncle Henry yet?' he asked. 'No, I am sorry to say I have not,' was the answer. 'I cannot understand it at all. I am sure I don't know what is to be done with you.' 'Couldn't I stay here?' cried Jimmy. 'Certainly not,' said Miss Rosina. 'Why not?' asked Jimmy, who always liked to have a reason for everything. 'Because Miss Lawson is not going to keep a school any more. But,' exclaimed Miss Rosina, 'go to your breakfast, and I will speak to you again afterwards.' CHAPTER II JIMMY GOES TO LONDON As he sat at breakfast Jimmy saw a large railway van stop at the door, with a porter sitting on the board behind. The driver climbed down from his high seat in front, and the two men began to carry out the boxes. Jimmy saw his clothes-box carried out, then his play-box, so that he knew that he was to go to London with the rest, although Miss Rosina had not heard from his uncle. 'Jimmy,' said Miss Roberts after breakfast, 'Miss Rosina wants to see you in the drawing-room. You must go at once.' So he went to the drawing-room, tapped at the door, and was told to enter. 'It is very annoying that your uncle has not answered my letter,' said Miss Rosina, looking as angry as if Jimmy were to blame for it. 'He couldn't answer if he didn't get it,' cried Jimmy. 'Of course not,' said Miss Rosina, 'but I sincerely hope he did get it.' 'So do I,' answered Jimmy. 'Perhaps he will send to meet you although he has not written to say so,' said Miss Rosina. 'Perhaps he will,' replied Jimmy thoughtfully. 'But,' Miss Rosina continued, 'if he doesn't send to meet you, Miss Roberts must take you to his house in Brook Street in a cab.' 'Only suppose he isn't there!' exclaimed Jimmy. 'At all events the servants will be there.' 'Only suppose they're not!' 'Surely,' said Miss Rosina, 'they would not leave the house without any one in it!' 'If Uncle Henry and Aunt Mary have gone to France they might.' 'Do they often go to France?' asked Miss Rosina. 'They go sometimes,' said Jimmy, 'because Aunt Mary writes to me, and I've got the stamps in my Album. And then they leave the house empty and shut the shutters and put newspapers in all the windows, you know.' Whilst Jimmy stood on the hearth-rug, Miss Rosina sat in an arm-chair staring seriously at the fire. 'Have you any other relations in London?' she asked, a few moments later. 'No,' said Jimmy. 'Think, now,' she continued. 'Are you sure there is nobody?' 'At least,' cried Jimmy, 'there's only Aunt Selina.' 'Where does your Aunt Selina live?' asked Miss Rosina, looking a great deal more pleased than Jimmy felt. He put his small hands together behind his back, and took a step closer. 'Please,' he said, 'I--I don't want to go to Aunt Selina's.' 'Tell me where she lives,' answered Miss Rosina. 'I think it's somewhere called Gloucester Place,' said Jimmy;' but, please, I'd rather not go.' 'You silly child! You must go somewhere!' 'Yes, I know,' said Jimmy, 'but I'd rather not go to Aunt Selina's.' 'What is her number in Gloucester Place?' asked Miss Rosina. 'I don't know the number,' cried Jimmy much more cheerfully, because he thought that as he did not know the number, Miss Rosina could not very well send him to the house. 'What is your aunt's name? Is it Wilmot?' Miss Rosina asked. 'No, it isn't Wilmot,' said Jimmy. 'Do you know what it is?' she demanded, and Jimmy began to wish he didn't know; but Aunt Selina always wrote on his birthday, although it wasn't much use as she never sent him a present. 'Her name's Morton,' he answered. 'Mrs. Morton or Miss Morton?' 'Miss Morton, because she's never been married,' said Jimmy. 'Very well then,' was the answer, 'if nobody comes to meet you at Victoria Station, Miss Roberts will take you in a cab to Brook Street, and if your Uncle Henry is not there----' 'I hope he will be!' cried Jimmy. 'So do I,' Miss Rosina continued, 'because Miss Roberts will not have much time to spare. She will take you to Brook Street; but if the house is empty, then she will go on to Miss Morton's in Gloucester Place.' 'But how can she if she doesn't know the number?' said Jimmy. 'Miss Roberts will easily be able to find your aunt's house,' was the answer. 'Oh!' cried Jimmy in a disappointed tone, and then he was sent back to the other boys. When it was time to start to the railway station Miss Rosina went on first in a fly to take the tickets, and they found her waiting for them on the platform. They all got into a carriage, and Jimmy sat next to Miss Roberts, who asked him soon after the train started, why he looked so miserable. 'I do hope that Uncle Henry will send some one to meet me,' he answered. 'I hope so too,' said Miss Roberts, who was much younger than Miss Rosina, 'because I have to travel to the north of England, and it is a very long journey. I shall only just have time to drive to the other station to catch my train.' 'But suppose you don't catch it?' asked Jimmy. 'That would be extremely inconvenient,' she explained, 'because I should either have to travel all night or else to sleep at an hotel in London. But I hope your uncle will come to meet you.' Long before the train reached London, Jimmy began to look anxiously out at the window. Presently it stopped on a bridge over the Thames, and a man came to collect the tickets, and soon after the train moved on again Jimmy saw that he was at Victoria. The door was opened, and all the other boys jumped out, and whilst they were shaking hands with their fathers and mothers Jimmy stood alone on the platform. He looked wistfully at every face in the small crowd, but he did not know one of them, and it was plain that nobody had been sent to meet him. He followed Miss Roberts towards the luggage van and saw his own boxes taken out with the rest, and then one by one the boys got into cabs and were driven away, and Jimmy began to feel more miserable than ever. His boxes stood beside Miss Roberts's, and she looked up and down the platform almost as anxiously as the boy, for she was in a great hurry to go. 'Well, Jimmy,' she said, 'nobody seems to have come for you.' 'No,' answered Jimmy. 'It is really very annoying!' cried Miss Roberts, looking at her watch. 'Perhaps Uncle Henry has made a mistake in the time,' said Jimmy. 'I think the best thing we can do is to take a cab to Brook Street,' was the answer. 'Mightn't we wait just a little longer?' he asked. 'No,' said Miss Roberts, 'we have lost quite enough time already. Hi! Cab!' she exclaimed, and a four-wheeled cab was driven up beside the boxes. Then a porter lifted these, one by one, and put them on top of the cab. 'Get in,' said Miss Roberts, and with a last glance along the platform, Jimmy entered the cab and sat down. Then Miss Roberts stepped in also, the old cab-horse started, and Jimmy was driven out of the gloomy railway station. 'I hope Uncle Henry will be at home,' he said presently. 'So do I,' answered Miss Roberts. 'I have not a minute to spare.' 'Perhaps you won't have time to take me to Aunt Selina's!' exclaimed Jimmy. 'What do you suppose I am to do with you then?' she asked. 'I don't know,' he said; 'only I don't want to go there!' 'I am sure I don't want to have to take you there,' was the answer, as the cab passed Hyde Park. Jimmy had been the same way every holiday since he had gone to Miss Lawson's school, so that he knew he was drawing near to Brook Street. As the cab turned the corner, he put his head out at the window and looked anxiously for his uncle's house. 'Oh!' he cried, drawing it in again. 'What is the matter?' asked Miss Roberts. 'I believe the shutters are up,' said Jimmy. CHAPTER III AT AUNT SELINA'S Jimmy was quite right. Miss Roberts leaned forward to put her head out at the window on his side of the cab, and she saw that every shutter was shut, and that there was a sheet of newspaper in each window. 'What a nuisance!' she exclaimed, sitting down again as the horse stopped. The cabman got down to open the door, and Jimmy jumped out, on to the pavement. 'I daresay they've gone to France,' he said, as she followed him. 'Still there may be some one left in the house,' answered Miss Roberts. 'I don't suppose there is,' said Jimmy, looking as if he were going to cry. 'At all events I will ring the bell,' she answered, and Miss Roberts pulled the bell. Jimmy heard it ring quite distinctly, but nobody came to open the door. 'Do ring again,' he said, and once more Miss Roberts pulled the bell. Then a policeman came along the street, and she went to meet him. 'Do you know whether this house is empty?' she asked. 'Been empty the last fortnight,' said the policeman. 'Thank you,' said Miss Roberts. And then she turned to Jimmy: 'Go back into the cab,' she continued, and very unwillingly he took his seat again. 'Gloucester Place, cabman,' she said, with her hand on the door. 'What number?' asked the cabman. 'We--we don't know the number,' cried Jimmy, putting his head out. 'Stop at a shop on the way,' said Miss Roberts as she entered the cab and sat down; 'if I waste any more time I shall lose my train.' 'But suppose Aunt Selina isn't at home either?' exclaimed Jimmy, as the horse started once more. 'In that case I don't know what is to become of you,' said Miss Roberts. 'Because she may have gone to France with Uncle Henry!' Jimmy suggested. 'We will not imagine anything of the kind, if you please!' 'No,' said Jimmy, 'but suppose she has gone to France, you know.' As he spoke, the cab stopped before a large grocer's shop, and without losing a moment Miss Roberts stepped out of the cab, followed by Jimmy. 'Will you kindly let me look at a Directory?' she asked; and the tall young man behind the counter said-- 'Certainly, miss.' He brought the thickest red book which Jimmy had ever seen, and Miss Roberts opened it at once. 'Miss Selina Morton--is that your aunt's name?' she asked, looking round at Jimmy. 'Ye--es,' he answered sorrowfully, for he guessed that she had found out the number. 'Come along then,' said Miss Roberts, and Jimmy walked slowly towards the door. 'Thank you, I am very much obliged,' she continued, smiling at the shopman; but Jimmy did not feel in the least obliged to him. Miss Roberts told the cabman the number, and when the horse started again she turned cheerfully to the boy-- 'We shall soon be there now!' she said. 'I wish we shouldn't,' answered Jimmy. 'Don't you like your Aunt Selina?' asked Miss Roberts. 'Not at all,' said Jimmy. 'Why don't you like her?' asked Miss Roberts. 'You ought to like an aunt, you know.' 'I don't know why, only I don't,' was the answer. It did not take many minutes to drive to Gloucester Place, and although Jimmy did not know what would happen to him if Aunt Selina was out of town, still he almost hoped she had gone to France. But the shutters were not shut at this house, although each of the blinds was drawn exactly a quarter of the way down. Jimmy saw a large tortoise-shell cat lying on one of the window sills, whilst a black cat watched it from inside the room. 'If they do not keep us long at the door,' said Miss Roberts, as she rang the bell, 'I can manage just to catch my train.' It was past two o'clock, and Jimmy thought he could smell something like hot meat. He supposed that if he stayed at Aunt Selina's he should have some dinner, and that would be a good thing at any rate. The door was opened by a tall, thin butler, who looked very solemn and important. He did not stand quite upright, and he had gray whiskers and a bald head. If he had not opened the door, so that Jimmy knew he was the butler, he might have been mistaken for a clergyman. 'Is Miss Morton at home?' asked Miss Roberts. 'No, miss,' said the butler; and he stared at Jimmy first and then at the boxes on the cab. 'How extremely annoying!' cried Miss Roberts. 'Can you tell me how long she will be?' 'I don't think Miss Morton will return before half-past three,' said the butler, whose name was Jones. 'Miss Morton has gone out to luncheon, miss.' 'This is her nephew,' answered Miss Roberts. 'Good-morning, sir,' said Jones, rubbing his hands. 'Good-morning,' said Jimmy. 'I have brought him from Miss Lawson's school at Ramsgate,' Miss Roberts explained, whilst Jimmy stared into the butler's face. 'I don't fancy Miss Morton expected him,' said Jones. 'No,' cried Jimmy, 'she didn't.' 'Miss Lawson is so ill,' Miss Roberts continued, 'that all the boys have been sent home. I took Master Wilmot to his uncle's house in Brook Street, but it was shut up. So I have brought him here.' 'I don't know what Miss Morton will say----' Miss Roberts looked at her watch and interrupted the butler before he had time to finish his sentence. He spoke rather slowly and required a long time to say anything. 'I am not going back to Ramsgate,' said Miss Roberts, 'but I have no doubt Miss Rosina will write to Miss Morton.' 'I beg pardon,' answered Jones, 'but I don't think Miss Morton would like you to leave the young gentleman here.' 'I--I don't want to be left,' cried Jimmy. 'Miss Morton is not particular fond of young gentlemen,' said the butler. 'Cabman,' exclaimed Miss Roberts in a greater hurry than ever, 'carry in the boxes. The two smaller boxes, please.' Jimmy stood on the doorstep, and Jones stood just inside the hall, and Miss Roberts held her watch in her right hand, whilst the cabman got off his seat and took down the trunks. 'Please be quick,' she said, 'or I shall miss my train after all.' The butler stroked his chin as the cabman carried the clothes-box into the house and put it down near the dining-room door; then he brought in the play-box, and after that he wiped his forehead with a large red handkerchief and climbed up to his seat again. 'Good-bye,' said Miss Roberts, putting away her watch and taking Jimmy's hand. 'I wish you would take me too,' answered Jimmy rather tearfully. 'I can't do that,' she said, 'and I am sure you will be very happy with your aunt.' Jimmy felt quite sure he shouldn't be happy, and he certainly did not look very happy as Miss Roberts was driven away in the cab; and when he saw it turn the corner, he felt more lonely than he had ever felt before. 'Well, this is a nice kettle of fish,' said the butler. 'Is it?' asked Jimmy, not understanding in the least what he meant. 'I wonder what Miss Morton will say about it?' cried Jones. 'What do you think she'll say?' asked Jimmy, staring up at the butler's face. 'Well,' was the answer, 'you had better come indoors, anyhow,' and Jimmy entered the house and stood leaning against his clothes-box, whilst Jones shut the street door. 'Step this way, sir,' said Jones; but although he took Jimmy to the dining-room, unfortunately there was no sign of dinner. He saw the black cat still sitting on a chair watching the tortoise-shell cat outside the window, and on the hearth-rug lay a tabby one, with its head on the fender, fast asleep. 'You had better sit here until Miss Morton comes home,' said the butler. 'Do you think she'll be very long?' asked Jimmy. 'About half-past three,' was the answer, and Jones opened the coal-box to put some more coal on the fire as he spoke. 'Because I haven't had any dinner at all,' said Jimmy. 'Oh, you haven't, haven't you?' cried Jones, as he stood holding the coal shovel. 'No,' said Jimmy, 'and I'm rather hungry.' 'Well, I don't know what Miss Morton'll say about you,' was the answer. 'So,' he added, as he put away the shovel, 'you think you'd like something to eat?' 'I'm sure I should--very much,' cried Jimmy. The butler went away, but he soon came back with a folded white cloth in his hands. Whilst Jimmy kneeled down on the hearth-rug rubbing the head of the tabby cat, Jones laid the cloth, and then he went away again and returned with a plate of hot roast-beef and Yorkshire pudding and potatoes and cauliflower. He placed a chair with its back to the fire, and told Jimmy to ring when he was ready for some apple-tart. When Jimmy was alone eating his dinner and enjoying it very much, he began to think it might not be so bad to stay at Aunt Selina's after all. The black cat came from the chair by the window and meowed on one side of him, and the tabby cat meowed on the other, and Jimmy fed them both whilst he fed himself. When his plate was quite empty, he rang the bell and Jones brought him a large piece of apple-tart, with a brown jug of cream. Then presently the butler took away the things, and Jimmy sat down in an arm-chair by the fire with one of the cats on each knee. Every few minutes he looked over his shoulder to see whether Aunt Selina was coming, and by and by the bell rang. Jimmy rose from his chair and the cats jumped to the floor, and, going close to the window, he saw his aunt's tall, thin figure on the doorstep. CHAPTER IV AUNT SELINA AT HOME Miss Morton had been to lunch with a friend, and she naturally expected to find her house exactly the same as she had left it. She was a lady who always liked to find things exactly the same as she left them; she did not care for fresh faces or fresh places, and she certainly did not care to see two boxes in her hall. Miss Morton was a little short-sighted, but the moment that she entered the house she noticed something unusual. So she stopped just within the door before the butler could shut it and put on her double eye-glasses, and then she stared in astonishment at Jimmy's boxes. 'What are those?' she asked. 'Boxes, miss,' was the answer. 'Please don't be stupid,' said Miss Morton. 'I beg pardon,' replied the butler. 'I see quite distinctly that they are boxes,' she said. 'What I wish to know is, whom the boxes belong to.' 'To Master Wilmot,' said the butler. Miss Morton gave such a violent start that her eye-glasses fell from her nose. 'Master Wilmot!' she exclaimed. 'Yes, miss.' 'You do not mean to tell me that the boy is here!' 'He's been here since about two o'clock,' said the butler. 'Surely he did not come alone?' cried Miss Morton. 'No, miss.' 'Who brought him?' 'A young lady who seemed to be his governess,' the butler explained. 'She said that Miss Lawson was ill, and that she'd sent all the young gentlemen home.' 'This is certainly not his home,' said Miss Morton. 'No, miss,' answered Jones. 'I told the young lady you wouldn't be best pleased, but she insisted on leaving him.' 'Where is Master Wilmot?' asked Miss Morton. 'In the dining-room,' was the answer, and the butler opened the door. Miss Morton had spoken rather loudly, quite loudly enough for Jimmy to overhear every word she had said. It made him feel uncomfortable, and as the door opened he stood with his back to the window, with his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting until his Aunt Selina entered the room, and the butler shut the door after her. She put on her eye-glasses again, and it seemed a long time before either she or Jimmy spoke. She moved her head as if she were looking at him all over from top to toes. Jimmy began to feel more uncomfortable than ever, and at last he thought he really must say something. 'Good-morning,' he cried. 'Why did the people send you here?' asked Aunt Selina. 'You see,' said Jimmy, 'Aunt Mary and Uncle Henry were out and the house was shut up.' 'I always said it was foolish to travel at this time of year,' was the answer. 'So Miss Roberts brought me here,' said Jimmy. 'Well,' exclaimed Aunt Selina, 'I am sure I don't know what is to be done with you.' 'I didn't want to come,' answered Jimmy. 'Don't be rude,' said his aunt. 'Now you are here, I suppose I must keep you for to-night. But there is no accommodation here for boys.' 'I had a very nice dinner, though,' said Jimmy. 'Have you washed your face?' she asked suddenly. 'No,' he answered, for washing his face was a thing he never felt anxious about. Miss Morton walked to the bell and rang it. A few moments later the butler re-entered the room, standing with one hand on the door. 'Jones,' she said, 'take Master Wilmot to the spare bedroom to wash his face; and give him a comb and brush to do his hair.' Jones took Jimmy upstairs to a large bedroom, and poured some water into a basin. Then he brought a clean towel, and showed Jimmy where to find the soap and the comb and brush. The butler then left him alone, and the boy took off his jacket and dipped his hands in the water. When he thought his hands were clean enough, he washed a round place on his face, and having wiped this nearly dry, he went to the looking-glass and brushed the front of his hair where he had made it wet. When he had put his coat on again he wondered whether he ought to wait for the butler or to go downstairs alone; but as Jones did not come back, Jimmy opened the door and went down. He saw Miss Morton sitting in an arm-chair, and now that she had taken off her bonnet and veil he thought she looked more severe than ever. 'Come here, James,' she said, as he stood near the door. No one else had ever called him James. 'When did you hear from your mother?' she asked. 'I didn't have a letter last month,' he answered. 'I asked when you did have a letter,' said Aunt Selina,--'not when you didn't have one.' 'I think it was about two months ago,' said Jimmy. 'Did she say anything about coming home?' asked Aunt Selina. 'She said I might see her soon,' cried Jimmy. 'I do hope I shall.' 'Very likely you will,' said his aunt, 'although your mother has not written to me for six months.' 'Then how do you know?' asked Jimmy. 'Because she wrote to your Aunt Ellen at Chesterham, and your Aunt Ellen wrote to me. I should not be surprised if your father and mother were on their way home now. They may arrive in England quite soon.' 'It would be nice,' said Jimmy, and he began to laugh. 'Will they come here?' he asked. 'Certainly not,' was the answer. 'I have no accommodation for visitors.' 'There's the spare bedroom,' cried Jimmy. 'I have no doubt,' said Aunt Selina, 'that they will go to Aunt Ellen's at Chesterham----' 'Couldn't I go to Aunt Ellen's?' asked Jimmy eagerly. 'And pray who is to take you?' demanded Miss Morton. 'Why, couldn't I go alone?' said Jimmy. Miss Morton did not answer, but she put on her eye-glasses again, and looked Jimmy up and down from head to foot. 'Ring the bell,' she said, and when he had rung the bell and the butler had come, Aunt Selina told him to send Hannah. Jimmy stood on the hearth-rug--whilst the black cat rubbed its back against his leg--wondering who Hannah might be. When she came, he saw that she was one of the servants, with a red, kind-looking face; and Aunt Selina told her to take him away and to give him some tea. When they were outside the door Hannah took his hand, and he felt that he liked having his hand taken, and she led him downstairs to a small room near the kitchen where she gave him such a tea as he had never had before. There were cake and jam, and hot scones, and buttered toast, and although it was not very long since dinner, Jimmy ate a good meal. He told Hannah all about his father and mother and Winnie, and how that Miss Morton had said perhaps they were on their way home; and he told her he hoped that his aunt would send him to Chesterham. 'Because,' he said, 'I know I could go all right alone.' Hannah put an arm round him and kissed him, but Jimmy did not much like being kissed; still he felt lonely this afternoon, and he did not mind it so much as he would have done sometimes, especially if any of his schoolfellows had been there. 'Now,' said Hannah presently, 'I think you had better go back to Miss Morton.' 'Must I?' asked Jimmy. 'Because I like being here best.' But she led him back to the dining-room, and as soon as he entered the door Aunt Selina asked what time he went to bed. 'Eight o'clock at school,' he answered, 'but when I am at Aunt Mary's she always lets me stay till half-past.' 'Aunt Mary always spoils you,' said Miss Morton. 'Sit down,' she added, and Jimmy took a chair on the opposite side of the fire-place. 'I suppose you don't remember your mother,' she said. 'No,' answered Jimmy. 'Shall you be glad to see her?' asked Aunt Selina. 'Yes, very glad,' said Jimmy. 'Shan't you?' he asked, looking into his aunt's face. 'Of course I shall be pleased to see my sister,' was the answer. 'And I shall be glad to see Winnie, too,' said Jimmy. But Aunt Selina's words had put a fresh idea into his mind. He seemed never to have realised until now that the mother whom he had never seen, although he had thought about her so much, was his Aunt Selina's sister. He thought that sisters must surely be very much alike; but if his mother was like her sister, why, Jimmy did not feel certain it would be nice to have her home again after all. He forgot that he was staring at his aunt until she asked him what he was looking at. 'Is my mother as old as you?' he asked. 'I cannot say they teach politeness at Miss Lawson's,' Aunt Selina answered. 'But is she?' asked Jimmy, for it seemed very important that he should know at once. 'Your mother is a few years younger than I am,' said his aunt, 'but she would be very angry with you for asking such a question.' 'Can she be angry?' asked Jimmy. 'She will be very angry indeed when you are naughty,' said Miss Morton. For a few minutes Jimmy sat staring into the fire. 'Is--is she like you?' he asked. 'She is not quite so tall.' 'But is she like you?' asked Jimmy. 'We used to be considered very much alike,' was the answer, and Jimmy felt inclined to cry. Then Aunt Selina said it was his bed-time, and he came close to her and kissed her cheek. 'Am I to go to Aunt Ellen's?' he asked. 'I shall not tell you until to-morrow morning,' said Aunt Selina; and Jimmy fell asleep in the large spare room wondering whether he should go to-morrow to Chesterham or not. CHAPTER V AT THE RAILWAY STATION When Jimmy awoke the next morning he found that Hannah was drawing up his blind. The sun-light fell into the room, and the smoke rose from the can of hot water on the wash-stand. 'You must get up at once,' said Hannah, 'or you will be late for breakfast, and Miss Morton won't like that.' He would have liked to lie in the warm bed a little longer, and when at last he jumped out he felt rather cold. Jimmy was not used to dressing himself quite without help, for at school Miss Roberts had always come to tie his necktie and button his collar. He found it difficult to button it this morning with his cold little fingers; and as for the necktie, it was not tied quite so nicely as it might have been. Still he was ready when he heard a bell ring, and he ran downstairs two steps at a time, and almost ran against Aunt Selina at the bottom. She looked more stiff and severe in the morning than she had looked last night, and not at all the sort of person you would like to run against. 'Good-morning,' said Jimmy, as she entered the dining-room. She shook hands with Jimmy and her hand felt very cold; but when once he was seated at the table the coffee was nice and hot, and so were the eggs and bacon, and Jimmy had no time to think of anything else just yet. But just as he was wondering whether he should ask for another rasher of bacon, his aunt spoke to him. 'When you have _quite_ finished,' she said, 'I wish to speak to you,' and after that he did not like to ask for any more. So Jimmy pushed back his chair, and his Aunt Selina rose from hers and went to stand by the fire. 'I did not wish to tell you last night for fear of exciting you and keeping you awake,' she said, 'but I wrote to your Aunt Ellen while you were having tea.' 'Oh, thank you, I'm glad of that,' answered Jimmy. 'I told her I should send you to Chesterham by the half-past twelve train,' Miss Morton explained, 'and I asked her to meet you at the station.' 'Hurray,' cried Jimmy, 'then I am to go this morning.' 'It is not quite certain yet,' was the answer. 'I asked your Aunt Ellen to send me a telegram if she could receive you. If the telegram arrives before twelve, you will go by the half-past twelve train.' 'But suppose it doesn't come?' said Jimmy. 'I sincerely trust it will,' was the answer. 'So do I,' cried Jimmy. 'I have ordered a packet of sandwiches to be prepared,' said Miss Morton. 'Ham or beef?' asked Jimmy. 'Ham--do you like ham?' 'Oh yes, when there's no mustard,' said Jimmy. 'I told Jones not to have any mustard put on them,' answered his aunt; 'and,' she continued, 'if you go to-day I shall give you half-a-crown.' 'Shan't I have the half-crown if I don't go to-day?' asked Jimmy eagerly. 'I hope you will go,' she said. 'But you must not spend it in waste.' 'I won't,' cried Jimmy. 'I don't suppose you will stay with your Aunt Ellen long,' said Miss Morton, 'because there is no doubt your father and mother will soon be in England, and then they will be able to look after you. Now,' she added, 'if you think you can keep still and not fidget, you may sit down by the window and watch for the telegram.' Jimmy lifted the tabby cat off the chair, and took it on his knees as he sat down. While he sat stroking the cat he really did not feel much doubt about the telegram. He wanted it to come so much that he felt sure it would come soon, and surely enough it arrived before eleven o'clock. Jimmy rose from his chair as Jones brought it into the room on a tray, and the tabby cat dug its claws into his jacket and clung to him, so that Jimmy found it rather difficult to put it down. He did not take his eyes from Miss Morton's face all the time she was reading the telegram. 'It is extremely fortunate I wrote yesterday,' she exclaimed. 'Am I to go?' asked Jimmy eagerly. 'Yes,' she answered, 'and who do you think will meet you at Chesterham station?' 'Not mother!' cried Jimmy, very excitedly. 'Your father and mother,' said Miss Morton. 'And Winnie?' 'They are not likely to take a child to meet you,' she answered. 'They arrived only last night, and if they had not received my letter they would have gone to Ramsgate to-day. As it is they will meet you at the station, and they think it will be quite safe for you to travel alone if I see you safely in the train.' 'Shall you?' asked Jimmy. 'I shall send Jones,' was the answer. 'What time does the train get to Chesterham?' asked Jimmy. 'At four o'clock,' she said; and then she took out her purse and found two shillings and a sixpence, which she gave to Jimmy. 'Where will you put them?' she asked. 'I've got a purse, too,' he answered, and he put his hand in his jacket pocket and brought out a piece of string, a crumpled handkerchief, a knife, and last of all a small purse. In this he put the two shillings and the sixpence, and then he could think of nothing but the joy of seeing his mother and father. He stood by the window watching the passers-by and wondering whether his mother was like any of them, and at least he hoped that she might not be so very much like his Aunt Selina. He went in search of Hannah and told her all about the telegram. He longed for the time to come to start for the station, and when he saw his boxes being taken out to the cab, he danced about the hall in a manner which made Miss Morton feel very pleased he was going. He put on his overcoat, and held open the pocket whilst Hannah forced in the large packet of sandwiches, and although they bulged out a good deal Jimmy did not mind that at all. He shook hands with his aunt and entered the cab, and Jones stepped in after him. 'My father and mother are going to meet me at Chesterham,' said Jimmy as soon as the horse started. He talked of them all the way to the railway station--not the same station at which he had arrived with Miss Roberts yesterday, but a much larger and a rather dirtier looking one, with a great glass roof. But before Jimmy reached that part of it, he went with Jones to take his ticket. 'You are to put it in your purse,' said the butler, 'and mind you don't lose it.' 'I shan't lose it,' answered Jimmy, taking out his purse, and as he put the ticket away he looked to make sure that the half-crown was all right. 'Now,' said the butler, 'we'll go and find the train.' It was not very difficult to find the train for Chesterham, because it was waiting all ready at the platform; but when they got to the train it took Jones a long time to find Jimmy a suitable first-class compartment. At last he stopped at one which contained an old gentleman and two ladies. The old gentleman was sitting next to the door, reading a newspaper, and he did not look at all glad when Jimmy sat down opposite to him. 'I think you'll do now,' said Jones. 'Very nicely, thank you,' answered Jimmy, as the butler stood by the door, but he was beginning to feel just a little nervous. You must remember he was not quite eight years of age; he was only a small boy, and he had never travelled quite alone before. He felt sure he should like travelling alone, and in fact he did not much mind how he travelled so that his mother met him at the end of his journey. Still, now that he had taken his seat and the butler was going away in a few minutes, Jimmy began to feel a little nervous. 'Got your sandwiches?' asked Jones, with a hand on the door. 'Yes, I've got them,' answered Jimmy, feeling them to make certain. 'I've never seen them before, you know,' Jimmy added. 'What, the sandwiches?' asked Jones. 'No, my father and mother,' said Jimmy. 'They're going to meet me.' 'Oh, I see,' answered the butler, and he ought to have understood, for Jimmy had told him a great many times since they left Aunt Selina's house. 'You're just going to start,' Jones added. 'Good-bye,' cried Jimmy, and he put his hand out of the window and the butler shook it. 'Good-bye, sir,' he answered, and Jimmy felt quite sorry when Jones let go his hand. But the train was beginning to move; the butler stepped back and took out his pocket-handkerchief and waved it, but it was to dry his eyes that Jimmy took out his; for when the train glided away and he could not see Jones any more Jimmy felt very much alone, especially as the old gentleman opposite kept lowering his paper and looking down at his trousers and then frowning at him. CHAPTER VI THE JOURNEY For the first quarter of an hour after the train started Jimmy was contented to gaze out of the window, but presently, growing tired of doing that, he turned to look at the two ladies at the farther end of the compartment. As Jimmy moved in his seat, his boots touched the old gentleman's black trousers. Laying aside his newspaper the old gentleman leaned forward to look at them, and then he brushed off the mud. A few moments later Jimmy's boots touched his trousers again, and the old gentleman began to cough. 'I should feel greatly obliged,' he said in a loud voice, 'if you would not make a door-mat of my legs.' 'I beg your pardon,' answered Jimmy, and he tucked his feet as far under his seat as they would go. 'You should be more careful,' said the old gentleman, and then one of the ladies suggested that Jimmy should sit by her side. 'I wanted to look out at the window,' he answered. 'Well, you can look out at my window,' she said, and so Jimmy went to the other end of the compartment, and she gave him her seat; and for an hour or more the train went on its way, stopping at one or two stations, until presently it came to a standstill again. 'Where is this?' asked one of the ladies. The other looked out at the window and said-- 'Meresleigh.' 'We ought not to stop here,' answered her friend. At the other end of the compartment the old gentleman let down his window: 'Hi, Hi! Guard, Guard!' he cried, and the guard came to the door. 'Why are we stopping here?' asked the old gentleman. 'Something's gone wrong with the engine, sir.' 'How long shall we stay?' asked the gentleman. 'Maybe a quarter of an hour, sir,' said the guard. 'We've got to wait for a fresh engine, but it won't be long.' 'We may as well get out,' cried one of the ladies, and as soon as they had left the carriage the old gentleman also stepped on to the platform, and Jimmy did not see why he should not do the same. So he got out, and seeing a small crowd near the engine he walked along the platform towards it. The engine-driver stood with an oil-can in one hand talking to the station-master, but there being nothing interesting to see, Jimmy began to look about the large station. It was then that he began to feel hungry. His feet were very cold, and the wind blew along the platform, so that Jimmy turned up his overcoat collar as he stamped about to get warm. As he walked up and down he noticed a good many people going in and out at a door, and looking in he saw that it led to the refreshment room. Now, Jimmy had two shillings and a sixpence in his purse, and had no doubt that lemonade could be bought at the counter where a good many persons were standing. Feeling a little shy, he went to the counter, and presently succeeded in making one of the young women behind it see him. 'What do you want?' she asked. 'A bottle of lemonade--have you got any ginger-beer?' asked Jimmy. 'Which do you want?' said the young woman. Jimmy could not make up his mind for a few moments, but he stood thinking with his hands in his pockets. 'Is it stone-bottle ginger-beer?' he asked. 'Yes,' was the answer. 'I think I'll have lemonade,' cried Jimmy, and she turned away impatiently to get the bottle. It was rather cold, but still Jimmy enjoyed his lemonade very much, and before he had half finished it, he put his sixpence on the counter. He thought it was a little dear at fourpence, and he looked sorry when he received only twopence change. Then he emptied his glass, and went outside again, thinking he would eat his ham-sandwiches. But the wind blew colder than ever, and seeing another open door a little farther along the platform Jimmy cautiously peeped in. The large room was quite empty, and an enormous fire was burning in the grate. He thought it would be far pleasanter to sit down to eat his sandwiches comfortably beside the fire than to eat them whilst he walked about the cold, windy platform. Before he entered the room he looked towards the train, which still stood where it had stopped. There was quite a small crowd near the engine, and whilst some persons had re-entered their carriages, others walked up and down in front of theirs. Pushing back the door of the waiting-room, Jimmy went to the farther end, and sat down on a bench close to the fire. Then he tugged the sandwiches out of his pocket, untied the string, and began to eat them. He did not stop until the last was finished, and by that time he began to feel remarkably comfortable and rather sleepy. He made up his mind that he would not on any account close his eyes, but they felt so heavy that they really would not keep open; his chin dropped on to his chest, and in a few moments he was sound asleep. Then for some time all the busy life of the great railway station went on: trains arrived, stopped, and started again; other trains whistled as they dashed past without stopping; porters hurried hither and thither with piles of luggage, and still a small dark-haired boy sat on the bench in the waiting-room, unconscious of all that was happening. Presently Jimmy awoke. He opened his eyes and began to rub them, thinking at first that the bell which he heard was rung to call the boys at Miss Lawson's school. But when he looked around him, he soon discovered that he was not in the school dormitory, and then as he became more wide-awake he remembered where he really was and began to fear that he had slept too long and missed his train. Starting up in a hurry, Jimmy ran out to the platform, and there to his great joy he saw a train standing exactly where he had left one. A good many people were waiting by the doors, but Jimmy looked in vain for the two ladies and the old gentleman. 'Take your seats!' cried a porter, 'just going on;' so that, afraid of being left behind, Jimmy jumped into a carriage close at hand. It happened to be empty, but he did not mind that, and he was only just in time, for the next minute a whistle blew and the train began to move. It had not long started, before he noticed that the afternoon had become much darker; he did not possess a watch, but as far as he could tell it must be very nearly tea-time. However, he supposed that it could not be long now before he arrived at Chesterham, and he began to look forward more eagerly than ever to seeing his father and mother on the platform. The train went on, stopping at several stations, and at each one Jimmy looked out at the window and tried to read the name on the lamps. But he felt no fear about going too far, because he knew that the train stopped altogether when it reached Chesterham. It seemed a long time reaching there, however, much longer than he had imagined; but at last it came to a standstill, and, looking through the window, Jimmy saw that many more persons got out than usual. He leaned back in his seat, feeling tired and cold, and waiting for the train to go on again, when presently a porter stopped at the window. 'All change here!' he said. 'But I don't want to change,' answered Jimmy. 'This isn't Chesterham, is it?' for he had read the name of Barstead on one of the lamps. 'Chesterham!' cried the porter, 'I should say not. Chesterham is fifty miles away on another line. This is Barstead. And if you don't want to stay all night on the siding the best thing you can do is to get out.' CHAPTER VII JIMMY IS TAKEN INTO CUSTODY Jimmy stared at the porter in great astonishment. His eyes and his mouth were opened very widely, and he felt extremely frightened. He rose from the seat and stepped out on to the dark platform. 'I want to go to Chesterham,' he said. 'Well, you can't go to Chesterham to-night,' was the answer. 'Where's your ticket?' Jimmy felt in his pocket for his purse, and opening it took out his ticket. 'You'd better come to speak to the station-master,' said the porter; and Jimmy, feeling more frightened than ever, followed him to a small room, where a tall red-bearded man sat writing at a table which seemed to be covered all over with papers. When Jimmy entered with the porter the station-master rose and stood with his back to the fire, whilst the porter began to explain. 'You can't get to Chesterham without going back to Meresleigh,' said the station-master presently. 'Chesterham is on a different line, and there is no train to-night.' 'Then what am I to do?' asked Jimmy, turning very pale. 'That's just what I should like to know!' was the answer. 'But you can't get back to Meresleigh until to-morrow morning, that's certain.' 'But where shall I sleep?' cried Jimmy. 'How was it you got out of the train at Meresleigh?' asked the station-master. 'You see,' faltered Jimmy nervously, 'there was an accident to the engine and we all got out.' 'Then why didn't you get in again?' 'I did,' said Jimmy. 'You didn't get into the right train,' answered the station-master, 'or you wouldn't be here. Tell me just what you did, now.' 'Why,' Jimmy explained, 'I went into the waiting-room to eat my sandwiches and then I fell asleep.' 'How long were you asleep?' 'I don't know. It didn't seem very long. When I woke I went on to the platform and saw a train waiting just in the same place, and I thought it was the same train.' 'Well, it wasn't,' said the station-master. 'Whilst you were asleep the Chesterham train must have started, and the train you got into was the Barstead train, which is more than an hour later. A nice mistake you've made.' At this Jimmy put his sleeve to his face and began to cry. He really couldn't help it, he felt very tired, very cold, very miserable, and very frightened. He could not imagine what would happen to him, where he should spend the night, or how he should ever reach Chesterham. He thought of his father and mother going to meet the train and finding no Jimmy there, and he felt far more miserable than he had ever felt in his life before. The station-master began to ask him questions, and amongst others where his friends in Chesterham lived. Jimmy did not know the exact address, but he told the station-master his aunt's name, and he said that would most likely be enough for a telegram. 'I shall send a telegram at once to say you're all safe here,' he said; 'and then to-morrow morning we must send you on.' 'But how about to-night?' cried Jimmy. 'Where am I to sleep?' 'I must think about that,' was the answer; and then there was a good deal of noise as if another train had arrived, and the station-master left his room in a great hurry. He was a very busy man and had very little time to look after boys who went to sleep in waiting-rooms and missed their trains. At the same time he did not intend Jimmy to be left without a roof over his head. So he saw the train start again, and then he sent for Coote. Coote was tall and extremely fat, with an extraordinarily large red face, and small eyes. He was dressed as a policeman, but he did not really belong to the police. He was employed by the railway company to look after persons who did not behave themselves properly, and certainly his appearance was enough to frighten them. But the station-master knew him to be a respectable man, with a wife and children of his own, and a clean cottage about half a mile from the station. So he thought that Coote would be the very man to take charge of Jimmy until the next morning. He explained what had happened, and Coote said he would take the boy home with him. 'I'll see he's well looked after,' he said, 'and I'll bring him in time to catch the 7.30 train to Meresleigh in the morning.' 'You'll find him in my office,' answered the station-master, and to the office Coote went accordingly. Now, if he had acted sensibly in the matter he would have spared Jimmy a good deal of unpleasantness, and Jimmy's father and mother much anxiety. But Coote was fond of what he called a 'joke,' and instead of telling the boy that he was going to take him home and give him a bed and some supper, he opened the office-door, put his great red face into the room, and stared hard at Jimmy. Jimmy was already so much upset that very little was required to frighten him still more. When he saw the face, with a policeman's helmet above it, he drew back farther against the wall. 'None o' your nonsense now, you just come along with me!' cried Coote, speaking in a very deep voice, and looking very fierce. 'I--I don't want to come,' answered Jimmy. 'Never mind what you want,' said Coote, 'you just come along with me.' 'Where--where to?' asked Jimmy. 'Ah, you'll see where to,' was the answer. 'Come along now. No nonsense.' Very unwillingly Jimmy accompanied Coote along the platform and out into the street. It was quite dark and very cold, as the boy trotted along by the policeman's side, looking up timidly into his red face. 'Nice sort of boy you are and no mistake,' said Coote, 'travelling over the company's line without a ticket. Do you know what's done to them as travels without a ticket?' 'What?' faltered Jimmy. 'Ah, you wait a few minutes, and you'll see fast enough,' said Coote. What with his policeman's uniform, his red cheeks, his great size, Jimmy felt more and more afraid, and he really believed that he was going to be locked up because he had travelled in the wrong train. Instead of that the man was thinking what he should do to make the boy more comfortable. He naturally supposed that Jimmy's friends would reward him, and as it seemed likely that Mrs. Coote might not have anything especially tempting for supper he determined to buy something on the way home. After walking along several quiet streets they came to one which was much busier. There were brilliant lights in the shop windows, and in front of one of the brightest Coote stopped. CHAPTER VIII JIMMY RUNS AWAY It was a ham and beef shop, and in Jimmy's cold and hungry condition the meat pies and sausages and hams in the window looked very tempting. 'You just wait here a few moments,' said Coote, as he came to a standstill, 'and mind it's no use your thinking o' running away, because I can run too.' With that he entered the ham and beef shop, leaving Jimmy outside alone on the pavement. Perhaps Jimmy would never have thought of running away if the man had not suggested it; but he was so frightened that he felt it would be better to do anything rather than go with the policeman. You know that sometimes a boy does not stay to consider what is really the best, and Jimmy did not stay to think now. Whilst he saw Coote talking to the shopman in the white apron, through the window, he suddenly turned to make a dash across the road. 'Look out!' cried a man, and Jimmy only just escaped being run over by a one-horse omnibus. He dodged the horse, however, and running towards the opposite pavement, he knocked against an old woman with a basket. The basket grazed his left arm, and to judge by what she said he must have hurt the woman a good deal. But Jimmy did not wait to hear all she had to say; he only thought of getting away from Coote, and ran on and on without the slightest notion where he was going. Up one street and down another the boy ran, often looking behind to see whether he was being followed, and at last stopping altogether, simply because he could not run any farther. He sat down on the kerb-stone, and then he saw for the first time that it had begun to rain quite fast. It was a great relief to know that Coote must have taken a wrong direction, for if the policeman had taken the right one he would have caught Jimmy by this time. Still he did not intend to sit there many minutes in case Coote should be following him after all, so a few minutes later Jimmy got up again and walked on quickly. He felt very miserable; it must be past his usual bed-time, and yet he had nowhere to sleep. He wished he were safely at Chesterham; and he made up his mind that he would never fall asleep in a waiting-room again as long as he lived. Until now Jimmy had been making his way along streets, but very soon he saw that there were houses only on one side of the way. He had in fact come to what looked, as well as he could see in the dark, like a small common, with furze bushes growing on it, and a pond by the roadside. But a little farther on, Jimmy fancied he heard a band playing, and then he saw what appeared to be an enormous tent, and there were lights burning near, and curious shadowy things which he could not make out at all. Jimmy was always an inquisitive boy, and now he almost forgot his troubles in his wish to find out what was happening on the common. So he walked towards the large round tent, and the band sounded more loudly every moment. By one part of the tent stood a cart, and in this a man was shouting at the top of his voice. And around the cart a crowd had gathered, chiefly of rather shabbily-dressed people, and one or two of them stepped out every minute or so and went inside an opening in the tent, where a stout woman stood to take their money. Near the cart was a large picture, and Jimmy stared at it with a great deal of interest. The picture represented a lion and a clown, and the clown's head was inside the lion's mouth; whilst a little way off a very small clown, of about Jimmy's own age, stood laughing. Jimmy had always an immense liking for lions, and also for clowns, and when they both came together and the head of the one happened to be in the mouth of the other, the temptation was almost more than he could resist. 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, walk up, walk up!' cried the man in the cart. 'All the wonders of the world now on view. Now's the time, the very last night; walk up, ladies and gentlemen, walk up.' Jimmy thought that he really might do worse than to walk up. For one thing he would be able to sit down inside the tent, and for another he could take shelter from the rain, which now was falling fast. He put his hand into his pocket to feel for his purse, and recollected that he had still two shillings and twopence left out of Aunt Selina's half-crown. 'How much is it?' he asked, going towards the stout woman at the opening. 'Well,' she answered, 'you can go in for twopence, and you can have a first-class seat for sixpence. But if you ask me, a young gent like you'd sooner pay a shilling.' 'Yes, I think I should,' said Jimmy proudly; and, taking out a shilling, he gave it to the woman and at once entered the tent. There were so few persons in the best seats that a great many of those in the cheaper ones turned to look at Jimmy as he walked in. But Jimmy was quite unaware of this, for no sooner had he sat down than he began to laugh as if he had not a trouble in the world. He forgot that he had nowhere to sleep, he forgot the red-faced policeman, he even forgot that he ought to be at Chesterham. It was the clown who made Jimmy laugh. He was a little man with a tall, pointed white felt hat like a dunce's cap; he wore the usual clown's dress, and generally kept his hands in his pockets as if he were a school-boy. A girl in a green velvet riding-habit had just finished a wonderful performance on horseback, and after she had kissed her hands to the people a good many times, she jumped off the horse, which began to trot round the ring alone. The clown was evidently trying to repeat her performance on his own account, but each time he tried to mount the horse it trotted faster, and the clown always fell on his back in the sawdust. Nothing could be more comical than the way he got up, as if he were hurt very much indeed, and rubbed himself; unless, indeed, it was his alarm when the two elephants were brought into the ring and he jumped over the barrier close to Jimmy in the front seats. Jimmy felt a little disappointed not to see the clown put his head into the lion's mouth, but then there were plenty of things to make up for this; and besides, Jimmy was beginning to feel really very sleepy again, when the band played 'Rule Britannia' out of tune, and all the people rose to leave the tent. As it became empty, Jimmy began to feel very wretched again. He wondered where he should sleep, and he could hear that it was raining faster than ever outside. Why shouldn't he wait until everybody else had gone and then lie down on one of the seats and sleep where he was? Of course he had never slept in such a place before, and he did not much like the idea of sleeping there now, but then he had nowhere else to go, and at any rate it would be better than going outside in the rain. So Jimmy made up his mind to stay where he was, and he would have been lying down and perhaps asleep in another moment, for he was very tired, when he saw the clown enter the tent. He had taken off his pointed hat, and had put on a long loose overcoat over his clown's dress. As he had been laughing or making fun all the time he was in the ring, Jimmy thought that he never did anything else; but the clown looked quite solemn now, and the paint on his face had become smudged after getting wet outside in the rain. 'Hullo!' he exclaimed on seeing Jimmy. 'What are you doing here?' 'Nothing,' answered the boy. 'Suppose you do it outside!' 'But I shall get so wet outside,' said Jimmy. 'Lor! Where's your nurse?' asked the clown. 'I haven't got one,' cried Jimmy, a little indignantly. 'I go to school.' 'Be quick then and go,' said the clown. 'But I've nowhere to go,' answered Jimmy sadly, 'and I don't know where anybody is.' 'Mean to say they've gone away and left you?' asked the clown. 'They haven't been here.' 'Oh, so you came to the show by yourself?' said the clown. 'Yes,' replied Jimmy. 'Well,' was the answer, 'you're a nice young party'; and the clown sat down on the barrier. 'Come now,' he said, 'suppose you tell us all about it.' So, in a very sleepy voice, Jimmy began to tell the clown his story. He told him how he had fallen asleep in the waiting-room, and where he had been going to; but he did not say anything about Coote, because he felt afraid that the clown might send for the policeman, who would, after all, put him into prison for travelling in the wrong train. CHAPTER IX THE CIRCUS The clown listened to the story very attentively, but Jimmy gaped a great deal while he told it. By the time he finished he could scarcely keep his eyes open. 'You seem a bit sleepy,' said the clown. 'I'm hungry, too,' answered Jimmy. 'Well, you can't sleep here,' said the clown, 'and you don't see much to eat, do you?' 'No, there isn't much to eat,' Jimmy admitted. 'But,' he added, 'I don't see why I couldn't sleep here.' 'Because the tent's going to be taken down,' said the clown. 'We've been here three days, and we're going on somewhere else.' Jimmy looked disappointed. He rather liked the clown; at all events he liked him a great deal better than Coote, and he did not feel at all afraid of him. 'Just you come along with me,' said the clown, 'and I'll see what I can do for you. Here, jump over! That's right,' he added, as Jimmy climbed over the barrier which separated the seats from the ring in which the performance had taken place. 'You come with me,' said the clown, 'and we'll soon see whether we can't find you something to eat and a place to lie down in.' They left the tent, and outside the clown stopped to speak to the man who had shouted from the cart and to the stout woman who had taken the money. They often glanced at Jimmy while they talked, so that he guessed they were talking about him. 'All right,' said the man, 'do as you like; it's no business of mine'; and then the clown came back to Jimmy and they walked away from the tent together. They seemed to be walking in and out amongst a number of curious-looking carts and ornamental cars, the colour of gold, with pictures on their sides. There were several vans too, like small houses on wheels, with windows and curtains painted on them, such as Jimmy had often seen at Ramsgate, with men selling brooms and baskets, walking by the horses. There were no men selling brooms or baskets here, although they all seemed to be very busy: some being dressed just as they had left the ring, and others leading cream-coloured and piebald horses, instead of going to bed, as Jimmy thought it was time to do. 'Come along,' said the clown, as the boy seemed inclined to stop to look on. 'Where are we going?' asked Jimmy. 'You'll see,' was the answer. 'But where is it?' asked Jimmy. 'Where I live,' said the clown. 'Oh, we're going to your house,' cried Jimmy, feeling pleased at the chance of entering a house again, for it seemed a very long time since he had left Aunt Selina's. 'Well,' said the clown, 'it's a sort of house. You might call it a house on wheels, and you wouldn't be far out.' Suddenly Jimmy seized the clown's arm and gave a jump. 'What's that?' he exclaimed. 'Don't be frightened,' said the clown. 'Only what is it?' asked Jimmy, with a shaky voice. 'He won't hurt you,' was the answer. 'It's only old Billy, the lion.' Jimmy heard him roar as if he were only a yard or two away, and he felt rather alarmed, until they had left his cage farther behind. 'Is that the lion who had your head in his mouth?' asked Jimmy. 'Well,' said the clown, 'it isn't in his mouth now, is it?' 'I didn't see the little clown,' exclaimed Jimmy, and the clown stared down at the ground. 'No,' he answered, as if he felt rather miserable, 'we shan't see him again ever.' Then they stopped at the back of one of the vans, and Jimmy saw that there was a light inside it. 'Up you get,' said the clown, and Jimmy scrambled up a pair of wide steps which put him in mind of a bathing-machine. The door seemed to be made in halves, and whilst the lower part was shut the upper part was open. Through this Jimmy could see inside the van, and it looked exactly like a small room, only rather dirty and untidy. As Jimmy stood on the steps staring into the van, with the clown close behind him, a girl came out from what seemed to be a second room behind the first. She had yellow hair, and her face looked very white; but although she must have changed her dress, Jimmy felt certain she was the same girl who had worn the green velvet riding-habit. 'Hullo!' she cried, seeing Jimmy, but not seeing her father. 'What do you want?' 'All right, Nan, all right,' said the clown, and he put an arm in front of Jimmy to push open the door. Whilst Jimmy felt glad to find shelter from the rain, the clown went to the back room, which must have been extremely small, and carried on a conversation with the girl whom he called Nan. Jimmy felt certain he was telling her all about himself. Presently they both came out again, and Nan went to a shelf and brought some rather fat bacon and bread, and a knife and fork with black handles. There were two beds--one in the back part of the van and one in the front. Jimmy sat down on the one in the front to eat his supper, and before he had finished Nan gave him a mug of tea, which made him feel much warmer, although it did not taste very pleasant. The clown had gone away again, and Jimmy wondered why there was such a noise outside the van. 'They're only putting the horses in,' said Nan, when he questioned her. 'I should have thought they would be taking them out at this time of night,' answered Jimmy. 'We always travel at night,' she explained, 'and then we're ready for the performance in the daytime.' 'But when do you go to sleep?' asked Jimmy. 'When we get a chance,' she said. 'But the best thing you can do's to go to sleep now. Suppose you lie down in there,' and she pointed to the room which was boarded off behind. 'Whose bed is it?' he asked. 'Father's, when he gets time to lie in it,' was the answer. 'But he can't if I'm there,' said Jimmy. 'He's got a lot to do before he thinks of bed,' exclaimed Nan. 'He's got to see to the horses. But I'll lie down as soon as we start, and presently father and I'll change places.' CHAPTER X ON THE ROAD It all seemed very strange to Jimmy, and he would not have felt very much surprised if he had suddenly awakened to find himself back in the dormitory at Miss Lawson's, and all his adventures a dream. The bed did not look very clean, and Jimmy thought at first that he should not care to lie down on it. He felt too tired to waste much time, however, and he did not even take off his clothes, but lay down just as he was, and in half a minute he fell fast asleep. And though the horse was put between the shafts, and there was a loud shouting as the long line of carts and vans began to move, Jimmy did not open his eyes for some time. He might not have opened them even then if Nan, who had also been asleep, had not risen and opened the door and let in a whiff of cold air. As Jimmy sat up in the dark and rubbed his eyes, he thought at first that he must be in a boat, because whatever he might be in, it rolled about from side to side. Remembering presently where he really was, he got off the bed, and peeped into the other half of the van. Seeing that Nan was not there, he went to the door, the upper half of which she had left open. The rain had quite left off, and the night was very beautiful. A great many stars shone in the sky; Jimmy had never looked out so late before, he had never seen the heavens such a dark blue nor the stars so large and bright. It was four o'clock in the morning, the air felt very cold, and he could see that they were going slowly along a country road. About a yard from the back of his own van, a grey horse jogged along between the shafts of another van, with a rough brown pony tied beside it. Feeling curious to see as much as he could, Jimmy opened the door, and climbed carefully down the steps. Then he ran to the side of the road, although he always took care to keep close to the clown's van. In front he saw ever so many carts and vans, and behind there were as many more. There were horses in groups of five or six, and men walking sleepily along by the hedge. Now and then the lion roared, but not very loudly; now and then one of the men spoke to his horses; now and then a match was struck to light a pipe. But for the most part it seemed strangely silent as the long line wound slowly along the country road. For a good while Jimmy scarcely heard a sound, but presently, after he had been in the road a few minutes, he did hear something, and that was the clown's voice. 'Hullo,' it said, 'what are you doing out here? Just you get inside again'; and Jimmy scampered away and ran up the steps and lay down on the bed. He was soon asleep again, and when he re-opened his eyes it was broad daylight. He found that the caravan had come to a standstill, but when he looked out at the door everything seemed as quiet as when they were on the march. It was not so quiet inside the house, for the clown lay on the bed which Nan had occupied earlier, and he was snoring loudly. Jimmy wondered where Nan had gone, but whilst he stood shivering by the door he saw her carrying a wooden pail full of water. 'Is that for me to wash in?' asked Jimmy, for he was surprised to find that there were no basins and towels in the van. 'Not it,' answered Nan. 'That's to make some tea for breakfast.' He watched whilst she brought out three pieces of iron like walking-sticks, tied together at the ends and forming a tripod. Having stuck the other ends in the ground, Nan collected some sticks, and heaping these together, she soon made a good fire. 'Can I warm my hands?' asked Jimmy; and leaving the van, he crouched down to hold his small hands over the blaze. Then Nan hung a kettle over the fire and stood watching whilst it boiled. And men and women gradually came out of the other vans, which stood about anyhow, and they all looked very sleepy and rather dirty, especially the children who soon began to collect round Jimmy as if he were the most extraordinary thing in the caravan. If he had felt less cold and hungry Jimmy might have enjoyed it all, for there was certainly a great deal to see. They seemed to have stopped on another common, but there were small houses not very far away. The worst of it was that wherever he went he was followed by a small crowd of children who made loud remarks about him. Still he wandered in and out amongst the vans, and stopped a long time before the cage which contained the lion. The lion was lying down licking his fore-paws, but he left off to stare at Jimmy, who quickly drew farther away from the cage. A little farther he met two elephants, a big one and a little one, with three men who were taking them down to a pond to drink. Jimmy saw some comical-looking monkeys too; and what interested him almost more than anything were the men who had already begun to fix the large tent in an open space. It looked rather odd at present, because they had only fixed the centre pole, and the canvas hung loosely in the shape of the cap which the clown had worn last night. On returning to the van, still followed by the boys, Jimmy saw the clown sitting on the steps eating an enormous piece of bread and cheese, and drinking hot tea out of a mug. 'Come along,' said the clown, 'come and have some breakfast'; and Jimmy sat down on the muddy ground, and Nan gave him another mug and a thick slice of bread; but Jimmy was by this time so hungry that he could have eaten anything. Still he felt very anxious to hear how he was to reach Chesterham without meeting Coote again. 'I _should_ like to see my father and mother to-day,' he said, as he ate his breakfast. 'Not to-day,' answered the clown, 'but it won't be long, so don't you worry yourself. We're working that way, and we're going to have a performance there.' 'At Chesterham!' cried Jimmy, feeling extremely relieved. 'You'll be there before the end of the week,' said the clown; 'and I should think your father would come down handsome.' Now Jimmy began to feel quite contented again, and there was so much to look at that he forgot everything else. When he was at school at Ramsgate he had seen a circus going in a procession through the town, and now Nan told him that this circus was going in a procession, and that it would start at half-past twelve. Everybody seemed very busy making ready for it, men were attending to the horses, and the gilded chariots were being prepared, and presently Nan began to dress. 'What are you going to be?' asked Jimmy, as she took a bright-looking helmet from under her bed. 'Don't you know?' she answered. 'Why, I'm Britannia.' A little later she left the van with the helmet on her head, and a large thing which looked like a pitchfork in one hand. In the other she carried a shield, and her white dress had flags all over it. By this time one of the gilded chariots had been made very high; it seemed to be almost as high as a house, and on the top was a seat. Nan climbed up to this seat and sat down, and then a black man led Billy the lion out of his cage with a chain round his neck, and it was funny to see the lion climb up to the place where Nan was sitting and quietly lie down by her side. The clown was standing on a white horse, with a long pair of reins driving another white horse; but the black man who had led the lion drove eight horses, and then there was a band, in red, and two elephants, and everybody in the circus except some of the children and a few women formed a part of the long procession. CHAPTER XI JIMMY RUNS AWAY AGAIN Now, Jimmy thought that he also would like to be in the procession. He would have liked to dress up as Nan had done, although perhaps he would not have cared to sit quite so close to the lion. They seemed to have forgotten all about him, and he was left to do just as he liked. So what he did was to walk beside the procession into the town, and then to run on ahead to find a good place to see it pass. He got back to the van long before Nan and her father, and being quite alone, he began to look about him. Hanging on a peg, he saw a lot of old clothes, which seemed rather interesting, especially one suit that must have belonged to the little clown. Jimmy looked at the dress again and again. There were long things like socks, of a dirty white colour, with a kind of flowery pattern in red along the sides. Then he saw what looked like a very short and baggy pair of light red and blue knickerbockers, and also the jacket of light red and blue too, with curious loose sleeves. He would very much have liked to put them all on just to see how he looked in them, only that he felt afraid that Nan or her father might return before he had time to take them off again. No sooner did they come back than they began to prepare for the evening performance, and still everybody seemed too busy to give many thoughts to Jimmy. 'Whose is that little clown's suit?' he asked, while Nan was busy about the van. 'Ah,' she answered, 'that was my little brother's,' and she spoke so unhappily that he did not like to say any more about it. But Jimmy wanted more and more to try the suit on himself only just for a few moments, and he thought it could not possibly do any harm. Presently Nan, who had taken off Britannia's dress, put on her green velvet riding-habit, and Jimmy could hear the band playing close by, and he guessed that the performance was soon going to begin. 'You can go to bed whenever you like,' said Nan, before she left the van. 'Thank you,' he answered, and when she had gone he stood at the door looking out into the darkness. He could see the flaming naphtha lamps, and hear the music and a loud clapping inside the great tent, and now they seemed all so busy that it might be a good time to put on the little clown's dress. First of all Jimmy shut the upper part of the door, so that nobody who happened to look that way could see inside the van. He took down the clothes from the peg, and removed his own jacket and waistcoat and knickerbockers as quickly as possible. Then he found that he must take off his boots and stockings, and he sat down on the floor of the van to draw on those with the pattern on each side. They did not go on very easily, but he managed it at last, and then it was a simple matter to put on the loose knickerbockers and the jacket. As his feet felt cold, he put on his own boots again, and then he stood on a chair without a back to take down the piece of broken looking-glass which he had seen Nan use that day. He could not get a very good view of himself, but he could see that his face was much dirtier than it had ever been before in his life, and this was not to be wondered at, because he had not washed it since he left his Aunt Selina's yesterday morning. And yesterday morning seemed a very long time ago. He stood in the middle of the van, trying to look at himself in the glass, when suddenly it fell from his hand and broke, and Jimmy gave a violent jump. For to his great alarm he heard distinctly the voice of Coote, the railway policeman, just outside the van. Now Coote had been greatly astonished last night, on coming out of the ham and beef shop, to see no sign of Jimmy. He had spent two hours looking for him, and then he gave him up as a bad job. When he told the station-master what had happened, he was ordered to do nothing else until he found the boy again, and so Coote had spent the whole day searching for him. And Coote's instructions were, on finding the boy, to take him direct to his aunt's house at Chesterham. Coote, after looking all over Barstead, thought that perhaps Jimmy had gone away with the circus people, so he took a train and followed them. But Jimmy felt as much afraid as ever; he made sure that if Coote caught him he would be locked up in prison. Thinking that the policeman was coming into the van, he looked about for a place to hide himself, and at last he made up his mind to crawl under the bed. It was not at all easy, because the bed was close to the floor; but still, Jimmy managed it at last, and lay quite still on the floor, expecting every moment that Coote would enter. Then he remembered that he had left his own clothes on the floor, so that if Coote saw them he would guess that their owner was hiding. Jimmy felt that he would do anything to get safely away, and he lay on the floor scarcely daring to breathe, until Coote's voice sounded farther off. Crawling out from under the bed again, presently, without stopping to think, Jimmy opened the door of the van, ran down the steps, and on putting his feet to the grass, he at once dodged round the van and set off at a run away from the tent. He ran and ran until he was quite out of breath. He seemed to have reached a country lane; it was very quiet and dark, and the stars shone in the sky. Jimmy sat down by the wayside, feeling very hot and tired, and then he remembered that he was wearing the clown's clothes. He remembered also that he had left all his money and his knife behind him; but still he did not think of going back, because if he went back he would be certain to fall into the hands of Coote. No, he would not go back; what he would do was to make his way to Chesterham. It could not be very far, for the clown had said he should be there in a few days, although the caravan travelled slowly. Why shouldn't he walk to his aunt's house, and then he would see his mother and father, who no doubt would look surprised to see him dressed as a clown. If his mother was really like Aunt Selina she might be very angry, but then he hoped she wasn't like his aunt, and, at all events, Jimmy thought she could not be angry with him just the first time she saw him. But, then, he might not be in the right road for Chesterham, and he did not wish to lose his way, because he had no money to buy anything to eat, and already he was beginning to feel hungry. The sooner he got along the better, so he rose from his seat beside the road and walked on in the hope of seeing some one who could tell him the way. He walked rather slowly, but still he went a few miles, passing a cottage with lights in the windows now and then, but not liking to knock at the door. But presently he felt so tired that he made up his mind to knock at the next. When he came to it he walked up to the garden gate, but then his courage failed. He stood leaning against the gate, hoping that some of the people whose voices he could hear might come out; but presently the windows became dark, and Jimmy guessed that, instead of coming out, the people in the cottage had gone to bed. Now that he knew it must be very late, Jimmy began to feel a little afraid. It seemed very dull and lonely, and he longed to meet somebody, never mind who it was. There was only one thing which seemed to be moving, and that was a windmill standing on a slight hill a little way from the road. It seemed very curious to watch the sails going round in the darkness, but Jimmy could see them rise and fall, because they looked black against the blue sky. The mill was so near that he could hear the noise of the sails as they went round, it sounded like a very loud humming-top, and there were one or two patches of light to be seen in the mill. Jimmy thought that perhaps he might be able to lie down near to it, although the difficulty was to get to it. But when he had walked on a little farther, he saw a dark-looking lane on his right hand, and after stopping to think a little, he walked along it. With every step he took the humming sounded louder, but presently Jimmy stopped suddenly. CHAPTER XII JIMMY SLEEPS IN A WINDMILL 'Hullo!' said a voice close in front of him, and looking up Jimmy saw a man smoking a pipe. Of course it was too dark for him to see anything very distinctly, but still his eyes had become used to the darkness, and he could see more than you would imagine. 'What are you after?' asked the man. 'Please I was looking for somewhere to sleep,' answered Jimmy. 'Well, you're a rum sort of youngster,' said the man. 'Here, come along o' me.' Jimmy followed him along a path which led to the mill, and as they drew near to it the great sails seemed to swish through the air in a rather alarming manner. The man opened a door and Jimmy looked in. The floor was all white with flour, and dozens of sacks stood against the walls. The man also looked nearly as white as the floor, and he began to smile as the light fell upon Jimmy. But the boy did not feel at all inclined to smile. 'Why,' he asked, 'you look as if you've come from a circus?' 'I have,' answered Jimmy, feeling quite stupid from sleepiness. 'Run away?' said the man. 'Have you?' 'Yes,' answered Jimmy, gaping. 'Got nowhere to sleep?' asked the miller. 'No,' was the answer. 'Hungry?' asked the miller. 'I only want to go to sleep,' said Jimmy, gaping again. 'Come in here,' said the man, and without losing a moment, Jimmy followed him into the mill. There the man threw two or three sacks on to the floor, and told Jimmy to lie down. There seemed to be a great noise at first, but Jimmy shut his eyes and soon fell sound asleep, too sound asleep even to dream of Coote or the clown. He was awakened by the miller's kicking one of the sacks on which he lay, and looking about to see where he was, Jimmy saw that it was broad daylight, and that the sun was shining brightly. 'Now, then, off with you,' cried the miller, 'before I get into trouble.' 'What time is it, please?' asked Jimmy sleepily, as he stood upright. 'It'll soon be six o'clock,' was the answer. Jimmy thought it was a great deal too early to get up, and he felt so tired that he would very much have liked to lie down again, but he did not say so. 'Here, take this,' said the man, and he put twopence into Jimmy's hand. 'Mind they don't catch you,' he added. 'Please can you tell me the way to Chesterham?' asked Jimmy. 'Chesterham's a long way,' answered the miller; 'but you've got to get to Sandham first. Go back into the road and keep to your left. When you get to Sandham ask for Chesterham.' 'Thank you,' said Jimmy, and with the twopence held tightly in his hand he walked along the lane until he reached the road. It was a beautiful morning, but Jimmy could do nothing but gape; his feet felt very heavy, and he wished that he had never put on the clown's clothes and left his own behind. Still he made sure that he should be able to reach Chesterham some day, and presently he passed a church and an inn and several small houses and poor-looking shops. With the twopence in his hand he looked in at the shop windows wondering what he should buy for breakfast, and seeing a card in one of them which said that lemonade was a penny a bottle, Jimmy determined to buy some of that. The woman who served him looked very much astonished, and she called another woman to look at him too. But Jimmy stood drinking the cool, sweet lemonade, and thought it was the nicest thing he had ever tasted. As he stood drinking it his eyes fell on some cakes of chocolate cream. 'How much are those?' he asked. 'Two a penny,' said the woman. 'I'll have two, please,' said Jimmy, and he began to eat them as soon as he left the shop. But he was glad to leave the village behind, because everybody he met stared at him and he did not like it. Three boys and a girl followed him some distance along the road, no doubt expecting that he was really and truly a clown, and would do some tumbling and make them laugh. But at last they grew tired of following him, and they stopped and began to call him names, and one boy threw a stone at him, but Jimmy felt far too miserable to throw one back. Chocolate creams and lemonade are very nice things, but they don't make a very good breakfast. The morning seemed very long, and presently Jimmy sat down by a hedge and fell asleep. He awoke feeling more hungry than ever, and no one was in sight but a man on a hay cart. But it happened that the cart was going towards Sandham, and Jimmy waited until it came up, and then he climbed up behind and hung with one leg over the tailboard and got a long ride for nothing. He might have ridden all the way to Sandham, only that the carter turned round in a rather bad temper and hit Jimmy with his whip, so that he jumped down more quickly than he had climbed up. He guessed that he was near the town, because there were houses by the roadside, and passing carts, and even an omnibus. If Jimmy had had any more money he would have got into the omnibus; as he had none he was compelled to walk on. It was quite late in the afternoon when he entered Sandham, and he had eaten nothing since the chocolate creams. He was annoyed to find that a number of children were following him again, and as he went farther into the town they crowded round in a ring, so that Jimmy was brought to a standstill. He felt very uncomfortable standing there, with dozens of children and a few grown-up persons round him. They cried out to him to 'go on,' and this was just what Jimmy would have liked to do. He felt so miserable that he put an arm to his eyes and began to cry, and then the crowd began to laugh, for they thought he was going to begin to do something to amuse them at last. But when they saw he did nothing funny as a clown ought to do, but only kept on crying, they began to jeer at him, and one boy came near as if he would hit him. Jimmy took down his arm then, and the two boys, one dressed in rags and the other in the dirty clown's dress, stood staring at each other with their small fists doubled, when Jimmy felt some one take hold of his arm, and looking round he saw a rather tall, dark-haired lady, with a pretty-looking face. Her hand was on his arm, and her eyes wore a very curious expression, almost as if she were going to cry also, just to keep Jimmy company. But from the moment that Jimmy looked at her face he felt that things would be better with him. 'Come with me, dear,' she whispered, and taking his hand in her own she led him out of the crowd. 'Where to?' asked Jimmy, wondering why she held his hand so tightly. 'I think the best thing to do will be to put you to bed,' she answered. 'Yes,' said Jimmy, 'I should like to go to bed--to a real bed, you know--not sacks.' 'You shall go into a real bed,' she answered. 'I think I should like to have something to eat first,' he cried. 'Oh yes, you shall have something to eat,' she said. If a good many persons had stopped to stare at Jimmy when he was alone, many more stared now to see a dirty-faced, poor little clown being led away by a nicely-dressed lady. But the fact was that Jimmy did not care what they thought. They might stare as much as they liked, and it did not make any difference. He felt that he was all right at last, although he did not in the least know who his friend could be. But he felt that she _was_ a friend, and that was the great thing; he felt that whatever she did would be pleasant and good, and that she was going to give him something nice to eat and a comfortable bed to sleep in. Somehow he did not feel at all surprised, only extremely tired, so that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Things that happened did not seem quite real, it was almost like a dream. The lady stopped in front of a house where lodgings were let, although Jimmy knew nothing about that. The door was opened by a pleasant, rosy-cheeked woman in a cotton dress. 'Well, I _am_ glad!' she cried; and Jimmy wondered, but only for a moment, what she had to be glad about. 'I think some hot soup will be the best thing,' said the lady, 'and then we will put him to bed.' 'What do you think about a bath?' asked the landlady. 'The bath will do to-morrow,' was the answer. 'Just some soup and then bed. And I shall want you to send a telegram to the Post Office.' 'You're not going to send a telegram to the policeman,' exclaimed Jimmy; but as the landlady left the room to see about the soup, the lady placed her arm round him and drew him towards her. Jimmy thought that most ladies would not have liked to draw him close, because he really looked a dirty little object, but this lady did not seem to mind at all. Suddenly she held him farther away from her, and looked strangely into his face. 'What is your name?' she asked. 'James--Orchardson--Sinclair--Wilmot,' said Jimmy with a gape between the words. Then she pressed him closer still, and kissed his face again and again, and for once Jimmy rather liked being kissed. Perhaps it was because he had felt so tired and lonely; but whatever the reason may have been, he did not try to draw away, but nestled down in her arms and felt more comfortable than he had felt for ever so long. It was not long before the landlady came back with a plate of hot soup, and Jimmy sat in a chair by the table and the lady broke some bread and dipped it in, and Jimmy almost fell asleep as he fed himself. Still he enjoyed the soup, and when it was finished she took him up in her arms and carried him to another room where there were two beds. She stood Jimmy down, and he leaned against the smaller bed with his eyes shut whilst she took off the clown's dress, and the last thing he recollected was her face very close to his own before he fell sound asleep. CHAPTER XIII THE LAST It was quite late when Jimmy opened his eyes the next morning, and a few minutes afterwards he was sitting up in bed, wondering how much he had dreamed and how much was real. Had he actually got into the wrong train, and run away from a policeman, and travelled in the van, and put on the little clown's clothes, and then run away again? Had he really done all these strange things or had he only dreamed them? But if he had dreamed them, where was he? And if they were real, where had the clown's dress gone to? As Jimmy sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, he hoped that he had not been dreaming; because if it had been only a dream, why, then, he had only dreamed of the lady also, and he felt that he very much wished her to be real. Why, she was real! For there she stood smiling at the open door, with a tray covered with a white cloth in her hand, and on it a large cup of hot bread and milk, and two eggs. 'I am glad!' said Jimmy. 'What are you glad about?' she asked, as she placed the tray on his bed. 'That you're quite real,' he answered. 'Well,' she said, 'your breakfast is real too, and the best thing you can do is to eat it.' Jimmy began at once. He began with the bread and milk, and the lady sat at the foot of the bed watching him. 'Where am I going after breakfast?' he asked. 'Into a nice hot bath,' she said. 'But after that?' 'How should you like to go to see your father?' she asked. 'Do you know him?' asked Jimmy, laying down his spoon in his astonishment. 'Very well indeed.' 'And my mother too?' 'Yes, and Winnie too.' 'Is she like Aunt Selina?' asked Jimmy, as the lady began to take the top off his egg. 'Do you mean Winnie?' she said. 'No, my mother. Because Aunt Selina said they were like each other, but I hope they're not.' 'Well, no,' answered the lady, 'I really don't think your mother is very much like Aunt Selina.' 'Do you think she'll be very cross?' he asked. 'I don't think so. Why should she be cross?' As she spoke she took away the empty cup and gave Jimmy the egg. She cut a slice of bread and butter into fingers, and he dipped them into the egg and ate it that way. 'This _is_ a nice egg,' said Jimmy. 'But,' he continued, 'I thought perhaps she'd be cross because I got into the wrong train.' 'Why did you run away from the policeman?' asked the lady. 'Because he said he should lock me up.' 'But he was only joking, you know.' 'Was he?' asked Jimmy, opening his eyes very widely. 'That's all,' was the answer, and Jimmy looked thoughtful for a few minutes. 'I don't think I like policemen who joke,' he said solemnly. 'Then,' asked the lady, 'why did you run away from the circus? You seem to be very fond of running away.' 'I shan't run away from you,' said Jimmy. 'Only I heard the policeman's voice outside the van and I thought I'd better.' 'Well,' she answered, 'if you had not run away you would have found your mother much sooner.' 'I do hope she isn't like Aunt Selina,' he said wistfully. 'What should you wish her to be like?' asked the lady. 'Why, like you, of course,' he cried, and then he was very much surprised to see the lady lean forward and throw her arms about him and to feel her kissing him again and again. And when she left off her eyes were wet. 'Why did you do that?' asked Jimmy. 'She _is_ like me, you darling!' said the lady. 'My mother?' cried Jimmy. 'You dear, foolish boy, I am your mother,' she said. 'Oh,' said Jimmy, and it was quite a long time before he was able to say anything else. A few moments later Mrs. Wilmot rang the bell, and a servant carried a large bath into the room, then she went away and came back with a can of very hot water, and then she went away again to fetch a brown-paper parcel. Mrs. Wilmot opened the parcel at once, and Jimmy sat up in bed and looked on. He saw her take out a suit of brown clothes, a shirt, and all sorts of things, so that he should have everything new. Then he got out of bed, and had such a washing and scrubbing as he had never had before. He was washed from head to foot, and dressed in the new clothes, and when he looked in the glass he saw himself just as he had been before he left Miss Lawson's school at Ramsgate. 'Now,' said Mrs. Wilmot, 'I think you may as well come to see your father and Winnie.' 'Are they here?' he asked. 'Oh yes,' she explained, 'I sent to tell them last night, and they arrived early this morning. Not both together, because we left Winnie with Aunt Ellen at Chesterham, whilst father went to look for you one way and I went another.' 'Then you were really looking for me?' cried Jimmy. 'Why, of course we were,' she answered. 'We knew you were walking about the country dressed as a little clown. But come,' she said, 'because your father is anxious to see you.' 'I should like to see him too,' said Jimmy. 'I hope he's as nice as you are,' he cried as they left the bedroom. 'He is ever so much nicer,' was the quiet answer. 'I don't think he could be,' said Jimmy, as his mother turned the handle. Then he remembered what the boys had said at school. 'Winnie isn't really black, is she?' he asked. 'Black!' cried his mother; 'she is just the dearest little girl in the world.' 'I'm glad of that,' said Jimmy, and then he entered the room and saw a tall man with a fair moustache standing in front of the fire, and, seated on his shoulder, was one of the prettiest little girls Jimmy had ever seen. 'There he is!' she cried. 'There's my brother. Put me down, please.' 'Good-morning,' said Jimmy, as his father put Winnie on to the floor. But the next moment Mr. Wilmot put his hands under Jimmy's arms and lifted him up to kiss him, but the odd thing was that when he was standing on the floor again he could not think of anything to say to Winnie. 'I've got a dollie!' she said presently, while their father and mother stood watching them, 'and I'm going to have a governess.' Then they all began to talk quite freely, and Jimmy soon felt as if he had lived with them always. Presently they went out for a walk to buy Jimmy some more clothes, and when they came back the children's dinner was ready. 'I do like being here,' said Jimmy during the meal. 'I am glad you got found,' cried Winnie. 'So am I,' he answered. 'But suppose,' he suggested, 'that I hadn't been found before you went away again.' Then Winnie solemnly laid aside her fork--she was not old enough to use a knife. 'Why,' she said, 'you do say funny things. We're not going away again, ever.' 'Aren't you?' asked Jimmy, looking up at his father and mother. 'No,' answered Mrs. Wilmot, 'we're going to stay at home with you.' 'Are you really--really?' asked Jimmy, for he could scarcely believe it. 'Yes, really,' said Mr. Wilmot. 'It will be nice,' said Jimmy thoughtfully, and then he went on with his dinner. THE END The Dumpy Books for Children I. The Flamp, The Ameliorator, and The Schoolboy's Apprentice, _by E. V. LUCAS_ II. Mrs. Turner's Cautionary Stories III. The Bad Family, _by Mrs. Fenwick_ IV. The Story of Little Black Sambo. Illustrated in Colours, _by Helen Bannerman_ V. The Bountiful Lady, _by Thomas Cobb_ VI. A Cat Book, Portraits _by H. Officer Smith_, Characteristics _by E. V. LUCAS_ VII. A Flower Book. Illustrated in Colours _by Nellie Benson_. _Story by Eden Coybee_ VIII. The Pink Knight. Illustrated in Colours _by J. R. Monsell_ IX. The Little Clown, _by Thomas Cobb_ BY THE SAME AUTHOR Cooper's First Term. Illustrated by Gertrude M. Bradley. _A NEW SERIES._ THE LARGER DUMPY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. I. A SIX-INCH ADMIRAL. By G. A. Best. II. HOLIDAYS AND HAPPY DAYS. By E. Florence Mason. With Verses by Hamish Hendry. III. PILLOW STORIES. By S. L. Heward. With Illustrations by Gertrude M. Bradley. 
28805	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28805-h.htm or 28805-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h/28805-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h.zip) DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY by EVELYN RAYMOND Illustrations by S. Schneider Chatterton-Peck Company New York, N. Y. Copyright 1908 by Chatterton-Peck Co. [Illustration: THE MOONLIGHTED FIGURE BY THE LILY POND. _Dorothy's House Party._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I END OF AN INFAIR 9 II CHOOSING THE GUESTS 21 III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST 35 IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING 44 V RIDDLES 61 VI A MORNING CALL 79 VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING 93 VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS 106 IX HEADQUARTERS 118 X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS 133 XI MORNING TALKS 145 XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH 159 XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN 174 XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND 189 XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING 203 XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY 215 XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED 229 XVIII CONCLUSION 244 DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY CHAPTER I THE END OF AN INFAIR Dorothy sat up in bed and looked about her. For a moment she did not realize where she was nor how she came to be in such a strange and charming room. Then from somewhere in the distance sounded a merry, musical voice, singing: "Old Noah of old he built an ark-- One more river to cross! He built it out of hickory bark-- One more riv----" The refrain was never finished. Dorothy was at the open window calling lustily: "Alfy! Alfy Babcock! Come right up here this very, very minute!" "Heigho, Sleepy Head! You awake at last? Well, I should think it was time. I'll be right up, just as soon as I can put these yeller artemisias into Mis' Calvert's yeller bowl." A fleeting regret that she had not waked earlier, that it was not she who had gathered the morning nosegay for Mrs. Betty's table, shadowed the fair face of the late riser; but was promptly banished as the full memory of all that happened on the night before came back to her. Skipping from point to point of the pretty chamber she examined it in detail, exclaiming in delight over this or that and, finally, darting within the white-tiled bathroom where some thoughtful person had already drawn water for her bath. "Oh! it's like a fairy-tale and I'm in a real fairy-land, seems if! What a dainty tub! What heaps of great soft towels! and what a lovely bath-robe! And oh! what a wonderful great-aunt Betty!" A moisture not wholly due to the luxurious bath filled Dorothy's eyes, as she took her plunge, for her heart was touched by the evidences of the loving forethought which had thus prepared for her home-coming before she herself knew she possessed a birthright home. Of her past life the reader if interested may learn quite fully, for the facts are detailed in the two books known as "Dorothy's Schooling," and "Dorothy's Travels." So though it was still a radiantly happy girl who welcomed Alfaretta it was a thoughtful one; so that Alfy again paused in her caroling to demand: "Well, Dolly Doodles, what's the matter? If I'd been as lucky as you be I wouldn't draw no down-corners to my mouth, I wouldn't! I'd sing louder'n ever and just hustle them 'animals' into that 'ark' 'two by two,' for 'There's one more river to cross! One more river--One more river to cro-o-o-oss!'" But without waiting for an answer the young farm girl caught her old playmate in her strong arms and gave her a vigorous hug. "There, Miss Dorothy Calvert, that don't begin to show how tickled I am 'bout your good fortune! I'm so full of it all 't I couldn't hardly sleep. Fact. You needn't stare, though 'tis a queer thing, 'cause if there's one thing more to my liking than another it's going to bed on such a bed as Mis' Calvert has in every single one of her rooms. There ain't no husk-mattresses nor straw shake-downs to Deerhurst. No, siree! I know, for I went into every single chamber from roof to cellar and pinched 'em all. The 'help' sleep just as soft as the old lady does herself. Softer, Ma says, 'cause old-timers like her if they didn't use feathers just laid on hard things 't even Ma'd despise to have in her house. However, everybody to their taste! and say, Dolly, which of all them pretty dresses are you goin' to put on? What? That plain old white linen? Well, if you don't beat the Dutch and always did! If I had all them silks and satins I'd pick out the handsomest and wear that first, and next handsome next, and keep right on, one after another, till I'd tried the lot, if I had to change a dozen times a day. See! I found them cardinal flowers down by the brook and fetched 'em to you." With one of her sudden changes of mood Alfaretta dropped down upon the floor and pulled from the pocket of her old-fashioned skirt a cheap paper pad. It was well scribbled with penciled notes which the girl critically examined, as she explained: "You see, Dorothy, that your story is like reading a library book, only more so; and lest I should forget some part of it I've wrote it all down. Listen. I'll read while you finish fixin'. My! What a finicky girl you are! You was born----" "But, Alfy, please! I protest against hearing my own history that way!" cried the other, making a playful dash toward the notes, which Alfaretta as promptly hid behind her. Then, knowing from experience that contest was useless, Dorothy resigned herself to hearing the following data droned forth: "You was born----" "Of course!" "'Twon't do you a mite of good to interrupt. I'm in real down earnest. You'll--you'll be goin' away again, pretty soon, and having come into your fortunes you'll be forgettin'----" Here Alfy sobbed and dabbed her knuckles into her eyes--"'Cause Ma says 'tain't likely you'll ever be the same girl again----" "I should like to know why not? Go on with your story-notes. I'd even rather hear them than you talking foolishly!" "Well, I'll have to begin all over again. You was born. Your parents were respectful--respective--hmm! all right folks though deluged with poverty. Then they died and left you a little, squallin' baby----" "Alfy, dear, that's unkind! I don't admit that I ever could be a squaller!" Alfaretta raised her big eyes and replied: "I ain't makin' that up. It's exactly what Mis' Calvert said her own self. 'Twas why she wouldn't bother raisin' you herself after your Pa and Ma died and sent you to her. So she turned you into a foundling orphan and your Father John and Mother Martha brung you up. Then your old Aunt Betty got acquainted with you an' liked you, and sort of hankered to get you back again out of the folkses' hands what had took all the trouble of your growing into a sizable girl. Some other folks appear to have took a hand in the business of huntin' up your really truly name; and Ma Babcock she says that Mis' Calvert'd have had to own up to your bein' her kin after awhile, whether or no; so she just up and told the whole business; and here you be--a nairess! and so rich you won't never know old friends again--maybe--though I always thought you--you--you--Oh! my!" Alfaretta bowed her head to her knees and began to cry with the same vigor she brought to every act of her life. But she didn't cry for long; because Dorothy was promptly down upon the floor, also, and pulling the weeper's hands from her flushed face, commanded: "It's my turn. I've a story to tell. It's all about a girl named Alfaretta Babcock, who was the first friend I ever had 'up-mounting,' and is going to be my friend all my life unless she chooses otherwise. This Alfy I'm talking about is one of the truest, bravest girls in the world. The only trouble is that she gets silly notions into her auburn head, once in a while, and it takes kisses just like these--and these--and these--to drive them out. She's going to be a teacher when she grows up----" Alfy's tears were dried, her face smiling, as she now interrupted: "No. I've changed my mind. I'm either going to be a trained nurse or a singer in an opera. Premer donners, they call 'em." "Heigho! Why all that?" Alfaretta dropped her voice to a whisper and cautiously glanced over her shoulder as she explained: "Greatorex!" "Miss Greatorex? What has that poor, learned dear to do with it?" demanded Dorothy, astonished. "Everything. You see, she's the first woman teacher I ever saw--the first _woman_ one. Rather than grow into such a stiff, can't-bend-to-save-your-life kind of person I'd do 'most anything. Hark! There's somebody to the door!" Both girls sprang to open it and found a maid with a summons to breakfast; also with the request that "Miss Dorothy should attend Mrs. Calvert in her own room before going below stairs." Dorothy sped away but Alfaretta lingered to put the cardinal flowers into a vase and to admire afresh the beautiful apartment assigned to her friend. There was honest pleasure in the good fortune which had come to another and yet there was a little envy mingled with the pleasure. It was with a rather vicious little shake that she picked up the soft bath-robe Dorothy had discarded and folded it about her own shoulders; but the reflection of her own face in the mirror opposite so surprised her by its crossness that she stared, then laughed aloud. "Huh! Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Alfy Babcock? When you put on that two-sticks, ten-penny-nails-look you're homely enough to eat hay! 'Tain't so long ago that Dolly hadn't no more in this world than you've got this minute. Not half so much either, 'cause she hadn't nobody belongin', nobody at all, whilst you had a Ma and Pa and a whole slew of brothers and sisters. All she's found yet is a terrible-old great-aunt and some money. Pa says 'money's no good,' and--I guess I'll go get my breakfast, too." Her good temper quite restored, this young philosopher skipped away and joined her mother and sisters in the great kitchen where they were already seated at table. In Mrs. Calvert's room the happy old lady greeted Dorothy with such a warmth of affection that the girl felt no lack of others "belongin'"--for which lack Alfaretta had pitied her--and only yearned to find a way to show her own love and gratitude. There followed a happy half-hour of mutual confidences, a brief reading of the Word, a simple prayer for blessing on their new lives together, and the pair descended to the cheerful room where their guests were assembling: each, it seemed, enjoying to the utmost their beautiful surroundings and their hostess's hospitality. Jests flew, laughter rang, and the Judge could scarcely refrain from song; when just as the meal was over James Barlow appeared at the long, open window, his mail bag over his shoulder, and instant silence succeeded as each person within waited eagerly for his share in the contents of the pouch. There were letters in plenty, and some faces grew grave over their reading, while for the Judge there was a telegram which Jim explained had just come to the office where was, also, the post-office. "Hmm! that ends my vacation in earnest! I meant to stay a bit longer out of business, but--Mrs. Calvert, when's the next train cityward, please?" Mrs. Betty returned: "I've half a mind not to tell you! But, of course, if--Dorothy, you'll find a parcel of time tables in that desk by the fireplace. Take them to Judge Breckenridge, please." Nor was he the only one to make them useful; for it followed that the Deerhurst "infair," begun on the night before and planned to extend over several days must be abruptly ended. The hostess was herself summoned elsewhere, to attend the sick bed of a lifelong friend, and the summons was not one to be denied. Even while she was reading the brief note she knew that she must forsake her post and with a thrill of pride reflected that now she had one of her own kin to install in her place. Young as Dorothy was she must act as the hostess of Deerhurst, even to these gray-headed guests now gathered there. But, presently it appeared, that there would be no guests to entertain. President Ryall was needed to supervise some changes at his college; merchant Ihrie must hasten to disentangle some badly mixed business affairs; Dr. Mantler would miss the "most interesting case on record if he did not come at once to his hospital;" and so, to the four old "boys," who had camped together in the Markland forests, the end of playtime had indeed come, and each after his kind must resume his man's work for the world. Young Tom Hungerford's furlough from West Point expired that morning, and his mother felt that when he returned to the Academy she must establish herself for a time at the hotel near-by. At her invitation Mrs. Cook and Melvin were to accompany her; that these Nova Scotians might see something of lads' military training outside their own beloved Province. Catching the general spirit of unrest, Miss Greatorex suddenly announced that it was time she returned to the Rhinelander. Maybe she dreaded being left the only adult in the house, for as yet no mention had been made as to the disposal of her charges, Molly and Dolly. Certainly, she felt that having been burdened with their cares during the long summer she was entitled to a few days' rest before the beginning of a new school year. The lady added: "Besides all that, I shall have no more than sufficient time to arrange my specimens that I obtained in Markland." A short silence fell once more upon that company in the breakfast room, and somehow the brilliant sunshine seemed to dim as if a storm were rising; or was it but a mist of disappointment rising to Dorothy's eyes as she glanced from one to another and realized how well she loved them each and all, and how sad the parting was. But her last glance fell upon her Aunt Betty's face and she bravely smiled back into the kindly eyes so tenderly smiling upon her. After all, that was the Calvert way! To meet whatever came with "head erect and colors flying," and she, too, was Calvert. She'd prove it! Cried she, with that characteristic toss of her brown curls: "Well, if everybody _must_--what can I do to help? As for you two, darling 'father' and 'mother,' I hope nothing's going to take you away from Deerhurst all of a sudden, like the rest!" But there was, although there was no suddenness in this decision. As they presently informed her, the crippled ex-postman had made himself so useful at the sanitarium where he had spent the summer that he had been offered a permanent position there, at a larger salary than he had ever received as letter-carrier in Baltimore. He had also secured for his wife Martha a position as matron of the institution; and the independence thus achieved meant more to that ambitious woman than even a care-free home with her beloved foster-child. The death of their old aunt had released Martha from that separation from her husband which had so sorely tried her and, though sorry to part again from Dorothy, she was still a very happy woman. "We shall always love one another, Dolly dear, but we've come to 'the parting of the ways.' Each as the Lord leads, little girl; but what is the reason, now that Mrs. Calvert's grown-up party has ended, what is the reason, I say, that you don't give a House Party of your very own?" CHAPTER II CHOOSING THE GUESTS Those who must go went quickly. By trains and boats, the various guests who had gathered at Deerhurst to welcome Dorothy's home-coming had departed, and at nightfall the great house seemed strangely empty and deserted. Even Ma Babcock had relinquished her post as temporary housekeeper and had hurried across the river to nurse a seriously ill neighbor. "I may be back tomorrer and I may not be back till the day after never! I declare I'm all of a fluster, what with Mis' Calvert goin' away sort of leavin' me in charge--though them old colored folks o' her'n didn't like that none too well!--and me havin' to turn my back on duty this way. But sickness don't wait for time nor tide and typhoid's got to be tended mighty sharp; and I couldn't nohow refuse to go to one Mis' Judge Satterlee's nieces, she that's been as friendly with me as if I was a regular 'ristocratic like herself. No, when a body's earned a repitation for fetchin' folks through typhoid you got to live up to it. Sorry, Dolly C.; but I'll stow the girls, Barry and Clarry and the rest, 'round amongst the neighbors somewhere, 'fore I start. As for you, Alfy----" "Oh, Mrs. Babcock! Don't take Alfy away! Please, please don't!" cried Dorothy, fairly clutching at the matron's flying skirts, already disappearing through the doorway. Mrs. Babcock switched herself free and answered through the opening: "All right. Alfy can do as she likes. She can go down help tend store to Liza Jane's, t'other village, where she's been asked to go more'n once, or finish her visit to you. Ary one suits me so long as you don't let nor hender me no more." Not all of this reply was distinct, for it was finished on the floor above, whither the energetic farm-wife had sped to "pack her duds"; but enough was heard to set Alfaretta skipping around the room in an ecstasy of delight, exclaiming: "I'm to be to the House Party! Oh! I'm to be to the Party!" But this little episode had been by daylight, and now the dusk had fallen. The great parlors were shut and dark. Prudent old Ephraim had declared: "I ain't gwine see my Miss Betty's substance wasted, now she's outer de way he'se'f. One lamp in de hall's ernuf fo' seein' an' doan' none yo chillen's go foolin' to ast mo'." So the long halls were dim and full of shadows; the wind had risen and howled about the windows, which were being carefully shuttered by the servants against the coming storm which Dinah prophesied would prove the "ekernoctial" and a "turr'ble one"; and to banish the loneliness which now tormented her, Dorothy proposed: "Let's go into the library. There's a fine fire on the hearth and the big lamp is stationary. Ephraim can't find fault with us for using that. We'll make out a list of the folks to ask. You, Alfy, shall do the writing, you do write such a fine, big hand. Come on, Molly girl! I'm so glad you begged to stay behind your Auntie Lu. Aren't you?" "Ye-es, I reckon so!" answered the little Southerner, with unflattering hesitation. "But it's mighty lonesome in this big house without her and West Point's just--just heavenly!" "Any place would be 'heavenly' to you, Molly Breckenridge, that was full of boys!" retorted Dolly. "But don't fancy you'd be allowed to see any of those cadets even if you were there. Beg pardon, girlie, I don't want to be cross, but how can I have a decent party if you don't help? Besides, there's Monty and Jim left. They ought to count for something." "Count for mighty little, seems if, the way they sneak off by themselves and leave us alone. Gentlemen, _Southern_ gentlemen, wouldn't act that way!" "Oh, sillies! What's the use of spoiling a splendid time? It's just like a cow givin' a pailful of milk then turnin' round and kickin' it over!" cried good-natured Alfy, throwing an arm around each girl's shoulders and playfully forcing her into the cheery library and into a great, soft chair. Of course, they all laughed and hugged one another and acknowledged that they had been "sillies" indeed; and a moment later three girlish heads were bending together above the roomy table, whereon was set such wonderful writing materials as fairly dazzled Alfaretta's eyes. So impressed was she that she exclaimed as if to herself: "After all, I guess I won't be a trained nurse nor a opera singer. I'll be a writin' woman and have just such pens and things as these." "Oh, Alfy, you funny dear! You change your mind just as often as I used to!" "Don't you change it no more, then, Dorothy C.?" demanded the other, quickly. "No. I don't think I shall ever change it again. I shall do everything the best I can, my music and lessons and all that, but it'll be just for one thing. I lay awake last night wondering how best I could prove grateful for all that's come to me and I reckon I've found out, and it's so--so simple, too." "Ha! Let's hear this fine and simple thing, darling Dolly Doodles, and maybe we'll both follow your illustrious example!" cried Molly, smiling. "To--to make everybody I know as--as happy as I can;" answered the other slowly. "Huh! That's nothing! And you can begin right now, on ME!" declared Miss Alfaretta Babcock, with emphasis. "How?" "Help me to tell who's to be invited." "All right. Head the list with Alfaretta Babcock." "Cor-rect! I've got her down already. Next?" "Molly Breckenridge." "Good enough. Down she goes. Wait till I get her wrote before you say any more." They waited while Alfy laboriously inscribed the name and finished with the exclamation: "That's the crookedest back-name I ever wrote." "You acted as if it hurt you, girlie! You wriggled your tongue like they do in the funny pictures;" teased Molly, but the writer paid no heed. "Next?" "Dorothy Calvert." "So far so good. But them three's all girls. To a party there ought to be as many boys. That's the way we did to our last winter's school treat," declared Alfaretta. "Well, there's Jim Barlow. He's a boy." "He's no _party_ kind of a boy," objected Molly, "and he's only--_us_. She hasn't anybody down that isn't us, so far. We few can't make a whole party." But Dolly and Alfy were wholly serious. "Montmorency Vavasour-Stark," suggested the former, and the writer essayed that formidable name. Then she threw down the pen in dismay, exclaiming: "You'll have to indite that yourself or spell it out to me letter by letter. He'll take more'n a whole line if I write him to match the others." "Oh! he doesn't take up much room, he's so little," reassured idle Molly, with a mischievous glance toward the doorway which the other girls did not observe; while by dint of considerable assistance Alfy "got him down" and "all on one line!" as she triumphantly remarked. "That's two boys and three girls. Who's your next boy?" "Melvin Cook. He's easy to write," said Dolly. "But he's gone." "Yes, Alfy, but he can come back. They'll all have to 'come' except we who don't have to." A giggle from behind the portières commented upon this remark and speeding to part them Dolly revealed the hiding figures of their two boy house-mates. "That's not nice of young gentlemen, to peep and listen," remarked Molly, severely; "but since you've done it, come and take your punishment. You'll have to help. James Barlow, you are appointed the committee of 'ways and means.' I haven't an idea what that 'means,' but I know they always have such a committee." "What 'they,' Miss Molly?" "I don't know, Mister Barlow, but you're--it." "Monty, you'll furnish the entertainment," she continued. The recipient of this honor bowed profoundly, then lifted his head with a sudden interest as Dorothy suggested the next name: "Molly Martin." Even Alfy looked up in surprise. "Do you mean it, Dorothy C.?" "Surely. After her put Jane Potter." James was listening now and inquired: "What you raking up old times for, Dorothy? Inviting them south-siders that made such a lot of trouble when you lived 'up-mounting' afore your folks leased their farm?" "Whose 'Party' is this?" asked the young hostess, calmly, yet with a twinkle in her eye. "All of our'n," answered Alfaretta, complacently. "How many girls now, Alfy?" questioned Molly, who longed to suggest some of her schoolmates but didn't like a similar reproof to that which fell so harmlessly from Alfaretta's mind. "Five," said the secretary, counting upon her fingers. "Me, and you, and her, and----five. Correct." "Mabel Bruce." "Who's she? I never heard of her," wondered Molly, while Jim answered: "She's a girl 'way down in Baltimore. Why, Dorothy C., you know she can't come here!" "Why not? Listen, all of you. This is to be _my_ House Party. It's to be the very nicest ever was. One that everyone who is in it will never, never forget. My darling Aunt Betty gave me permission to ask anybody I chose and to do anything I wanted. She said I had learned some of the lessons of poverty and now I had to begin the harder ones of having more money than most girls have. She said that I mustn't feel badly if the money brought me enemies and some folks got envious." Here, all unseen by the speaker, honest Alfaretta winced and put her hand to her face; but she quickly dropped it, to listen more closely. "Mabel was a dear friend even when I was that 'squalling baby' Alfy wrote about. I am to telegraph for her and to send her a telegraphic order for her expenses, though Aunt Betty wasn't sure _that_ would be acceptable to Mr. and Mrs. Bruce. To prevent any misunderstanding on that point, you are to make the telegram real long and explicit. I reckon that's what it means to be that committee Molly named. She'll make six girls and that's enough. Six boys--how many yet Alfy?" "Three. Them two that are and the one that isn't." "Mike Martin." Both Jim and Alfy exclaimed in mutual protest: "Why Dorothy! That fellow? you must be crazy." "No, indeed! I'm the sanest one here. That boy is doing the noblest work anybody ever did on this dear old mountain; he's making and keeping the peace between south-side and north-side." "How do you know, Dorothy?" asked Jim, seriously. "No matter how I know but I do know. Why, I wouldn't leave him out of my Party for anything. I'd almost rather be out of it myself!" Then both he and Alfaretta remembered that winter day on the mountain when Dorothy had been the means of saving Mike Martin from an accidental death and the quiet conference afterward of the two, in that inner room of the old forge under the Great Balm Tree. Probably something had happened then and there to make Dolly so sure of Mike's worthiness. But she was already passing on to "next," nodding toward Alfy, with the words: "The two Smith boys, Littlejohn and Danny." Jim Barlow laughed but did not object. The sons of farmer Smith were jolly lads and deserved a good time, once in their hard-worked lives; yet he did stare when Dorothy concluded her list of lads with the name: "Frazer Moore." "You don't know him very well, Dolly girl. Beside that, he'll make an odd number. He's the seventh----" "Son of the seventh son--fact!" interrupted Alfaretta; "and now we'll have to find another girl to match him." "I've found the girl, Dolly, but she won't match. Helena Montaigne came up on the train by which your Father John left for the north. You could hardly leave her out from your House Party, or from givin' her the bid to it, any way." "Helena home? Oh! I am so glad, I am so glad! Of course, she'll get the 'bid'; I'll take it to her myself the first thing to-morrow morning. But you didn't mention Herbert. Hasn't he come, too?" James Barlow nodded assent but grudgingly. He had never in his heart quite forgiven Herbert Montaigne for their difference in life; as if it were the fault of the one that he had been born the son of the wealthy owner of The Towers and of the other that he was a penniless almshouse child. Second thoughts, however, always brought nobler feeling into the honest heart of Jim and a flush of shame rose to his face as he forced himself to answer. "Yes, course. The hull fambly's here." Dorothy checked the teasing words which rose to her lips, for when ambitious Jim relapsed so hopelessly into incorrect speech it was a sign that he was deeply moved; and it was a relief to see Alfaretta once more diligently count upon her fingers and to hear her declare: "We'll never'll get this here list straight and even, never in this endurin' world. First there's a girl too many and now there's a girl too short!" "Never mind; we'll make them come out even some way, and I'll find another girl. I don't know who, yet, and we mustn't ask any more or there'll be no places for them to sleep. Now we've settled the guests let's settle the time. We'll have to put it off two or three days, to let them get here. I wish your cousin Tom Hungerford could be asked to join us but I don't suppose he could come," said Dolly to her friend Molly. "No, he couldn't. It was the greatest favor his getting off just for those few hours. A boy might as well be in prison as at West Point!" "What? At that 'heavenly' place? Let's see. This is Wednesday night. Saturday would be a nice time to begin the Party, don't you all think?" "Fine. Week-end ones always do begin on Saturday but the trouble is they break up on Monday after;" answered Molly. "Then ours is to be a double week-ender. Aunt Betty said 'invite them for a week.' That's seven days, and now Master Stark comes your task. As a committee of entertainment you are to provide some new, some different, fun for us every single one of those seven days; and it must be something out of the common. I long, I just long to have my home-finding House Party so perfectly beautiful that nobody in it will ever, ever forget it!" Looking into her glowing face the few who were gathered about her inwardly echoed her wish, and each, in his or her own way, resolved to aid in making it as "perfect" as their young hostess desired. Monty heaved a prodigious sigh. "You've given me the biggest task, Dolly Doodles! When a fellow's brain is no better than mine----" "Nonsense, Montmorency Vavasour-Stark! You know in your little insides that you're ''nigh tickled to death' as Alfy would say. Aren't you the one who always plans the entertainments--the social ones--at your school, Brentnor Hall? You're as proud as Punch this minute, and you know it, sir. Don't pretend otherwise!" reproved Molly, severely. "Yes, but--that was different. I had money then. I hadn't announced my decision to be independent of my father and he--he hadn't taken me too literally at my word;" and with a whimsical expression the lad emptied his pockets of the small sums they contained and spread the amount on the table. "There it is, all of it, Lady of the Manor, at your service! Getting up entertainments is a costly thing, but--as far as it goes, I'll try my level best!" They all laughed and Dorothy merrily heaped the coins again before him. "You forget, and so I have to remind you, that this is to be _my_ Party! I don't ask you to spend your money but just your brains in this affair." "Huh! Dorothy! I'm afraid they won't go much further than the cash!" he returned, but nobody paid attention to this remark, they were so closely watching Dorothy. She had opened a little leather bag which lay upon the table and now drew from it a roll of bills. Crisp bank notes, ten of them, and each of value ten dollars. "Whew! Where did you get all that, Dorothy Calvert?" demanded Jim Barlow, almost sternly. To him the money seemed a fortune, and that his old companion of the truck-farm must still be as poor in purse as he. She was nearly as grave as he, as she spread the notes out one by one in the place where Monty had displayed his meager sum. "My Great-Aunt Betty gave them to me. It is her wish that I should use this money for the pleasure of my friends. She says that it is a first portion of my own personal inheritance, and that if I need more----" "More!" they fairly gasped; for ten times ten is a hundred, and a hundred dollars--Ah! What might not be done with a whole one hundred dollars? "'Twould be wicked," began James, in an awestruck tone, but was not allowed to finish, for practical Alfaretta, her big eyes fairly glittering, was rapidly counting upon her fingers and trying to do that rather difficult "example" of "how many times will seven go into one hundred and how much over?" "Seven into ten, once and three; seven into thirty--Ouch!" Her computation came to a sudden end. The storm had broken, all unnoticed till then, and a mighty crash as if the whole house were falling sent them startled to their feet. CHAPTER III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST For an instant the group was motionless from fear; then Jim made a dash for the front entrance whence, apparently, the crash had come. There had been no thunder accompanying the storm which now raged wildly over the mountain top, and Alfy found sufficient voice to cry: "'Tain't no lightnin' stroke. _Somethin's_ fell!" The words were so inadequate to the description that Molly laughed nervously, and in relieved tension all followed James forward; only to find themselves rudely forced back by old Ephraim, gray with fear and anxiety. "Stan' back dere, stan' back, you-alls! 'Tis Eph'am's place to gyard Miss Betty's chillens!" He didn't look as if the task were an agreeable one and the lads placed themselves beside him as he advanced and with trembling hands tried to unbar the door. This time he did not repulse them, and it was well, for as the bolts slid and the heavy door was set free it fell inward with such force that he would have been crushed beneath it had they not been there to draw him out of its reach. "Oh! oh! oh! The great horse chestnut!" cried Dorothy, springing aside from contact with the branches which fell crowding through the doorway. Hinges were torn from their places and the marvel was that the beautifully carved door had not itself been broken in bits. Jim was the first to rally and to find some comfort in the situation, exclaiming: "That's happened exactly as I feared it would, some day; and it's a mercy there wasn't nobody sittin' on that piazza. They'd ha' been killed dead, sure as pisen!" "Killing generally does mean death, Jim Barlow, but if you knew that splendid tree was bound to fall some day why didn't you say so? We--" with a fine assumption of proprietorship in Deerhurst--"we would have had it prevented," demanded Dorothy. Already she felt that this was home; already she loved the fallen tree almost as its mistress had done and her feeling was so sincere, if new, that nobody smiled, and the lad answered soberly: "I have told, Dolly girl. I kept on tellin' Mrs. Calvert how that lily-pond she would have dug out deeper an' deeper, and made bigger all the time, would for certain undermine that tree and make it fall. But--but she's an old lady 't knows her own mind and don't allow nobody else to know it for her! Old Hans, the gardener, he talked a heap, too; begged her to have the pond cemented an' that wouldn't hender the lilies blowin' and'd stop trouble. But, no. She wouldn't listen. Said she 'liked things perfectly natural' and--Well, she's got 'em now!" "Jim Barlow, you're--just horrid! and--ungrateful to my precious Aunt Betty!" cried Dorothy, indignant tears springing to her eyes. To her the fallen tree seemed like a stricken human being and the catastrophe a terrible one. "It's taken that grand chestnut years and years and years--longer'n you or I will ever live, like enough--to grow that big, and to be thrown down all in a minute, and--you don't care a mite, except to find your own silly opinion prove true!" "Hold on, Dolly girl. This ain't no time for you an' me to begin quarrelin'. I do care. I care more'n I can say but that don't hender the course o' nature. The pond was below; 'twas fed by a spring from above; she had trenches dug so that spring-water flowed right spang through the roots of that chestnut into the pond; and what could follow except what did? I'm powerful sorry it's happened but I can't help bein' common-sensible over it." "I hate common-sense!" cried Molly, coming to the support of her friend. "Anyway, I don't see what good we girls do standing here in this draughty hall. Let's go to bed." "And leave the house wide open this way?" Dorothy's sense of responsibility was serious enough to her though amusing to the others, and it was Monty who brought her back to facts by remarking: "The house always has been taken care of, Dolly Doodles, and I guess it will be now. Jim and I will get some axes and lop off these branches that forced the door in and prop it shut the best way we can. Then I'll go down to the lodge with him to sleep for he says there's a room I can have. See? You girls will be well protected!" and he nodded toward the group of servants gathered at the rear of the great hall. "So you'd better take Molly's advice and go up-stairs." Dolly wasn't pleased to be thus set coolly aside in "her own house" but there seemed nothing better to do than follow this frank advice; therefore, taking a hand of each of her girl friends, she led the way toward her own pretty chamber and two small rooms adjoining. "Aunt Betty thought we three'd like to be close together, and anyway, if we had all come that I wanted to invite we'd have to snug up some. So she told Dinah to fix her dressing-room for one of you--that's this side mine; and the little sewing-room for the other. She's put single beds in them and Dinah is to sleep on her cot in this wide hall outside our doors. It seemed sort of foolish to me, first off, when darling Auntie planned it, as if anything could happen to make us need Dinah so near; but now--My! I can't stop trembling, somehow. I was so frightened and sorry." "I'm sorry, too, and I'm scared, too; but I'm sleepier'n I'm ary one," yawned Alfaretta. "I'm sleepy, too;" assented Molly; and even the excited Dorothy felt a strange drowsiness creeping over her. It would be the correct thing, she had imagined, to lie awake and grieve over the loss of Mrs. Calvert's beloved tree, which would now be cut into ignominious firewood and burned upon a hearth; but--in five minutes after her head had touched her pillow she was sound asleep as her mates already were. Outside, the storm abated and the moon arose, lighting the scenery with its brilliance and setting the still dripping trees aglitter with its glory. Moonlight often made Dorothy wakeful and did so on this eventful night. Its rays streaming across her unshaded window roused her to sit up, and with the action came remembrance. "My heart! That money! All those beautiful new bills that are to buy pleasant things for my Party guests! I had it all spread out on the library table when that crash came and I never thought of it again! Nobody else, either, I fancy. I'll go right down and get it and I mustn't wake the girls or Dinah. It was careless of me, it surely was; but I know enough about money to understand it shouldn't be left lying about in that way." Creeping softly from her bed she drew on her slippers and kimono as Miss Rhinelander had taught her pupils always to do when leaving their rooms at night, and the familiar school-habit proved her in good stead this time. Once she would have stopped for neither; but now folding the warm little garment about her she tiptoed past old Dinah, snoring, and down the thickly carpeted stairs, whereon her slippered feet made no sound. Quite noiselessly she came to the library door and pushed the portière aside. Into this room, also, the moonlight streamed, making every object visible. She had glanced, as she came along the hall, toward the big door, bolstered into place by the heavy settle and hat-rack; and the latter object looked so like a gigantic man standing guard that she cast no second look but darted within the lighter space. Hark! What was that sound? Somebody breathing? Snoring? A man's snore, so like that of dear Father John who used, sometimes, to keep her awake, though she hadn't minded that because she loved him so. The sound, frightful at first, became less so as she remembered those long past nights, and mustering her courage she tiptoed toward the figure on the lounge. Old Ephraim! Well, she didn't believe Aunt Betty would have permitted even that faithful servant to spend a night upon her cherished leather couch; but the morning would be time enough to reprimand him for his audacity, which, of course, she must do, since she stood now in Mrs. Calvert's place, as temporary head of the family. She felt gravely responsible and offended as she crossed the room to the table where three chairs still grouped sociably together, exactly as the three girls had left them. Ah! yes. The chairs were in their places, Alfaretta's list of guests as well, and even the little leather bag out of which she had drawn the wealth that so surprised her mates. But the ten crisp notes she had so spread out in the sight of all--where were they? Certainly nowhere to be seen, although that revealing moonlight made even Alfy's written words quite legible. What could have become of them? Who had taken them? And why? Supposing somebody had stolen in and stolen them? Supposing that was why he was sleeping in the library? Yet, if there had been thievery there, wouldn't he have kept awake, to watch? Supposing--here a horrible thought crept into her mind--supposing _he_, himself, had been the thief! She was southern born and had the southerner's racial distrust of a "nigger's" honesty; yet--as soon as thought she was ashamed of the suspicion. Aunt Betty trusted him with far more than she missed now. She would go over to that window and think it out. Maybe the sleeper would awake in a minute and she could ask him about it. The question was one destined to remain unasked. As she stood gazing vacantly outward, her hands clasped in perplexity, something moving arrested her attention. A small figure in white, or what seemed white in that light. It was circling the pond where the water-lilies grew and was swaying to and fro as if dancing to some strange measure. Its skirts were caught up on either side by the hands resting upon its hips and the apparition was enough to startle nerves that had not already been tried by the events of that night. Dorothy stood rooted to the spot. Then a sudden movement of the dancer which brought her perilously near the water's edge recalled her common sense. "Why, it's one of the girls! It must be! Which? She doesn't look like either--is she sleep-walking? Who, what can it mean?" Another instant and she had opened the long sash and sped out upon the rain-soaked lawn; and she was none too soon. As if unseeing, or unfearing, the strange figure swept nearer and nearer to the moonlit water, its feet already splashing in it, when Dorothy's arms were flung around it to draw it into safety. "Why--" began the rescuer and could say no more. The face that slowly turned toward her was one that she had never seen before. It was the face of a child under a mass of gray hair, and its expression strangely vacant and inconsequent. Danger, fear, responsibility meant nothing to this little creature whom Dorothy had saved from drowning, and with a sudden pitiful memory of poor, half-witted Peter Piper who had loved her so, she realized that here was another such as he. In body and mind the child had never grown up, though her years were many. "Come this way, little lady. Come with me. Let us go into the house;" said the girl gently, and led the stranger to the window she had left open. "You must be the odd guest I needed for my House Party, to make the couples even, and so I bid you welcome. Strange, the window should be shut!" But closed it was; nor could all the girl's puny pounding bring help to open it. Against the front door the great tree still pressed and she could not reach its bell; and confused by all she had passed through Dorothy forgot that there were other entrances where help could be summoned and sank down on the piazza floor beside her first, her uninvited guest, to wait for morning. CHAPTER IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING But a few moments sufficed to show that this would not do. Despite her own heavy kimono she was already chilled by the air of that late September night, while the little creature beside her was shivering as if in ague, although she seemed to be half-asleep. She reasoned that Ephraim must have waked and closed the library window and departed to his own quarters. But there must be some way in which a girl could get into her own house; and then she exclaimed: "Why, yes! The sun-parlor, right at the end of this very piazza. All that south side is covered with glass and if I can get a sash up we can climb through. The place is as nice as a bedroom. Anyway, I'll try!" She left the stranger where she lay and ran to make the effort, and though for a time the heavy sash resisted her strength, it did yield slightly and her fresh fear that it had been locked vanished. Yet with her utmost endeavor she could lift it but a few inches and she wondered if she would be able to get her visitor through that scant opening. "I shall have to make her go through flat-wise, like crawling through fence bars, and I wonder if she will! Anyhow, I must try. I--I don't like it out here in the night and we'll both be sick of cold, and that would end our party." Dorothy never quite realized how that affair was managed. Though the wanderer appeared to hear well enough she did not speak and had not from the first. Probably she could not, but she could be as stubborn and difficult as possible and she was certainly exhausted from exposure. It was a harder task than lifting the great window, but, at last, by dint of pushing and coaxing, even shoving, the inert small woman was forced through the opening and dropped upon the matted floor, where she remained motionless. Dolly squeezed herself after and stooped above her guest, anxiously asking: "Did that hurt you? I'm sorry, but there was no other way. Please try to get up and lie down. See? There are two nice lounges here and lots of 'comfy' chairs. Shawls and couch-covers in plenty--Why! it'll be like a picnic!" The guest made no effort to rise but waved the other aside with a sleepy, impatient gesture, then fell to shaking again as if she were desperately cold. Dorothy was too frightened to heed these objections and since it was easier to roll a lounge to the sufferer than to argue, she did so and promptly had her charge upon it; but she first stripped off the damp cotton gown from the shaking body and wrapped it in all the rugs and covers she could find. She did not attempt to penetrate further into the house then, because she knew that Ephraim had bolted and barred the door leading thither. She had watched him do so with some amusement, early in the evening, and had playfully asked him if he expected any burglars. He had disdained to reply further than by shaking his wise old head, but had omitted no precaution because of her raillery. "Well, this may not be as nice as in my own room but it's a deal better than out of doors. That poor little thing isn't shivering so much and--she's asleep! She's tired out, whoever she is and wherever she came from, and I'm tired, also. I can't do any better till daylight comes and I'll curl up in this big chair and go to sleep, too," said Dorothy to herself. She wakened to find the sunlight streaming through the glass and to hear a chorus of voices demanding, each in a various key: "Why, Dorothy C!" "How could you?" "Yo' done gib we-all de wussenes' sca', you' ca'less chile! What yo' s'posin' my Miss Betty gwine ter say when she heahs ob dis yeah cuttin's up? Hey, honey? Tell me dat!" But Dinah's reproofs were cut short as her eye fell upon the rug-heaped lounge and saw the pile of them begin to move. As yet no person was visible and she stared at the suddenly agitated covers as if they were bewitched. Presently, they were flung aside; and revealed upon a crimson pillow lay a face almost as crimson. "Fo' de lan' ob lub! How come dat yeah--dis--What's hit mean, li'l gal Do'thy?" Dolly had not long been missed nor, when she was, had anybody felt serious alarm, though the girl guests had both been aggrieved that she should not have wakened them in time to be prompt for breakfast. They dressed hurriedly when Norah came a second time to summon them, explaining: "Miss Dorothy's room is empty and her clothes on the chairs. I must go seek her for she shouldn't do this way if she wants to keep cook good natured for the Party. Delaying breakfast is a bad beginning." Then Norah departed and went about her business of dusting; and it was she who had found the missing girl in the sun-parlor, and it had been her cry of relief that brought the household to that place. Demanded old Ephraim sternly: "Why fo' yo'-all done leab yo' baid in de middle ob de night an' go sky-la'kin' eround dis yere scan'lous way, Missy Dolly Calve't? Tole me dat!" "Why do you leave yours, to sleep on the library couch, Ephraim?" she returned, keenly observing him from the enclosure of her girl friends' arms, who held her fast that she might not again elude them. Ephraim fairly jumped; though he looked not at her but in a timid way toward Dinah, still bending in anxious curiosity over the stranger on the couch; and she was not so engrossed but that her turbaned head rose with a snap and she fixed her fellow servant with a fiercely glaring eye. Between these two equally devoted members of "Miss Betty's" family had always existed a bitter jealousy as to which was the most loyal to their mistress's interests. Let either presume upon that loyalty, to indulge in a forbidden privilege, and the wrath of the other waxed furious. Both knew that for Ephraim to have lain where Dorothy had discovered him, during that past night, was "intol'able" presumption, and at Dinah's care would be duly reported upon and reprimanded. Alas! The old man's start and down-dropped gaze was proof in Dorothy's opinion of a graver guilt than Dinah imputed to him, and when he made no answer save a hasty exit from the room her heart sank. "Oh! how could he do it, how could he!" and then honesty suggested. "But I haven't asked him yet if he did take the bills!" and she smiled again at her own thoughts. Attention was now diverted to Dinah's picking up the stranger from the couch and also departing, muttering: "I 'low dis yeah's a mighty sick li'l creatur'! Whoebah she be she's done fotched a high fevah wid her, an' I'se gwine put her to baid right now!" Illness was always enough to enlist the old nurse's deepest interest and she had no further reproof for the delayed breakfasts or Ephraim's behavior. There followed a morning full of business for all. Jim Barlow and old Hans, with some grumbling assistance from the "roomatical" Ephraim, whose "misery" Dinah assured him had been aggravated by sleeping on a cold leather lounge instead of in his own feather-bed--these three spent the morning in clearing away the fallen tree, while a carpenter from the town repaired the injured doorway. When Dorothy approached Jim, intending to speak freely of her suspicions about the lost money, he cut her short by remarking: "What silliness! Course, it isn't really lost. You've just mislaid it, that's all, an' forgot. I do that, time an' again. Put something away so careful 't I can't find it for ever so long. You'll remember after a spell, and say, Dolly! I won't be able to write that telegram to Mabel Bruce. I've got no time to bother with a parcel o' girls. If I don't keep a nudgin' them two old men they won't do a decent axe's stroke. They spend all their time complainin' of their j'ints!" "Well, why don't you get a regular woodman to chop it up, then?" "An' waste Mrs. Calvert's good money, whilst there's a lot of idlers on her premises, eatin' her out of house and home? I guess not. I'd save for her quicker'n I would for myself, an' that's saying considerable. I'm no eye-servant, I'm not." "Huh! You're one mighty stubborn boy! And I don't think my darling Aunt Betty would hesitate to pay one extra day's help. I've heard her say that she disliked amateur labor. She likes professional skill," returned the girl, with decision. James Barlow laughed. "I reckon, Dolly C., that you've forgot the days when you and I were on Miranda Stott's truck-farm; when I cut firewood by the cord and you sat on the logs an' taught me how to spell. 'Twouldn't do for me to claim I can't split up one tree; and this one'll be as neat a job as you ever see, time I've done with it. Trot along and write your own telegrams; or get that Starky to do it for you. Ha, ha! He thought he could saw wood, himself. Said he learned it campin' out; but the first blow he struck he hit his own toes and blamed it on the axe being too heavy. Trot along with him, girlie, and don't hender me talkin'." The "Little Lady of the Manor," as President Ryall had called her, walked away with her nose in the air. Preferred to chop wood, did he? And it wasn't nice of him--it certainly wasn't nice--to set her thinking of that miserable old truck-farm and the days of her direst poverty. She was Dorothy Calvert now; a girl with a name and heiress of Deerhurst. She'd show him, horrid boy that he was! But just then his cheerful whistling reached her, and her indignation vanished. By no effort could she stay long angry with Jim. He was annoyingly "common-sensible," as he claimed, but he was also so straight and dependable that she admired him almost as much as she loved him. Yes, she had other friends now, and would doubtless gain many more, but none could ever be a truer one than this homely, plain-spoken lad. She spied the girls and Monty in the arbor and joined them; promptly announcing: "If our House Party is to be a success you three must help. Jim won't. He's going to chop wood. Monty, will you ride to the village and send that telegram to Mabel Bruce?" The lad looked up from the foot he had been contemplating and over which Molly and Alfy had been bending in sympathy, to answer by another question: "See that shoe, Dolly Calvert? Close shave that. Might have been my very flesh itself, and I'd have blood poisoning and an amputation, and then there'd have been telegrams sent--galore! Imagine my mother--if they had been!" "It wasn't your flesh, was it?" "That's as Yankee as I am. Always answer your own questions when you ask them and save a lot of trouble to the other fellow. No, I _wasn't_ hurt but I _might_ have been! Since I'm not, I'm at your service, Lady D. Providing you word your own message and give me a decent horse to ride." "There are none but 'decent' horses in our stable, Master Stark. I shall need Portia myself, or we girls will. You can go ask a groom to saddle one--that he thinks best. I see through you. You've just been getting these girls to waste sympathy on you and you shall be punished by our leaving you alone till lunch time. I'll write the message, of course. I'd be afraid you wouldn't put enough in. Only--let me think. How much do telegrams cost?" "Twenty-five cents for ten words," came the prompt reply. "But ten would hardly begin to talk! Is telephoning cheaper? You ought to know, being a boy." "Long distance telephoning is about as expensive a luxury as one can buy, young lady. But, why hesitate? It won't take all of that hundred dollars," he answered, swaggering a trifle over his superior knowledge. Out it came without pause or pretense, the dark suspicion that had risen in Dorothy's innocent mind: "But I haven't that hundred dollars! It's gone. It's--_stolen_!" "Dorothy Calvert! How dare you say such a thing?" It was Molly's horrified question that broke the long silence which had fallen on the group; and hearing her ask it gave to poor Dorothy the first realization of what an evil thing it was she had voiced. "I don't know! Oh! I don't know! I wish I hadn't. I didn't mean to tell, not yet; and I wish, I wish I had kept it to myself!" she cried in keen regret. For instantly she read in the young faces before her a reflection of her own hard suspicion and loss of faith in others; and something that her beloved Seth Winters had once said came to her mind: "Evil thoughts are more catching than the measles." Seth, that grand old "Learned Blacksmith!" To him she would go, at once, and he would help her in every way. Turning again to her mates she begged: "Forget that I fancied anybody might have taken it to keep. Of course, nobody would. Let's hurry in and get Mabel's invitation off. I think I've enough money to pay for a message long enough to explain what I want; and her fare here--well she'll have to pay that herself or her father will. I've asked to have Portia put to the pony cart and we girls will drive around and ask all the others. So glad they live on the mountain where we can get to them quick." "Dolly, shall you go to The Towers, to see that Montaigne girl?" asked Alfaretta, rather anxiously. "Yes, but you needn't go in if you don't want to, Alfy dear. I shall stay only just long enough to bid her welcome home and invite her for Saturday." "Oh! I shouldn't mind. I'd just as lief. Fact, I'd _admire_, only if I put on my best dress to go callin' in the morning what'll I have left to wear to the Party? And Ma Babcock says them Montaignes won't have folks around that ain't dressed up;" said the girl, so frankly that Molly laughed and Dorothy hastened to assure her: "That's a mistake, Alfy, dear, I think. They don't care about a person's clothes. It's what's inside the clothes that counts with sensible people, such as I believe they are. But, I'll tell you. It's not far from The Towers' gate to the old smithy and I must see Mr. Seth. I must. I'm so thankful that he didn't leave the mountain, too, with all the other grown-ups. So you can drop me at Helena's; and then you and Molly can drive around to all the other people we've decided to ask and invite them in my stead. You know where all of them live and Molly will go with you." "Can Alfy drive--safe?" asked Molly, rather anxiously. Dolly laughed. "Anybody can drive gentle Portia and Alfy is a mountain girl. But what a funny question for such a fearless rider as you, Molly Breckenridge!" "Not so funny as you think. It's one thing to be on the back of a horse you know and quite another to be behind the heels of another that its driver doesn't know! Never mind, Alfy. I'll trust you." "You can," Alfaretta complacently assured her; and the morning's drive proved her right. A happier girl had never lived than she as she thus acted deputy for the new little mistress of Deerhurst; whose story had lost none of its interest for the mountain folk because of its latest development. But it was not at all as a proud young heiress that Dorothy came at last to the shop under the Great Balm Tree and threw herself impetuously upon the breast of the farrier quietly reading beside his silent forge. "O, Mr. Seth! My darling Mr. Seth! I'm in terrible trouble and only you can help me!" His book went one way, his spectacles another, dashed from his hands by her heedless onrush; but he let them lie where they had fallen and putting his arm around her, assured her: "So am I. Therefore, let us condole with one another. You first." "I've lost Aunt Betty's hundred dollars!" Her friend fairly gasped, and held her from him to search her troubled face. "Whe-ew! That is serious. Yet lost articles are sometimes found. Out with the whole story, 'body and bones'--as my man Owen would say." Already relieved by the chance of telling her worries, Dorothy related the incidents of the night, and she met the sympathy she expected. But it was like the nature-loving Mr. Winters that he was more disturbed by the loss of the great chestnut tree than by that of the money. Also, the story of the stranger she had found wandering by the lily-pond moved him deeply. All suffering or afflicted creatures were precious in the sight of this noble old man and he commented now with pity on the distress of the friends from whom the unknown one had strayed. "How grieved they'll be! For it must have been from some private household she came, or escaped. There is no public asylum or retreat within many miles of our mountain, so far as I know. I wonder if we ought to advertise her in the local newspaper? Or, do you think it would be kinder to wait and let her people hunt her up? Tell me, Dolly, dear. The opinion of a child often goes straight to the point." "Oh! Don't advertise, please, Mr. Seth! Think. If she belonged to you or me we wouldn't want it put in the paper that--about--you know, the lost one being not quite right, someway. If anybody's loved her well enough to keep her out of an asylum they've loved her well enough to come and find her, quiet like, without anybody but kind hearted people having to know. If they don't love her--well, she's all right for now. Dinah's put her to bed and told me, just before I came away, that it was only the exposure which had made her ill. She had roused all right, after a nap, and had taken a real hearty breakfast. She's about as big as I am and Dinah's going to put some of my clothes on her while her own are done up. Everybody in the house was so interested and kind about her, I was surprised." "You needn't have been. People who have lived with such a mistress as Madam Betty Calvert must have learned kindness, even if they learned nothing else." Dorothy laughed. "Dear Mr. Seth, you love my darling Aunt Betty, too, don't you, like everybody does?" "Of course, and loyally. That doesn't prevent my thinking that she does unwise things." "O--oh!!" "Like giving a little girl one hundred dollars at a time to spend in foolishness." Dorothy protested: "It wasn't to be foolishness. It was to make people happy. You yourself say that to 'spread happiness' is the only thing worth while!" "Surely, but it doesn't take Uncle Sam's greenbacks to do that. Not many of them. When you've lived as long as I have you'll have learned that the things which dollars do _not_ buy are the things that count. Hello! 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'" The blacksmith rose as he finished his quotation and went to the wide doorway, across which a shadow had fallen, and from whence the sound of an irritable: "Whoa-oa, there!" had come. It was a rare patron of that old smithy and Seth concealed his surprise by addressing not the driver but the horse: "Well, George Fox! Good-morning to you!" George Fox was the property of miller Oliver Sands, and the Quaker and his steed were well known in all that locality. He was a fair-spoken man whom few loved and many feared, and between him and the "Learned Blacksmith" there was "no love lost." Why he had come to the smithy now Seth couldn't guess; nor why, as he stepped down from his buggy and observed, "I'd like to have thee look at George's off hind foot, farrier. He uses it----" he should do what he did. How it was "used" was not explained; for, leaving the animal where it stood, the miller sauntered into the building, hands in pockets, and over it in every part, even to its owner's private bedroom, as if he had a curiosity to see how his neighbor lived. Seth would have resented this, had it been worth while and if the miller's odd curiosity had not aroused the same feeling in himself. It was odd, he thought; but Seth Winters had nothing to hide and he didn't care. It was equally odd that George Fox's off hind foot was in perfect condition and had been newly shod at the other smithy, over the mountain, where all the miller's work was done. "It seems to be all right, Friend Oliver." "Forget that I troubled thee," answered the gray-clad Friend, as he climbed back to his seat and shook the reins over his horse's back, to instantly disappear down the road, but to leave a thoughtful neighbor, staring after him. "Hmm. That man's in trouble. I wonder what!" murmured Seth, more to himself than to Dorothy, who had drawn near to slip her hand in his. "Dear me! Everybody seems to be, this morning, Mr. Seth; and you haven't told me yours yet!" "Haven't I? Well, here it is!" He stooped his gray head to her brown one and whispered it in her ear; with the result that he had completely banished all her own anxieties and sent her laughing down the road toward home. CHAPTER V RIDDLES "There's a most remarkable thing about this House Party of ours! Every person invited has come and not one tried to get out of so doing! Three cheers for the Giver of the Party! and three times three for--all of us!" cried happy Seth Winters, from his seat of honor at the end of the great table in the dining-room, on the Saturday evening following. Lamps and candles shone, silver glittered, flower-bedecked and spotlessly clean, the wide apartment was a fit setting for the crowd of joyous young folk which had gathered in it for supper; and the cheers rang out as heartily as the master of the feast desired. Then said Alfaretta, triumphantly: "The Party has begun and I'm to it, I'm in it!" "So am I, so am I! Though I did have to invite myself!" returned Mr. Winters. "Strange that this little girl of mine should have left me out, that morning when she was inviting everybody, wholesale." For to remind her that he "hadn't been invited" was the "trouble" which he had stooped to whisper in Dorothy's ear, as she left him at the smithy door. So she had run home and with the aid of her friends already there had concocted a big-worded document, in which they begged his presence at Deerhurst for "A Week of Days," as they named the coming festivities; and also that he would be "Entertainer in Chief." "You see," confided Dolly, "now that the thing is settled and I've asked so many I begin to get a little scared. I've never been hostess before--not this way;--and sixteen people--I'm afraid I don't know enough to keep sixteen girls and boys real happy for a whole week. But dear Mr. Winters knows. Why, I believe that darling man could keep a world full happy, if he'd a mind." "Are you sorry you started the affair, Dolly Doodles? 'Cause if you are, you might write notes all round and have it given up. You'd better do that than be unhappy. Society folks would, I reckon," said Molly, in an effort to comfort her friend's anxiety. "I'm as bad as you are. It begins to seem as if we'd get dreadful tired before the week is out." "I'd be ashamed of myself if I did that, Molly, I'll go through with it even if none of you will help; though I must say I think it's--it's sort of mean for you boys, Jim and Monty, to beg off being 'committees.'" "The trouble with me, Dolly, is that my ideas have entirely given out. If you hadn't lost that hundred dollars I could get up a lot of jolly things. But without a cent in either of our pockets--Hmm," answered Monty, shrugging his shoulders. Jim said nothing. He was still a shy lad and while he meant to forget his awkwardness and help all he could he shrank from taking a prominent part in the coming affair. Alfaretta was the only one who wasn't dismayed, and her fear that the glorious event might be abandoned was ludicrous. "Pooh, Dorothy Calvert! I wouldn't be a 'fraid-cat, I wouldn't! Not if I was a rich girl like you've got to be and had this big house to do it in and folks to do the cookin' and sweepin', and--and rooms to sleep 'em in and everything!" she argued, breathlessly. "You funny, dear Alfaretta! It's not to be given up and I count on you more than anybody else to keep things going! With you and Mr. Seth--if he will--the Party cannot fail!" and Alfy's honest face was alight again. It had proved that the "Learned Blacksmith" "would" most gladly. At heart he was as young as any of them all and he had his own reasons for wishing to be at Deerhurst for a time. He had been more concerned than Dorothy perceived over the missing one hundred dollars, and he was anxious about the strange guest who had appeared in the night and who was so utterly unable to give an account of herself. So he had come, as had they all and now assembled for their first meal together, and Dorothy's hospitable anxiety had wholly vanished. Of course, all would go well. Of course, they would have a jolly time. The only trouble now, she thought, would be to choose among the many pleasures offering. There had been a new barn built at Deerhurst that summer, and a large one. This Mr. Winters had decreed should be the scene of their gayest hours with the big rooms of the old mansion for quieter ones; and to the barn they went on that first evening together, as soon as supper was over and the dusk fell. "Oh! how pretty!" cried Helena Montaigne, as she entered the place with her arm about Molly's waist, for they two had made instant friends. "I saw nothing so charming while I was abroad!" "Didn't you?" asked the other, wondering. "But it _is_ pretty!" In secret she feared that Helena would be a trifle "airish," and she felt that would be a pity. "Oh! oh! O-H!" almost screamed Dorothy, who had not been permitted to enter the barn for the last two days while, under the farrier's direction, the boys had had it in charge. Palms had been brought from the greenhouse and arranged "with their best foot forward" as Jim declared. Evergreens deftly placed made charming little nooks of greenery, where camp-chairs and rustic benches made comfortable resting places. Rafters were hung with strings of corn and gay-hued vegetables, while grape-vines with the fruit upon them covered the stalls and stanchions. Wire strung with Chinese lanterns gave all the light was needed and these were all aglow as the wide doors were thrown open and the merry company filed in. "My land of love!" cried Alfaretta. "It's just like a livin'-in-house, ain't it! There's even a stove and a chimney! Who ever heard tell of a stove in a barn?" "You have! And I, too, for the first time," said Littlejohn Smith at her elbow. "But I 'low it'll be real handy for the men in the winter time, to warm messes for the cattle and keep themselves from freezin'. Guess I know what it means to do your chores with your hands like chunks of ice! Wish to goodness Pa Smith could see this barn; 'twould make him open his eyes a little!" "A body could cook on that stove, it's so nice and flat. Or even pop corn," returned Alfaretta, practically. "Bet that's a notion! Say, Alfy, don't let on, but I'll slip home first chance I get and fetch some of that! I've got a lot left over from last year, 't I raised myself. I'll fetch my popper and if you can get a little butter out the house, some night, we'll give these folks the treat of their lives. What say?" Whatever might be the case with others of that famous Party these two old schoolmates were certainly "happy as blackbirds"--the only comparison that the girl found to fully suit their mood. When the premises had been fully explored and admired, cried Mr. Seth: "Blind man's buff! Who betters me?" "Nobody could--'Blind man's' it is!" seconded Monty, and gallantly offered: "I'll blind!" "Oh! no choosing! Do it the regular way," said Dolly. "Get in a row, please, all of you, and I'll begin with Herbert. 'Intry-mintry-cutry-corn; Apple-seed-and-apple-thorn; Wire-brier-limber-lock; Six-geese-in-a-flock; Sit-and-sing-by-the-spring; O-U-T--OUT!' Frazer Moore, you're--IT!" The bashful lad who was more astonished to find himself where he was than he could well express, and who had really been bullied into accepting Dorothy's invitation by his chum, Mike Martin, now awkwardly stepped forward from the circle. His face was as red as his hair and he felt as if he were all feet and hands, while it seemed to him that all the eyes in the room were boring into him, so pitilessly they watched him. In reality, if he had looked up, he would have seen that most of the company were only eagerly interested to begin the game, and that the supercilious glances cast his way came from Herbert Montaigne and Mabel Bruce alone. Another half-moment and awkwardness was forgotten. Dorothy had bandaged the blinder's eyes with Mr. Seth's big handkerchief, and in the welcome darkness thus afforded he realized nothing except that invisible hands were touching him, from this side and that, plucking at his jacket, tapping him upon the shoulder, and that he could catch none of them. Finally, a waft of perfume came his way, and the flutter of starched skirts, and with a lunge forward he clasped his arms about the figure of: "That girl from Baltimore! her turn!" he declared and was for pulling off the handkerchief, but was not allowed. "Which one? there are two Baltimore girls here, my lad. Which one have you caught?" Mabel squirmed, and Frazer's face grew a deeper red. He had been formally introduced, early upon Mabel's arrival, but had been too confused and self-conscious to understand her name. He was as anxious now to release her as she was to be set free, but his tormentors insisted: "Her name? her name? Not till you tell her name!" "I don't know--I mean--I--'tain't our Dolly, it's t'other one that's just come and smells like a--a drug store!" he answered, desperately, and loosened his arms. Mabel was glad enough to escape, blushing furiously at the way he had identified her, yet good-naturedly joining in the laugh of the others. Though she secretly resolved to be more careful in the use of scents of which she was extravagantly fond; and she allowed herself to be blindfolded at once, yet explaining: "Maybe I shall have to tell who you are by just such ways as he did me. I never was to a House Party before and you're all strangers, 'cept Dolly C., and anybody'd know her!" But it wasn't Dolly she captured. Susceptible Monty beheld in the little Baltimorean a wonderfully attractive vision. She was as short and as plump as he was. Her taste ran riot in colors, as did his own. He was bewildered by the mass of ruffles and frills that one short frock could display and he considered her manner of "doing" her hair as quite "too stylish for words." It was natural, therefore, that he should deliberately put himself in her way and try his best to be caught, while his observant mates heartlessly laughed at his unsuccessful maneuvers. But it was handsome Herbert upon whose capture Mabel's mind was set, and it was a disappointment that, instead of his arm she should clutch that of James Barlow. However, there was no help for it and she was obliged to blindfold in his turn the tall fellow who had to stoop to her shortness, while casting admiring glances upon the other lad. So the game went on till they were tired, and it was simple Molly Martin who suggested the next amusement. "My sake! I'm all beat out! I can't scarcely breathe, I've run and laughed so much. I never had so much fun in my life! Let's all sit down in a row and tell riddles. We'll get rested that way." To some there this seemed a very childish suggestion, but not to wise Seth Winters. The very fact that shy Molly Martin had so far forgotten her own self-consciousness as to offer her bit of entertainment argued well for the success of Dorothy's House Party with its oddly assorted members. But he surprised Helena's lifted eyebrows and the glance she exchanged with the other Molly, so hastened to endorse the proposition: "A happy thought, my lass; and as I'm the oldest 'child' here I'll open the game myself with one of the oldest riddles on record. Did anybody ever happen to hear of the Sphinx?" "Why, of course! Egypt----" began Monty eagerly, hoping to shine in the coming contest of wits. Seth Winters shook his head. "In one sense a correct answer; but, Jamie lad, out with it! I believe _you_ know which Sphinx I mean. All your delving into books--out with it, man!" "The monster of the ancients, I guess. That had the head of a woman, the body of a dog, the tail of a serpent, the wings of a bird, the paws of a lion, and a human voice;" answered Jim blushing a little thus to be airing his knowledge before so many. "The very creature! What connection had this beauty with riddles, if you please?" They were all listening now, and smiling a little over the old farrier's whimsical manner, as the boy student went on to explain: "The Sphinx was sent into Thebes by Juno for her private revenge. The fable is that he laid all that country waste by proposing riddles and killing all who could not guess them. The calamity was so great that Creon promised his crown to anyone who could guess one, and the guessing would mean the death of the Sphinx." "Why do you stop just there, Jim, in the most interesting part? Please go on and finish--if you can!" cried Dorothy. Mr. Winters also nodded and the boy added: "This was the riddle: What animal in the morning walks on four feet, at noon on two, and at evening on three?" "At it, youngsters, at it! Cudgel your brains for the answer. We don't want any mixed-anatomy Sphinxes rampaging around here," urged the farrier. Many and various were the guesses hazarded but each fell wide of the mark. Helena alone preserved a smiling silence and waited to hear what the others had to say. "Time's up! Five minutes to a riddle is more than ample. Helena has it, I see by the twinkle of her eyes. Well, my dear?" "I can't call it a real guess, Mr. Winters, for I read it, as James did the story. The answer is--_Man_. In his babyhood, the morning of life, he crawls or walks on 'all fours'; in youth and middle age he goes upright on two feet; and at evening, old age, he supplements them by a staff or crutch--his three feet." "Oh! how simple! Why couldn't I guess that!" exclaimed Molly, impatiently. "But who did solve the silly thing, first off?" "Oedipus; and this so angered the Sphinx that he dashed his head against a rock and so died." "Umm. I never dreamed there could be riddles like that," said Molly Martin; "all I thought of was 'Round as an apple, busy as a bee, The prettiest little thing you ever did see,' and such. I'd like to learn some others worth while, to tell of winter evenings before we go to bed." "I know a good one, please, Mr. Seth. Shall I tell it?" asked Frazer Moore. "Pa found it in a 'Farmers' Almanac,' so maybe the rest have seen it, too." "Begin, Frazer. Five minutes per riddle! If anybody knows it 'twon't take so long," advised Mr. Seth, whom Dolly had called "the Master of the Feast." "What is it men and women all despise, Yet one and all so highly prize? Which kings possess not? though full sure am I That for the luxury they often sigh. That never was for sale, yet, any day, The poorest beggar may the best display. The farmer needs it for his growing corn; Nor its dear comfort will the rich man scorn; Fittest for use within a sick friend's room, Its coming silent as spring's early bloom. A great, soft, yielding thing that no one fears-- A little thing oft wet with mother's tears. A thing so hol(e)y that when it we wear We screen it safely from the world's rude stare." "Hmm. Seems if there were handles enough to that long riddle, but I can't catch on to any of them. They contradict themselves so," cried Dorothy, after a long silence had followed Frazer's recitation. Handles enough, to be sure; but like Dorothy, nobody could grasp one, and as the five minutes ended the mountain lad had the proud knowledge that he had puzzled them all, and gayly announced: "That was an easy one! Every word I said fits--AN OLD SHOE!" "Oh!" "A-ah!" "How stupid I was not to see!" "'The farmer needs it for his growing corn!'" cried the Master, drawing up his foot and facetiously rubbing his toes. "Even a farmer may raise two kinds of corn," suggested he and thus solved one line over which Jane Potter was still puzzling. Thereupon, Monty sprang up and snapped his fingers, schoolroom fashion: "Master, Master! Me next! Me! I know one good as his and not near so long! My turn, please!" They all laughed. Laughter came easily now, provoked even by silliness, and again a thankful, happy feeling rose in the young hostess's heart that her House Party was to be so delightful to everybody. Helena Montaigne now sat resting shoulder to shoulder with proud Alfaretta upon a little divan of straw whose back was a row of grain sheaves; Mabel was radiant amid a trio of admiring lads--Monty, Mike Martin, and Danny Smith; Herbert was eagerly discussing camp-life with shy Melvin, who had warmed to enthusiasm over his Nova Scotian forests; and all the different elements of that young assembly were proving most harmonious, as even smaller parties, arranged by old hostesses, do not always prove. "All right, Master Montmorency. Make it easy, please. A diversion not a brain tax," answered Seth. "'If Rider Haggard had been Lew Wallace, what would 'She' have been?'" "'Ben Hur'!" promptly shouted Frazer, before another had a chance to speak, and Monty sank back with a well-feigned groan. "I read that in the Almanac, too. I've read 'Ben Hur,' it's in our school lib'ry, but not 'She,' though Pa told me that was another book, wrote by the other feller." "I'll never try again; I never do try to distinguish myself but I make a failure of it!" wailed Monty, jestingly. "But Herbert hasn't failed, nor Melvin. Let's have at least one more wit-sharpener," coaxed Dorothy. But Herbert declined, though courteously enough. "Indeed, Dorothy, I don't know a single riddle and I never could guess one. Try Melvin, instead, please." The English boy flushed, as he always did at finding himself observed, but he remembered that he had heard strangers comment upon the obligingness of the Canadians and he must maintain the honor of his beloved Province. So, after a trifling hesitation, he answered: "I can think of only one, Dorothy, and it's rather long, I fancy. My mother made me learn it as a punishment, once, when I was a little tacker, don't you know, and I never forgot it. The one by Lord Byron. I'll render that, if you wish." "We do wish, we do!" cried Molly, while the Master nodded approvingly. So without further prelude Melvin recited: "'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell, And Echo caught softly the sound as it fell; On the confines of Earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the Depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the Sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the Lightning and heard in the Thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest Breath, Attends at his Birth and awaits him in Death; It presides o'er his Happiness, Honor, and Health, Is the prop of his House and the end of his Wealth. Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the Wretch who expels it from Home. In the Whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the Whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'Twill not soften the Heart; and tho' deaf to the ear 'Twill make it acutely and instantly Hear. But in Shade, let it rest like a delicate flower-- Oh! Breathe on it softly--it dies in an Hour." Several had heard the riddle before and knew its significance; but those who had not found it as difficult to guess as Frazer's "Old Shoe" had been. So Melvin had to explain that it was a play of words each containing the letter H; and this explanation was no sooner given than a diversion was made by Mabel Bruce's irrelevant remark: "I never picked grapes off a vine in my life, never!" "Hi! Does that mean you want to do so now?" demanded Monty, alert. He, too, had grown tired of a game in which he did not excel, and eagerly followed the direction of her pointing, chubby finger. A finger on which sparkled a diamond ring, more fitting for a matron than a schoolgirl young as she. Along that side of the barn, rising from the hay strewn floor to the loft above, ran a row of upright posts set a few inches apart and designed to guard a great space beyond. This space was to be filled with the winter's stock of hay and its cemented bottom was several feet lower than the floor whereon the merry-makers sat. As yet but little hay had been stored there, and the posts which would give needful ventilation as well as keep the hay from falling inward, had been utilized now for decoration. The boyish decorators had not scrupled to rifle the Deerhurst vineyards of their most attractive vines, and the cluster of fruit on which Mabel had fixed a covetous eye was certainly a tempting one. The rays from two Chinese lanterns, hung near it, brought out its juicy lusciousness with even more than daylight clearness, and Mabel's mouth fairly watered for these translucent grapes. "That bunch? Of course you shall have it!" cried Monty, springing up and standing on tiptoe to reach what either Jim or Herbert could have plucked with ease. Alas! His efforts but hindered himself. The vine was only loosely twined around the upright and, as he grasped it, swung lightly about and the cluster he sought was forced to the inner side of the post, even higher than it had hung before. "Huh! That's what my father would call 'the aggravation of inanimate things'! Those grapes knew that you wanted them, that I wanted to get them for you, and see how they act? But I'll have them yet. Don't fear. That old fellow I camped-out with this last summer told me it was a coward who ever gave up 'discouraged.' I'll have that bunch of grapes--or I'll know the reason why! I almost reached them that time!" cried the struggler, proudly, and leaped again. By this time all the company was watching his efforts, the lads offering jeering suggestions about "sheets of paper to stand on," and Danny Smith even inquiring if the other was "practising for a climb on a greased pole, come next Fourth." Even the girls laughed over Monty's ludicrous attempts, though Mabel entreated him to give up and let somebody else try. "I--I rather guess not! When I set out to serve a lady I do it or die in the attempt!" returned the perspiring lad, vigorously waving aside the proffered help of his taller mates. "I--I--My heart! Oh! Jiminy! I--I'm stuck!" He was. One of the newly set uprights had slipped a little and again wedged itself fast; and between this and its neighbor, unfortunate Montmorency hung suspended, the upper half of his body forced inward over the empty "bay" and his fat legs left to wave wildly about in their effort to find a resting place. To add to his predicament, a scream of uncontrollable laughter rose from all the observers, even Mabel, in whose sake he so gallantly suffered, adding her shrill cackle to the others. All but the Master. Only the fleetest smile crossed his face, then it grew instantly grave as he said: "We've tried our hand at riddles but here's another, harder than any of the others. Monty is in a fix--how shall we get him out?" CHAPTER VI A MORNING CALL So ended the first "Day" of Dorothy's famous "Week." At sight of the gravity that had fallen upon Seth Winter's face her own sobered, though she had to turn her eyes away from the absurd appearance of poor Monty's waving legs. Then the legs ceased to wave and hung limp and inert. The Master silently pointed toward the door and gathering her girl guests about her the young hostess led them houseward, remarking: "That looks funnier than it is and dear Mr. Seth wants us out of the way. I reckon they'll have to cut that post down for I saw that even he and Jim together couldn't move it. It's so new and sticky, maybe--I don't know. Poor Monty!" "When he kept still, just now, I believe he fainted. I'm terribly frightened," said Helena Montaigne, laying a trembling hand on Dolly's shoulder. "It would be so perfectly awful to have your House Party broken up by a tragedy!" Mabel began to cry, and the two mountain girls, Molly Martin and Jane, slipped their arms about her to comfort her, Jane practically observing: "It takes a good deal to kill a boy. Ma says they've as many lives as a cat, and Ma knows. She brought up seven." "She didn't bring 'em far, then, Jane. They didn't grow to be more than a dozen years old, ary one of 'em. You're the last one left and you know it yourself," corrected the too-exact Alfaretta. "Pooh, Alfy! Don't talk solemn talk now. That Monty boy isn't dead yet and Janie's a girl. They'll get him out his fix, course, such a lot of folks around to help. And, Mabel, it wasn't your fault, anyway. He needn't have let himself get so fat, then he wouldn't have had no trouble. I could slip in and out them uprights, easy as fallin' off a log. He must be an awful eater. Fat folks gen'ally are," said Molly Martin. Mabel winced and shook off the comforter's embrace. She was "fat" herself and also "an awful eater," as Dolly could well remember and had been from the days of their earliest childhood. But the regretful girl could not stop crying and bitterly blamed herself for wanting "those horrible grapes. I'll never eat another grape as long as I live. I shall feel like--like a----" "Like a dear sensible girl, Mabel Bruce! And don't forget you haven't eaten any grapes _yet_, here. Of course, it will be all right. Molly Martin is sensible. Let's just go in and sit awhile in the library, where cook, Aunt Malinda, was going to put some cake and lemonade. There'll be a basket of fruit there, too; and we can have a little music, waiting for the boys to come in," said Dorothy, with more confidence in her voice than in her heart. Then when Mabel's tears had promptly ceased--could it have been at the mention of refreshments?--she added, considerately: "and let's all resolve not to say a single word about poor Monty's mishap. He's more sensitive than he seems and will be mortified enough, remembering how silly he looked, without our reminding him of it." "That's right, Dorothy. I'm glad you spoke of it. I'm sure nobody would wish to hurt his feelings and it was--ridiculous, one way;" added Helena, heartily, and Dorothy smiled gratefully upon her. She well knew that the rich girl's opinion carried weight with these poorer ones and of Alfaretta's teasing tongue she had been especially afraid. Nor was it long before they heard the boys come in, and from the merry voices and even whistling of the irrepressible Danny, they knew that the untoward incident had ended well. Yet when the lads had joined them, as eager for refreshments as Mabel now proved, neither Jim, Mr. Seth, nor Monty was with them; and, to the credit of all it was, that the subject of the misadventure did not come up at all, although inquisitive Alfy had fairly to bite her tongue to keep the questions back. They ended the evening by an hour in the music room, where gay college songs and a few old-fashioned "rounds" sent them all to bed a care-free, merry company; though Dorothy lingered long enough to write a brief note to Mrs. Calvert and to drop it into the letter-box whence it would find the earliest mail to town. A satisfactory little epistle to its recipient, though it said only this: "Our House Party is a success! Dear Mr. Seth is the nicest boy of the lot, and I know you're as glad as I am that he invited himself. I thank you and I love you, love you, love you! Dolly." Next morning, as beautiful a Sunday as ever dawned, came old Dinah to Dorothy with a long face, and the lament: "I cayn't fo' de life make dat li'l creatur' eat wid a fo'k an' howcome I erlows he' to eat to de table alongside you-alls, lak yo' tole me, Miss Do'thy? I'se done putten it into he' han', time an' time ergin, an' she jes natchally flings hit undah foot an' grabs a spoon. An' she stuffs an' stuffs, wussen you' fixin' er big tu'key. I'se gwine gib up teachin' he' mannehs. I sutney is. She ain' no quality, she ain'." "But that's all right, Dinah. She's only a child, a little child it seems to me. And whether she's 'quality' or not makes no difference. I've talked it all over with Mr. Seth and he says I may do as I like. Whoever she is, she's somebody! She came uninvited and sometimes it seems as if God sent her. She can't understand our good times but I want her to share them. So, now that you say she is perfectly well, just let her take the place at table near the door where we settled she should sit. Let Norah wait upon her and I do believe the sight of all of us, so happy, will give some happiness to her. 'Touched of God,' some people call these 'naturals.' She's a human being, she was once a girl like me, and she's simply--_not finished_! She isn't a bit repulsive and I'm sure it's right to have her with us all we can." "She's a ole woman, Miss Do'thy, she ain' no gal-chile. He' haid's whitah nor my Miss Betty's. I erlow she wouldn'----" "There, there, good Dinah! You and I have threshed this subject threadbare. You are so kind to me, have done and will do so much to make my Party go off all right, that I do hate to go against anything you say. But I can't give up in this. That poor little wanderer who strayed into Deerhurst grounds, whom nobody comes to claim, shall not be the first to find it inhospitable. I've written Aunt Betty all about this 'Luna' and I know she'll approve, just as Mr. Winters does. So don't try to keep her shut up out of sight, any longer, Dinah dear. It goes to my heart to see her pace, pace around any room you put her in by herself. Like a poor wild animal caged! It fairly made me shiver to see her, yesterday, when you led her into the great storeroom and left her. She followed you to the door and peered, and peered, out after you but didn't offer to follow. As if she were fastened by invisible chains and couldn't. Then around and around she went again, playing with those bits of bright rags you found in the pocket of her own dress. I'm so glad she likes that red one of mine and that it fits her so well. So don't worry, Dinah, over the proprieties of your Miss Betty's home. There's something better than propriety--that's loving kindness!" Nobody had ever accused old Dinah of want of kindness and Dorothy did not mean to do so now. The faithful woman had been devoted to the unknown visitor, from the moment of discovering her asleep upon the sun-parlor lounge; but she could not make it seem right that such an afflicted creature, and one who was evidently so far along in life, should mix at all familiarly with all those gay young people now staying in the house. But she had never heard her new "li'l Missy" talk at such length before and she was impressed by the multitude of words if not by their meaning. Besides, her quick ear had caught that "Luna," and she now impatiently demanded: "Howcome you' knows he' name, Miss Do'thy, an' nebah tole ole Dinah?" "Oh! I don't know it, honey. Not her real one. That's a fancy one I made up. She came to us in the moonlight and Luna stands for moon. So that's why, and that's all! So go, good Dinah, and send your charge in with Norah. All the others are down and waiting and, I hope, as hungry for their breakfast as I am!" Dinah departed, grumbling. In few things would she oppose her "Miss Do'thy" but in the matter of this "unfinished" stranger she felt strongly. However, she objected no more. If Mr. Seth Winters, her Miss Betty's trusted friend, endorsed such triflin', ornery gwines-on, she had no more to say. The blame was on his shoulders and not hers! Since nobody knew a better name for the stranger than "Luna" it was promptly accepted by all as a fitting one. She answered to it just as she answered to anything else--and that was not at all. She allowed herself to be led, fed, and otherwise attended, without resistance, and if she was especially comfortable she wore a happy smile on her small wrinkled face. But she never spoke and to the superstitious servants her silence seemed uncanny: "I just believe she could talk, if she wanted to, for she certainly hears quick enough. She's real impish, witch-like, and she fair gives me the creeps," complained Norah to a stable lad early on that Sunday morning. "And I don't half like for Miss Dolly to 'point me special nurse to the creatur'. I'd rather by far be left to me bedmakin' an' dustin'. She may be one of them 'little people' lives at home in old Ireland--that's the power to work ill charms on a body, if they wish it." "True ye say, Norah girl. 'Twas an' ill charm, she worked on me not an hour agone. I was in the back porch, slippin' off me stable jacket 'fore eatin' my food, an' Dinah had the creature by the hand scrubbin' a bit dirt off it. I was takin' my money out one pocket into another and quick as chain-lightnin' grabs this queer old woman and hides the money behind her. She may be a fool, indeed, but she knows money when she sees it! and the look on her was like a miser!" "Did you get it back, lad?" "'Deed, that did I! If there's one more'n another this Luny dwarf fears--and likes, too, which is odd!--it's old black Dinah; and even she had to squeeze the poor little hand tight to make its fingers open and the silver drop out. Then the creature forgot all about it same's she'd never seen it at all, at all. But Tim's learned his lesson, and 'tis that there's nobody in this world so silly 't he don't know money when he sees it! 'Twas a she this time, though just as greedy." But if Norah dreaded the charge of poor Luna the latter made very little trouble for her attendant. She did not understand the use of knife and fork and all her food had to be cut up, as for a helpless infant; but she fed herself with a spoon neatly enough, though in great haste. Afterwards she leaned back in her chair and stared vacantly at one or another of the young folks gathered around that big table. Finally, her eyes rested upon the gaily bedecked person of Mabel Bruce and a smile settled upon her features; while so unobtrusive was she that her presence was almost forgotten by the other, happy chatterers in the room. "Who's for church?" asked Mr. Winters, with a little tap on the table to secure attention. "Hands up, so I can count noses!" Every hand went up, even Luna following the example of the rest, quite unknowing why. Seeing this, Dorothy must needs leave her seat and run around to the poor thing's chair and pat her shoulder approvingly. "The landau will hold four, and it's four miles to our church. Who is for that?" again demanded the Master. There was a swift exchange of glances between him and the young hostess as she returned: "Shall I say?" "Aye, aye!" shouted Monty, with his ordinary fervor. The considerate silence of his house-mates concerning his mishap in the barn had restored his self-possession, and though he had felt silly and awkward when he had joined them he did not now. "Very well. Then I nominate Jane, Molly Martin, Alfaretta, and Mabel Bruce, for the state carriage," said Dorothy. "Sho! I thought if that was used at all 'twould be Helena and the other 'ristocratics would ride in that," whispered the delighted Alfy to Jane. But the young hostess had quickly reflected that landaus and other luxurious equipages were familiar and commonplace to her richer guests but that, probably, none of these others had ever ridden in such state; therefore the greater pleasure to them. The Master produced a slip of paper and checked off the names: "Landau, with the bays; and Ephraim and Boots in livery--settled. Next?" "There's the pony cart and Portia," suggested Dolly. "Helena and Melvin? Jolly Molly, and Jim to drive? Satisfactory all round?" again asked the note-taker; and if this second apportionment was not so at least nobody objected, although poor Jim looked forward to an eight-mile drive beside mischievous Molly Breckenridge with some misgiving. "Very well. I'll admit I never tackled such an amiable young crowd. Commonly, in parties as big as this there are just as many different wishes as there are people. I congratulate you, my dears, and may this beatific state of things continue till the end of the chapter!" cried Mr. Seth, really delighted. "Why, of course, Mr. Winters. How could we do otherwise? In society one never puts one's own desires in opposition to those of others. That's what society is for, is what it means, isn't it? Good breeding means unselfishness;" said Helena, then added, with a little flush of modesty: "Not that I am an oracle, but that's what I've read and--and seen--abroad." "Right, Miss Helena, and thank you for the explanation. And apropos of that subject: What's the oldest, most unalterable book of etiquette we have?" Nobody answered, apparently nobody knew; till Melvin timidly ventured: "I fancy it's the Bible, sir. My mother, don't you know, often remarks that anybody who makes the Bible a rule of conduct can't help being a gentleman or gentlewoman. Can't help it, don't you know?" Old Seth beamed upon the lad who had so bravely fought his own shyness, to answer when he could, and so prove himself by that same ancient Book a "gentleman." "Thank you, my boy. You've a mother to be proud of and she--has a pretty decent sort of son! However, we've arranged places for but half our number. As I said the distance is four miles going and it will seem about eight returning--we shall all be so desperately hungry. We might go to some church nearer except that at this distant one there will be to-day a famous preacher whom I would like you all to hear. He is a guest in the neighborhood and that is why we have this one chance. Come, Dolly Doodles. You're the hostess and must provide for your guests. How shall eight people be conveyed to that far-away church?" "I've been thinking, Master. There's the big open wagon, used for hauling stuff. It has a lot of seats belonging though only one is often used. So Ephy told me once. We could have the seats put in and the rest of us ride in that." "Good enough. The rest of us are wholly willing to be 'hauled' to please our southern hostess. The rest of us are--let's see." "You, Mr. Seth; Littlejohn and Danny; Mike and Frazer; Luna and me. Coming home, if we wish, some of us could change places. Well, Mabel? What is it? Don't you like the arrangement?" "Ye-es, I suppose so. Only--you've put four girls in our carriage and four boys in your own. That isn't dividing even; and if it's such an awful long way hadn't we--shouldn't--shan't we be terrible late to dinner?" Poor Mabel! Nature would out. That mountain air was famous for sharpening every newcomer's appetite and it had made hers perfectly ravenous. It seemed to her that she had never tasted such delicious food as Aunt Malinda prepared and that she should never be able to get enough. A shout of laughter greeted her question but did not dismay her, for the matter was too serious; and she was greatly relieved when the Master returned, kindly and with entire gravity: "Little Mabel is right. We shall all be glad of a 'snack' when service is over and before we start back. Dolly, please see that a basket of sandwiches is put up and carried along. Also a basket of grapes. Some of us are fond of grapes!" he finished, significantly, and that was the only reference made to the episode of the night before. But there was one more objector and that outspoken Alfy, who begged of Dorothy, in a sibilant whisper: "Do you mean it? Are you really goin' to take that loony Luna to meeting?" "I certainly am. She is not to be hidden, nor deprived of any pleasure my other guests enjoy. Besides, somebody who knows her may see and claim her. Poor thing! It's terrible that she can't tell us who she is nor where she belongs!" "Hmm. I'm glad she ain't goin' to ride alongside of me, then. Folks will stare so, on the road, at that old woman rigged out like a girl." "Never mind, Alfy dear. Let them stare. She's delighted with the red frock and hat, and it's something to have made her happy even that much. Remember how she clung to those bits of gay rags Dinah found on her? She certainly knows enough to love color, and I shall keep her close to me. I'd be afraid if I didn't her feelings might be hurt by--by somebody's thoughtlessness." "Mine, I s'pose you mean, Dorothy C. But--my stars and garters! Look a-there! Look round, I tell you, quick!" Dolly looked and her own eyes opened in amazement. Framed in the long window that reached to the piazza floor stood a curiously garbed old man holding firmly before him two tiny children. He wore an old black skull cap and a ragged cassock, and he announced in a croaking voice: "I pass these children on to you. I go to deliver the message upon which I am sent;" and having said this, before anyone could protest or interfere, he was disappearing down the driveway at an astonishing pace, as if his "message" abided not the slightest delay. CHAPTER VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING "Of all things! If that don't beat the Dutch!" cried Alfaretta, and at sound of her voice the others rallied from their amazement, while Mr. Winters begged: "Run, lads, some of you and stop that man. Owen Bryan spoke of a half-crazy fanatic, a self-ordained exhorter, who had lately come to the mountain and lived somewhere about, in hiding as it were. An escaped convict, he'd heard. Run. He mustn't leave those children here." Jim and Frazer were already on the way, obedient to the Master's first words, without tarrying to hear the conclusion of his speech. But they were not quick enough. They caught one glimpse of a ragged, flying cassock and no more. The man had vanished from sight, and though they lingered to search the low-growing evergreens, and every hidden nook bordering the drive, they could not find him. So they returned to report and were just in time to hear Dorothy and Molly questioning the babies, for they were little more than that. They were clad exactly alike, in little denim overalls, faded by many washings and stiff with starch. Their feet were bare as were their heads, and clinging to one another they stared with round-eyed curiosity into the great room. "Oh! aren't they cute! They're too funny for words. What's your name, little boy? If you are a boy!" demanded Molly. The little one shook her too familiar hand from his small shoulder and answered with a solemnity and distinctness that was amazing, when one anticipated an infantile lisp: "A-n an, a ana, n-i ni, anani, a-s as, Ananias." Monty Stark rolled over backward on the floor and fairly yelled in laughter, while the laughter of the others echoed his, but nothing perturbed by this reception of his, to him, commonplace statement, master Ananias looked about in cherubic satisfaction. Then again demanded Molly of the other midget. "What's yours, twinsy? For twins you must be!" Evidently tutored as to what would be expected of her the other child replied in exact imitation of her mate and with equal clearness: "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, sapphi, r-a ra, Sapphira." Utter silence greeted this absurd reply, then another noisy burst of laughter in which even the really disturbed Master joined. "Surely a man must be out of his mind to fasten such names on two such innocents! But they must be taken elsewhere. Deerhurst must not become a receptacle for all the cast-off burdens of humanity. I must go ask Bryan all he knows about the case," said Mr. Seth, as soon as he had recovered his gravity. But Dorothy nodded toward the great clock and with a frown he observed the hour. If they were to make ready for their long drive to church, yet be in time for the beginning of the service, they must be making ready, so he consented: "I don't suppose any great mischief can be done by their remaining here till we get back; but----" "Why not take them with us, Teacher?" asked Alfaretta. "We could take one in the lander with us." Her tone was as complacent as if the vehicle in question were her own and her head was tossed as she waited for his reply. But it was Dorothy who forestalled him and her decision was so sensible he did not oppose it: "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but I think we would better take them. If we leave them they may get into mischief and the servants have enough to do without worrying with them. They're so little we can tuck them into the big wagon with us and it won't hurt even babies to go to church. But I wonder which is which! Now they've moved around and changed places I can't tell which is Ananias and which Sapphira! Poor little kiddies, to be named after liars!" "I know. This one has a kink in its hair the other one hasn't. I think it was Sapphira. Or--was it Ananias? Baby, which are you?" Neither child replied. They clung each to the other and stared at this too inquisitive Molly Breckenridge with the disconcerting stare of childhood, till she turned away and gathering a handful of biscuits from the table bade them sit down and eat. She forbade them to drop a single crumb and they were obedient even to absurdity. A half-hour later the three vehicles were at the door and the happy guests made haste to take the places allotted them; the big wagon following last, with Luna smilingly, yet in a half-frightened clutch of Dorothy, sitting on the comfortable back seat. Mr. Seth had lifted her bodily into the wagon and she had submitted without realizing what was happening to her till the wagon began to move. Then she screamed, as if in terror, and hid her face on Dolly's shoulder. "Doan' take he'. 'Peah's lak she's done afeered o' ridin'. Nebah min', Miss Do'thy. Some yo' lads jes' han' he' down to Dinah and she'll be tooken' ca' ob, scusin' dey is a big dinnah in de way an' half de he'ps' Sunday out. Han' 'er down!" However, without physical force this was not to be done. When Jim strove to lift her, as he might easily have done in his strong arms, she clung the closer to her little hostess and screamed afresh. So he gave up the attempt and turned his attention to the twins, the last arriving members of this famous House Party. There was no reluctance about them--not the slightest. They were fairly dancing with impatience and Ananias--or was it Sapphira?--was already attempting to enter the "wagging" by way of climbing up the "nigh" horse's leg, while her--or his--mate clung to the spokes of the forward wheel, wholly ready to be whirled around and around with its forward progress. "Evidently, these babies aren't afraid to ride!" cried Dorothy, laughing yet half-frightened over the little creatures' boldness. "Please set them right on the bottom, between your knees and Littlejohn's, Mr. Seth! Then they'll be safe. And there, Luna dear, poor Luna, you see we're off at last and--isn't it just lovely?" Luna made no more response than usual but her hidden face sank lower and more heavily upon Dorothy's shoulder, till, presently, she was sound asleep. Then Mike Martin climbed back over the seats to the spot and deftly placed his own cushion behind the sleeper's head. Dolly thanked him with a smile but wondered to see him stare at the sleeper's face with that puzzled expression on his own. Then he scratched his head and asked in a whisper: "Can you tell who she looks like? Terrible familiar, somehow, but can't guess. Can you?" Dorothy shook her head. "No, I've never seen another like her. I hope I never will." "If we could think, we might find her folks and you could get rid of her," continued the lad. "I don't know as I'm so anxious to be rid of her. I do believe she's happy--happier than when she came--and--Look out! If the wagon goes over another thank-ye-ma-am and you're still standing up you'll likely be pitched over into the road. My! But the horses are in fine fettle this morning!" A fresh jolt made Mike cling fast to escape the accident she suggested and he returned to his place, riding on the uncushioned seat as cheerfully as any knight errant of old. Dorothy was his ideal of a girl. She had taught him the difference between bravery and bullying and she had been his inspiration in the task to which he had pledged himself--to be a peacemaker on the mountain. Once, her coolness and courage had saved his life, and on that day he had promised to fulfil her desire, to bridge the enmity between south-side and north-side. His methods had not always been such as Dorothy would have approved but the result was satisfactory. In school and out of it, peace prevailed on the "Heights," and Mike Martin was a nobler boy himself because of his efforts to make others noble. There was a little stir of excitement in the small country church when Seth Winters and his following of young folks entered it, and by mere force of numbers so impressing the ushers that the very front pews were vacated in their behalf, although the farrier protested against this. However, he wasn't sorry to have his company all together, and motioned Dorothy into the same pew with himself, and to a place directly under the pulpit. Into this, also, they led the still drowsy Luna, Dorothy gently settling her in the corner with her head resting upon the pew's back, and here she slept on during most of the service. Here, also, they settled the twins, but could not avoid seeing the curious and amused glances cast upon this odd pair as they trotted up the aisle in Dorothy's wake. "Two peas in a pod," whispered one farmer's wife to her seat neighbor. "Where'd they pick up two such little owls? They're all eyes and solemn as the parson himself, but them ridiculous clothes! My heart! What won't fashionable folks do next, to make their youngsters look different from ours!" returned the other. Nobody guessed that the funny little creatures were an accidental addition to the House Party; and after the strangers were settled nobody was further concerned with them. The service began and duly proceeded. The singing was congregational and in it all the young people joined, making the familiar hymns seem uncommonly beautiful to the hearers; and it was not till the sermon was well under way that anything unusual happened to divert attention. Then there came a soft yet heavy patter on the uncarpeted aisle and two black animals stalked majestically forward and seated themselves upon their haunches directly beneath the pulpit. With an air of profound interest they fixed their eyes upon the speaker therein and, for an instant, disconcerted even that self-possessed orator. "Ponce and Peter! Aunt Betty's Great Danes! However has this happened!" thought poor Dorothy, unable quite to control a smile yet wofully anxious lest the dogs should create a disturbance. However, nothing happened. The Danes might have been regular worshipers in the place for all notice was accorded them by the well trained congregation; and after they were tired of watching the minister the animals quietly stretched themselves to sleep. Their movement and the prodigious yawn of one had bad results. The twins had been having their own peaceful naps upon the kneeling bench at Mr. Seth's feet, but, now, with the suddenness native to them, awoke, discovered the dogs, and leaped out of the pew into the aisle. There they flung themselves upon the dogs with shrieks of delight. It was as if they had found old friends and playmates--as later developments proved to be true. Poor Mr. Winters stared in consternation. He detested a scene but saw one imminent; and how to get both dogs and babies out of that sacred place without great trouble he could not guess. But Dorothy put her hand on his arm and gently patted it. She, too, was frightened but she trusted the animals' instincts; she was right. After a moment's sniffing of the twins, they quietly lay down again and the twins did likewise! and though they did not go to sleep again they behaved well enough, until growing impassioned with his own eloquence the speaker lifted his voice loudly and imploringly. That was a sound they knew. Up sprang one and shouted: "Amen!" and up sprang the other and echoed him! The minister flushed, stammered, and valiantly went on; but he never reached the climax of that sermon. Those continually interrupting groans and "Amens!" uttered in that childish treble, were too much for him. A suppressed titter ran over the whole congregation, in which all the Deerhurst party joined though they strove not to do so; and amid that subdued mirth the clergyman brought his discourse to a sudden end. The benediction spoken there was a rush for the door, in which the Great Danes and the twins led; riotously tumbling over one another, barking and squealing, while the outpouring congregation stepped aside to give them way. Happy-hearted Seth Winters had rarely felt so annoyed or mortified, while Dorothy's face was scarlet even though her lips twitched with laughter. These two lingered in their places till the clergyman descended from his pulpit and prepared to leave the church. Then they advanced and offered what apologies they could; the farrier relating in few words the story of the morning and disclaiming any knowledge as to the identity of the twins or how the dogs had been set loose. "Don't mention it. Of course, I could see that it was accidental, and it isn't of the slightest consequence. Doubtless I had preached as long as was good for my hearers and--I wish you good morning," said the minister, smiling but rather hastily moving away. Mr. Winters also bowed and followed his party out of doors. But he wasn't smiling, not in the least; and it was a timid touch Dorothy laid upon his arm as she came to the big wagon to take her place for the drive home. He looked down at her, and at sight of tears in her eyes, his anger melted. "There, there, child, don't fret! It was one of those unavoidable annoyances that really amount to nothing yet are so hard to bear. Here, let me swing you up. But we must get rid of those youngsters! Sabbath day or not I shall make it my business so to do at the earliest possible moment. By the way, where are they now?" For a moment nobody could say, though the Deerhurst wagons waited while the lads searched and all the regular congregation departed to their homes. Then called Mabel from her seat of honor in the landau: "Dolly Doodles, whilst we're waiting we might as well eat our lunch." For once Mabel's greediness served her neighbors a good purpose. Mr. Seth promptly replied, with something like a wink in Dorothy's direction: "Couldn't do better. There's the church well, too, a famous one, from which to quench our thirst. There's an old saying that 'Meal time brings all rogues home' and likely the presence of food may attract our little runaways. Indeed, I've half a mind to leave them behind, any way. 'Pass them on' to the world at large as that old man 'passed them on' to us." To this there was protest from every side, even Alfaretta declaring she had never heard of such a heartless thing! But she need not have feared, and Dorothy certainly did not. She knew the big heart of her old friend too well; and producing the basket of sandwiches she went about offering them to all. Nobody declined although Monty triumphantly exclaimed: "We haven't any right to be so hungry for an hour yet, 'cause if the dogs hadn't come to church we'd have been kept in that much longer." Then still munching a sandwich he set about to bring water for all, in the one tin dipper that hung by the well, the other lads relieving him from time to time. They were all so merry, so innocently happy under the great trees which bordered the church grounds, that the Master grew happy, too, watching and listening to them and forgot the untoward incident of the service; even forgot, for a moment, that either twins or dogs existed. Then, after both fruit and sandwich baskets had been wholly emptied and all had declared they wanted no more water, the cavalcade prepared to move; Dorothy begging: "Can Luna and I sit on the front seat, with Littlejohn driving, going back? See, she's no longer afraid and I always do love to ride close to the horses." "Very well. Here goes then," answered Mr. Seth gently lifting Luna--wholly unresisting now and placidly smiling--to the place desired while Dolly swiftly sprang after. Then the others seated themselves and Ephraim cracked his whip, the landau leading as befitted its grandeur. Then there were shrieks for delay. From Molly Breckenridge at first, echoed by piping little tongues as the lost "twinses" came into sight. Over the stone wall bordering the road leaped Ponce and Peter, dripping wet and shaking their great bodies vigorously, the while they yelped and barked in sheer delight. Behind them Ananias and Sapphira, equally wet, equally noisy, equally rapturous, and beginning at once to climb into the richly cushioned landau as fast as their funny little legs would permit. Then came another shriek as, rather than let her beautiful clothes be smirched by contact with the drenched children, Mabel Bruce drew her skirts about her, gave one headlong leap to the ground, and fell prone. CHAPTER VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS The laughter which rose to the lips of some of the observers was promptly checked as they saw that the girl lay perfectly still in the dust where she had fallen, making no effort to rise, and unconscious of her injured finery. "She'd better have kep' still an' let 'em wet her," said Alfy, nudging Jane Potter. "She ain't gettin' up because she can't," answered Jane and sprang out of the landau, to kneel beside the prostrate girl; then to look up and cry out: "She's hurt! She's dreadful hurt!" Unhappy Mr. Winters set his teeth and his lips were grim. "If ever I'm so misguided as to engineer another young folks' House Party, I hope----" He didn't express this "hope" but stooped and with utmost tenderness lifted Mabel to her feet. She had begun to rally from the shock of her fall and opened her eyes again, while the pallor that had banished her usual rosiness began to yield to the returning circulation. Already many hands were outstretched to help, some with the dipper from the well, others with dripping wooden plates whereon their luncheon had been packed. Mabel pushed the plates aside, fretfully, explaining as soon as she could speak: "If that gets on my clothes--they're so dusty--Oh! what made me--Oh! oh! A-ah!" Then she began to laugh and cry alternately, as the misfortune and its absurdity fully appeared, and Helena saw that the girl was fast becoming hysterical. Evidently, in their wearer's eyes, the beautiful frock now so badly smirched and the white gloves which had split asunder in her fall were treasures beyond compute, and Helena herself loved pretty clothes. She felt a keen sympathy in that and another respect--she had suffered from hysteria and always went prepared for an emergency. Stepping quietly to Mabel's side, she waved aside the other eager helpers, saying: "I'm going to ride back in the landau, Alfy, please take my place in the cart. Here, Mabel, swallow a drop of this medicine. 'Twill set you right at once." Her movements and words were as decided as they were quiet and Mabel unconsciously obeyed. She submitted to be helped back into the carriage and as Helena took the empty seat beside her, Ephraim drove swiftly away. Thus ignored the dripping twins stared ruefully after the vanishing vehicle and Mr. Seth looked as ruefully at them. But Molly begged: "Let them go in the cart with us. Alfy's frock and mine will wash, even if they soil us. One can ride between Jim and me and Melvin and Alfy must look after the other. Let's choose. I take Ananias. I just love boys!" "Be sure you've chosen one then," laughed Jim as he rather gingerly picked up one infant and placed it behind the dashboard. He had on his own Sunday attire and realized the cost of it, so objected almost as strongly as Mabel had done to contact with this well-soused youngster. "Say, sonny, what made you tumble in the brook? Don't you know this is Sunday?" "Yep. Didn't tumble, just _went_. I'm no 'sonny'; I'm sissy. S-a-p sap, p-h-i----" began the little one, glibly and distinctly. "You can't be! You surely are Ananias! Your hair is cut exactly like a boy's and you wear boy's panties! You're spelling the wrong name. Look out! What next?" cried Molly anxiously, as the active baby suddenly climbed over the back of that seat to join her mate behind. There master Ananias--or was it really Sapphira?--cuddled down on the rug in the bottom of the cart and settled himself--herself--for sleep. Neither Alfy nor Melvin interfered with these too-close small neighbors; but withdrawing to the extreme edges of the seat left them to sleep and get dry at their leisure. After that the homeward drive proceeded in peace; only Herbert calling out now and then from his place in the big wagon to make Melvin admire some particular beauty of the scene, challenging the Provincial to beat it if he could in that far away Markland of his own. "But you haven't the sea!" retorted Melvin, proudly. "We don't need it. We have the HUDSON RIVER!" came as swiftly back; and as they had come just then to a turn in the road where an ancient building stood beneath a canopy of trees, he asked: "Hold up the horses a minute, will you, Littlejohn? I'd like our English friend to say if he ever saw anything more picturesque than this." "This" was a more than century-old Friends' meeting-house. Unpainted and shingled all over its outward surface. "Old shingle-sides" was its local name, and a lovelier location could not have been chosen even by a less austere body of worshipers. Meeting had been prolonged that First Day. The hand clasp of neighbor with neighbor which signaled its close had just been given. From the doorways on either side, the men's and the women's, these silent worshipers were now issuing; the men to seek the vehicles waiting beneath the long shed and the women to gossip a moment of neighborhood affairs. Mr. Winters was willing to rest and "breathe the horses" for a little, the day being warm and the drive long, and to observe with interest the decorous home-going of these Plain People; and it so chanced that the big wagon, where Dorothy sat on the front seat with Luna resting against her, halted just beside the entrance to the meeting-house grounds. From her place she watched the departing congregation with the keen interest she brought to everything; and among them she recognized the familiar outlines of George Fox, the miller's fine horse; and, holding the reins over its back, Oliver Sands, the miller himself. So close he drove to the big wagon that George Fox's nose touched Littlejohn's leader, and the boy pulled back a little. "Huh! That's old Oliver in his First Day grays! But he's in the grumps. Guess the Spirit hasn't moved him to anything pleasant, by the look," he remarked to Dorothy beside him. "He does look as if he were in trouble. I don't like him. I never did. He wasn't--well, nice to Father John once. But I'm sorry he's unhappy. Nobody ought to be on such a heavenly day." If Oliver saw those watching beside the gate he made no sign. His fat shoulders, commonly so erect, were bowed as if he had suddenly grown old. His face had lost its unctuous smile and was haggard with care; and for once he paid no heed to George Fox's un-Quakerlike gambols, fraught with danger to the open buggy he drew. A pale-faced woman in the orthodox attire of the birthright Friends sat beside the miller and clung to him in evident terror at the horse's behavior. It was she who saw how close the contact between their own and the Deerhurst team, and her eye fell anxiously upon the two girlish figures upon the front seat of the wagon. For a girl the unknown Luna seemed, clad in the scarlet frock and hat that Dorothy had given; while Dolly, herself, clasping the little creature close lest she should be frightened looked even younger than she was. "Sisters," thought Dorcas Sands, "yet not alike." Then casting a second, critical glance upon Luna she uttered a strange cry and clutched her husband's arm. "Dorcas, thee is too old for foolishness," was all the heed he paid to her gesture, and drove stolidly on, unseeing aught but his own inward perturbation which had found no solace in that morning's Meeting. Dorcas looked back once over her shoulder and Dorothy returned a friendly smile to the sweet old face in the white-lined gray bonnet. Then the bonnet faced about again and George Fox whisked its wearer out of sight. "I declare I'd love to be a Quakeress and wear such clothes as these women do. They look so sweet and peaceful and happy. As if nothing ever troubled them. Don't you think they're lovely, Littlejohn?" "Huh! I don't know. That there Mrs. Sands--Dorcas Sands is the way she's called 'cause the Friends don't give nobody titles--I guess there ain't a more unhappy woman on our mountain than her." "Why, Littlejohn! Fancy! With such a--a good man; isn't he?" "Good accordin' as you call goodness. He ain't bad, not so bad; only you want to look sharp when you have dealings with him. They say he measures the milk his folks use in the cookin' and if more butter goes one week than he thinks ought to he skimps 'em the next. I ain't stuck on that kind of a man, myself, even if he is all-fired rich. Gid-dap, boys!" With which expression of his sentiments the young mountaineer touched up the team that had rather lagged behind the others and the conversation dropped. But during all that homeward ride there lingered in Dorothy's memory that strange, startled, half-cognizant gaze which gentle Dorcas Sands had cast upon poor Luna. But by this time, the afflicted guest had become as one of the family; and the fleeting interest of any passer-by was accepted as mere curiosity and soon forgotten. After dinner Mr. Winters disappeared; and the younger members of the House Party disposed themselves after their desires; some for a stroll in the woods, some in select, cosy spots for quiet reading; and a few--as Mabel, Helena, and Monty--for a nap. But all gathered again at supper-time and a happy evening followed; with music and talk and a brief bedtime service at which the Master officiated. But Dorothy noticed that he still looked anxious and that he was preoccupied, a manner wholly new to her beloved Mr. Seth. So, as she bade him good-night she asked: "Is it anything I can help, dear Master?" "Why do you fancy anything's amiss, lassie?" "Oh! you show it in your eyes. Can I help?" "Yes. You may break the news to Dinah that those twins are on our hands for--to-night at least. I'm sorry, but together you two must find them a place to sleep. We can't be unchristian you know--not on the Lord's own day!" He smiled his familiar, whimsical smile as he said this and it reassured the girl at once. Pointing to a distant corner of the room, where some considerate person had tossed down a sofa cushion, she showed him the ill-named babies asleep with their arms about each other's neck and their red lips parted in happy slumber. "They've found their own place you see; will it do?" "Admirable! They're like kittens or puppies--one spot's as good as another. Throw a rug over them and let them be. I think they'll need nothing more to-night, but if they do they're of the sort will make it known. Good-night, little Dorothy. Sleep well." After a custom which Father John had taught her, though he could not himself explain it, Dorothy "set her mind" like an alarm clock to wake her at six the next morning and it did so. She bathed and dressed with utmost carefulness and succeeded in doing this without waking anybody. Those whose business it was to be awake, as the house servants, gave her a silent nod for good-morning and smiled to think of her energy. The reason appeared when she drew a chair to a desk by the library window and wrote the following letter: "MY DARLING AUNT BETTY: "Good-morning, please, and I hope you'll have a happy day. I've written you a post card or a letter every day since you went away but I haven't had one back. I wonder and am sorry but I suppose you are too busy with your sick friend. I hope you aren't angry with me for anything. I was terrible sorry about somebody--losing--stealing that money! There, it's out! and I feel better. Sorrier, too, about it's being _him_. Well, that's gone, and as you have so much more I guess you won't care much. Besides, we don't need much. Dear Mr. Seth is just too splendid for words. He thinks of something nice to do all the time. "Yesterday we went to church and so did the dogs and the twins. I haven't told you about them for this is the first letter since they came and that was just after breakfast Sunday. A crazy man brought them and said he'd 'passed them on.' They're the cutest little mites with such horrible names--Ananias and Sapphira! Imagine anybody cruel enough to give babies those names. They aren't much bigger than buttons but they talk as plain as you do. They said 'A-ah!' and 'A-A-men!' in the middle of the sermon and stopped the minister preaching. I wasn't sorry they did for I didn't know what they'd do next nor Luna either. They three and Mr. Seth are the uninvited, or self-invited, ones and they're more fun than all the rest. Mabel fell out the carriage, or jumped out, and spoiled her dress and fainted away. "My House Party is just fine! Monty got stuck in the barn and had to be sawed apart. I mean the barn had to be, not Monty; and not one of us said a word about it. "I'm writing this before the rest are up because afterward I shan't have a minute's chance. It's a great care to have a House Party, though the Master--we call Mr. Winters that, all of us--takes the care. I don't know what we would do without him, and what we can without that stolen money. Monty says if he had that or had some of his own, he'd be able to manage without any old Master, he would. That was when he wanted to go sailing Sunday afternoon and Mr. Seth said 'no.' "Monty's real smooth outside but he has prickly tempers sometimes; and I guess he--he sort of 'sassed' the Master, 'cause he refused to give us any money to hire a sail boat and Monty hadn't any left himself. But it all blew over. Mr. Seth doesn't seem to mind Monty any more'n he does his tortoise-shell cat; and he's a very nice boy, a very nice boy, indeed. So are they all. I'm proud of them all. So is Mabel. So is Molly B. Those two are so proud they squabble quite consid'able over which is the nicest, and the boys just laugh. "Oh! I must stop. It's getting real near breakfast time; and dear Aunt Betty, will you please send me another one hundred dollars by the return of the mail? I mean as quick as you can. You see to-day, we're going around visiting 'Headquarters' of all the revolution people. There's a lot of them and they won't cost anything to see; but to-morrow there's 'The Greatest Show on Earth' coming to Newburgh and I _must_ take my guests to it. I really must. "Good-by, darling Aunt Betty. "DOROTHY. "P. S.--I've heard that people can telegraph money and that it goes quicker that way. Please do it. "D. "P. P. S.--Mr Seth says that this Headquartering will be as good as the circus, but it isn't easy to believe; and Melvin isn't particularly pleased over the trip. I suppose that's because our folks whipped his; and please be sure to telegraph the money at once. The tickets are fifty cents a-piece and ten cents extra for every side-show; and Molly and I have ciphered it out that it will take a lot, more'n I'd like to have the Master pay, generous as he is. Isn't it lovely to be a rich girl and just ask for as much money as you want and get it? Oh! I love you, Aunt Betty! "DOROTHY; for sure the last time." One of the men was going to early market and by him the writer dispatched this epistle. Promptly posted, it reached Mrs. Calvert that morning, who replied as promptly and by telegram as her young relative had requested. The yellow envelope was awaiting Dorothy that evening, when she came home from "Headquartering" with her guests, and she opened it eagerly. But there seemed something wrong with the message. Having read it in silence once--twice--three times, she crumpled it in her hand and dashed out of the room scarlet with shame and anger. CHAPTER IX HEADQUARTERS "Well, lads and lassies--or lassies and lads, it's due you to hear all I've found out concerning Ananias and Sapphira. I don't believe that those are their real names but I've heard no other. The curious old man who left them here is, presumably, insane on the subject of religion. He appeared on the mountain early in the summer, with these little ones, and preëmpted that tumble-down cottage over the bluff beyond our gates. Most of you know it by sight; eh?" "Yes, indeed! It looks as if it had been thrown over the edge of the road, just there where it's so steep. Old Griselda, the lodge-keeper's wife I live with claims it's haunted, and always has been. Hans says not, except by tramps and such," answered James Barlow. "Tramps? Are tramps on this mountain? Oh! I don't like that. I'd have been afraid to come if I'd known that!" protested Molly Breckenridge with a little shiver. Of course they all laughed at her and Monty valiantly assured her: "Don't you worry. I'm here." Then added as an after-thought, "and so are the other boys." Laughter came easily that Monday morning and it was Monty's turn to get his share of it, and he accepted it with great good nature. They were such a happy company with almost a whole week of unknown enjoyment before them, and the gravity of Mr. Seth's face did not affect their own hilarity. Dorothy had confided to Alfaretta that she had written to Mrs. Calvert for "another hundred dollars" and the matter was a "secret" between these two. "You, Alfy dear, because you never had, and likely never will have, a hundred dollars of your own, may have the privilege of planning what we will do with mine. That's to prove I love you; and if you plan nice things--real nice ones, Alfy--I'll spend it just as you want." Sensible, but not too-sensitive, Alfaretta shook her head, and asked: "Do you know how to make a hare pie?" "Why, of course not. How should I? I'm not a cook!" "First catch your hare! You haven't got your money yet and I shan't wear my brains out, plannin' no plans--yet. You couldn't get up nicer times'n the Master does, and he hasn't spent a cent on this House Party, so far forth as I know, savin' what he put in the collection plate to church, yesterday. Come on; he promised to tell all he'd found out about the twinses and all the rest of us is listenin' to him now." So Dorothy had followed to the wide piazza where the young people had grouped themselves affectionately about their beloved Master; who now repeated for the newcomers' information: "The old man is the children's grandfather, on their father's side. The twins are orphans, whom the mother's family repudiate, and he has cared for them, off and on, ever since their father died, as their mother did when they were born." "Oh! the poor little creatures!" cried Helena Montaigne, and snuggled a twin to her side; while there were tears in Molly Breckenridge's eyes as she caressed the other. "I said 'off and on.' The off times are when the old man is seized by the desire to preach to anyone who will listen. Then he wanders away, sleeps where the night finds him, and eats what charity bestows. Ordinarily, he does not so much as place the babies anywhere; just leaves them to chance. When they are with him he is very stern with them, punishing them severely if they disobey his least command; and they are greatly afraid of him. Well, here they are! I've tried to place them elsewhere, in a legitimate home; but I hesitate about an Orphanage until--Time sometimes softens hard hearts!" with this curious ending Mr. Winters relapsed into a profound reverie and nobody presumed to disturb him. Until Mabel Bruce suddenly demanded: "Where's their other clothes?" The farrier laughed. Mabel was an interesting study to him. He had never seen a little girl just like her; and he answered promptly: "That's what neither Norah nor I can find out. Only from the appearance of some ashes in the fireplace of the hut I fear they have been burned. I took Norah down there early this morning, for a woman sees more than a man, but even she was disappointed. However, that's easily remedied. One of the Headquarters we shall visit is in Newburgh, where are also many shops. Some of you girls must take the little tackers to one of these places and outfit them with what is actually needed. Nothing more; and I will pay the bill." "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but you will not! I will pay myself," cried Dorothy, eagerly. "With what, Dolly dear? I thought you were the most impecunious young person of the lot." "I am--just now; but I shan't be long," answered the young hostess, with a confident wink in Alfaretta's direction. To which that matter-of-fact maid replied by a contemptuous toss of her head and the enigmatical words: "Hare pie!" "Wagons all ready, Mr. Winters!" announced a stable boy, appearing around the house corner. "Passengers all ready!" shouted Danny Smith, perhaps the very happiest member of that happy Party. Never in his short, hard-worked life had he recreated for a whole week, with no chores to do, no reprimands to hear, and no solitude in distant corn-fields where the only sound he heard was the whack-whack of his own hoe. A week of idleness, jolly companionship, feasting and luxury--Danny had to rub his eyes, sometimes, to see if he were really awake. "All ready, all?" "All ready!" Much in the order of their Sunday's division they settled themselves for the drive to Newburgh, where the first stop was to be made, except that Molly Breckenridge declared she must ride beside Dorothy, having something most important to discuss with her friend. Also, she insisted that the twins ride with them, on the wagon-bottom between their feet. "They can't fall out that way, and it's about them--I'll tell everybody later." It was an hour when nobody wished to dash the pleasure of anybody else, so Mr. Seth nodded compliance; saying: "Then I'll take this other little lady alongside myself!" and lifted Luna to the place. This time she showed neither fear nor hesitation. She accepted the situation with that blankly smiling countenance she wore when she was physically comfortable, and the horses had not traveled far before her head drooped against the Master's shoulder, as it had against Dorothy's, and she fell asleep. "Poor thing! She has so little strength. She looks well but the least exertion exhausts her. Like one who has been imprisoned till he has lost the use of his limbs. I wonder who she is! I wonder, are we doing right not to advertise her!" thought the farrier; then contented himself with his former arguments against the advertising and the fact that Mrs. Calvert would soon be coming home and would decide the matter at once. "Cousin Betty can solve many a riddle, and will this one. Meanwhile, the waif is well cared for and as happy as she can ever be, I fancy. Best not to disturb her yet." When the wagon stopped at the door of the old stone Headquarters on the outskirts of Newburgh city, Helena said: "It will save time, Mr. Winters, if some of us drive on to the business streets and do the shopping for these twins. I'm familiar with this old house--have often brought our guests to see it; so I could help in the errands." "And I!" "And I!" cried Molly and Dolly, together. "Our school used to come here to study history, sometimes, right from the very things themselves. Besides--" Here Molly gave her chum such a pinch on the arm that Dolly ended her explanation with a squeal. So it was quickly settled. Mr. Winters handed Helena his purse, which she at first politely declined to take--having designs herself in that line. But when he as courteously and firmly insisted, she took it and said no more. Helena Montaigne would never carry her own wishes to the point of rudeness; yet in her heart she was longing to clothe the really pretty children after a fancy of her own. However, she put this wish aside, and the three girls with the orphans were swiftly driven to the best department stores the city afforded. Here trouble awaited. At the statement that one was a girl and one a boy--which her own perception would not have taught her--the saleswoman produced garments suitable for the two sexes. "Now which shall I fit first?" she asked smiling at the close resemblance of the pair. "Why, ladies first, I suppose!" laughed Helena and moved one child forward. The other immediately placed itself alongside, and Molly exclaimed: "Now, I don't know which is which! Anybody got a ribbon? or anything will answer to tie upon one and so distinguish them. Baby, which are _you_?" The twin she had clasped smiled at her seraphically but made no reply; merely cocked its flaxen head aside and thrust its finger in mouth. At once its mate did likewise, and Helena tossed her hands in comical dismay. "Oh! Get the ribbon, please! Then we'll make them _spell_ themselves and tie the mark on before we forget." So they did; and the attendant listened in amusement to the performance; till finding themselves of so much interest to others the midgets began again glibly to spell and--both together. Prancing and giggling, fully realizing their own mischievousness, the babies made that hour of shopping one which all concerned--save themselves--long remembered. Also, if there were the slightest difference between the garments selected for them they set up such a violent protest that peace could only be restored by clothing them alike. So they emerged from the establishment clad in snowy little suits that seemed as fitting for a girl as for a boy, with pretty hats which they elected to wear upon their backs, and sandals on their stubby feet--the nearest approach to shoes to which they would submit. A big box of suitable underwear was put into the wagon and they were lifted in after it, while Molly begged to walk a block or two till she found a confectioner's. Here she expended all her pocket-money, and climbing back beside Dorothy politely opened her big box and offered it to her friends. Incidentally, to the twins; who stared, tasted, and stared again! "My heart! I don't believe they have ever tasted candy! They don't know what it means!" cried Molly, laughing. They soon found out. In a flash they had seized the pasteboard box and snuggled it between them. Then with it securely wedged beneath their knees they proceeded to empty it at lightning speed. "Why! I never saw anything eat like that, not even a dog! You can't see them swallow!" said Helena, amazed. "They're getting themselves all daubed with that chocolate, too--The pity!" "Give it back to me, at once!" commanded Molly sternly, but she spoke to unhearing ears. Then she tried to snatch it away, but they were too strong for her, as anybody who has ever thus contested with sturdy five-year-olds can guess. "They'll make themselves ill! and they'll ruin their new clothes. What will Mr. Winters say? Molly, how could you!" wailed Dorothy. "I wish we'd never brought them. I mean, I wish you hadn't thought of candy. I wish----" "You'd hold your tongue!" snapped Molly, so viciously that her friends both stared and Dolly said no more. "I don't mean to be so horrid, girls, but it is so vexatious! I'd spent all I had and meant it to be such an addition to our picnic dinner in the woods. I'm ashamed--course--and I apologize. Though I remember Miss Penelope says that apologies and explanations are almost worse than useless. Besides----" Here Molly paused and looked at Dorothy most meaningly; but whatever she meant to say further Dolly stopped by a shake of her head, adding: "Now it's my turn to apologize, Helena dear, but there's something we two have in mind that we want to spring on the whole lot of you at once. Will you forgive and wait?" "Surely. But--those children! I hope we'll get back to the others soon and that Mr. Winters will have more influence with them than we've had." It proved that he had. One glance and word from him and the twins cowered as if they expected cruel blows, and without the slightest resistance permitted him to take away the nearly empty box. "Doesn't look very tempting now, I think. Best throw it away, especially as I had already provided sweeties for the crowd. Now, lads, westward ho! It's nearly dinner time again, and I believe it's being with so many other hungry youngsters makes me one too!" cried the Master, stepping to his place and saying with an air of authority which nobody disputed: "Hand over the twins. I'll take them under my care for the rest of this day!" The Headquarters which they were next to visit, and on whose grounds they were to picnic, was bordered by a stream that just there widened into a little lake. As they approached the place, cramped by their long ride, most of the lads left the wagons to finish the distance on foot. "Ever hear the story of General Lafayette and this creek, Melvin?" asked Herbert. "Good enough to tell and not against your side either." "Go on," said Melvin, resignedly. "I fancy I can match any yarn of yours with one of my own, don't you know." "Can't beat this. In those days there was no bridge here, not even a footbridge. One had to ford the stream. The General was going to a party at that very house yonder and was in his best togs. Course, he didn't want to get his pumps wet so he hired an Irishman--more likely a Britisher--to carry him over. Half way over--a little slip--not intentional, of course!--and down goes my General, ker-splash! Just this way it was! Only it's turn and turn about, now. Young America totes old England and----" "Lads, lads! That footbridge is unsafe! See! The plank's gone in the middle--Oh! the careless fellows!" Having been a boy himself the farrier was prepared for pranks; and the good-natured badinage between Herbert and the young Canadian had aroused no anxiety till now. He had been near enough to hear Herbert's recital of the Lafayette incident but had merely been amused. Now--Oh! why didn't they keep to the wide, safe bridge, that wagons used! Already it was too late even for his warning. Herbert had only meant to catch up the slighter Melvin, scare him by pretending to drop him, but in reality carry him pick-a-pack safely to the further shore. He considered himself an athlete and wished to show "young England how they do things in Yankeeland," and with a shout he darted forward. Headlong he came to the spot above the water where no foothold was--a space too wide for even his long legs to cover, and all the watchers shivered in fear. But from his elevation on Herbert's back, Melvin had already seen the chasm and as if he had been shot from a catapult--he cleared it! "Hip, hip, hooray! England forever!" yelled Frazer Moore and every other lad in the company added his cheers. Then Melvin, from his side the chasm, doffed his cap and bowed his graceful acknowledgments for his country's sake. And at sight of that the girls cheered, too, for Herbert had already regained his feet in that shallow stream and they could see that he had taken no hurt beyond a slight wetting. "Never mind that. He'll dry off, same as the twins did," laughed Molly Breckenridge. Which he did, for the sun was warm and his plunge had been a brief one; and in fact this "little international episode," as Monty called it, but served to increase the jollity of that day. Such a day it proved; without cloud or untoward incident to mar its happiness; and as they wandered here and there, inspecting for the last time the historical spot which had given them hospitable shelter, none dreamed of any mishap to come. Even the twins were tired enough to behave with uncommon docility, beyond continually removing from one another the ribbon which should have designated Ananias from Sapphira. "They've changed it so often I've really forgotten which is which, but I'm sure--that is I think--I'm really positive--that the hair with a kink belongs to Sapphira! After all, that isn't such a dreadful name when you say it softly," said Molly. "I think this is the loveliest old house I ever saw. I'd just like to stay here forever, seems if. The funny roof, so high up in front and away down, low almost as the ground behind. The great chimney--think of standing in a chimney so big you can look straight up, clear through to the sky!" murmured studious Jane Potter. "'Tisn't as big as the Newburgh one, and they haven't any such Hessian boots, though it does have a secret staircase and chamber," answered Jim who, also, was greatly interested in the ancient building. "But come on, Janie; they're getting ready to leave." "In just a minute. Just one single minute, 'cause I shan't ever likely come here again, even if I do live so near it as our mountain." Home through the twilight they drove, for kindly Seth couldn't abridge for his beloved young folks that long, delightful day; and they were ready to declare, most of them, that even the circus to come could hardly be more enjoyable than this day's "Headquartering" had been. It was then, on that happy return, that Dorothy had found the telegram awaiting, and had caught it up with a loving thought of her indulgent Aunt Betty. Then her happiness dashed as by cold water she had flown out of the room and shut herself in her pretty chamber to cry and feel herself the most unhappy girl in all the world. Twice had Norah come to her door to summon her to supper before she felt composed enough to go below among her guests. Over and over she assured herself that none of them should ever know how badly she had been treated. Nobody, of course, except Alfaretta, and the first thing that girl would be sure to ask would be: "Have you caught your hare?" In other words: "Did she send the money?" But in this she did poor Alfy great injustice. It had needed but one glance to tell her--being in the secret--what sort of an answer had come to Dorothy by way of that unexplained yellow envelope. Well, it was too bad! After all, Mrs. Betty Calvert must be a terribly stingy old woman not to give all the money she wanted to her new-found, or new-acknowledged great niece! Huh! She was awful sorry for Dolly Doodles, to have to belong to just--great aunts! She'd rather have Ma Babcock, a thousand times over, than a rich old creature like Dolly had to live with. She would so! Therefore it was not at all of news from town that warm-hearted Alfaretta inquired, as Dorothy at last appeared in the supper room, but with an indifferent glance around: "Why, where's Jane Potter?" CHAPTER X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS Where, indeed, was good Jane Potter! The least troublesome, the most self-effacing, staidest girl of them all. "Didn't she ride home with _you_?" "Why no. I supposed she did with _you_. That is--I never thought." "But--somebody should have thought!" cried Dorothy, diverted from her own unhappiness by this strange happening. "Yes, and that 'somebody' should have been myself," admitted Mr. Seth, after question had followed question and paling faces had turned toward one another. "Are you sure she isn't in her room?" asked Helena. "Sure as sure. I thought it funny she didn't come to clean herself, I mean put on her afternoon things; but I guessed she was too tired, and, anyway, Jane never gets mussed up as I do," answered Molly Martin, tears rising in her eyes. The Master rose from his unfinished meal. "Then we've left her behind and the poor child will be terrified. I'll have one of the work horses put to the pony cart at once, and go back for her. I'd like one of you lads to go with me. I might need somebody." Jim rose and Herbert, and, oddly enough, Mr. Winters nodded to Herbert; adding to Dorothy: "Have a bottle of milk and some food, besides a heavy wrap sent out to the cart. She will have missed her supper." "But you and Herbert are missing yours, too. I shall send something extra for you two and mind you eat it. I--I'm sure you'll find Jane all right only maybe frightened," said Dorothy, doing her utmost to banish anxiety from her friends, though she felt troubled enough in her own mind. If it had been any other girl but Jane, the steady! However, there was the long evening to get through, even though the rescuing party made their best speed. Many miles stretched between the old mansion and this with the distance to cover twice; and all the time there lay on the hostess's heart the burden of her own personal grief. But she mustn't think of that. She must not. She was a Calvert, no matter what Aunt Betty said. A gentlewoman. Only yesterday Helena had explained that a gentlewoman, "in society," had no thought save for the comfort of others. Well, she was in "society" now, and--She almost wished she wasn't! She'd rather have been a poor little girl, unknowing her own name, who'd never dreamed of being an heiress and who'd have been free to run away and hide and cry her eyes out--if she wished! So she put her best efforts to her task of entertaining and a jolly evening followed; though now and then one or another would pause in the midst of a game and ask: "Ought we to be carrying on like this, while we don't know what's happened to Janie?" Then the spirit of fun would sway them all again; for, as Alfaretta practically put it: "Whether we laugh or cry don't make any difference to her. Time enough to solemn down when we find out she's hurt." They were rather noisily singing the old round of "Three Blind Mice," with each particular "mouse" putting itself into its neighbors' way, so that the refrain never would come out in the proper order, when it was caught up by lusty voices in the outer hall and Mr. Seth's deep tones leading. "They've come! They've come--and it must be all right, else they wouldn't sing like that!" cried Molly Martin, infinitely relieved on her friend's and room-mate's account; she and the sedate Jane being as close chums as Dolly and the other Molly were. "The Campbells Are Coming," whistled Herbert merrily, and with the air of a courtier led the embarrassed Jane into the midst of the circle. She jerked her hand away with the reproof: "Don't be silly! I've made trouble enough without acting foolish over it." She seemed so completely ashamed of herself that Dorothy pitied her and hastened to put her arm about her and say: "Why should you think of trouble to anybody else since you're--alive?" "Alive! Did you think I might be dead, then? That makes it worse, still. I was never in the slightest danger. I was only just a--dunce." "You couldn't ever be that, Jane Potter!" cried Molly Martin, enthusiastically embracing the restored one from her other side. But Jane shook herself free from the caresses of both and calmly explained: "Since you'll all want to know I may as well tell just how thoughtless I was. I wanted to find that secret staircase Jim had told about, and the hidden chamber above it, under the roof. I couldn't at first. It led out of the paneled chamber, he said, where all the side walls looked like doors and only one of them would move. Finally, after I'd tried 'em all, and that took some time, I slid one open. It was the secret stair; nothing but a close sealed cupboard, so little that even I could hardly squeeze up it. It wasn't a regular stair, only tiny three-cornered pieces of board nailed in the back angles, first one side and then another. They are far apart and some are gone. I thought I'd never get up the thing, but I hadn't stayed behind to be worsted by a sort of old grain-chute like that." "Weren't you scared? Didn't you feel as if some enemy were after you?" Molly Breckenridge interrupted to ask. Jane coolly sat down and glanced contemptuously at the questioner. All the company felt a trifle disappointed by Jane's manner. They had expected a more exciting revelation. "What should I be afraid of? I haven't any enemies, as I know." "But it must have been very dark in such a place, a shut-in box like that," protested Helena, who as well as the others thought Jane might have made more out of her adventure. "No, it wasn't, not there. The panel-door let the light through from the big room where there are no blinds or curtains. All the light there was--only dusk, you know--came through. It was at the top, after I'd climbed off the top step into the hidden chamber that it got dark--black as night. Because, you see, I accidentally hit my foot against the trap-door and it fell shut. That's all. I ain't dead, you see, and there's nothing to be sorry for except the trouble I gave Mr. Winters and this boy. I've told them I was sorry, so that's all there can be done about it now. Anyway I've learned something, and that is how a prisoner must feel, shut up in a box like that." A sort of groan came from the further side of the room where the Master had sunk into a great chair as if he were utterly weary. Then he said: "I'm glad Jane is so philosophical. I think she doesn't know just how dangerous her situation was. The 'hidden chamber' under the roof was nothing but a closely sealed box, without any possible ventilation. Nobody could have lived long shut up in that space, breathing the vitiated air. It was well we found her, and you must all thank God for a tragedy averted. Nor would I have thought of looking there for her if Jim hadn't remembered talking with her about the place and told Herbert just as we started. He'd inspected it himself, had read of it, yet even I who had visited that old mansion many times didn't know of its existence." "Oh! I wish you'd told us all, Jim Barlow, when we were there! I think it was selfish mean of you not to, when we were sight-seeing on purpose," pouted Jolly Molly. "Wish't I had, now, since you all seem to care. I didn't think then anybody--I mean--I didn't think at all, except for myself," frankly answered the lad, which made them laugh again and so restored their ordinary mood. "Well, it's about breaking up time. I move that Dorothy C. give us a bit of music from her violin," said the Master, smiling upon his beloved child. She smiled in return but it was such a wan little attempt that it pained more than pleased him. Something was sorely troubling sunshiny Dolly and he wondered what, not knowing the purport of her begging letter to Mrs. Calvert nor what the telegram had said. He feared she was still grieving about the lost one hundred dollars and could sympathize in that, for he also grieved and puzzled. He made up his mind to ask her about it at the first opportunity; meanwhile, there was the obliging girl already tuning her violin and asking from her place beside the mantel piece: "What shall it be--when I've done squeaking this way?" "Yankee Doodle!" "God Save the King!" cried Herbert and Melvin, together; and immediately she began, first a strain of one, then the other, till even the mischievous petitioners cried that they had had enough of that medley and would be glad of a change. One after another she played the selections asked, watching with curiosity which all the others shared, the strange effect her music had on Luna. The waif now seemed to consider herself entirely one of the Party--the "Silent Partner," Danny called her; for though she never spoke she had learned to keep close to some one or other of the young folks, and so to avoid that big room where Dinah had placed her earlier on her visit. She took no part in any of their games but watched them with that vacant smile upon her wrinkled face, keeping out of the way of being jostled by cuddling down in some corner just as the twins did. Indeed, there was a close intimacy between the three "uninvited"; the little ones promptly realizing that no matter how mischievous they had been and how much they deserved punishment, they would be unmolested in Luna's neighborhood. She paid scant attention to them, no more than she did to anything, except gay colors and music. She slept much of the time, and just as the twins did; cuddled upon the floor or lounge or wherever drowsiness had overcome her. Yet let even the faintest strain of music be heard and she would instantly arouse, her eyes wide open and her head bent forward as one intently listening; and the strangest part of this attraction was that she dumbly realized the sort of melody she heard. At the jumble of the two national airs she had smiled, then frowned, and finally looked distressed. It was this expression upon the dull face she watched that had made Dorothy give over that nonsense, even more than the protests of her mates; and now as Molly begged: "Something of your own making-up, Dolly Doodles!" she let her bow wander idly over the strings, until a sort of rhythmic measure came to her; fragments she knew of many compositions but bound into a sheaf, as it were, by a theme of her own. It was a minor, moving melody and slowly but effectually touched the heart of every listener. Melvin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, picturing to his sometime homesick soul a far-away Yarmouth garden, with roses such as bloomed no other where and a sweet-faced, widowed mother gently tending them. Helena pondered if she did right to be in this house, a guest, with her own home so near and her parents thus deserted of both their children, and unconsciously she sighed. James Barlow and Jane Potter, after the habit of each, drifted into thought of the wide field of learning and the apparent hopelessness of ever crossing far beyond its boundaries. "The worst of studying is that it makes you see how little bit you can ever know;" considered the ambitious lad, while Jane regretted that she had not been left in peace in that old house from which she had been rescued and so have had the chance of her life to learn history on the spot. More or less, all within the sound of that violin grew thoughtful; but it was upon poor, "unfinished" Luna that the greatest stress was wrought. She did not rise to her feet but began to creep toward the player, inch by inch, almost imperceptibly advancing as if drawn forward by some invisible force. Presently they all became aware of her movement and of nothing else, save that low undercurrent of melody that wailed and sobbed from the delicate instrument, as the player's own emotions ruled her fingers. Even the Master sat erect, he who made a study of all mankind, touched and influenced beyond himself with speculations concerning this aged woman who was still a child. "Music! Who knows but that was the key to unlock her closed intelligence? Oh! what a pity that it came so late! But how sad is Dorothy's mood to evoke such almost unearthly strains! It's getting too much for her and for that helpless creature. I must stop it;" thought the farrier, but didn't put his thought into action. Just then he could not. "Makes me think of a snake charmer I saw once," whispered Monty Stark to Littlejohn. "Ssh! Luna's cryin'! Did you ever see the beat? Alfy Babcock, stop snivellin' as if you was at a first class funeral!" returned master Smith, himself swallowing rather hard as he happened to think of his mother bringing in her own firewood. Luna had reached the spot directly before Dorothy and was on her knees looking up with a timid, fascinated stare. Her small hands were so tightly clasped that their large veins seemed bursting, and great tears chased one another down her pink, wrinkled cheeks. Her close cropped head was thrown back and her back was toward the windows over which no curtains had been drawn. In her gay frock, which firelight and lamplight touched to a brilliant flame color, she must have appeared to one beyond the panes like a suppliant child begging pardon for some grave misdoing. Suddenly Alfaretta screamed, and Molly Breckenridge promptly echoed her; then bounded to Dorothy's side and snatched the violin from her hands. "Stop it, Dolly, stop it! I couldn't help doing that, for in another minute you'd have had me and--and everybody crazy! What made you----" "Why, Alfaretta! Whatever is the matter? Why do you stand like that, pointing out into the night as if you'd seen a ghost?" demanded Jane Potter, going to her schoolmate and shaking her vigorously. "Don't yell again. It's--it's more frightful to hear you than it was to be locked up in that hidden chamber, with a spring-locked trap shut between you and liberty." Which was the only admission this self-contained young person ever gave that she had once known fear. Alfy gulped, shivered, and slowly answered: "So I did. It--was a ghost. Or--or--just the same as one! A--lookin'--a lookin' right through the window--with his face--big and white--He--he wore a hat----" "Wise ghost! Not to cavort around bare-headed on a damp September night!" cried Monty, as much to reassure his own shaken nerves as those of the mountain girl. "Dorothy's music was so strange--weird you might say--that she's made us all feel spooky; but we have no apparitions at Deerhurst, let me tell you," said Herbert, consolingly. "Huh! You may say what you like, but that one apparited all right. I seen it with my very own eyes and nobody else's!" retorted Alfaretta, with such decision and twisting of good English that those who heard her laughed loudly. The laughter effectually banished "spookiness" and as now poor Luna sank down upon the floor in her accustomed drowsiness, her enwrapt mood already forgotten, the Master lifted her in his strong arms and carried her away to Dinah and to bed. But as he went he cast one keen glance toward the windows, where nothing could now be seen--if ever had been--save the dimly outlined trees beyond. Yet even he almost jumped when Jim, having followed him from the room, touched his arm and asked: "What do you s'pose sent old Oliver Sands to peekin' in our windows?" [Illustration: THE GHOST AT THE WINDOW. _Dorothy's House Party._] CHAPTER XI MORNING TALKS "Did anybody ever know such a succession of beautiful days?" asked Helena, next morning, stepping out into a world full of bird-song and sunshine. "And without doing anything extraordinary, nothing that anybody in the world couldn't have done, what a happy time we're having. Why, Dolly darling, you--what's wrong, honey? Are you in trouble? Can I help you?" Dorothy had been sitting on the broad piazza, waiting for her guests and breakfast, a very sober, worried girl. But she now sprang up to greet her friend and tossing back her dark curls seemed to toss away anxiety also. A smile rose the more readily, too, for at that moment there came around the corner Monty Stark and Danny Smith, kindred spirits, each singing at the top of his voice: "The elephant now goes round and round, The band begins to play, The little boys under the monkeys' cage Had better get out of the way-- Better get out of the wa-a-a-ay!" "Mornin' ladies! And let me assure you there'll be peanuts and pink lemonade enough to go around; for Daniel, my friend here, has just unearthed a quarter from one of his multitudinous pockets and I'll agree--to-lay-it-out-for-him-to-the-best-possible-advantage--Right this way, ladies and gentlemen, only ten cents to see the Double Headed Woman and to witness the astonishing feat of an Anaconda Swallowing his own Skin! Right this way, only ten----" "Monty Stark, behave yourself! The place for you, young sir, is in the monkeys' cage, not _under_ it! What have you horrid boys been doing out there in the barn so early, waking tired little girls out of their beauty-sleep?" demanded Molly B., appearing on the scene and interrupting the boy's harangue. "Oh! Just doing a few stunts. Practising, you know, against they call on us to take part in the 'ceremonies.' But it's a pity about that beauty-sleep. You needed it and I apologize! I mean I never saw you so charming! Hooray for the circus!" "Hooray!" answered Herbert, coming through the doorway, a twin on either arm. "Say it, 'Nias! Say it, 'Phira!" The youngsters squirmed to get away, to slide down out of the boy's grasp, but he held them securely till, at last grown desperate, one of them began gravely and distinctly to recite the doggerel which Monty and Daniel had just sung. The performance received great applause and amid the jests and laughter all turned to follow the summons to breakfast; Herbert restraining the little ones long enough to adjure them to: "Mind, you've promised! And you know what happened to some folks you're named for! No, I shouldn't have said that, poor innocents! I mean you must do what I told you or you'll lose what I promised." "Yep. We's do it, we's do it! I wants my brekkus!" answered one, while the other echoed: "Brekkus, brekkus!" Herbert placed them at a small low table in the corner where Dinah had decided they must eat, or "take deir meals; fo' as fo' eatins, dey's cwyin' fo' dem all de whole endu'in time! 'Peahs lak dem li'l ones nebah would get filled up an' nebah had ernough yet in dis yere world." Yet once at table nobody could find fault with their behavior, except for the extreme rapidity with which they stowed away their rations. They seemed afraid to drop a crumb or mess themselves in any way and the furtive looks they shot out from beneath their long lashes were pitiful, as if they feared their food would be snatched from them and themselves punished with blows. That many blows had been administered, Dinah had early found out, since when bathing them she saw the scars upon their poor little bodies. This had been sufficient to reconcile her to the extra care and labor their presence imposed upon her; for labor, indeed, they caused. For instance: stealing into the kitchen where Aunt Malinda had set upon the hearth a big pan of bread "sponge," to rise, they industriously dotted its top with lumps of coal from the hod, in imitation of a huckleberry pudding which had appeared at table. They even essayed to eat the mixture; but finding this impracticable set to work to force one another down into the pan of dough--with sufficient success to ruin the new suits they wore as well as Aunt Malinda's "risin'." Having discovered that sugar was sweet they emptied a jar of what looked like it into a fine "floating island" and turned the custard to brine. They hid Ephraim's glasses, and Dinah's bandana; they unloosed the dogs, let the chains be fastened ever so securely; they opened the gate to the "new meadow" and let the young cattle wander therein; and with the most innocent, even angelic expressions, they plotted mischief the livelong day. But they redeemed all their wickedness by their entire truthfulness. Despite their handicap of names, they acknowledged every misdemeanor and took every punishment without a whimper. "They're regular little imps! But, alanna, what'd this big house be widout 'em and their pranks?" cried poor Norah, laughing and frowning together, when called upon for the third time that morning to change the youngsters' clothes; the last necessity arising from the fact that they had filled the bathtub and taken a glorious dip without the formality of removing their garments. "You're the plague of my life, so you are; but poor motherless darlin's, I can't but love you! And sorra the day, when him 't you belongs to comes for you again!" When that morning's meal was over, the Master planned their day as had become his habit. Said he: "A circus day and the first day of the county fair, as this is, will crowd the streets of the city with all sorts of teams and people. I've decided not to risk Mrs. Calvert's horses in Newburgh to-day. We can all go up by train and have no anxiety about anything. It's but a down-hill walk, if a rather long one, from here to our own station, and in town there'll be plenty of stages to carry us to the grounds. Jim has consented to ride over on horseback early and secure our places on the front row of seats, if this is possible. I've seen no reserved seats advertised, but I don't like those insecure upper benches--or boards--of the tiers of scaffolding, where a fellow has to swing his feet in space or jab his toes into the back of the spectator below. Besides, I always did like to be close to the 'ring' when I go to the circus." "O, Teacher! As if you ever went!" cried Alfaretta, giggling. "Go? Of course I go every chance I get--to a real country circus--which isn't often. There's nothing so convinces me that I am still a little boy as the smell of tanbark and sawdust, and the sound of the clown's squeaking voice!" They laughed. It was so easy and so natural to laugh that morning. Even Helena, who had enjoyed many superior entertainments, felt her pulses thrill in anticipation of that day's amusement; and she meant to let herself "go" for all the fun there might be, with as full--if not as noisy an abandon--as any "mountain girl" among them. Continued Mr. Seth, closely observing Dorothy who, alone of all the company, was not smiling: "Now, for the morning. I suggest that you pass it quietly at home; tennis, reading, lounging in hammocks--any way to leave yourselves free from fatigue for the afternoon. Dinah says 'Y'arly dinnah'; because all the 'help' want to go to the circus and I want to have them. So we must get the dishes washed betimes, for the 'Greatest Show On Earth' opens its afternoon performance at two o'clock sharp precisely to the minute! and I, for one, cannot, positively cannot, miss the Grand Entrance! Umm. I see them now, in fancy's eye, the cream colored horses, the glittering spangles, the acrobats in tights, the monkeys, the--the----" "Oh! Don't say any more, dear Master, or I shall have to ride over with Jim this morning and see the street parade!" cried Molly Breckenridge clasping her plump hands in absurd entreaty, while every lad present looked enviously upon the thus honored James. "_I_ could buy circus tickets if I put my whole mind to it. How about you, Littlejohn Smith?" observed Monty. "Give me the cash and let me try!" Danny said nothing but his eyes were wistfully fixed upon vacancy, while Frazer Moore sadly stated: "All I ever did see about a circus--so far--was the parade. I run away to that--once." "And got a lickin' for it afterwards, I remember," commented Mike Martin. This was too much for the discipline of that dear old "boy," Seth Winters, and he cried: "See here, lads! I can't stand for that. Nor need I be afraid of fatigue for _you_. Nothing will tire a single boy of the lot, to-day, except missing some part of this delectable Show! Scamper! Scatter! Trot! Vamoose! In short, run to the stables and see if there are horses enough to go around, counting in the workers. There'll none of them be needed at Deerhurst to-day. Then you can all ride to town with our treasurer and put your horses up at the big livery on the High Street back of the town. See to it that they are made perfectly safe and comfortable for the day, and tell the proprietor that they are to be looked after for me. Here, Jamie lad, is an extra ten dollar bill. Use it judiciously, for anything needed, especially for luncheon for eight hungry boys. Better get that at some reputable restaurant and not on the grounds. Also, one of you meet the rest of us at the station at one o'clock with the tickets. Our whole big Party will make our own Grand Entrance!" "Oh! thank you, thank you!" With a simultaneous cry of rapture the lads sped stablewards, leaving some rather downcast girlish faces behind them. "I--I can ride horseback," said Molly B., with a sigh. "So can I; and 'tain't far to our house. I guess Pa Martin'd have let me have old Bess to ride on," responded the other Molly. "Shucks! Molly M. How'd you look, rockin' along on that old mare? Besides, you couldn't keep in sight, even, of the way them boys'll tear along. Another besides; you know, well's I do, that Mr. Martin wouldn't hold with no such nonsense as your trapesin' after a circus parade. Who wants to, anyway? We're born girls and we can't be boys, no matter how much we try. Since I ain't let to go I'd rather--I guess I'd rather stay to home and crochet some lace," said practical Alfaretta and pushed back from table. "Wait a minute, Alfy. There's something else I've got to say. It has been a secret between Dolly and me, but of course we can't keep it always and I can't a minute longer. It's this: We two girls have adopted for all their lives the two twins! We've adopted them with our pocket-money," proudly stated Molly B. "Molly! Molly!" cried Dorothy, her face aflame and her eyes swiftly filling. "Yes I shall tell, too. Secrets are the killingest things to bear. I expect Papa will scold and Auntie Lu make fun but I'm doing it for charity. I shall put away every bit of my allowance to educate my--my son--and I shall call him Augustus Algernon Breckenridge. I thought you might as well know," and with this startling statement the Judge's daughter threw back her head and eyed the company defiantly. The girls stared, all save Dorothy, and the Master laughed, while from their corners the twins echoed a shrill cackle; then immediately began to practice the somersaults which Herbert had been at such pains to teach them. Then Molly rose, with what she considered great dignity, and, forcing Ananias to stand upon his feet, said in a sweet maternal tone: "Come, my little boy. I want you to keep nice and rested till I take you to the circus." Then she led him away, Sapphira tugging at her skirts and Alfaretta remarking: "Guess you'll have to adopt the pair, Molly Breckenridge. Them two stick closer'n glue!" In another moment all but the Master and Dorothy had left the room, and seizing this opportunity he called her to him. "Dolly Doodles, I want to talk with you a little. Let's go out to the old barn--I mean the new one--and have a visit. We haven't had any cosy confidence talks, remember, since this House Party began." It was the very thing she craved. Frank and outspoken by nature, long used to telling everything to this wise old friend, they had no sooner settled themselves upon the straw divan, than out it came, with a burst of sobs: "Oh! dear Mr. Seth, I'm so unhappy!" "Yes, child. I've seen it. Such a pity, too, on a circus day!" "Please, please don't tease me now. Aunt Betty thinks--thinks--I hardly know--only--read that!" From the tiny pocket of her blouse she pulled the fateful telegram and thrust it into his hand. He had some ado to smooth it out and decipher the blurred writing, for it had been wet with many tears and frequently handled. "You have made me dangerously angry. You must find that money. Heretofore there has been no thievery in my house." Signed, "Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert." The farrier whistled softly, and slowly refolded the document; then drew Dorothy's wet face to his shoulder and said: "Yes, little girl, we must find that money. We must. There is no other way." "But how can we? And why should she--she be so angry after having told me I was all the world to her and that all she had was mine, or would be." "Well, dearie, 'would be' and 'is' are two widely differing conditions. Besides, she is Betty Calvert and you are you." "That's no answer, as I can see." "It is all the answer there is. She is an old, old lady though she doesn't realize it herself. All her life long she has been accustomed to doing exactly what she wished and when she wished. She has idealized you and you have idealized her. Neither of you is at all perfect--though mighty nice, the pair of you!--and you've got to fit yourselves to one another. Naturally, most of the fitting must be on your part, since you're the younger. You will love each other dearly, you do now, despite this temporary cloud, but you, my child, will have to cultivate the grace of patience; cultivate it as if it were a cherished rose in your own old garden. It will all come right, don't fear." "How can it come right? How ever in this world? I've promised to adopt one of the twins and Molly trusts me in that and I haven't a cent. I'm poorer than I used to be before I was an heiress. Molly will never believe me again. Then there's all this expense you're paying--the circus tickets and railway fares and all. It was to be _my_ House Party, my very own, to celebrate my coming into my rightful name and home and it isn't at all. It's yours and--Oh! dear! Oh! dear! Nothing is right. I wish I could run away and hide somewhere before Aunt Betty comes home. I shall never dare to look at her again after I've made her 'dangerously angry.' What can that mean? I used to vex Mother Martha, often, but never like that. Oh! I wish I was _her_ little girl again and not this----" Seth laid his finger on her lip and the wish she might have uttered and bitterly regretted was never spoken. But the old man's face was grave as he said: "You did not know, but my Cousin Betty means that you have excited her beyond physical safety. She has a weak heart and has always been cautioned against undue agitation. It has been a sad business altogether and I wish you had had more confidence in me and come to me with that letter before you sent it. As for the 'expenses' of your Party--it is yours, dear, entirely--they are slight and my contribution to the general happiness. The only real thing that does matter, that will be most difficult to set straight is--your suspicion of old Ephraim. It was that I believe which angered Mrs. Calvert, far more than the money loss, although she is exact enough to keep a cent per cent account of all her own expenses--giving lavishly the meanwhile to any purpose she elects. Poor Ephraim! His heart is wellnigh broken, and old hearts are hard to mend!" Dorothy was aghast. "Does he know? Oh! has anybody told him that I suspected him?" "Not in words; and at first he didn't dream it possible that his honesty could be doubted. But--that's the horrible part of suspicion--once started it's incurable. Side glances, inuendoes, shrugged shoulders--Oh! by many a little channel the fact has come home to him that he is connected in all our minds with the loss of your one hundred dollars. Haven't you seen? How he goes about with bowed head, with none of his quaint jests and 'darkyisms,' a sober, astonished old man whose world is suddenly turned upside down. That's why he refused my money this morning which I offered him for his circus expenses. 'No, Massa Seth, I'se gwine bide ter home.' Yet of all the family of Deerhurst, before this happened, he would have been the most eager for the 'Show.' However, he refuses; and in a certain way maybe it is as well. Otherwise the place would be left unguarded. I should keep watch myself, if I didn't think my Dorothy and her mates were better worth protecting than all Deerhurst. "So now, shorten up that doleful countenance. The mischief that has been done must be undone. Aunt Betty must come home to a loving, forgiving child; old Ephraim must be reinstated in his own and everybody's respect; and to do this--that money must be found! Now, for our friends--and brighter thoughts!" "That money _shall_ be found! I don't know how, I cannot guess--but it shall!" answered Dorothy with great confidence, born of some sudden inspiration. The talk with the Master had lightened her heart and it was with a fine resolution to be everything that was dutiful and tender toward Aunt Betty that she left the barn and rejoined her mates. CHAPTER XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH Deerhurst was deserted. With a down-sinking heart old Ephraim had watched the last of the merry-makers vanish through the gateway, even gray haired Hans and Griselda joining their fellow employees on this trip to the circus. The watcher's disappointment was almost more than he could bear. His love of junketing was like a child's and for many days, as he drove his bays about the countryside, he had gloated over the brilliant posters which heralded the coming of "The Greatest Show on Earth." He had even invited Aunt Malinda to accompany him at his expense, and now she had gone but he was left. "Hmm. It do seem pow'ful ha'd on me, hit sutney do. But--if all dem folkses is suspicionin' 't ole Eph'aim is a t'ief--My lan', a T'IEF! Not a step Ah steps to no ca'yins' on, scusin dey fin's Ah isn't. If my Miss Betty was to home! Oh! fo' my Miss Betty! She's gwine tole dese yeah Pa'ty folks somepin' when she comes ma'chin' in de doah. Dey ain' no suspicions ertwixt my Miss Betty an' me." His thoughts having taken this course Ephraim found some comfort. Then the responsibility of his position forced itself to mind. No, he couldn't go stretch himself on the back porch in the September sunshine and sleep just yet. Though it was against all custom and tradition in that honest locality, he would lock up the whole house. He would begin at the front door and fasten every window and entrance even to the scullery. There should nothing more be missing, and no more suspicion fixed on a poor old man. He didn't yet know who had set the miserable idea afloat in the beginning, and he didn't dream of its being Dorothy. He had found himself strangely questioned by the other servants and had met curious glances from the visitors in the house. Finally, a stable lad had suddenly propounded the inquiry: "What did you do with that money, anyway, Ephy? If you don't hand it back pretty soon there'll be trouble for you, old man." He had returned indignant inquiries himself, at last worming the whole matter out; and then, with almost bursting heart, had gone to Seth Winters with his trouble. The farrier had comforted as best he could, had assured the old negro of his own utmost faith in him, but--he could not explain the absence of the money and his assurances had been of small avail. Whenever he was alone poor Ephraim brooded over the matter. He now avoided his fellow workers as much as he could. His appetite failed, his nights were sleepless, and Dinah impressively declared that: "He's yeitheh been hoodooed or he stole dat money." She was inclined to accept the first possibility, but with the superstition of her race felt that one was about as derogatory as the other. So nobody, except Mr. Winters, had been very sorry to have him stay behind on this occasion when jollity and not low spirits was desirable. At last when all was secure, the care-taker retired to his bench and his nap, and had been enjoying himself thus for an hour or so, when the sound of wheels and somebody's "Whooa-a!" aroused him. "Ah, friend! Can thee afford to waste time like this?" demanded a blandly reproving voice; and Ephraim opened his eyes to behold George Fox and his owner reined up before him. He knew that equipage and wondered to see it at Deerhurst, whose mistress, he knew, had scant liking for the miller. "Yes, sah. I'se reckon Ah c'n afford hit; bein' mo' inclined to take mah rest 'an to go rampagin' eroun' to circuses an' such. On yo' way dar, sah?" "I? _I!_ On my way to a circus? Thee must know little of a Friend's habits to accuse me of such frivolity. Where is that Seth Winters?" asked Oliver Sands, well knowing what the answer would be and having timed his visit with that knowledge. "He's done gone to de Show, sah. He natchally injoys a good time. Yes, sah, he's one mighty happy ole man, Massa Seth Winters is, sah." "One mighty----" began the miller then checked himself. "I came--but thee will answer just as well. I'd like to inspect that new barn Elisabeth Calvert has put up; and, if thee will, show me through her house as well. I've heard of its appointments and Dorcas, my wife, is anxious to learn of the range in the kitchen. Thee knows that women----" Again the visitor paused, suggestively, and Ephraim reflected for a moment. He knew that his Miss Betty was the soul of hospitality and might upbraid him if he refused to show a neighbor through the premises. Even strangers sometimes drove into the park and were permitted to inspect the greenhouses and even some of the mansion's lower rooms. He had heard such visitors rave over the "old Colonial" appointments and knew that Deerhurst's mistress had been secretly flattered by this admiration. Ah! but that was before this dreadful thing had happened! When--before somebody had stolen, some unknown thief had been within those walls! "Well, sah, Ah is sutney sorry but, sah, when I'se lef' to care-take, sah, I care-takes. Some uddah time, when Miss Betty done be yeah, sah, sutney, sah----" The negro's exaggerated courtesy affronted Oliver Sands. It was not his policy to contest the point, and if he had fancied he could persuade this loyal care-taker to admit him that he might search the house as he had searched many other houses of late, he silently admitted his own mistake and drove away with no further word than: "Gid-dap, George Fox!" But he drove home with head on breast and a keen disappointment in his heart; which expressed itself in a stern rebuke to his wife as he entered her kitchen and met her timid, inquiring glance: "Thee has maggots in thy head, Dorcas Sands. I advise thee to get rid of them." She might have retorted with equal truth: "So is thee maggotty, Oliver, else would thee do openly that which should bring thee peace." But being a dutiful wife she kept silence, though she brooded many things in her tender heart; and the incident passed without further comment than Seth Winters's ambiguous remark, when Ephraim told of the miller's call: "So the leaven is working, after all." But while this trivial affair was happening at Deerhurst, the train had swiftly carried the household to the hill-city a few miles up the river; and almost before they were comfortably settled in the crowded car, the conductor was announcing: "Newburgh next! All out for Newburgh!" "Here we are! And here's our stage! We've chartered a whole one to carry us up the hill. A hard climb and no time to lose!" called out a boyish voice and Herbert's tall shoulder shoved a path through the throng. "There's another empty over yonder, if the 'help' speak quick enough!" But Aunt Malinda standing bewildered and Dinah indignantly correcting somebody for jostling her, rather delayed this operation; so, at a nod from the Master, Jim Barlow made a bee line for the vehicle and stoutly held it as "engaged!" against all comers. "It's a case of every man for himself!" laughed Monty, squeezing his fat body toward the group of girls which was standing apart, amazed and somewhat dismayed by the press of people. "Oh! Don't get worried, Molly, by a little jam like this. Wait till you see the grounds. I declare it seems as if everybody between New York and Albany had come to the 'Show.' It is a big one, I guess, and the Parade was fine. Sorry we didn't bring all of you, pillion, old-style, so you could have seen it, too." "Monty, stop! It's cruelty to girls to harrow up their feelings that way! As if we didn't all _think_ 'pillion' and long to suggest it, only our diffidence prevailed. But come! Mr. Seth has piloted the servants to their stage and is waiting for us!" answered Molly Breckenridge and was the first to spring up the narrow steps at the rear of the rickety omnibus and run to its innermost corner, where she extended her arms to receive her "son" whom she had kept in charge during the ride in the car. The other Molly had passed him on to her, he submitting in wide-eyed astonishment at all the novelty of this trip. Helena held Sapphira as closely, and Dorothy's arm was tightly clasped about Luna's waist, who, oddly enough, was the least affrighted of them all. "Won't the horses be afraid? Supposin' they should run away!" cried Molly Martin, who had seldom been in the town and never on such an occasion as this. "Pooh! Them horses won't run 'less they're prodded into it. They look as if they'd been draggin' stages up and down these hills all their lives and never expected to do anything else," answered Alfaretta, quickly. "Don't you get scared, Molly, I ain't." Indeed, of all that happy party Alfaretta was, maybe, the happiest. Her face was one continual smile and her chatter touched upon everything they passed with such original remarks that she kept them all laughing. Seth beamed upon her from his place beside Luna, and was himself delighted to see that Dorothy was now as gay as any of the others. For the time being any worries she had had were forgotten; and it was she who exclaimed in astonishment, as they came to the grounds and climbed out of the stage: "'Do I wake or am I dreaming'! If there isn't Miss Penelope Rhinelander! and Miss Greatorex is with her! True, true! Who'd ever believe _they'd_ come to a circus!" "Reckon they'd say they did it to study natural history--elephants and things!" laughed Molly, waving her hand vigorously to attract the attention of her old teachers. But they did not see her, so occupied were they in endeavoring to be of a crowd and yet not in it. "Shucks! There's Dr. Sterling! That I worked for last year and went trampin' with last summer! Who'd ha' believed a _minister_ would go to a circus!" now almost shouted Jim Barlow. "Why, I would, laddie. I'll warrant you that every grown-up in the town who has a child friend he can make an excuse of to bring here has done it! Funny they should offer excuses, when there isn't a man or woman but, at sound of a circus band, remembers their childhood and longs to attend one once more. For myself, I prefer a good, old-fashioned 'show' to the finest opera going. The one touches my heart, the other my head. But here we are, and Miss Helena, I see you're beginning to perk up, now you find yourself in such good company." For he had overheard that young lady, despite her morning's resolution to "do just as the rest did and forget it was silly," remark to Mabel Bruce in confidence that: "If I'd known, even dreamed, that we should have to mix with such a rabble, I should have stayed at Deerhurst!" This was when they had had to scramble for their stage; and Mabel had affectedly replied: "Me too. My folks never do like to have me make myself common; and this organdie dress will be torn to ribbons." Seth had smiled then, overhearing, and bided his time. Well he understood how one emotion can sway an entire crowd, and he but waited till they should have arrived to see even these contemptuous lassies catch the "circus spirit." So he couldn't resist this little jest at Helena's expense, which she took now in great good nature; by then they had come to the entrance to the big tent where the chief performance would be given. This entrance was guarded by a wooden stile, from which a narrow canvas-covered passage led to the inner door. At the stile tickets were sold, and these were in turn taken up by the collector at the end of the passage which opened directly into the tent. "Speaking of crowds! Was ever such another one as this!" gasped Melvin Cook, as he found himself in the swirl of persons seeming to move in two directions, as, indeed, they were. Then he looked around for his friends and to his consternation saw Molly Breckenridge tossed to and fro in a hopeless effort to extricate herself, and that she held one of the twins by hand, till suddenly the child fell beneath the very feet of the crowding adults. "My baby! Oh! O-oh!" screamed Molly, and an instant's halt followed, but the jam was to be immediately resumed. Fortunately, however, that instant had been sufficient for tall Jim Barlow to stoop and lift the child on high. "Hang on to me, Molly! I'll kick and jam a way through. 'Twill be over in a minute, soon's we get to the inside and have--you--got--your ticket?" "Ye-e-es! But--but--I'll never come to a circus--again--never--never----" "You haven't got to this one yet," returned Jim, breathlessly. Then he discovered Mr. Winters standing inside the tent, and extending his arms to receive the uplifted little one which Jim at once tossed forward like a ball. At last they were all inside. The Master had been more fortunate in piloting his especial charges, Luna and Sapphira, through that struggling mob; but it was in a tone of deep disgust that he now exclaimed: "Oh! the selfishness of human nature! A moment's delay, a touch of courtesy, and such scenes would be avoided. The struggle for 'first place,' to better one's self at the expense of one's neighbor, is an ugly thing to witness." "But, Teacher, when you get in such a place you have to just do like the rest and act piggish, too," said Alfaretta. "I guess I know now how 't one them panics that you read about, sometimes, could happen. If one them jammers went crazy, or scared, all the rest would too, likely." "Exactly, Alfaretta. But, let's think of pleasanter things. Let's follow James." After all, though Mr. Winters had doubted there would be, the lad had secured reserved seats and on "the front row near the entrance," just as that gentleman had desired; so presently, they had arranged themselves upon the low-down bench where, at least, their feet could touch bottom; and where with a comical air the farrier immediately began to sniff the familiar odor of fresh turned sod covered with sawdust, and turning to his next neighbor remarked: "I think I'm nine years old, to-day, nine 'goin' on' ten." But his facetiousness was wasted upon sedate Jane Potter; who did not even smile but reflected: "If that old man's going to talk silly I'll change places with Alfaretta. And if the performance isn't to begin right away I'll just walk around and look at the animals' cages." She did this, laying her handkerchief and jacket on her vacated seat, though her host called after her: "You may not be able to get your place again, in such a crowd." However, if she heard she did not turn back and was presently out of sight in the line of promenaders continually passing. Also, his own face grew sober at the sound of thunder, and he clasped his arm more protectingly around Luna's waist, who sat on his other side, and counselled Dorothy, just beyond: "Do you and Molly keep close care of the twins. There's a storm brewing and timid people may stampede past us toward the door." "Why, would anybody be afraid in a big tent like this?" asked Dolly, surprised. "Some might. But--Hark! Hooray! Here we come!" The band which had been playing all the time now broke into a more blatant march, a gaily accoutred "herald" galloped forth from a wide opening at the rear of the tent, then turned his steed about to face that opening, waving his staff and curveting about in the most fantastic manner. Then the silence of expectation fell upon that mass of humanity, the promenaders settling into any seats available, warned by men in authority not to obstruct the view of those on the lower benches. As a cavalcade of horses appeared Mr. Winters looked anxiously down into Luna's face. To his surprise it showed no interest in the scene before her but was fast settling into its habitual drowsiness. "Well, after all, that's best. We could not leave her behind and I feared she would be frightened;" he observed to Dorothy. "Yes, I'm glad, too. Keep still, 'Phira! You must keep still, else you may be hurt. Wait. I'll take you on my lap, as Molly has 'Nias. Now--see the pretty horses?" answered Dorothy, and involuntarily shivered as a fresh thunderclap fell on her ears. Alfaretta leaned forward to remark: "It's begun to rain! But isn't it cute to be under a tent and just let it rain! Ah! My soul! Ain't they beautiful? Look, girls, look, them first ones is almost here! A-ah! them clowns! And monkeys--to the far end there's real monkeys ridin' on Shetland ponies! Oh! my heart and soul and body! I'm so glad I come!" She finished her comments, standing up and swaying wildly from side to side, till somebody from the rear jabbed her shoulders with an umbrella point, loudly commanding: "Down front! Down front!" She dropped into her seat with a shriek, which somebody somewhere promptly caught up and echoed, while at that same instant a flash of lightning illuminated even that interior which had grown so strangely dark, and on the instant came a terrific crash. Another woman screamed, and Seth Winters's face paled. He knew how very little it would now take to start a panic. But the band played the louder, the performers went round and round the great ring, the clowns frolicked and the monkeys pranked, and he inwardly blessed the discipline which kept every player to his post, as if such electric storms were every day incidents. "What are those men doing to the roof?" suddenly demanded Molly Martin of her neighbor, James, calling his attention to the sagging canvas and the employees hurrying hither and thither to lift it on the points of great poles. Then would follow a splash of water down the slope from the central supporting pole of that flimsy roof, dashing off at the scalloped edges upon the surrounding ground. "Water's heavy. I guess they're afraid it'll break and douse the people. Hi! But that was a teaser! It don't stop a minute and it's getting blacker'n ink. Never heard such a roar and it don't let up a second. They'll have to stop the performance till it slacks up, and--What fools these folks are that's hurrying out into that downpour!" "Maybe--maybe--they're safer outside. Rain won't hurt--much--but circus tents are sometimes blown down--I've read----" "Now come, Alfy Babcock, just hold your tongue! Rough way to speak but I mean it. Hear what the Master said? How it was mighty easy to start a panic but impossible to stop one, or nigh so? Everyone that keeps still and behaves helps to make somebody else do it. Here, boy, fetch them peanuts this way? Dip in, Alfy, I'll treat, and I see the lemonade feller's headed this way, too. Whilst we're waitin' we might as well----" Even Jim's philosophy was put to the test just then, for with a peanut half-way to his lips his hand was arrested by another terrific crash and the swishing tear of wet canvas. CHAPTER XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN Still the band played on. The cavalcade paced round and round the ring, while a hundred workmen--it seemed--swarmed to the repair of the torn tent. Fortunately, the injured portion was that occupied as dressing rooms and stables for the performers, so that few of the audience suffered more than fright. Indeed, most of the spectators realized as Mr. Winters had done, the danger of panic and the wisdom of composure, so remained in their places. Also, with the same suddenness that had marked its rising the storm ended and the sun shone out. One mighty sigh of relief swept over those crowded tiers of humanity, and the indefatigable band struck up a new and livelier note. The tight-rope dancer sprang lightly into the ring and went through her hazardous feats with smiling face and airy self-confidence; the elephants ascended absurdly small stools, and stood upon them, "lookin' terribly silly, as if they knew they were makin' guys of themselves," so Mike Martin exclaimed, though he still kept his fascinated eyes upon their every movement. There was the usual bareback riding and jumping through rings: the trapeze, and the pony quadrille; in short, all that could be expected of any well conducted "Show," while above all and below all sounded the clown's voice in a ceaseless clatter and cackle of nonsense. Laughter and badinage, peanuts and pink lemonade; men and women turned back to childhood, smiling at the foolishness enacted before them but more at their own in thus enjoying it; and the "Learned Blacksmith" who had pondered many books finding this company around him the most interesting study of them all. It was this that he loved about a circus; and, to-day, at their first one, the faces of Ananias and Sapphira held his gaze enthralled. "Dolly, Dolly Doodles! Do watch them!" he cried for sympathy in his delight. "Did ever you see eyes so bright? Mouths so wide agape? and happiness so intense! Ah! if those to whom they belong could see them now, all hardness would vanish in a flash!" Dorothy looked as he desired, but her glance was less of admiration than of anxiety. She had seen what he did not see and was hearing what he did not; a face and figure somberly different from the tri-colored one of the clown, and a voice more raucously insistent than his. All at once the twins also saw and heard. Their attention was clutched, as it were, from those adorable monkeys a-horseback, which had come once more to the very spot before where they stood, and whom in their baby-souls they envied frantically. "HIM!" shrieked Ananias. "H-I-M!" echoed Sapphira, all her pretty pink-and-whiteness turned the pallor of fear. There was a flash of bare feet and blue-denimed legs and the terrified twins had leaped the velvet-topped barrier bordering the ring and were scurrying heedlessly away, how and where they cared not except to be safe from that "Him" whose memory was a pain. "My soul! They'll be killed--the little rascals!" cried Jim, and leaped the barrier, in pursuit. "He can't catch 'em! I'll help!" and fat Monty rolled himself over the fence. "What's up, boys?" demanded Frazer Moore; and, perceiving, added himself to the rescuing party. Ditto, Mike; then Littlejohn and Danny. This was the chance of a lifetime! to be themselves "performers." Only Melvin and Herbert rose, hesitating, amazed--and, seeing the little ones, whom everybody tried to catch and who eluded every grasp, in such imminent peril of trampling horse-hoofs, they also followed the leader. Even Mr. Winters rose to his feet and watched in deep anxiety the outcome of this escapade, and the darting nimbleness of two small figures which everybody, from the ring-master down, was chasing like mad. Only the trained horsemen and their following troupe of monkeys kept on unmindful; while from the seats on every side ran shouts of laughter. To most of those onlookers this seemed a part, a delightfully arranged part, of the entertainment. Only those nearest, and the farrier was one of them, realized that the strange old man with the croaking voice was an alien to that scene. A half-crazed old man who felt called upon to deliver his "message" of warning to a sinful world, at all times, seasons, and places. He had stumbled upon this as a fine field and, unbalanced though his mind was, it had yet been clear enough for him to purchase a ticket and enter in the customary way. "Oh! will he take the twins away?" asked Dorothy, clasping her hands in dismay. "And will they--be--killed!" "I think not, to both questions. Evidently he has not perceived the children though they were quick enough to discover him. The pity! that one should inspire such fear in his own household! But, see! See!" Mr. Winters forgot the old exhorter for the moment and laughed aloud. In the ring the clown had, at first, pretended to join in the pursuit of the nimble runaways, but only pretended. Then he suddenly perceived that they were growing breathless and had almost fallen beneath the feet of a mighty Norman horse. The man beneath his motley uniform rose to the emergency. Catching the bridle of a near-by pony, he flung the monkey from its back, scooped the babies up from the ground, set them in the monkey's place and, mounting behind them, triumphantly fell into line. It was all so quickly done that its bravery was but half appreciated; and the absurdly grinning mask which he now waggled from side to side, as if bowing to an outburst of applause, roused a roar of laughter. As for Ananias and Sapphira--their felicity was complete. The stern grandparent was forgotten and the only fact they knew was this marvelous ride on a marvelous steed, and most marvelous of all, in the friendly grasp of the tri-colored person behind them. Mr. Winters turned from them for a moment, at the sound of a scuffle near by. An instant's glance showed him that the poor fanatic was being roughly handled by some employees of the circus, and he stepped forward protesting: "Don't do that! He'll go quietly enough if you just ask him. He's a feeble old man--be gentle!" "But we want no 'cranks' in here creating a disturbance! Enough has happened this performance, already!" [Illustration: THE TWINS AND CLOWN ON THE SHETLAND PONY. _Dorothy's House Party._] "Jim! James Barlow! Herbert Montaigne!" These two were the only ones left still in the ring of the lot who had pursued the runaway twins, the others having shamefacedly retreated as soon as they saw the children were safe. They looked toward the Master yet lingered to receive the twins whom their captor was now willing to resign; they struggling to remain and a mixed array of flying legs and arms resulting. However, neither screams nor obstreperous kicks availed to prolong that delectable ride, and presently the little ones found themselves back in the grasp of a bevy of girls who made a human fence about them, and so hedged them in to safety. "Lads, I must leave you to see our girls safe home. Do so immediately the performance is over and it must be nearly now. This poor old chap is ill and bemused by his rough handling. I'm going to take him to a hospital I know and have him cared for. I'll go down to Deerhurst as soon as I can but don't wait for me. Come, friend. Let us go;" and linking his strong arm within the weak one of the man, scarce older yet so much frailer than he, he walked quietly away, the fanatic unresisting and obedient. With the Master's departure the glamour faded from the "Show"; and at Helena's suggestion the whole party promptly made their exit. "It's a wise move, too, Helena. We can catch the five o'clock train down and it won't be crowded, as the later one will be. I fancy we've all had about all the circus we want--this time. Anybody got a rope?" said Herbert. "What in the world do you want of a rope?" asked his sister. "I think if we could tie these irrepressibles together we could better keep track of them." There were some regretful looks backward to that fascinating tent, when the older lads had marshalled their party outwards, with no difficulty now in passing the obstructing stile; but there were no objections raised, and the homeward trip began. But they had scarcely cleared the grounds when Molly Martin paused to ask: "Where's Jane Potter?" "Oh! hang Jane Potter! Is she lost again?" asked Danny Smith. Then with a happy thought, adding: "I'll go back and look for her!" In this way hoping for a second glimpse of the fairy-land he had been forced to leave. Whereupon, his brother reminded him that he had no ticket, and no fellow gets in twice on one. Besides, that girl isn't--Hmm. "She's probably lingered to study biology or--or something about animals," observed Monty. "Any way, we can afford to risk Jane Potter. Like enough we shall find her sitting on the piazza writing her impressions of a circus when we get home." They did. She had early tired of the entertainment and had been one of the first to leave the tent after the accident to it. Once outside, she had met a mountain neighbor and had begged a ride home in his wagon. Jane was one to be careful of Jane and rather thoughtless of others, yet in the main a very good and proper maiden. But if they did not delay on account of Jane they were compelled to do so by the twins. "These children are as slippery as eels," said Molly, who had never touched an eel. "I'll lend my 'son' to anybody wants him, for awhile. I'd--I'd as lief as not!" she finished, quoting an expression familiar to Alfy. "And I'll lend 'Phira!" added Dorothy. She had tried to lead the little one and still keep her arm about Luna, who by general consent was always left to her charge. "All right. Give her here!" said Frazer; while Herbert whistled for a waiting stage to approach. But as it drew near and the girls began to clamber in, preparatory to their ride stationwards, Ananias jerked himself free and springing to one side the road began a series of would-be somersaults. It was an effort on his part to follow Herbert's instructions--with doubtful success. Of course, what brother did sister must do, and Sapphira promptly emulated her twin. "Oh! the mud! Just look at them! How can we ever take them in that stage with us?" asked Mabel Bruce, in disgust. But the happy youngsters paid no attention to her. Having completed what Herbert had taught them to call their "stunt" they now approached their instructor and demanded: "Candy, what you promised!" "All right. Driver, we'll stop at the first confectioner's we pass and I'll fill them up." "But, Herbert, you should not. Don't you remember how ill they were from Molly's supply? And I do say, if you led them into this scrape, getting themselves in such a mess, you'll have to ride in front and keep them with you." Herbert made a wry face. He was always extremely careful in his dress and his sister's just suggestion wasn't pleasant. However, he made the best of it and no further untoward incident marked that day's outing. Arrived at home they found Jane calmly reading, as has been told, and no other one about except old Ephraim, who had not unfastened the doors for "jes one l'il gal," but now threw them wide for the "House Party." Then he retreated to the kitchen, where Dorothy found him stirring about in a vain attempt to get supper--a function out of his line. "Now, Ephy, dear, you can't do that, you know! You're a blessed old blunderer, but one doesn't boil water for tea in a leaky coffee-pot! Wait! I'll tell you! I'll call the girls and we'll make a 'bee' of it and get the supper ourselves, before Aunt Malinda and Dinah and the rest get back. They'll be sure to stay till the last----" "Till the 'last man is hung'!" finished Alfaretta, with prompt inelegance. "Oh! I'm just starving!" wailed a boyish voice, and Monty rushed in. "So are we all, so are we all!" cried others and the kitchen rang with the youthful, merry voices. Ephraim scratched his gray wool and tried to look stern, but Dorothy's "Ephy, dear!" had gone straight to his simple heart, so lately wounded and sorrowful. After all, the world wasn't such a dark place, even if he had missed the circus, now that all these chatterers were treating him just as of old. They were so happy, themselves, that their happiness overflowed upon him. Cried Jim Barlow, laying a friendly hand on the black man's shoulder: "Come on, Ephy, boy! If the girls are going to make a 'bee,' and get supper for all hands--including the cook--let's match them by doing the chores for the men. The 'help' have done a lot for us, these days, and it's fair we do a hand's-turn for them now! Come on, all! Monty, you shall throw down fodder for the cattle--it's all you're equal to. Some of us will milk, some take care of the horses, everybody must do something, and I appoint Danny Smith to be story-teller-in-chief, and describe that circus so plain that Ephraim can see it without the worry of going!" "Hip, hip, hooray! Let's make a lark of it!" echoed Herbert, now forgetful of his good clothes and eager only to bear his part with the rest. "Well, before we begin, let's get the twins each a bowl of bread and milk and tie them in their chairs, just as Dinah does when they bother. They mustn't touch that candy till afterward, though I don't know how Herbert ever kept it from them so long," said Molly Breckenridge, adjusting a kitchen apron to her short figure by tucking it into her belt. "I know! I sat on it!" called back the lad and disappeared barnwards. Luna was placed in her corner and given a bowl like the twins, and the girls set to work, even Jane Potter asking to help. "What all shall we cook? I can make fudges," said Molly. "Fudges are all right--you may make some, but I want something better than sweets. Helena, you're the oldest, you begin. Suggest--then follow your suggestions. Fortunately we've a pretty big range to work on and Ephraim can make a fire if he can't make tea. It's burning fine. Hurry up, Helena, and speak, else Alfaretta will explode. She's impatient enough," urged Dorothy. "Once--I made angel food," said Helena, rather timidly. "It didn't turn out a real success, but I think that was because I didn't use eggs enough." "How many did you use?" "A dozen." "Try a dozen and a half. There's a basket of them yonder in the storeroom and everybody must wait on everybody's self. Else we'll never get through. I'll light up, it's getting dark already," answered Dorothy who, as hostess, was naturally considered director of affairs. "Well, Alfy! What will you do?" "I can fry chicken to beat the Dutch!" "Hope you can," laughed Helena. "I'm not fond of Dutch cookery, I've tried it abroad. They put vinegar in everything." "But where will you get chicken to fry?" "There's a whole slew of them in the ice-box, all ready fixed to cook. I suppose Aunt Malinda won't like it, to have me take them, if she's planned them for some other time, but there's plenty more chickens in the world. Come along, Jane Potter, and get a pan of potatoes to peel. That's the sitting-downest job there is. Molly Martin, you can make nice raised--I mean bakin'-powder biscuit--there's the flour barrel. Don't waste any time. Everybody fly around sharp and do her level best!" After all it was Alfaretta who took charge, and under her capable direction every girl was presently busy at work. "I'm going to make pies. Two lemons, two punkins, two apples. That ought to be enough to go around; only they'll all want the lemon ones. 'Christ Church,' Teacher told me when I made him one once. Said 'twas the pastry cook at Christ Church College, in England, 't first thought them out. I can make 'em good, too. What you goin' to make, yourself, Dorothy Calvert?" "I reckon--pop-overs. Mother Martha used to make them lovely. They're nothing but eggs and flour and--and--I'll have to think. Oh! I know. There's an old recipe book in the cupboard, though I don't believe Malinda can read a word in it. She just spreads it out on the table, important like, and pretends she follows its rules, but often I've seen it was upside down. Do you know how she makes jelly?" "No, nor don't want to. We ain't makin' jelly to-night, and do for goodness' sake get to work!" cried Alfaretta, imparting energy to all by her own activity. "Ma says I'm a born cook and I'm going to prove it, to-night, though I don't expect to cook for a living. Jane Potter, you ought to know better than peel them 'tatoes so thick. 'Many littles make a mickle,' I mean a lot of potato skins make a potato--Oh! bother, do right, that's all. Just because Mrs. Calvert she's a rich 'ristocratic, 'tain't no reason we should waste her substance on the pigs." Jane did not retort, but it was noticeable that thereafter she kept her eyes more closely on her work and not dreamily upon the floor. Presently, from out that roomy kitchen rose a medley of odors that floated even to the workers out of doors; each odor most appetizing and distinct to the particular taste of one or another of the lads. "That's fried chicken! Glad they had sense enough to give us something hearty," said Monty, smacking his lips. Herbert sniffed, then advised: "I'll warrant you that Helena will try angel cake. If she does, don't any of you touch it; or if you think that isn't polite and will hurt her feelings, why take a piece and leave it lie beside your plate. Wonder if they'll ever get the supper ready, anyhow." "Afraid it'll be just 'anyhow,'" wailed Monty. "Those girls can't cook worth a cent." "Don't you think that, sir. Our up-mountain girls are no fools. I hope Alfaretta Babcock will make pies, I've et 'em to picnics and they're prime," said Mike Martin, loyally. "Well, I only hope they don't keep us too long. I begin to feel as if I could eat hay with the cattle." After all, the young cooks were fairly successful, and the delay not very great. Most of them were well trained helpers at home, even Dorothy had been such; but this time she had failed. "Three times I've made those things just exactly like the rule--only four times as much--and those miserable pop-overs just will not pop! We might as well call the boys and give them what there is. And----" At this moment Dorothy withdrew her head from a careful scrutiny of the oven, and--screamed! The next instant she had darted forward to the imposing figure framed in the doorway and thrown her arms about it, crying: "O, Aunt Betty, Aunt Betty! I'm a bad, careless girl, but I love you and I'm so glad, so glad you've come!" CHAPTER XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND That picnic-supper! The fun of it must be imagined, not described. Sufficient to say that it was the merriest meal yet served in that great mansion; that all, including Mrs. Calvert, brought to it appetites which did not hesitate at "failures," and found even Helena's angel cake palatable, though Herbert did remark to his next neighbor: "If they'd had that kind of leathery stuff instead of canvas to cover that circus tent it would never have broken through, never in the world!" Not the least delighted of that company were the servants, who returned late from their outing, and had had to walk up the mountain from the Landing; they having lingered in the hill-city till the last possible train, which there were no local stages to meet. "And to think that our Miss Dorothy had the kindness to get supper for us, too! Sure, she's the bonniest, dearest lass ever lived out of old Ireland. Hungry, say you? Sure I could have et the two shoes off my feet, I was that starved! And to think of her and them others just waitin' on us same's if we was the family! Bless her! And now I'm that filled I feel at peace with all the world and patience enough to chase them naughty spalpeens to their bed! See at 'em! As wide awake now as the morn and it past nine of the night!" cried Norah, coming into the room where the twins were having a delightful battle with the best sofa cushions; Mrs. Calvert looking on with much amusement and as yet not informed who they were and why so at home at Deerhurst. The chatter of tongues halted a little when, as the clock struck the half-hour, Mr. Seth came in. He looked very weary, but infinitely relieved at the unexpected return of the mistress of the house, and his greeting was most cordial. Indeed, there was something about it which suggested to the young guests that their elders might wish to be alone; so, one after another, they bade Mrs. Betty good-night and disappeared. Dorothy, also, was for slipping quietly away, but Aunt Betty bade her remain; saying gently: "We won't sleep, my child, till we have cleared away all the clouds between us. As for you, Cousin Seth, what has so wearied you? Something more than chaperoning a lot of young folks to a circus, I fancy." "You're right. The afternoon performance was a pleasure; the ride home a trial." "With whom did you ride?" "Oliver Sands." "Indeed? How came----" "It's a long story, Cousin Betty. Wouldn't we better wait till morning?" "Don't you know how much curiosity I have? Do you want to keep me awake all night?" demanded the lady. But she believed that her old friend had some deep perplexity on his mind and that it would be a comfort to him to share it with her. "Is it something Dorothy may hear?" "Certainly, if you wish. Already she knows part. Has she told you how the twins came here?" "Somebody told, I forget who. All of the young folks talked at once, but I learned that they had been dropped on our premises, like a couple of kittens somebody wished to lose." "Exactly; and though he did not personally 'drop' them, the man who most heartily wishes to lose them is miller Oliver Sands. They are his most unwelcome grandchildren." "Why, Cousin Seth!" "Why, Master!" cried the hearers, amazed. "True. Their mother was Rose Sands, whom her father always believed--or said--was ruined by the foolish name her mother gave her. His sons were like himself and are, I believe, good men enough, though tainted with their father's hardness." "Hardness. That suave old Quaker! But you're right, and I never liked him." "Nor I, I'm sorry to say, but I don't wish to let that fact stand in the way of fair judgment. The man is in trouble, deep trouble. I'm not the only one who has noticed it. His behavior for awhile back has been most peculiar. He neglects his business, leaves the fruit in his vineyards and orchards to go to waste, and to his workmen's question: 'What shall we do next,' returns no answer. He has taken to roaming about the country, calling at every house and inspecting each one and its surroundings as if he were looking for something he can't find. His face has lost its perpetual smile--or smirk--and betrays the fact that he is an old man and a most unhappy one." "Huh! I've no great sympathy for Oliver Sands. He has wronged too many people," said Mrs. Calvert, coldly. "But if those children are his grandchildren, what are they doing here?" "I'm coming to that. His daughter, Rose, 'married out of meeting,' and against her father's will. He turned her out of doors, forbade her mother ever to see or speak to her again, and though--being a Friend--he took no oath, his resolution to cast her off was equivalent to one. That part of my tale is common neighborhood gossip." "I never heard it," said Mrs. Betty. "No; such would scarcely be retailed to you. Well, Rose took refuge with her husband's people, and all misfortune followed her flight from her father's house. Her mother-in-law, her consumptive husband, and herself are dead; she passing away as the twins came into the world. The father-in-law, who was only a country-cobbler, but a profoundly religious man, became half-crazed by his troubles, and though I believe he honestly did his best by the babies left on his hands, they must have suffered much. They have never been so happy as now and I hope----" "Please, Mr. Seth, let me tell! Aunt Betty, if you'll let me, I want to adopt Sapphira!" "Adopt--Sapphira! You? A child yourself?" "Yes, please. I'll go without everything myself and I'd work, if I could, to earn money to do it. Molly is going to adopt Ananias. It will be lovely to have some object in life, and some the Seniors at the Rhinelander adopted some Chinese babies. True. They pay money each month, part of their allowance, to do it; so we thought----" But Aunt Betty was leaning back in her chair and laughing in a most disconcerting manner. It's not easy to be enthusiastic on a subject that is ridiculed and Dorothy said no more. But if she were hurt by having her unselfish project thus lightly treated, she was made instantly glad by the tender way her guardian drew her close, and the gentle pat of the soft old hand on her own cheek. "Oh! you child, you children! And I made the mistake of thinking you were as wise as a grown-up! We'll attend to the 'adoption' case, by and by. Let Cousin Seth say his say now." "Well, finally, the old man, Hiram Bowen, forsook his old home, sold his few belongings and came here to our mountain. He must have had some sense left, and realized that he was not long for this world, because though until lately he has been unforgiving to Oliver Sands for the treatment of Rose, he now sought to interest her father on the little ones' behalf. I've learned he made frequent visits to Heartsease, the Sands' farm, but only once saw its owner. But he often saw Dorcas, the wife, and found her powerless to help him; besides, he did not mend matters, even with her, by explaining that he had named the twins as he had--'_after her husband, and herself!_' He told her that she and Oliver were living liars, because the Scripture commanded Christians to look after their own households and they did not do so." "But how could her heart, the heart of any woman, remain hard against the sight of her orphan grandchildren?" demanded Mrs. Calvert, impatiently. "I've met that Dorcas Sands on the road, going to meeting with the miller, and she looked the very soul of meekness and gentleness." "So, I believe she is; but she never saw the children. I told you he was crazed, partially; and despite the fact that he felt their mother's family should care for the orphans he did not want to give them up, permanently. He felt that in doing so he would be consigning them to a life of deceit and unscrupulousness." "How strange! And, Seth, how strange that you should know all this. It's not many days since that old man 'passed them on' to us. You must have been busy gathering news," commented Mrs. Betty. "I have; but the most of it I learned this afternoon, when I was taking the fanatic to the Hospital. Dolly, you tell her about his harangue in the tent and what the twins did there. It will give a diversion to my thoughts, for it _was_ funny!" So Dolly told and they all laughed over the recital, and in the laughter both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy lost the last bit of constraint that had remained in their manner whenever either chanced to remember the missing one hundred dollars and the sharpness of the telegram. Mrs. Calvert resumed: "You say, taking him to the Hospital. Have you done that, then? And how came you with Oliver Sands? The last man in the world to be drawn to Newburgh to see a circus." "Not the circus, of course, but the county fair. He got up enough interest in ordinary affairs to drive to the fair grounds to see his cattle safely housed. He will have, I presume, the finest exhibit of Holstein-Friesians on the grounds. He always has had, and has carried off many first premiums. He's on the board of managers, too, and they had a business meeting at the Chairman's, which is next door to St. Michael's--the semi-private establishment where I took Bowen. He was just unhitching George Fox, to come home, as I stepped out of the Hospital grounds and met him." "So you asked him for a lift down?" asked Aunt Betty, smiling. "No, I didn't ask. He was so preoccupied, and I so full of what poor old Hiram had told me, that I just 'natchally' stepped into the rear seat without the formality of a request. Truly, I don't think he even noticed me till we were well out of the city limits and on to the quiet back road. Then I asked: 'How much will you pay, Friend Oliver, toward the support of Hiram Bowen at St. Michael's Hospital?' "Then he heard and noticed. Also, he tried to get rid of his passenger; but I wouldn't be set down. He gave me a rather strong bit of his opinion on meddlers in general and myself in particular, and finding he had me on his hands for all the distance here he said not another word. It was 'Quaker Meeting' in good earnest; but I felt as if I were riding with a man of iron and--it tired me!" "Oh, you dear Master! Did you have any supper?" suddenly demanded Dorothy, with compunction that she hadn't thought of this earlier. "Oh! yes. Some little girls were holding a sidewalk 'fair' for the benefit of the children's ward and, while the authorities inside were arranging for Hiram's bestowal, I bought out their stock in trade and we ate it all together. I do love children!" Aunt Betty rose and turning to Dorothy, remarked: "That should be a much better use for your money when you find it than adopting the grandchildren of a rich old Hardheart! Come, child, we must to bed; and to-morrow, we'll take home the twins. 'Pass them on' to Heartsease." "Oh! must we? But, maybe, they won't keep them there. Then, course, you wouldn't leave them just anywhere, out of doors, would you? Besides, I don't know what Molly will say. She's perfectly devoted to her 'son,' 'Nias." "Do you not? Then I know very well what her Aunt Lucretia and his honor, the Judge, will say; I fancy that their remarks will have some weight! But I'm not hard-hearted, as you suggest, and we shall see what we shall see!" answered Aunt Betty, in her bright, whimsical way; adding as she bade Mr. Winters good-night and kissed Dorothy just as if no "cloud" had ever been between them: "I am glad to be at home. I am so glad to come, even thus late to the House Party." And though she had said the misunderstanding that had made both herself and Dolly so unhappy "should be set right that very night," maybe this was her way of "setting" it so. Thus ended another Day of that Wonderful Week, but the morning proved rainy and dark. "No day for going to the County Fair," remarked Mrs. Calvert as she appeared among the young folks, just as they came trooping in to breakfast. "We must think of something else. What shall it be? Since I've invited myself to your Party I want to get some fun out of it!" Helena thought she had never seen anything lovelier than this charming old lady, who moved as briskly as a girl and entered into their amusements like one; and when nobody answered her question she volunteered the suggestion: "Charades? Or a little play in the big barn?" "Just the thing; the charades, I mean. There would hardly be time for getting ready for a play, with parts to study and so on. We might plan that for Friday evening, our last one together. But do you, my dear, gather part of your friends about you and arrange the charades. Enough of us must be left for audience, you know. Well, Dorothy, what is it? You seem so anxious to speak?" "Why not 'character' studies and make everybody guess. There's that attic full of trunks I discovered one day. Surely they must be full of lovely things; and oh! it's so jolly to 'dress up'! Afterward, we might have a little dance in the barn--May we, may we?" "Surely, we may! Dinah has the keys to the trunks, only I warn you--no carelessness. It's one of my notions to preserve the costumes of the passing years and I wouldn't like them injured. You may use anything you find, on the condition of being careful." That rainy day promised to be the merriest of all; and Dorothy had quite forgotten some unpleasant things, till, breakfast being over and most of the company disappearing in pursuit of Dinah and her keys to the treasure-trunks, Aunt Betty laid a detaining touch upon her arm and said: "But you and I, my dear, will have a little talk in my room." Down went her happiness in a flash. The "misunderstanding" had not been passed by, then; and as yet there had been no "setting right." Mrs. Calvert's face was not stern, saying this, but the girl so thought. Indeed, had she known it, Aunt Betty shrank more from the interview and the reproof she must give than did the culprit herself. However, shrinking did no good, and immediately the Mistress had seated herself she began: "What grieved me most was your suspicion of Ephraim. Dorothy, that man's skin may be black but his soul is as white as a soul can be. He has served me ever since he was able to toddle and I have yet to find the first serious fault in him. The loss of the money was bad enough, and your scant value of it bad. Why, child, do you know whose money that was?" "I--I thought it was--mine." "It was--God's." "Aunt--Betty!" almost screamed Dorothy in the shock of this statement. "Yes, my dear, I mean it. He has given me a great deal of wealth but it was His gift, only. Or, His loan, I might better call it. I have to give an account of my stewardship, and as you will inherit after me, so have you." For a moment the girl could not reply, she was so amazed by what she heard. Then she ventured to urge: "You said you gave it to me for my House Party. How could it be like that, then?" "So I did. I 'passed it on,' as poor Hiram Bowen did the twins. Then it became your responsibility. It was a trust fund for the happiness of others, and for their benefit. Why, just think, if you hadn't been so careless of it, how much good it would have done even yesterday, for that very old man! Then dear Seth wouldn't have had to tax his small income to pay for a stranger's keep. Ah! believe me, my Cousin Seth spends money lavishly, but never unwisely, and always for others. When I said 'dangerously angry' I meant it. I am, in some respects, always in danger, physically. I shall pass out of your life quite suddenly, some day, my darling, but I do not wish to do so by your fault. "Now, enough of lectures. Kiss me and tell me that hereafter you will hold your inheritance as a 'trust,' and I shall trust you again to the uttermost. Next I want you to go over every incident of that night when you mislaid the money and maybe I can hit upon some clue to its recovery." It was a very sober Dorothy who complied. It didn't seem a very pleasant thing to be an heiress. She had found that out before, but this grave interview confirmed the knowledge; and though they discussed the subject long and critically, they were no nearer any solution of the mystery than when they began. "Well, it is a strange and most uncomfortable thing. However, we can do no more at present, and I'd like you to take a little drive with me." "This morning, Aunt Betty, in all this rain? Ought you? Won't you get that bronchitis again? Dinah----" "Dinah is an old fuss! She never has believed that I'm not soluble in water, like salt or sugar. Besides, I'm not going 'in the rain,' I'm going in the close carriage, along with you and the babies with the dreadful names. I'm going to have them renamed, if I can. Run along and put on your jacket. I think I've solved the riddle of my neighbor Oliver's unhappiness and I'll let no rain hinder me from making him glad again." "Dear Aunt Betty, will you do this for a man you do not like?" "Of course. I'd do it for my worst enemy, if I knew--and maybe this poor miller is that. What ails that man is--remorse. He hasn't done right but I'm going to give him the chance now, and see his round face fall into its old curves again." But good and unselfish as her mission was, for once the lady of Deerhurst's judgment was mistaken. CHAPTER XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING Oliver Sands was shut up in his private office. It opened from another larger room that had once been tenanted but was now empty. The emptiness of the great chamber, with its small bed and simple furnishings, both attracted and repelled him, as was witnessed by the fact that he frequently rose and closed the door, only to rise again directly and open it again. Each time he did this he peered all about the big room, whose windows were screened by wire netting as well as by a row of spruce trees. These trees were trimmed in a peculiar manner and were often commented upon by passers along the road beyond. All the lower branches, to the height of the window-tops, were left to grow, luxuriantly, as nature had designed. But above that the tall trees were shaven almost bare, only sufficient branches being left to keep them alive. Also, beyond the trees and bordering the road was a high brick wall, presumably for the training of peach and other fruit trees, for such were carefully trained to it. But the same wondering eyes which had noticed the trees had observed the wall, where indeed the fruit grew lusciously after a custom common enough in England but almost unknown in this region. "Looks like both trees and wall were planned to let light into that side the house and keep eyes out. But, has been so ever since Heartsease was, and nothing different now." No, everything was outwardly unchanged, but his home was not like his home, that morning, when Mrs. Betty Calvert came to call. The rain that had kept him within had sent him to pass the hours of his imprisonment in his "den," or office, and to the congenial occupation of looking over the cash in his strong box. He was too wise to keep much there, but there had been a time when the occupation had served to amuse the inmate of the big room, and he was thinking of her now. Indeed, when there came a knock on the outer door he started, and quickly demanded: "Well?" "Oliver, Betty Calvert, from Deerhurst, has called to see thee," said the trembling voice of Dorcas. "Why? What does she want?" "To bring thee news. To bring thee a blessing, she says." "I will come." He rose and locked the strong box, inwardly resolving that its contents must be placed in the bank when next he drove to town, and he again carefully closed the door of the further room. But if there had been any to observe they would have seen his face grow eager with hope while his strong frame visibly trembled. He was not a superstitious man but he had dreamed of Deerhurst more than once of late and news from Deerhurst? A blessing, Dorcas said? He entered the living-room, cast one eager glance around, and sat down. He had offered no salutation whatever to Mrs. Calvert and the gloom had returned to his face even more deeply. Dorcas was standing wringing her hands, smiling and weeping by turns, and gazing in a perfect ecstasy of eagerness upon Ananias and Sapphira, huddled against Dorothy's knees. She held them close, as if fearing that cross old man would do them harm, but they were not at all abashed, either by him or by the novelty of the place. "Well, Oliver Sands, you like plain speech and use it. So do I--on occasion. I have brought home your grandchildren, Rose's children. Their grandfather on the other side has been committed to an institution and will give you no trouble. He 'passed them on' to my household and I, in turn, 'pass them on,' to yours, their rightful home. You will feel happier now. Good-morning." "What makes thee think he is unhappy?" ventured Dorcas, at last turning her eager gaze away from the twins. "All the world sees that. He's a changed man since last we met, and I suppose his conscience is troubling him on account of the way he treated Rose and her children. Their demented grandfather, on the other side, gave them horrible names. I'd change them if I were you. Good-morning." But if the miller had not sought to detain her nor responded to her farewell, Dorcas caught at her cloak and begged: "Wait, wait! Oliver, does thee hear? Elisabeth Calvert is going. She is leaving Rose's babies! What--what--shall I do? May I keep them here? Say it--Oliver speak, speak, quick! If thee does right in this thing mayhap the Lord will bless thee in the other! Oliver, Oliver!" He shook her frail hand from his sleeve but he spoke the word she longed to hear, though the shadow on his face seemed rather to deepen than to lighten and astute Betty Calvert was non-plussed. She had so fully counted upon the fact that it was remorse concerning his treatment of his daughter which burdened him that she could not understand his increased somberness. But he did speak, as he left the room, and the words his wife desired: "Thee may do as thee likes." Then Mrs. Calvert, too, went out and Dorothy with her; strangely enough the twins making no effort to follow; in fact no effort toward anything except a pan of fresh cookies which stood upon the table! and with their fists full of these they submitted indifferently not only to the desertion of their friends but to the yearning embraces of their grandmother. "Oh! what perfectly disgusting little creatures! Didn't mind our leaving them with a stranger nor anything! Weren't they horrid? And it didn't make him look any happier, either, their coming." "No, they were not disgusting, simply natural. They've been half-starved most of their lives and food seems to them, just now, the highest good;" said Aunt Betty, as the carriage door was shut upon them and they set out for home. "I cannot call it a wasted morning, since that timid little woman was made glad and two homeless ones have come into their own. But--my guess was wide of the mark. It isn't remorse ails my miller neighbor but some mystery still unsolved. Ah! me! And I thought I was beautifully helping Providence!" "So you have, Aunt Betty. Course. Only how we shall miss those twins! Seems if I couldn't bear to quite give 'Phira up. Deerhurst will be so lonesome!" "Lonesome, child! with all you young folks in it? Then just imagine for an instant what Heartsease must have been to that poor wife. Shut up alone with such a glum, indifferent husband, in that big house. I saw no other person anywhere about, did you?" "No, and, since you put it that way, of course I'm glad they're to be hers not Molly's and mine." "The queer thing is that he was so indifferent. I thought, I was prepared to have him rage and act--ugly, at my interference in his affairs; but he paid no more attention than if I had dropped a couple of puppies at his fireside. Hmm. Queer, queer! But if I'm not mistaken his young relatives will wake him up a bit before he's done with them." After all, though Dorothy had hated to leave the other young folks on such an errand, through such weather, and in some fear of further "lectures," the ride to Heartsease had proved delightful. She wouldn't have missed the rapture on lonely Dorcas Sands's pale face for the wildest frolic going and, after all, it was a relief to know the "twinses" could do no more mischief for which she might be blamed; and it remained now only to appease the wrath of Molly Breckenridge when she was told that her adopted "son" had been removed from her authority without so much as "By your leave." Naturally, Molly said nothing in Mrs. Calvert's presence, but vented her displeasure on Dorothy in private; until the latter exclaimed: "You would have been glad, just glad, Molly dear, to hear the way the poor old lady said over and over again: 'Rose's children! Rose's children!' Just that way she said it and she was a picture. I wish I was a Quaker and wore gray gowns and little, teeny-tiny white caps and white something folded around my shoulders. Oh! she was just too sweet for words! Besides--to come right to the bottom of things--neither of us _could_ adopt a child, yet. We haven't any money." "Pshaw! We could get it!" "I couldn't. Maybe you could; but--I'm glad they're gone. It's better for them and we shouldn't have been let anyway, and--where's Helena?" "Up garret, yet. They're all up there. Let's hurry. They'll have all the nicest things picked out, if we don't." They "hurried" and before they knew it the summons came for luncheon. After that was over Danny Smith and Alfaretta Babcock mysteriously disappeared for a time; returning to their mates with an I-know-something-you-don't sort of an air, which was tantalizing yet somehow suggested delighted possibilities. The afternoon passed with equal swiftness, and then came the costume parade in the barn; the charades; and, at last, that merry Roger de Coverly, with Mrs. Betty, herself, and Cousin Seth leading off, and doing their utmost to teach the mountain lads and lassies the figures. All the servants came out to sit around and enjoy the merry spectacle while old Ephraim, perched upon a hay-cutter plied his violin--his fiddle he called it--and another workman plunked away on his banjo till the rafters rang. "Oh, such a tangle! And it seems so easy!" cried Jane Potter, for once aroused to enthusiasm for something beside study. "Come on, Martin! Come half-way down and go round behind me--Oh! Pshaw! You stupid!" Yet uttered in that tone the reproof meant no offense and Jane was as awkward as her partner, but the dance proved a jolly ending for a very jolly day. Only, the day was not ended yet; for with a crisp command: "Every one of you get your places an' set round in a circle. It's Danny's and my turn now, and--Come on, Daniel!" Alfaretta vanished in the harness room. Danny followed, rather sheepishly, for despite his love of fun he didn't enjoy being forced into prominence; and from this odd retreat the pair presently emerged with great pans of snowy popped-corn, balanced on their heads by the aid of one hand, while in the other they carried each a basket of the biggest apples even Melvin had ever seen; yet the wonder of the Nova Scotian apples had been one of his proudest boasts. "Jump up, Jim, in your 'Uncle Sam' clothes and fetch the jugs out. Fresh sweet cider, made to farmer Smith's this very day! There's nuts in there all cracked, for some of you other fellows to bring and tumblers and plates 't Aunt Malinda let us take. We've had ice-cream and plum-puddin' and every kind of a thing under the sun and now we're going to have just plain up-mounting stuff, and you'll say it's prime! Danny and me done this. We planned it that night Monty got stuck--Oh! my soul, I forgot!" "Never mind. I don't care," said Monty; and, maybe to prevent another doing so, promptly related for Mrs. Calvert's benefit the tale of his misadventure. Indeed, he told it in such a funny way that it was plain he was no longer sensitive about it; and he finished with the remark that: "If Deerhurst folks don't stop feeding me so much I may even get stuck in that big door!" The quiet sitting and talking after so much hilarity was pleasant to all and tended to a more thoughtful mood; and finally clapping her hands to insure attention Molly Breckenridge demanded: "A story, a story! A composite story! Please begin, Mrs. Calvert: 'Once upon a time----' Then let Helena, my Lady of the Crinoline take it up and add a little, then the next one to her, and the next--and so on all around the ring. The most fun is to each say something that will fit--yet won't make sense--with what went just before. Please!" "Very well: 'Once upon a time and very good times they was, there was a Mouse and a Grouse and a Little Red Hen and they all lived in the one house together. So wan day, as she was swapin' the floor, they met a grain o' cor-run.' 'Now, who'll take that to the mill?' 'I won't,' says the Mouse. 'Nayther will I!' say the Grouse. 'Then I'll aven have to do it mesel,' says the Little Red--Next!" Irish Norah was in ecstasies of laughter over her mistress's imitation of her own brogue, and all the company was smiling, as Helena's serious voice took up the tale: "'Twas in the dead of darksome, dreadful, dreary night, when the Little Red Hen set forth on her long, lonely, unfrequented road to the Mill. The Banshees howled, the weird Sisters of the Night made desperate attempts to seize the Grain of Corn--Next!" "Which, for safe keeping the fearless Little Red Hen had already clapped into her own bill--just like this! So let the Banshees howl, the Weird Sisters Dree their Weird--for Only Three Grains of Corn, Alfy! Only Three Grains of Corn!" cried Monty, passing his empty plate; "and I'll grind them in a mill that'll beat the Hen's all hollow! while Jane Potter--next!" "For the prisoner was terrified by the sounds upon the roof and after brief deliberation and close investigation he came to the conclusion, 'twas a snare and a delusion to toy with imagination and fear assassination till the hallucination became habituation and his mental aberration get the better of his determination toward analyzation of the sound upon the roof. Of the pat, pat, patter and the clat, clat, clatter of small claws upon the roof! Then with loud cachinnation--Next!" "To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and--Next!" cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked: "How could you think of them all, Jane?" "Oh! easily enough. I'd rather read the dictionary than any other book. I've only a school one yet but I've most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then----" "Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid's brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen--Next!" put in Herbert, as his contribution. "The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that's the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped--Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen--Next!" continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that: "The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and--and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah--in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn't boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and--what's happening? 'Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring--staring--staring--Oh! My! What's happening to our own Little Red Hen!" What, indeed! CHAPTER XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality. The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she always carried her point--as spoiled children usually do. Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn. Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile, as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna. So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt; or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle of long ago. The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one, and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor's tiny wrinkled hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back, something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse. This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her. But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze, which had now become breathlessly alert and strained. She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet, crying: "The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!" Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep. All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely puzzled. "Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?" "But she wasn't in the house the night it was lost. Don't you remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It couldn't have been she!" "Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?" "It couldn't. The window wasn't opened. It stormed, you know." Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed Dorothy's exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama far more absorbing than the composite tale had been. Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with tender anxiety to see Dorothy's next action. That it satisfied them was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn't disappointed them--she was their precious Dorothy still. She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she said: "Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see." "No, no, li'l Missy! No, no. An' fo' de lan', doan you-all kneel to a pore ole niggah lak me! Fo' de lan', Missy, whe'-all's yo' pride an' mannehs?" Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her friends that all might hear: "It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the maker's, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain. When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess, because I'm sure I didn't stop to think. Then when I went to bed I must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How long before she found the 'pocket' and what was in it, she can't tell us. We've heard the 'help' say how quickly she noticed when money was around and I suppose she's been afraid we'd take it from her; although she didn't resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of myself, so ashamed!" Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn't speaking, either, in a sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old man that the shadow on his character was banished forever. Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro's sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt Betty's lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady's shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said: "Now the lost is found, I'd like to inquire what shall be done with it? It'll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful darling here. Let's put it to vote. Here's my notebook, Dolly; tear out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars." So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great doors, having their share of the evening's sport, even among these those who could write put down their wish. Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth Winters's face shone with delight when it proved the majority had voted: "For the old man at St. Michael's." So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all glad to hear him say: "That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day," for he would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen's days could not be "many," though he meant that they should be the most comfortable of all that pain-tormented life. "Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for--the County Fair! All in favor of going say Aye!" cried the Master. The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of humanity. Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they had never tasted before. Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded: "Gimme a drink." "Gimme a drink!" echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their "plain speech" was not exactly that of the Friends. "Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink." "A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias." "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra," glibly repeated the girl, almost tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him. Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible! Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were dearer than all because they were "brands" to be saved from the burning. "Hear me, Rose's Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said. Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that is clean shall have the first drink--but no quarreling. Birthright Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not." The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their surroundings or their difficulty in mastering--without blows--the spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched Benjamin to Oliver's office to announce dinner, the miller fairly stared to hear the midget say: "Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That's who I am now and I'm to have anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I'm Rose's baby. The Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, _did thee know Rose?_" This was the "plain speech" with a vengeance! The miller could scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. "Did he know Rose?" For the first time in many a day he remembered that he _had_ known Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved. Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he took the boy's hand and said: "Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner." "But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around Sap--I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it's cold at night and Him's off messagin'." "Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee'll keep still while we ask blessing." The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming of "Rose's babies" had wrought such a happy effect on her husband's sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one righteous thing he had done--this allowing of the orphans to come home--would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for all. All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent comfort of her new-found "blessings." She hunted up in the attic the long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins' belongings therein, bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of Oliver's would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother's soul, there were ample pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well. "To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask: 'Whose children has thee found?' I shall just say 'Rosie's babies.' Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed. There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home--in the dear forms of her children." Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a time; but the "peace" upon which she counted seemed at that moment a doubtful thing. The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious of a strange sound--the prattle of childish voices and the gentle responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect, in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish. Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient, and he was glad he had let her have her wish. Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County Fair. That Fair! He would have hated it had he not been a Friend and known the sinfulness of hatred. But there were cattle lowing--it sounded as if something were wrong. Habit resumed its sway, and with anxiety over his cherished stock now re-awakened, he passed swiftly out. "Oliver, thee has forgotten thy goloshes!" called his thoughtful spouse, but he paid her no heed, though commonly most careful to guard against his rheumatism. "Who left that gate open? Who drove that cow--her calf--Child! is thee possessed?" Mrs. Betty Calvert was a true prophet--the twins had certainly waked their grandsire up a bit! The explanation was simple, the disaster great. They had tired of the quiet living-room and had also stolen out of doors. Animals never frightened them and they were immediately captivated by the goodly herd of cattle in the pasture. To open the gate was easy; easy, too, to let free from its small shed a crying calf. Between one cow and the calf there seemed a close interest. "We oughtn't ha' did that! That big cow'll eat that little cow up. See Sapphi--Ruth, see them stairs? Let's drive the little cow up the stair past the big wagons and keep it all safe and nice," suggested Benjamin. So they did; much to the surprise of the calf who bounded up the stairs readily enough, kicking its heels and cavorting in a most entrancing fashion; but when they tried to bar the big cow from following, she rushed past them and also ascended the stairs in a swift, lumbering manner. The relationship between the big and little cow now dawned even upon their limited intelligence, though there still remained the fear that the one would devour the other. Then the twins turned and gazed upon one another, anxiety upon their faces; till spying the master of the premises most rapidly approaching they rushed to meet him, exclaiming: "The little cow's all safe but how will we get the big cow down?" How, indeed! Oliver Sands was too angry to speak. For well he knew that it would require the efforts of all his force of helpers to drive that valuable Jersey down the stairs she had not hesitated to go up when driven by maternal love. With one majestic wave of his hand the miller dismissed his grandchildren to the house and Dorcas; but so long and so hard he labored to lure that imprisoned quadruped from his carriage-loft, that, weary, he went early to bed and slept as he had not for nights. So, in that it seemed his "waking up" had proved a blessing. CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED The morning proved fair and cool, ideal weather for their visit to the County Fair; but Mrs. Calvert decided that a whole day there would be both inconvenient and too fatiguing. Now that she was at home the management of the House Party had been turned over to her by tacit consent, and she had laughingly accepted the trust. "This was to be Dorothy's affair, but it's been more Mr. Winters's than hers and now more mine than his. Well, I like it. I like it so exceedingly that I propose to repeat the experiment some time. I love young people; and am I not quite a young person myself?" "Of course, you are, dear Aunt Betty! The youngest of us all in some things, Mr. Seth says!" "So the farrier has been talking, eh? Well, I want to talk a bit, too. In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom--as we have the highest authority to believe; and the case in question is: Shall we, or shall we not, take Luna to the Fair?" They were all grouped on the big piazza, after their early lunch, waiting for the wagons to come from the stables and carry them to the city beyond; and as Mrs. Betty asked this question a hush of surprise fell on them all. Finally, said Helena: "We have taken her, she has gone with us, on all our jaunts. Doesn't it seem too bad to leave her out of this?" One after another as the lady nodded to each to speak the answer was frankly given, and Dorothy remarked: "It's about half-and-half, I guess. Yes, I know she does go to sleep in all sorts of queer places and at the strangest times, but I hate to leave her." "Then if she goes she must wear her own clothes." "Why, Aunt Betty, please? Of course, I don't want to see her in that red frock again--I'd like to burn that up so nobody would ever see it and be reminded how careless and unjust I was. But there's a pretty blue one she could have." "That's not my reason, dearie. I think it has been a mistake, kindly meant, to dress her as you have; that is for longer than was necessary to freshen her own soiled things." She paused and Alfy remarked: "She's the proudest thing for them bright colors. Red, and green, and blue--ary one just sets her smilin'. Besides, once Dinah tried to put back her old brown dress and Luna wouldn't let her. Just folded her arms up tight and didn't--didn't look a mite pleasant." Those who had seen Luna on the rare occasions when she showed anger smiled at this mild description of her appearance then. "I don't know as Dinah would be bothered with her, Aunt Betty, and Norah has a sick headache. But--I'll stay and take care of her if you don't want her to go," said Dorothy. It was an effort to say this and dreading that her offer might be accepted the girl turned her face away to hide her disappointment; but whatever Mrs. Calvert's answer might have been she was not to hear it then. Because there was Jim Barlow beckoning to her in a mysterious manner from behind a great hydrangea bush and looking vastly excited over something. So it was a relief to murmur: "Excuse me a minute, Aunt Betty," and to respond to that summons. "Dolly, there's a man here wants to see you." "A man? To see me? and not Aunt Betty? Who is he?" Jim answered rather impatiently to this string of questions. "I said a man, didn't I. He said he'd rather see you because he knows you, that is you gave him a lift on the road once in your pony cart and talked real sensible----" "Couldn't have meant me, then, could he, Jim?" "Don't fool, Dorothy. He looks as if he was in some trouble. He's the head man from Oliver Sands's grist-mill. Some relation to the miller, I've heard, and lives with him. Hurry up and don't hender the raft of us any longer'n you can help. Tell him, whatever his business is, 'twill have to wait, 't we're going to the Fair and all the teams are ready----" "Yes, I'll hurry. Where is he?" "In that little summer-house beyond the lily pond. That's where he said he'd go. Get rid of him quick, for the horses don't like to stand after they're harnessed." "All right, I'll try!" Gayly waving her hand in the direction of the piazza, she sped across the lawn to a group of silver birches, and the spot in question. Solidly roofed, with vine covered sides, and good board floor, the out-of-door building was a pleasant place, and had been greatly enjoyed by all the House Party. It was well furnished with wicker tables, chairs, and lounges, and heavy matting covered the floor. It was empty now except for the old man awaiting Dorothy, and his first remark showed that he appreciated this bit of outdoor comfort. "It's real purty in here, ain't it? Anybody could spend a night here and take no hurt, couldn't she?" "Why, ye-es, I suppose so; if anybody wished. James told me you asked for me. What is it, please, for we're just on the point of starting for the County Fair, and I don't like to delay the others." "Hmm. Yes. I suppose so. Hmm. Yes. Thee is the little girl that's had such a story-paper kind of life, isn't thee? Don't remember me, but I do thee. Gave me a ride once after that little piebald nag thee swopped Oliver's calf for. Thee sees I know thee, if thee has forgot me and how my floury clothes hit the black jacket thee wore, that day, and dusted it well, 'Dusty miller' thee laughed and called me, sayin' that was some sort of plant grows in gardens. But I knew that. Dorcas has a whole bed of it under her kitchen window. Hmm. Yes." Dorothy tapped her foot impatiently, but did not sit down. Would the man never tell his errand? Finally, as he lapsed into a reverie she roused him, saying: "What is your errand, please?" "It's to help an old man in trouble. It--the--I don't find it so easy to begin. But--is there a little old woman here, no bigger than a child? Is she here? Is she safe?" This was a question so unexpected that Dorothy sat down the better to consider it; then greatly wondering, answered: "Yes, there is an afflicted little creature here. Why? What do you know about her?" "All there is to know, child! All there is to know. Thee sees a most unhappy man before thee, lass." "Who is Luna? How came she here? Tell me, quick, quick; and if you know her home?" "Verily, I know it, since it's my own, too. It's a long story, a long lane, but the worm turned. Ah! yes. It turned." Dolly began to think her visitor was crazy and springing up ran toward the house, saying: "I'm going for Aunt Betty. I'd rather you told your errand to her." The man did not object, and, greatly surprised by the imperative summons though smiling at her darling's excitement, Mrs. Calvert left her guests and followed the girl through the shrubbery to the arbor where the vines hid her from the curious glances of those she had left. "Something's up! I wonder what?" exclaimed Monty Stark. "Whatever it is, if it concerns us we shall be told in due time; and if it doesn't--Hmm," answered Helena. "Stand corrected, Miss Montaigne; but bet a cookie you're as curious as all the rest of us." "Well, yes, I am; though I never bet--even cookies. Now let's talk of something else till they come back. I know they'll not be long." Nor were they; for down in the summer-house, with Elisabeth Calvert's compelling gaze upon him, the visitor told his tale. "Thee can look upon me, lady, as the worm that turned. I am a poor relation of Oliver Sands and he felt he owned me." "That man? Are we never to hear the end of Oliver Sands? He's the 'Old Man of the Mountain', in truth, for his name is on everyone's lips," cried Mistress Betty, crisply, yet resigning herself to the chair Dorothy pushed her way. "Thee never said truer. He is the biggest man up-mounting in more ways'n one. I've not wasted more love on him than many another but I hadn't no call to break his heart. Hark, thee. I'll be as short as I can. "When Oliver's mother died he was a boy and I was. She----" "Beg pardon, please; but this afternoon I really have no time to learn the family history of my neighbor." "But I have to tell thee part, to make thee understand. When his mother died, a widow, she left them two children, Oliver and Leah. He was a big boy, smart and trustable, and Leah was almost a baby. Her mother knew then that the child wasn't like others, she'd talked it with me, I bein' older'n him; but he didn't know it and from the time she was born he'd just about worshiped that baby. When she was dying Mehitabel made him promise, and a Friend's promise is as good as another man's oath, 't he'd always take care of little Leah and love her better'n anybody in the world. That nobody, even if he should grow up and marry and have children of his own, should ever come betwixt her and him. Well, 'twas a good spell before he found out 't he was brother to a fool. That's plain speech but I'm a Quaker. When he did find out, 'twas a'most more'n he could bear. He give out to anybody that asked, how 't she was sickly and had to be kept private. "Elisabeth Calvert, she _has_ been kept private, all her life long, till I let out the secret. He and Dorcas and me, and the children while they lived at the farm, we was the only ones ever had to do with care of her or saw her even. I worked on for him, he makin' the money, I gettin' shorter wages each year, besides him investin' 'em for me as he pleased. "But I'm old. I want a home of my own; and lately I've been pestering him to let me go. He'd always make excuse and talk plausible how 't he couldn't spare me nohow. I knew he told the truth, since if I left he'd have to get in strange help and it might get out 't his sister's sickness was plain want of brains. That'd have nigh killed him, he's so proud; to be pointed at as 'Oliver Sands, that's brother to a fool'." "Well, well. This is exceedingly painful to hear, but to what does it tend?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "Just this, Elisabeth. One day I got nursin' my wrongs and forgettin' my blessings, and the devil was on hand to give me the chance. Dorcas was off nursing a sick neighbor, Oliver was to Newburgh on some Fair business, and there wasn't nobody in the house but me and Leah. I took an old horse and wagon, 't he'd been meaning to sell, to the sales-stable at the Landing; and I coaxed Leah to come take a ride. She come ready enough. She didn't have much fun, anyway, except sitting with him in the office such times as he was lookin' over his accounts and reckonin' his money. She liked that. She always liked to handle money. That proved her a Sands, even if she was imbecile! "Thinks I, I'll break his pride. I'll make him know 't he ain't no better than other folks, even if he does speak in meeting. I meant to carry her clear to the Landing and let things take their chance while I cleared out for good. But when I'd got as far as here I begun to get scared on her account. I'd set out to humble Oliver but I liked Leah, poor creatur'! and I'd forgot I might be hurtin' her the worst. She'd never been 'mongst folks and they might treat her rough. So then I remembered this little girl, and how there was talk 'round about her having a passel of young folks to visit her. So I thought Leah would have a chance amongst 'em and I fetched her in and laid her right in this summer-house, on that bench yonder and covered her with a shawl I saw. She was asleep as she is a lot of the time, and didn't notice. "Then I went on to the Landing, left the rig to the stable, and took the cars for York. I've been there ever since. I never meant to come back; but there's something about this mountain 't pulls wanderers' feet back to it, whether or no. And--is Leah here?" "Rather it was your own guilty conscience that brought you back. Yes, I suppose it is 'Leah'--the witless waif my Dorothy found. And now I understand my poor neighbor's trouble. I am proud myself. Ah! yes I can understand! After the silence of a lifetime, how he shrank from publishing what he seems to have considered a disgrace to a gossiping world. But he was wrong. Such pride is always wrong; and he has spent a most unhappy time, searching with his own eyes everywhere but never asking for his lost Leah! but he was cruel in that, as cruel as misguided; and as for you, sir, the sooner you get upon your wicked feet and travel to Heartsease and tell its master where the poor thing may be found--the better for yourself. I think such an act as you committed is punishable by the strictest rigor of the law; but whether it is or not your own conscience will punish you forever. Now----" Mrs. Calvert stopped speaking and rose. She had never been so stately nor so severe and Dorothy pitied the poor old man who cowered before her, even while she was herself fiercely indignant against him. By a clasp of Mrs. Betty's arm she stayed her leaving: "Wait a moment, Aunt Betty, please. It's just as bad as you say, he's just as bad; but--he's terrible tired and old. He looks sick, almost, and I've been thinking while he talked: You let me stay at home, take Portia and the pony cart and carry Luna--Leah--and him back to Heartsease right away. May I, please?" "But to miss the Fair? He should have the unpleasant task of confessing himself, and nobody else to shield him." "Please, Aunt Betty, please! I found her. Oh! let me be the one to give her back!" Mrs. Calvert looked keenly into her darling's eyes, and after a moment, answered: "I might be willing; but should you desert your guests? And if you do, what shall I say to them for you?" "Just this: that a messenger has come who knows where Luna belongs and that I'm going with him to take her home. That'll make it all right. You might tell Dinah to keep Luna--Leah--I came pretty near her name, didn't I?--to keep her contented somewhere till I come for her and to put on her own old clothes. I have a feeling that that proud old miller would like it better that way." There was a mist in Aunt Betty's eyes as she stooped and kissed the eager face of her unselfish child; but she went quietly away and did as she was asked. Left in the summer-house alone with Dorothy Eli Wroth relapsed into silence. He had had hard work to make himself unburden his guilt and having done so he felt exhausted; remarking once only: "Thee may be sure that the worm hurts itself too when it turns. Thee must never turn but kiss the cheek which smites thee." After which rather mixed advice he said no more; not even when all the other carriages having rolled out of the great gateway, Dorothy disappeared in search of Portia and the cart; nor did he cast more than one inquiring glance upon Leah, sitting on the front seat beside the girlish driver. As for the other, she paid him no more heed than she did to anything else. She might have been seeing him every day, for all surprise she evinced; and as for resentment against him she was too innocent to feel that. The ride was not a long one, but it seemed such to Dorothy. At times her thoughts would stray after her departed friends and a wish that she were with them, enjoying the novelties of the County Fair, disturb her. But she had only to glance at the little creature beside her to forget regret and be glad. Also, if her tongue was perforce silent, her brain was busy, and with something of her Aunt Betty's decision, she intended to have her say before that coming interview was finished. All was very quiet at Heartsease when she reached it. Even the twins were abnormally serious, sitting on the wide, flat doorstep of the kitchen entrance, and looking so comical that Dolly laughed. For the Fifth Day meeting Dorcas had clothed them properly. Her ransacking of old closets had resulted in her finding a small lad's suit, after the fashion of a generation before. A tight little waist with large sleeves, which hung over the child's hands, and a full skirt completed the main part of his costume; while his nimble feet were imprisoned in stout "copper-toes," and a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat covered his already shorn head. Such was Benjamin, in the attire of his uncle at his own age. As for Sapphira-Ruth,--a more bewitching small maiden could not be imagined. She wore her mother's own frock, when that mother was five. Its cut was that of Dorcas's own, even to the small cap and kerchief, while a stiff little bonnet of gray lay on the step beside her. Ruth's toes also shone coppery from under her long skirt; and the restraint of such foot gear upon usually bare feet may have been the reason why the little ones sat sedately where they had been placed without offering to run and meet their old friend. Eli Wroth started to get out of the cart, but Dorothy had a word to say about that. "No, sir, please! You sit still with Leah and hold the horse. I'm going in first to speak to Mr. Sands, but I'll come back." Tapping at the kitchen door, she stooped to kiss the twins, receiving no further response than to see Benjamin wipe her kiss away; Ruth, as a matter of course, immediately doing the same. Nor was there any answer to her knock, and since the door was ajar she pushed it wide and entered. Dorcas sat there asleep; her work-worn hands folded on her lap, her tired body enjoying its Fifth Day rest. Oliver was invisible but Dorothy softly crossed to a passage she saw and down that, stepping quietly, she came upon him alone in his office. The door to that inner, secluded room--Leah's room, she understood at a glance--this door was open, and the miller sat as if staring straight into it. So gently Dolly moved that he did not hear her, and she had gone around him to stand before his face ere he looked up and said: "Thee? thee?" "Yes, I. Mr. Sands, I know the whole story, and I'm sorry for you. I'm more sorry though for the little old woman who belongs in that room. It's pleasant enough but it has been her prison. It has deprived her of lots of fun. If I should bring her back to it, would you let her go out of it sometimes, into the world where she belongs? Would you let her come to visit me? Would you take her to meeting with you as is her birthright? Would you put your pride aside and--do right? If I would bring her back?" For a moment he stared at her as if he did not understand; then all that gloom which had so changed him vanished from his face and he answered with that promise which to a Quaker is better than an oath: "I would. I will! If thee can bring her!" A moment later Leah's hand was in her brother's and Dorothy had left them alone, and thus the House Party neared its end, to become but a happy memory to its soon to be homeward speeding guests. The thoughts of the young hostess were even now turning wholly to the future, her brain teeming with marvelous plans. What these were and how fulfilled in "Dorothy in California," to those interested, the story will be told. CHAPTER XVIII CONCLUSION "Friday! And to-morrow we part!" said Molly Breckenridge, with more of sadness on her sunny face than was often seen there. "It's been such a perfectly enchanting Week of Days, and this is the last one left! Oh! dear! Oh! I do hate good-bys. Saying that and packing one's trunk are two just unbearable things and make one wish, almost, that the nice times had never begun." "Yes, beginnings are grand; but endings--Hmm. I agree with you, Miss Molly," echoed a boyish voice so close to her elbow that the girl wheeled briskly about to see who spoke. "Why, Melvin Cook! Are you down in the dumps, too? I didn't know boys had--had feelings, don't you know." He ignored her mockery and answered gravely: "They do feel a deal more than they get credit for. A boy daren't cry and be silly like a girl----" "Thanks, awfully!" "He just has to keep everything bottled up. That's why he acts rude sometimes. I fancy that's what's amiss with the two Smiths yonder. They've been literally punching each other's heads because Danny happened to remark that Littlejohn would have to work the harder when he got home, to make up for this week's idleness. And----" "Here comes the Master and he doesn't look at all like crying! Why he's holding his hands above his head and--yes, he's clapping them! Call all the others with that new bugle of yours, and let's go meet him! Toot-te-toot-te-toot!" Melvin obediently raised the handsome instrument which Dorothy had given him the night before, and which Mrs. Calvert had bought for him in the hill-city. It had not come from the County Fair but from the best establishment for such ware and Melvin was delighted with it. There had been a "keepsake" for each and all. For Jane Potter her "unabridged"; for Alfaretta, who had never minded rain nor snow, a long desired umbrella; for Jim a Greek lexicon; for Mabel Bruce an exquisite fan; and after the tastes of all something they would always prize. In fact, Mrs. Calvert had early left the Fair and spent her time in shopping; and Seth knew, if the younger ones did not, that far more than the equivalent of the famous one hundred dollars had been expended to give these young folks pleasure. "Oh! what is it, Master! What is it? Have you settled on the play? Will you assign the characters and let us get to studying, so we can make a success of it to-night?" cried Helena, rather anxiously. "I have settled on the play. Rather it has been settled for me. As for characters they will need no study, since each and all are to appear in this most marvelous drama in their own original selves." "Why, Mr. Seth, what do you mean? You look so happy and yet as if something had made you feel bad, too;" said Dorothy, slipping her hand into his as he dropped it to his side. "Oh! I tell you I am happy! So will many another be, 'up-mounting' on this auspicious day. Talk about partings--there are going to be meetings, meetings galore. In short, I won't mystify you any longer though I am half-mystified myself. Attention! Leah Sands will give a House Party this afternoon at Heartsease Farm and we and all who'll accept are bidden to attend at three o'clock sharp." "Leah--that's Luna? How can she do a thing like that?" "Well, it can be done in her name, I reckon. Just as this was Dorothy's and somebody else managed it; eh, lassie? The Friends speak when the Spirit moves. At last, by the power of grief and remorse, by the power of Love, the Spirit of unselfishness and humility has moved upon the heart of Oliver Sands. One is never too old to learn; and, thank God, some are never too old to acknowledge their ignorance! He isn't, and to prove it he is doing this thing. His messengers are speeding everywhere. Caterers from Newburgh have had hurry-up orders to provide a bountiful feast and old Heartsease Farm is to be the scene of an 'Infair' that will beat Dorothy's to--smithereens! I mean, begging her ladyship's pardon, in point of size. Leah is to be the guest of honor, since she cannot preside; but be sure she'll not disgrace her proud brother since at Dorothy's Party she has learned how harmless are even strangers. Yes, I can safely say that Leah made her debut with us. Now, who'll accept? Don't all speak at once!" But they did. So joyfully, so earnestly, that the Master clapped hands over ears and, laughing, hurried away, while Mrs. Calvert beamed upon them all, the dearest hostess who had ever lived--so one and all declared. The scene at Heartsease? It is useless even to try to depict that. Sufficient to say it was a marvelous Party; and he who marveled most was the giver of the Party himself. Because where he might easily have expected absences and "regrets" came hastening guests to shake him by the hand, to forgive hard dealings, to rejoice with him that she who had been lost, in every sense, had been found. And when, at last, the young folks from Deerhurst tore themselves away and walked homeward over the moonlit road, it was with the feeling that this last outing of their Week of Days had been the dearest and the best. Partings? They had to come; but when on the Saturday morning the last guest had disappeared and Dorothy stood alone beside Aunt Betty on the broad piazza, there might be tears in her brown eyes, but there was no real heaviness in her heart. God had given her a home. He had given her this dear old lady to love and serve, and the girl had already learned that there is joy only in Loving Service. THE END [Illustration: DOROTHY AND AUNT BETTY, ALONE AT HOME. _Dorothy's House Party._] IDEAL BOOKS FOR GIRLS The latest and best works of Mrs. L. T. Meade. Very few authors have achieved a popularity equal to that of Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for girls. Her characters are living beings of flesh and blood. Into the trials and crosses of these the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. Turquoise and Ruby. Ten full-page illustrations. The Girls of Mrs. Pritchard's School. Ten full-page illustrations by Lewis Baumer. A Madcap. Eight full-page illustrations by Harold Copping. The Manor School. Ten full-page illustrations. A Bevy of Girls. Ten full-page illustrations. Cloth, 12mo. Special decorated cover. Price, $1.00. CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK THE COMRADES SERIES By Ralph Victor. This writer of boys' books has shown by his magazine work and experience that this series will be without question the greatest seller of any books for boys yet published; full of action from start to finish. Cloth, 12mo. Finely illustrated; special cover design. Price, 60c. per volume. Comrades on the Farm, or the Mystery of Deep Gulch. Comrades in New York, or Snaring the Smugglers. Comrades on the Ranch, or Secret of the Lost River. Comrades in New Mexico, or the Round-up. Comrades on the Great Divide (in preparation). _Ralph Victor is probably the best equipped writer of up-to-date boy's stories of the present day. He has traveled or lived in every land, has shot big game with Sears in India, has voyaged with Jack London, and was a war correspondent in Natal and Japan. The lure of life in the open has always been his, and his experiences have been thrilling and many._ --_"Progress."_ CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK _Specimen Chapter from_ COMRADES IN NEW MEXICO BY RALPH VICTOR. _Published by Chatterton Peck Co._ "We will ride part of the way with you," suggested Fleet, "and see you safe on the road." "If you are going," advised the major, "the sooner you get away the better." "Then I am going to get off at once," announced Chot. It was but a few moments before the horses were saddled and the little cavalcade started. After accompanying him for some half dozen miles the others bade Chot "adios" and returned to the ranch. It was still early evening for the days were now very long, when Chot arrived at El Perro Negro, but unlike the other to be remembered evening there were but few persons about and these few paid no attention to him. He attended to his horse and as the supper hour was already over he asked the landlord to get him something to eat. The inner man satisfied he was off early to bed. The night passed without any disturbance although he slept as Fleet would express it "with one eye awake" and with the coming of daylight he was astir. He fed his horse and gave him a rub down preparatory to an early start. On his way to the shed that morning, he noticed several men whom he had not before seen. Among them he observed the outlaws Jose and Miguel. He paid no attention to them however until they came up beside him. He was engaged in currying his horse. "That is a good beast you have there," said Miguel. "Cuanto? How much for him?" "Good morning," responded Chot, and continued, "He isn't for sale." "Your horse?" went on the man. "No," said Chot, shortly. "He isn't mine." "Where do you come from?" asked Miguel. "I came from Captain Benson's," said Chot, guardedly, thinking it wise not to speak of Rosado. "Isn't that Mr. Shelton's horse?" asked Jose. "Yes," said Chot. "Do you know the owner?" The man muttered something which Chot could not understand. "Then you come from Rosado?" questioned Jose. This after a pause during which he eyed Chot narrowly. "I have been stopping there," answered Chot. "Are you going back there?" asked Miguel. "I am going to meet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton," replied Chot, getting somewhat uneasy under the insistent questioning. "That is what I told you," remarked Jose to Miguel, as the men started back to the Inn. "I wonder what it was he told him?" mused Chot. "The best thing I can do is to get away from here as quickly as possible." As soon as Chot could get his breakfast he was off on his way, having seen nothing more of the bandits. From Estrada a good part of the journey was along the course of a stream that came down from the mountains and as the road was good Chot urged his horse on, but in spite of all his efforts the animal lagged; so that when at noon he stopped to rest in a small grove, he was much less than half way to Rosado. The presence of the bandits at the Inn had disquieted him and as soon as the worst of the heat was over he re-saddled his horse to resume his journey. As he was starting off, as a matter of precaution he glanced back over the road and was disturbed to see two horsemen rapidly approaching. "The quicker I can get away from here the better," he thought, and he urged his horse on as fast as he could. "They may be all right," he reflected, "but I don't like the looks of it and it will be just as well to keep out of their way." "I wonder what is the matter with Brownie," he cogitated after a bit, for in spite of all his efforts the horse's pace became more labored and slower. His pursuers, if such they were, were rapidly gaining on him. "They may be after me and they may be only traveling in this direction," he reasoned, "but I am going to find out. I will ride over to the woods, it is out of my way and off the trail, if they follow I'll know they are after me." Turning his horse's head in the direction of the forest he proceeded as fast as he could. Looking back after a few moments he saw that the men had changed their course and were plainly headed toward and rapidly gaining on him. His position was decidedly unpleasant. The outlaws he was sure, had recognized him as one of the comrades who were visiting at the hacienda, and of whom they had heard enough, through Took, to regard as dangerous enemies and to be gotten out of the way. Whether they knew that the comrades had discovered the secret of the lost river or not, they were evidently anxious to be rid of them. "I can't successfully resist them if they attack me," reasoned Chot, "I wish I had brought a gun of some kind. As it is the only thing I can do is to try and elude them." Chot thought quickly. "If I can jump from the saddle into one of the trees I won't leave any trail and they won't know where I have gone. I'll try it anyhow," he said to himself, "even if I fail I won't be any worse off, for my mount is laboring painfully." The wood which he was now approaching was of very heavy timber and little underbrush had grown up between the trees. The trees themselves were well scattered yet were so large, their wide spreading branches interlaced. Even the lower branches were so high that Chot could not reach them with his extended hand. Climbing now on to the saddle he got first on his knees, as he and his chums had practiced in their efforts to imitate the tricks of the cowboys at the hacienda, then on to his feet; here he balanced himself for an instant. While the horse was loping along under his persistent urging he came to a slightly sagging branch, grasping it he sprang into the tree. Quickly he drew himself up out of sight of any one below. He had scarcely succeeded in doing this when the bandits, who were only a short distance behind him when he entered the woods, were heard galloping below him. "We have got him now," he overheard Jose saying to his companion. "Don't be too sure of that," objected Miguel. "They are devils those Americans." "A fig for your devils," returned Jose. "If I can get my hands on him I will take care of him all right." "You want to pray the saints they don't get their claws on you," retorted Miguel. Further words he could not catch as they rode along. "I wonder what will be the next move," thought Chot as he made his way to better security farther up in the tree. "I think I will study up flying machines when I get out of this. A pair of wings would come in handy just now." Chot was not long left in doubt for in ten minutes the men came back through the woods, evidently in search of him. "What did I tell you," expostulated Miguel. "I knew he would get away somehow." "He hasn't got away yet," growled the other, stopping beneath the tree in which Chot had taken refuge. "He disappeared in the woods somewhere and I am going to find him. He is somewhere between this locality and the edge of the wood where we found his horse. Say but you did not give him a big enough dose. The animal ought to have played out hours ago." "So they tried to poison my horse," was Chot's thought. "I am going to find him," repeated Jose. "Quiza!" said Miguel, looking about him, "Maybe you will and maybe you won't. If he were human where could he go? There is no place here where he could hide." "He is here somewhere," retorted Jose, "and I am going to search him out. He knows too much and I am going to get rid of him. He must be up a tree and so he must come down." "Carambo! no," said Miguel. "Nothing but a cat could go up a tree so quick. We were just behind him. See there are the marks of his horse's hoofs, the animal never stopped in his stride. The boy went off just like that," and Miguel blew across his hand with an expressive little puff. "Same as they did in the cave. Better leave him alone. No good will come of it." Chot, who had climbed up into the tree as high as he dared, now drew himself close to the trunk and waited for the next move on the part of his pursuers which was not long in coming. He could not see the speakers below, but of a sudden his attention was attracted to an adjoining tree. Chot had noted that the branch upon which he was resting his hands for partial support, was of a remarkable length and stretched out till it met and overlapped a branch of the next nearest tree. Some motion upon the branch of the farther tree caught his eye. To his horror he made out some sort of a wild beast stealthily approaching. Its yellow eyes were on a level with his own. He gazed in fascinated terror. Truly his predicament was hopeless. There seemed no way for him to cope with one enemy or the other. To remain where he was, would be to become the sure prey of the wild beast. To make any move for defense would call to the attention of the outlaws his hiding place. * * * * * * WORLD-WIDE ADVENTURE SERIES _By Edward S. Ellis_ Cloth, 12mo., stamped in colors and gold. Handsomely illustrated. Price per volume, postpaid, 60 cents. The books written by Mr. Ellis are too well known to need a special introduction here. All are bright, breezy, and full of life, character, and adventure. They cover a wide field, and consequently appeal to all classes of young folks. The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success In this tale life in a country town is well described. There is a mysterious bank robbery, which fills the community with excitement. There is likewise a flood on the river; and through all this whirl of events the young telegraph messenger exhibits a pluck and sagacity sure to win the admiration and approval of all wide-awake boys. Other Volumes in this Series: From the Throttle to the President's Chair Tad; or "Getting Even" with Him Through Jungle and Wilderness A Waif of the Mountains Down the Mississippi Life of Kit Carson Land of Wonders Lost in the Wilds Up the Tapajos Lost in Samoa Red Plume CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY New York THE FRONTIER BOYS BY CAPT. WYN. ROOSEVELT. This noted scout and author, known to every plainsman, has lived a life of stirring adventure. In boyhood, in the early days, he traveled with comrades the overland route to the West,--a trip of thrilling experiences, unceasing hardships and trials that would have daunted a heart less brave. His life has been spent in the companionship of the typically brave adventurers, gold seekers, cowboys and ranchmen of our great West. He has lived with more than one Indian tribe, took part in a revolution at Hawaii and was captured in turn by pirates and cannibals. He writes in a way sure to win the heart of every boy. Frontier boys on the overland trail. Frontier boys in Colorado, or captured by Indians. Frontier boys in the Grand Canyon, or a search for treasure. Frontier boys in Mexico, or Mystery Mountain. Finely illustrated. Cloth, 12mo. Attractive cover design. Price 60c. per volume. CHATTERTON-PECK. CO. NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber�s Note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters� errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author�s words and intent. 
32393	----	page images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 32393-h.htm or 32393-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32393/32393-h/32393-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32393/32393-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/tobytylerortenwe00kalerich TOBY TYLER or Ten Weeks with a Circus by JAMES OTIS Illustrated [Illustration: BREAKFAST IN THE WOODS. _See p. 235._] [Illustration] New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers * * * * * * HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE SERIES EACH, SIXTY CENTS _FRANCONIA STORIES_ BY JACOB ABBOTT Malleville Mary Bell Ellen Linn Wallace Beechnut Stuyvesant Agnes Mary Erskine Rodolphus Caroline BY W. L. ALDEN The Moral Pirates The Cruise of the "Ghost" The Cruise of the Canoe Club The Adventures of Jimmy Brown Jimmy Brown Trying to Find Europe A New Robinson Crusoe BY JAMES BARNES The Blockaders BY WILLIAM BLACK The Four Macnicols BY LEWIS CARROLL Alice's Adventures in Wonderland Through the Looking-Glass The Hunting of the Snark BY COL. W. F. CODY The Adventures of Buffalo Bill BY GEORGE C. EGGLESTON Strange Stories from History BY JOHN HABBERTON Who Was Paul Grayson? BY MRS. W. J. HAYS Prince Lazybones The Princess Idleways BY GEORGE A. HENTY In the Hands of the Cave-Dwellers BY W. J. HENDERSON Sea Yarns for Boys BY ERNEST INGERSOLL The Ice Queen BY DAVID KER The Lost City Into Unknown Seas BY LUCY C. LILLIE Mildred's Bargain Nan Jo's Opportunity Phil and the Baby False Witness Rolf House Music and Musicians The Colonel's Money The Household of Glen Holly BY LIVINGSTON B. MORSE The Road to Nowhere BY MISS MULOCK The Little Lame Prince The Adventures of a Brownie Little Sunshine's Holiday The Cousin from India Twenty Years Ago Is It True? Miss Moore An Only Sister BY KIRK MUNROE Wakulla The Flamingo Feather Derrick Sterling Chrystal Jack & Co. etc. BY JAMES OTIS Mr. Stubbs's Brother Tim and Tip Toby Tyler, or, Ten Weeks with a Circus Raising the "Pearl" Silent Pete, or, the Stowaways Left Behind, or, Ten Days a Newsboy BY G. B. PERRY Uncle Peter's Trust BY L. C. PYRNELLE Diddie, Dumps, and Tot BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER Little Knights and Ladies--Poems BY W. O. STODDARD Two Arrows The Red Mustang The Talking Leaves BY SOPHIE SWETT Captain Polly _STRANGE STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY_ Strange Stories of Colonial Days Strange Stories of the Revolution Strange Stories of 1812 Strange Stories of the Civil War _ADVENTURE SERIES_ Adventures of Uncle Sam's Sailors Adventures of Uncle Sam's Soldiers Adventures with Indians Adventures of Pirates and Sea-Rovers _Illustrated. Price, per volume, 60 cents_ HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1880, 1881, 1909, BY HARPER & BROTHERS COPYRIGHT, 1908, 1909, BY JAMES OTIS KALER PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA * * * * * * CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. TOBY'S INTRODUCTION TO THE CIRCUS 9 II. TOBY RUNS AWAY FROM HOME 20 III. THE NIGHT RIDE 31 IV. THE FIRST DAY WITH THE CIRCUS 42 V. THE COUNTERFEIT TEN-CENT PIECE 54 VI. A TENDER-HEARTED SKELETON 66 VII. AN ACCIDENT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 82 VIII. CAPTURE OF THE MONKEYS 93 IX. THE DINNER-PARTY 102 X. MR. STUBBS AT A PARTY 118 XI. A STORMY NIGHT 131 XII. TOBY'S GREAT MISFORTUNE 143 XIII. TOBY ATTEMPTS TO RESIGN HIS SITUATION 156 XIV. MR. CASTLE TEACHES TOBY TO RIDE 169 XV. TOBY'S FRIENDS PRESENT HIM WITH A COSTUME 184 XVI. TOBY'S FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE RING 197 XVII. OFF FOR HOME! 211 XVIII. A DAY OF FREEDOM 229 XIX. MR. STUBBS'S MISCHIEF, AND HIS SAD FATE 239 XX. HOME AND UNCLE DANIEL 252 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE BREAKFAST IN THE WOODS _Frontispiece_ TOBY STRIKES A BARGAIN 11 TOBY AND HIS NEW FRIEND 27 TOBY'S FIRST NIGHT RIDE 33 OLD BEN COMES TO THE RESCUE 47 "WON'T YOU PLEASE GIVE ME THE MONEY BACK?" 59 TOBY GETS HIS SUPPER 73 JOB LORD LEARNS A LESSON 79 THE BREAK-DOWN, AND ESCAPE OF THE MONKEYS 89 BRINGING BACK THE RUNAWAYS 97 TOBY IS INTRODUCED TO THE ALBINOS 111 TOBY SITS DOWN ON MR. STUBBS 127 TOBY IN THE "WOMEN'S WAGON" 135 MR. STUBBS AND TOBY'S MONEY 151 TOBY AND THE LITTLE BOY CUSTOMERS 165 THE FIRST LESSON 173 ELLA AND TOBY 187 MADEMOISELLE JEANNETTE AND MONSIEUR AJAX 205 THE RUNAWAYS 225 "HOW I LOVE YOU, MR. STUBBS!" 249 UNCLE DANIEL'S BLESSING 263 TOBY TYLER; OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS. CHAPTER I. TOBY'S INTRODUCTION TO THE CIRCUS. "Couldn't you give more'n six pea-nuts for a cent?" was a question asked by a very small boy, with big, staring eyes, of a candy vender at a circus booth. And as he spoke he looked wistfully at the quantity of nuts piled high up on the basket, and then at the six, each of which now looked so small as he held them in his hand. "Couldn't do it," was the reply of the proprietor of the booth, as he put the boy's penny carefully away in the drawer. The little fellow looked for another moment at his purchase, and then carefully cracked the largest one. A shade--and a very deep shade it was--of disappointment passed over his face, and then, looking up anxiously, he asked, "Don't you swap 'em when they're bad?" The man's face looked as if a smile had been a stranger to it for a long time; but one did pay it a visit just then, and he tossed the boy two nuts, and asked him a question at the same time. "What is your name?" The big brown eyes looked up for an instant, as if to learn whether the question was asked in good faith, and then their owner said, as he carefully picked apart another nut, "Toby Tyler." "Well, that's a queer name." "Yes, I s'pose so, myself; but, you see, I don't expect that's the name that belongs to me. But the fellers call me so, an' so does Uncle Dan'l." "Who is Uncle Daniel?" was the next question. In the absence of other customers the man seemed disposed to get as much amusement out of the boy as possible. "He hain't my uncle at all; I only call him so because all the boys do, an' I live with him." "Where's your father and mother?" "I don't know," said Toby, rather carelessly. "I don't know much about 'em, an' Uncle Dan'l says they don't know much about me. Here's another bad nut; goin' to give me two more?" [Illustration: TOBY STRIKES A BARGAIN.] The two nuts were given him, and he said, as he put them in his pocket, and turned over and over again those which he held in his hand, "I shouldn't wonder if all of these was bad. Sposen you give me two for each one of 'em before I crack 'em, an' then they won't be spoiled so you can't sell 'em again." As this offer of barter was made, the man looked amused, and he asked, as he counted out the number which Toby desired, "If I give you these, I suppose you'll want me to give you two more for each one, and you'll keep that kind of a trade going until you get my whole stock?" "I won't open my head if every one of 'em's bad." "All right; you can keep what you've got, and I'll give you these besides; but I don't want you to buy any more, for I don't want to do that kind of business." Toby took the nuts offered, not in the least abashed, and seated himself on a convenient stone to eat them, and at the same time to see all that was going on around him. The coming of a circus to the little town of Guilford was an event, and Toby had hardly thought of anything else since the highly colored posters had first been put up. It was yet quite early in the morning, and the tents were just being erected by the men. Toby had followed, with eager eyes, everything that looked as if it belonged to the circus, from the time the first wagon had entered the town until the street parade had been made, and everything was being prepared for the afternoon's performance. The man who had made the losing trade in pea-nuts seemed disposed to question the boy still further, probably owing to the fact that he had nothing better to do. "Who is this Uncle Daniel you say you live with--is he a farmer?" "No; he's a deacon, an' he raps me over the head with the hymn-book whenever I go to sleep in meetin', an' he says I eat four times as much as I earn. I blame him for hittin' so hard when I go to sleep, but I s'pose he's right about my eatin'. You see," and here his tone grew both confidential and mournful, "I am an awful eater, an' I can't seem to help it. Somehow I'm hungry all the time. I don't seem ever to get enough till carrot-time comes, an' then I can get all I want without troubling anybody." "Didn't you ever have enough to eat?" "I s'pose I did; but you see Uncle Dan'l he found me one mornin' on his hay, an' he says I was cryin' for something to eat then, an' I've kept it up ever since. I tried to get him go give me money enough to go into the circus with; but he said a cent was all he could spare these hard times, an' I'd better take that an' buy something to eat with it, for the show wasn't very good anyway. I wish pea-nuts wasn't but a cent a bushel." "Then you would make yourself sick eating them." "Yes, I s'pose I should; Uncle Dan'l says I'd eat till I was sick, if I got the chance; but I'd like to try it once." He was a very small boy, with a round head covered with short, red hair a face as speckled as any turkey's egg, but thoroughly good-natured-looking; and as he sat there on the rather sharp point of the rock, swaying his body to and fro as he hugged his knees with his hands, and kept his eyes fastened on the tempting display of good things before him, it would have been a very hard-hearted man who would not have given him something. But Mr. Job Lord, the proprietor of the booth, was a hard-hearted man, and he did not make the slightest advance toward offering the little fellow anything. Toby rocked himself silently for a moment, and then he said, hesitatingly, "I don't suppose you'd like to sell me some things, an' let me pay you when I get older, would you?" Mr. Lord shook his head decidedly at this proposition. "I didn't s'pose you would," said Toby, quickly; "but you didn't seem to be selling anything, an' I thought I'd just see what you'd say about it." And then he appeared suddenly to see something wonderfully interesting behind him, which served as an excuse to turn his reddening face away. "I suppose your uncle Daniel makes you work for your living, don't he?" asked Mr. Lord, after he had rearranged his stock of candy, and had added a couple of slices of lemon-peel to what was popularly supposed to be lemonade. "That's what I think; but he says that all the work I do wouldn't pay for the meal that one chicken would eat, an' I s'pose it's so, for I don't like to work as well as a feller without any father and mother ought to. I don't know why it is, but I guess it's because I take up so much time eatin' that it kinder tires me out. I s'pose you go into the circus whenever you want to, don't you?" "Oh yes; I'm there at every performance, for I keep the stand under the big canvas as well as this one out here." There was a great big sigh from out Toby's little round stomach, as he thought what bliss it must be to own all those good things, and to see the circus wherever it went. "It must be nice," he said, as he faced the booth and its hard-visaged proprietor once more. "How would you like it?" asked Mr. Lord, patronizingly, as he looked Toby over in a business way, very much as if he contemplated purchasing him. "Like it!" echoed Toby; "why, I'd grow fat on it." "I don't know as that would be any advantage," continued Mr. Lord, reflectively, "for it strikes me that you're about as fat now as a boy of your age ought to be. But I've a great mind to give you a chance." "What!" cried Toby, in amazement, and his eyes opened to their widest extent, as this possible opportunity of leading a delightful life presented itself. "Yes, I've a great mind to give you the chance. You see," and now it was Mr. Lord's turn to grow confidential, "I've had a boy with me this season, but he cleared out at the last town, and I'm running the business alone now." Toby's face expressed all the contempt he felt for the boy who would run away from such a glorious life as Mr. Lord's assistant must lead; but he said not a word, waiting in breathless expectation for the offer which he now felt certain would be made him. "Now I ain't hard on a boy," continued Mr. Lord, still confidentially, "and yet that one seemed to think that he was treated worse and made to work harder than any boy in the world." "He ought to live with Uncle Dan'l a week," said Toby, eagerly. "Here I was just like a father to him," said Mr. Lord, paying no attention to the interruption, "and I gave him his board and lodging, and a dollar a week besides." "Could he do what he wanted to with the dollar?" "Of course he could. I never checked him, no matter how extravagant he was, an' yet I've seen him spend his whole week's wages at this very stand in one afternoon. And even after his money had all gone that way, I've paid for peppermint and ginger out of my own pocket just to cure his stomach-ache." Toby shook his head mournfully, as if deploring that depravity which could cause a boy to run away from such a tender-hearted employer, and from such a desirable position. But even as he shook his head so sadly he looked wistfully at the pea-nuts, and Mr. Lord observed the look. It may have been that Mr. Job Lord was the tender-hearted man he prided himself upon being, or it may have been that he wished to purchase Toby's sympathy; but, at all events, he gave him a large handful of nuts, and Toby never bothered his little round head as to what motive prompted the gift. Now he could listen to the story of the boy's treachery and eat at the same time; therefore he was an attentive listener. "All in the world that boy had to do," continued Mr. Lord, in the same injured tone he had previously used, "was to help me set things to rights when we struck a town in the morning, and then tend to the counter till we left the town at night, and all the rest of the time he had to himself. Yet that boy was ungrateful enough to run away." Mr. Lord paused, as if expecting some expression of sympathy from his listener; but Toby was so busily engaged with his unexpected feast, and his mouth was so full, that it did not seem even possible for him to shake his head. "Now what should you say if I told you that you looked to me like a boy that was made especially to help run a candy counter at a circus, and if I offered the place to you?" Toby made one frantic effort to swallow the very large mouthful, and in a choking voice he answered, quickly, "I should say I'd go with you, an' be mighty glad of the chance." "Then it's a bargain, my boy, and you shall leave town with me to-night." CHAPTER II. TOBY RUNS AWAY FROM HOME. Toby could scarcely restrain himself at the prospect of this golden future that had so suddenly opened before him. He tried to express his gratitude, but could only do so by evincing his willingness to commence work at once. "No, no, that won't do," said Mr. Lord, cautiously. "If your uncle Daniel should see you working here, he might mistrust something, and then you couldn't get away." "I don't believe he'd try to stop me," said Toby, confidently; "for he's told me lots of times that it was a sorry day for him when he found me." "We won't take any chances, my son," was the reply, in a very benevolent tone, as he patted Toby on the head, and at the same time handed him a piece of pasteboard. "There's a ticket for the circus, and you come around to see me about ten o'clock to-night. I'll put you on one of the wagons, and by to-morrow morning your uncle Daniel will have hard work to find you." If Toby had followed his inclinations, the chances are that he would have fallen on his knees, and kissed Mr. Lord's hands in the excess of his gratitude. But not knowing exactly how such a show of thankfulness might be received, he contented himself by repeatedly promising that he would be punctual to the time and place appointed. He would have loitered in the vicinity of the candy stand in order that he might gain some insight into the business; but Mr. Lord advised that he remain away, lest his uncle Daniel should see him, and suspect where he had gone when he was missed in the morning. As Toby walked around the circus grounds, whereon was so much to attract his attention, he could not prevent himself from assuming an air of proprietorship. His interest in all that was going on was redoubled, and in his anxiety that everything should be done correctly and in the proper order he actually, and perhaps for the first time in his life, forgot that he was hungry. He was really to travel with a circus, to become a part, as it were, of the whole, and to be able to see its many wonderful and beautiful attractions every day. Even the very tent ropes had acquired a new interest for him, and the faces of the men at work seemed suddenly to have become those of friends. How hard it was for him to walk around unconcernedly: and how especially hard to prevent his feet from straying toward that tempting display of dainties which he was to sell to those who came to see and enjoy, and who would look at him with wonder and curiosity! It was very hard not to be allowed to tell his playmates of his wonderfully good fortune; but silence meant success, and he locked his secret in his bosom, not even daring to talk with any one he knew, lest he should betray himself by some incautious word. He did not go home to dinner that day, and once or twice he felt impelled to walk past the candy stand, giving a mysterious shake of the head at the proprietor as he did so. The afternoon performance passed off as usual to all of the spectators save Toby. He imagined that each one of the performers knew that he was about to join them; and even as he passed the cage containing the monkeys he fancied that one particularly old one knew all about his intention of running away. Of course it was necessary for him to go home at the close of the afternoon's performance, in order to get one or two valuable articles of his own--such as a boat, a kite, and a pair of skates--and in order that his actions might not seem suspicious. Before he left the grounds, however, he stole slyly around to the candy stand, and informed Mr. Job Lord, in a very hoarse whisper, that he would be on hand at the time appointed. Mr. Lord patted him on the head, gave him two large sticks of candy, and, what was more kind and surprising, considering the fact that he wore glasses, and was cross-eyed, he winked at Toby. A wink from Mr. Lord must have been intended to convey a great deal, because, owing to the defect in his eyes, it required no little exertion, and even then could not be considered as a really first-class wink. That wink, distorted as it was, gladdened Toby's heart immensely, and took away nearly all the sting of the scolding with which Uncle Daniel greeted him when he reached home. That night--despite the fact that he was going to travel with the circus, despite the fact that his home was not a happy or cheerful one--Toby was not in a pleasant frame of mind. He began to feel for the first time that he was doing wrong; and as he gazed at Uncle Daniel's stern, forbidding-looking face, it seemed to have changed somewhat from its severity, and caused a great lump of something to come up in his throat as he thought that perhaps he should never see it again. Just then one or two kind words would have prevented him from running away, bright as the prospect of circus life appeared. It was almost impossible for him to eat anything, and this very surprising state of affairs attracted the attention of Uncle Daniel. "Bless my heart! what ails the boy?" asked the old man, as he peered over his glasses at Toby's well-filled plate, which was usually emptied so quickly. "Are ye sick, Toby, or what is the matter with ye?" "No, I hain't sick," said Toby, with a sigh; "but I've been to the circus, an' I got a good deal to eat." "Oho, you spent that cent I give ye, eh, an' got so much that it made ye sick?" Toby thought of the six pea-nuts which he had bought with the penny Uncle Daniel had given him; and, amid all his homesickness, he could not help wondering if Uncle Daniel ever made himself sick with only six pea-nuts when he was a boy. As no one paid any further attention to Toby, he pushed back his plate, arose from the table, and went with a heavy heart to attend to his regular evening chores. The cow, the hens, and even the pigs, came in for a share of his unusually kind attention; and as he fed them all the big tears rolled down his cheeks, as he thought that perhaps never again would he see any of them. These dumb animals had all been Toby's confidants; he had poured out his griefs in their ears, and fancied, when the world or Uncle Daniel had used him unusually hard, that they sympathized with him. Now he was leaving them forever, and as he locked the stable door he could hear the sounds of music coming from the direction of the circus grounds, and he was angry at it, because it represented that which was taking him away from his home, even though it was not as pleasant as it might have been. Still, he had no thought of breaking the engagement which he had made. He went to his room, made a bundle of his worldly possessions, and crept out of the back door, down the road to the circus. Mr. Lord saw him as soon as he arrived on the grounds, and as he passed another ticket to Toby he took his bundle from him, saying, as he did so, "I'll pack up your bundle with my things, and then you'll be sure not to lose it. Don't you want some candy?" Toby shook his head; he had just discovered that there was possibly some connection between his heart and his stomach, for his grief at leaving home had taken from him all desire for good things. It is also more than possible that Mr. Lord had had experience enough with boys to know that they might be homesick on the eve of starting to travel with a circus; and in order to make sure that Toby would keep to his engagement he was unusually kind. That evening was the longest Toby ever knew. He wandered from one cage of animals to another; then to see the performance in the ring, and back again to the animals, in the vain hope of passing the time pleasantly. But it was of no use; that lump in his throat would remain there, and the thoughts of what he was about to do would trouble him severely. The performance failed to interest him, and the animals did not attract until he had visited the monkey-cage for the third or fourth time. Then he fancied that the same venerable monkey who had looked so knowing in the afternoon was gazing at him with a sadness which could only have come from a thorough knowledge of all the grief and doubt that was in his heart. There was no one around the cages, and Toby got just as near to the iron bars as possible. No sooner had he flattened his little pug-nose against the iron than the aged monkey came down from the ring in which he had been swinging, and, seating himself directly in front of Toby's face, looked at him most compassionately. It would not have surprised the boy just then if the animal had spoken; but as he did not, Toby did the next best thing, and spoke to him. "I s'pose you remember that you saw me this afternoon, an' somebody told you that I was goin' to join the circus, didn't they?" The monkey made no reply, though Toby fancied that he winked an affirmative answer; and he looked so sympathetic that he continued, confidentially, [Illustration: TOBY AND HIS NEW FRIEND.] "Well, I'm the same feller, an' I don't mind telling you that I'm awfully sorry I promised that candy man I'd go with him. Do you know that I came near crying at the supper table to-night; an' Uncle Dan'l looked real good an' nice, though I never thought so before. I wish I wasn't goin', after all, 'cause it don't seem a bit like a good time now; but I s'pose I must, 'cause I promised to, an' 'cause the candy man has got all my things." The big tears had begun to roll down Toby's cheeks, and as he ceased speaking the monkey reached out one little paw, which Toby took as earnestly as if it had been done purposely to console him. "You're real good, you are," continued Toby; "an' I hope I shall see you real often, for it seems to me now, when there hain't any folks around, as if you was the only friend I've got in this great big world. It's awful when a feller feels the way I do, an' when he don't seem to want anything to eat. Now if you'll stick to me, I'll stick to you, an' then it won't be half so bad when we feel this way." During this speech Toby had still clung to the little brown paw, which the monkey now withdrew, and continued to gaze into the boy's face. "The fellers all say I don't amount to anything," sobbed Toby, "an' Uncle Dan'l says I don't, an' I s'pose they know; but I tell you I feel just as bad, now that I'm goin' away from them all, as if I was as good as any of them." At this moment Toby saw Mr. Lord enter the tent, and he knew that the summons to start was about to be given. "Good-bye," he said to the monkey, as he vainly tried to take him by the hand again; "remember what I've told you, an' don't forget that Toby Tyler is feelin' worse to-night than if he was twice as big an' twice as good." Mr. Lord had come to summon him away, and he now told Toby that he would show him with which man he was to ride that night. Toby looked another good-bye at the venerable monkey, who was watching him closely, and then followed his employer out of the tent, among the ropes and poles and general confusion attendant upon the removal of a circus from one place to another. CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT RIDE. The wagon on which Mr. Lord was to send his new-found employé was, by the most singular chance, the one containing the monkeys, and Toby accepted this as a good omen. He would be near his venerable friend all night, and there was some consolation in that. The driver instructed the boy to watch his movements, and when he saw him leading his horses around, "to look lively, and be on hand, for he never waited for any one." Toby not only promised to do as ordered, but he followed the driver around so closely that, had he desired, he could not have rid himself of his little companion. The scene which presented itself to Toby's view was strange and weird in the extreme. Shortly after he had attached himself to the man with whom he was to ride, the performance was over, and the work of putting the show and its belongings into such a shape as could be conveyed from one town to another was soon in active operation. Toby forgot his grief, forgot that he was running away from the only home he had ever known--in fact, forgot everything concerning himself--so interested was he in that which was going on about him. As soon as the audience had got out of the tent--and almost before--the work of taking down the canvas was begun. Torches were stuck in the earth at regular intervals, the lights that had shone so brilliantly in and around the ring had been extinguished, the canvas sides had been taken off, and the boards that had formed the seats were being packed into one of the carts with a rattling sound that seemed as if a regular fusillade of musketry was being indulged in. Men were shouting; horses were being driven hither and thither, harnessed to the wagons, or drawing the huge carts away as soon as they were loaded; and everything seemed in the greatest state of confusion, while really the work was being done in the most systematic manner possible. Toby had not long to wait before the driver informed him that the time for starting had arrived, and assisted him to climb up to the narrow seat whereon he was to ride that night. [Illustration: TOBY'S FIRST NIGHT RIDE.] The scene was so exciting, and his efforts to stick to the narrow seat so great, that he really had no time to attend to the homesick feeling that had crept over him during the first part of the evening. The long procession of carts and wagons drove slowly out of the town, and when the last familiar house had been passed the driver spoke to Toby for the first time since they started. "Pretty hard work to keep on--eh, sonny?" "Yes," replied the boy, as the wagon jolted over a rock, bouncing him high in air, and he, by strenuous efforts, barely succeeded in alighting on the seat again, "it is pretty hard work; an' my name's Toby Tyler." Toby heard a queer sound that seemed to come from the man's throat, and for a few moments he feared that his companion was choking. But he soon understood that this was simply an attempt to laugh, and he at once decided that it was a very poor style of laughing. "So you object to being called sonny, do you?" "Well, I'd rather be called Toby, for, you see, that's my name." "All right, my boy; we'll call you Toby. I suppose you thought it was a mighty fine thing to run away an' jine a circus, didn't you?" Toby started in affright, looked around cautiously, and then tried to peer down through the small square aperture, guarded by iron rods, that opened into the cage just back of the seat they were sitting on. Then he turned slowly around to the driver, and asked, in a voice sunk to a whisper, "How did you know that I was runnin' away? Did he tell you?" and Toby motioned with his thumb as if he were pointing out some one behind him. It was the driver's turn now to look around in search of the "he" referred to by Toby. "Who do you mean?" asked the man, impatiently. "Why, the old feller; the one in the cart there. I think he knew I was runnin' away, though he didn't say anything about it; but he looked just as if he did." The driver looked at Toby in perfect amazement for a moment, and then, as if suddenly understanding the boy, relapsed into one of those convulsive efforts that caused the blood to rush up into his face, and gave him every appearance of having a fit. "You must mean one of the monkeys," said the driver, after he had recovered his breath, which had been almost shaken out of his body by the silent laughter. "So you thought a monkey had told me what any fool could have seen if he had watched you for five minutes." "Well," said Toby, slowly, as if he feared he might provoke one of those terrible laughing spells again, "I saw him to-night, an' he looked as if he knew what I was doin'; so I up an' told him, an' I didn't know but he'd told you, though he didn't look to me like a feller that would be mean." There was another internal shaking on the part of the driver, which Toby did not fear so much, since he was getting accustomed to it, and then the man said, "Well, you are the queerest little cove I ever saw." "I s'pose I am," was the reply, accompanied by a long-drawn sigh. "I don't seem to amount to so much as the other fellers do, an' I guess it's because I'm always hungry; you see, I eat awful, Uncle Dan'l says." The only reply which the driver made to this plaintive confession was to put his hand down into the deepest recesses of one of his deep pockets, and to draw therefrom a huge doughnut, which he handed to his companion. Toby was so much at his ease by this time that the appetite which had failed him at supper had now returned in full force, and he devoured the doughnut in a most ravenous manner. "You're too small to eat so fast," said the man, in a warning tone, as the last morsel of the greasy sweetness disappeared, and he fished up another for the boy. "Some time you'll get hold of one of the India-rubber doughnuts that they feed to circus people, an' choke yourself to death." Toby shook his head, and devoured this second cake as quickly as he had the first, craning his neck, and uttering a funny little squeak as the last bit went down, just as a chicken does when he gets too large a mouthful of dough. "I'll never choke," he said, confidently: "I'm used to it; and Uncle Dan'l says I could eat a pair of boots an' never wink at 'em; but I don't just believe that." As the driver made no reply to this remark Toby curled himself up on one corner of the seat, and watched with no little interest all that was passing on around him. Each of the wagons had a lantern fastened to the hind axle, and these lights could be seen far ahead on the road, as if a party of fire-flies had started in single file on an excursion. The trees by the side of the road stood out weird and ghostly-looking in the darkness, and the rumble of the carts ahead and behind formed a musical accompaniment to the picture that sounded strangely doleful. Mile after mile was passed over in perfect silence, save now and then when the driver would whistle a few bars of some very dismal tune that would fairly make Toby shiver with its mournfulness. Eighteen miles was the distance from Guilford to the town where the next performance of the circus was to be given, and as Toby thought of the ride before them it seemed as if the time would be almost interminable. He curled himself up on one corner of the seat, and tried very hard to go to sleep; but just as his eyes began to grow heavy the wagon would jolt over some rock or sink deep in some rut, till Toby, the breath very nearly shaken out of his body, and his neck almost dislocated, would sit bolt-upright, clinging to the seat with both hands, as if he expected each moment to be pitched out into the mud. The driver watched him closely, and each time that he saw him shaken up and awakened so thoroughly he would indulge in one of his silent laughing spells, until Toby would wonder whether he would ever recover from it. Several times had Toby been awakened, and each time he had seen the amusement his sufferings caused, until he finally resolved to put an end to the sport by keeping awake. "What is your name?" he asked of the driver, thinking a conversation would be the best way to rouse himself into wakefulness. "Waal," said the driver, as he gathered the reins carefully in one hand, and seemed to be debating in his mind how he should answer the question, "I don't know as I know myself, it's been so long since I've heard it." Toby was wide enough awake now, as this rather singular problem was forced upon his mind. He revolved the matter silently for some moments, and at last he asked, "What do folks call you when they want to speak to you?" "They always call me Old Ben, an' I've got so used to the name that I don't need any other." Toby wanted very much to ask more questions, but he wisely concluded that it would not be agreeable to his companion. "I'll ask the old man about it," said Toby to himself, referring to the aged monkey, whom he seemed to feel acquainted with; "he most likely knows, if he'll say anything." After this the conversation ceased, until Toby again ventured to suggest, "It's a pretty long drive, hain't it?" "You want to wait till you've been in this business a year or two," said Ben, sagely, "an' then you won't think much of it. Why, I've known the show towns to be thirty miles apart, an' them was the times when we had lively work of it; riding all night and working all day kind of wears on a fellow." "Yes, I s'pose so," said Toby, with a sigh, as he wondered whether he had got to work as hard as that; "but I s'pose you get all you want to eat, don't you?" "Now you've struck it!" said Ben, with the air of one about to impart a world of wisdom, as he crossed one leg over the other, that his position might be as comfortable as possible while he was initiating his young companion into the mysteries of the life. "I've had all the boys ride with me since I've been with this show, an' I've tried to start them right; but they didn't seem to profit by it, an' always got sick of the show an' run away, just because they didn't look out for themselves as they ought to. Now listen to me, Toby, an' remember what I say. You see they put us all in a hotel together, an' some of these places where we go don't have any too much stuff on the table. Whenever we strike a new town you find out at the hotel what time they have the grub ready, an' you be on hand, so's to get in with the first. Eat all you can, an' fill your pockets." "If that's all a feller has to do to travel with a circus," said Toby, "I'm just the one, 'cause I always used to do just that when I hadn't any idea of bein' a circus man." "Then you'll get along all right," said Ben, as he checked the speed of his horses, and, looking carefully ahead, said, as he guided his team to one side of the road, "This is as far as we're going to-night." Toby learned that they were within a couple of miles of the town, and that the entire procession would remain by the roadside until time to make the grand entrée into the village, when every wagon, horse, and man would be decked out in the most gorgeous array, as they had been when they entered Guilford. Under Ben's direction he wrapped himself in an old horse-blanket, and lay down on the top of the wagon; and he was so tired from the excitement of the day and night, that he had hardly stretched out at full length before he was fast asleep. CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST DAY WITH THE CIRCUS. When Toby awakened and looked around he could hardly realize where he was or how he came there. As far ahead and behind on the road as he could see the carts were drawn up on one side; men were hurrying to and fro, orders were being shouted, and everything showed that the entry into the town was about to be made. Directly opposite the wagon on which he had been sleeping were the four elephants and two camels, and close behind, contentedly munching their breakfasts, were a number of tiny ponies. Troops of horses were being groomed and attended to; the road was littered with saddles, flags, and general decorations, until it seemed to Toby that there must have been a smash-up, and that he now beheld ruins rather than systematic disorder. How different everything looked now, compared to the time when the cavalcade marched into Guilford, dazzling every one with the gorgeous display! Then the horses pranced gayly under their gaudy decorations, the wagons were bright with glass, gilt, and flags, the lumbering elephants and awkward camels were covered with fancifully embroidered velvets, and even the drivers of the wagons were resplendent in their uniforms of scarlet and gold. Now, in the gray light of the early morning, everything was changed. The horses were tired and muddy, and wore old and dirty harness; the gilded chariots were covered with mud-bespattered canvas, which caused them to look like the most ordinary of market wagons; the elephants and camels looked dingy, dirty, almost repulsive; and the drivers were only a sleepy-looking set of men, who, in their shirt-sleeves, were getting ready for the change which would dazzle the eyes of the inhabitants of the town. Toby descended from his lofty bed, rubbed his eyes to thoroughly awaken himself, and under the guidance of Ben went to a little brook near by and washed his face. He had been with the circus not quite ten hours, but now he could not realize that it had ever seemed bright and beautiful. He missed his comfortable bed, the quiet and cleanliness, and the well-spread table; even although he had felt the lack of parents' care, Uncle Daniel's home seemed the very abode of love and friendly feeling compared to this condition, where no one appeared to care even enough for him to scold at him. He was thoroughly homesick, and heartily wished that he was back in his old native town. While he was washing his face in the brook he saw some of the boys who had come out from the town to catch the first glimpse of the circus, and he saw at once that he was the object of their admiring gaze. He heard one of the boys say, when they first discovered him, "There's one of them, an' he's only a little feller; so I'm going to talk to him." The evident admiration which the boys had for Toby pleased him, and this pleasure was the only drop of comfort he had had since he started. He hoped they would come and talk with him; and, that they might have the opportunity, he was purposely slow in making his toilet. The boys approached him shyly, as if they had their doubts whether he was made of the same material as themselves, and when they got quite near to him, and satisfied themselves that he was only washing his face in much the same way that any well-regulated boy would do, the one who had called attention to him said, half timidly, "Hello!" "Hello!" responded Toby, in a tone that was meant to invite confidence. "Do you belong to the circus?" "Yes," said Toby, a little doubtfully. Then the boys stared at him again as if he were one of the strange-looking animals, and the one who had been the spokesman drew a long breath of envy as he said, longingly, "My! what a nice time you must have!" Toby remembered that only yesterday he himself had thought that boys must have a nice time with a circus, and he now felt what a mistake that thought was; but he concluded that he would not undeceive his new acquaintance. "And do they give you frogs to eat, so's to make you limber?" This was the first time that Toby had thought of breakfast, and the very mention of eating made him hungry. He was just at that moment so very hungry that he did not think he was replying to the question when he said, quickly, "Eat frogs! I could eat anything, if I only had the chance." The boys took this as an answer to their question, and felt perfectly convinced that the agility of circus riders and tumblers depended upon the quantity of frogs eaten, and they looked upon Toby with no little degree of awe. Toby might have undeceived them as to the kind of food he ate, but just at that moment the harsh voice of Mr. Job Lord was heard calling him, and he hurried away to commence his first day's work. Toby's employer was not the same pleasant, kindly-spoken man that he had been during the time they were in Guilford, and before the boy was absolutely under his control. He looked cross, he acted cross, and it did not take the boy very long to find out that he was very cross. He scolded Toby roundly, and launched more oaths at his defenceless head than Toby had ever heard in his life. He was angry that the boy had not been on hand to help him, and also that he had been obliged to hunt for him. Toby tried to explain that he had no idea of what he was expected to do, and that he had been on the wagon to which he had been sent, only leaving it to wash his face; but the angry man grew still more furious. "Went to wash your face, did yer? Want to set yourself up for a dandy, I suppose, and think that you must souse that speckled face of yours into every brook you come to? I'll soon break you of that; and the sooner you understand that I can't afford to have you wasting your time in washing, the better it will be for you." Toby now grew angry, and not realizing how wholly he was in the man's power, he retorted, "If you think I'm going round with a dirty face, even if it is speckled, for a dollar a week, you're mistaken, that's all. How many folks would eat your candy if they knew you handled it over before you washed your hands?" [Illustration: OLD BEN COMES TO THE RESCUE.] "Oho! I've picked up a preacher, have I? Now, I want you to understand, my bantam, that I do all the preaching as well as the practising myself, and this is about as quick a way as I know of to make you understand it." As the man spoke he grasped the boy by the coat-collar with one hand, and with the other plied a thin rubber cane with no gentle force to every portion of Toby's body that he could reach. Every blow caused the poor boy the most intense pain; but he determined that his tormentor should not have the satisfaction of forcing an outcry from him, and he closed his lips so tightly that not a single sound could escape from them. This very silence enraged the man so much that he redoubled the force and rapidity of his blows, and it is impossible to say what might have been the consequences had not Ben come that way just then, and changed the aspect of affairs. "Up to your old tricks of whipping the boys, are you, Job?" he said, as he wrested the cane from the man's hand and held him off at arm's-length, to prevent him from doing Toby more mischief. Mr. Lord struggled to release himself, and insisted that, since the boy was in his employ, he should do with him just as he saw fit. "Now look here, Mr. Lord," said Ben as gravely as if he was delivering some profound piece of wisdom, "I've never interfered with you before; but now I'm going to stop your game of thrashing your boy every morning before breakfast. You just tell this youngster what you want him to do, and if he don't do it you can discharge him. If I hear of your flogging him, I shall attend to your case at once. You hear me?" Ben shook the now terrified candy vender much as if he had been a child, and then released him, saying to Toby as he did so, "Now, my boy, you attend to your business as you ought to, and I'll settle his account if he tries the flogging game again." "You see, I don't know what there is for me to do," sobbed Toby, for the kindly interference of Ben had made him show more feeling than Mr. Lord's blows had done. "Tell him what he must do," said Ben, sternly. "I want him to go to work and wash the tumblers, and fix up the things in that green box, so we can commence to sell as soon as we get into town," snarled Mr. Lord, as he motioned toward a large green chest that had been taken out of one of the carts, and which Toby saw was filled with dirty glasses, spoons, knives, and other utensils such as were necessary to carry on the business. Toby got a pail of water from the brook, hunted around and found towels and soap, and devoted himself to his work with such industry that Mr. Lord could not repress a grunt of satisfaction as he passed him, however angry he felt because he could not administer the whipping which would have smoothed his ruffled temper. By the time the procession was ready to start for the town Toby had as much of his work done as he could find that it was necessary to do, and his master, in his surly way, half acknowledged that this last boy of his was better than any he had had before. Although Toby had done his work so well he was far from feeling happy; he was both angry and sad as he thought of the cruel blows that had been inflicted, and he had plenty of leisure to repent of the rash step he had taken, although he could not see very clearly how he was to get away from it. He thought that he could not go back to Guilford, for Uncle Daniel would not allow him to come to his house again; and the hot scalding tears ran down his cheeks as he realized that he was homeless and friendless in this great big world. It was while he was in this frame of mind that the procession, all gaudy with flags, streamers, and banners, entered the town. Under different circumstances this would have been a most delightful day for him, for the entrance of a circus into Guilford had always been a source of one day's solid enjoyment; but now he was the most disconsolate and unhappy boy in all that crowd. He did not ride throughout the entire route of the procession, for Mr. Lord was anxious to begin business, and the moment the tenting ground was reached the wagon containing Mr. Lord's goods was driven into the enclosure, and Toby's day's work began. He was obliged to bring water, to cut up the lemons, fetch and carry fruit from the booth in the big tent to the booth on the outside, until he was ready to drop with fatigue, and having had no time for breakfast, was nearly famished. It was quite noon before he was permitted to go to the hotel for something to eat, and then Ben's advice to be one of the first to get to the tables was not needed. In the eating line that day he astonished the servants, the members of the company, and even himself, and by the time he arose from the table, with both pockets and his stomach full to bursting, the tables had been set and cleared away twice while he was making one meal. "Well, I guess you didn't hurry yourself much," said Mr. Lord, when Toby returned to the circus ground. "Oh yes, I did," was Toby's innocent reply: "I ate just as fast as I could;" and a satisfied smile stole over the boy's face as he thought of the amount of solid food he had consumed. The answer was not one which was calculated to make Mr. Lord feel any more agreeably disposed toward his new clerk, and he showed his ill-temper very plainly as he said, "It must take a good deal to satisfy you." "I s'pose it does," calmly replied Toby. "Sam Merrill used to say that I took after Aunt Olive and Uncle Dan'l, one ate a good while, an' the other ate awful fast." Toby could not understand what it was that Mr. Lord said in reply, but he could understand that his employer was angry at somebody or something, and he tried unusually hard to please him. He talked to the boys who had gathered around, to induce them to buy, washed the glasses as fast as they were used, tried to keep off the flies, and in every way he could think of endeavored to please his master. CHAPTER V. THE COUNTERFEIT TEN-CENT PIECE. When the doors of the big tent were opened, and the people began to crowd in, just as Toby had seen them do at Guilford, Mr. Lord announced to his young clerk that it was time for him to go into the tent to work. Then it was that Toby learned for the first time that he had two masters instead of one, and this knowledge caused him no little uneasiness. If the other one was anything like Mr. Lord, his lot would be just twice as bad, and he began to wonder whether he could even stand it one day longer. As the boy passed through the tent on his way to the candy stand, where he was really to enter upon the duties for which he had run away from home, he wanted to stop for a moment and speak with the old monkey who he thought had taken such an interest in him. But when he reached the cage in which his friend was confined, there was such a crowd around it that it was impossible for him to get near enough to speak without being overheard. This was such a disappointment to the little fellow that the big tears came into his eyes, and in another instant would have gone rolling down his cheeks if his aged friend had not chanced to look toward him. Toby fancied that the monkey looked at him in the most friendly way, and then he was certain that he winked one eye. Toby felt that there was no mistake about that wink, and it seemed as if it was intended to convey comfort to him in his troubles. He winked back at the monkey in the most emphatic and grave manner possible, and then went on his way, feeling wonderfully comforted. The work inside the tent was far different and much harder than it was outside. He was obliged to carry around among the audience trays of candy, nuts, and lemonade for sale, and he was also expected to cry aloud the description of that which he offered. The partner of Mr. Lord, who had charge of the stand inside the tent, showed himself to be neither better nor worse than Mr. Lord himself. When Toby first presented himself for work he handed him a tray filled with glasses of lemonade, and told him to go among the audience, crying, "Here's your nice cold lemonade, only five cents a glass!" Toby started to do as he was bidden; but when he tried to repeat the words in anything like a loud tone of voice they stuck in his throat, and he found it next to impossible to utter a sound above a whisper. It seemed to him that every one in the audience was looking only at him, and the very sound of his own voice made him afraid. He went entirely around the tent once without making a sale, and when he returned to the stand he was at once convinced that one of his masters was quite as bad as the other. This one--and he knew that his name was Jacobs, for he heard some one call him so--very kindly told him that he would break every bone in his body if he didn't sell something, and Toby confidently believed that he would carry out his threat. It was with a very heavy heart that he started around again in obedience to Mr. Jacobs's angry command; but this time he did manage to cry out, in a very thin and very squeaky voice, the words which he had been told to repeat. This time--perhaps owing to his pitiful and imploring look, certainly not because of the noise he made--he met with very good luck, and sold every glass of the mixture which Messrs. Lord and Jacobs called lemonade, and went back to the stand for more. He certainly thought he had earned a word of praise, and fully expected it as he put the empty glasses and money on the stand in front of Mr. Jacobs. But, instead of the kind words, he was greeted with a volley of curses; and the reason for it was that he had taken in payment for two of the glasses a lead ten-cent piece. Mr. Jacobs, after scolding poor little Toby to his heart's content, vowed that the amount should be kept from his first week's wages, and then handed back the coin, with orders to give it to the first man who gave him money to change, under the penalty of a severe flogging if he failed to do so. Poor Toby tried to explain matters by saying, "You see, I don't know anything about money; I never had more'n a cent at a time, an' you mustn't expect me to get posted all at once." "I'll post you with a stick if you do it again; an' it won't be well for you if you bring that ten-cent piece back here!" Now, Toby was very well aware that to pass the coin, knowing it to be bad, would be a crime, and he resolved to take the consequences of which Mr. Jacobs had intimated, if he could not find the one who had given him the counterfeit, and persuade him to give him good money in its stead. He remembered very plainly where he had sold each glass of lemonade, and he retraced his steps, glancing at each face carefully as he passed. At last he was confident that he saw the man who had gotten him into such trouble, and he climbed up the board seats, saying, as he stood in front of him and held out the coin, "Mister, this money that you gave me is bad. Won't you give me an other one for it?" The man was a rough-looking party who had taken his girl to the circus, and who did not seem at all disposed to pay any heed to Toby's request. Therefore he repeated it, and this time more loudly. "Get out the way!" said the man, angrily. "How can you expect me to see the show if you stand right in front of me?" "You'll like it better," said Toby, earnestly, "if you give me another ten-cent piece." "Get out, an' don't bother me!" was the angry rejoinder; and the little fellow began to think that perhaps he would be obliged to "get out" without getting his money. It was becoming a desperate case, for the man was growing angry very fast, and if Toby did not succeed in getting good money for the bad, he would have to take the consequences of which Mr. Jacobs had spoken. "Please, mister," he said, imploringly--for his heart began to grow very heavy, and he was fearing that he should not succeed--"won't you please give me the money back? You know you gave it to me, an' I'll have to pay it if you don't." The boy's lip was quivering, and those around began to be interested in the affair, while several in the immediate vicinity gave vent to their indignation that a man should try to cheat a boy out of ten cents by giving him counterfeit money. [Illustration: "WON'T YOU PLEASE GIVE ME THE MONEY BACK?"] The man whom Toby was speaking to was about to dismiss him with an angry reply, when he saw that those about him were not only interested in the matter, but were evidently taking sides with the boy against him; and knowing well that he had given the counterfeit money, he took another coin from his pocket, and handing it to Toby, said, "I didn't give you the lead piece; but you're making such a fuss about it that here's ten cents to make you keep quiet." "I'm sure you did give me the money," said Toby, as he took the extended coin, "an' I'm much obliged to you for takin' it back. I didn't want to tell you before, 'cause you'd thought I was beggin'; but if you hadn't given me this, I 'xpect I'd have got an awful whippin', for Mr. Jacobs said he'd fix me if I didn't get the money for it." The man looked sheepish enough as he put the bad money in his pocket, and Toby's innocently told story caused such a feeling in his behalf among those who sat near that he not only disposed of his entire stock then and there, but received from one gentleman twenty-five cents for himself. He was both proud and happy as he returned to Mr. Jacobs with empty glasses, and with the money to refund the amount of loss which would have been caused by the counterfeit. But the worthy partner of Mr. Lord's candy business had no words of encouragement for the boy who was trying so hard to please. "Let that make you keep your eyes open," he growled out, sulkily; "an' if you get caught in that trap again, you won't be let off so easy." Poor little Toby! his heart seemed ready to break; but his few hours' previous experience had taught him that there was but one thing to do, and that was to work just as hard as possible, trusting to some good fortune to enable him to get out of the very disagreeable position in which he had voluntarily placed himself. He took the basket of candy that Mr. Jacobs handed him, and trudged around the circle of seats, selling far more because of the pitifulness of his face than because of the excellence of his goods; and even this worked to his disadvantage. Mr. Jacobs was keen enough to see why his little clerk sold so many goods, and each time that he returned to the stand he said something to him in an angry tone, which had the effect of deepening the shadow on the boy's face and at the same time increasing trade. By the time the performance was over Toby had in his pocket a dollar and twenty-five cents which had been given him for himself by some of the kind-hearted in the audience, and he kept his hand almost constantly upon it, for the money seemed to him like some kind friend who would help him out of his present difficulties. After the audience had dispersed, Mr. Jacobs set Toby at work washing the glasses and clearing up generally, and then, the boy started toward the other portion of the store--that watched over by Mr. Lord. Not a person save the watchmen was in the tent, and as Toby went toward the door he saw his friend the monkey sitting in one corner of the cage, and apparently watching his every movement. It was as if he had suddenly seen one of the boys from home, and Toby, uttering an exclamation of delight, ran up to the cage and put his hand through the wires. The monkey, in the gravest possible manner, took one of the fingers in his paw, and Toby shook hands with him very earnestly, "I was sorry that I couldn't speak to you when I went in this noon," said Toby, as if making an apology; "but, you see, there were so many around here to see you that I couldn't get the chance. Did you see me wink at you?" The monkey made no reply, but he twisted his face into such a funny little grimace that Toby was quite as well satisfied as if he had spoken. "I wonder if you hain't some relation to Steve Stubbs?" Toby continued, earnestly, "for you look just like him, only he don't have quite so many whiskers. What I wanted to say was, that I'm awful sorry I run away. I used to think that Uncle Dan'l was bad enough; but he was just a perfect good Samarathon to what Mr. Lord an' Mr. Jacobs are; an' when Mr. Lord looks at me with that crooked eye of his, I feel it 'way down in my boots. Do you know"--and here Toby put his mouth nearer to the monkey's head and whispered--"I'd run away from this circus if I could get the chance; wouldn't you?" Just at this point, as if in answer to the question, the monkey stood up on his hind-feet, and reached out his paw to the boy, who seemed to think this was his way of being more emphatic in saying "Yes." Toby took the paw in his hand, shook it again earnestly, and said, as he released it, "I was pretty sure you felt just about the same way I did, Mr. Stubbs, when I passed you this noon. Look here"--and Toby took the money from his pocket which had been given him--"I got all that this afternoon, an' I'll try an' stick it out somehow till I get as much as ten dollars, an' then we'll run away some night, an' go 'way off as far as--as--as out West; an' we'll stay there too." The monkey, probably tired with remaining in one position so long, started toward the top of the cage, chattering and screaming, joining the other monkeys, who had gathered in a little group in one of the swings. "Now see here, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, in alarm, "you mustn't go to telling everybody about it, or Mr. Lord will know, an' then we'll be dished, sure." The monkey sat quietly in the swing, as if he felt reproved by what the boy had said; and Toby, considerably relieved by his silence, said, as he started toward the door, "That's right--mum's the word; you keep quiet, an' so will I, an' pretty soon we'll get away from the whole crowd." All the monkeys chattered; and Toby, believing that everything which he had said had been understood by the animals, went out of the door to meet his other taskmaster. CHAPTER VI. A TENDER-HEARTED SKELETON. "Now, then, lazy-bones," was Mr. Lord's warning cry as Toby came out of the tent, "if you've fooled away enough of your time, you can come here an' tend shop for me while I go to supper. You crammed yourself this noon, an' it'll teach you a good lesson to make you go without anything to eat to-night; it'll make you move round more lively in future." Instead of becoming accustomed to such treatment as he was receiving from his employers, Toby's heart grew more tender with each brutal word, and this last punishment--that of losing his supper--caused the poor boy more sorrow than blows would. Mr. Lord started for the hotel as he concluded his cruel speech; and poor little Toby, going behind the counter, leaned his head upon the rough boards and cried as if his heart would break. All the fancied brightness and pleasure of a circus life had vanished, and in its place was the bitterness of remorse that he had repaid Uncle Daniel's kindness by the ingratitude of running away. Toby thought that if he could only nestle his little red head on the pillows of his little bed in that rough room at Uncle Daniel's, he would be the happiest and best boy, in the future, in all the great wide world. While he was still sobbing away at a most furious rate he heard a voice close at his elbow, and, looking up, saw the thinnest man he had ever seen in all his life. The man had flesh-colored tights on, and a spangled red velvet garment--that was neither pants, because there were no legs to it, nor a coat, because it did not come above his waist--made up the remainder of his costume. Because he was so wonderfully thin, because of the costume which he wore, and because of a highly colored painting which was hanging in front of one of the small tents, Toby knew that the Living Skeleton was before him, and his big brown eyes opened all the wider as he gazed at him. "What is the matter, little fellow?" asked the man, in a kindly tone. "What makes you cry so? Has Job been up to his old tricks again?" "I don't know what his old tricks are"--and Toby sobbed, the tears coming again because of the sympathy which this man's voice expressed for him--"but I know that he's a mean, ugly thing--that's what I know; an' if I could only get back to Uncle Dan'l, there hain't elephants enough in all the circuses in the world to pull me away again." "Oh, you run away from home, did you?" "Yes, I did," sobbed Toby, "an' there hain't any boy in any Sunday-school book that ever I read that was half so sorry he'd been bad as I am. It's awful; an' now I can't have any supper, 'cause I stopped to talk with Mr. Stubbs." "Is Mr. Stubbs one of your friends?" asked the skeleton as he seated himself in Mr. Lord's own private chair. "Yes, he is, an' he's the only one in this whole circus who 'pears to be sorry for me. You'd better not let Mr. Lord see you sittin' in that chair, or he'll raise a row." "Job won't raise any row with me," said the skeleton. "But who is this Mr. Stubbs? I don't seem to know anybody by that name." "I don't think that is his name. I only call him so, 'cause he looks so much like a feller I know who is named Stubbs." This satisfied the skeleton that this Mr. Stubbs must be some one attached to the show, and he asked, "Has Job been whipping you?" "No; Ben, the driver on the wagon where I ride, told him not to do that again; but he hain't going to let me have any supper, 'cause I was so slow about my work--though I wasn't slow; I only talked to Mr. Stubbs when there wasn't anybody round his cage." "Sam! Sam! Sam-u-el!" This name, which was shouted twice in a quick, loud voice, and the third time in a slow manner, ending almost in a screech, did not come from either Toby or the skeleton, but from an enormously large woman, dressed in a gaudy red-and-black dress, cut very short, and with low neck and an apology for sleeves, who had just come out from the tent whereon the picture of the Living Skeleton hung. "Samuel," she screamed again, "come inside this minute, or you'll catch your death o' cold, an' I shall have you wheezin' around with the phthisic all night. Come in, Sam-u-el." "That's her," said the skeleton to Toby, as he pointed his thumb in the direction of the fat woman, but paying no attention to the outcry she was making--"that's my wife Lilly, an' she's the Fat Woman of the show. She's always yellin' after me that way the minute I get out for a little fresh air, an' she's always sayin' just the same thing. Bless you, I never have the phthisic, but she does awful; an' I s'pose 'cause she's so large she can't feel all over her, an' thinks it's me that has it." "Is--is all that--is that your wife?" stammered Toby, in astonishment, as he looked at the enormously fat woman who stood in the tent door, and then at the wonderfully thin man who sat beside him. "Yes, that's her," said the skeleton. "She weighs pretty nigh four hundred, though of course the show cards says it's over six hundred, an' she earns almost as much money as I do. Of course she can't get so much, for skeletons is much scarcer than fat folks; but we make a pretty good thing travellin' together." "Sam-u-el!" again came the cry from the fat woman, "are you never coming in?" "Not yet, my angel," said the skeleton, placidly, as he crossed one thin leg over the other and looked calmly at her. "Come here an' see Job's new boy." "Your imprudence is wearin' me away so that I sha'n't be worth five dollars a week to any circus," she said, impatiently, at the same time coming toward the candy stand quite as rapidly as her very great size would admit. "This is my wife Lilly--Mrs. Treat," said the skeleton, with a proud wave of his hand, as he rose from his seat and gazed admiringly at her. "This is my flower--my queen, Mr.--Mr.--" "Tyler," said Toby, supplying the name which the skeleton--or Mr. Treat, as Toby now learned his name was--did not know; "Tyler is my name--Toby Tyler." "Why, what a little chap you are!" said Mrs. Treat, paying no attention to the awkward little bend of the head which Toby intended for a bow. "How small he is, Samuel!" "Yes," said the skeleton, reflectively, as he looked Toby over from head to foot, as if he were mentally trying to calculate exactly how many inches high he was, "he is small; but he's got all the world before him to grow in, an' if he only eats enough--There, that reminds me. Job isn't going to give him any supper, because he didn't work hard enough." "He won't, won't he?" exclaimed the large lady, savagely. "Oh, he's a precious one, he is; an' some day I shall just give him a good shakin'-up, that's what I'll do. I get all out of patience with that man's ugliness." "An' she'll do just what she says," said the skeleton to Toby, with an admiring shake of the head. "That woman hain't afraid of anybody, an' I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she did give Job a pretty rough time." Toby thought, as he looked at her, that she was large enough to give 'most any one a pretty rough time, but he did not venture to say so. While he was looking first at her, and then at her very thin husband, the skeleton told his wife the little that he had learned regarding the boy's history; and when he had concluded she waddled away toward her tent. "Great woman that," said the skeleton, as he saw her disappear within the tent. "Yes," said Toby, "she's the greatest I ever saw." "I mean that she's got a great head. Now you'll see about how much she cares for what Job says." "If I was as big as her," said Toby, with just a shade of envy in his voice, "I wouldn't be afraid of anybody." "It hain't so much the size," said the skeleton, sagely--"it hain't so much the size, my boy; for I can scare that woman almost to death when I feel like it." Toby looked for a moment at Mr. Treat's thin legs and arms, and then he said, warningly, "I wouldn't feel like it very often if I was you, Mr. Treat, 'cause she might break some of your bones if you didn't happen to scare her enough." "Don't fear for me, my boy--don't fear for me; you'll see how I manage her if you stay with the circus long enough. Now, I often--" If Mr. Treat was about to confide a family secret to Toby, it was fated that he should not hear it then, for Mrs. Treat had just come out of her tent, carrying in her hands a large tin plate piled high with a miscellaneous assortment of pie, cake, bread, and meat. She placed this in front of Toby, and as she did so she handed him two pictures. [Illustration: TOBY GETS HIS SUPPER.] "There, little Toby Tyler," she said--"there's something for you to eat, if Mr. Job Lord and his precious partner Jacobs did say you shouldn't have any supper: an' I've brought you a picture of Samuel an' me. We sell 'em for ten cents apiece, but I'm going to give them to you, because I like the looks of you." Toby was quite overcome with the presents, and seemed at a loss how to thank her for them. He attempted to speak, but could not get the words out at first; and then he said, as he put the two photographs in the same pocket with his money, "You're awful good to me, an' when I get to be a man I'll give you lots of things. I wasn't so very hungry, if I am such a big eater, but I did want something." "Bless your dear little heart, and you _shall_ have something to eat," said the Fat Woman, as she seized Toby, squeezed him close up to her, and kissed his freckled face as kindly as if it had been as fair and white as possible. "You shall eat all you want to; an' if you get the stomach-ache, as Samuel does sometimes when he's been eatin' too much, I'll give you some catnip-tea out of the same dipper that I give him his. He's a great eater, Samuel is," she added, in a burst of confidence, "an' it's a wonder to me what he does with it all sometimes." "Is he?" exclaimed Toby, quickly. "How funny that is! for I'm an awful eater. Why, Uncle Dan'l used to say that I ate twice as much as I ought to, an' it never made me any bigger. I wonder what's the reason?" "I declare I don't know," said the Fat Woman, thoughtfully, "an' I've wondered at it time an' time again. Some folks is made that way, an' some folks is made different. Now, I don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive, an' yet I grow fatter an' fatter every day--don't I, Samuel?" "Indeed you do, my love," said the skeleton, with a world of pride in his voice; "but you mustn't feel bad about it, for every pound you gain makes you worth just so much more to the show." "Oh, I wasn't worryin', I was only wonderin'. But we must go, Samuel, for the poor child won't eat a bit while we are here. After you've eaten what there is there, bring the plate in to me," she said to Toby, as she took her lean husband by the arm and walked him off toward their own tent. Toby gazed after them a moment, and then he commenced a vigorous attack upon the eatables which had been so kindly given him. Of the food which he had taken from the dinner-table he had eaten some while he was in the tent, and after that he had entirely forgotten that he had any in his pocket; therefore, at the time that Mrs. Treat had brought him such a liberal supply he was really very hungry. He succeeded in eating nearly all the food which had been brought to him, and the very small quantity which remained he readily found room for in his pockets. Then he washed the plate nicely; and seeing no one in sight, he thought he could leave the booth long enough to return the plate. He ran with it quickly into the tent occupied by the thin man and fat woman, and handed it to her, with a profusion of thanks for her kindness. "Did you eat it all?" she asked. "Well," hesitated Toby, "there was two doughnuts an' a piece of pie left over, an' I put them in my pocket. If you don't care, I'll eat them some time to-night." "You shall eat it whenever you want to; an' any time that you get hungry again, you come right to me." "Thank you, marm. I must go now, for I left the store all alone." "Run, then; an' if Job Lord abuses you, just let me know it, an' I'll keep him from cuttin' up any monkey shines." Toby hardly heard the end of her sentence, so great was his haste to get back to the booth; and just as he emerged from the tent, on a quick run, he received a blow on the ear which sent him sprawling in the dust, and he heard Mr. Job Lord's angry voice as it said, "So, just the moment my back is turned, you leave the stand to take care of itself, do you, an' run around tryin' to plot some mischief against me, eh?" And the brute kicked the prostrate boy twice with his heavy boot. "Please don't kick me again!" pleaded Toby. "I wasn't gone but a minute, an' I wasn't doing anything bad." "You're lying now, an' you know it, you young cub!" exclaimed the angry man as he advanced to kick the boy again. "I'll let you know who you've got to deal with when you get hold of me!" "And I'll let you know who you've got to deal with when you get hold of me!" said a woman's voice; and, just as Mr. Lord raised his foot to kick the boy again, the Fat Woman seized him by the collar, jerked him back over one of the tent ropes, and left him quite as prostrate as he had left Toby. "Now, Job Lord," said the angry woman, as she towered above the thoroughly enraged but thoroughly frightened man, "I want you to understand that you can't knock and beat this boy while I'm around. I've seen enough of your capers, an' I'm going to put a stop to them. That boy wasn't in this tent more than two minutes, an' he attends to his work better than any one you have ever had; so see that you treat him decent. Get up," she said to Toby, who had not dared to rise from the ground; "and if he offers to strike you again, come to me." Toby scrambled to his feet, and ran to the booth in time to attend to one or two customers who had just come up. He could see from out the corner of his eye that Mr. Lord had arisen to his feet also, and was engaged in an angry conversation with Mrs. Treat, the result of which he very much feared would be another and a worse whipping for him. [Illustration: JOB LORD LEARNS A LESSON.] But in this he was mistaken, for Mr. Lord, after the conversation was ended, came toward the booth, and began to attend to his business without speaking one word to Toby. When Mr. Jacobs returned from his supper Mr. Lord took him by the arm and walked him out toward the rear of the tents; and Toby was very positive that he was to be the subject of their conversation, which made him not a little uneasy. It was not until nearly time for the performance to begin that Mr. Lord returned, and he had nothing to say to Toby save to tell him to go into the tent and begin his work there. The boy was only too glad to escape so easily, and he went to his work with as much alacrity as if he were about entering upon some pleasure. When he met Mr. Jacobs that gentleman spoke to him very sharply about being late, and seemed to think it no excuse at all that he had just been relieved from the outside work by Mr. Lord. CHAPTER VII. AN ACCIDENT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Toby's experience in the evening was very similar to that of the afternoon, save that he was so fortunate as not to take any more bad money in payment for his goods. Mr. Jacobs scolded and swore alternately, and the boy really surprised him by his way of selling goods, though he was very careful not to say anything about it, but made Toby believe that he was doing only about half as much work as he ought to do. Toby's private hoard of money was increased that evening, by presents, ninety cents, and he began to look upon himself as almost a rich man. When the performance was nearly over Mr. Jacobs called to him to help in packing up; and by the time the last spectator had left the tent the worldly possessions of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs were ready for removal, and Toby allowed to do as he had a mind to, so long as he was careful to be on hand when Old Ben was ready to start. Toby thought that he would have time to pay a visit to his friends the skeleton and the Fat Woman, and to that end started toward the place where their tent had been standing; but to his sorrow he found that it was already being taken down, and he had only time to thank Mrs. Treat and to press the fleshless hand of her shadowy husband as they entered their wagon to drive away. He was disappointed, for he had hoped to be able to speak with his new-made friends a few moments before the weary night's ride commenced; but, failing in that, he went hastily back to the monkeys' cage. Old Ben was there, getting things ready for a start; but the wooden sides of the cage had not been put up, and Toby had no difficulty in calling the aged monkey up to the bars. He held one of the Fat Woman's doughnuts in his hand, and said, as he passed it through to the animal, "I thought perhaps you might be hungry, Mr. Stubbs, and this is some of what the skeleton's wife give me. I hain't got very much time to talk with you now; but the first chance I can get away to-morrow, an' when there hain't anybody 'round, I want to tell you something." The monkey had taken the doughnut in his hand-like paws, and was tearing it to pieces, eating small portions of it very rapidly. "Don't hurry yourself," said Toby, warningly, "for Uncle Dan'l always told me the worst thing a feller could do was to eat fast. If you want any more, after we start, just put your hand through the little hole up there near the seat, an' I'll give you all you want." From the look on his face Toby confidently believed the monkey was about to make some reply; but just then Ben shut up the sides, separating Toby and Mr. Stubbs, and the order was given to start. Toby clambered up on to the high seat, Ben followed him, and in another instant the team was moving along slowly down the dusty road, preceded and followed by the many wagons, with their tiny swinging lights. "Well," said Ben, when he had got his team well under way, and felt that he could indulge in a little conversation, "how did you get along to-day?" Toby related all of his movements, and gave the driver a faithful account of all that had happened to him, concluding his story by saying, "That was one of Mrs. Treat's doughnuts that I just gave to Mr. Stubbs." "To whom?" asked Ben, in surprise. "To Mr. Stubbs--the old fellow here in the cart, you know, that's been so good to me." Toby heard a sort of gurgling sound, saw the driver's body sway back and forth in a trembling way, and was just becoming thoroughly alarmed, when he thought of the previous night, and understood that Ben was only laughing in his own peculiar way. "How did you know his name was Stubbs?" asked Ben, after he had recovered his breath. "Oh, I don't know that that is his real name," was the quick reply; "I only call him that because he looks so much like a feller with that name that I knew at home. He don't seem to mind because I call him Stubbs." Ben looked at Toby earnestly for a moment, acting all the time as if he wanted to laugh again, but didn't dare to, for fear he might burst a blood-vessel; and then he said, as he patted him on the shoulder, "Well, you are the queerest little fish that I ever saw in all my travels. You seem to think that that monkey knows all you say to him." "I'm sure he does," said Toby, positively. "He don't say anything right out to me, but he knows everything I tell him. Do you suppose he could talk if he tried to?" "Look here, Mr. Toby Tyler"--and Ben turned half around in his seat and looked Toby full in the face, so as to give more emphasis to his words--"are you heathen enough to think that that monkey could talk if he wanted to?" "I know I hain't a heathen," said Toby, thoughtfully, "for if I had been some of the missionaries would have found me out a good while ago; but I never saw anybody like this old Mr. Stubbs before, an' I thought he could talk if he wanted to, just as the Living Skeleton does, or his wife. Anyhow, Mr. Stubbs winks at me; an' how could he do that if he didn't know what I've been sayin' to him?" "Look here, my son," said Ben, in a most fatherly fashion, "monkeys hain't anything but beasts, an' they don't know how to talk any more than they know what you say to 'em." "Didn't you ever hear any of them speak a word?" "Never. I've been in a circus, man an' boy, nigh on to forty years, an' I never seen nothin' in a monkey more'n any other beast, except their awful mischiefness." "Well," said Toby, still unconvinced, "I believe Mr. Stubbs knows what I say to him, anyway." "Now don't be foolish, Toby," pleaded Ben. "You can't show me one thing that a monkey ever did because you told him to." Just at that moment Toby felt some one pulling at the back of his coat, and looking round he saw it was a little brown hand, reaching through the bars of the air-hole of the cage, that was tugging away at his coat. "There!" he said, triumphantly, to Ben. "Look there! I told Mr. Stubbs if he wanted anything more to eat, to tell me, an' I would give it to him. Now you can see for yourself that he's come for it." And Toby took a doughnut from his pocket and put it into the tiny hand, which was immediately withdrawn. "Now what do you think of Mr. Stubbs knowing what I say to him?" "They often stick their paws up through there," said Ben, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I've had 'em pull my coat in the night till they made me as nervous as ever any old woman was. You see, Toby, my boy, monkeys is monkeys; an' you mustn't go to gettin' the idea that they're anything else, for it's a mistake. You think this old monkey in here knows what you say? Why, that's just the cuteness of the old fellow: he watches you to see if he can't do just as you do, an' that's all there is about it." Toby was more than half convinced that Ben was putting the matter in its proper light, and he would have believed all that had been said if, just at that moment, he had not seen that brown hand reaching through the hole to clutch him again by the coat. The action seemed so natural, so like a hungry boy who gropes in the dark pantry for something to eat, that it would have taken more arguments than Ben had at his disposal to persuade Toby that his Mr. Stubbs could not understand all that was said to him. Toby put another doughnut in the outstretched hand, and then sat silently, as if in a brown-study over some difficult problem. For some time the ride was continued in silence. Ben was going through all the motions of whistling without uttering a sound--a favorite amusement of his--and Toby's thoughts were far away in the humble home he had scorned, with Uncle Daniel, whose virtues had increased in his esteem with every mile of distance which had been put between them, and whose faults had decreased in a corresponding ratio. Toby's thoughtfulness had made him sleepy, and his eyes were almost closed in slumber, when he was startled by a crashing sound, was conscious of a feeling of being hurled from his seat by some great force, and then he lay senseless by the side of the road, while the wagon became a perfect wreck, from out of which a small army of monkeys was escaping. Ben's experienced ear had told him at the first crash that his wagon was breaking down, and, without having time to warn Toby of his peril, he had leaped clear of the wreck, keeping his horses under perfect control, and thus averting more trouble. It was the breaking of one of the axles which Toby had heard just before he was thrown from his seat, and when the body of the wagon came down upon the hard road. [Illustration: THE BREAK-DOWN, AND ESCAPE OF THE MONKEYS.] The monkeys, thus suddenly released from confinement, had scampered off in every direction, and by a singular chance Toby's aged friend started for the woods in such a direction as to bring him directly before the boy's insensible form. The monkey, on coming up to Toby, stopped, urged by the well-known curiosity of its race, and began to examine the boy's person carefully, prying into pockets and trying to open the boy's half-closed eyelids. Fortunately for Toby, he had fallen upon a mud-bank, and was only stunned for the moment, having received no serious bruises. The attentions bestowed upon him by the monkey served the purpose of bringing him to his senses; and, after he had looked around him in the gray light of the coming morning, it would have taken far more of a philosopher than Old Ben was to persuade the boy that monkeys did not possess reasoning faculties. The monkey was busy at Toby's ears, nose, and mouth, as monkeys will do when they get an opportunity, and the expression of its face was as grave as possible. Toby firmly believed that the monkey's face showed sorrow at his fall, and he imagined that the attentions which were bestowed upon him were for the purpose of learning whether he had been injured or not. "Don't worry, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, anxious to reassure his friend, as he sat upright and looked about him. "I didn't get hurt any; but I would like to know how I got 'way over here." It really seemed as if the monkey was pleased to know that his little friend was not hurt, for he seated himself on his haunches, and his face expressed the liveliest pleasure that Toby was well again--or at least that was how the boy interpreted the look. By this time the news of the accident had been shouted ahead from one team to the other, and all hands were hurrying to the scene for the purpose of rendering aid. As Toby saw them coming he also saw a number of small forms, looking something like diminutive men, hurrying past him, and for the first time he understood how it was that the aged monkey was at liberty, and knew that those little dusky forms were the other occupants of the cage escaping to the woods. "See there, Mr. Stubbs! see there!" he exclaimed, pointing toward the fugitives; "they're all going off into the woods! What shall we do?" The sight of the runaways seemed to excite the old monkey quite as much as it did the boy. He sprung to his feet, chattering in the most excited way, screamed two or three times, as if he were calling them back, and then started off in vigorous pursuit. "Now he's gone too!" said Toby, disconsolately, believing the old fellow had run away from him. "I didn't think Mr. Stubbs would treat me this way!" CHAPTER VIII. CAPTURE OF THE MONKEYS. The boy tried to rise to his feet, but his head whirled so, and he felt so dizzy and sick from the effects of his fall, that he was obliged to sit down again until he should feel able to stand. Meanwhile the crowd around the wagon paid no attention to him, and he lay there quietly enough, until he heard the hateful voice of Mr. Lord, asking if his boy were hurt. The sound of his voice affected Toby very much as the chills-and-fever affect a sufferer, and he shook so with fear, and his heart beat so loudly, that he thought Mr. Lord must know where he was by the sound. Seeing, however, that his employer did not come directly toward him, the thought flashed upon his mind that now would be a good chance to run away, and he acted upon it at once. He rolled himself over in the mud until he reached a low growth of fir-trees that skirted the road, and when beneath their friendly shade he arose to his feet and walked swiftly toward the woods, following the direction the monkeys had taken. He no longer felt dizzy and sick: the fear of Mr. Lord had dispelled all that, and he felt strong and active again. He had walked rapidly for some distance, and was nearly beyond the sound of the voices in the road, when he was startled by seeing quite a procession of figures emerge from the trees and come directly toward him. He could not understand the meaning of this strange company, and it so frightened him that he attempted to hide behind a tree, in the hope that they might pass without seeing him. But no sooner had he secreted himself than a strange, shrill chattering came from the foremost of the group, and in an instant Toby emerged from his place of concealment. He had recognized the peculiar sound as that of the old monkey who had left him a few moments before, and he knew now what he did not know then, owing to the darkness. The new-comers were the monkeys that had escaped from the cage, and had been overtaken and compelled to come back by the old monkey, who seemed to have the most perfect control over them. The old fellow was leading the band, and all were linked "hand-in-hand" with each other, which gave the whole crowd a most comical appearance as they came up to Toby, half hopping, half walking upright, and all chattering and screaming, like a crowd of children out for a holiday. Toby stepped toward the noisy crowd, held out his hand gravely to the old monkey, and said, in tones of heart-felt sorrow, "I felt awful bad because I thought you had gone off an' left me, when you only went off to find the other fellows. You're awful good, Mr. Stubbs; an' now, instead of runnin' away, as I was goin' to do, we'll all go back together." The old monkey grasped Toby's extended hand with his disengaged paw, and, clinging firmly to it, the whole crowd followed in unbroken line, chattering and scolding at the most furious rate, while every now and then Mr. Stubbs would look back and scream out something, which would cause the confusion to cease for an instant. It was really a comical sight, but Toby seemed to think it the most natural thing in the world that they should follow him in this manner, and he chattered to the old monkey quite as fast as any of the others were doing. He told him very gravely all that he knew about the accident, explained why it was that he conceived the idea of running away, and really believed that Mr. Stubbs understood every word he was saying. Very shortly after Toby had started to run away the proprietor of the circus drove up to the scene of disaster; and, after seeing that the wagon was being rapidly fixed up so that it could be hauled to the next town, he ordered that search should be made for the monkeys. It was very important that they should be captured at once, and he appeared to think more of the loss of the animals than of the damage done to the wagon. While the men were forming a plan for a search for the truants, so that in case of a capture they could let each other know, the noise made by Toby and his party was heard, and the men stood still to learn what it meant. The entire party burst into shouts of laughter as Toby and his companions walked into the circle of light formed by the glare of the lanterns, and the merriment was by no means abated at Toby's serious demeanor. The wagon was now standing upright, with the door open, and Toby therefore led his companions directly to it, gravely motioning them to enter. The old monkey, instead of obeying, stepped back to Toby's side, and screamed to the others in such a manner that they all entered the cage, leaving him on the outside with the boy. Toby motioned him to get in too, but he clung to his hand, and scolded so furiously, that it was apparent he had no idea of leaving his boy companion. One of the men stepped up, and was about to force him into the wagon, when the proprietor ordered him to stop. "What boy is that?" he asked. [Illustration: BRINGING BACK THE RUNAWAYS.] "Job Lord's new boy," said some one in the crowd. The man asked Toby how it was that he had succeeded in capturing all the runaways; and he answered, gravely, "Mr. Stubbs an' I are good friends, an' when he saw the others runnin' away he just stopped 'em, an' brought 'em back to me. I wish you'd let Mr. Stubbs ride with me; we like each other a good deal." "You can do just what you please with Mr. Stubbs, as you call him. I expected to lose half the monkeys in that cage, and you have brought back every one. That monkey shall be yours, and you may put him in the cage whenever you want to, or take him with you, just as you choose, for he belongs entirely to you." Toby's joy knew no bounds; he put his arm around the monkey's neck, and the monkey clung firmly to him, until even Job Lord was touched at the evidence of affection between the two. While the wagon was being repaired Toby and the monkey stood hand-in-hand watching the work go on, while those in the cage scolded and raved because they had been induced to return to captivity. After a while the old monkey seated himself on Toby's arm and cuddled close up to him, uttering now and then a contented sort of a little squeak as the boy talked to him. That night Mr. Stubbs slept in Toby's arms, in the band wagon, and both boy and monkey appeared very well contented with their lot, which a short time previous had seemed so hard. When Toby awakened to his second day's work with the circus his monkey friend was seated by his side, gravely exploring his pockets, and all the boy's treasures were being spread out on the floor of the wagon by his side. Toby remonstrated with him on this breach of confidence, but Mr. Stubbs was more in the mood for sport than for grave conversation, and the more Toby talked the more mischievous did he become, until at length the boy gathered up his little store of treasures, took the monkey by the paw, and walked him toward the cage from which he had escaped on the previous night. "Now, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, speaking in an injured tone, "you must go in here and stay till I have got more time to fool with you." He opened the door of the cage, but the monkey struggled as well as he was able, and Toby was obliged to exert all his strength to put him in. When once the door was fastened upon him Toby tried to impress upon his monkey friend's mind the importance of being more sedate, and he was convinced that the words had sunk deep into Mr. Stubbs's heart, for, by the time he had concluded, the old monkey was seated in the corner of the cage, looking up from under his shaggy eyebrows in the most reproachful manner possible. Toby felt sorry that he had spoken so harshly, and was about to make amends for his severity, when Mr. Lord's gruff voice recalled him to the fact that his time was not his own, and he therefore commenced his day's work, but with a lighter heart than he had had since he stole away from Uncle Daniel and Guilford. This day was not very much different from the preceding one so far as the manner of Mr. Lord and his partner toward the boy was concerned; they seemed to have an idea that he was doing only about half as much work as he ought to, and both united in swearing at and abusing him as much as possible. So far as his relations with other members of the company were concerned, Toby now stood in a much better position than before. Those who had witnessed the scene told the others how Toby had led in the monkeys on the night previous, and nearly every member of the company had a kind word for the little fellow whose head could hardly be seen above the counter of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs's booth. CHAPTER IX. THE DINNER-PARTY. At noon Toby was thoroughly tired out, for whenever any one spoke kindly to him Mr. Lord seemed to take a malicious pleasure in giving him extra tasks to do, until Toby began to hope that no one else would pay any attention to him. On this day he was permitted to go to dinner first, and after he returned he was left in charge of the booth. Trade being dull--as it usually was during the dinner hour--he had very little work to do after he had cleaned the glasses and set things to rights generally. When, therefore, he saw the gaunt form of the skeleton emerge from his tent and come toward him he was particularly pleased, for he had begun to think very kindly of the thin man and his fleshy wife. "Well, Toby," said the skeleton, as he came up to the booth, carefully dusted Mr. Lord's private chair, and sat down very cautiously in it, as if he expected that it would break down under his weight, "I hear you've been making quite a hero of yourself by capturing the monkeys last night." Toby's freckled face reddened with pleasure as he heard these words, and he stammered out, with considerable difficulty, "I didn't do anything; it was Mr. Stubbs that brought 'em back." "Mr. Stubbs!" And the skeleton laughed so heartily that Toby was afraid he would dislocate some of his thinly-covered joints. "When you was tellin' about Mr. Stubbs yesterday I thought you meant some one belonging to the company. You ought to have seen my wife Lilly shake with laughing when I told her who Mr. Stubbs was!" "Yes," said Toby, at a loss to know just what to say, "I should think she _would_ shake when she laughs." "She does," replied the skeleton. "If you could see her when something funny strikes her you'd think she was one of those big plates of jelly that they have in the bake-shop windows." And Mr. Treat looked proudly at the gaudy picture which represented his wife in all her monstrosity of flesh. "She's a great woman, Toby, an' she's got a great head." Toby nodded his head in assent. He would have liked to have said something nice regarding Mrs. Treat, but he really did not know what to say, so he simply contented himself and the fond husband by nodding. "She thinks a good deal of you, Toby," continued the skeleton, as he moved his chair to a position more favorable for him to elevate his feet on the edge of the counter, and placed his handkerchief under him as a cushion; "she's talking of you all the time, and if you wasn't such a little fellow I should begin to be jealous of you--I should, upon my word." "You're--both--very--good," stammered Toby, so weighted down by a sense of the honor heaped upon him as to be at a loss for words. "An' she wants to see more of you. She made me come out here now, when she knew Mr. Lord would be away, to tell you that we're goin' to have a little kind of a friendly dinner in our tent to-morrow--she's cooked it all herself, or she's going to--and we want you to come in an' have some with us." Toby's eyes glistened at the thought of the unexpected pleasure, and then his face grew sad as he replied, "I'd like to come first-rate, Mr. Treat, but I don't s'pose Mr. Lord would let me stay away from the shop long enough." "Why, you won't have any work to do to-morrow, Toby--it's Sunday." "So it is!" said the boy, with a pleased smile, as he thought of the day of rest which was so near. And then he added, quickly, "An' this is Saturday afternoon. What fun the boys at home are havin'! You see there hain't any school Saturday afternoon, an' all the fellers go out in the woods." "And you wish you were there to go with them, don't you?" asked the skeleton, sympathetically. "Indeed I do!" exclaimed Toby, quickly. "It's twice as good as any circus that ever was." "But you didn't think so before you came with us, did you?" "I didn't know so much about circuses then as I do now," replied the boy, sadly. Mr. Treat saw that he was touching on a sore subject, and one which was arousing sad thoughts in his little companion's mind, and he hastened to change it at once. "Then I can tell Lilly that you'll come, can I?" "Oh yes, I'll be sure to be there; an' I want you to know just how good I think you both are to me." "That's all right, Toby," said Mr. Treat, with a pleased expression on his face; "an' you may bring Mr. Stubbs with you, if you want to." "Thank you," said Toby; "I'm sure Mr. Stubbs will be just as glad to come as I shall. But where will we be to-morrow?" "Right here. We always stay over Sunday at the place where we show Saturday. But I must be going, or Lilly will worry her life out of her for fear I'm somewhere getting cold. She's awful careful of me, that woman is. You'll be on hand to-morrow at one o'clock, won't you?" "Indeed I will," said Toby, emphatically, "an' I'll bring Mr. Stubbs with me too." With a friendly nod of the head, the skeleton hurried away to reassure his wife that he was safe and well; and before he had hardly disappeared within the tent Toby had another caller, who was none other than his friend Old Ben, the driver. "Well, my boy," shouted Ben, in his cheery, hearty tones, "I haven't seen you since you left the wagon so sudden last night. Did you get shook up much?" "Oh no," replied Toby: "you see I hain't very big; an' then I struck in the mud; so I got off pretty easy." "That's a fact; an' you can thank your lucky stars for it, too, for I've seen grown-up men get pitched off a wagon in that way an' break their necks doin' it. But has Job told you where you was going to sleep to-night? You know we stay over here till to-morrow." "I didn't think anything about that; but I s'pose I'll sleep in the wagon, won't I?" "You can sleep at the hotel, if you want to; but the beds will likely be dirty; an' if you take my advice you'll crawl into some of the wagons in the tent." Ben then explained to him that, after his work was done that night, he would not be expected to report for duty until the time for starting on Sunday night, and concluded his remarks by saying, "Now you know what your rights are, an' don't you let Job impose on you in any way. I'll be round here after you get through work, an' we'll bunk in somewhere together." The arrival of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs put a stop to the conversation, and was the signal for Toby's time of trial. It seemed to him, and with good reason, that the chief delight these men had in life was to torment him, for neither ever spoke a pleasant word to him; and when one was not giving him some difficult work to do, or finding fault in some way, the other would be sure to do so; and Toby had very little comfort from the time he began work in the morning until he stopped at night. It was not until after the evening performance was over that Toby had a chance to speak with Mr. Stubbs, and then he was so tired that he simply took the old monkey from the cage, nestled him under his jacket, and lay down with him to sleep in the place which Old Ben had selected. When the morning came Mr. Stubbs aroused his young master at a much earlier hour than he would have awakened had he been left to himself, and the two went out for a short walk before breakfast. They went instinctively toward the woods; and when the shade of the trees was once reached, how the two revelled in their freedom! Mr. Stubbs climbed into the trees, swung himself from one to the other by means of his tail, gathered half-ripe nuts, which he threw at his master, tried to catch the birds, and had a good time generally. Toby, stretched at full length on the mossy bank, watched the antics of his pet, laughing boisterously at times as Mr. Stubbs would do some one thing more comical than usual, and forgot there was in this world such a thing as a circus, or such a man as Job Lord. It was to Toby a morning without a flaw, and he took no heed of the time, until the sound of the church bells warned him of the lateness of the hour, reminding him at the same time of where he should be--where he would be, if he were at home with Uncle Daniel. In the mean time the old monkey had been trying to attract his young master's attention, and, failing in his efforts, he came down from the tree, crept softly up to Toby, and nestled his head under the boy's arm. This little act of devotion seemed to cause Toby's grief to burst forth afresh, and clasping the monkey around the neck, hugging him close to his bosom, he sobbed, "Oh, Mr. Stubbs, Mr. Stubbs, how lonesome we are! If we was only at Uncle Dan'l's we'd be the two happiest people in all this world. We could play on the hay, or go up to the pasture, or go down to the village; an' I'd work my fingers off if I could only be there just once more. It was wicked for me to run away, an' now I'm gettin' paid for it." He hugged the monkey closely, swaying his body to and fro, and presenting a perfect picture of grief. The monkey, not knowing what to make of this changed mood, cowered whimperingly in his arms, looking up into his face, and licking the boy's hands whenever he had the opportunity. It was some time before Toby's grief exhausted itself; and then, still clasping the monkey, he hurried out of the woods toward the town and the now thoroughly hated circus tents. The clocks were just striking one as Toby entered the enclosure used by the show as a place of performance, and, remembering his engagement with the skeleton and his wife, he went directly to their tent. From the odors which assailed him as he entered, it was very evident that a feast of no mean proportions was in course of preparation, and Toby's keen appetite returned in full vigor. Even the monkey seemed affected by the odor, for he danced about on his master's shoulder, and chattered so that Toby was obliged to choke him a little in order to make him present a respectable appearance. When Toby reached the interior of the tent he was astonished at the extent of the preparations that were being made, and gazed around him in surprise. The platform on which the lean man and fat woman were in the habit of exhibiting themselves now bore a long table, loaded with eatables; and, from the fact that eight or ten chairs were ranged around it, Toby understood that he was not the only guest invited to the feast. Some little attempt had also been made at decoration by festooning that end of the tent where the platform was placed with two or three flags and some streamers, and the tent-poles also were fringed with tissue-paper of the brightest colors. Toby had only time enough to notice this when the skeleton advanced toward him, and, with the liveliest appearance of pleasure, said, as he took him by the hands with a grip that made him wince, "It gives me great joy, Mr. Tyler, to welcome you at one of our little home reunions, if one can call a tent, that is moved every day in the week, home." Toby hardly knew whom Mr. Treat referred to when he said "Mr. Tyler;" but by the time his hands were released from the bony grasp he understood that it was himself who was spoken to. [Illustration: TOBY IS INTRODUCED TO THE ALBINOS.] The skeleton then formally introduced him to the other guests present, who were sitting at one end of the tent, and evidently anxiously awaiting the coming feast. "These," said Mr. Treat, as he waved his hand toward two white-haired, pink-eyed young ladies, who sat with their arms twined around each other's waist, and had been eying the monkey with some appearance of fear, "are the Miss Cushings, known to the world as the Albino Children; they command a large salary, and form a very attractive feature of our exhibition." The young ladies arose at the same time, as if they had been the Siamese Twins and could not act independently of each other, and bowed. Toby made the best bow he was capable of; and the monkey made frantic efforts to escape, as if he would enjoy twisting his paws in their perpendicular hair. "And this," continued Mr. Treat, pointing to a sickly, sour-looking individual, who was sitting apart from the others, with his arms folded, and looking as if he was counting the very seconds before the dinner should begin, "is the wonderful Signor Castro, whose sword-swallowing feats you have doubtless heard of." Toby stepped back just one step, as if overwhelmed by awe at beholding the signor in the guise of a humble individual; and the gentleman who gained his livelihood by swallowing swords unbent his dignity so far as to unfold his arms and present a very dirty-looking hand for Toby to shake. The boy took hold of the outstretched hand, wondering why the signor never used soap and water; and Mr. Stubbs, apparently afraid of the sour-looking man, retreated to Toby's shoulder, where he sat chattering and scolding about the introduction. Again the skeleton waved his hand, and this time he introduced "Mademoiselle Spelletti, the wonderful snake-charmer, whose exploits in this country, and before the crowned heads of Europe, had caused the whole world to stand aghast at her daring." Mademoiselle Spelletti was a very ordinary-looking young lady of about twenty-five years of age, who looked very much as if her name might originally have been Murphy, and she too extended a hand for Toby to grasp--only her hand was clean, and she appeared to be a very much more pleasant acquaintance than the gentleman who swallowed swords. This ended the introductions; and Toby was just looking around for a seat, when Mrs. Treat, the fat lady, and the giver of the feast which was about to come, and which already smelled so invitingly, entered from behind a curtain of canvas, where the cooking-stove was supposed to be located. She had every appearance of being the cook for the occasion. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair tumbled and frowzy, and there were several unmistakable marks of grease on the front of her calico dress. She waited for no ceremony, but rushed up to Toby, and taking him in her arms, gave him such a squeeze that there seemed to be every possibility that she would break all the bones in his body; and she kept him so long in this bear-like embrace that Mr. Stubbs reached his little brown paws over and got such a hold of her hair that all present, save Signor Castro, rushed forward to release her from the monkey's grasp. "You dear little thing!" said Mrs. Treat, paying but slight attention to the hair-pulling she had just undergone, and holding Toby at arm's-length, so that she could look into his face, "you were so late that I was afraid you wasn't coming; and my dinner wouldn't have tasted half so good if you hadn't been here to eat some." Toby hardly knew what to say for this hearty welcome, but he managed to tell the large and kind-hearted lady that he had had no idea of missing the dinner, and that he was very glad she wanted him to come. "Want you to come, you dear little thing!" she exclaimed, as she gave him another hug, but careful not to give Mr. Stubbs a chance of grasping her hair again. "Of course I wanted you to come, for this dinner has been got up so that you could meet these people here, and so that they could see you." Toby was entirely at a loss to know what to say to this overwhelming compliment, and for that reason did not say anything, only submitting patiently to the third hug, which was all Mrs. Treat had time to give him, as she was obliged to rush behind the canvas screen again, as there were unmistakable sounds of something boiling over on the stove. "You'll excuse me," said the skeleton, with an air of dignity, waving his hand once more toward the assembled company, "but, while introducing you to Mr. Tyler, I had almost forgotten to introduce him to you. This, ladies and gentlemen"--and here he touched Toby on the shoulder, as if he were some living curiosity whose habits and mode of capture he was about to explain to a party of spectators--"is Mr. Toby Tyler, of whom you heard on the night when the monkey cage was smashed, and who now carries with him the identical monkey which was presented to him by the manager of this great show as a token of esteem for his skill and bravery in capturing the entire lot of monkeys without a single blow." By the time that Mr. Treat got through with this long speech Toby felt very much as if he were some wonderful creature whom the skeleton was exhibiting; but he managed to rise to his feet and duck his little red head in his best imitation of a bow. Then he sat down and hugged Mr. Stubbs to cover his confusion. One of the Albino Children now came forward, and, while stroking Mr. Stubbs's hair, looked so intently at Toby that for the life of him he couldn't say which she regarded as the curiosity, himself or the monkey; therefore he hastened to say, modestly, "I didn't do much toward catchin' the monkeys; Mr. Stubbs here did almost all of it, an' I only led 'em in." "There, there, my boy," said the skeleton, in a fatherly tone, "I've heard the whole story from Old Ben, an' I sha'n't let you get out of it like that. We all know what you did, an' it's no use for you to deny any part of it." CHAPTER X. MR. STUBBS AT A PARTY. Toby was about to say that he did not intend to represent the matter other than it really was, when a voice from behind the canvas screen arrested further conversation. "Sam-u-el, come an' help me carry these things in." Something very like a smile of satisfaction passed over Signor Castro's face as he heard this, which told him that the time for the feast was near at hand; and the snake-charmer, as well as the Albino Children, seemed quite as much pleased as did the sword-swallower. "You will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," said the skeleton, in an important tone; "I must help Lilly, and then I shall have the pleasure of helping you to some of her cooking, which, if I do say it, that oughtn't, is as good as can be found in this entire country." Then he too disappeared behind the canvas screen. Left alone, Toby looked at the ladies, and the ladies looked at him, in perfect silence, while the sword-swallower grimly regarded them all, until Mr. Treat reappeared, bearing on a platter an immense turkey, as nicely browned as any Thanksgiving turkey Toby ever saw. Behind him came his fat wife, carrying several dishes, each of which emitted a most fragrant odor; and as these were placed upon the table the spirits of the sword-swallower seemed to revive, and he smiled pleasantly; while even the ladies appeared animated by the sight and odor of the good things which they were to be called upon so soon to pass judgment. Several times did Mr. and Mrs. Treat bustle in and out from behind the screen, and each time they made some addition to that which was upon the table, until Toby began to fear that they would never finish, and the sword-swallower seemed unable to restrain his impatience. At last the finishing touch had been put to the table, the last dish placed in position, and then, with a certain kind of grace, which no one but a man as thin as Mr. Treat could assume, he advanced to the edge of the platform and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, nothing gives me greater pleasure than to invite you all, including Mr. Tyler's friend Stubbs, to the bountiful repast which my Lilly has prepared for--" At this point, Mr. Treat's speech--for it certainly seemed as if he had commenced to make one--was broken off in a most summary manner. His wife had come up behind him, and, with as much ease as if he had been a child, lifted him from off the floor and placed him gently in the chair at the head of the table. "Come right up and get dinner," she said to her guests. "If you had waited until Samuel had finished his speech everything on the table would have been stone-cold." The guests proceeded to obey her kindly command; and it is to be regretted that the sword-swallower had no better manners than to jump on to the platform with one bound and seat himself at the table with the most unseemly haste. The others, and more especially Toby, proceeded in a leisurely and more dignified manner. A seat had been placed by the side of the one intended for Toby for the accommodation of Mr. Stubbs, who suffered a napkin to be tied under his chin, and behaved generally in a manner that gladdened the heart of his young master. Mr. Treat cut generous slices from the turkey for each guest, and Mrs. Treat piled their plates high with all sorts of vegetables, complaining, after the manner of housewives generally, that the food was not cooked as she would like to have had it, and declaring that she had had poor luck with everything that morning, when she firmly believed in her heart that her table had never looked better. After the company had had the edge taken off their appetites--which effect was produced on the sword-swallower only after he had been helped three different times, the conversation began by the Fat Woman asking Toby how he got along with Mr. Lord. Toby could not give a very good account of his employer, but he had the good sense not to cast a damper on a party of pleasure by reciting his own troubles; so he said, evasively, "I guess I shall get along pretty well, now that I have got so many friends." Just as he had commenced to speak the skeleton had put into his mouth a very large piece of turkey--very much larger in proportion than himself--and when Toby had finished speaking he started to say something evidently not very complimentary to Mr. Lord. But what it was the company never knew; for just as he opened his mouth to speak, the food went down the wrong way, his face became a bright purple, and it was quite evident that he was choking. Toby was alarmed, and sprung from his chair to assist his friend, upsetting Mr. Stubbs from his seat, causing him to scamper up the tent-pole, with the napkin still tied around his neck, and to scold in his most vehement manner. Before Toby could reach the skeleton, however, the Fat Woman had darted toward her lean husband, caught him by the arm, and was pounding his back, by the time Toby got there, so vigorously, that the boy was afraid her enormous hand would go through his tissue-paper-like frame. "I wouldn't," said Toby, in alarm; "you may break him." "Don't you get frightened," said Mrs. Treat, turning her husband completely over, and still continuing the drumming process. "He's often taken this way; he's such a glutton that he'd try to swallow the turkey whole if he could get it in his mouth, an' he's so thin that 'most anything sticks in his throat." "I should think you'd break him all up," said Toby, apologetically, as he resumed his seat at the table; "he don't look as if he could stand very much of that sort of thing." But apparently Mr. Treat could stand very much more than Toby gave him credit for, because at this juncture he stopped coughing, and his face fast assumed its natural hue. His attentive wife, seeing that he had ceased struggling, lifted him in her arms, and sat him down in his chair with a force that threatened to snap his very head off. "There!" she said, as he wheezed a little from the effects of the shock, "now see if you can behave yourself, an' chew your meat as you ought to! One of these days when you're alone you'll try that game, and that'll be the last of you." "If he'd try to do one of my tricks long enough he'd get so that there wouldn't hardly anything choke him," the sword-swallower ventured to suggest, mildly, as he wiped a small stream of cranberry-sauce from his chin and laid a well-polished turkey-bone by the side of his plate. "I'd like to see him try it!" said the fat lady, with just a shade of anger in her voice. Then turning toward her husband, she said, emphatically, "Samuel, don't you ever let me catch _you_ swallowing a sword!" "I won't, my love, I won't; and I will try to chew my meat more," replied the very thin glutton, in a feeble tone. Toby thought that perhaps the skeleton might keep the first part of that promise, but he was not quite sure about the last. It required no little coaxing on the part of both Toby and Mrs. Treat to induce Mr. Stubbs to come down from his lofty perch; but the task was accomplished at last, and by the gift of a very large doughnut he was induced to resume his seat at the table. The time had now come when the duties of a host, in his own peculiar way of viewing them, devolved upon Mr. Treat, and he said, as he pushed his chair back a short distance from the table, and tried to polish the front of his vest with his napkin, "I don't want this fact lost sight of, because it is an important one: every one must remember that we have gathered here to meet and become better acquainted with the latest and best addition to this circus, Mr. Toby Tyler." Poor Toby! As the company all looked directly at him, and Mrs. Treat nodded her enormous head energetically, as if to say that she agreed exactly with her husband, the poor boy's face grew very red and the squash-pie lost its flavor. "Although Mr. Tyler may not be exactly one of us, owing to the fact that he does not belong to the profession, but is only one of the adjuncts to it, so to speak," continued the skeleton, in a voice which was fast being raised to its highest pitch, "we feel proud, after his exploits at the time of the accident, to have him with us, and gladly welcome him now, through the medium of this little feast prepared by my Lilly." Here the Albino Children nodded their heads in approval, and the sword-swallower gave a grunt of assent; and, thus encouraged, the skeleton proceeded: "I feel, when I say that we like and admire Mr. Tyler, all present will agree with me, and all would like to hear him say a word for himself." The skeleton seemed to have expressed the views of those present remarkably well, judging from their expressions of pleasure and assent, and all waited for the honored guest to speak. Toby knew that he must say something, but he couldn't think of a single thing; he tried over and over again to call to his mind something which he had read as to how people acted and what they said when they were expected to speak at a dinner-table, but his thoughts refused to go back for him, and the silence was actually becoming painful. Finally, and with the greatest effort, he managed to say, with a very perceptible stammer, and while his face was growing very red: "I know I ought to say something to pay for this big dinner that you said was gotten up for me, but I don't know what to say, unless to thank you for it. You see I hain't big enough to say much, an', as Uncle Dan'l says, I don't amount to very much 'cept for eatin', an' I guess he's right. You're all real good to me, an' when I get to be a man I'll try to do as much for you." Toby had risen to his feet when he began to make his speech, and while he was speaking Mr. Stubbs had crawled over into his chair. When he finished he sat down again without looking behind him, and of course sat plump on the monkey. There was a loud outcry from Mr. Stubbs, a little frightened noise from Toby, an instant's scrambling, and then boy, monkey, and chair tumbled off the platform, landing on the ground in an indescribable mass, from which the monkey extricated himself more quickly than Toby could, and again took refuge on the top of the tent-pole. Of course all the guests ran to Toby's assistance; and while the Fat Woman poked him all over to see that none of his bones were broken, the skeleton brushed the dirt from his clothes. All this time the monkey screamed, yelled, and danced around on the tent-pole and ropes as if his feelings had received a shock from which he could never recover. "I didn't mean to end it up that way, but it was Mr. Stubbs's fault," said Toby, as soon as quiet had been restored, and the guests, with the exception of the monkey, were seated at the table once more. "Of course you didn't," said Mrs. Treat, in a kindly tone. "But don't you feel bad about it one bit, for you ought to thank your lucky stars that you didn't break any of your bones." "I s'pose I did," said Toby, soberly, as he looked back at the scene of his disaster, and then up at the chattering monkey that had caused all the trouble. Shortly after this, Mr. Stubbs having again been coaxed down from his lofty position, Toby took his departure, promising to call as often during the week as he could get away from his exacting employers. Just outside the tent he met Old Ben, who said, as he showed signs of indulging in another of his internal laughing spells: [Illustration: TOBY SITS DOWN ON MR. STUBBS.] "Hello! has the skeleton an' his lily of a wife been givin' a blow-out to you too?" "They invited me in there to dinner," said Toby, modestly. "Of course they did--of course they did," replied Ben, with a chuckle; "they carries a cookin'-stove along with 'em, so's they can give these little spreads whenever we stay over a day in a place. Oh, I've been there!" "And did they ask you to make a speech?" "Of course. Did they try it on you?" "Yes," said Toby, mournfully, "an' I tumbled off the platform when I got through." "I didn't do exactly that," replied Ben, thoughtfully; "but I s'pose you got too much steam on, seein' 's how it was likely your first speech. Now you'd better go into the tent an' try to get a little sleep, 'cause we've got a long ride to-night over a rough road, an' you won't get more'n a cat-nap all night." "But where are you going?" asked Toby, as he shifted Mr. Stubbs over to his other shoulder, preparatory to following his friend's advice. "I'm goin' to church," said Ben, and then Toby noticed for the first time that the old driver had made some attempt at dressing-up. "I've been with the circus, man an' boy, for nigh to forty years, an' I allus go to meetin' once on Sunday. It's somethin' I promised my old mother I would do, an' I hain't broke my promise yet." "Why don't you take me with you?" asked Toby, wistfully, as he thought of the little church on the hill at home, and wished--oh, so earnestly!--that he was there then, even at the risk of being thumped on the head with Uncle Daniel's book. "If I'd seen you this mornin' I would," said Ben; "but now you must try to bottle up some sleep agin to-night, an' next Sunday I'll take you." With these words Old Ben started off, and Toby proceeded to carry out his wishes, although he rather doubted the possibility of "bottling up" any sleep that afternoon. He lay down on the top of the wagon, after having put Mr. Stubbs inside, with the others of his tribe, and in a very few moments the boy was sound asleep, dreaming of a dinner-party at which Mr. Stubbs made a speech, and he himself scampered up and down the tent-pole. CHAPTER XI. A STORMY NIGHT. When Toby awoke it was nearly dark, and the bustle around him told very plainly that the time for departure was near at hand. He rubbed his eyes just enough to make sure that he was thoroughly awake, and then jumped down from his rather lofty bed, and ran around to the door of the cage to assure himself that Mr. Stubbs was safe. This done, his preparations for the journey were made. Now, Toby noticed that each one of the drivers was clad in rubber clothing, and, after listening for a moment, he learned the cause of their water-proof garments. It was raining very hard, and Toby thought with dismay of the long ride that he would have to take on the top of the monkeys' cage, with no protection whatever save that afforded by his ordinary clothing. While he was standing by the side of the wagon, wondering how he should get along, Old Ben came in. The water was pouring from his clothes in little rivulets, and he afforded most unmistakable evidence of the damp state of the weather. "It's a nasty night, my boy," said the old driver, in much the same cheery tone that he would have used had he been informing Toby that it was a beautiful moonlight evening. "I guess I'll get wet," said Toby, ruefully, as he looked up at the lofty seat which he was to occupy. "Bless me!" said Ben, as if the thought had just come to him, "it won't do for you to ride outside on a night like this. You wait here, an' I'll see what I can do for you." The old man hurried off to the other end of the tent, and almost before Toby thought he had time to go as far as the ring he returned. "It's all right," he said, and this time in a gruff voice, as if he were announcing some misfortune; "you're to ride in the women's wagon. Come with me." Toby followed without a question, though he was wholly at a loss to understand what the "women's wagon" was, for he had never seen anything which looked like one. He soon learned, however, when Old Ben stopped in front--or, rather, at the end--of a long covered wagon that looked like an omnibus, except that it was considerably longer, and the seats inside were divided by arms, padded, to make them comfortable to lean against. "Here's the boy," said Ben, as he lifted Toby up on the step, gave him a gentle push to intimate that he was to get inside, and then left him. As Toby stepped inside he saw that the wagon was nearly full of women and children; and fearing lest he should take a seat that belonged to some one else, he stood in the middle of the wagon, not knowing what to do. "Why don't you sit down, little boy?" asked one of the ladies, after Toby had remained standing nearly five minutes and the wagon was about to start. "Well," said Toby, with some hesitation, as he looked around at the two or three empty seats that remained, "I didn't want to get in anybody else's place, an' I didn't know where to sit." "Come right here," said the lady, as she pointed to a seat by the side of a little girl who did not look any older than Toby; "the lady who usually occupies that seat will not be here to-night, and you can have it." "Thank you, ma'am," said Toby, as he sat timidly down on the edge of the seat, hardly daring to sit back comfortably, and feeling very awkward meanwhile, but congratulating himself on being thus protected from the pouring rain. The wagon started, and as each one talked with her neighbor, Toby felt a most dismal sense of loneliness, and almost wished that he was riding on the monkey-cart with Ben, where he could have some one to talk with. He gradually pushed himself back into a more comfortable position, and had then an opportunity of seeing more plainly the young girl who rode by his side. She was quite as young as Toby, and small of her age; but there was an old look about her face that made the boy think of her as being an old woman cut down to fit children's clothes. Toby had looked at her so earnestly that she observed him, and asked, "What is your name?" "Toby Tyler." "What do you do in the circus?" "Sell candy for Mr. Lord." "Oh! I thought you was a new member of the company." Toby knew by the tone of her voice that he had fallen considerably in her estimation by not being one of the performers, and it was some little time before he ventured to speak; and then he asked, timidly, "What do you do?" "I ride one of the horses with mother." "Are you the little girl that comes out with the lady an' four horses?" asked Toby, in awe that he should be conversing with so famous a person. "Yes, I am. Don't I do it nicely?" "Why, you're a perfect little--little--fairy!" exclaimed Toby, after hesitating a moment to find some word which would exactly express his idea. [Illustration: TOBY IN THE "WOMEN'S WAGON."] This praise seemed to please the young lady, and in a short time the two became very good friends, even if Toby did not occupy a more exalted position than that of candy-seller. She had learned from him all about the accident to the monkey-cage, and about Mr. Stubbs, and in return had told him that her name was Ella Mason, though on the bills she was called "Mademoiselle Jeannette." For a long time the two children sat talking together, and then Mademoiselle Jeannette curled herself up on the seat, with her head in her mother's lap, and went to sleep. Toby had resolved to keep awake and watch her, for he was struck with admiration at her face; but sleep got the better of him in less than five minutes after he had made the resolution, and he sat bolt-upright, with his little round head nodding and bobbing until it seemed almost certain that he would shake it off. When Toby awoke the wagon was drawn up by the side of the road, the sun was shining brightly, preparations were being made for the entrée into town, and the harsh voice of Mr. Job Lord was shouting his name in a tone that boded no good for poor Toby when he should make his appearance. Toby would have hesitated before meeting his angry employer but that he knew it would only make matters worse for him when he did show himself, and he mentally braced himself for the trouble which he knew was coming. The little girl whose acquaintance he had made the night previous was still sleeping; and, wishing to say good-bye to her in some way without awakening her, he stooped down and gently kissed the skirt of her dress. Then he went out to meet his master. Mr. Lord was thoroughly enraged when Toby left the wagon, and saw the boy just as he stepped to the ground. The angry man gave a quick glance around, to make sure that none of Toby's friends were in sight, and then caught him by the coat-collar and commenced to whip him severely with the small rubber cane that he usually carried. Mr. Job Lord lifted the poor boy entirely clear of the ground, and each blow that he struck could be heard almost the entire length of the circus train. "You've been makin' so many acquaintances here that you hain't willin' to do any work," he said, savagely, as he redoubled the force of his blows. "Oh, please stop! please stop!" shrieked the poor boy in his agony. "I'll do everything you tell me to, if you won't strike me again!" This piteous appeal seemed to have no effect upon the cruel man, and he continued to whip the boy, despite his cries and entreaties, until his arm fairly ached from the exertion, and Toby's body was crossed and recrossed with the livid marks of the cane. "Now, let's see whether you'll 'tend to your work or not!" said the man as he flung Toby from him with such force that the boy staggered, reeled, and nearly fell into the little brook that flowed by the roadside. "I'll make you understand that all the friends you've whined around in this show can't save you from a lickin' when I get ready to give you one! Now go an' do your work that ought to have been done an hour ago!" Mr. Lord walked away with the proud consciousness of a man who has achieved a great victory, and Toby was limping painfully along toward the cart that was used in conveying Mr. Lord's stock-in-trade, when he felt a tiny hand slip into his, and heard a childish voice say, "Don't cry, Toby. Some time, when I get big enough, I'll make Mr. Lord sorry that he whipped you as he did; and I'm big enough now to tell him just what kind of a man I think he is." Looking around, Toby saw his little acquaintance of the evening previous, and he tried to force back the big tears that were rolling down his cheeks as he said, in a voice choked with grief, "You're awful good, an' I don't mind the lickin' when you say you're sorry for me. I s'pose I deserve it for runnin' away from Uncle Dan'l." "Did it hurt you much?" she asked, feelingly. "It did when he was doin' it," replied Toby, manfully, "but it don't a bit now that you've come." "Then I'll go and talk to that Mr. Lord, and I'll come and see you again after we get into town," said the little miss, as she hurried away to tell the candy vender what she thought of him. That day, as on all others since he had been with the circus, Toby went to his work with a heavy heart, and time and time again did he count the money which had been given him by kind-hearted strangers, to see whether he had enough to warrant his attempting to run away. Three dollars and twenty-five cents was the total amount of his treasure, and, large as that sum appeared to him, he could not satisfy himself that he had sufficient to enable him to get back to the home which he had so wickedly left. Whenever he thought of this home, of the Uncle Daniel who had in charity cared for him--a motherless, fatherless boy--and of returning to it, with not even as much right as the Prodigal Son, of whom he had heard Uncle Daniel tell, his heart sunk within him, and he doubted whether he would be allowed to remain even if he should be so fortunate as ever to reach Guilford again. This day passed, so far as Toby was concerned, very much as had the others: he could not satisfy either of his employers, try as hard as he might; but, as usual, he met with two or three kindly-disposed people, who added to the fund that he was accumulating for his second venture of running away by little gifts of money, each one of which gladdened his heart and made his trouble a trifle less hard to bear. During the entire week he was thus equally fortunate. Each day added something to his fund, and each night it seemed to Toby that he was one day nearer the freedom for which he so ardently longed. The skeleton, the fat lady, Old Ben, the Albino Children, little Ella, and even the sword-swallower, all gave him a kindly word as they passed him while he was at his work, or saw him as the preparations for the grand entrée were being made. The time had passed slowly to Toby, and yet Sunday came again--as Sundays always come; and on this day Old Ben hunted him up, made him wash his face and hands until they fairly shone from very cleanliness, and then took him to church. Toby was surprised to find that it was really a pleasant thing to be able to go to church after being deprived of it, and was more light-hearted than he had yet been since he left Guilford when he returned to the tent at noon. The skeleton had invited him to another dinner-party; but Toby had declined the invitation, agreeing to present himself in time for supper instead. He hardly cared to go through the ordeal of another state dinner; and besides, he wanted to go off to the woods with the old monkey, where he could enjoy the silence of the forest, which seemed like a friend to him, because it reminded him of home. Taking the monkey with him as usual, he inquired the nearest way to a grove, and, without waiting for dinner, started off for an afternoon's quiet enjoyment. CHAPTER XII. TOBY'S GREAT MISFORTUNE. The town in which the circus remained over Sunday was a small one, and a brisk walk of ten minutes sufficed to take Toby into a secluded portion of a very thickly-grown wood, where he could lie upon the mossy ground and fairly revel in freedom. As he lay upon his back, his hands under his head, and his eyes directed to the branches of the trees above, where the birds twittered and sung, and the squirrels played in fearless sport, the monkey enjoyed himself, in his way, by playing all the monkey antics he knew of. He scrambled from tree to tree, swung himself from one branch to the other by the aid of his tail, and amused both himself and his master, until, tired by his exertions, he crept down by Toby's side and lay there in quiet, restful content. One of Toby's reasons for wishing to be by himself that afternoon was, that he wanted to think over some plan of escape, for he believed that he had nearly money enough to enable him to make a bold stroke for freedom and Uncle Daniel's. Therefore, when the monkey nestled down by his side he was all ready to confide in him that which had been occupying his busy little brain for the past three days. "Mr. Stubbs," he said to the monkey, in a solemn tone, "we're goin' to run away in a day or two." Mr. Stubbs did not seem to be moved in the least at this very startling piece of intelligence, but winked his bright eyes in unconcern; and Toby, seeming to think that everything which he said had been understood by the monkey, continued: "I've got a good deal of money now, an' I guess there's enough for us to start out on. We'll get away some night, an' stay in the woods till they get through hunting for us, an' then we'll go back to Guilford, an' tell Uncle Dan'l if he'll only take us back we'll never go to sleep in meetin' any more, an' we'll be just as good as we know how. Now let's see how much money we've got." Toby drew from a pocket, which he had been at a great deal of trouble to make in his shirt, a small bag of silver, and spread it upon the ground, where he could count it at his leisure. The glittering coin instantly attracted the monkey's attention, and he tried by every means to thrust his little black paw into the pile; but Toby would allow nothing of that sort, and pushed him away quite roughly. Then he grew excited, and danced and scolded around Toby's treasure, until the boy had hard work to count it. He did succeed, however, and as he carefully replaced it in the bag he said to the monkey, "There's seven dollars an' thirty cents in that bag, an' every cent of it is mine. That ought to take care of us for a good while, Mr. Stubbs; an' by the time we get home we shall be rich men." The monkey showed his pleasure at this intelligence by putting his hand inside Toby's clothes to find the bag of treasure that he had seen secreted there, and two or three times, to the great delight of both himself and the boy, he drew forth the bag, which was immediately taken away from him. The shadows were beginning to lengthen in the woods, and, heeding this warning of the coming night, Toby took the monkey on his arm and started for home, or for the tent, which was the only place he could call home. As he walked along he tried to talk to his pet in a serious manner, but the monkey, remembering where he had seen the bright coins secreted, tried so hard to get at them that finally Toby lost all patience, and gave him quite a hard cuff on the ear, which had the effect of keeping him quiet for a time. That night Toby took supper with the skeleton and his wife, and he enjoyed the meal, even though it was made from what had been left of the turkey that served as the noonday feast, more than he did the state dinner, where he was obliged to pay for what he ate by the torture of making a speech. There were no guests but Toby present; and Mr. and Mrs. Treat were not only very kind, but so attentive that he was actually afraid he should eat so much as to stand in need of some of the catnip-tea which Mrs. Treat had said she gave to her husband when he had been equally foolish. The skeleton would pile his plate high with turkey-bones from one side, and the fat lady would heap it up, whenever she could find a chance, with all sorts of food from the other, until Toby pushed back his chair, his appetite completely satisfied, if it never had been so before. Toby had discussed the temper of his employer with his host and hostess, and, after some considerable conversation, confided in them his determination to run away. "I'd hate awfully to have you go," said Mrs. Treat, reflectively; "but it's a good deal better for you to get away from that Job Lord if you can. It wouldn't do to let him know that you had any idea of goin', for he'd watch you as a cat watches a mouse, an' never let you go so long as he saw a chance to keep you. I heard him tellin' one of the drivers the other day that you sold more goods than any other boy he ever had, an' he was going to keep you with him all summer." "Be careful in what you do, my boy," said the skeleton, sagely, as he arranged a large cushion in an arm-chair, and proceeded to make ready for his after-dinner nap; "be sure that you're all ready before you start, an', when you do go, get a good ways ahead of him; for if he should ever catch you the trouncin' you'd get would be awful." Toby assured his friends that he would use every endeavor to make his escape successful when he did start; and Mrs. Treat, with an eye to the boy's comfort, said, "Let me know the night you're goin', an' I'll fix you up something to eat, so's you won't be hungry before you come to a place where you can buy something." As these kind-hearted people talked with him, and were ready thus to aid him in every way that lay in their power, Toby thought that he had been very fortunate in thus having made so many kind friends in a place where he was having so much trouble. It was not until he heard the sounds of preparation for departure that he left the skeleton's tent, and then, with Mr. Stubbs clasped tightly to his breast, he hurried over to the wagon where Old Ben was nearly ready to start. "All right, Toby," said the old driver, as the boy came in sight; "I was afraid you was going to keep me waitin' for the first time. Jump right up on the box, for there hain't no time to lose, an' I guess you'll have to carry the monkey in your arms, for I don't want to stop to open the cage now." "I'd just as soon carry him, an' a little rather," said Toby, as he clambered up on the high seat and arranged a comfortable place in his lap for his pet to sit. In another moment the heavy team had started, and nearly the entire circus was on the move. "Now tell me what you've been doin' since I left you," said Old Ben, after they were well clear of the town, and he could trust his horses to follow the team ahead. "I s'pose you've been to see the skeleton an' his mountain of a wife?" Toby gave a clear account of where he had been and what he had done, and when he concluded he told Old Ben of his determination to run away, and asked his advice on the matter. "My advice," said Ben, after he had waited some time, to give due weight to his words, "is that you clear out from this show just as soon as you can. This hain't no fit place for a boy of your age to be in, an' the sooner you get back where you started from, an' get to school, the better. But Job Lord will do all he can to keep you from goin', if he thinks you have any idea of leavin' him." Toby assured Ben, as he had assured the skeleton and his wife, that he would be very careful in all he did, and lay his plans with the utmost secrecy; and then he asked whether Ben thought the amount of money which he had would be sufficient to carry him home. "Waal, that depends," said the driver, slowly. "If you go to spreadin' yourself all over creation, as boys are very apt to do, your money won't go very far; but if you look at your money two or three times afore you spend it, you ought to get back and have a dollar or two left." The two talked, and Old Ben offered advice, until Toby could hardly keep his eyes open, and almost before the driver concluded his sage remarks the boy had stretched himself on the top of the wagon, where he had learned to sleep without being shaken off, and was soon in dream-land. The monkey, nestled down snug in Toby's bosom, did not appear to be as sleepy as was his master, but popped his head in and out from under the coat, as if watching whether the boy was asleep or not. Toby was awakened by a scratching on his face, as if the monkey was dancing a hornpipe on that portion of his body, and by a shrill, quick chattering, which caused him to assume an upright position instantly. He was frightened, although he knew not at what, and looked around quickly to discover the cause of the monkey's excitement. Old Ben was asleep on his box, while the horses jogged along behind the other teams, and Toby failed to see anything whatever which should have caused his pet to become so excited. "Lie down an' behave yourself," said Toby, as sternly as possible, and as he spoke he took his pet by the collar, to oblige him to obey his command. The moment that he did this he saw the monkey throw something out into the road, and the next instant he also saw that he held something tightly clutched in his other paw. It required some little exertion and active movement on Toby's part to enable him to get hold of that paw, in order to discover what it was which Mr. Stubbs had captured; but the instant he did succeed, there went up from his heart such a cry of sorrow as caused Old Ben to start up in alarm, and the monkey to cower and whimper like a whipped dog. "What is it, Toby? What's the matter?" asked the old driver, as he peered out into the darkness ahead, as if he feared some danger threatened them from that quarter. "I don't see anything. What is it?" "Mr. Stubbs has thrown all my money away," cried Toby, holding up the almost empty bag, which a short time previous had been so well filled with silver. "Stubbs--thrown--the--money--away?" repeated Ben, with a pause between each word, as if he could not understand that which he himself was saying. [Illustration: MR. STUBBS AND TOBY'S MONEY] "Yes," sobbed Toby, as he shook out the remaining contents of the bag, "there's only half a dollar, an' all the rest is gone." "The rest gone!" again repeated Ben. "But how come the monkey to have the money?" "He tried to get at it out in the woods, an' I s'pose the moment I got asleep he felt for it in my pockets. This is all there is left, an' he threw away some just as I woke up." Again Toby held the bag up where Ben could see it, and again his grief broke out anew. Ben could say nothing; he realized the whole situation: that the monkey had got at the money-bag while Toby was sleeping; that in his play he had thrown it away piece by piece; and he knew that that small amount of silver represented liberty in the boy's eyes. He felt that there was nothing he could say which would assuage Toby's grief, and he remained silent. "Don't you s'pose we could go back an' get it?" asked the boy, after the intensity of his grief had somewhat subsided. "No, Toby, it's gone," replied Ben, sorrowfully. "You couldn't find it if it was daylight, an' you don't stand a ghost of a chance now in the dark. Don't take on so, my boy. I'll see if we can't make it up to you in some way." Toby gave no heed to this last remark of Ben's. He hugged the monkey convulsively to his breast, as if he would seek consolation from the very one who had wrought the ruin, and, rocking himself to and fro, he said, in a voice full of tears and sorrow, "Oh, Mr. Stubbs, why did you do it?--why did you do it? That money would have got us away from this hateful place, an' we'd gone back to Uncle Dan'l's, where we'd have been _so_ happy, you an' me. An' now it's all gone--all gone. What made you, Mr. Stubbs--what made you do such a bad, cruel thing? Oh! what made you?" "Don't, Toby--don't take on so," said Ben, soothingly. "There wasn't so very much money there, after all, an' you'll soon get as much more." "But it won't be for a good while, an' we could have been in the good old home long before I can get so much again." "That's true, my boy; but you must kinder brace up, an' not give way so about it. Perhaps I can fix it so the fellers will make it up to you. Give Stubbs a good poundin', an' perhaps that'll make you feel better." "That won't bring back my money, an' I don't want to whip him," cried Toby, hugging his pet the closer because of this suggestion. "I know what it is to get a whippin', an' I wouldn't whip a dog, much less Mr. Stubbs, who didn't know any better." "Then you must try to take it like a man," said Ben, who could think of no other plan by which the boy might soothe his feelings. "It hain't half so bad as it might be, an' you must try to keep a stiff upper lip, even if it does seem hard at first." This keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of all the trouble he was having was all very well to talk about, but Toby could not reduce it to practice, or, at least, not so soon after he knew of his loss, and he continued to rock the monkey back and forth, to whisper in his ear now and then, and to cry as if his heart was breaking, for nearly an hour. Ben tried, in his rough, honest way, to comfort him, but without success; and it was not until the boy's grief had spent itself that he would listen to any reasoning. All this time the monkey had remained perfectly quiet, submitting to Toby's squeezing without making any effort to get away, and behaving as if he knew he had done wrong, and was trying to atone for it. He looked up into the boy's face every now and then with such a penitent expression, that Toby finally assured him of forgiveness, and begged him not to feel so badly. CHAPTER XIII. TOBY ATTEMPTS TO RESIGN HIS SITUATION. At last it was possible for Toby to speak of his loss with some degree of calmness, and then he immediately began to reckon up what he could have done with the money if he had not lost it. "Now see here, Toby," said Ben, earnestly: "don't go to doin' anything of that kind. The money's lost, an' you can't get it back by talkin'; so the very best thing for you is to stop thinkin' what you could do if you had it, an' just to look at it as a goner." "But--" persisted Toby. "I tell you there's no buts about it," said Ben, rather sharply. "Stop talkin' about what's gone, an' just go to thinkin' how you'll get more. Do what you've a mind to the monkey, but don't keep broodin' over what you can't help." Toby knew that the advice was good, and he struggled manfully to carry it into execution, but it was very hard work. At all events, there was no sleep for his eyes that night; and when, just about daylight, the train halted to wait a more seasonable hour in which to enter the town, the thought of what he might have done with his lost money was still in Toby's mind. Only once did he speak crossly to the monkey, and that was when he put him into the cage preparatory to commencing his morning's work. Then he said, "You wouldn't had to go into this place many times more if you hadn't been so wicked, for by to-morrow night we'd been away from this circus, an' on the way to home an' Uncle Dan'l. Now you've spoiled my chance an' your own for a good while to come, an' I hope before the day is over you'll feel as bad about it as I do." It seemed to Toby as if the monkey understood just what he said to him, for he sneaked over into one corner, away from the other monkeys, and sat there looking very penitent and very dejected. Then, with a heavy heart, Toby began his day's work. Hard as had been Toby's lot previous to losing his money, and difficult as it had been to bear the cruelty of Mr. Job Lord and his precious partner, Mr. Jacobs, it was doubly hard now while this sorrow was fresh upon him. Previous to this, when he had been kicked or cursed by one or the other of the partners, Toby thought exultantly that the time was not very far distant when he should be beyond the reach of his brutal task-masters, and that thought had given him strength to bear all that had been put upon him. Now the time of his deliverance from this bondage seemed very far off, and each cruel word or blow caused him the greater sorrow, because of the thought that but for the monkey's wickedness he would have been nearly free from that which made his life so very miserable. If he had looked sad and mournful before, he looked doubly so now, as he went his dreary round of the tent, crying, "Here's your cold lemonade," or "Fresh-baked pea-nuts, ten cents a quart;" and each day there were some in the audience who pitied the boy because of the misery which showed so plainly in his face, and they gave him a few cents more than his price for what he was selling, or gave him money without buying anything at all, thereby aiding him to lay up something again toward making his escape. Those few belonging to the circus who knew of Toby's intention to escape tried their best to console him for the loss of his money, and that kind-hearted couple, the skeleton and his fat wife, tried to force him to take a portion of their scanty earnings in the place of that which the monkey had thrown away. But this Toby positively refused to do; and to the arguments which they advanced as reasons why they should help him along he only replied that until he could get the money by his own exertions he would remain with Messrs. Lord and Jacobs, and get along as best he could. Every hour in the day the thought of what might have been if he had not lost his money so haunted his mind that finally he resolved to make one bold stroke, and tell Mr. Job Lord that he did not want to travel with the circus any longer. As yet he had not received the two dollars which had been promised him for his two weeks' work, and another one was nearly due. If he could get this money it might, with what he had saved again, suffice to pay his railroad fare to Guilford; and if it would not, he resolved to accept from the skeleton sufficient to make up the amount needed. He naturally shrunk from the task; but the hope that he might possibly succeed gave him the necessary amount of courage, and when he had gotten his work done, on the third morning after he had lost his money, and Mr. Lord appeared to be in an unusually good temper, he resolved to try the plan. It was just before the dinner hour. Trade had been unexceptionally good, and Mr. Lord had even spoken in a pleasant tone to Toby when he told him to fill up the lemonade pail with water, so that the stock might not be disposed of too quickly and with too little profit. Toby poured in quite as much water as he thought the already weak mixture could receive and retain any flavor of lemon; and then, as his employer motioned him to add more, he mixed another quart in, secretly wondering what it would taste like. "When you're mixin' lemonade for circus trade," said Mr. Lord, in such a benign, fatherly tone that one would have found it difficult to believe that he ever spoke harshly, "don't be afraid of water, for there's where the profit comes in. Always have a piece of lemon-peel floatin' on the top of every glass, an' it tastes just as good to people as if it cost twice as much." Toby could not agree exactly with that opinion, neither did he think it wise to disagree, more especially since he was going to ask the very great favor of being discharged; therefore he nodded his head gravely, and began to stir up what it pleased Mr. Lord to call lemonade, so that the last addition might be more thoroughly mixed with the others. Two or three times he attempted to ask the favor which seemed such a great one, and each time the words stuck in his throat, until it seemed to him that he should never succeed in getting them out. Finally, in his despair, he stammered out, "Don't you think you could find another boy in this town, Mr. Lord?" Mr. Lord moved round sideways, in order to bring his crooked eye to bear squarely on Toby, and then there was a long interval of silence, during which time the boy's color rapidly came and went, and his heart beat very fast with suspense and fear. "Well, what if I could?" he said at length. "Do you think that trade is so good I could afford to keep two boys, when there isn't half work enough for one?" Toby stirred the lemonade with renewed activity, as if by this process he was making both it and his courage stronger, and said, in a low voice, which Mr. Lord could scarcely hear, "I didn't think that; but you see I ought to go home, for Uncle Dan'l will worry about me; an', besides, I don't like a circus very well." Again there was silence on Mr. Lord's part, and again the crooked eye glowered down on Toby. "So," he said--and Toby could see that his anger was rising very fast--"you don't like a circus very well, an' you begin to think that your uncle Daniel will worry about you, eh? Well, I want you to understand that it don't make any difference to me whether you like a circus or not, and I don't care how much your uncle Daniel worries. You mean that you want to get away from me, after I've been to all the trouble and expense of teaching you the business?" Toby bent his head over the pail, and stirred away as if for dear life. "If you think you're going to get away from here until you've paid me for all you've eat, an' all the time I've spent on you, you're mistaken, that's all. You've had an easy time with me--too easy, in fact--and that's what ails you. Now, you just let me hear two words more out of your head about going away--only two more--an' I'll show you what a whipping is. I've only been playing with you before when you thought you was getting a whipping; but you'll find out what it means if I so much as see a thought in your eyes about goin' away. An' don't you dare to try to give me the slip in the night an' run away; for if you do I'll follow you, an' have you arrested. Now, you mind your eye in the future." It is impossible to say how much longer Mr. Lord might have continued this tirade, had not a member of the company--one of the principal riders--called him one side to speak with him. Poor Toby was so much confused by the angry words which had followed his very natural and certainly very reasonable suggestion that he paid no attention to anything around him, until he heard his own name mentioned; and then, fearing lest some new misfortune was about to befall him, he listened intently. "I'm afraid you couldn't do much of anything with him," he heard Mr. Lord say. "He's had enough of this kind of life already, so he says, an' I expect the next thing he does will be to try to run away." "I'll risk his getting away from you, Job," he heard the other say; "but of course I've got to take my chances. I'll take him in hand from eleven to twelve each day--just your slack time of trade--and I'll not only give you half of what he can earn in the next two years, but I'll pay you for his time, if he gives us the slip before the season is out." Toby knew that they were speaking of him, but what it all meant he could not imagine. "What are you going to do with him first?" Job asked. "Just put him right into the ring, and teach him what riding is. I tell you, Job, the boy's smart enough, and before the season's over I'll have him so that he can do some of the bare-back acts, and perhaps we'll get some money out of him before we go into winter-quarters." Toby understood the meaning of their conversation only too well, and he knew that his lot, which before seemed harder than he could bear, was about to be intensified through this Mr. Castle, of whom he had frequently heard, and who was said to be a rival of Mr. Lord's, so far as brutality went. The two men now walked toward the large tent, and Toby was left alone with his thoughts and the two or three little boy customers, who looked at him wonderingly, and envied him because he belonged to the circus. During the ride that night he told Old Ben what he had heard, confidently expecting that that friend at least would console him; but Ben was not the champion which he had expected. The old man, who had been with a circus, "man and boy, nigh to forty years," did not seem to think it any calamity that he was to be taught to ride. "That Mr. Castle is a little rough on boys," Old Ben said, thoughtfully; "but it'll be a good thing for you, Toby. Just so long as you stay with Job Lord you won't be nothin' more'n a candy-boy; but after you know how to ride it'll be another thing, an' you can earn a good deal of money, an' be your own boss." "But I don't want to stay with the circus," whined Toby; "I don't want to learn to ride, an' I do want to get back to Uncle Dan'l." "That may all be true, an' I don't dispute it," said Ben; "but you see you didn't stay with your uncle Daniel when you had the chance, an' you did come with the circus. You've told Job you wanted to leave, an' he'll be watchin' you all the time to see that you don't give him the slip. Now, what's the consequence? Why, you can't get away for a while, anyhow, an' you'd better try to amount to something while you are here. Perhaps after you've got so you can ride you may want to stay; an' I'll see to it that you get all of your wages, except enough to pay Castle for learnin' of you." [Illustration: TOBY AND THE LITTLE BOY CUSTOMERS.] "I sha'n't want to stay," said Toby. "I wouldn't stay if I could ride all the horses at once, an' was gettin' a hundred dollars a day." "But you can't ride one horse, an' you hain't gettin' but a dollar a week, an' still I don't see any chance of your gettin' away yet awhile," said Ben, in a matter-of-fact tone, as he devoted his attention again to his horses, leaving Toby to his own sad reflections, and the positive conviction that boys who run away from home do not have a good time, except in stories. The next forenoon, while Toby was deep in the excitement of selling to a boy no larger than himself, and with just as red hair, three cents' worth of pea-nuts and two sticks of candy, and while the boy was trying to induce him to "throw in" a piece of gum, because of the quantity purchased, Job Lord called him aside, and Toby knew that his troubles had begun. "I want you to go in an' see Mr. Castle; he's goin' to show you how to ride," said Mr. Lord, in as kindly a tone as if he were conferring some favor on the boy. If Toby had dared to, he would have rebelled then and there and refused to go; but, as he hadn't the courage for such proceeding, he walked meekly into the tent and toward the ring. CHAPTER XIV. MR. CASTLE TEACHES TOBY TO RIDE. When Toby got within sight of the ring he was astonished at what he saw. A horse, with a broad wooden saddle, was being led slowly around the ring; Mr. Castle was standing on one side, with a long whip in his hand; and on the tent-pole, which stood in the centre of the ring, was a long arm, from which dangled a leathern belt attached to a long rope that was carried through the end of the arm and run down to the base of the pole. Toby knew well enough why the horse, the whip, and the man were there, but the wooden projection from the tent-pole, which looked so much like a gallows, he could not understand at all. "Come, now," said Mr. Castle, cracking his whip ominously as Toby came in sight, "why weren't you here before?" "Mr. Lord just sent me in," said Toby, not expecting that his excuse would be received, for they never had been since he had arrived at the height of his ambition by joining the circus. "Then I'll make Mr. Job understand that I am to have my full hour of your time; and if I don't get it there'll be trouble between us." It would have pleased Toby very well to have had Mr. Castle go out with his long whip just then and make trouble for Mr. Lord; but Mr. Castle had not the time to spare, because of the trouble which he was about to make for Toby, and that he commenced on at once. "Well, get in here, and don't waste any more time," he said, sharply. Toby looked around curiously for a moment, and, not understanding exactly what he was expected to get in and do, asked, "What shall I do?" "Pull off your boots, coat, and vest." Since there was no other course than to learn to ride, Toby wisely concluded that the best thing he could do would be to obey his new master without question; so he began to take off his clothes with as much alacrity as if learning to ride was the one thing upon which he had long set his heart. Mr. Castle was evidently accustomed to prompt obedience, for he not only took it as a matter of course but endeavored to hurry Toby in the work of undressing. With his desire to please, and urged by Mr. Castle's words and the ominous shaking of his whip, Toby's preparations were soon made, and he stood before his instructor clad only in his shirt, trousers, and stockings. The horse was led around to where he stood, and when Mr. Castle held out his hand to help him to mount Toby jumped up quickly without aid, thereby making a good impression at the start as a willing lad. "Now," said the instructor, as he pulled down the leathern belt which hung from the rope, and fastened it around Toby's waist, "stand up in the saddle, and try to keep there. You can't fall, because the rope will hold you up, even if the horse goes out from under you; but it isn't hard work to keep on, if you mind what you are about; and if you don't this whip will help you. Now stand up." Toby did as he was bid; and as the horse was led at a walk, and as he had the long bridle to aid him in keeping his footing, he had no difficulty in standing during the time that the horse went once around the ring; but that was all. Mr. Castle seemed to think that this was preparation enough for the boy to be able to understand how to ride, and he started the horse into a canter. As might have been expected, Toby lost his balance, the horse went on ahead, and he was left dangling at the end of the rope, very much like a crab that has just been caught by the means of a pole and line. Toby kicked, waved his hands, and floundered about generally, but all to no purpose, until the horse came round again, and then he made frantic efforts to regain his footing, which efforts were aided--or perhaps it would be more proper to say retarded--by the long lash of Mr. Castle's whip, that played around his legs with merciless severity. "Stand up! stand up!" cried his instructor, as Toby reeled first to one side and then to the other, now standing erect in the saddle, and now dangling at the end of the rope, with the horse almost out from under him. This command seemed needless, as it was exactly what Toby was trying to do; but as it was given he struggled all the harder, until it seemed to him that the more he tried the less did he succeed. And this first lesson progressed in about the same way until the hour was over, save that now and then Mr. Castle would give him some good advice, but oftener he would twist the long lash of the whip around the boy's legs with such force that Toby believed the skin had been taken entirely off. It may have been a relief to Mr. Castle when this first lesson was concluded, and it certainly was to Toby, for he had had all the teaching in horsemanship that he wanted, and he thought, with deepest sorrow, that this would be of daily occurrence during all the time he remained with the circus. [Illustration: THE FIRST LESSON.] As he went out of the tent he stopped to speak with his friend the old monkey, and his troubles seemed to have increased when he stood in front of the cage calling "Mr. Stubbs! Mr. Stubbs!" and the old fellow would not even come down from off the lofty perch where he was engaged in monkey gymnastics with several younger companions. It seemed to him, as he afterward told Ben, "as if Mr. Stubbs had gone back on him because he knew that he was in trouble." When he went toward the booth Mr. Lord looked at him around the corner of the canvas--for it seemed to Toby that his employer could look around a square corner with much greater ease than he could straight ahead--with a disagreeable leer in his eye, as though he enjoyed the misery which he knew his little clerk had just undergone. "Can you ride yet?" he asked, mockingly, as Toby stepped behind the counter to attend to his regular line of business. Toby made no reply, for he knew that the question was only asked sarcastically, and not through any desire for information. In a few moments Mr. Lord left him to attend to the booth alone, and went into the tent, where Toby rightly conjectured he had gone to question Mr. Castle upon the result of the lesson just given. That night Old Ben asked him how he had got on while under the teaching of Mr. Castle; and Toby, knowing that the question was asked because of the real interest which Ben had in his welfare, replied, "If I was tryin' to learn how to swing round the ring, strapped to a rope, I should say that I got along first-rate; but I don't know much about the horse, for I was only on his back a little while at a time." "You'll get over that soon," said Old Ben, patronizingly, as he patted him on the back. "You remember my words, now: I say that you've got it in you, an' if you've a mind to take hold an' try to learn you'll come out on the top of the heap yet, an' be one of the smartest riders they've got in this show." "I don't want to be a rider," said Toby, sadly; "I only want to get back home once more, an' then you'll see how much it'll take to get me away again." "Well," said Ben, quietly, "be that as it may, while you're here the best thing you can do is to take hold an' get ahead just as fast as you can; it'll make it a mighty sight easier for you while you're with the show, an' it won't spoil any of your chances for runnin' away whenever the time comes." Toby fully appreciated the truth of this remark, and he assured Ben that he should do all in his power to profit by the instruction given, and to please this new master who had been placed over him. And with this promise he lay back on the seat and went to sleep, not to awaken until the preparations were being made for the entrée into the next town, and Mr. Lord's harsh voice had cried out his name, with no gentle tone, several times. Toby's first lesson with Mr. Castle was the most pleasant one he had; for after the boy had once been into the ring his master seemed to expect that he could do everything which he was told to do, and when he failed in any little particular the long lash of the whip would go curling around his legs or arms, until the little fellow's body and limbs were nearly covered with the blue-and-black stripes. For three lessons only was the wooden upright used to keep him from falling; after that he was forced to ride standing erect on the broad wooden saddle, or pad, as it is properly called; and whenever he lost his balance and fell there was no question asked as to whether or not he had hurt himself, but he was mercilessly cut with the whip. Messrs. Lord and Jacobs gained very much by comparison with Mr. Castle in Toby's mind. He had thought that his lot could not be harder than it was with them; but when he had experienced the pains of two or three of Mr. Castle's lessons in horsemanship he thought that he would stay with the candy venders all the season cheerfully rather than take six more lessons of Mr. Castle. Night after night he fell asleep from the sheer exhaustion of crying, as he had been pouring out his woes in the old monkey's ears and laying his plans to run away. Now, more than ever, was he anxious to get away, and yet each day was taking him farther from home, and consequently necessitating a larger amount of money with which to start. As Old Ben did not give him as much sympathy as Toby thought he ought to give--for the old man, while he would not allow Mr. Job Lord to strike the boy if he was near, thought it a necessary portion of the education for Mr. Castle to lash him all he had a mind to--he poured out all his troubles in the old monkey's ears, and kept him with him from the time he ceased work at night until he was obliged to commence again in the morning. The skeleton and his wife thought Toby's lot a hard one, and tried by every means in their power to cheer the poor boy. Neither one of them could say to Mr. Castle what they had said to Mr. Lord, for the rider was a far different sort of a person, and one whom they would not be allowed to interfere with in any way. Therefore poor Toby was obliged to bear his troubles and his whippings as best he might, with only the thought to cheer him of the time when he could leave them all by running away. But, despite all his troubles, Toby learned to ride faster than his teacher had expected he would, and in three weeks he found little or no difficulty in standing erect while his horse went around the ring at his fastest gait. After that had been accomplished his progress was more rapid, and he gave promise of becoming a very good rider--a fact which pleased both Mr. Castle and Mr. Lord very much, as they fancied that in another year Toby would be the source of a very good income to them. The proprietor of the circus took considerable interest in Toby's instruction, and promised Mr. Castle that Mademoiselle Jeannette and Toby should do an act together in the performance just as soon as the latter was sufficiently advanced. The boy's costume had been changed after he could ride without falling off, and now while he was in the ring he wore the same as that used by the regular performers. The little girl had, after it was announced that she and Toby were to perform together, been an attentive observer during the hour that Toby was under Mr. Castle's direction, and she gave him many suggestions that were far more valuable, and quicker to be acted upon, than those given by the teacher himself. "To-morrow you two will go through the exercise together," said Mr. Castle to Toby and Ella, at the close of one of Toby's lessons, after he had become so skilful that he could stand with ease on the pad, and even advanced so far that he could jump through a hoop without falling more than twice out of three times. The little girl appeared highly delighted by this information, and expressed her joy. "It will be real nice," she said to Toby, after Mr. Castle had left them alone. "I can help you lots, and it won't be very long before we can do an act all by ourselves in the performance, and then won't the people clap their hands when we come in!" "It'll be better for you to-morrow than it will for me," said Toby, rubbing his legs sorrowfully, still feeling the sting of the whip. "You see Mr. Castle won't dare to whip you, an' he'll make it all count on me, 'cause he knows Mr. Lord likes to have him whip me." "But I sha'n't make any mistake," said Ella, confidently, "and so you won't have to be whipped on my account; and while I am on the horse you can't be whipped, for he couldn't do it without whipping me, so you see you won't get only half as much." Toby brightened up a little under the influence of this argument; but his countenance fell again as he thought that his chances for getting away from the circus were growing less each day. "You see I want to get back to Uncle Dan'l an' Guilford," he said, confidentially; "I don't want to stay here a single minute." Ella opened her eyes in wide astonishment as she cried, "Don't want to stay here? Why don't you go home, then?" "'Cause Job Lord won't let me," said Toby, wondering if it was possible that his little companion did not know exactly what sort of a man his master was. Then he told her--after making her give him all kinds of promises, including the ceremony of crossing her throat, that she would never tell a single soul--that he had had many thoughts, and had formed all kinds of plans for running away. He told her about losing his money, about his friendship for the skeleton and the fat lady, and at last he confided in her that he was intending to take the old monkey with him when he should make the attempt. She listened with the closest attention, and when he told her that his little hoard had now reached the sum of seven dollars and ten cents--almost as much as he had before--she said, eagerly, "I've got three little gold dollars in my trunk, an' you shall have them all; they're my very own, for mamma gave them to me to do just what I wanted to with them. But I don't see how you can take Mr. Stubbs with you, for that would be stealing." "No, it wouldn't, neither," said Toby, stoutly. "Wasn't he give to me to do just as I wanted to with? an' didn't the boss say he was all mine?" "Oh, I'd forgotten that," said Ella, thoughtfully. "I suppose you can take him; but he'll be awfully in the way, won't he?" "No," said Toby, anxious to say a good word for his pet; "he always does just as I want him to, an' when I tell him what I'm tryin' to do he'll be as good as anything. But I can't take your dollars." "Why not?" "'Cause that wouldn't be right for a boy to let a girl littler than himself help him; I'll wait till I get money enough of my own, an' then I'll go." "But I want you to take my money too; I want you to have it." "No, I can't take it," said Toby, shaking his head resolutely as he put the golden temptation from him; and then, as a happy thought occurred to him, he said, quickly, "I tell you what to do with your dollars: you keep them till you grow up to be a woman, an' when I'm a man I'll come, an' then we'll buy a circus of our own. I think, perhaps, I'd like to be with a circus if I owned one myself. We'll have lots of money then, an' we can do just what we want to." This idea seemed to please the little girl, and the two began to lay all sorts of plans for that time when they should be man and woman, have lots of money, and be able to do just as they wanted to. They had been sitting on the edge of the newly-made ring while they were talking, and before they had half-finished making plans for the future one of the attendants came in to put things to order, and they were obliged to leave their seats, she going to the hotel to get ready for the afternoon's performance, and Toby to try to do such work as Mr. Job Lord had laid out for him. Just ten weeks from the time Toby had first joined the circus Mr. Castle informed him and Ella that they were to appear in public on the following day. They had been practising daily, and Toby had become so skilful that both Mr. Castle and Mr. Lord saw that the time had come when he could be made to earn some money for them. CHAPTER XV. TOBY'S FRIENDS PRESENT HIM WITH A COSTUME. During this time Toby's funds had accumulated rather slower than on the first few days he was in the business, but he had saved eleven dollars, and Mr. Lord had paid him five dollars of his salary, so that he had the to him enormous sum of sixteen dollars; and he had about made up his mind to make one effort for liberty, when the news came that he was to ride in public. He had, in fact, been ready to run away any time within the past week; but, as if they had divined his intentions, both Mr. Castle and Mr. Lord had kept a very strict watch over him, one or the other keeping him in sight from the time he got through with his labors at night until they saw him on the cart with Old Ben. "I was just gettin' ready to run away," said Toby to Ella, on the day Mr. Castle gave his decision as to their taking part in the performance, and while they were walking out of the tent, "an' I shouldn't wonder now if I got away to-night." "Oh, Toby!" exclaimed the girl, as she looked reproachfully at him, "after all the work we've had to get ready, you won't go off and leave me before we've had a chance to see what the folks will say when they see us together?" It was impossible for Toby to feel any delight at the idea of riding in public, and he would have been willing to have taken one of Mr. Lord's most severe whippings if he could have escaped from it; but he and Ella had become such firm friends, and he had conceived such a boyish admiration for her, that he felt as if he were willing to bear almost anything for the sake of giving her pleasure. Therefore he said, after a few moments' reflection, "Well, I won't go to-night, anyway, even if I have the best chance that ever was. I'll stay one day more, anyhow, an' perhaps I'll have to stay a good many." "That's a nice boy," said Ella, positively, as Toby thus gave his decision, "and I'll kiss you for it." Before Toby fully realized what she was about, almost before he had understood what she said, she had put her arms around his neck and given him a good sound kiss right on his freckled face. Toby was surprised, astonished, and just a little bit ashamed. He had never been kissed by a girl before--very seldom by any one, save the fat lady--and he hardly knew what to do or say. He blushed until his face was almost as red as his hair, and this color had the effect of making his freckles stand out with startling distinctness. Then he looked carefully around to see if any one had seen them. "I never had a girl kiss me before," said Toby, hesitatingly, "an' you see it made me feel kinder queer to have you do it out here, where everybody could see." "Well, I kissed you because I like you very much, and because you are going to stay and ride with me to-morrow," she said, positively; and then she added, slyly, "I may kiss you again, if you don't get a chance to run away very soon." "I wish it wasn't for Uncle Dan'l an' the rest of the folks at home, an' there wasn't any such men as Mr. Lord an' Mr. Castle, an' then I don't know but I might want to stay with the circus, 'cause I like you awful much." And as he spoke Toby's heart grew very tender toward the only girl-friend he had ever known. By this time they had reached the door of the tent, and as they stepped outside one of the drivers told them that Mr. Treat and his wife were very anxious to see both of them in their tent. "I don't believe I can go," said Toby, doubtfully, as he glanced toward the booth, where Mr. Lord was busy in attending to customers, and evidently waiting for Toby to relieve him, so that he could go to his dinner; "I don't believe Mr. Lord will let me." [Illustration: ELLA AND TOBY.] "Go and ask him," said Ella, eagerly. "We won't be gone but a minute." Toby approached his employer with fear and trembling. He had never before asked leave to be away from his work, even for a moment, and he had no doubt but that his request would be refused with blows. "Mr. Treat wants me to come in his tent for a minute; can I go?" he asked, in a timid voice, and in such a low tone as to render it almost inaudible. Mr. Lord looked at him for an instant, and Toby was sure that he was making up his mind whether to kick him, or catch him by the collar and use the rubber cane on him. But he had no such intention, evidently, for he said, in a voice unusually mild, "Yes, an' you needn't come to work again until it's time to go into the tent." Toby was almost alarmed at this unusual kindness, and it puzzled him so much that he would have forgotten he had permission to go away if Ella had not pulled him gently by the coat. If he had heard a conversation between Mr. Lord and Mr. Castle that very morning he would have understood why it was that Mr. Lord had so suddenly become kind. Mr. Castle had told Job that the boy had really shown himself to be a good rider, and that in order to make him more contented with his lot, and to keep him from running away, he must be used more kindly, and perhaps be taken from the candy business altogether, which latter advice Mr. Lord did not look upon with favor, because of the large sales which the boy made. When they reached the skeleton's tent they found to their surprise that no exhibition was being given at that hour, and Ella said, with some concern, "How queer it is that the doors are not open! I do hope that they are not sick." Toby felt a strange sinking at his heart as the possibility suggested itself that one or both of his kind friends might be ill; for they had both been so kind and attentive to him that he had learned to love them very dearly. But the fears of both the children were dispelled when they tried to get in at the door, and were met by the smiling skeleton himself, who said, as he threw the canvas aside as far as if he were admitting his own enormous Lilly, "Come in, my friends, come in. I have had the exhibition closed for one hour, in order that I might show my appreciation of my friend Mr. Tyler." Toby looked around in some alarm, fearing that Mr. Treat's friendship was about to be displayed in one of his state dinners, which he had learned to fear rather than enjoy. But, as he saw no preparations for dinner, he breathed more freely, and wondered what all this ceremony could possibly mean. Neither he nor Ella was long left in doubt, for as soon as they had entered, Mrs. Treat waddled from behind the screen which served them as a dressing-room, with a bundle in her arms, which she handed to her husband. He took it, and, quickly mounting the platform, leaving Ella and Toby below, he commenced to speak, with very many flourishes of his thin arms. "My friends," he began, as he looked down upon his audience of three, who were listening in the following attitudes: Ella and Toby were standing upon the ground at the foot of the platform, looking up with wide-open, staring eyes; and his fleshy wife was seated on a bench which had evidently been placed in such a position below the speaker's stand that she could hear and see all that was going on without the fatigue of standing up, which, for one of her size, was really very hard work--"My friends," repeated the skeleton, as he held his bundle in front of him with one hand and gesticulated with the other, "we all of us know that to-morrow our esteemed and worthy friend Mr. Toby Tyler makes his first appearance in any ring, and we all of us believe that he will soon become a bright and shining light in the profession which he is so soon to enter." The speaker was here interrupted by loud applause from his wife, and he profited by the opportunity to wipe a stray drop of perspiration from his fleshless face. Then, as the fat lady ceased the exertion of clapping her hands, he continued: "Knowing that our friend Mr. Tyler was being instructed, preparatory to dazzling the public with his talents, my wife and I began to prepare for him some slight testimonial of our esteem; and, being informed by Mr. Castle some days ago of the day on which he was to make his first appearance before the public, we were enabled to complete our little gift in time for the great and important event." Here the skeleton paused to take a breath, and Toby began to grow most uncomfortably red in the face. Such praise made him feel very awkward. "I hold in this bundle," continued Mr. Treat as he waved the package on high, "a costume for our bold and worthy equestrian, and a sash to match for his beautiful and accomplished companion. In presenting these little tokens my wife (who has embroidered every inch of the velvet herself) and I feel proud to know that, when the great and auspicious occasion occurs to-morrow, the worthy Mr. Tyler will step into the ring in a costume which we have prepared expressly for him; and thus, when he does himself honor by his performance and earns the applause of the multitude, he will be doing honor and earning applause for the work of our hands--my wife Lilly and myself. Take them, my boy; and when you array yourself in them to-morrow you will remember that the only Living Skeleton, and the wonder of the nineteenth century in the shape of the Mammoth Lady, are present in their works if not in their persons." As he finished speaking Mr. Treat handed the bundle to Toby, and then joined in the applause which was being given by Mrs. Treat and Ella. Toby unrolled the package, and found that it contained a circus-rider's costume of pink tights and blue velvet trunks, collar and cuffs, embroidered in white and plentifully spangled with silver. In addition was a wide blue sash for Ella, embroidered to correspond with Toby's costume. The little fellow was both delighted with the gift and at a loss to know what to say in response. He looked at the costume over and over again, and the tears of gratitude that these friends should have been so good to him came into his eyes. He saw, however, that they were expecting him to say something in reply, and, laying the gift on the platform, he said to the skeleton and his wife, "You've been so good to me ever since I've been with the circus that I wish I was big enough to say somethin' more than that I'm much obliged, but I can't. One of these days, when I'm a man, I'll show you how much I like you, an' then you won't be sorry that you was good to such a poor little runaway boy as I am." Here the skeleton broke in with such loud applause and so many cries of "Hear! hear!" that Toby grew still more confused, and forgot entirely what he was intending to say next. "I want you to know how much obliged I am," he said, after some hesitation, "an' when I wear 'em I'll ride just the best I know how, even if I don't want to, an' you sha'n't be sorry that you gave them to me." As Toby concluded he made a funny little awkward bow, and then seemed to be trying to hide himself behind a chair from the applause which was given so generously. "Bless your dear little heart!" said the fat lady, after the confusion had somewhat subsided. "I know you will do your best, anyway, and I'm glad to know that you're going to make your first appearance in something that Samuel and I made for you." Ella was quite as well pleased with her sash as Toby was with his costume, and thanked Mr. and Mrs. Treat in a pretty little way that made Toby wish he could say anything half so nicely. The hour which the skeleton had devoted for the purpose of the presentation and accompanying speeches having elapsed, it was necessary that Ella and Toby should go, and that the doors of the exhibition be opened at once, in order to give any of the public an opportunity of seeing what the placards announced as two of the greatest curiosities on the face of the globe. That day, while Toby performed his arduous labors, his heart was very light, for the evidences which the skeleton and his wife had given of their regard for him were very gratifying. He determined that he would do his very best to please so long as he was with the circus, and then, when he got a chance to run away, he would do so, but not until he had said good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Treat, and thanked them again for their interest in him. When he had finished his work in the tent that night Mr. Lord said to him, as he patted him on the back in the most fatherly fashion, and as if he had never spoken a harsh word to him, "You can't come in here to sell candy now that you are one of the performers, my boy; an' if I can find another boy to-morrow you won't have to work in the booth any longer, an' your salary of a dollar a week will go on just the same, even if you don't have anything to do but to ride." This was a bit of news that was as welcome to Toby as it was unexpected, and he felt more happy then than he had for the ten weeks that he had been travelling under Mr. Lord's cruel mastership. But there was one thing that night that rather damped his joy, and that was that he noticed that Mr. Lord was unusually careful to watch him, not even allowing him to go outside the tent without following. He saw at once that, if he was to have a more easy time, his chances for running away were greatly diminished, and no number of beautiful costumes would have made him content to stay with the circus one moment longer than was absolutely necessary. That night he told Old Ben of the events of the day, and expressed the hope that he might acquit himself creditably when he made his first appearance on the following day. Ben sat thoughtfully for some time, and then, making all the preparations which Toby knew so well signified a long bit of advice, he said, "Toby, my boy, I've been with a circus, man an' boy, nigh to forty years, an' I've seen lots of youngsters start in just as you're goin' to start in to-morrow; but the most of them petered out, because they got to knowin' more'n them that learned 'em did. Now, you remember what I say, an' you'll find it good advice: whatever business you get into, don't think you know all about it before you've begun. Remember that you can always learn somethin', no matter how old you are, an' keep your eyes an' ears open, an' your tongue between your teeth, an' you'll amount to somethin', or my name hain't Ben." CHAPTER XVI. TOBY'S FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE RING. When the circus entered the town which had been selected as the place where Toby was to make his _début_ as a circus rider the boy noticed a new poster among the many glaring and gaudy bills which set forth the varied and numerous attractions that were to be found under one canvas for a trifling admission fee, and he noticed it with some degree of interest, not thinking for a moment that it had any reference to him. It was printed very much as follows: MADEMOISELLE JEANNETTE AND MONSIEUR AJAX, two of the youngest equestrians in the world, will perform their graceful, dashing, and daring act entitled THE TRIUMPH OF THE INNOCENTS! This is the first appearance of these daring young riders together since their separation in Europe last season, and their performance in this town will have a new and novel interest. See MADEMOISELLE JEANNETTE AND MONSIEUR AJAX. "Look there!" said Toby to Ben, as he pointed out the poster, which was printed in very large letters, with gorgeous coloring, and surmounted by a picture of two very small people performing all kinds of impossible feats on horseback. "They've got some one else to ride with Ella to-day. I wonder who it can be?" Ben looked at Toby for a moment, as if to assure himself that the boy was in earnest in asking the question, and then he relapsed into the worst fit of silent laughing that Toby had ever seen. After he had quite recovered he asked, "Don't you know who Monsieur Ajax is? Hain't you never seen him?" "No," replied Toby, at a loss to understand what there was so very funny in his very natural question. "I thought that I was goin' to ride with Ella." "Why, that's you!" almost screamed Ben, in delight. "Monsieur Ajax means you--didn't you know it? You don't suppose they would go to put 'Toby Tyler' on the bills, do you? How it would look!--'Mademoiselle Jeannette an' Monsieur Toby Tyler!'" Ben was off in one of his laughing spells again; and Toby sat there, stiff and straight, hardly knowing whether to join in the mirth or to get angry at the sport which had been made of his name. "I don't care," he said at length. "I'm sure I think Toby Tyler sounds just as well as Monsieur Ajax, an' I'm sure it fits me a good deal better." "That may be," said Ben, soothingly; "but you see it wouldn't go down so well with the public. They want furrin riders, an' they must have 'em, even if it does spoil your name." Despite the fact that he did not like the new name that had been given him, Toby could not but feel pleased at the glowing terms in which his performance was set off; but he did not at all relish the lie that was told about his having been with Ella in Europe, and he would have been very much better pleased if that portion of it had been left off. During the forenoon he did not go near Mr. Lord nor his candy stand, for Mr. Castle kept him and Ella busily engaged in practising the feat which they were to perform in the afternoon, and it was almost time for the performance to begin before they were allowed even to go to their dinner. Ella, who had performed several years, was very much more excited over the coming _début_ than Toby was, and the reason why he did not show more interest was, probably, because of his great desire to leave the circus as soon as possible, and during that forenoon he thought very much more of how he should get back to Guilford and Uncle Daniel than he did of how he should get along when he stood before the audience. Mr. Castle assisted his pupil to dress, and when that was done to his entire satisfaction he said, in a stern voice, "Now, you can do this act all right, and if you slip up on it, and don't do it as you ought to, I'll give you such a whipping when you come out of the ring that you'll think Job was only fooling with you when he tried to whip you." Toby had been feeling reasonably cheerful before this, but these words dispelled all his cheerful thoughts, and he was looking most disconsolate when Old Ben came into the dressing-tent. "All ready are you, my boy?" said the old man, in his cheeriest voice. "Well, that's good, an' you look as nice as possible. Now, remember what I told you last night, Toby, an' go in there to do your level best an' make a name for yourself. Come out here with me an' wait for the young lady." These cheering words of Ben's did Toby as much good as Mr. Castle's had the reverse, and as he stepped out of the dressing-room to the place where the horses were being saddled Toby resolved that he would do his very best that afternoon, if for no other reason than to please his old friend. Toby was not naturally what might be called a pretty boy, for his short red hair and his freckled face prevented any great display of beauty; but he was a good, honest-looking boy, and in his tasteful costume looked very nice indeed--so nice that, could Mrs. Treat have seen him just then, she would have been very proud of her handiwork and hugged him harder than ever. He had been waiting but a few moments when Ella came from her dressing-room, and Toby was very much pleased when he saw by the expression of her face that she was perfectly satisfied with his appearance. "We'll both do just as well as we can," she whispered to him, "and I know the people will like us, and make us come back after we get through. And if they do mamma says she'll give each one of us a gold dollar." She had taken hold of Toby's hand as she spoke, and her manner was so earnest and anxious that Toby was more excited than he ever had been about his _début;_ and, had he gone into the ring just at that moment, the chances are that he would have surprised even his teacher by his riding. "I'll do just as well as I can," said Toby, in reply to his little companion, "an' if we earn the dollars I'll have a hole bored in mine, an' you shall wear it around your neck to remember me by." "I'll remember you without that," she whispered; "and I'll give you mine, so that you shall have so much the more when you go to your home." There was no time for further conversation, for Mr. Castle entered just then to tell them that they must go in in another moment. The horses were all ready--a black one for Toby, and a white one for Ella--and they stood champing their bits and pawing the earth in their impatience until the silver bells with which they were decorated rung out quick, nervous little chimes that accorded very well with Toby's feelings. Ella squeezed Toby's hand as they stood waiting for the curtain to be raised that they might enter, and he had just time to return it when the signal was given, and almost before he was aware of it they were standing in the ring, kissing their hands to the crowds that packed the enormous tent to its utmost capacity. Thanks to the false announcement about the separation of the children in Europe and their reunion in this particular town, the applause was long and loud, and before it had died away Toby had time to recover a little from the queer feeling which this sea of heads gave him. He had never seen such a crowd before, except as he had seen them as he walked around at the foot of the seats, and then they had simply looked like so many human beings; but as he saw them now from the ring they appeared like strange rows of heads without bodies, and he had hard work to keep from running back behind the curtain from whence he had come. Mr. Castle acted as the ring-master this time, and after he had introduced them--very much after the fashion of the posters--and the clown had repeated some funny joke, the horses were led in, and they were assisted to mount. "Don't mind the people at all," said Mr. Castle, in a low voice, "but ride just as if you were alone here with me." The music struck up, the horses cantered around the ring, and Toby had really started as a circus rider. "Remember," said Ella to him, in a low tone, just as the horses started, "you told me that you would ride just as well as you could, and we must earn the dollars mamma promised." It seemed to Toby at first as if he could not stand up; but by the time they had ridden around the ring once, and Ella had again cautioned him against making any mistake, for the sake of the money which they were going to earn, he was calm and collected enough to carry out his part of the "act" as well as if he had been simply taking a lesson. The act consisted in their riding side by side, jumping over banners and through hoops covered with paper, and then the most difficult portion began. The saddles were taken off the horses, and they were to ride first on one horse and then on the other, until they concluded their performance by riding twice around the ring side by side, standing on their horses, each one with a hand on the other's shoulder. All this was successfully accomplished without a single error, and when they rode out of the ring the applause was so great as to leave no doubt but that they would be recalled, and thus earn the promised money. In fact, they had hardly got inside the curtain when one of the attendants called to them, and before they had time even to speak to each other they were in the ring again, repeating the last portion of their act. When they came out of the ring for the second time they found Old Ben, the skeleton, the fat lady, and Mr. Jacob Lord waiting to welcome them; but before any one could say a word Ella had stood on tiptoe again and given Toby just such another kiss as she did when he told her that he would surely stay long enough to appear in the ring with her once. [Illustration: MADEMOISELLE JEANNETTE AND MONSIEUR AJAX.] "That's because you rode so well and helped me so much," she said, as she saw Toby's cheeks growing a fiery red; and then she turned to those who were waiting to greet her. Mrs. Treat took her in her enormous arms, and having kissed her, put her down quickly, and clasped Toby as if he had been a very small walnut and her arms a very large pair of nut-crackers. "Bless the boy!" she exclaimed, as she kissed him again and again with an energy and force that made her kisses sound like the crack of the whip, and caused the horses to stamp in affright. "I knew he'd amount to something one of these days, an' Samuel an' I had to come out, when business was dull, just to see how he got along." It was some time before she would unloose him from her motherly embrace, and when she did the skeleton grasped him by the hand, and said, in the most pompous and affected manner, "Mr. Tyler, we're proud of you, and when we saw that costume of yours, that my Lilly embroidered with her own hands, we was both proud of it and what it contained. You're a great rider, my boy, a great rider, and you'll stand at the head of the profession some day, if you only stick to it." "Thank you, sir," was all Toby had time to say before Old Ben had him by the hand, and the skeleton was pouring out his congratulations in little Miss Ella's ear. "Toby, my boy, you did well, an' now you'll amount to something, if you only remember what I told you last night," said Ben, as he looked upon the boy whom he had come to think of as his _protégé_, with pride. "I never seen anybody of your age do any better; an' now, instead of bein' only a candy peddler, you're one of the stars of the show." "Thank you, Ben," was all that Toby could say, for he knew that his old friend meant every word that he said, and it pleased him so much that he could say no more than "Thank you" in reply. "I feel as if your triumph was mine," said Mr. Lord, looking benignly at Toby from out his crooked eye, and assuming the most fatherly tone at his command; "I have learned to look upon you almost as my own son, and your success is very gratifying to me." Toby was not at all flattered by this last praise. If he had never seen Mr. Lord before, he might, and probably would, have been deceived by his words; but he had seen him too often, and under too many painful circumstances, to be at all swindled by his words. Toby was very much pleased with his success and by the praise he received from all, and when the proprietor of the circus came along, patted him on the head, and told him that he rode very nicely, he was quite happy, until he chanced to see the greedy twinkle in Mr. Lord's eye, and then he knew that all this success and all this praise were only binding him faster to the show which he was so anxious to escape from; his pleasure vanished very quickly, and in its stead came a bitter, homesick feeling which no amount of praise could banish. It was Old Ben who helped him to undress after the skeleton and the fat lady had gone back to their tent, and Ella had gone to dress for her appearance with her mother, for now she was obliged to ride twice at each performance. When Toby was in his ordinary clothes again Ben said, "Now that you're one of the performers, Toby, you won't have to sell candy any more, an' you'll have the most of your time to yourself, so let's you an' I go out an' see the town." "Don't you s'pose Mr. Lord expects me to go to work for him again to-day?" "An' s'posin' he does?" said Ben, with a chuckle. "You don't s'pose the boss would let any one that rides in the ring stand behind Job Lord's counter, do you? You can do just as you have a mind to, my boy, an' I say to you, let's go out an' see the town. What do you say to it?" "I'd like to go first-rate, if I dared to," replied Toby, thinking of the many whippings he had received for far less than that which Ben now proposed he should do. "Oh, I'll take care that Job don't bother you, so come along;" and Ben started out of the tent, and Toby followed, feeling considerably frightened at this first act of disobedience against his old master. CHAPTER XVII. OFF FOR HOME! During this walk Toby learned many things that were of importance to him, so far as his plan for running away was concerned. In the first place, he gleaned from the railroad posters that were stuck up in the hotel to which they went that he could buy a ticket for Guilford for seven dollars, and also that, by going back to the town from which they had just come, he could go to Guilford by steamer for five dollars. By returning to this last town--and Toby calculated that the fare on the stage back there could not be more than a dollar--he would have ten dollars left, and that surely ought to be sufficient to buy food enough for two days for the most hungry boy that ever lived. When they returned to the circus grounds the performance was over, and Mr. Lord in the midst of the brisk trade which he usually had after the afternoon performance, and yet, so far from scolding Toby for going away, he actually smiled and bowed at him as he saw him go by with Ben. "See there, Toby," said the old driver to the boy, as he gave him a vigorous poke in the ribs and then went off into one of his dreadful laughing spells--"see what it is to be a performer, an' not workin' for such an old fossil as Job is! He'll be so sweet to you now that sugar won't melt in his mouth, an' there's no chance of his ever attemptin' to whip you again." Toby made no reply, for he was too busily engaged thinking of something which had just come into his mind to know that his friend had spoken. But as Old Ben hardly knew whether the boy had answered him or not, owing to his being obliged to struggle with his breath lest he should lose it in the second laughing spell that attacked him, the boy's thoughtfulness was not particularly noticed. Toby walked around the show-grounds for a little while with his old friend, and then the two went to supper, where Toby performed quite as great wonders in the way of eating as he had in the afternoon by riding. As soon as the supper was over he quietly slipped away from Old Ben, and at once paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Treat, whom he found cosily engaged with their supper behind the screen. They welcomed Toby most cordially, and, despite his assertions that he had just finished a very hearty meal, the fat lady made him sit down to the box which served as table, and insisted on his trying some of her doughnuts. Under all these pressing attentions it was some time before Toby found a chance to say that which he had come to say, and when he did he was almost at a loss how to proceed; but at last he commenced by starting abruptly on his subject with the words, "I've made up my mind to leave to-night." "Leave to-night?" repeated the skeleton, inquiringly, not for a moment believing that Toby could think of running away after the brilliant success he had just made. "What do you mean, Toby?" "Why, you know that I've been wantin' to get away from the circus," said Toby, a little impatient that his friend should be so wonderfully stupid, "an' I think that I'll have as good a chance now as ever I shall, so I'm goin' to try it." "Bless us!" exclaimed the fat lady, in a gasping way. "You don't mean to say that you're goin' off just when you've started in the business so well? I thought you'd want to stay after you'd been so well received this afternoon." "No," said Toby--and one quick little sob popped right up from his heart and out before he was aware of it--"I learned to ride because I had to, but I never give up runnin' away. I must see Uncle Dan'l, an' tell him how sorry I am for what I did; an' if he won't have anything to say to me then I'll come back; but if he'll let me I'll stay there, an' I'll be _so_ good that by-'n'-by he'll forget that I run off an' left him without sayin' a word." There was such a touch of sorrow in his tones, so much pathos in his way of speaking, that good Mrs. Treat's heart was touched at once; and putting her arms around the little fellow, as if to shield him from some harm, she said, tenderly, "And so you shall go, Toby, my boy; but if you ever want a home or anybody to love you come right here to us, and you'll never be sorry. So long as Sam keeps thin and I fat enough to draw the public, you never need say that you're homeless, for nothing would please us better than to have you come to live with us." For reply Toby raised his head and kissed her on the cheek, a proceeding which caused her to squeeze him harder than ever. During this conversation the skeleton had remained very thoughtful. After a moment or two he got up from his seat, went outside the tent, and presently returned with a quantity of silver ten-cent pieces in his hand. "Here, Toby," he said--and it was to be seen that he was really too much affected even to attempt one of his speeches--"it's right that you should go, for I've known what it is to feel just as you do. What Lilly said about your having a home with us I say, an' here's five dollars that I want you to take to help you along." At first Toby stoutly refused to take the money; but they both insisted to such a degree that he was actually forced to, and then he stood up to go. "I'm goin' to try to slip off after Job packs up the outside booth if I can," he said, "an' it was to say good-bye that I come around here." Again Mrs. Treat took the boy in her arms, as if it were one of her own children who was leaving her, and as she stroked his hair back from his forehead she said, "Don't forget us, Toby, even if you never do see us again; try an' remember how much we cared for you, an' how much comfort you're taking away from us when you go; for it was a comfort to see you around, even if you wasn't with us very much. Don't forget us, Toby, an' if you ever get the chance come an' see us. Good-bye, Toby, good-bye." And the kind-hearted woman kissed him again and again, and then turned her back resolutely upon him, lest it should be bad luck to him if she again saw him after saying good-bye. The skeleton's parting was not quite so demonstrative. He clasped Toby's hand with one set of his fleshless fingers, while with the other he wiped one or two suspicious-looking drops of moisture from his eyes, as he said, "I hope you'll get along all right, my boy, and I believe you will. You will get home to Uncle Daniel, and be happier than ever, for now you know what it is to be entirely without a home. Be a good boy, mind your uncle, go to school, and one of these days you'll make a good man. Good-bye, my boy." The tears were now streaming down Toby's face very rapidly; he had not known, in his anxiety to get home, how very much he cared for this strangely assorted couple, and now it made him feel very miserable and wretched that he was going to leave them. He tried to say something more, but the tears choked his utterance, and he left the tent quickly to prevent himself from breaking down entirely. In order that his grief might not be noticed, and the cause of it suspected, Toby went out behind the tent, and, sitting there on a stone, he gave way to the tears which he could no longer control. While he was thus engaged, heeding nothing which passed around him, he was startled by a cheery voice which cried, "Halloo! down in the dumps again? What is the matter now, my bold equestrian?" Looking up, he saw Ben standing before him, and he wiped his eyes hastily, for here was another from whom he must part, and to whom a good-bye must be spoken. Looking around to make sure that no one was within hearing, he went up very close to the old driver, and said, in almost a whisper, "I was feelin' bad 'cause I just come from Mr. and Mrs. Treat, an' I've been say in' good-bye to them. I'm goin' to run away to-night." Ben looked at him for a moment, as if he doubted whether the boy knew exactly what he was talking about, and then said, "So you still want to go home, do you?" "Oh yes, Ben, _so_ much," was the reply, in a tone which expressed how dear to him was the thought of being in his old home once more. "All right, my boy; I won't say one word agin it, though it do seem too bad, after you've turned out to be such a good rider," said the old man, thoughtfully. "It's better for you, I know; for a circus hain't no place for a boy, even if he wants to stay, an' I can't say but I'm glad you're still determined to go." Toby felt relieved at the tone of this leave-taking. He had feared that Old Ben, who thought a circus-rider was almost on the topmost round of Fortune's ladder, would have urged him to stay, since he had made his _début_ in the ring, and he was almost afraid that he might take some steps to prevent his going. "I wanted to say good-bye now," said Toby, in a choking voice, "'cause perhaps I sha'n't see you again." "Good-bye, my boy," said Ben as he took the boy's hand in his. "Don't forget this experience you've had in runnin' away; an' if ever the time comes that you feel as if you wanted to know that you had a friend, think of Old Ben, an' remember that his heart beats just as warm for you as if he was your father. Good-bye, my boy, good-bye, an' may the good God bless you!" "Good-bye, Ben," said Toby; and then, as the old driver turned and walked away, wiping something from his eye with the cuff of his sleeve, Toby gave full vent to his tears, and wondered why it was that he was such a miserable little wretch. There was one more good-bye to be said, and that Toby dreaded more than all the others. It was to Ella. He knew that she would feel badly to have him go, because she liked to ride the act with him that gave them such applause, and he felt certain that she would urge him to stay. Just then the thought of another of his friends--one who had not yet been warned of what very important matter was to occur--came into his mind, and he hastened toward the old monkey's cage. His pet was busily engaged in playing with some of the younger members of his family, and for some moments could not be induced to come to the bars of the cage. At last, however, Toby did succeed in coaxing him forward, and then, taking him by the paw, and drawing him as near as possible, Toby whispered, "We're goin' to run away to night, Mr. Stubbs, an' I want you to be all ready to go the minute I come for you." The old monkey winked both eyes violently, and then showed his teeth to such an extent that Toby thought he was laughing at the prospect, and he said, a little severely, "If you had as many friends as I have got in this circus you wouldn't laugh when you was goin' to leave them. Of course I've got to go, an' I want to go; but it makes me feel bad to leave the skeleton, an' the fat woman, an' Old Ben, an' little Ella. But I mustn't stand here. You be ready when I come for you, an' by mornin' we'll be so far off that Mr. Lord nor Mr. Castle can't catch us." The old monkey went toward his companions, as if he were in high glee at the trip before him, and Toby went into the dressing tent to prepare for the evening's performance--which was about to commence. It appeared to the boy as if every one was unusually kind to him that night, and, feeling sad at leaving those in the circus who had befriended him, Toby was unusually attentive to every one around him. He ran on some trifling errand for one, helped another in his dressing, and in a dozen kind ways seemed as if trying to atone for leaving them secretly. When the time came for him to go into the ring and he met Ella, bright and happy at the thought of riding with him and repeating her triumphs of the afternoon, nothing save the thought of how wicked he had been to run away from good old Uncle Daniel, and a desire to right that wrong in some way, prevented him from giving up his plan of going back. The little girl observed his sadness, and she whispered, "Has any one been whipping you, Toby?" Toby shook his head. He had thought that he would tell her what he was about to do just before they went into the ring, but her kind words seemed to make that impossible, and he had said nothing, when the blare of the trumpets, the noisy demonstrations of the audience, and the announcement of the clown that the wonderful children riders were now about to appear, ushered them into the ring. If Toby had performed well in the afternoon, he accomplished wonders on this evening, and they were called back into the ring, not once, but twice; and when finally they were allowed to retire, every one behind the curtain overwhelmed them with praise. Ella was so profuse with her kind words, her admiration for what Toby had done, and so delighted at the idea that they were to ride together, that even then the boy could not tell her what he was going to do, but went into his dressing-room, resolving that he would tell her all when they both had finished dressing. Toby made as small a parcel as possible of the costume which Mr. and Mrs. Treat had given him--for he determined that he would take it with him--and, putting it under his coat, went out to wait for Ella. As she did not come out as soon as he expected he asked some one to tell her that he wanted to see her, and he thought to himself that when she did come she would be in a hurry, and could not stop long enough to make any very lengthy objections to his leaving. But she did not come at all--her mother sent out word that Toby could not see her until after the performance was over, owing to the fact that it was now nearly time for her to go into the ring, and she was not dressed yet. Toby was terribly disappointed. He knew that it would not be safe for him to wait until the close of the performance if he were intending to run away that night, and he felt that he could not go until he had said a few last words to her. He was in a great perplexity, until the thought came to him that he could write a good-bye to her, and by this means any unpleasant discussion would be avoided. After some little difficulty he procured a small piece of not very clean paper and a very short bit of lead-pencil, and using the top of one of the wagons, as he sat on the seat, for a desk, he indited the following epistle: "deaR ella I Am goin to Run away two night, & i want two say good by to yu & your mother. i am Small & unkle Danil says i dont mount two much, but i am old enuf two know that you have bin good two me, & when i Am a man i will buy you a whole cirkus, and we Will ride together. dont forgit me & I wont yu in haste TOBY TYLER." Toby had no envelope in which to seal this precious letter, but he felt that it would not be seen by prying eyes, and would safely reach its destination, if he intrusted it to Old Ben. It did not take him many moments to find the old driver, and he said, as he handed him the letter, "I didn't see Ella to tell her I was goin', so I wrote this letter, an' I want to know if you will give it to her?" "Of course I will. But see here, Toby"--and Ben caught him by the sleeve and led him aside where he would not be overheard--"have you got money enough to take you home? for if you haven't I can let you have some." And Ben plunged his hand into his capacious pocket, as if he was about to withdraw from there the entire United States Treasury. Toby assured him that he had sufficient for all his wants; but the old man would not be satisfied until he had seen for himself, and then, taking Toby's hand again, he said, "Now, my boy, it won't do for you to stay around here any longer. Buy something to eat before you start, an' go into the woods for a day or two before you take the train or steamboat. You're too big a prize for Job or Castle to let you go without a word, an' they'll try their level best to find you. Be careful, now, for if they should catch you, good-bye any more chances to get away. There"--and here Ben suddenly lifted him high from the ground and kissed him--"now get away as fast as you can." Toby pressed the old man's hand affectionately, and then, without trusting himself to speak, walked swiftly out toward the entrance. He resolved to take Ben's advice and go into the woods for a short time, and therefore he must buy some provisions before he started. As he passed the monkeys' cage he saw his pet sitting near the bars, and he stopped long enough to whisper, "I'll be back in ten minutes, Mr. Stubbs, an' you be all ready then." Then he went on, and just as he got near the entrance one of the men told him that Mrs. Treat wished to see him. Toby could hardly afford to spare the time just then, but he would probably have obeyed the summons, if he had known that by so doing he would be caught, and he ran as fast as his little legs would carry him toward the skeleton's tent. The exhibition was open, and both the skeleton and his wife were on the platform when Toby entered; but he crept around at the back and up behind Mrs. Treat's chair, telling her as he did so that he had just received her message, and that he must hurry right back, for every moment was important then to him. "I put up a nice lunch for you," she said as she kissed him, "and you'll find it on the top of the biggest trunk. Now go; and if my wishes are of any good to you, you will get to your uncle Daniel's house without any trouble. Good-bye again, little one." Toby did not dare to trust himself any longer where every one was so kind to him. He slipped down from the platform as quickly as possible, found the bundle--and a good-sized one it was too--without any difficulty, and went back to the monkeys' cage. As orders had been given by the proprietor of the circus that the boy should do as he had a mind to with the monkey, he called Mr. Stubbs; and as he was in the custom of taking him with him at night, no one thought that it was anything strange that he should take him from the cage now. [Illustration: THE RUNAWAYS.] Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle might possibly have thought it queer had either of them seen the two bundles which Toby carried, but, fortunately for the boy's scheme, they both believed that he was in the dressing-tent, and consequently thought that he was perfectly safe. Toby's hand shook so that he could hardly undo the fastening of the cage, and when he attempted to call the monkey to him his voice sounded so strange and husky that it startled him. The old monkey seemed to prefer sleeping with Toby rather than with those of his kind in the cage; and as the boy took him with him almost every night, he came on this particular occasion as soon as Toby called, regardless of the strange sound of his master's voice. With his bundles under his arm, and the monkey on his shoulder, with both paws tightly clasped around his neck, Toby made his way out of the tent with beating heart and bated breath. Neither Mr. Lord, Castle, nor Jacobs were in sight, and everything seemed favorable for his flight. During the afternoon he had carefully noted the direction of the woods, and he started swiftly toward them now, stopping only long enough, as he was well clear of the tents, to say, in a whisper, "Good-bye, Mr. Treat, an' Mrs. Treat, an' Ella, an' Ben. Some time, when I'm a man, I'll come back, an' bring you lots of nice things, an' I'll never forget you--never. When I have a chance to be good to some little boy that felt as bad as I did I'll do it, an' tell him that it was you did it. Good-bye." Then, turning around, he ran toward the woods as swiftly as if his escape had been discovered and the entire company were in pursuit. CHAPTER XVIII. A DAY OF FREEDOM. Toby ran at the top of his speed over the rough road; and the monkey, jolted from one side to the other, clutched his paws more tightly around the boy's neck, looking around into his face as if to ask what was the meaning of this very singular proceeding. When he was so very nearly breathless as to be able to run no more, but was forced to walk, Toby looked behind him, and there he could see the bright lights of the circus, and hear the strains of the music as he had heard them on the night when he was getting ready to run away from Uncle Daniel; and those very sounds, which reminded him forcibly of how ungrateful he had been to the old man who had cared for him when there was no one else in the world who would do so, made it more easy for him to leave those behind who had been so kind to him when he stood so much in need of kindness. "We are goin' home, Mr. Stubbs!" he said, exultantly, to the monkey--"home to Uncle Dan'l an' the boys; an' won't you have a good time when we get there! You can run all over the barn, an' up in the trees, an' do just what you want to, an' there'll be plenty of fellows to play with you. You don't know half how good a place Guilford is, Mr. Stubbs." The monkey chattered away as if he were anticipating lots of fun on his arrival at Toby's home, and the boy chattered back, his spirits rising at every step which took him farther away from the collection of tents where he had spent so many wretched hours. A brisk walk of half an hour sufficed to take Toby to the woods, and after some little search he found a thick clump of bushes in which he concluded he could sleep without the risk of being seen by any one who might pass that way before he should be awake in the morning. He had not much choice in the way of a bed, for it was so dark in the woods that it was impossible to collect moss or leaves to make a soft resting-place, and the few leaves and pine-boughs which he did gather made his place for sleeping but very little softer. But during the ten weeks that Toby had been with the circus his bed had seldom been anything softer than the seat of the wagon, and it troubled him very little that he was to sleep with nothing but a few leaves between himself and the earth. Using the bundle in which was his riding costume for a pillow, and placing the lunch Mrs. Treat had given him near by, where the monkey could not get at it conveniently, he cuddled Mr. Stubbs up in his bosom and lay down to sleep. "Mr. Lord won't wake us up in the mornin' an' swear at us for not washin' the tumblers," said Toby, in a tone of satisfaction, to the monkey; "an' we won't have to go into the tent to-morrow an' sell sick lemonade an' poor pea-nuts. But"--and here his tone changed to one of sorrow--"there'll be some there that 'll be sorry not to see us in the mornin', Mr. Stubbs, though they'll be glad to know that we got away all right. But won't Mr. Lord swear, an' won't Mr. Castle crack his whip, when they come to look round for us in the mornin' an' find that we hain't there!" The only reply which the monkey made to this was to nestle his head closer under Toby's coat, and to show, in the most decided manner, that he was ready to go to sleep. And Toby was quite as ready to go to sleep as he was. He had worked hard that day, but the excitement of escaping had prevented him from realizing his fatigue until after he had lain down; and almost before he had got through congratulating himself upon the ease with which he had gotten free, both he and the monkey were as sound asleep as if they had been tucked up in the softest bed that was ever made. Toby's very weariness was a friend to him that night, for it prevented him from waking; which, if he had done so, might have been unpleasant when he fully realized that he was all alone in the forest, and the sounds that are always heard in the woods might have frightened him just the least bit. The sun was shining directly in his face when Toby awoke on the following morning, and the old monkey was still snugly nestled under his coat. He sat up rather dazed at first, and then, as he fully realized that he was actually free from all that had made his life such a sad and hard one for so many weeks, he shouted aloud, revelling in his freedom. The monkey, awakened by Toby's cries, started from his sleep in affright and jumped into the nearest tree, only to chatter, jump, and swing from the boughs when he saw that there was nothing very unusual going on, save that he and Toby were out in the woods again, where they could have no end of a good time and do just as they liked. After a few moments spent in a short jubilee at their escape Toby took the monkey on his shoulder and the bundles under his arm again, and went cautiously out to the edge of the thicket, where he could form some idea as to whether or no they were pursued. He had entered the woods at the brow of a small hill when he had fled so hastily on the previous evening, and looking down, he could see the spot whereon the tents of the circus had been pitched, but not a sign of them was now visible. He could see a number of people walking around, and he fancied that they looked up every now and then to where he stood concealed by the foliage. This gave him no little uneasiness, for he feared that Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle might be among the number, and he believed that they would begin a search for him at once, and that the spot where their attention would first be drawn was exactly where he was then standing. "This won't do, Mr. Stubbs," he said, as he pushed the monkey higher up on his shoulder and started into the thickest part of the woods; "we must get out of this place, an' go farther down, where we can hide till to-morrow mornin'. Besides, we must find some water where we can wash our faces." The old monkey would hardly have been troubled if they had not their faces washed for the next month to come; but he grinned and talked as Toby trudged along, attempting to catch hold of the leaves as they were passed, and in various other ways impeding his master's progress, until Toby was obliged to give him a most severe scolding in order to make him behave himself in anything like a decent manner. At last, after fully half an hour's rapid walking, Toby found just the place he wanted in which to pass the time he concluded it would be necessary to spend before he dare venture out to start for home. It was a little valley entirely filled by trees, which grew so thickly, save in one little spot, as to make it almost impossible to walk through. The one clear spot was not more than ten feet square, but it was just at the edge of a swiftly running brook; and a more beautiful or convenient place for a boy and a monkey to stop who had no tent, nor means to build one, could not well be imagined. Toby's first act was to wash his face, and he tried to make the monkey do the same; but Mr. Stubbs had no idea of doing any such foolish thing. He would come down close to the edge of the water and look in; but the moment that Toby tried to make him go in he would rush back among the trees, climb out on some slender bough, and then swing himself down by the tail, and chatter away as if making sport of his young master for thinking that he would be so foolish as to soil his face with water. After Toby had made his toilet he unfastened the bundle which the fat lady had given him, for the purpose of having breakfast. As much of an eater as Toby was, he could not but be surprised at the quantity of food which Mrs. Treat called a lunch. There were two whole pies and half of another, as many as two dozen doughnuts, several large pieces of cheese, six sandwiches, with a plentiful amount of meat, half a dozen biscuits, nicely buttered, and a large piece of cake. The monkey had come down from the tree as soon as he saw Toby untying the bundle, and there was quite as much pleasure depicted on his face, when he saw the good things that were spread out before him, as there was on Toby's; and he showed his thankfulness at Mrs. Treat's foresight by suddenly snatching one of the doughnuts and running with it up the tree, where he knew Toby could not follow. "Now look here, Mr. Stubbs!" said Toby, sternly, "you can have all you want to eat, but you must take it in a decent way, an' not go to cuttin' up any such shines as that." And after giving this command--which, by-the-way, was obeyed just about as well as it was understood--Toby devoted his time to his breakfast, and he reduced the amount of eatables very considerably before he had finished. Toby cleared off his table by gathering the food together and putting it back into the paper as well as possible, and then he sat down to think over the situation, and to decide what he had better do. He felt rather nervous about venturing out when it was possible for Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle to get hold of him again; and as the weather was yet warm during the night, his camping-place everything that could be desired, and the stock of food likely to hold out, he concluded that he had better remain there for two days at least, and then he would be reasonably sure that if either of the men whom he so dreaded to see had remained behind for the purpose of catching him, he would have got tired out and gone on. This point decided upon, the next was to try to fix up something soft for a bed. He had his pocket-knife with him, and in his little valley were pine and hemlock trees in abundance. From the tips of their branches he knew that he could make a bed as soft and fragrant as any that could be thought of, and he set to work at once, while Mr. Stubbs continued his antics above his head. After about two hours' steady work he had cut enough of the tender branches to make himself a bed into which he and the monkey could burrow and sleep as comfortably as if they were in the softest bed in Uncle Daniel's house. When Toby first began to cut the boughs he had an idea that he might possibly make some sort of a hut; but the two hours' work had blistered his hands, and he was perfectly ready to sit down and rest, without the slightest desire for any other kind of a hut than that formed by the trees themselves. Toby imagined that in that beautiful place he could, with the monkey, stay contented for any number of days; but after he had rested a time, played with his pet a little, and eaten just a trifle more of the lunch, the time passed so slowly that he soon made up his mind to run the risk of meeting Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle again by going out of the woods the first thing the next morning. Very many times before the sun set that day was Toby tempted to run the risk that night, for the sake of the change, if no more; but as he thought the matter over he saw how dangerous such a course would be, and he forced himself to wait. That night he did not sleep as soundly as on the previous one, for the very good reason that he was not as tired. He awoke several times; and the noise of the night-birds alarmed him to such an extent that he was obliged to awaken the old monkey for company. But the night passed despite his fears, as all nights will, whether a boy is out in the woods alone or tucked up in his own little bed at home. In the morning Toby made all possible haste to get away, for each moment that he stayed now made him more impatient to be moving toward home. He washed himself as quickly as possible, ate his breakfast with the most unseemly haste, and, taking up his bundles and the monkey, once more started, as he supposed, in the direction from which he had entered the woods. Toby walked briskly along, in the best possible spirits, for his running away was now an accomplished fact, and he was going toward Uncle Daniel and home just as fast as possible. He sung "Old Hundred" through five or six times by way of showing his happiness. It is quite likely that he would have sung something a little more lively had he known anything else; but "Old Hundred" was the extent of his musical education, and he kept repeating that, which was quite as satisfactory as if he had been able to go through with every opera that was ever written. The monkey would jump from his shoulder into the branches above, run along on the trees for a short distance, and then wait until Toby came along, when he would drop down on his shoulder suddenly, and in every other way of displaying monkey delight he showed that he was just as happy as it was possible. Toby trudged on in this contented way for nearly an hour, and every moment expected to step out to the edge of the woods, where he could see houses and men once more. But instead of doing so the forest seemed to grow more dense, and nothing betokened his approach to the village. There was a great fear came into Toby's heart just then, and for a moment he halted in helpless perplexity. His lips began to quiver, his face grew white, and his hand trembled so that the old monkey took hold of one of his fingers and looked at it wonderingly. CHAPTER XIX. MR. STUBBS'S MISCHIEF, AND HIS SAD FATE. Toby had begun to realize that he was lost in the woods, and the thought was sufficient to cause alarm in the mind of one much older than the boy. He said to himself that he would keep on in the direction he was then travelling for fifteen minutes; and as he had no means of computing the time he sat down on a log, took out the bit of pencil with which he had written the letter to Ella, and multiplied sixty by fifteen. He knew that there were sixty seconds to the minute, and that he could ordinarily count one to each second; therefore, when he learned that there were nine hundred seconds in fifteen minutes, he resolved to walk as nearly straight ahead as possible until he should have counted that number. He walked on, counting as regularly as he could, and thought to himself that he never before realized how long fifteen minutes were. It really seemed to him that an hour had passed before he finished counting, and then when he stopped there were no more signs that he was near a clearing than there had been before he started. "Ah, Mr. Stubbs, we're lost! we're lost!" he cried, as he laid his cheek on the monkey's head and gave way to the lonesome grief that came over him. "What shall we do? Perhaps we won't ever find our way out, but will die here, an' then Uncle Dan'l won't ever know how sorry I was that I run away." Then Toby lay right down on the ground and cried so hard that the monkey acted as if it were frightened, and tried to turn the boy's face over, and finally leaned down and licked Toby's ear. This little act, which seemed so much like a kiss, caused Toby to feel no small amount of comfort, and he sat up again, took the monkey in his arms, and began seriously to discuss some definite plan of action. "It won't do to keep on the way we've been goin', Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, as he looked full in his pet's face--and the old monkey sat as still and looked as grave as it was possible for him to look and sit--"for we must be goin' into the woods deeper. Let's start off this way"--and Toby pointed at right angles with the course they had been pursuing--"an' keep right on that way till we come to something, or till we drop right down an' die." It is fair to presume that the old monkey agreed to Toby's plan; for although he said nothing in favor of it he certainly made no objections to it, which to Toby was the same as if his companion had assented to it in the plainest English. Both the bundles and the monkey were rather a heavy load for a small boy like Toby to carry; but he clung manfully to them, walked resolutely on, without looking to the right or to the left, glad when the old monkey would take a run among the trees, for then he would be relieved of his weight, and glad when he returned, for then he had his company, and that repaid him for any labor which he might have to perform. Toby was in a hard plight as it was; but without the old monkey for a companion he would have thought his condition was a hundred times worse, and would hardly have had the courage to go on as he was going. On and on he walked, until it seemed to him that he could really go no farther, and yet he could see no signs which indicated the end of the woods, and at last he sunk upon the ground, too tired to walk another step, saying to the monkey--who was looking as if he would like to know the reason of this pause--"It's no use, Mr. Stubbs, I've got to sit down here an' rest awhile, anyhow; besides, I'm awfully hungry." Then Toby commenced to eat his dinner, and to give the monkey his, until the thought came to him that he neither had any water nor did he know where to find it, and then, of course, he immediately became so thirsty that it was impossible for him to eat any more. "We can't stand this," moaned Toby to the monkey; "we've got to have something to drink, or else we can't eat all these sweet things, an' I'm so tired that I can't go any farther. Don't let's eat dinner now, but let's stay here an' rest, an' then we can keep on an' look for water." Toby's resting spell was a long one, for as soon as he stretched himself out on the ground he was asleep from actual exhaustion, and did not awaken until the sun was just setting, and then he saw that, hard as his troubles had been before, they were about to become, or in fact had become, worse. He had paid no attention to his bundles when he lay down, and when he awoke he was puzzled to make out what it was that was strewn around the ground so thickly. He had looked at it but a very short time when he saw that it was what had been the lunch he had carried so far. After having had the sad experience of losing his money he understood very readily that the old monkey had taken the lunch while he slept, and had amused himself by picking it apart into the smallest particles possible, and then strewn them around on the ground where he now saw them. Toby looked at them in almost speechless surprise, and then he turned to where the old monkey lay, apparently asleep; but as the boy watched him intently, he could see that the cunning animal was really watching him out of one half-closed eye. "Now you have killed us, Mr. Stubbs," wailed Toby. "We never can find our way out of here; an' now we hain't got anything to eat, and by to-morrow we shall be starved to death. Oh dear! wasn't you bad enough when you threw all the money away, so you had to go an' do this just when we was in awful trouble?" Mr. Stubbs now looked up as if he had just been awakened by Toby's grief, looked around him leisurely as if to see what could be the matter, and then, apparently seeing for the first time the crumbs that were lying around on the ground, took up some and examined them intently. "Now don't go to makin' believe that you don't know how they come there," said Toby, showing anger toward his pet for the first time. "You know it was you who did it, for there wasn't any one else here, an' you can't fool me by lookin' so surprised." It seemed as if the monkey had come to the conclusion that his little plan of ignorance wasn't the most perfect success, for he walked meekly toward his young master, climbed up on his shoulder, and sat there kissing his ear, or looking down into his eyes, until the boy could resist the mute appeal no longer, but took him into his arms and hugged him closely as he said, "It can't be helped now, I s'pose, an' we shall have to get along the best way we can; but it was awful wicked of you, Mr. Stubbs, an' I don't know what we're going to do for something to eat." While the destructive fit was on him the old monkey had not spared the smallest bit of food, but had picked everything into such minute shreds that none of it could be gathered up, and everything was surely wasted. While Toby sat bemoaning his fate, and trying to make out what was to be done for food, the darkness, which had just begun to gather when he first awoke, now commenced to settle around, and he was obliged to seek for some convenient place in which to spend the night before it became so dark as to make the search impossible. Owing to the fact that he had slept nearly the entire afternoon, and also rendered wakeful by the loss he had just sustained, Toby lay awake on the hard ground, with the monkey on his arm, hour after hour, until all kinds of fancies came to him, and in every sound feared he heard some one from the circus coming to capture him, or some wild beast intent on picking his bones. The cold sweat of fear stood out on his brow, and he hardly dared to breathe, much more to speak, lest the sound of his voice should betray his whereabouts, and thus bring his enemies down upon him. The minutes seemed like hours, and the hours like days, as he lay there, listening fearfully to every one of the night-sounds of the forest; and it seemed to him that he had been there very many hours when at last he fell asleep, and was thus freed from his fears. Bright and early on the following morning Toby was awake, and as he came to a realizing sense of all the dangers and trouble that surrounded him he was disposed to give way again to his sorrow; but he said resolutely to himself, "It might be a good deal worse than it is, an' Mr. Stubbs an' I can get along one day without anything to eat; an' perhaps by night we shall be out of the woods, an' then what we get will taste good to us." He began his walk--which possibly might not end that day--manfully, and his courage was rewarded by soon reaching a number of bushes that were literally loaded down with blackberries. From these he made a hearty meal, and the old monkey fairly revelled in them, for he ate all he possibly could, and then stowed away enough in his cheeks to make a good-sized luncheon when he should be hungry again. Refreshed very much by his breakfast of fruit, Toby again started on his journey with renewed vigor, and the world began to look very bright to him. He had not thought that he might find berries when the thoughts of starvation came into his mind, and now that his hunger was satisfied he began to believe that he might possibly be able to live, perhaps for weeks, in the woods solely upon what he might find growing there. Shortly after he had had breakfast he came upon a brook, which he thought was the same upon whose banks he had encamped the first night he spent in the woods, and, pulling off his clothes, he waded into the deepest part, and had a most refreshing bath, although the water was rather cold. Not having any towels with which to dry himself, he was obliged to sit in the sun until the moisture had been dried from his skin and he could put his clothes on once more. Then he started out on his walk again, feeling that sooner or later he would come out all right. All this time he had been travelling without any guide to tell him whether he was going straight ahead or around in a circle, and he now concluded to follow the course of the brook, believing that that would lead him out of the forest some time. During the forenoon he walked steadily, but not so fast that he would get exhausted quickly, and when by the position of the sun he judged that it was noon he lay down on a mossy bank to rest. He was beginning to feel sad again. He had found no more berries, and the elation which had been caused by his breakfast and his bath was quickly passing away. The old monkey was in a tree almost directly above his head, stretched out on one of the limbs in the most contented manner possible; and as Toby watched him, and thought of all the trouble he had caused by wasting the food, thoughts of starvation again came into his mind, and he believed that he should not live to see Uncle Daniel again. Just when he was feeling the most sad and lonely, and when thoughts of death from starvation were most vivid in his mind, he heard the barking of a dog, which sounded close at hand. His first thought was that at last he was saved, and he was just starting to his feet to shout for help, when he heard the sharp report of a gun and an agonizing cry from the branches above, and the old monkey fell to the ground with a thud that told he had received his death-wound. All this had taken place so quickly that Toby did not at first comprehend the extent of the misfortune which had overtaken him; but a groan from the poor monkey, as he placed one little brown paw to his breast, from which the blood was flowing freely, and looked up into his master's face with a most piteous expression, showed the poor little boy what a great trouble it was which had now come. Poor Toby uttered a loud cry of agony, which could not have been more full of anguish had he received the ball in his own breast, and, flinging himself by the side of the dying monkey, he gathered him close to his breast, regardless of the blood that poured over him, and stroking tenderly the little head that had nestled so often in his bosom, said, over and over again, as the monkey uttered short moans of agony, "Who could have been so cruel?--who could have been so cruel?" Toby's tears ran like rain down his face, and he kissed his dying pet again and again, as if he would take all the pain to himself. "Oh, if you could only speak to me!" he cried, as he took one of the poor monkey's paws in his hand, and, finding that it was growing cold with the chill of death, put it on his neck to warm it. "How I love you, Mr. Stubbs! An' now you're goin' to die an' leave me! Oh, if I hadn't spoken cross to you yesterday, an' if I hadn't a'most choked you the day that we went to the skeleton's to dinner! Forgive me for ever bein' bad to you, won't you, Mr. Stubbs?" [Illustration: "HOW I LOVE YOU, MR. STUBBS!"] As the monkey's groans increased in number but diminished in force Toby ran to the brook, filled his hands with water, and held it to the poor animal's mouth. He lapped the water quickly, and looked up with a human look of gratitude in his eyes, as if thanking his master for that much relief. Then Toby tried to wash the blood from his breast; but it flowed quite as fast as he could wash it away, and he ceased his efforts in that direction, and paid every attention to making his friend and pet more comfortable. He took off his jacket and laid it on the ground for the monkey to lie upon; picked a quantity of large green leaves as a cooling rest for his head, and then sat by his side, holding his paws, and talking to him with the most tender words his lips--quivering with sorrow as they were--could fashion. CHAPTER XX. HOME AND UNCLE DANIEL. Meanwhile the author of all this misery had come upon the scene. He was a young man, whose rifle and well-filled game-bag showed that he had been hunting, and his face expressed the liveliest sorrow for what he had so unwittingly done. "I didn't know I was firing at your pet," he said to Toby as he laid his hand on his shoulder and endeavored to make him look up. "I only saw a little patch of fur through the trees, and, thinking it was some wild animal, I fired. Forgive me, won't you, and let me put the poor brute out of his misery?" Toby looked up fiercely at the murderer of his pet and asked, savagely, "Why don't you go away? Don't you see that you have killed Mr. Stubbs, an' you'll be hung for murder?" "I wouldn't have done it under any circumstances," said the young man, pitying Toby's grief most sincerely. "Come away, and let me put the poor thing out of its agony." "How can you do it?" asked Toby, bitterly. "He's dying already." "I know it, and it will be a kindness to put a bullet through his head." If Toby had been big enough perhaps there might really have been a murder committed, for he looked up at the man who so coolly proposed to kill the poor monkey after he had already received his death-wound that the young man stepped back quickly, as if really afraid that in his desperation the boy might do him some injury. "Go 'way off," said Toby, passionately, "an' don't ever come here again. You've killed all I ever had in this world of my own to love me, an' I hate you--I hate you!" Then, turning again to the monkey, he put his hands on each side of his head, and, leaning down, kissed the little brown lips as tenderly as a mother would kiss her child. The monkey was growing more and more feeble, and when Toby had shown this act of affection he reached up his tiny paws, grasped Toby's finger, half-raised himself from the ground, and then with a convulsive struggle fell back dead, while the tiny fingers slowly relaxed their hold of the boy's hand. Toby feared that it was death, and yet hoped that he was mistaken; he looked into the half-open, fast-glazing eyes, put his hand over his heart, to learn if it were still beating; and getting no responsive look from the dead eyes, feeling no heart-throbs from under that gory breast, he knew that his pet was really dead, and flung himself by his side in all the childish abandonment of grief. He called the monkey by name, implored him to look at him, and finally bewailed that he had ever left the circus, where at least his pet's life was safe, even if his own back received its daily flogging. The young man, who stood a silent spectator of this painful scene, understood everything from Toby's mourning. He knew that a boy had run away from the circus, for Messrs. Lord and Castle had stayed behind one day, in the hope of capturing the fugitive, and they had told their own version of Toby's flight. For nearly an hour Toby lay by the dead monkey's side, crying as if his heart would break, and the young man waited until his grief should have somewhat exhausted itself, and then approached the boy again. "Won't you believe that I didn't mean to do this cruel thing?" he asked, in a kindly voice. "And won't you believe that I would do anything in my power to bring your pet back to life?" Toby looked at him a moment earnestly, and then said, slowly, "Yes, I'll try to." "Now will you come with me, and let me talk to you? for I know who you are, and why you are here." "How do you know that?" "Two men stayed behind after the circus had left, and they hunted everywhere for you." "I wish they had caught me," moaned Toby; "I wish they had caught me, for then Mr. Stubbs wouldn't be here dead." And Toby's grief broke out afresh as he again looked at the poor little stiff form that had been a source of so much comfort and joy to him. "Try not to think of that now, but think of yourself, and of what you will do," said the man, soothingly, anxious to divert Toby's mind from the monkey's death as much as possible. "I don't want to think of myself, and I don't care what I'll do," sobbed the boy, passionately. "But you must; you can't stay here always, and I will try to help you to get home, or wherever it is you want to go, if you will tell me all about it." It was some time before Toby could be persuaded to speak or think of anything but the death of his pet; but the young man finally succeeded in drawing his story from him, and then tried to induce him to leave that place and accompany him to the town. "I can't leave Mr. Stubbs," said the boy, firmly; "he never left me the night I got thrown out of the wagon an' he thought I was hurt." Then came another struggle to induce him to bury his pet; and finally Toby, after realizing the fact that he could not carry a dead monkey anywhere with him, agreed to it; but he would not allow the young man to help him in any way, or even to touch the monkey's body. He dug a grave under a little fir-tree near by, and lined it with wild flowers and leaves, and even then hesitated to cover the body with the earth. At last he bethought himself of the fanciful costume which the skeleton and his wife had given him, and in this he carefully wrapped his dead pet. He had not one regret at leaving the bespangled suit, for it was the best he could command, and surely nothing could be too good for Mr. Stubbs. Tenderly he laid him in the little grave, and, covering the body with flowers, said, pausing a moment before he covered it over with earth, and while his voice was choked with emotion, "Good-bye, Mr. Stubbs, good-bye! I wish it had been me instead of you that died, for I'm an awful sorry little boy now that you're dead!" Even after the grave had been filled, and a little mound made over it, the young man had the greatest difficulty to persuade Toby to go with him; and when the boy did consent to go at last he walked very slowly away, and kept turning his head to look back just so long as the little grave could be seen. Then, when the trees shut it completely out from sight, the tears commenced again to roll down Toby's cheeks, and he sobbed out, "I wish I hadn't left him. Oh, why didn't I make him lie down by me? an' then he'd be alive now; an' how glad he'd be to know that we was getting out of the woods at last!" But the man who had caused Toby this sorrow talked to him about other matters, thus taking his mind from the monkey's death as much as possible, and by the time the boy reached the village he had told his story exactly as it was, without casting any reproaches on Mr. Lord, and giving himself the full share of censure for leaving his home as he did. Mr. Lord and Mr. Castle had remained in the town but one day, for they were told that a boy had taken the night train that passed through the town about two hours after Toby had escaped, and they had set off at once to act on that information. Therefore Toby need have no fears of meeting either of them just then, and he could start on his homeward journey in peace. The young man who had caused the monkey's death tried first to persuade Toby to remain a day or two with him, and, failing in that, he did all he could toward getting the boy home as quickly and safely as possible. He insisted on paying for his ticket on the steamboat, although Toby did all he could to prevent him, and he even accompanied Toby to the next town, where he was to take the steamer. He had not only paid for Toby's ticket, but he had paid for a state-room for him; and when the boy said that he could sleep anywhere, and that there was no need of such expense, the man replied, "Those men who were hunting for you have gone down the river, and will be very likely to search the boat, when they discover that they started on the wrong scent. They will never suspect that you have got a state-room; and if you are careful to remain in it during the trip, you will get through safely." Then, when the time came for the steamer to start, the young man said to Toby, "Now, my boy, you won't feel hard at me for shooting the monkey, will you? I would have done anything to have brought him to life; but, as I could not do that, helping you to get home was the next best thing I could do." "I know you didn't mean to shoot Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, with moistening eyes as he spoke of his pet, "an' I'm sorry I said what I did to you in the woods." Before there was time to say any more the warning whistle was sounded, the plank pulled in, the great wheels commenced to revolve, and Toby was really on his way to Uncle Daniel and Guilford. It was then but five o'clock in the afternoon, and he could not expect to reach home until two or three o'clock in the afternoon of the next day; but he was in a tremor of excitement as he thought that he should walk through the streets of Guilford once more, see all the boys, and go home to Uncle Daniel. And yet, whenever he thought of that home, of meeting those boys, of going once more to all those old familiar places, the memory of all that he had planned when he should take the monkey with him would come into his mind and damp even his joy, great as it was. That night he had considerable difficulty in falling asleep, but did finally succeed in doing so; and when he awoke the steamer was going up the river, whose waters seemed like an old friend, because they had flowed right down past Guilford on their way to the sea. At each town where a landing was made Toby looked eagerly out on the pier, thinking that by chance some one from his home might be there and he would see a familiar face again. But all this time he heeded the advice given him and remained in his room, where he could see and not be seen; and it was well for him that he did so, for at one of the landings he saw both Mr. Lord and Mr. Castle come on board the boat. Toby's heart beat fast and furious, and he expected every moment to hear them at the door demanding admittance, for it seemed to him that they must know exactly where he was secreted. But no such misfortune occurred. The men had evidently only boarded the boat to search for the boy, for they landed again before the steamer started, and Toby had the satisfaction of seeing their backs as they walked away from the pier. It was some time before he recovered from the fright which the sight of them gave him; but when he did his thoughts and hopes far outstripped the steamer which, it seemed, was going so slowly, and he longed to see Guilford with an impatience that could hardly be restrained. At last he could see the spire of the little church on the hill, and when the steamer rounded the point, affording a full view of the town, and sounded her whistle as a signal for those on the shore to come to the pier, Toby could hardly restrain himself from jumping up and down and shouting in his delight. He was at the gang-plank ready to land fully five minutes before the steamer was anywhere near the wharf, and when he recognized the first face on the pier what a happy boy he was! He was at home! The dream of the past ten weeks was at length realized, and neither Mr. Lord nor Mr. Castle had any terrors for him now. He ran down the gang-plank before it was ready and clasped every boy he saw there round the neck, and would have kissed them, if they had shown an inclination to let him do so. Of course he was overwhelmed with questions, but before he would answer any he asked for Uncle Daniel and the others at home. Some of the boys ventured to predict that Toby would get a jolly good whipping for running away, and the only reply which the happy Toby made to that was, "I hope I will, an' then I'll feel as if I had kinder paid for runnin' away. If Uncle Dan'l will only let me stay with him again he may whip me every mornin', an' I won't open my mouth to holler." The boys were impatient to hear the story of Toby's travels, but he refused to tell it them, saying, "I'll go home; an' if Uncle Dan'l forgives me for bein' so wicked I'll sit down this afternoon an' tell you all you want to know about the circus." Then, far more rapidly than he had run away from it, Toby ran toward the home which he had called his ever since he could remember, and his heart was full almost to bursting as he thought that perhaps he would be told that he had forfeited all claim to it, and that he could never more call it "home" again. When he entered the old familiar sitting-room Uncle Daniel was seated near the window, alone, looking out wistfully--as Toby thought--across the fields of yellow waving grain. Toby crept softly in, and, going up to the old man, knelt down and said, very humbly, and with his whole soul in the words, "Oh, Uncle Dan'l! if you'll only forgive me for bein' so wicked an' runnin' away, an' let me stay here again--for it's all the home I ever had--I'll do everything you tell me to, an' never whisper in meetin' or do anything bad." And then he waited for the words which would seal his fate. They were not long in coming. "My poor boy," said Uncle Daniel, softly, as he stroked Toby's refractory red hair, "my love for you was greater than I knew, and when you left me I cried aloud to the Lord as if it had been my own flesh and blood that had gone afar from me. Stay here, Toby, my son, and help to support this poor old body as it goes down into the dark valley of the shadow of death; and then, in the bright light of that glorious future, Uncle Daniel will wait to go with you into the presence of Him who is ever a father to the fatherless." [Illustration: UNCLE DANIEL'S BLESSING.] And in Uncle Daniel's kindly care we may safely leave Toby Tyler. 
36219	----	SAWDUST & SPANGLES STORIES & SECRETS OF THE CIRCUS BY W. C. COUP Herbert S. Stone and Company Eldridge Court, Chicago MDCCCCI COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY HERBERT S. STONE & CO CONTENTS FOREWORD ix CHAP. PAGE I. BOYHOOD WITH THE OLD-TIME WAGON SHOW 1 My First Exciting Experience 4 The Intelligence of Elephants 5 Fights with the Grangers 6 "Doc" Baird and the Bully 9 Teasing Old Romeo 10 The Story of a Stolen Negro 12 Horse Thieves in the Circus 15 II. THE PERILOUS BUSINESS OF STOCKING A MENAGERIE 18 Beasts at Wholesale 20 The Professional Animal Hunter 21 Striking into the Interior 22 Hunters' Life in the Jungle. 23 Why Baby Elephants are Hard to Capture 26 Across the Desert with Captive Beasts 29 The Adventures of Specimen Hunters 31 III. FREAKS AND FAKES 35 The Burial and Resurrection of the "Cardiff Giant" 37 The Rival White Elephants 40 How the "Light of Asia" Embarrassed the Lecturer 41 The Wild Cave-Dweller of Kentucky 44 The Two-Headed Girl's Three-Headed Rival 46 Missing Links and Dancing Turkeys 49 The Salaries Paid to Freaks 50 The Love-Making and Merrymaking of the Freaks 51 The Exposure of the "Aztec Children" 54 An Adventure with a Circus Shark 56 IV. MOVING THE BIG SHOW 59 The First Attempt to Move a Circus by Rail 61 The Spartan Habits of the Old Timers 63 Seven Heartbreaking Days on the Long Road 64 Performing by Day and Traveling by Night 67 On a Runaway Circus Train 69 Panic Among the Animals 71 A Single Track and a Broken Rail 73 The Bronchos' Charmed Life 75 Old Romeo to the Rescue 77 An Unexpected Midnight Bath 79 V. THE PRAIRIE FIRE 86 A Chance Meeting with a Great Man 96 VI. BOOMING THE BIG SHOW 104 Novel Advertising Features 105 The "Devil's Whistle" 106 "Spotters" 108 Rivalry in Exploiting Opposition Shows 112 Costly Rivalry 113 Idle Bill-Posters 116 The Courtesy of Editors 118 Jumbo's Free Advertising 120 VII. PARADES AND BAND WAGONS 124 The Fifty Cent Rivals of the Ten Thousand Dollar Hippos 124 A Skillful Appeal to Public Sympathy 126 A Silent Parade from Albany to the State Line 128 The Fluctuating Level of Circus Values 130 What it Costs to Ride with the Band Wagon 132 Requirements and Cost of the Circus Horse 134 A Page from the Invoice Book of the Big Show 136 VIII. ANECDOTES OF MEN AND ANIMALS 139 Origin of the American Circus 139 The First Elephant Brought to America 141 The First Drove of Camels 144 The Fight of the Ostriches 145 The Belligerent Alligators 149 Parrots and Cockatoos 153 Educated Dogs 154 A Wounded Horse in the Grand March 156 Intelligent Bronchos 158 The King of the Herd 159 An Elephant's Humor 160 Zulus in London 162 IX. TRAINING ANIMALS AND PERFORMERS 169 The Perils of a Trainer's Life 170 Where Steady Nerves are in Demand 172 Captured Animals Preferred to Cage-Born 173 The Education of a Young Jaguar 174 The Leopards at Kindergarten 177 How they Punish Unruly Pupils 179 Punishment of Treacherous Beasts 180 A Single-Handed Fight with Five Lions 182 Teaching the Horse the Two-Step 186 Ring Performers Trained with a Derrick 187 Circus People a Long-Lived Class 189 X. MOBS, CYCLONES AND ADVENTURES 192 Forcible Argument with a City Marshal 193 Breaking Camp under a Hot Rifle Fire 195 Ambushed and Shot at on the Road 197 The Studies of the Apprentice to the Clown 201 Devotional Services Upset by a Demon 204 The Wild Beasts Loose in the Big Crowd 205 The Midnight Stampede of the Elephants 208 A Polar Bear Hunt on Fifth Avenue 209 An Equine Officer of Artillery 211 XI. STORIES OF OLD-TIME SHOWS AND SHOWMEN 214 Dan Rice's One-Horse Show 215 Tan-Bark Oratory and Harlequin Pluck 217 An Imitation Patriot Shown Up 219 In which Cupid was Master of the Ring 223 Barnum's One Unconquerable Superstition 227 Gullible Patrons in Early Days 229 Expedients of Advance Agents 231 Plantation Shows 234 Exhibiting "Yankees" in the South 235 Sleeping in Strange Attitudes 236 A Circus "Crier" 238 Showmen's Names 239 The Escape of a Leopard 241 Hotel Keepers 243 Early Breakfasts 245 XII. HOW THE GREAT NEW YORK AQUARIUM WAS MADE AND LOST 247 The Quest of the Tree-Tailed Kingio 249 Half-Hours with Bashful Whales 251 A Slippery Deal in Sea-Lions 254 An Eventful Monday Morning at the Aquarium 258 The Ultimate Fate of the Aquarium 260 FOREWORD The notes from which the following narrative was drawn were dictated by Mr. W. C. Coup at odd moments in the big show tent, the special car or the hotel where he chanced to find himself with a half-hour at his disposal. The manner and the motive of their writing unite to contribute to their charm and effectiveness. His unbounded enthusiasm for his peculiar calling and his desire so to state the facts of his experience as to give the general public a fairer and fuller understanding of its real conditions inspired him to the labor of crowding into his busy life the pleasant task of putting upon paper the main points of his interesting career. Nothing could have been more fortunate than the fact that he was compelled to do this in a manner wholly informal,--intending later to put his haphazard notes into good literary form. His recollections fell from his lips as they came into his mind, in the forceful and picturesque phraseology of the typical showman. To preserve this original quality has been the effort constantly held in view in grouping these notes for publication. The terse idiom of the offhand dictation has been consistently retained and gives the true "show" color and flavor to the stirring scenes, adventures and incidents with which the book deals. Of Mr. Coup's prominence in his profession it is scarcely necessary to speak, and I think none will venture to question the statement that he was the founder and pioneer in America of the circus business pure and simple, as distinguished from other lines of show enterprise, and that the story of his life would incidentally furnish a concise history of the circus on this continent. His name was a family word in homes of the people of every part of the United States during the period of his greatest activity. The main incidents of his career may be tersely stated as follows: William Cameron Coup was born in Mount Pleasant, Ind., in 1837. While he was still a boy, his father bought the local tavern in a small country village. The business of hotel keeping did not commend itself to the future showman, who left home and took the position of "devil" in a country newspaper office. Soon, however, he became dissatisfied with the opportunities which the printing craft seemed to present, and started out to find something which better suited his unformed and perhaps romantic ideas of a profession. After a hard tramp of several miles he chanced to encounter a show, and immediately determined that this was the field to which he would devote his energies and in which he would make for himself a name and a fortune. With this show he served an apprenticeship, in a humble capacity, and gained a clear idea of the essentials of the business. In 1861 he secured the side-show privileges of the E. F. & J. Mabie Circus, then the largest show in America. He remained with this firm until 1866, when he secured similar privileges with the Yankee Robinson Circus, with which he allied himself until 1869. In the latter year he formed a co-partnership with the celebrated Dan Costello and entered upon the first of the original ventures marking as many distinct epochs in the history of the circus in America. This departure was the organization of a show which traveled by boat and stopped at all the principal lake ports of the great inland seas. This enterprise was a decided success. At that time Mr. P. T. Barnum had never been in the circus business, and Mr. Coup had not personally met this king of showmen. He keenly appreciated, however, the prestige which Mr. Barnum's name would give to a circus enterprise, and went to New York for the purpose of interesting Mr. Barnum in an enterprise of this character. This object he had no difficulty in accomplishing, and in the Spring of 1870 they put an immense show on the road, which toured the eastern States and was highly successful. The next year marked a turning point in the career of Mr. Coup and also in that of the traveling show business. He was the first man who ever called the railroad into service for the purpose of moving a circus and menagerie. This significant step was taken in opposition to the judgment of his partner, P. T. Barnum, and in the face of the doubts and objections of the leading railroad officials of the country. But Mr. Coup's faith in the results of this "rapid transportation movement" was firm, and he astonished Mr. Barnum and the entire public by the phenomenal success of this venture, which brought a rich harvest of money and reputation. The project of building a permanent amusement palace in New York came to Mr. Coup in 1874. Under his supervision, and while Mr. Barnum was in Europe, he erected, on the present site of the Madison Square Garden, the famous New York Hippodrome. His labors in this connection were so arduous that, when the great enterprise was thoroughly established, he felt obliged to take a long rest. To this end he severed his partnership with Mr. Barnum, and in 1875 took his family to Europe. Immediately following his return to America, in the spring of 1876, Mr. Coup announced that he had formed a new co-partnership with Mr. Charles Reiche, for the purpose of starting another mammoth enterprise to be known as the New York Aquarium. A large building especially designed for this purpose was erected at the corner of Thirty-fifth Street and Broadway, and was opened October 11, 1876. Into this enterprise Mr. Coup threw the energies and ambitions of a lifetime, and so long as he retained its management the great undertaking was notably successful. His labors in this connection brought him into relationship with the most celebrated scientists of the world, and many of them became his personal friends. Scribner's Magazine devoted many pages to an article describing the Aquarium, and referred to Mr. Coup as a benefactor of science and as a valued contributor to a more popular knowledge of biology. Probably no other recognition ever received by Mr. Coup from the press gave him the satisfaction which he gained from this magazine article. Because of disagreements with his partner, who was determined to open the Aquarium Sundays, for the patronage of the public, he disposed of his business at a great sacrifice, and started out on the road with the "Equescurriculum," an entirely novel and original exhibition consisting of trained bronchos, performing dogs, goats, giraffes, etc., and troupes of Japanese acrobats. Each year new attractions were added to this show, and, in 1879, the New United Monster Shows were organized by Mr. Coup and developed into one of the largest consolidated circuses in the United States. Four year later, he established the Chicago Museum in the building then known as McCormick Hall and located at the corner of Kinzie and Clark streets, Chicago. Wild West shows and trained animal exhibitions engaged his energies from 1884 to 1890. The "Enchanted Rolling Palaces" were put out in 1891 and created a profound sensation throughout the entire country. This show was a popular museum housed in an expensive and elaborate train of cars especially constructed for the purpose. With this enterprise he toured the southern and eastern States. This was practically his last important undertaking, and his latest years were spent in practical retirement, although he occasionally varied the monotony of life at his country seat at Delavan, Wis., by engaging in new ventures and making short tours with trained animal exhibitions. His death occurred at Jacksonville, Fla., March 4, 1895. SAWDUST AND SPANGLES I BOYHOOD WITH THE OLD-TIME WAGON SHOW As many a boy has come into the circus business in much the same manner that I entered it (at the age of fourteen years), this start in show life may be of some interest because typical of the way in which young lads drift into this wandering existence. Doing chores about my father's tavern in a little southern Indiana town brought me in contact with such travelers as visited our quiet community. Listening to their talk and stories naturally inspired me with a desire to see something of the big and wonderful world outside our village. As this was impossible at the time, I did what seemed the next best thing so far as getting in touch with the world was concerned. When only twelve years old I took the position of "devil" in the country newspaper office, and for years worked at the printer's case, helped "run off" the paper on the old Franklin press and did almost every disagreeable task that could be put on the shoulders of a boy. This seemed quite exciting at the start, but it finally grew monotonous, and the boyish longing for travel and adventure came back to me with redoubled force. As my mother had died when I was very young, and father had married again, surrounding himself with a second family, my home ties, though pleasant enough, were not what they might have been had my own mother lived. The printer in the little newspaper office who was dignified by the title of foreman had seemed to take quite a fancy to me, and we became rather close companions. One day when the spirit of restlessness and adventure was strong upon me I confided to him that I was tired of our slow old town and suggested that we pack our few belongings in bundles and start out for some place which would offer us a bigger chance to get on. This proposal, with the beautiful summer weather, started the slumbering tendency to wander that lurks in the heart of every true printer. Placing a few necessaries in two bundles, we quietly left the village in regulation tramp-printer style. At length we reached Terre Haute, where I was offered employment in a newspaper office. I realized that I knew very little of the printing craft, and that it would take many years of hard, up-hill work to make me a master of the art. Consequently I determined to find some other line of employment more exciting than that of "sticking type." The first thing we heard was that a circus was showing in the town. This caught my fancy, and I told my companion that I was going to join the circus and see something of the world. He was disgusted at this proposal, and very plainly warned me that if I took such a course I would make a worthless loafer of myself. But my circus blood was up, and I put my resolve into immediate action, little dreaming that I was taking the first step in a career that was to become a part of the history of the show business in America. The show which I joined was one of the largest then in existence, having more than a hundred horses, ten fine Ceylon elephants, a gorgeously carved and painted "Car of Juggernaut," and many other "attractions" which seemed marvelous in my boyish eyes. Not the least of these in point of attractiveness and popularity was General "Tom" Thumb, who was petted and feasted wherever he went. But Nellis, the man without arms who could paint pictures and shoot pennies from the fingers of the manager, claimed a large share of my silent admiration. MY FIRST EXCITING EXPERIENCE My first exciting experience came very early in my service. I had learned that the very best use to which I could put my time when not actually engaged in work was to throw myself on the nearest bunch of hay and sleep until awakened by the "boss." Having a boy's natural affinity for an elephant I chose, on this particular day, the hay near which the Ceylon drove was staked. In the midst of my dreams I was suddenly awakened by a strange sensation--a peculiar sense of motion that had something startling and uncanny about it. Then I realized that I was being lifted in the coils of an elephant's trunk. So intense was my horror at awakening to find myself in this position that I had strength neither to resist nor to cry out. My helplessness was my greatest protection. From sheer inability to do otherwise I remained entirely passive, and Old Romeo, the king of the drove, laid me gently down a little distance from the hay on which I had been sleeping. Then I understood the intelligence of the elephant and the harmlessness of his intentions. He had eaten all the hay save that on which I was stretched, and to get at this he had lifted me with as much care as a mother takes up a sleeping child whom she does not wish to waken. THE INTELLIGENCE OF ELEPHANTS Only one other instance of elephant intelligence ever impressed me more than this awakening in the grasp of Old Romeo. One of the small members of the drove was trained to walk a rope--or more properly a belt--the width of his foot. This performance attracted the attention of the baby elephant, and one day I noticed the little fellow stealthily unhooking the chain by which he was tethered. Then he boldly attempted to walk the guard chain which surrounds the drove in every menagerie. The same baby elephant, one day seeing the men shoveling to throw up a ring embankment, contrived to get a shovel in his trunk. At once he attempted to stab the blade into the earth. Failing in this effort to imitate the men he flew into a passion and threw the tool to the ground, trampling on it and breaking the handle. In those first days of my novitiate I found the people almost as interesting as the elephants--which is saying much from the point of view of a boy. The crudity of society at that period is vividly illustrated by an incident which occurred soon after we had crossed over into Illinois. We were showing at the little town of Oquawka and "put up" at the only tavern there. The dining-room of this hostelry was papered with circus bills. Our first meal introduced me to a scene so outlandish that I shall never forget it. Shortly after we had seated ourselves at the rough board table, the kitchen door was pushed open by a tall, lank young countryman of a fierce and forbidding countenance. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, heavy cowhide boots--in the tops of which were buried the ends of his trouser legs--and a red flannel shirt. From his belt protruded a huge bowie knife. In his hand he carried a sixteen-quart pan heaped with steaming potatoes. As he strode across the room he shouted: "Who in hell wants pertaters?" FIGHTS WITH THE GRANGERS The novelty of all these curious and wonderful sights wore away after awhile, and then began my circus life in all its stern reality. The hardships and trials and the rough attachés of that "vast aggregation" can never be forgotten. If the showmen were rough, so also were our patrons. The sturdy sons of toil came to the show eager to resent any imagined insult; and failing to fight with the showmen, would often fight among themselves; for in the days of Abraham Lincoln's childhood the people divided themselves into cliques, and county-seats were often the arenas selected to settle family feuds. In other words, "fighting was in the air," and, as may be imagined, the showmen received their full share of it. It was no infrequent occurrence to be set upon by a party of roughs, who were determined to show their prowess and skill as marksmen with fists and clubs if required. As a consequence showmen went armed, prepared to hold their own against any odds. Not once a month, or even once a week, but almost daily, would these fights occur, and so desperately were they entered into that they resembled pitched battles more than anything else. Many years later, when describing this part of my career and later battles and circus fights to General Grant and Governor Crittenden at St. Louis, in which city my show was exhibiting, they admitted that my experience in thrilling and startling incidents compared favorably with their own, the difference being that they had perfect discipline and were backed by a powerful government, whilst for showmen there seemed to be little sympathy. The roads at that time were in a terrible condition--so bad that slight rains would convert them into seas of mud, and a continued rainstorm would make them impassable. One day one of our men became so immersed in quicksand that he sunk up to his armpits, and would have been very quickly swallowed up entirely had not some of his old comrades come to his rescue. Fastening one end of a long rope around his body, they drew him from his perilous position with the aid of a team of horses, and with so much force that a very necessary part of his attire was left completely behind him. These and other rigorous scenes were occurrences to which I became inured. In these peaceful days it is almost impossible to realize the rough and desperate character of the people in the backwoods districts from which the old-time wagon shows drew their principal patronage. Even the latter-day circus men have no adequate conception of the improvement which time has wrought in the general character of the show-going public in the country communities. There is no denying the fact that then, as now, the attachés of the big circus were rather poor specimens of humanity; but in common justice it must be said that some of their pioneer patrons were more than a match for them. Never shall I forget the awful impression made upon my boyish mind by the first combat of this kind which I witnessed. Although I had not been long with the show, I had caught the prevailing sentiment that we were constantly in the "land of the Philistines," that the hand of every man was against us, and that our only safety was in perpetual alertness and the ready determination to stand together and fight for our rights on the slightest signal of disturbance. "DOC" BAIRD AND THE BULLY Connected with the side-show of the circus was a quiet inoffensive little man known as "Doc" Baird. While we were showing in a county-seat, the bully of the community, who was evidently bent upon displaying his courage, singled out the little "doctor" as his victim and proceeded to pick a quarrel with him. This proved a difficult thing to do, for Baird was decidedly pacific in his disposition and preferred to stand abuse rather than fight. I was among the attachés of the show who witnessed the trouble, and it seemed to me a shame that a big fellow like the bully should be permitted to terrorize the most inoffensive of all the showmen. Suddenly the altercation grew warmer, the bully's arm shot forward and the little doctor was knocked to the ground. Instantly, however, he was on his feet, and the next moment I heard the sharp report of a pistol, saw the smoke curl from the muzzle of the arm and watched the fall of the bully. This was the first time in my life that I ever looked upon the face of the dead or witnessed any affray of a fatal character. The shock and shuddering which it caused me were so great that I actually attempted to leave the show business, but was soon back again into the "current of destiny" and became inured to these exciting scenes. TEASING OLD ROMEO The circus grounds appeared to be the favorite arena for the settlement of the neighborhood feuds that were then characteristic of backwoods communities. Weapons of every sort, from fists to pistols, were employed and bloodshed was the rule rather than the exception. But the belligerent spirit of the pioneer yeomen was sometimes displayed in ludicrous ways. An instance of this character came near having a tragic ending. A party of young people halted before the elephant drove and amused themselves in teasing old Romeo. The ringleader in this reckless sport was a veritable young Amazon. For a time the patriarch of the drove, who had more good common sense than all his tormentors, stood the annoyance with dignified forbearance. But at last the big country girl succeeded in arousing his ire, and the huge elephant raised his trunk and gave her as dainty a slap, by way of warning, as was ever administered by a mother or school mistress to an unruly child. But the young woman would not take this hint that would have sent the most reckless animal-keeper of the show to a discreet retreat. Her pride was wounded before her companions. With her face flaming with anger, she leaped over the guard chain and made a vicious lunge at the shoulder of the elephant with the point of her gaudy parasol. Fortunately an attaché of the show leaped forward in time to save her. This was one of the most foolhardy displays of animal courage that I ever saw--and it was thoroughly typical of the circus-going public of the West at an early day. THE STORY OF A STOLEN NEGRO The sectional feeling between the North and South was also a constant menace to the showmen when traveling in the slave States, for the circus men were universally regarded as "Yankees." The exciting episodes growing out of this sentiment were numbered by the score, but the one which gave me the greatest fright was encountered in Missouri in an initial chapter of my experience. As the caravan pulled into Booneville, early one morning, after a wearing night of marching, we found ourselves suddenly surrounded, not by the usual welcoming party of children of all colors and sizes, but by a band of lank Missourians, armed to the teeth. By this time I had developed a very respectable amount of courage for a lad; but the sight of this posse made me decidedly uncomfortable, and I'm afraid my whole body shook as badly as the voice of Mr. Butler, the manager, when he inquired the cause of our hostile reception. "You've got a stolen nigger in your outfit, and you're our prisoners--that's what's the matter!" was the rough answer of the leader of the posse. The gravity of our situation was at once grasped by every man who heard this announcement, for the stealing of a slave was then a far greater crime in the eyes of the community than unprovoked murder would now be. A desperate and bloody battle in which every follower of the show must look out for his own life as best he could seemed inevitable. We all kept our eyes on the manager, who was cool and of impressive manners. In those moments of breathless waiting for the fight to begin, I wished myself with the vehemence of despair safely back in the quiet little Hoosier office. Then Mr. Butler made a plucky appeal to all reasonable men who might be in the posse. Was it not fair, he argued, that the man who had brought this accusation should come forward and make himself and his standing known? Was he a planter, the owner of slaves and a substantial citizen of the great commonwealth of Missouri? This kind of ready eloquence took with the crowd, and it was soon found that the man who had brought the report was unknown to the people of Booneville. He was unable to give a satisfactory account of himself or to prove that he ever owned a slave. Our trouble seemed to be rapidly clearing away when one of the natives, who had been quietly investigating the caravan, brought the stirring news that he had discovered the stolen negro. Then all was excitement again, and the strain was even more intense than before, for, hidden away in one of the wagons was a black man! This mysterious evidence of guilt dumbfounded every attaché of the show save the manager, who continued to maintain his splendid nerve in the presence of a half a hundred rifles. Every instant I expected the shooting to begin. Once more, however, Mr. Butler caught the attention of the leader and fired at the man claiming the negro a question which made the fellow turn pale. On his answer depended the issues of peace or conflict. To the surprise of the Missourians, our accuser broke down and confessed that the affair was a scheme laid by himself and the negro to blackmail from the circus manager a large sum of money. They planned that the negro should make his presence known to some citizen while the white man should circulate the rumor that his slave had been stolen by the showman. Then the white man was to go to Mr. Butler and threaten him with the wrath of the people unless a large sum was paid him to quiet the matter and make his peaceable departure with the slave. But the would-be blackmailer had started a larger fire than he had counted on and had become frightened at his own work. The moment his confession was made the mob turned upon him as fiercely as it had first started for us. Then our manager once more stepped forward and urged the cooler members of the posse to hasten the white man and negro inside the protecting walls of the jail. This they did in a hurry--and just in the nick of time, too; for the delay of a moment would have resulted in a lynching. This episode won us the admiration and respect of the rough men who had met us with loaded rifles, and we were feasted on yellow-leg chickens, hickory-cured ham, wild honey and all the delicacies that the southern planters "set out" for their guests. HORSE THIEVES IN THE CIRCUS It was on this trip into Missouri that we met with a very serious loss which almost crippled us for a time. The baggage train had passed en route to the city where we were to exhibit, leaving the performers, the band and ring horses, as is the custom, to follow in the rear. We had about twenty horses and ponies of great value, and of invaluable use in the show. One morning, just at daylight, the men who had charge of these horses were attacked by a gang of horse thieves, and the entire lot was taken from them. Our men were left wounded and bound with cords, lying by the wayside. Meanwhile, the tents and other paraphernalia were already in the village, awaiting the arrival of the horses. The time for the show to begin came, but still no horses appeared, and the crowds, assembled to see the performing animals, were growing impatient. While we were in this embarrassing predicament, a citizen came riding up in hot haste, stating that he had seen and released some men who had said their horses had been stolen and who begged him to come into town and report the loss to the managers. When this news was received, it was immediately communicated to the expectant, impatient audience; but being naturally suspicious of all mankind, and especially of circus men, they thought it was a "sell" and a "Yankee trick"; but when once they were made to believe the true facts of the case they rose as one man and mounted their horses to overtake the marauders and punish them. But the thieves, having had several hours start, escaped, and after several days' search the chase was finally abandoned, and we were obliged to proceed on our way without our horses. Horse thieves in those days were very common, and were a continual annoyance to the planters and farmers, and had our thieves been captured, they would have been summarily dealt with. Naturally, we were very much crippled with our loss; but soon the fertile brain of some of our performers secured us a means of recovering from this calamity, and we were provided with other horses which we used as substitutes for the beautiful and (for those days) highly-trained animals which had been stolen. II THE PERILOUS BUSINESS OF STOCKING A MENAGERIE There are at least two features of the show business which are seldom exaggerated, no matter how capable the showman may be at blowing his own horn or how brilliant may be the accomplishments of his advertising man as a professional prevaricator. These features are the great cost of stocking a menagerie and the danger attending the capture and handling of the savage creatures. Few people not in the business have any idea what it costs to get together and maintain a large collection of animals. Perhaps the only reason why these phases of the business have not been magnified by the eloquent pens and tongues of the advance men is because they are well-nigh incapable of exaggeration. The plain truth concerning them is as astonishing and sensational as would be any addition thereto, and consequently the advertising men have been tempted to regard this as a field which does not invite a display of their special talents. I know of one showman who paid $10,000 for a hippopotamus. This figure would have been as effective for advertising purposes as twice that amount--and yet I do not recall that this price was made much of in the advertising put out by the proprietor. At the time I went into the great New York Aquarium enterprise I remember having one day figured up the amount which I had paid Reiche Brothers, then the leading animal dealers of the world. It reached the neat sum of half a million dollars. This, however, was but a fraction of the fortune I had been called upon to invest in wild animals. Besides buying from other dealers, I had been interested in several independent animal hunting expeditions to Africa. This was a tremendously expensive experience, and led me to a willingness to pay the very large profits demanded by the established animal houses rather than attempt to go into the forests and jungles with my own expeditions. These houses were able to employ educated Germans who delighted in the adventure, and they saved us time, anxiety and money. BEASTS AT WHOLESALE In this particular branch of trade Germans take the lead. Charles Reiche, the New York partner, came to this country a very poor boy, and began peddling canaries, bullfinches, and other songbirds. He made his start in 1851 when he went to California by way of the Isthmus of Panama, and employed natives to carry the living freight on their backs. He marched with his men and carried a heavier burden than any servant in the caravan. His only great competitors were the Hagenbacks, of Hamburg. Since the death of the Reiche Brothers, the Hagenbacks have almost monopolized the trade, supplying the menageries and zoological gardens of the world. The Reiche Brothers left an enormous fortune made from this humble beginning. There is something thrilling in the thought of the lives that have been lost, the sufferings and hardships endured, the perils encountered, and the vast sums of money expended in the capture and transportation of wild animals for the menageries, museums and zoological gardens. Indeed, the business has been so exclusively in the hands of two very quiet gentlemen, whose agencies cover nearly half the globe, that beyond the managers of gardens and shows, only a very limited number of persons have any conception of the extent of their operations. THE PROFESSIONAL ANIMAL HUNTER The head of the Reiche firm, and its directing spirit, was Mr. Charles Reiche, who was well educated and had traveled widely. His New York establishment was each day passed unnoticed by thousands of pedestrians, yet from it wild animals were supplied to almost every traveling show in the United States. The great supply depot for this country was in Hoboken. Henry Reiche, his brother, lived in Germany, where they had a large supply farm for all the world, with accommodations and appliances for keeping almost every bird, beast and reptile produced by any country or clime of the world. They were ready at any time to fill an order for anything, from a single canary to a flock of ostriches, or from a field-mouse to an elephant. Africa, the home of the most fiercely voracious animals, was their most extensive field for operations. In it they had many stations, with sheiks or chiefs in their employ, and standing rewards offered to natives for choice specimens of rare birds or beasts. During nine months of every year they had a band of experienced white African hunters traveling from station to station, overseeing and directing the work of the natives, and capturing elephants, lions, leopards, tigers and such other beasts as they might be instructed to obtain. The company, usually composed of four or six, and never more than eight, was under the command of Charles Lohse, a veteran hunter and trapper, and started from Germany about the first of September and generally returned from Africa early in June. During the remaining three months of the year, the rainy season, the climate is so unhealthful that it is almost certain death for a white man to remain in Africa. STRIKING INTO THE INTERIOR Starting from Germany, the hunters used to take a complete outfit of clothing and firearms, gifts for the chiefs, and from seven to twelve thousand dollars in drafts and letters of credit. They would go to Trieste, thence to Corfu, in Greece, thence to Alexandria, and by rail to Suez. There they would exchange their money for Austrian silver dollars, the only coin known to the Arabs and sheiks of Africa. A Bank of England note was valueless to them, and the brightest specimen of an American gold eagle would not buy the meanest ring-tailed monkey. They next took the Turkish steamer to Judda and thence to Sarachin, the last station before they commenced their long, tiresome and dangerous march across the Nubian Desert. For this undertaking they bought camels, water and provisions, and hired such of the sheiks and other natives as they needed, the latter being cheap enough, generally costing five dollars, and occasionally seven dollars, each for the trip across the desert. When the caravan arrived at its destination the poor fellows were left to get back as best they could. In this manner they traveled to Honiahn, the principal station of the company in Africa, where the distinctions of caste are strictly maintained. HUNTERS' LIFE IN THE JUNGLE Every white man had a "mansion," which consisted of a straw house about twenty feet wide by thirty feet deep, and was divided into two rooms. In such houses they lived and slept, and in one of them they kept the money which had been brought across the desert in trunks on the backs of camels. No attempt was made to hide it, nor was there any secrecy as to where it was packed during the long journey. So honest were the native blacks that not a dollar was lost by carelessness or theft. Frequently there would be ten thousand of these silver dollars in the hut, with only one or two white men in camp, surrounded by negroes, Arabs and half-breeds; yet no attempt at robbery was ever made. The half-civilized natives, knowing they were not entitled to a dollar until they had earned it, never tried to get it in any other way. The natives slept where and as they pleased, and three times a day were given a fair supply of Indian corn, which they would grind and, after adding a little water, would cook over their own fires, making a sort of biscuit. The white men had negro cooks and lived luxuriously. They had eggs, coffee and Indian corn biscuit for breakfast, with a broiled chicken for a relish whenever desired. For dinner, maize and beef or mutton made up the usual bill of fare. A well-conditioned ox cost only four dollars, and a "good eating-goat" was to be had for fifty cents. No meal was complete without plenty of onions. After supper, the German hunter's inseparable evening friend, his long-stemmed china pipe, invariably appeared. [Illustration: CAPTURING WILD ANIMALS FOR THE SHOW.] The interior of the huts would have charmed an artist. Elephant tusks, lion and leopard skins, hunting-hats and coats, tall wading-boots, rifles and pistols, bright-colored flannel shirts and bits of harness were scattered about in picturesque confusion. In a safe place, where it could not possibly be scratched or disfigured, was the choicest treasure within the four strong walls, a large German accordion. In the long evenings, after the perils and labors of the hunt, Lohse played this instrument by the hour to his hunters as they puffed great clouds of smoke and dreamed of the Fatherland. The camp was pitched in a clearing on the bank of a little river and was closed by a high and thick hedge of a native thorn. At night, after the pack animals had been fed, watered and housed or tethered, great fires were built at irregular intervals about the grounds to scare off wild beasts, and the watch was set. Then began the dismal howl of the hyena, the roar of the lion, and the shriek of the wildcat. About five o'clock in the morning the camp was again astir and the business of the day was begun. The native hunters formed in companies of about twenty, with a white leader, and started off in different directions. Those left in camp put in the time cleaning it, caring for the beasts, and making boxes for transportation of the animals, and cages for the reception of freshly captured beasts. In capturing wild animals the rule is to kill the old ones and secure the young; for after any of the beasts have grown old enough to become accustomed to the free life of the forests, and to hunt their own food, they are treacherous and worth little for purposes of exhibition. WHY BABY ELEPHANTS ARE HARD TO CAPTURE Paul Tuhe, one of the ablest master-hunters in the service of the Reiche Brothers, who has brought from Africa hundreds of rare birds and animals, gives me this account of the methods and perils of the hunt: "Though the lion is a fierce creature, the lioness, when protecting her young, is very much more ferocious. From long practice, however, we know how to go after them. A good rifle, firm hands and steady eyes and we can soon topple the old king over. The old lady, however, may make a better fight, but in the end we are sure to kill her. Then it is no trouble to pick up the cubs. We try to get these little fellows when they are about three or four weeks old. They are then like young puppies, easily managed, and soon know their keepers. Leopards, tigers and all animals of that kind we get in the same way and at about the same age. "Baby elephants are hard to capture, and the hunt is very dangerous. The old ones seem to know instinctively when we are after their young, and their rage is something terrible. The trumpeting of the parents can be heard a long distance, and quickly alarms the whole herd. The rifle is comparatively useless, and trying to approach them is particularly hazardous; yet it has to be done. "First, we try to distract the attention of the female from her young. Then a native creeps cautiously in from behind and with one cut of a heavy broad-bladed knife severs the tendons of her hind legs. She is then disabled and falls to the ground. We promptly kill her, secure the ivory and capture the little one. Of course we sometimes have a native or two killed in this kind of a hunt; but they don't cost much--only five to six dollars apiece. The sheiks are paid in advance, and do not care whether the poor huntsmen get out of the chase alive or not. We like to capture the baby elephants when they are about one year old. Younger ones are too tender and older ones know too much. They soon get acquainted with all the camp and we have lots of fun with them. They are kindly, docile, and as full of pranks as the little black babies who play with them. "Of all fierce, ungovernable, lusty brutes, the hippopotamus with young is the very worst; and whenever we start off to get a baby 'hip' we calculate to come back with one or more men missing. In water they will fight like devils, and will crush the strongest boat to pieces in five minutes. They are quick as a flash, too, notwithstanding their clumsy appearance, and the oarsmen have to be wide-awake to keep out of their way. On shore they are just as ferocious, and the way they hurry their stumpy little legs over the ground would astonish you. They die hard, and take 'a heap of killing.' When such a job is over you may be sure there is great rejoicing among us; but as one little hippopotamus is worth as much as half a dozen little lions, tigers and such truck, we are well content to take the risk. We cannot get these babies too young to suit. One, I remember, was captured the very day it was born, and the hunters and attendants brought it up on a bottle. "Ostriches we run down on horseback, and then catch with a lasso. It is an exciting chase, but not particularly dangerous. On these hunts we are entitled only to the young ones we capture. The beautiful skins of the leopards, lions, and other animals we kill, the tusks of the elephant, the feathers of the ostrich, and all other similar spoils, go to the native chiefs and sheiks, and these old rascals are as sharp at a trade as the shrewdest 'old clo' merchant in Chatham Street. "In the encampments the natives assist in taking care of the animals and do general work, but the menial duties are performed by Nubian slaves, who are very cheap and can be bought in numbers to suit. Among the natives the women are looked upon as inferior. Women never eat with their husbands. The husband is allowed four wives, and as many slaves as he can corral." ACROSS THE DESERT WITH CAPTIVE BEASTS A sufficient number and variety of animals having been secured, a caravan is formed to take them across the desert for shipment to Germany or America. This usually consists of about one hundred camels, each having its native driver; thirty or forty horses for the white men, and the Arab hunters and their attendants; a flock of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred goats, for their milk and also for food; and black slaves to look out for the goats. The wild animals are secured in strong boxes and carried on the camels' backs. They are all young, and fed with goats' milk principally, although occasionally, to keep them in good spirits, they are given raw goats' meat. Horses are very cheap there, ranging in price from fifteen to twenty dollars each. Natives are even cheaper, seven dollars each being thought an extravagant price for the trip. The journey ordinarily occupies from thirty to forty days, and all traveling is done between three and eleven in the morning and five and eleven in the evening. During mid-day the sun's rays are so fiercely hot as to make labor or travel hazardous, and none is attempted. The route home is much the same as that taken out, and in due time the beasts are landed, usually with very little loss, in Germany. There they remain until needed to fill orders of showmen in either Europe or America, while their hardy captors take three months of rest and recreation before starting on another trip. THE ADVENTURES OF SPECIMEN HUNTERS Several men of scientific attainments are always to be depended on for novelties in the way of monsters from the deep. Some of these "professors," as they are generally termed by showmen, are given salaries to go out on special expeditions, while others make an excellent living by pursuing this peculiar craft independently. Often these men have adventures quite as exciting as those which befall the hunters in the wilds of the jungles. While on an expedition to the Bermuda coast one of our professors had a decidedly interesting experience with a small octopus. He had been towing about in his little boat in search of the beautiful colored fish with which this coast abounds, when there was a sudden lurch of the boat followed by a constant thumping against its bottom. Thinking the skiff had met with an obstruction of the ordinary kind, the professor thrust his arm into the water, at the stern of the boat, where he felt a moving mass which was indistinctly seen, and caught hold of the slimy thing. He then found that his arm was being encircled by what he believed to be a sea serpent. Then he felt a sensation that, according to his description, was like a hundred sucking leeches. This strange and powerful animal was trying to pull him overboard. With a desperate effort he separated the tentacled part that encircled his arm from the body of the devil-fish, and the creature fell back into the water. On the professor's arm were several sores where the suckers had been applied, and he was as thoroughly frightened as a man could be and live. One of the most pathetic subjects which can be proposed to a proprietary showman of wide experience is that of "wild goose" expeditions. Experiences of this kind are so costly that they are not easily forgotten. I spent thousands of dollars on an expedition sent to the coast of Alaska for the purpose of capturing a live walrus. The man in charge of this undertaking had been with my menagerie for several years, and I knew him to be courageous, capable and determined. He had plenty of assistance, the best equipment in the way of boats, wire nets and other paraphernalia that could be devised, and still he returned empty-handed from a shore that abounded with those ugly monsters. The failure of the expedition and the loss of the heavy investment which it represented all hinged on the fact that, unlike the seals we had taken by nets, the walrus could not be found on the shore. What was still more tantalizing was that they would permit their pursuers to approach within a hundred feet of the ice blocks on which they discreetly held forth. After he had abandoned all hope of capturing them alive, he determined to have some sport shooting them. As before stated, the walruses would remain on the ice until the party came within one hundred feet of them, resting all the time in perfect silence and raising their enormous heads as if curious to see what manner of men had the temerity to invade their dominion. In that position they were, of course, perfect targets for the bullets. When wounded they would collect in a group, and then, as if by a preconceived signal, they would rush for the boats, and their retaliation would be furious and the attacking party was usually wholly unprepared for the onslaught. As a walrus frequently weighs nearly a ton, and sometimes more, the hunters were in imminent danger of being tipped over into the cold waves--a catastrophe which would be almost certain to result fatally; and as the movement of the walrus is very swift, the only alternative left the party was to empty their guns on the foremost of the creatures. This would break the force of the onslaught, the killed and wounded forming a barrier to those coming on behind. On one of these excursions the hunters killed a baby walrus, and while using the oars to reach the ice floe whereon the baby lay dead, they were astonished to see a grown walrus jump to the little one's side and, taking it in its mouth, disappear with it into the icy water. If the countryman who finds undisguised delight in "seeing the animals" of the big show could only realize the money, the perils and hardships and the disappointments which a good collection of animals represents he would marvel the more at the spectacle. III FREAKS AND FAKES No saying attributed to P. T. Barnum has been more widely quoted than the remark that "the public likes to be humbugged." Certainly this comment on the credulity of the masses opens up a most curious and entertaining field, and its mention in a company of old showmen is sure to provoke a flood of reminiscences on the subject of fakes, freaks and fakers. There is scarcely another line of experience concerning which veteran showmen more enjoy comparing notes--possibly because it touches on the secrets of the craft. Though it is true that Mr. Barnum was a master in the science of humbugging the public, and did not disclaim that distinction, it must be said in justice to him that in the course of his long professional career he gave the people more for their money than any other showman, living or dead. A little inside information on this hidden side of the showman's business may be entertaining to a public which has often experienced the pleasure of being humbugged. Certainly no fake is entitled to take precedence over the celebrated "Cardiff Giant." This was the invention of a certain George Hull. He lived, I think, at Binghamton, New York, and manufactured the giant in a rude shop on the small farm which he worked. Hull was shrewd, energetic and very persistent, as may be seen by the fact that the elaboration of the idea of his fake and its execution occupied him more than four years. He thought the whole matter out, even to the most minute details, before beginning work on it. Without any knowledge of the art of sculpture or the science of anatomy, he set himself resolutely at work to remedy these defects of education. He had considerable aptitude with the chisel, and gradually developed the skill necessary to hew out a figure that was to be put before the public as a relic of an age so remote that no person would be likely closely to criticise its proportions. Hull also knew that, no matter what the age in which his giant was supposed to have lived, the "remains" must show pores in the skin to pass the scrutiny of even the unlearned, The making of these pores required more time and labor than all the other work of making the "Cardiff Giant." The work occupied many months, and was all performed in the "studio" or shop where it was at last finished to Hull's satisfaction. THE BURIAL AND RESURRECTION OF THE "CARDIFF GIANT" Preparations were then made for the giant's burial in order that when brought to public view it might show the proper evidence of antiquity. It was buried in the side of a hill only a few rods from the outbuilding, where it had been chiseled from a huge block of stone taken from that very hill. In all this work, huge and heavy as the uncut stone and the giant hewn out of it were, Hull had only the assistance of one man, a sled and a yoke of oxen in moving them. This helper was a green and stolid German immigrant, utterly devoid of curiosity, and the man who helped to bury the giant was another of the same description. The statue was allowed to remain more than two years in the ground before its maker considered it to be in proper condition for "accidental" discovery. Hull then promptly "discovered" and dug out the "petrification," and placed it on public view to amaze and perplex people generally and to delight the antiquarians, who found it an argument to uphold some of their most cherished theories. It took its name from the fact that near the spot where it was buried and resurrected was a small hamlet called Cardiff. The public career of the "Cardiff Giant" was not of long continuance, however, but was sufficiently lengthy to enable Mr. Hull to make considerable money out of his clever conception. He declared, however, that he might have made much more money if he had accepted Mr. Barnum's offer made at the time of the giant's first appearance in public. Mr. Hull knew, too, that exposure was bound to come in the end, but that mattered not to him. For many years thereafter the "Cardiff Giant" reposed neglected in the very shop in which it was made; but its owner and inventor averred that he was entirely content with the financial result of his ingenuity. "Bridgeport, Oct. 8, 1870. "My Dear Coup: Yours received. I will join you in a show for next spring and will probably have Admiral Dot well trained this winter and have him and Harrison in the show. Wood will sell all his animals right, and will furnish several tip-top museum curiosities. You need to spend several months in New York arranging for curiosities, cuts, cages, bills, etc. All things got from Wood I will settle for with him and give the concern credit. We can make a stunning museum department. If you want to call it _my_ museum and use my name it may be used by allowing me the same very small percentage that Wood allows for calling himself my successor (3 per cent on receipts). You can have a Cardiff Giant that won't crack, also a moving figure, Sleeping Beauty or Dying Zouave--a big Gymnastic figure like that in Wood's museum, and lots of other good things, only you need time to look them up and prepare wagons, etc., etc. "Yours truly, "P. T. BARNUM." "I will spare time to cook up the show in New York when you come. I think Siamese Twins would pay." The year 1884 is a memorable one in the annals of circus history, and circus men remember it as the "White Elephant Year." For many years persistent attempts had been made by enterprising showmen to secure for exhibition purposes a sacred white elephant. Schemes by the score had been discussed in the confidential councils of the showmen in winter quarters, with a view to faking a black elephant into a white one, but without satisfactory results. In the winter of 1883, however, it was given out by Mr. Barnum's manager that he had positively succeeded in purchasing from the King of Siam a sacred white elephant. The press was splendidly "worked" in advance, and the sacred white elephant monopolized the gossip of circus circles. THE RIVAL WHITE ELEPHANTS A great rivalry had for some years existed between Mr. Barnum and a Philadelphia circus man, and the public was greatly surprised, just before the opening of the season, to find that, according to newspaper report, the latter also had quietly and unostentatiously imported a sacred white elephant known as the "Light of Asia," which, from the descriptions of the few favored scribes who had seen it, was a marvel of beauty and color. Rumors also were circulated that Barnum's white elephant was not genuine, but only a diseased or leprous elephant with a "blaze" of cream color down its trunk, and discolored or spotted legs, while the Philadelphia showman's animal was of snowy whiteness, without spot or blemish. Public sentiment ran high, especially in Philadelphia, where the shows were to exhibit simultaneously. While public opinion was divided as to the genuineness of these "sacred" animals, it may be well to say that the Barnum animal was as good a specimen of the genuine white elephant as could be procured, while the Philadelphia elephant, pretty as a picture and superbly snow white in color, was supposed to be a lively "fake." [Illustration: WHEN A "WHITE ELEPHANT" WAS NEEDED.] While on exhibition, this "Light of Asia" was almost entirely covered with a black velvet-spangled cloth, and the trunk had been manipulated in such a way that visitors could touch it, and as no coloring matter came off on their hands I presume that part of the body had in some way been "sized" or enameled. HOW THE "LIGHT OF ASIA" EMBARRASSED THE LECTURER During the performance the white elephant would be introduced and stripped of its velvet trappings on the elevated stage between the two rings, while a learned "professor" descanted eloquently on opposition in general and the genuineness of this white elephant in particular. So well was this part of the program carried out that popular opinion was at least equally divided regarding the genuineness of the competing white elephants. Long afterward the "lecturer" told me that this white elephant, having learned to recognize and like him, would endeavor to salute him by rubbing up against him after the manner of elephants. Had the animal succeeded, the effect would have been to leave white marks on the black coat of the lecturer, who had all he could do to continue his lecture and at the same time dodge the friendly advance of the white elephant. About the middle of the season, after getting all the benefit they could out of the white elephant war, Barnum and his rival came to an amicable understanding, and divided territory with each other, and the "Light of Asia" was withdrawn. The following winter it was given out that the animal had taken cold and died in Philadelphia, but there are plenty of showmen who aver that the animal is as lively and healthy as ever, though wearing black instead of chalky white. A somewhat significant fact regarding this fake was that during the previous summer its owners had been annoyed on arrival in various towns to find an opposition sideshow, with its canvas already up. It belonged to an Englishman whose sole attraction was a yellow horse. No one had ever heard of a yellow horse before, and the farmers for miles around came in and eagerly paid ten cents to see this wonder. The animal was not particularly beautiful, but was certainly a bright yellow, as were also the hands of his master. In fact, there was no doubt but that its owner had rubbed the animal well with yellow ochre. The proprietor of the "Light of Asia" paid the show a visit and laughed heartily at the deception. After looking at the horse a little while, he remarked to its owner: "Well, if you can turn a gray horse yellow, you should be able to turn an elephant white." What happened afterward I am unable to say, but, singular to relate, the following spring, when the "Light of Asia" was "imported," a special trainer was brought with it from Siam who gave the animal his exclusive care and attention. This trainer was an Englishman, and many of the circus attachés thought they had seen the man exhibiting the yellow horse. In 1883, while passing down the Bowery in New York, I heard my name loudly shouted. Turning around I met an English showman who was just then managing one of the many dime museums then established in that thoroughfare. "Come inside, Mr. Coup," said he, "and I will show you my latest." "Your latest what?" said I. "Fake," he answered. "These freaks want too much money, and are nearly played out, anyway, so I'm making fresh ones now." THE WILD CAVE-DWELLER OF KENTUCKY The place was packed with people, and an enormous banner on the outside depicted a savage-looking wild man. He was described as having been captured in the caves of Kentucky. I followed my acquaintance upstairs, and in due time, after a preliminary lecture, a door was thrown open, disclosing what looked like a prison cell, in which, chained to an iron grating, stood a man closely resembling the one represented in the picture. His skin was of a tawny yellow, his body was covered with hair, and he ravenously snapped at and ate the lumps of raw beef which an attendant threw to him. I cannot say that it was a pleasant sight, but from its effect on the spectators it was undoubtedly a satisfactory one, and as the door closed on it I said to my acquaintance: "Where did you get him?" He replied: "Why, you know the man well. He traveled with you two seasons. Come inside and talk with him." I followed him, and no sooner were we in the cage than the terrible "wild man" held out his hand to me and said, "How do you do, Mr. Coup?" The voice was strangely familiar. I scrutinized the fellow's features and recognized in him a Russian who had been exhibited in our sideshow as a "hairy man." He had allowed his skin to be dyed yellow and his whiskers and hair black, and, for a consideration of about four times his usual salary, was now posing as a wild man. He afterward went West and continued this mode of exhibition for several months, until he was played out in that capacity, whereupon a few warm baths enabled him to resume his former employment as "Ivanovitch, the hairy man." Another celebrated fake which met with success in the East was the "dog-faced man." The Englishman before spoken of engaged a variety performer who was an adept at imitating the barking of dogs. The manager had in his possession an old photograph of "Jo-jo, the dog-faced boy," and was resolved to place a good imitation of this freak before the American public. He accordingly had made a very expensive wig which covered completely the head, face and shoulders. Dressing the man in the garb of a Russian peasant, he advertised him as "Nicolai Jacobi, the Russian dog-faced man." So good was the disguise that they exhibited an entire week at a Jersey City museum, deceiving even the astute proprietor. Next they went to Boston, where they played to the most phenomenal business on record. The proprietor of the museum had a very clever cartoonist in his employ, and as the Englishman and his dog-faced friend walked from the station to the museum they saw nothing but pictures of dog-faced men. In front of the museum, in a large cage, was one of the fiercest wildcats they had even seen, labeled, "The pet of the dog-faced man." They played, as I have said, to phenomenal business. For two weeks thousands of persons daily struggled for the privilege of paying ten cents to see this amusing fake. At the end of that time one of the employés betrayed the secret to a reporter and the attraction was rendered valueless. Strange to relate, the success of this "fake" was the means of bringing from Europe the original dog-faced boy, "Jo-jo," who for several years drew a good salary at the various dime museums, but never created so much excitement by virtue of his genuineness as the "fake" did. THE TWO-HEADED GIRL'S THREE-HEADED RIVAL Millie Christine, the "two-headed nightingale," had been exhibiting in New York City, and public attention was called, shortly afterward, to the fact that a lady with three perfect heads would be exhibited on a certain day. Now, this strange being was really an optical illusion, built on the same lines as the ghost show invented by Professor Pepper. Three girls were used, and all portions of their figures not intended to be shown were covered with a black cloth. The whole illusion is merely an effect of light and shade. Still another "fake" that not only "drew" well but positively deceived the whole New York press, was the "Dahomey Giant." About 1882 a very tall specimen of the African race walked into an Eastern museum looking for work. He was actually over seven feet in height, and had never been on exhibition. Knowing that his value as a negro giant would be but little, the proprietors resolved to introduce him as a monster wild African. After consulting Rev. J. G. Woods' Illustrated History of the Uncivilized Races, it was determined to make a Dahomey of the tall North Carolinian. A theatrical costumer was set to work to make him a picturesque garb. A spurious cablegram was issued, purporting to be from Farini, of London, stating that the Dahomey giant had sailed with his interpreter from London and would arrive in Boston on or about a certain date. The man, with his interpreter, was then taken by train to Boston, from which city they, in due time, wired the museum proprietor of their arrival. That telegram was answered by another telling them to take the first Fall River boat for New York City. The press was then notified, and the representatives of five New York papers were actually sent to the pier the following morning to interview the distinguished stranger from Dahomey. The man had been well schooled, and pretending not to know a word of the English language, could not, of course, converse with the reporters. But his interpreter managed to fill them up very comfortably. At all events, long and interesting accounts of the "snuff-colored giant from Dahomey" appeared in most of the dailies, and for several weeks this Dahomey was the stellar attraction at that particular dime museum. The advent of summer and its consequent circus season closing the city museums, the Dahomey "joined out" with a side show in which, for successive seasons, he posed as a Dahomey giant, a Maori from New Zealand, an Australian aborigine and a Kaffir. This man's success was the initiative for a score of other negroes, who posed as representatives of any foreign races the side-show proprietor wished to exhibit. MISSING LINKS AND DANCING TURKEYS Krao, the "missing link," as she was called, was simply a hairy child, and almost exactly like Annie Jones, who was exhibited by Barnum as the "Esau Child." A great card for museums at one time was the "human-faced chicken." The first one placed on exhibition was purchased in good faith by an acquaintance of mine, and proved a good attraction. A visiting farmer, however, declared that it was nothing but an ordinary chicken which had had its bill frozen off, and so it proved. Dancing turkeys were then introduced and caused great amusement. The awkward birds would walk onto their exhibition stage and go through a decidedly grotesque dance, their mode of lifting their feet being highly laughable. The truth was that the stage on which they danced was a piece of sheet-iron covered with a cloth. The iron was heated to an uncomfortable degree by gas jets underneath. What the public accepted as dancing was really the efforts made by the birds to prevent their feet from being burned. THE SALARIES PAID TO FREAKS The spread of the dime museum craze created a great demand for freaks and a consequent rise in their salaries. I know I am violating no confidence when I say that at various times the following freaks have drawn weekly the sums set opposite their names: "La Tocci Twins," $1,000.00 "Millie Christine," 600.00 "Wild Man of Borneo," 300.00 "Chang, the Chinese Giant," 400.00 "Chemah, the Chinese Dwarf," 300.00 Ordinary giants and midgets, 30.00 to 100.00 Bearded ladies, 30.00 to 75.00 Living skeletons, 30.00 to 75.00 Armless men, 30.00 to 100.00 Ossified men, 30.00 to 200.00 And as an offset to the above figures, I have heard of a tatooed man who would talk outside, exhibit himself inside, do a turn of magic, lift barrels of water with his teeth, and, as boss canvasman, superintend the putting up and pulling down of the show, all for six dollars a week. He must have been first cousin to the man who traveled with the circus simply to be able to sit on the fence and hear the band play. It will doubtless seem incredible to the person unused to the society of freaks that these unfortunates should take a seeming pride in their distinguishing misfortunes and be jealous of their reputations; this, however, is one of the strongest traits of the typical freak. In our show at one time we carried two giants, a Captain Benhein, a Frenchman, and Colonel Goshin, an Arabian. These two fellows were almost insanely jealous of each other, and it was ludicrous to hear the threats which they exchanged; many times it seemed that a personal encounter was imminent, but the Arabian's courage seemed in inverse proportion to his size. THE LOVE-MAKING AND MERRY-MAKING OF THE FREAKS Referring to Goshin as an Arabian brings to light a curious fact with regard to freaks of great size. He was not an Arabian, but a negro picked up by "Yank Robinson" in Kentucky. So confirmed is the habit of speaking of him as an Arabian that it has become second nature with me, and I think that this tendency is almost universal with showmen; they become so accustomed to enlarging on the fictitious characters for which their freaks are played that I sometimes think they almost get to believe these stories themselves. Among the freaks the women were almost universally jealous of their professional reputations. Hannah Battersbey, who weighed more than four hundred pounds, recognized Kate Heathley as her particular rival, and either of these women could be instantly thrown into a jealous passion at the mention of the other's claim to superiority in the matter of weight. The strange alliances which sometimes took place in the freak world are well illustrated by the marriage of the weighty Hannah to a living skeleton who touched the scales at sixty-five pounds. Before leaving the subject of freaks I must mention the strangest sight that it was ever my fortune to look upon in the course of a life spent in association with human novelties. Early in my career I was fortunate enough to secure the show rights for a fair in Montgomery, Ala., which was held just at the end of the northern show season. This circumstance resulted in bringing to the fair a most unusual number of small shows, the main attractions of which were freaks of every kind and color. My royalties were very large, and I was naturally expected to do something handsome by the people who had contributed to this success; consequently I gave a dinner to the "freaks," and that banquet table presented a scene probably unrivaled in history. I only wish I were able to give anything approaching an adequate description of that festal board. At the head of the table was the towering figure of an eight-foot giant, while at the other extremity of the board sat a thirty-six-inch dwarf. The jests which were bandied between the banqueters are worthy a place in a history of wit. A single instance, however, will give an idea of the peculiar terms with which these people enlivened the occasion. As the "Armless Man" helped himself to potatoes, the "Bearded Lady" opposite him called out, "Hands off!" and the whole company shouted with laughter. The famous "Australian Children," who made several fortunes for their exhibitors, came from Circleville, Ohio, and were the children of a mulatto. Occasionally the showman met with distressing but amusing experiences resulting from the identification of his freaks on the part of the public. THE EXPOSURE OF THE "AZTEC CHILDREN" While I was absent from my show my manager once engaged two boys with heads little larger than teacups; one of them had a club foot and had some little claim to intelligence. Our people had painted them to look like savages, and they were exhibited as the "Aztec Children." One day when the lecturer was expatiating upon these remarkable children a burlo countryman shouted: "Hello, John Evans, I know you; I worked in the harvest field with you many a day; oh, you can't fool me." The "Aztec child" had been taught to make no reply to anything said to him, and the lecturer paid no attention to anything said to the countryman's interruption, but the countryman was not to be put down, and once more he shouted: "Say, Bill Evans, maybe you think I don't know that club foot; just come off, now." The audience was greatly amused at this, and the lecturer saw that he had plenty of trouble on hand; consequently he called the countryman aside and told him that he was certainly mistaken as to the identity of the freak. "Oh, no, I ain't," replied the obdurate fellow; "and what is more, you and your whole shebang are frauds and humbugs." Then the lecturer took another tack, gave the countryman five dollars, and thought the incident closed; but it was not, for the fellow proceeded to spend his money on whisky and tell his friends of his discovery, with the result that the business at that point was ruined. From the viewpoint of the showmen there are "fakers" and "fakirs." Under the former head we class the men who conceive and manufacture fakes of the kind already described. The fakirs are altogether of a different kind, being the camp-followers who hang on the heels of a circus for the purpose of swindling the public by every variety of device known to the "blackleg fraternity." Frequently a number of illegitimate shows start out, and, before doing so, announce that faking privileges are to be leased. The leaders of the various gangs make the arrangements with the circus proprietors, depositing a sum of money in the ticket wagon with which to "square squeals," then the tribe of showmen and fakirs start out on their nefarious pilgrimages, the shows furnishing the transportation for the fakirs. One of the fakirs in connection with each show is selected as the "squarer." He is generally a member of various secret societies and orders, and his particular duty is to bribe the petty officers of the towns visited, to secure immunity from arrest. Lottery schemes, gambling games of every sort, pocket-picking and robbing are among the methods by which these fakirs reap their harvest. AN ADVENTURE WITH A CIRCUS SHARP My life has been frequently threatened and twice attempted because of my persistent determination to drive this thieving fraternity from my shows. One day in a small western town a man introduced himself to me as the brother of a very respectable Chicagoan and explained that he was on his way to Texas to join in certain speculations. I at once suspected him of being a fakir and gave orders to the manager of the side-show to get rid of him and all his kind. A little later the landlord came to me and said: "Mr. Coup, there is a fellow out here who says he will shoot you on sight; he is one of the men traveling with you." On investigation I found that he was not the man who had introduced himself to me, but was one of the gang attempting to work the show: he bore a desperate reputation, and was popularly credited with having killed several men; all of my employés stood in fear of him, and I concluded to appeal to the mayor of the town for necessary protection and assistance. Before doing so, however, I put on a heavy ulster, in each side-pocket of which I placed a loaded six-shooter. With a finger on the trigger of each revolver I started out to find the mayor. While crossing the public square I met the man who had threatened to shoot me. Stopping squarely in front of him I said: "I believe you have threatened and intend to kill me, and I want to say to you that you will never find a better opportunity to do so than right now." He proposed to argue the question with me, but I simply insisted that he should leave town at once. The outlaw began a tirade of abuse, and remarked that he was a southern man. "Well," I answered, "if you wish to bring that question into the argument, I am a northern man, and you may tell this to all of your tribe." That ended the matter, and he left town that afternoon; but if he had not known that I had two six-shooters pointed directly at him, I would probably not have been left to tell the tale. In my battles against the fakirs I have universally relied upon the strong arms of my husky "canvasmen," and more than once I have armed them with clubs concealed under their coats, with the result that the fakirs were driven from the field with broken arms and noses. It is a lamentable fact that not a few of the wealthiest showmen in this country have swelled their fortunes by the "rake-off" from the despicable gains of these blacklegs and tricksters. IV MOVING THE BIG SHOW It requires several months of hard labor to prepare any show for the road, even those already organized, for, as a rule, all shows "lay off" during the winter. With few exceptions the horses are allowed to "run out," and all the wagons and paraphernalia are stored in convenient winter quarters provided for the purpose. The wild animals are taken from their traveling cages and placed in more commodious ones. The manager then decides on his route for the coming season. This, in itself, is an arduous labor, for the cost of transportation becomes, necessarily, a most important consideration in his calculations. The manager of a large show, however, can do this with comparative ease, since he does not fear opposition so much as does the manager of the small show and, consequently, may choose his own territory, while his small opponent must skirmish around to get out of the way of the larger show. Therefore, the route of the big show is completed on paper not later than the first of February, and the first agent, usually the railroad contractor, begins his duties. Such a show as I am describing is perfectly safe in laying out its route thus early and advertising its days and dates for months in advance. And, having done this, woe betide any smaller concern which elects to show in the same neighborhood, for the larger show will immediately send an advance brigade and literally flood the country with their bills. Brigades of this kind are called "skirmishers," and are kept in readiness to jump to any point where their services are needed to fight any kind of opposition. They thus uphold a sort of monarchical right in the territory and prevent, if possible, the success of the lesser attraction. This makes it really far more difficult to manage a small show than a large one, as the latter has "the right of might," while the lesser shows are continually forced in each other's way, to their own detriment and often to their complete financial disaster. A large concern in a prosperous season clears an immense amount of money, but, on the other hand, a disastrous season is bound to result in an enormous loss. THE FIRST ATTEMPT TO MOVE A CIRCUS BY RAIL A few weeks before the time for opening the circus season the horses are taken in, stabled, groomed and fed with grain to get them "hard" and in good condition for work. The wagons are overhauled, painted and gilded, and, if necessary, new ones are built. The various agents are by this time hard at work, each having his particular duties to perform. Previous to 1872 the "railroad circus" was an unknown quantity. Like all other circuses of that day, the big show of which I was the manager traveled by wagon. During our first season our receipts amounted in round numbers to $400,000, exclusive of side shows, concerts and candy stands. Of course we showed in towns of all sizes and our daily receipts ranged from $1,000 to $7,000. Finding that the receipts in the larger towns were frequently twice and three times as much as in the smaller ones, I became convinced that we could at least double our receipts if we could ignore the small places and travel only from one big town to another, thereby drawing the cream of the trade from the adjacent small towns instead of trying to give a separate exhibition in each. This was my reason for determining to move the show by rail the following season. To this end, therefore, I at once telegraphed to the superintendents of the different railroads asking if they could accommodate us and guarantee to get us to the various towns in time to give the exhibitions as advertised; and in order for us to do that it was necessary, I informed them, that we be landed in a town as early as six A.M. From some of the railroad superintendents came the reply, "Cannot furnish switch room," and from others, "Give further particulars." After a great deal of correspondence I went to Philadelphia and interviewed the officials of the Pennsylvania Company. I urged and argued and argued and urged, until they said I was the most persistent man they had ever seen, and even told me they would pay me if I would leave them in peace. This, however, did not suit my purpose, and I hung on until I finally made arrangements with them. After much preparation we eventually fixed upon New Brunswick, N.J., as our first loading place. We were new at the work and so commenced loading at eight P.M. and finished the job at eight A.M., with no extraordinary incidents except the breaking of one camel's back--the creature having the misfortune to slip off the "runs." From New Brunswick we went to Trenton, where I had hired Pullman cars for our performers and band, and cheaper cars for our laborers and other attachés. THE SPARTAN HABITS OF THE OLD-TIMERS Our experience with the vast crowds of the season before had given us the idea of building two rings and giving a double performance. This, of course, doubled our company, but it kept the audience in their seats, since they were precisely as well off in one part of the canvas as in another, whereas in the old one-ring show we found it impossible to prevent the people who were farthest from the ring from standing up. They would rush to the front and thus interfere with many other people. This two-ring arrangement seemed to obviate this difficulty, and, as it at once hit the popular fancy, it proved a great drawing card for us and others, for within a few months smaller showmen all over the country began to give two-ring performances. Indeed, from that time it seemed to me that the old one-ring show was entirely forgotten. It was quite laughable, during the earlier portion of the season, to watch the expression on the faces of our performers when they came on to join us and were shown the Pullman cars which were to be their homes for the next six months. "It is too good to last," remarked one. "The expense will break the show," said another. To their surprise, however, it lasted that season and has lasted ever since. Previous to that they had been in the habit of taking breakfast at any hour from midnight to four P.M., according to the number of miles they had to travel; but now all is changed, and an era of luxuriant comfort has become established for them. For many months, however, at the dawn of this epoch, the performers viewed their regular meals and sumptuous surroundings with a comical seriousness most ludicrous to behold. Small shows had, prior to this time, traveled to a limited extent by rail; but not with accommodations like ours. Such shows consisted of seven or eight cars, whereas ours numbered sixty-one. All of these, with the exception of the sleeping cars, we had hired from the railroad company. SEVEN HEARTBREAKING DAYS ON THE LONG ROAD It has always been a mystery to me why the railroads build themselves cars scarcely any two of which are of uniform height. Our heavy wagons would be pushed up on "runs," and, on being pushed from one car to another, would frequently crash through the rotten boards composing the bed of the car. This would cause vexatious delays. The reader cannot possibly form any idea of the amount of labor involved in teaching our men to become proficient in loading and unloading. It is a positive fact that I never took the clothes from my back from the time of first loading until we reached Philadelphia, our seventh stop! During all that time I was constantly teaching the men the art of loading and unloading, giving attention to the moving of all the wagons, chariots, horses, camels, elephants, etc. We reached Philadelphia tired and exhausted with the seven days' hard work. I was also mentally fatigued by my partner's opposition and his requests to abandon the scheme; but at this point I realized more than ever the benefits that would accrue from this great departure, and I determined to stick it out to the end. I went to the superintendent of one of the railroads on which we were to travel to Baltimore and Washington and told him I must have a lot of cars of uniform construction at any price. These he succeeded in getting after considerable trouble. I then made up my mind to try it as far as Washington, and if I could not by that time get everything to run smoothly I would abandon it. We reached Wilmington without mishap and gave our exhibitions--three each day. It must be remembered that we had advertised three shows daily, and so far had given them; indeed, we did throughout the season, but that was the first and only year that such a feat was attempted. I told the railroad superintendent that if we could manage to load in Wilmington by two A.M. and reach Baltimore at five A.M. it would be a success. He ordered the road cleared, and we arrived in Baltimore with the first section only a little late, and, with a little extra energy, we had the parade out on time and opened the doors to the morning performance at ten A.M. The trip from Baltimore was easily made, but from there we had to run over heavy grades up and down to Frederick, Md. In order to load we had to remove all the brakes, and this the yardmaster refused to do. I showed him my contract, wherein the company had agreed to remove all brakes, but he still refused, so I finally resorted to strategy. I invited him to a restaurant, and while we were absent, by a prearranged movement, Baker, the boss canvas-man, wrenched the brakes off, and by the time the yardmaster and I returned the train was almost loaded. Of course I pretended to be very angry at such conduct, but our point was gained. As the brakes were easily replaced we made the next stop all right. PERFORMING BY DAY AND TRAVELING BY NIGHT I determined to have a train of cars built for our special purpose, and accordingly visited all the shops in the east; but I could find no one willing to undertake the job on such short notice. Finally, at Columbus, Ohio, I made the acquaintance of a thorough man of business. He was conducting the car shops there and was prepared to execute any order I might give him. In a short time I had made a contract with him, and in thirty days a train of cars was built. They were of uniform height, with iron extensions reaching from one car to another. These improvements made the loading and unloading mere play. I then heard of some palace horse cars at Cleveland. These I bought. I had them freshly painted and lettered, "P. T. Barnum's World's Fair." When our men, as they came into Columbus to exhibit, saw that train awaiting them, they sent up such a shout as has seldom been heard. Now we had Pullman cars for the artists, sleeping cars for the laborers, box cars for the extra stuff, palace cars for the horses and other large animals, such as were required for teaming, parades, etc., and platform cars for wagons, chariots, cages and carriages. Thus the Herculean task of putting the first railroad show of any magnitude on its own cars was successfully accomplished. Little, indeed, do the managers of the present day know of the untiring energy and indomitable perseverance necessary to accomplish that feat. The railroad people themselves were utterly ignorant of our wants, as we ourselves were in the beginning. Frequently, as at Washington, the yardmaster would order us to load one car at a time, then switch it away and commence on another. To load a train in this way would have taken us twenty-four hours! Finally, however, system and good order came out of chaos. Once properly launched on our season, we were able to give three performances daily, and quite often made jumps of one hundred miles in one night. The scheme, as I had predicted, completely revolutionized the show business, and has been adopted since, not only in this country, but by the French and English circus proprietors in their travels in Germany. It also greatly advertised us, vast crowds assembling at the depots to see us load and unload. ON A RUNAWAY CIRCUS TRAIN I once had a very thrilling experience while riding in the cab of the locomotive pulling our train from Indiana, Pa. This station is on one of the branches of the Pennsylvania Railroad, high up on the mountain, the grade there being exceedingly heavy. It is, I believe, conceded to be one of the steepest grades on that system. There is also a horse-shoe bend, or curve, similar to the well-known one on the main line. While standing on the platform, about the time the last car was being loaded, I was accosted by the engineer, who inquired if I had ever traveled on a locomotive and if I would like to take such a trip. I replied that I would like to do so, and boarded the engine with him. A few moments later the signal bell was rung and we pulled out into the darkness. I placed myself so as not to be in the way of the engineer and fireman and was soon lost in meditation. The sensation was indescribably weird and thrilling. The scene was shrouded in darkness, and, as we flew along the road, the only discernible objects were the trees, which seemed to me like giant sentinels saluting as we flew past. Now and then we caught glimpses of lights in the mountain valleys, but they passed by like a streak of lightning, so rapidly were we going. "How far can your practiced eye discern objects on a night like this?" I asked the engineer. "Only a rod or two," he answered. "In that case," said I, "you could never stop the train to prevent a collision should an obstruction present itself?" "No--not with these brakes," he replied. As he said this his face blanched and he whistled hard for down brakes. Finally I heard him exclaim: "God help us! We're running away!" On, on we sped down the decline at a speed that was something frightful. The engine rattled and shook, and several times appeared to be almost toppling over. It was impossible to stand, and I held on by the window ledge for dear life. Down the mountain we sped altogether helpless! We had no control over the train, loaded down, as it was, with toppling chariots, with horses, animals, elephants, camels and human freight. PANIC AMONG THE ANIMALS Evidently the animals instinctively knew the danger, for above the rattle and roar of the train could occasionally be heard some of those strange trumpetings which proceed from an animal only in moments of danger--often just before a storm or cyclone. Momentarily I expected the whole train to be thrown from the tracks and down the mountain side. By the occasional streaks of light that flew past us I could see the blanched faces of both the engineer and fireman, and knew that they fully realized our awful danger. Both of them, however, kept perfectly cool, and I tried to imitate their example. How far I succeeded I do not know, but I do know that my nerves were strung to a higher pitch than they ever were before. A blinding rainstorm added to the horror of the situation, and, with the speed at which we were traveling, each drop seemed to have the penetrating power of a shot. Quick as a flash the thought passed through my head: What if we meet a train? Just at that moment we sped past Blairsville at the junction of the branch road and the main line. The station lights seemed mere specks. As we struck the switch the engine jumped and almost left the track. Looking back we could see the rear lights of our train swaying in the path like a ship tempest-tossed at sea. Our speed seemed to increase as we flew along the main line. We had gone twenty miles when a whistle was heard ahead. "What is it?" I asked. "Another train," replied the engineer; "it will pass us now," and as he was speaking the reflecting lights of its engine appeared, apparently not six rods from us. With lightning rapidity the trains passed each other and the "windage," to use a nautical term, nearly took my breath. During all this time, which positively seemed hours, my thoughts were not of the pleasantest. On, on we dashed, the engine frequently jumping as it struck something on the track. It seemed to me a miracle that the train did not lurch sheer over some one of the terrible embankments. The fireman was not engaged in tending the fire. It was unnecessary. We were all mute spectators of the scene being enacted by this silent machine--the marvelous and lifelike invention of man. Gradually, at last, our speed began to slacken. We had reached a grade. The danger was past and our lives were saved! A SINGLE TRACK AND A BROKEN RAIL We were still moving ahead at the rate of thirty miles an hour when--crash! through the window came some object. Once more the whistle sounded "down brakes," and in less than a mile the train came to a stop. Shortly afterward we heard shouts in our rear, and the man who had flung the missile through the cab window came running breathlessly, and said that less than a mile ahead of us was a broken rail that would undoubtedly have wrecked our train. Knowing that the express train was due in about an hour he had been running back to the station to detain it, when he had met our "wild" train and, realizing the danger, had done all he could to prevent a catastrophe. Back sped the man to the station to warn the express, leaving us between what were undoubtedly two horrors. The station was fully a mile away. Suppose he could not reach there in time! There we were on a single track, a broken rail ahead of us, an express train due at any moment behind us. Slowly we pulled up to the broken rail and at once replaced it with a new one, for we always carried extra rails on our train for cases of emergency. The track walker succeeded in getting to the station in time to stop the express, though luckily it was not quite due. We ran back to Blairsville and switched on to a side track. There we found that the second section of our circus train was due at nearly the same, time as the express train, and it was an anxious quarter of an hour that we spent in righting things. When, however, the second section did come in, I found they had been more fortunate than the first section. They had taken the precaution to add to their train several cars belonging to the railroad company, which were fitted up with better brakes than ours, some of them being supplied with both new air and common brakes. Then as a consequence of these precautions the train had descended the mountain under perfect control. I learned a lesson from that experience, and lost no time in fitting all our cars with air-brakes. I wish I could remember the name of the engineer. A braver man never handled an engine or went into a battle. It may not be generally known that all well-regulated roads employ a certain number of men as track walkers, whose constant duty it is to patrol every inch of the road and report the slightest irregularity of rails, road-bed, etc. On this particular night the track-walker's lantern had gone out, and the only expedient he could think of was to throw a stone through the cab window. I have often shuddered to think of what the consequences might have been had not his aim been a true one. THE BRONCHOS' CHARMED LIFE On another occasion, while going into Clinton, Iowa, with the biggest show I ever owned, we were running about twenty miles an hour, when the locomotive jumped the track and struck a tree. The shock threw all the cars of that section on their ends. The Mississippi River was on one side of us and a springy hill on the other. Here in this narrow place stood the cars, laden with animals of all kinds. It was truly an awful situation. We began to break up the cars in order to extricate the poor dumb brutes. We were compelled to hitch ropes about the horses' necks and pull them out, only to find perhaps that their legs were broken or that they were otherwise hopelessly injured. No fewer than thirty-five of my best horses were thus lost. The reader must remember that, as the cars had been thrown on their ends, in each horse car twenty horses were thrown into a struggling heap. Strange to say, the bronchos seemed to have charmed lives, for not one of them was hurt, and I was enabled to give a performance that day in spite of the accident. The elephants were piled up in much the same way as the horses, and in order to extricate them it was necessary to strip the cars completely--a labor in which those huge animals assisted us. The camels were unhurt. The loss, in crippled animals and destruction of cars, amounted to several thousand dollars. I cannot leave the subject of moving the big show without going back to some of my earliest pioneer experiences. No other human being can realize like the showman the volume of dread hardship and disaster held by those two small words, "bad roads." At the time of my breaking-in we were passing through a section of the country in the southwest, over such wretchedly constructed highways that the slightest fall of rain was sufficient to convert them into rivers of mud. The heavy wagons would sink to their hubs in the mire and the whole train would be stopped. Then followed a scene too picturesque to escape the attention of even the poor fellows who were half dead from lack of sleep. By the light of flaring torches a dozen big draft horses would be hitched to the refractory wagon. Inspired by the shouts, curses and sometimes the blows of the teamsters, the animals would join in a concerted pull that made their muscles stand out like knotted ropes. But often a battalion of six teams would fail to start a wagon. OLD ROMEO TO THE RESCUE Then the shout would go down the line for Romeo. In a few minutes the wise old elephant would come splashing through the mud with an air that seemed to say, "I thought you'd have to call on me!" He knew his place and would instantly take his stand behind the mired wagon. After he had carefully adjusted his huge frontal against the rear end of the vehicle the driver would give the command, "Mile up!" Gently, but with a tremendous power, Romeo would push forward, the wagon would start, and lo! the pasty mud would close in behind the wheels like the Red Sea. So vividly did this oft-repeated picture impress me that it is as clearly before me now as it was forty years ago. Sometimes, when an elephant was not available, the wagons would be literally pulled apart, and when the break came the horses would fall sprawling into the mire, only their heads visible above the surface of the mud. But the poor horses were not the only sufferers from bad roads. The men came in for their share. Very distinctly do I remember the night when we were about to cross a slough. Some of us were dozing in our saddles, others sleeping soundly on the tops of the wagons which carried the tents. Suddenly the shout was heard from the man in the lead, "Help, there, boys! I'm going down in the quicksands! Throw out a line, lively!" We knew the voice. It belonged to Hickey, the wagon boss, who was a favorite with the men. Instantly the fellows tumbled from the wagons and rushed forward. The torches showed Hickey sunk to his armpits. A man of ready wit and action threw a rope and the sinking man caught it and passed the noose over his head and under his arms, knotting it so that it could not slip and cut him in two. By that time a team of horses had been hitched to the other end of the rope. [Illustration: "THEN THE SHOUT WOULD GO DOWN THE LINE FOR ROMEO."] "All right! Easy, now!" came the order from Hickey, and the team was carefully started. Watching those horses strain on the rope made me hold my breath in expectation that the poor fellow would be actually drawn in two. But, finally, the grip of the mire loosened and he was hauled out to safety. AN UNEXPECTED MIDNIGHT BATH Perhaps the most disheartening of all bad-road experiences is that of losing the way--a thing which happened with perverse frequency. Just imagine yourself a member of such a caravan. You have slept four hours out of sixteen and are crawling along in the face of a drenching, blinding rainstorm--soaked, hungry and dazed. The caravan has halted a dozen times in the forepart of the night to pull out wagons and repair breakdowns. But it halts again, and the word "lost" is passed back along the line of wagons. This means retracing the route back to the forks of the road miles in the rear. Many an old circus man has wished himself dead on hearing the word "lost" under these conditions. After one of these disheartening experiences, when we were obliged to "right about face" and drive the poor, jaded horses back over the same road along which they had made their useless but painful pilgrimage, I clambered up to the top of the tent wagon, stretched out on the jolting, shaking heap of canvas, and was soon oblivious to fatigue and discouragement. My next conscious impression was that of a sudden crashing of timbers, the squealing of frightened horses and the sensation of falling. Then I felt myself plunging into the icy waters of a little stream into which the heavy show wagon and all its contents had been precipitated by the breaking of a bridge. It seems almost miraculous that I should have escaped falling under the mass of tents on which I had been sleeping, but in some way I was thrown to one side and contrived to reach the shore in safety. It is usual, in arranging the season's route, for a circus to make all the "big jumps" on Sundays; and it not infrequently happens that from three hundred to five hundred miles are covered between Saturday and Monday. This arrangement is very convenient in many ways. It may take you out of a country that is overrun with opposition shows into one where you may have the whole field to yourself, or it may take you to a part of the country where the climate has forced the harvests and therefore placed more money in circulation than usual. As a general thing circus employés are not in love with Sunday runs for, commodious as their cars are, they are not exactly fitted up to enable all occupants to loll lazily around and enjoy a luxurious ride. If the day happens to be rainy, most of them lie in their beds and content themselves with reading, with an occasional chat, argument or light lunch, and in this way endeavor to pass the time as best they can. If, however, the day happens to be a fine one, then at daybreak comes a mighty exodus from the sleeping cars. Cozy nooks are singled out and made comfortable by pressing into service all available shawls, rugs, etc. Those physically strong enough to brave the exposure make for the tops of stock and box cars where, lolling at ease, they discuss sundry topics of interest and revel in the ride through the country. Others select places underneath the chariots and cages which are loaded on the flat cars, and thus, sheltered from the sun, spend a delightful time. Once, at least, during the day, a stop of a couple of hours is made to enable the horses and animals to be fed and watered, and advantage is taken of this interval by the performers and other attachés to stretch themselves and also to cater to their own personal wants. Both comic and serious accidents are frequently the result of carelessness during these runs, as the following examples prove: In one long run between Springfield, Mo., and Mattoon, Ill., one of our men was standing erect on the top of a car, when a telegraph wire caught him under his chin and cut his head completely off, as though done by the surgeon's knife. On that same trip my watchman, Nelse, had the misfortune to have his straw hat blow off his head. The hat rolled gently along the top of the flat car and finally rolled off and fell on the side track. Immediately the watchman jumped to the ground, snatched up the hat, and leaped unhurt on the last car, although the train was making nearly twenty miles an hour. Probably the hat cost him originally fifty cents. Of all the Sunday runs I ever took, however, I recall one that was especially pleasant. It took place back in the seventies, and was a run of some three hundred miles across an Indian reservation between a town in Kansas and another in southern Texas. The day was beautiful, and as we bowled along the prairie I felt that the "stillness"--comparatively speaking--(so seldom enjoyed by circus people) was most refreshing. I don't suppose there ever was a country-bred boy who lived long enough to forget how, in his younger days, the Sabbath seemed, always, a day of stillness and quiet. The cessation of all business and the chiming of church bells produced an effect that could not fail of indelible impression; and that Sunday morning ride over the reservation brought back the scenes of childhood to many a rough and rugged circus man. Towards noon we halted and erected cooking tents and stables. The horses and animals were looked after and a dinner was cooked by the attachés. After dinner they formed congenial knots and strolled around while the "hash slingers" washed the dishes and the men once more loaded up. We carried at that time an excellent troupe of Jubilee singers, and with the light heart and impressionable feelings of their race, they burst into song, alternating their quaint camp meeting songs with others in which the majority of the attachés could join. The band, too, caught the infection and produced their instruments and we enjoyed a vocal and instrumental feast. Just at dusk, when the stars were beginning to appear, before starting for the night's run, the "Jubes" sang "Nearer, My God, to Thee" to the full accompaniment of the band and with a refrain swelled by every one able to sing. I have, in the course of my travels, visited many grand concerts and operas, but their most solemn and sacred effects are dwarfed into absolute insignificance compared with that of this impromptu performance. The rolling prairie, the beautiful trees, the perfect weather, the joyous spirits of every one present, the melodious voices of the Jubilee singers, and the grand strains produced by thirty skilled musicians, combined to produce music such as man seldom hears--that, on account of its spontaneity, thrilled the hearts of all present, then seemed to go right up to heaven, and "die amid the stars." "All aboard!" is shouted, and every one climbs into the car. The whistle sounds and off you go, past miles of beautiful scenery and occasional Indian villages. Everything is quiet and every one seems to be "drinking in" the beauty of the scene or sits lost in thought. No more singing or playing. All seem to be so solemnly impressed with that last grand hymn that the silence is unbroken. That Sunday run will always stay in my memory! With quiet "good-nights" one after another slipped off to bed to awake to another day's hurry and bustle. V THE PRAIRIE FIRE One of the most terrible and impressive experiences of my entire career came to me very shortly after I had become well settled in the circus harness. Sleep was the dragon which pursued me then with a relentless and irresistible power. There was scarcely a moment when I was not under its spell, at least to some degree. It was like a vampire that took the zest and vitality out of my very life sources and I went about almost as one walking in a dream. This condition arose from the fact that under the best of weather luck, a showman's hours are very long. But when roads were bad and journeys long, the poor wretch attached to the old wagon show had practically no sleep at all. After a stretch of hard traveling I was for weeks like a person drugged. My mind seemed in a state of miserable torpor, while my body went about in a mechanical way and did its work. The change from a regular life, which saw me snugly in the same bed at nearly the same hour every night of the year, to the painful excesses of a circus man's hours told on me very severely and I was long in becoming acclimated. At the painful period of which I speak my main object in life was to sleep. For this I lived, and my idea of Paradise then was a consciousness that I was in the act of falling asleep in bed with clean sheets, and that I would not be awakened until the end of eternity unless I should chance to get my sleep out before then--and this possibility seemed deliciously remote. While I suffered more keenly than the others from the tortures of longing for sleep, all the men who had anything whatever to do with the moving of the show were under the spell of this dragon. They, however, rallied more quickly than I, when dry roads and good weather fell to our lot for any length of time. Well, weeks of terrible traveling, of getting lost, of fighting our way through the mire and floods, was followed by a fortnight of fair weather. My associates had "caught up" in the matter of sleep, but I was still in a half torpid state and thought only of the blessed privilege of closing my eyes for an hour or two at a stretch. But, one morning as we started north from the small Missouri town in which we had given a very successful performance, the scene was so novel and impressive that I held out for a few minutes against the demon that was pulling my eyelids together, and really aroused to the picturesque features of the scene. We were winding our way to the northward, our caravan being fully a mile in length and stretched out like a long serpent. The elaborate and gilded chariots, the piebald Arabian horses, the drove of shambling camels and the huge swaying elephants gave a touch of genuine oriental picturesqueness to the scene strangely out of keeping with the wild western landscape and surroundings. On every hand the prairies were carpeted with wild flowers in the greatest variety and profusion. Their fragrance even reached me as I stretched out at full length on the top of a lumbering chariot. The almost endless vista of prairie, the serpent caravan, the gay colors and the fragrance of the flowers all combined to refresh and impress me, and to give me more cheer and courage than hours of sleep. The pleasant picture haunted me after I closed my eyes and mixed in my dreams after I dozed off into a half conscious slumber. Later the lurch of the wagon aroused me, and I started up with a sense of unaccountable alarm. The first object which met my eyes was a jackrabbit, sitting on his haunches not more than two rods from the trail we were following. Knowing the habitual timidity of these creatures the boldness of this one surprised me greatly. He sat there with his ears cocked straight up, his nose working nervously and his heart pounding so heavily that its pulsations shook his gray sides. Not until the wagon had passed did the rabbit stir. Then he dropped upon all fours and vanished in a gray streak traveling in a line parallel with the course of the caravan and keeping only a few rods from our trail. While I was still pondering over the strange conduct of the animal I saw a "rattler" emerge from the grass into the beaten trail only a few feet in front of the "off leader" of our four-horse team. Naturally I expected to see the snake coil and strike the horse, but he did nothing of the kind--simply avoided the horse's hoofs and then slipped away into the grass beyond. What was the meaning of the strange spell which seemed suddenly to have taken possession of the wild animals and reptiles of the plain through which we were traveling? There was no escape from the conclusion that some peculiar influence had seized upon them, blunting their ordinary sense of fear and precaution. Had I been more accustomed to prairie life I would probably have realized at once the nature of the trouble; like all of the men on the wagon with me I was a rank tenderfoot. In the course of the next ten minutes several flocks of birds passed over us, flying low but very rapidly. The grass on both sides of the trail seemed suddenly to swarm with animal life. Before I had arrived at any conclusions regarding the peculiar actions of the prairie creatures the captive animals in the darkened cages began to show signs of unusual restlessness. The lions and tigers began a strange moaning unlike their ordinary roars and growls. From the monkey cages came plaintive, half-human cries. These sounds were taken up by all the animals big and little. The elephants trumpeted, the camels screamed, and every animal took part in the weird chorus, which rapidly increased in volume. Then the air seemed to take on a hazy appearance, particularly in the direction from which we had come. Finally the truth dawned upon me--the prairie was on fire! By turning backward and straining my eyes I fancied I could make out a cloud of smoke far in the rear of the caravan. In a few moments this dim vision became clear and tangible. I told my fears to the driver, who laughed at me for my pains. Then I caught sight of a man on horseback on the crest of rise in the prairie. He was riding towards us as fast as his horse could carry him. Passing us like a whirlwind, he shouted: "Whip up, man! The prairie's on fire! Move for the river straight ahead!" In a second he was gone, shouting the same word to every startled driver he passed. His approach had been noted by the boss, who was at the head of the entire procession. That grand marshal of the day, for that was substantially his position, came riding back to meet the courier. Instantly, on learning the tidings, he wheeled about and rode like the wind for the chariot in the lead, drawn by six splendid horses white as milk. Sharp orders emphasized by a liberal sprinkling of profanity were sufficient to impress the driver of the magnificent leaders with the awful gravity of the situation and with the fact that he must set the pace for the remainder of the caravan. It might be thought that the greatest drag on the speed of the terrified procession would have been the camels and elephants. So thought the boss, but no sooner did the driver of the elephants get into position on the back of old Romeo and give that knowing creature an idea of what was expected, than he saw his mistake. The way in which both the elephants and camels swung themselves over the ground was a revelation to all who saw them. Which was the more pitiful and terrifying, the trumpeting of the elephants or the squealing of the camels, was difficult to tell. As the awful scroll of the fire rolled closer upon us the ungainly bodies of the camels and elephants swayed from one side to the other until they seemed fairly to vibrate. "Where is the river? Are we nearing the stream? Can we make the water?" These were the questions in the mind of every person in that long wagon train. Sometimes they were yelled from one driver to another, but the only answer was to lay the lash harder on the backs of the poor horses pulling the heavy wagons and chariots--leaping and straining like so many modern fire department animals responding to an alarm. It was a genuine chariot race--in which the stake was life and the fine death by flames. Nearly every vehicle was drawn by either four or six horses, and the scene was one of the grandest and most terrible that human eye ever looked upon. Suddenly I saw the boss put his horse into its highest speed, leading on ahead of the six whites. Then he leaped from the saddle, struck a match to the grass, remounted and rode back a short distance. As each team approached he ordered: "Wait till the flames spread a little and then break through the line of the back fire I've started and form a circle." The grass which he had fired was considerably shorter than the general growth of the prairies; then, the fire it made had not acquired the volume, intensity and sweep of that hurricane of flame from which we were fleeing. One after another of the teams reared, pitched and plunged, only to find that the back fire had gone under their feet leaving them inside a charred, blackened circle fringed with flame. No sound I have ever heard approached in abject terror the awful symphony of roars, growls, screams, wails and screeches that went up from the maddened beasts in that caravan as the great sky-reaching cylinder of flame and smoke rolled down upon us and was met barely forty rods away by the rapidly spreading line of our own back fire. Just as we were wondering if our next breath would be flame or air, the leaders of the white chariot horses leaped into the air like rockets. Instantly the whole six stallions became absolutely crazed with fear and made a plunge directly for the oncoming storm of fire and smoke. On toward the furnace of fire they ran, the driver tugging with might and main on the reins. "Jump!" yelled the boss. And jump the driver did. He was not a second too soon, for an instant later the white charioteers had disappeared under the great red and black barrel that was rolling upon us. Then came a moment which was a dizzy blank to most of us, I guess. The fearful strain of the long race, the moments of awful suspense after the charred ground had been reached--it was enough to have dethroned the reason of every man and woman in the charmed circle! Small wonder that a few fainted dead away and the rest of us were stunned into momentary confusion. But we had scarcely recovered the use of our faculties when the wag of the circus broke the long strain of the flight and escape by the remark: "I reckon there's been more genuine praying done in circus circles in the last hour than since Noah let the elephants out of the Ark!" The truthfulness of the remark hit home to every one in the whole group. Probably there was not a choicer collection of "unbelievers" on the face of the civilized earth than our company contained--yet only a few moments before every man, woman and child had been praying for dear life--some fairly shouting their supplications, others kneeling quietly in the wagons, and still others mumbling their petitions as they helped to hold the horses in check or performed some other imperative duty. But there was not a single individual in the whole wagon train who had not, under the awful pressure of the trial through which we passed, put up some kind of a petition to the Almighty for deliverance from the devouring flames. One of the first things we did, when the burning ground became cool enough, after the tornado of fire had swept around our little oasis of burned ground and passed on towards the river, was to go out and look for the remains of the chariot and the six white stallions. We had not far to go before we came to a heap of wheel tires and other ironwork from the big vehicle. A little beyond it were the blackened remains of the splendid horses which had dashed into an unnecessary death. These animals had been the pride of the show, and there was scarcely a man connected with the equestrian department of the circus who did not deeply lament the loss of the noble creatures. As for myself, I could hardly keep back the tears, for my fondness for the beautiful, intelligent horses amounted to a passion. Slowly we made our way to the river. On the other bank were gathered the inhabitants of the prairies who had been fortunate enough to reach this refuge. They had immediately extinguished the fires started on the far side of the river by the sparks which the wind carried across the stream. Some of them were almost raving with grief over the fate which they firmly believed had overtaken their relatives and friends, while others put their whole energies into caring for all who needed help--thus forgetting their own distress and afflictions in ministering to others. A CHANCE MEETING WITH A GREAT MAN After relating one of the most stirring and tragic episodes of my life as a showman, my thought turns instinctively to the other extreme--to an experience quite as typical of the wandering existence of the pioneer showman of the old wagon days. I refer to a chance meeting with one of the greatest men who helped to make the history of the United States, a splendid, picturesque giant of the pioneer type whose life was an unbroken romance. It may be asked, What has this kind of thing to do with circus life? I answer: Everything! Much of the success which I have achieved in this peculiar field of effort I owe to the contact with men of large capacity with whom I chanced to "fall in," as it were, while on the road. These meetings were as bread to my mind. They made the bright spots in my life, and, from the very beginning of my career, gave me the inspiration which helped me to see things in a larger way, to persevere in the face of all obstacles and to take advantage of every opportunity. Of the hundreds of experiences in this line, no other approached in romantic interest that which came to me very early in my southwestern tour. I was then a young man and was traveling in Louisiana. I put up at a hotel in a rather small town, where hotels were as rare as other evidences of civilization. I had just gone to my room on the night succeeding my arrival when I was honored with a call from the landlord. "Mr. Coup," he said, "there'll be another feller up to bunk with you in a few minutes. You'd better wait up and arrange with him about the side of the bed you are to sleep on. If he walks in and finds you sleepin' on his side, there might be a coolness spring up between you." At that time I was a stranger to southern customs, and their manner of doing things struck me as being a trifle irregular. However, I offered no objection. It has always been a rule with me to maintain the silence which is said to be golden when I am among strangers in a strange land. I afterwards discovered that it was customary for this landlord to put as many as three in one bed when he happened to be cramped for room. In about ten minutes my bedfellow came up. He was an elderly man with eyes which seemed to pierce one. His bedroom candle lighted up a face which I have never since been able to eradicate from my memory. It was one of the most interesting faces it has ever been my good fortune to gaze upon. When he smiled, I was somehow irresistibly drawn towards him. It was the saddest, tenderest, sweetest smile that I have ever seen upon a man's face. He spoke to me kindly as he placed his candle upon the little table, then drew his chair up close beside me in front of the open, wood fire. Twenty minutes afterward I could have sworn that I had known the man all my life. He was a brilliant talker; and his stock of knowledge regarding men and affairs of that day seemed to be inexhaustible. "By the way," I said, after we had talked well into the night, "I see Gen. Sam Houston is billed to speak here to-morrow night. I shall certainly go to hear him." He glanced up at me quickly. "Are you an admirer of him?" he asked. "I will answer that question by saying both yes and no," I replied. "I greatly admire him for his sturdy independence, his political ability, and his apparent hatred for all shams. But there seems to be another side to his character which I do not admire. The manner in which he deserted his Cherokee wife after he had left the nation and returned to civilization, I regard as wholly contemptible. Do you know him?" "I have seen him," he replied, quietly, smiling the sad smile which had before struck me so forcibly. "Well, don't you agree with me?" I asked. "Before I reply to that question I would like to tell you a little story," my roommate replied, and it seemed to me that his voice trembled a little. "I once knew a man who held a prominent office in the State of Tennessee. He was a young man then--not older than yourself, and with just as quick a tongue when it came to condemning all sorts of wrong and injustice. His position gave him admission to the best social circles, and he wooed and married a beautiful girl. On his part it was wholly a love match. He worshiped her as he had never before worshiped anything on earth. For a time he was happy--after the manner of men who place their entire lives in the hands of one woman. By and by he noticed that his beautiful young wife was growing dejected and unhappy. Often, when he spoke to her in terms of endearment when they were alone, she would burst into tears, tear herself out of his arms and escape from the room. On one of these occasions he followed her to her room and insisted upon an explanation. At first she refused, but finally yielded, telling him a story which crushed him to the very dust. She said she had never loved him, but had been persuaded by friends to marry him on account of his position. She told him more than that. She told him that long before the marriage occurred she had loved another man. "That night the husband left his home and his high official position and disappeared. Shaving the hair from his head and tearing the broadcloth garments into shreds, he donned the scanty apparel of the savage and became a member of the Cherokee nation. The members of the tribe treated him with the greatest consideration and respect, and he became a sort of oracle among them. In time he married an Indian maiden, thereby widening the breach between himself and the past. After a number of years had passed, however, he grew weary of savagery and his mind often reverted to the life which had been his before his great trouble came upon him. Finally he bade his wife and her untutored friends a temporary farewell and drifted into Texas. Here he soon rose to recognition, and in a comparatively brief space of time once more held an important official position. But he had not deserted his Indian wife. On several occasions he returned to the tribe to see her and tried to induce her to return with him to civilization. But the poor, untutored Indian squaw was a thousand times nobler than the beautiful society woman who had ruined his life in early manhood. She loved him passionately, but positively refused to accede to his requests. 'I would only disgrace you,' she said. 'I am not fit to go out into your world.' Finally the husband returned without her--very much against his wishes, remember--and a few months later word reached him that his Indian wife was dead. She had loved him too well to accompany him into his changed life for fear of disgracing him, and had loved him too well to wish to live without him. She was found, said the messenger, at the bottom of a cliff, and the manner of her death was only too apparent. The white wife represented what is popularly called the highest type of civilization and social culture--the poor Indian girl what is best known by the name of savagery. That, young man, is how General Houston came to desert his Indian bride." I had been deeply interested in the old man's story, and when he had finished I thought that his keen eyes were filled with tears as he sat gazing into the dying embers of our fire. I hastened to assure him that I was glad to be set right regarding General Houston's character. "I shall listen to his speech with renewed interest to-morrow night," I said. "You must have known him well?" "Yes," was the reply, "I have seen a good deal of him. But, my young friend, don't let your enthusiasm run away with your discretion. General Houston has his faults like the rest of the world--plenty of them." "By the way," I said, as we pushed back our chairs and prepared for bed, "I believe you have omitted telling me your name. I have spent such a pleasant evening that I would really like to know to whom I am indebted for it." "Ah," he said, with the same smile, "I believe I did omit that little formality. My name is Sam Houston." We did not quarrel regarding the side of the bed he was to occupy. General Houston could have had both sides had he expressed a wish for them. VI BOOMING THE BIG SHOW It may not be generally known to the public, but it is a fact, that nearly one-half of the entire expenditure of a circus is incurred in the work of the advance brigades. The advertising material, its distribution, express, freight and cartage, together with the salaries, transportation and living expenses of seventy-five to one hundred men, amount to vast sums of money. The largest number of men I ever used in advance of my show was seventy-five, and for this people called me crazy. Though, of course, there is a limit to possible receipts, there is no doubt that the business secured is in proportion to the sum used in advertising, and it is almost impossible to draw the line at which judicious advertising should stop. This is demonstrated by the fact that the dressing-room tents of the present day are larger than were the entire old-time circus canvases, when the advertising was done by one man on horseback and all the paper used was carried in his saddle-bags, and the salary of any star advertiser now is as much as was required to run the entire show of years ago. NOVEL ADVERTISING FEATURES I early learned, by experience, that big receipts at the ticket wagon followed big advertising expenditures. In 1880, in order to boom the "Newly United Monster Shows," I arranged some very peculiar and novel advertising features in the way of three cars especially fitted out for the use of my advance agents. The first brigade was accompanied by an enormous organ, for which a car was built, the latter being drawn through the streets by an elephant. This organ was a masterpiece of mechanism and was specially built by Professor Jukes. Its tones resembled the music of a brass band and could be heard at a great distance. This, of course, attracted the people, and the brigade would then advertise the show by a lavish distribution of hand-bills. Unfortunately the elephant and the music combined to frighten many horses, and I soon found myself defendant in numerous damage suits. Indeed, that single elephant seemed to frighten more horses than did the entire herd with the show. At one place temporary quarters for the elephant were secured in a stable which could be reached only through a private alley. When we came to take possession of the barn, the owner of the alley, with several policemen, stood on guard and undertook to stop the progress of the huge animal. Their efforts, however, met with no success, for, with the most sublime indifference, the beast moved quietly forward. For this I was sued for "trespass" and "injured feelings." As the elephant was the offender, my lawyer proposed to bring him into court as the principal witness, a proposition which caused considerable amusement. As no damage had been done, the "laugh" was decidedly on the owner of the alley. THE "DEVIL'S WHISTLE" My second advertising car was fitted up with another enormous organ of far-reaching power, and attracted much attention, while my third and last advertising brigade rejoiced in the possession of an engine to which was attached a steam whistle of such power and discordant tone that it could be heard for miles. This the men would blow while going through the country. Professor Jukes had christened this diabolical invention the "Devil's Whistle," and so well did its sound fit the name that the people must have frequently thought His Satanic Majesty was near by. As that car with its whistle would steam into a town, the inhabitants would flock as one man to see what it was that had so disturbed their peace, and thus we were enabled to advertise more thoroughly than any show before or since. I have often thought that I really deserved punishment for thus outraging the public ear. Between these three advertising brigades I had smaller companies, accompanied by a colored brass band, which discoursed pleasant music while my bill posters decorated the dead walls and boards. The band also gave concerts at night upon the public square and, between pieces, a good speaker would draw attention to the excellences of the coming show. A uniformed brigade of trumpeters was also sent through the country on horseback, and a band of Jubilee singers marched through the streets singing the praises of the "Newly United Shows." Added to these attractions were two stereopticons that pictured, from some house-top or window, the main features of the show. This, together with perhaps the most liberal newspaper advertising that ever had been done, made the whole advance work as near absolute perfection in show advertising as possible. One of the picturesque features with the advance show was Gilmore's "Jubilee Anvil Chorus." The anvils were made of wood with a piece of toned steel fastened at the top in a manner which secured a volume and resonance of tone that could be heard much further than that of an ordinary anvil. At intervals, to strengthen the chorus, cannon were fired off. This, though a great novelty, caused some dissatisfaction, especially amid crowded surroundings. My excuse was that the chorus was a free feature furnished by my friend Gilmore, and that, as it cost the public nothing, the latter should be satisfied. Never before nor since was a country so startled and excited over the coming of a show. "SPOTTERS" A great circus uses large quantities of advertising paper--so much, in fact, that it is difficult to keep track of it. True, the superintendent of the advertising car gives each man so many "sheets" in the morning and the man at night hands in a statement which is supposed to show where and how he has placed the paper. These brigades are followed by "watchers," or, as the railroad men term them, "spotters," who look carefully over the ground. But the impossibility of detecting all crooked work may be readily understood when I say that from eight to twelve wagons containing bill-posters and paper start out on country routes in as many different directions, so the "spotter," not being ubiquitous, cannot follow every trail. One of my "spotters," however, did once ascertain that a party of my men had driven into the country and dozed comfortably in the shade all day, had not put up any paper and had not fed the hired horses, although they did not forget to charge for the "feeds." The horses were thus made to suffer and the men pocketed the money which should have gone for oats. Of course my superintendent discharged the entire brigade, although, when the season is well under way, it is very difficult to obtain skilled bill-posters, for it is quite a difficult craft and experts are in good demand. The reader, however, can easily see what a great loss such doings entail on a show, considering the cost of the paper at the printer's, the freight or expressage, the cartage, and the money paid the men for putting up the sheets. The printing bills of a first-class show are enormous. My lithograph bill alone, the last successful season of my show, amounted to $40,000, and this was before the days of extensive lithographing. I believe I ordered the first three-sheet lithograph ever made, and also the first ten-sheet lithograph. This was considered a piece of foolishness; but when I ordered a hundred-sheet bill and first used it in Brooklyn it was considered such a curiosity that show people visited the City of Churches for the express purpose of looking at this advertising marvel. How things have changed! The Barnum and one or two other shows now use nothing but lithographs, and many of their bills are beautiful works of art, some of them being copies of really great pictures. I can remember when one-sheet lithographs cost one dollar each, and for several years later they could not be bought for less than fifty to seventy-five cents apiece. They can be had now in large quantities for about five cents or less the sheet. As shows nowadays frequently use hundreds of sheets in a day, imagine what would be their cost at the price paid in the pioneer show period. The circus of the present day is judged by the quality of its paper. One season I arranged with a publisher to use a folded quarter sheet, three sides of which advertised our show and the fourth side contained the first chapter of a story about to be published in his magazine. These were furnished to us in enormous quantities and our agents distributed them. In Boston we had four four-horse wagons full and these followed our parade. The men tossed the folders high in the air and the wind carried them in all directions. While this style of advertising surprised the people, it was soon stopped, and properly, too, by city ordinance. I think circus people would be better off if ordinances were passed wholly prohibiting bill posting; but unfortunately such a movement would go far toward breaking up a profitable industry, since many of the bill posters are rich men, some making as much as $25,000 a year and a few fully $50,000. I believe Mr. Seth B. Howes, the veteran circus manager, was the first one to order a billboard made or paste paper on the outside. Previous to this all bills were hung or fastened up with tacks. RIVALRY IN EXPLOITING OPPOSITION SHOWS There was always a sharp rivalry between the advance brigades of opposition shows, and many are the tricks which they play upon each other. Perhaps the most serious and daring trick played on me was when the agent of an opposition show actually went to the railroad office and ordered a carload of my paper, which was on the sidetrack there waiting for our man, to be shipped to California. Believing him to be representing me, the freight agent did as requested, and my advance brigade was delayed until a fresh carload could be sent on from New York, which could be done in less time than it would have taken to have brought the original carload back from San Francisco. After accomplishing this contemptible trick the fellow escaped, and, although I had Pinkerton men closely on his trail, I was never able to get service on him. Of course the scamp's employers were legally responsible; but in those days we never thought of bringing suit in cases of that kind, although I was strongly tempted to do so in one place, where an opposition show had covered my dates with their own and had greatly damaged us by misleading the people. Of the many other sharp tricks played on me by opposition shows, one of the best, or worst, was that of equipping men with sample cases, and sending them in advance of my show in the rôle of commercial salesmen. These men would step into prominent stores and, after a short business talk, incidentally mention my name and then impart the information that my show had disbanded and gone to pieces. This, of course, would set the whole town talking, and the news would soon spread over the entire country, thus doing me irreparable harm. COSTLY RIVALRY The general public has very little idea of the extent to which opposition tactics are carried by the representatives of circuses and menageries. The rivalry between two shows often costs thousands of dollars and is sometimes kept up by the agents long after the proprietors have become reconciled. Once we became involved in one of these contests, and the opposition, in order to harass us, actually had four of our men arrested in different States on a charge of libel. The Indiana libel laws were very severe, and in each instance we were compelled to give a heavy bond for the release of our man. That year the train of a rival outfit ran off the track, and one of the proprietors, in the course of time, became my agent. One day, in a confidential chat, he alluded to the mishap, and told me that at the time it occurred he fully intended accusing us of having had the switches turned, thus causing the disaster. To that end he had even gone to the length of swearing out warrants for our arrest. They knew that we were perfectly innocent, but their object was to gain notoriety and sympathy. At the last moment, it is to be presumed, their better natures asserted themselves; at all events, they weakened. [Illustration: "WHEN RIVAL SHOWMEN BURNED A BRIDGE TO PREVENT THEIR KEEPING A DATE."] Another party in opposition warfare copied our money orders. Orders of this kind were given by our agents and paid by our treasurer on arrival of the show. They were given for services rendered or goods bought, and covered the expenses of livery teams, distributing bills, flour, feed, advance brigade supplies, newspaper advertising, etc. They were made out something after this style: "On presentation of this order and ten issues of ---- Newspaper, containing advertisements of the Coup Show to exhibit at ---- on the ---- day of ---- pay Mr. ---- $----, amount due him. "(Signed) ---- ----, Agent." These orders were extensively used by the opposition for some time before we discovered it. Its object, of course, was to make the newspaper proprietors and the public think they were advertising the Coup show, while of course their own dates would be inserted instead of ours. At a certain place in Ohio a bridge was burned in advance of us and entailed the loss of our next "stand," or date. We could not safely accuse any of our competitors of this contemptible and incendiary trick; but we knew they were driven to desperation and were capable of resorting to any such outrage. There were agents so utterly unscrupulous as to receive pay from opposition shows for disclosing to them information that should have been jealously guarded, even betraying the advance route. I knew one agent who was an expert telegraph operator and able to take messages by sound. He would scrape acquaintance with the regular operator and pass his spare time in the telegraph office secretly taking our messages as the latter were being sent over the wire, the local operator being ignorant of the loafer's telegraphic skill. IDLE BILL POSTERS These opposition fights greatly benefited the local bill posters and were frequently urged on by them. Sometimes a show would send a brigade over the country at night, placing its own dates on the paper of its rival, thus getting all the advantages of the first show's paper. Sometimes the indolence and laziness of my own men have annoyed me greatly. I am reminded that, while my advance brigade was billing Texas, one of my agents became utterly disgusted with the sleepiness of his men. They were mainly of corpulent build, and their captain actually sent me this message: "WACO, Texas, July, 1881. "W. C. COUP, "Sturtevant House, New York City: "There is one more shade tree in Texas; send another fat man to sit under it." On numerous occasions I have had to pay dearly as a result of the sharp practices of unscrupulous people, and it is a well-known fact that a circus man has to deal with a great many of this class. Our advance agent always engaged the lots on which we were to exhibit, and he did so at Austin, Texas, renting the necessary ground at a most exorbitant figure. As usual, he gave an order on the company which was to be paid immediately on our arrival. But the owner, or pretended owner, inserted a clause in the agreement that the lots were to be used if still in the possession of the signer. Immediately on our arrival the bill was presented, and as promptly paid. Imagine my surprise when, as the show opened at night, another bill was presented for $150. It seems that this sharper had made a fraudulent sale of one of the center lots on purpose to swindle me. Of course I paid it, under protest, in order to enable the performance to proceed, as, anticipating a refusal on my part, they had illegally attached some valuable ring stock. Some years ago when George Peck was struggling with Peck's Sun, long before it had been recognized as a "leading comic paper," I visited Milwaukee with my show. My invariable instructions to my agents were to advertise in every paper, but especially to place an extra advertisement in all young papers struggling for recognition, provided, of course, that they had merit. For some reason, or through oversight, George Peck's Sun had been entirely forgotten. Nevertheless, I found on reaching Milwaukee that Peck had, on several occasions, good-humoredly alluded in his columns to my coming, and had not "roasted" me, as many other editors so slighted would have done. Accordingly I sent him a check which would have more than paid for the advertising he should have had but did not get. To my surprise he returned the check, saying I owed him nothing. I declined to receive it, and once more sent it to him, telling him not to come any of his "funny business over me," and to reserve his jokes for his paper. This brought him around to my hotel, and I was delighted to become acquainted with one of the cleverest men I have ever met. Later he became Governor of his State. COURTESY OF EDITORS As an example of the courteous treatment I have invariably received at the hands of the newspaper editors I cannot refrain from giving the following incident which occurred when the show was in North Carolina. In a town in that State one paper, through an oversight, had been skipped altogether in the distribution of the advertising. When the second brigade of the advertising army arrived in town, it found that the issue of this paper had already been mailed to its subscribers. Nothing daunted, however, this agent arranged with the publishers for a special issue which, teeming with praises of the Coup show, was issued and mailed to all subscribers. As a result excellent houses greeted us when we exhibited in the place. The rivalry between the great shows extended to the newspaper advertising as well as bill-posting department. I remember that once, at Pittsburg, the opposition was very strong, and I had as press agent a brother of the man who held the same position in the employ of my rival. They were both excellent newspaper men and thoroughly understood their business. We would take whole columns in the newspapers, and my men with the show would telegraph to the papers at Pittsburg after this manner: "WILKESBARRE, Pa. "The W. C. Coup show did a tremendous business here to-day; the largest and best show ever seen here." These telegrams would be used to head our other notices in the Pittsburg papers, and whole columns would follow, setting forth the merits of the show. With more solid indorsements these telegrams so worried my agent's brother that he was at a loss to know how to overcome them. He finally hit upon a novel and dashing plan. After our columns had been set up in the various papers, he would then engage the adjoining columns. In this space, in display type, he denounced our telegrams as bogus, stating that he had seen his own brother write them at the hotel. This announcement completely took the wind out of our sails. JUMBO'S FREE ADVERTISING Many amusing things of this sort occurred in the war of opposition, but others of a more serious nature would, of course, come up. The greatest amount of free advertising ever received by a big show, within my knowledge, for any one thing, was that which was incident upon the purchase of "Jumbo." The elephant was bought by Barnum, Bailey & Hutchinson from the Zoological Gardens in London. When the day arrived for his removal, the elephant lay down and refused to leave his old home. This created a sympathy for the dumb creature, and the children became so interested that petitions were signed by hundreds--yes, thousands--of children and adults of Great Britain, protesting against the delivery of the animal to its new owners. Jumbo's stubbornness proved a fortune to his new owners. Taking advantage of the opportunity they began to work upon the sympathies of the Humane Society, which made every effort to prevent Jumbo from being sent to this country. The news was cabled to America by the column. I happened to be in the editor's room of a daily paper in New York when one of these cables came into the office. The editor laughingly called my attention to it and threw it into the waste basket. I said: "What, are you not going to use this?" He said: "No, of course not." "Well," said I, "you will use Jumbo matter before the excitement is over." I saw how the excitement could, and surely would, in such able hands, be kept up. I left that night for St. Louis, where my educated horses were being exhibited, and made a call on my old friend Col. John A. Cockrill, then editor of the Post Dispatch--when another associated press Jumbo dispatch came in, with which they were delighted. I then related my experience with the New York editor who had refused to use the cable that came into the office while I was sitting there. The colonel and Mr. Pulitzer said: "Well, we are glad to use it--this and future dispatches." The next day the colonel handed me a New York paper, which proved to be the same that I had mentioned, and in it appeared a double leaded account on the Jumbo excitement. Their show agents in London did wonderful work in keeping the associated press filled with new matter, and the free advertising they secured would have cost at regular rates a half million of dollars and even then would not have been as effective. The agents succeeded in working up this opposition to Jumbo's removal until they induced the editor of the London Telegraph to cable Barnum, asking what price he would take to leave Jumbo in his own home, explaining the feeling of the people, especially the children. This editor had no idea then and perhaps does not even now know that he was made an innocent agent in the big advertising scheme. The children of Great Britain had ridden on Jumbo's back, fed and fondled him for years, so that it was easy to arouse this feeling of indignation and sympathy. The multitude even threatened violence if he was removed. The excitement had purposely been kept up to such a pitch by these people that it became international. There was also much excitement about Jumbo's wife, Alice. Elaborately written articles were cabled over, expressing the sorrow of Alice at the enforced departure of Jumbo and her consequent separation from her husband. The feelings of the people were so worked upon that sympathy for Alice and Jumbo almost equaled that aroused for the slave by the description of Uncle Tom in "Uncle Tom's Cabin." The advertising matter for Jumbo--the lithographs, etc.--had already been printed, and in them he was called "Mastodon." When he refused to be moved his right name, Jumbo, was used, as the dispatches had gone out in that name. The strategy used by these managers and their agents to get all this notoriety did no one any harm and made good sensational reading for the newspapers. VII PARADES AND BAND WAGONS Shows thrive best on bluster and buncombe. Years of experience have taught me that the traveling show business handled by capitalists who have been trained in other lines of enterprise can never succeed. I have often been reproved by business men who were astounded at the lavish and apparently wasteful expenditures of the circus for "show and blow," and who have insisted that these expenses should be cut in half. It is true that such reckless expenditures in any ordinary commercial undertaking would be disastrous, but it is the life of a big show. When it is possible thoroughly to arouse the curiosity of the public, expense should be a secondary consideration. THE FIFTY-CENT RIVALS OF THE $10,000 HIPPOS I recall an incident, however, which goes to show that the most expensive attractions do not necessarily prove the greatest drawing cards. Among the rare animals which I had one season were some Memiponias, or tiny deerlets--"hell benders," as they were commonly called. One of the opposition shows was making a great feature of a pair of hippopotami, or river horses, from the Nile. I had made arrangements to receive, at stated intervals, regular numbers of "hell benders," and I would wire my agents ahead, "Another living hell bender arrived to-day." This he would advertise with great gusto, getting out special bills and keeping up the excitement. One day, while one of my agents, who happened to be back with the show, was sitting in my office, a bill to the amount of six dollars was presented for "One dozen hell benders." Seeing this he inquired what it meant. "Don't you see?" said I. "'One dozen hell benders, six dollars.'" "Do you mean to say," my agent exclaimed, "that I have been advertising fifty-cent hell benders?" "You have," I laughingly replied. "Well," said he, "if that doesn't beat the deuce! These fifty-cent hell benders have knocked $10,000 worth of hippos higher than a kite!" It certainly was a fact that our fifty-cent articles had been so judiciously advertised as to create more excitement than the costly "hippos" of the opposition. In the course of the same season I made a discovery which proved to be a valuable drawing card. I owned some young elephants which I had lent to a showman on the Bowery. On going to see them one day I noticed a man holding his finger in the mouth of one of the smaller ones. I placed my finger in the mouth of another and found that the creatures seemed to derive pleasure from the action of sucking. Immediately I sent out for an ordinary infant's nursing bottle. The young elephant drained the bottle as if to the manner born. It was passed from one to another of the infant class. Finally they fought in the most indescribably comical manner for possession of the bottle. A SKILLFUL APPEAL TO PUBLIC SYMPATHY Then I fitted a large glass jar, holding a gallon, with rubber tubes, so that all could use it at the same time. Invariably they would empty this bottle before loosening their hold on the nipples. They had doubtless been taken from their mother when too young, or perhaps she had been killed at the time the young were captured. So effectively did they appeal to public interest and sentiment that by dint of skillful advertising the celebrated "sucking baby elephants" made quite a fortune in a single season. They would be led into the ring, where they would take their nourishment like human babies, their over-grown size making this infantile operation very comical and absurd. The sight captivated the heart of every woman who attended the show. [Illustration: THE HERD OF YOUNG ELEPHANTS.] The eagerness of circus proprietors to procure animal monstrosities for exhibition purposes has called forth many laughable communications from persons who have curiosities of this kind to sell. I remember going one morning into the office and reading a telegram which came to Mr. Barnum. It was as follows: "BALTIMORE, Md. "To P. T. BARNUM: I have a four-legged chicken. _Come quick._" The circus of the present day is not complete without the side shows and the after concerts. For my own part I can honestly say that I never in my life heard a concert announcement made in my show without feeling like getting up and leaving in disgust; but all classes of show-goers must be pleased, and there is one class which demands the concert and another class that wants the side shows. A SILENT PARADE FROM ALBANY TO THE STATE LINE I am glad to know that the circus man who speaks of his patrons as "gillies," and who endeavors to obtain his wealth by fair or foul means, is becoming more and more rare. I recall an illiterate circus man of this description who employed every "privilege" known to the circus world. For example: when traveling by wagon the whole caravan would pass through a toll-gate, stating that the "boss" was behind and would pay the toll. The last vehicle to go through would contain this dignitary and his treasurer, who, when confronted with the long list of vehicles on which he ought to pay toll, would declare that the toll-keeper had been imposed upon, and that half of those vehicles belonged to a gang of gypsies having no connection whatever with the show. He would then cut the bill down according to the easy or hard nature of the custodian of the toll-gate, and in this manner evade payment of what, in a whole season, would aggregate a large sum of money. On one occasion, when about to exhibit in Albany, and knowing that his whole outfit would that day be attached for debt, he ordered the parade to start early, as he intended to give them a "long ride." The procession accordingly started on what has passed into circus history as the "silent parade," for, leaving the city in all the glory of spangle and tinsel, the showmen never rested until they had reached the State line, while the sheriffs, waiting at the tents in Albany for the parade to return, had the poor satisfaction of attaching the almost worn-out and quite worthless canvas. I have often been asked what it costs to start a circus and menagerie. This is a most difficult question to answer, since it depends entirely upon the size and pretensions of the enterprise in question. Shows vary in size from cheap affairs, capable of being carried in three railroad cars, to the elaborate institutions which require two long special trains for their transportation. The expense of running a large show is enormous, although in advertising this expense is usually exaggerated. There are a great many traveling tented exhibitions which "bill," or advertise, like a circus, and in the eyes of the general public pass for circuses, but which, in reality, are variety exhibitions given under canvas. THE FLUCTUATING LEVELS OF CIRCUS VALUES In the eye of the law a circus must have feats of horsemanship in its program, and such shows have to pay a "circus" license, which in some States and cities is very high. If, however, the shows do not give any riding, their performance simply consisting of leaping, tumbling, and athletic feats, then a license may be taken out at a greatly reduced price; and this accounts for the almost numberless small shows which annually tour the country. Of the circus and menagerie show proper I do not think there are more than twenty in America; but of tented exhibitions, billed as "railroad shows," there are several hundred. The tented exhibitions employ from fifty to six hundred men each, and the capital invested in them runs from $5,000 to $250,000. Many of the smaller shows are fitted out economically by purchasing from the larger ones paraphernalia that has been used a season or two. For example: the canvases used an entire season by a large show may be purchased cheaply, because it is essential to the attractiveness of a really great amusement institution to have each season a new, white "spread." The old canvas, if not sold to the smaller showmen, is disposed of to the paper manufacturers at about one and one-half cents the pound. The same rule of enforced replenishment applies to wardrobe and general paraphernalia. In this way a beginner in the circus business may, by judicious investment in second-hand bargains, start out with a very fair outfit secured at a much smaller cost than if he were compelled to purchase everything new. And, in this connection, let me say that I know of no other business enterprise in which new material costs so much, and when sold at second-hand realizes so little. One of the largest shows ever organized in this country, and which was reputed to be worth more than half a million dollars, was inventoried on the death of one of the proprietors, with a view to selling the estate of the deceased, and, to the great surprise of the executors, was found to reach in value only about $200,000. Twenty years ago a show with a daily expenditure of $250 was thought extravagant, while fifty years ago a circus whose receipts averaged sixty dollars a day was considered to be doing a good business. To-day there is one show the expenses of which are undoubtedly more than $3,500 a day, although it is surprising what wonderful displays are made by others at a cost of less than $1,000 a day. The reason for this is that, above a certain amount, the expenses depend largely upon the amount of advertising done. It is amusing, however, to note the manner in which all of them, big and little, claim to be the largest and most expensive attractions in the country. Many smaller showmen use the same billing matter as the largest ones, and scores of lines can be read in the circus advertisements of to-day that have done duty for many years. WHAT IT COSTS TO RIDE WITH THE BAND WAGON It is almost impossible to give an intelligent idea of the cost of wild animals, since this depends entirely upon the operation of the law of supply and demand. The cost of cages varies, of course, according to size and decorations, and the same observation applies to the railroad cars. The most expensive of the latter are the highly ornamental cars used for advance advertising. These are comfortably, and even elaborately, fitted, and are provided with a huge paste boiler and other conveniences. They cost anywhere from $3,000 to $7,000. The flat and stock cars used by circuses are much more substantially constructed than the ordinary ones used in the railroad freight business, and are considerably larger, most of them being sixty feet in length and fitted with springs similar to those of passenger coaches. Cars of this description cost from $500 to $800 each; passenger coaches from $1,500 upward, according to the quality of interior, fittings and decorations. Some circus proprietors also have their own private cars, fitted with every imaginable convenience and luxury, and such a car costs high in the thousands. The expense of the wardrobe depends, of course, on the amount used and its quality, and whether the costumes are intended for a spectacular show or for an ordinary circus. The wardrobe and papier mâché chariots used in the production of our "Congress of Nations" cost Mr. Barnum and myself more than $40,000, and I am told that Mr. Bailey expended a like amount on his "Columbian" display. The price of the canvas has been wonderfully reduced within the last few years. We paid $10,000 for our first hippodrome tent alone, and this did not include dressing-room tents, horse tents and camp tents. Afterward, however, we had a larger one made for very much less money. The small circuses that hover around Chicago and the larger cities of the West in summer usually use a tent about eighty feet across, with two thirty-foot middle pieces. This, equipped with poles, seats and lights, costs about $800. These tents are made of light material. The larger canvases have to be made of stouter stuff, and a tent suitable for hippodrome or spectacular shows, which must be about 225 feet in width and 425 or 450 feet in length, would cost about $7,000. REQUIREMENTS AND COST OF THE CIRCUS HORSE As an evidence of how circuses have increased in size, I will say that the seventy or eighty _quarter_ poles which hold up the main tent of the Barnum & Bailey shows are each larger than the _main_ pole used years ago. The present system of lighting, which, by the way, I was the first to use, is the patent of an Englishman, improved by an American named Gale. It first took the place of kerosene lights, so far as circus illumination is concerned, in 1870. In experimenting with these lights, when I first introduced them, I several times met with accidents which threatened to terminate my career. Once I purchased an electric light plant with the intention of doing away with all gasoline illumination, but was compelled to abandon the attempt after expending $8,000 for a portable electric plant. The item of tent stakes is quite a formidable one. Fitted with iron rings, they cost about fifty cents each, and hundreds of them are required by every circus. Harnesses require an outlay of from ten to twenty-five dollars each, according to decoration and material. The draught horses used by circuses vary in price, some of them being purchased cheap from horse markets; but I have always found that the best I could get were the most economical. Those bought by me averaged $200 each; the usual circus horse, however, costs much less, and so long as it does its work all right the main purpose is answered, for, in passing through the streets, its faults do not attract the attention of the ordinary observer, but only that of the typical horseman. Ring horses, whether for a "pad" or a "bare-back" act, must have a regular gait, as without it the rider is liable to be thrown. They are frequently and generally owned by the performers themselves, and I have known a crack rider to pay as high as $2,000 for one whose gait exactly suited him. The performing "trakene" stallions brought from Germany by Mr. Barnum cost $10,000, and my first troupe of educated horses, ten in number, were purchased at the same figure. These, however, were unquestionably the best and most valuable ever seen in a circus. A PAGE FROM THE INVOICE BOOK OF A BIG SHOW Though it would be comparatively easy to start a circus and menagerie equipped almost entirely with second-hand paraphernalia, the reader will see from the following figures that the cost of starting a new first-class circus and menagerie is another proposition. Here are a few official figures on the cost of a first-class circus and menagerie which have never before been made public. They are taken from my private record, or invoice book: 20 Cages at $350, $7,000.00 2 Band wagons at $1,500 each, 3,000.00 3 Chariots at $3,000 each, 9,000.00 1 Wardrobe wagon, 800.00 1 Ticket wagon, 400.00 The above for the parade. Animals to fill these cages will average about: 2 Lions, $2,000.00 2 Royal Tigers, 2,000.00 2 Leopards, 400.00 1 Yak, 150.00 1 Horned Horse, 500.00 2 Camels, 300.00 2 Elephants, 3,000.00 (As small elephants have been delivered here for $1,000 each, this is probably a fair average.) 1 Hippopotamus, $5,000.00 1 Rhinoceros, 5,000.00 2 Cages of monkeys, 1,000.00 1 Kangaroo, 200.00 1 Cassowary, 200.00 1 Ostrich, 500.00 1 Giraffe, 1,500.00 Other small animals including hyenas, bears, ichneumon, birds, etc., $2,000.00 12 Baggage wagons at $200, $ 2,400.00 4 Roman chariots, 1,000.00 125 Horses at $125 each, 15,625.00 This price is above the average. 125 Harnesses at $15, $ 1,875.00 2 Advertising cars, 5,000.00 Wardrobe, 3,000.00 2 Sleepers, 5,000.00 10 Flat cars at $400, 4,000.00 6 Horse cars at $400, 2,400.00 Elephant car, 500.00 Tents, 4,000.00 --------- $88,750.00 This could be reduced by eliminating the rhinoceros, hippopotamus, giraffe and other very expensive animals, but to this must be added considerable money for stakes, shovels, picks, stake pullers, extra ropes, tickets, blank contracts and all necessary printing, which would bring the cost of the usual "million dollar" circus and menagerie up to about $86,000. On all this property there is not one dollar of insurance. Once, when on the road, a live stock insurance company came to me to insure our horses, but at the rate at which they wanted to insure them I soon convinced them that we could not make any money. I might add that a circus and menagerie at the figures I have given would be far better and larger than the average "million dollar show" now on the road, there being certainly not more than three aggregations that cost more than the amount I have given. No man should attempt the show business who has not a fortune, and also plenty of that other kind of capital quite as essential to his success--long experience on the road. VIII ANECDOTES OF MEN AND ANIMALS ORIGIN OF THE AMERICAN CIRCUS The first circus in America was started by Nathan A. Howes and Aaron Turner under a top canvas in 1826. Previous to that time others had shows in frame buildings and some simply with side canvas in hotel yards, and in theaters in New York City. The full tent circus originated in the towns of Somers and North Salem, Westchester County, New York, and Southeast and Carmel, Putnam County, New York. The original showmen were Raymond, Titus, June, Quick, Angevine, Crane, Smith and Nathans, and so far as I have been able to ascertain, June, Titus and Angevine were the first to import wild animals on their own account. Previous to this the Raymond and Titus companies were in the habit of purchasing wild animals from sea captains who, in a spirit of speculation, would bring them to our shores. There existed a great rivalry between these companies and they soon became possessed of more animals than they needed. They toured the East during the period from about 1826 to 1834, with but indifferent success, and then Titus & Company took their show to England, where John June had preceded them. The circus and menagerie in those days were separate and distinct attractions and, while the menagerie had the greater drawing power, it was only exhibited in the daytime. In the case of an opposition circus the attendance would generally split up, but would result in a benefit to each attraction, for the same crowd which gazed at the menagerie during the day would also be able to enjoy the circus which exhibited at night. It was not until 1851 that a circus and a menagerie were exhibited together, at one price of admission and owned by the same proprietors. At that time George F. Bailey induced Turner, who was his father-in-law, to purchase an elephant and some other animals from Titus & Company, and others from incoming vessels at New York, Boston and Charleston. Mr. Bailey had six cages built, and these, together with the elephants, he added to the circus in order to reach the church-going element which would go to see the "menagerie only," but invariably remained, when the band commenced to play, "because the children wanted to see the circus." To Mr. George F. Bailey must also be given the credit of devising a tank on wheels in which could be exhibited the hippopotamus. This animal proved a wonderful drawing card, and was then advertised as it sometimes is to-day as "the blood-sweating Behemoth of Holy Writ." This animal made several men wealthy. L. B. Lent, the well-known circus man, afterwards hired it and paid for its use no less than twenty-five per cent of the gross receipts of his show. From the death of this hippopotamus until 1873 there was none in the country; but in that year Mr. Barnum and I secured one from Reiche Brothers, whose men had captured it from a school on the river Nile. It cost us $10,000, and we had previously spent several thousand dollars in sending our own men to Egypt on a similar errand that proved fruitless. THE FIRST ELEPHANT BROUGHT TO AMERICA I am informed by the best living authority that the first elephant brought to this country was imported by Hackaliah Bailey, an uncle of George F. Bailey, the retired circus manager. It was exhibited in barns in the eastern country and was considered a great curiosity and sufficient in itself to constitute a whole show and satisfy the people. It traveled altogether at night--principally that the country people should not get a free glimpse of the wonderful animal, and also because, in Connecticut, there was a law prohibiting the driving of elephants through that State during the daytime without a license, the neglect to obtain which entailed a fine of $100, half of that going to the informer and half to the State. The law was passed in 1828, and, so far as I know, has never been repealed. This piece of information will doubtless astonish a good many showmen. At some place in Rhode Island this elephant was fatally shot by some malicious person, and no one at the present day seems able to explain the wanton outrage. It may be that it was done out of curiosity, to see whether a bullet would penetrate the skin, but I think it is more likely to have been the spite of some countryman who was disappointed at not being able to obtain a free glimpse of the animal. I am encouraged in this opinion because it is a matter of record that the farmers would gather on the road over which the elephant was to pass at night and build huge stacks of faggots, straw and brushwood which they would ignite on the approach of the beast in order to secure a distinct view of the wonder; but the showmen would blanket a horse and send him ahead, shouting "Mile up! Mile up!" when approaching a party of nocturnal spectators. This command has been used in handling elephants as long as these creatures have served the white race. On hearing this call the farmers would light their bonfires only to discover, on the approach of the draped horse, that they had been fooled. And bitter would be their disappointment when, after the last flickering ember of their fire had died out, the huge object of their curiosity would pass unseen in the darkness. At the death of this elephant Hackaliah Bailey went into the hotel business at Somers, N.Y., and erected, outside of his tavern, the cast of an elephant in bronze, mounted on a stone pedestal more than twelve feet in height. The elephant monument may to this day be seen in perfect condition, although placed there nearly seventy years ago. The first drove of elephants seen in this country were brought from Ceylon to America by Mr. S. B. Howes and P. T. Barnum in 1850. The exhibition was in charge of George Nutter, and the expedition was about six months en voyage. After losing one or two on the way they finally landed in New York, about 1850, with ten elephants, and they proved a very great attraction. THE FIRST DROVE OF CAMELS The first drove of camels was, likewise, brought into this country by S. B. Howes, and, being broken to drive in harness, they also proved a powerful drawing card. This first drove he imported in 1847 from Cairo, Egypt. Mr. Howes then sent Augustus Crane to the Canary Islands, in 1848, in search of camels, and in 1849 he landed in Baltimore with a drove of eleven. No more camels were brought in after this for several years, until a lady in Texas, the owner of a "slaver" or slave ship, brought some over as a subterfuge. Her excuse was that she wanted them to use as beasts of burden on her plantation; but, although the camels were on deck, she had a lower deck on which were huddled together, after the inhuman fashion of the time, many poor blacks, who were really the "beasts of burden" of greatest value to this feminine slave trader. The government also imported a lot of camels and made the experiment of carrying the mails from Texas to California by "Camel Post"; but, this proving unsuccessful, the animals were turned loose to shift for themselves until showmen created a demand for them and bought most of them for very little money, in some cases paying only $80 apiece for them. It is said that even now there are a few camels running wild in Western Texas and Mexico. THE FIGHT OF THE OSTRICHES For the opening of the Hippodrome we had imported a drove of nearly forty ostriches and had quartered them at the American Institute. The birds attracted a great deal of attention, not only on account of their rarity, but also on account of their magnificent plumage, some of them being marvels of natural splendor. They would walk around their enclosure with the most majestic gait imaginable. Among the professional spectators one morning was Mr. J. J. Nathans, a retired circus proprietor. Mr. Nathans wore in his scarf a very valuable diamond stud, and the stone evidently attracted a great deal of the attention of the birds. They would turn their heads around and the gleam in their small eyes would rival that of the stone. Suddenly one of the ostriches made a vicious peck at Mr. Nathans. That gentleman immediately drew back, but too late to save the precious stone. The bird had swallowed a $400 solitaire! Mr. Nathans ever afterwards admired ostriches from a distance. At the American Institute we had placed the ostriches in charge of an old employé named Delaney. This man had noticed that for some time two of the male birds had been pecking at each other and, to use his own expression, were "spoiling for a fight." This increasing viciousness one day culminated in a battle royal. The morning of that day both seemed to be in a particularly ugly mood, and the rest of the drove gave them a wide berth. Every now and then one of them would stretch out his long neck and, with head uplifted, give vent to a sharp hissing sound. This was evidently a challenge, for it would be immediately taken up and answered by the other. They would follow each other around the wooden enclosure, striking viciously at each other. As by concerted action all the female birds huddled themselves together at one end of the enclosure and eight or ten males took up positions just in front as if to protect them. This left the enclosure almost clear for the two belligerents, and they went at it in fearful earnest. Word was immediately sent me, but neither I nor any of my employés were on terms of sufficient intimacy with them to justify a personal attempt at arbitration. Delaney, however, armed himself with a stout club, deliberately threw himself into the breech and attempted to separate them. In doing so he only exposed himself to the risk of sustaining severe bodily injuries. The birds took no notice of him whatever, but continued to fight, uttering at times a series of piercing screams and hisses, They would swing around each other and land fearful blows. Their mouths were wide open, their eyes red and hideous, and their magnificent plumage ruffled, until the spectators, while deploring the fight, could not help admiring the splendid appearance of the birds in their rage. The smaller of the two was the more cautious. After a severe blow he would with some difficulty recover his equilibrium and, running off a little distance would suddenly wheel about and deal the big fellow two or three blows in rapid succession. Delaney jumped between them and used his club on their long necks, but without any effect, for the birds seemed tireless. Their cries grew harsher and louder and the resounding blows fell like the beats of an automatic sledgehammer. Suddenly a most peculiar cry was heard. The others of the herd seemed to manifest more attention; and the two principals spread their wings, like the dragons of old, and made the final onslaught. Screaming with frightful shrillness and with their little bloodshot eyes gleaming hideously they made the crucial rush. Just as they were within a few feet of each other, Delaney managed to strike the larger bird a severe blow on the neck. The creature wavered for a moment and then fell prostrate. Another peculiar cry came from the smaller bird and both principals receded from each other. They were about to resume hostilities when a second blow brought the larger bird to the floor and the other one seeing this, evidently adjudged himself the victor, for he walked proudly away, followed by many of the admiring female birds. We immediately took steps to prevent a repetition of this remarkable fight by keeping the combatants in separate pens. The fight, however, was most stirring and splendid, and the birds themselves seemed to be the very embodiment of knightly pride, so manifestly aggressive did they look in their ruffled plumage. Alas for vanity! Scarcely twelve hours had passed when a message was brought me from Delaney to come at once to the ostrich pen. I did so, expecting to hear of another combat of feathered gladiators. Instead a sorry sight met my eyes. During the night some vandal had plucked the brilliant plumage from the birds and left them miserable and dejected specimens of despoiled pride. I would cheerfully have given $1,000 to have discovered the miscreant. As for the birds, the life seemed to have left them. They would gaze sadly at each other, peer at their own denuded bodies, and with an indescribably piteous expression, slink away into corners as if inexpressibly ashamed of their appearance. Every possible inquiry was made in the hope of finding out the vandals who had plucked their feathers, but in vain. I dare say, if the truth were known, some of our own men secured the plumes. The birds did not regain their beauty for many moons, and all we got that season for our big outlay was the thrilling spectacle of the ostrich fight. THE BELLIGERENT ALLIGATORS During the whale season we utilized the whale tank, which was empty owing to the death of the whale, by placing in it a number of alligators from Florida. Our agent had just returned from an expedition, with forty of these creatures ranging in length from one to twelve feet. Although the tank was an immense one, these forty saurians did not have as much room as they would have liked. This overcrowding was doubtless the cause of a most terrible fight between them, which occurred very soon after they were installed in their new quarters. It is impossible for me to describe this conflict. Nearly all the larger "gators" took part in it, springing at each other and locking their jaws with a resounding, crashing noise that could be heard all over the building. While thus locked together they would toss each other about and swish their tails with such vigor as to completely destroy the tank, breaking the thick glass. Our attendants were almost paralyzed with fear and confusion at the strange battle, and vainly endeavored to separate the combatants. There seemed, however, to be no way of doing this, as they would snap at each other so violently as to break each other's jaws, and this horrible snap really sounded like the report of a gun. To prevent their escape into the exhibition room a temporary barrier was soon erected and, when they became exhausted in attempting to kill each other, we determined, for fear that returning strength would bring about a repetition of the horrible scene, to dispatch all save the smaller ones. This was done by sending bullets into their eyes. We buried the carcasses on Long Island, much to the regret of an eminent taxidermist, who would have been glad to have secured them; but we were eager to be rid of the monsters. The fight was not down on the bills and was one we were entirely unprepared for; but it was the most exciting and at the same time most terrifying combat I ever saw. Had it not been so horrible and could it have been advertised, I am sure it would have drawn together more people than a Spanish bull fight. The tank, which was totally destroyed, was made of glass one and one-fourth inches thick, embedded in cement and bound with solid iron columns. It was erected at a cost of $4,500, and yet was destroyed in ten minutes by these vicious alligators from the slimy depths of southern swamps. I remember vividly the time when (in Winchester, Va.) Charles Dayton, the Herculean cannon ball performer and general gymnast, was attacked by hyenas just after entering the den for the street parade. Only such a man of strength, undeniable courage and great presence of mind would ever have escaped from the cage alive. Apparently for no reason whatever and without the slightest warning these hideous creatures sprang upon Dayton on this particular occasion, though he had been in the cage many times. The expression of mingled hope, fear and determination depicted on Dayton's countenance as he nobly fought his way to the rear of the cage can never be forgotten by any witness of the thrilling scene. Death stared him in the face and blood flowed in streams from his frightful wounds. Seemingly every portion of his body was lacerated. At last after a fearful battle he reached the rear of the cage and the door. The latter was quickly opened, and the brave fellow fell bleeding and exhausted into the arms of his attendants, narrowly escaping a death too horrible to contemplate. We succeeded in getting him to his hotel, where physicians were called, but they gave no hope of poor Charlie's recovery. They said the hyenas had done their awful work too thoroughly. The citizens, especially the noble women of Winchester, volunteered their aid and did everything in their power for him. We left him with our own doctor and in the hands of these good people, as we thought, to die. Notwithstanding the fact that his body was so terribly lacerated, however, in a few days Dayton gave signs of improvement and he eventually recovered. Ultimately he returned to the show. PARROTS AND COCKATOOS I have always watched animals with a great deal of interest, from the bulky but docile elephant to the smallest bird that flies; indeed, I believe my love for animals, especially the horse, was the incentive that led me to continue so many years in the circus business. Although I never had a natural taste for the circus, and for the details connected therewith, still I always enjoyed organizing and putting together different drawing attractions. All my other work was given to the care of assistants. During our exhibitions in Fourteenth Street, New York, I became very much attached to many of the birds and animals, and would spend my leisure time in playing with and feeding them, besides studying their characters and dispositions, for even among the lower animals there is character just as there is in mortals. Among my collection of parrots, there was a white cockatoo. When I entered the building in the morning he would set up such a noise and racket, unless I came immediately to speak to him for a few minutes, that he would soon have the entire menagerie in an uproar--the monkeys chattering, the lions roaring, and, in fact, a regular pandemonium. But as soon as I had complied with the wishes of the cockatoo, quiet would be restored. Some time later when I was in New Orleans, I received a telegram announcing the Fourteenth Street fire and the complete destruction of the menagerie. These beautiful birds are very easily taught. I once knew a man named Prescott who had trained one of these white beauties to sing the Star Spangled Banner, to crow like a rooster, bark like a dog, cry like a child, and so on; and in this way he could entertain a crowd of people for hours together. Unlike most of its feathered brothers, this bird enjoyed pleasing its master, and would repeat his performance whenever called upon to do so, and he seemed to take a pride in his wonderful acts. EDUCATED DOGS At one time in Fourteenth Street, I had a troop of educated dogs; one of their acts was in the nature of a mock trial. One dog, a very little fellow, steals a collar of another. A trial takes place, in which there are judge, and jury advocates. The little culprit is convicted and condemned to be hung--which the dogs proceed to do. The little fellow is hung and drops apparently dead, is placed in a hearse and rolled away to the music of the "Dead March." Several complaints were made against this by citizens and kind-hearted women; and Professor Bergh, president of the Humane Society, came to me about it. I had the performance repeated for his benefit, and further said that it had been repeated twice a day for several months. After the professor saw that the dogs enjoyed it, he laughed and said no more about it, and nothing more was heard from the Humane Society. I have seen many acts done by dogs; and, as a rule, there is nothing to appeal to their intelligence; but in this case they certainly showed reasoning powers. I wish space would permit me to give my experience with the canine family. A short time before I left the show business I heard of a dog in California that could talk. I sent for the owner, Professor Madden, and bargained for this dog. When he reached Chicago I found he could actually say, "Oh, no." Sometimes it was easier for him to speak than at others, and invariably he would have some trouble in talking the first time. Of all the dumb creatures the dog is by far the most faithful to his master, and it is said to be the only animal that has ever died of grief on his master's grave. A WOUNDED HORSE IN THE GRAND MARCH In 1880 I met with a very severe railroad accident, in which many of my valuable horses were injured; and among them an "entry" horse which, being of considerable value, I ordered to be taken on the train again, after the wreck was cleared away; but we could not use him for several days as he was so bruised that he presented a horrible appearance. One day, however, just as the "grand entry" was going into the ring, our head groom was surprised at the entrance of this horse. The creature had dashed into the ring with the others of his companions, and without bridle, saddle or halter, he went through the figures as he had been in the habit of doing before he was injured. The music was stopped, and our groom wanted to have the horse taken out, but I refused. Hearing the familiar music by which he had always entered the ring and performed his acts, habit was stronger than bodily pain, and, unfastening his rope in some unaccountable way, he had burst upon us. There is no doubt that a horse does know when his particular music strikes up, for I have often watched them at that time. They will rear and prance and if secured will make every endeavor to get loose. I lost this horse later in a wreck and few similar losses have grieved me more. Hearing once that Professor Bartholomew had some wonderful horses I determined to purchase them, although I had really retired from the circus business. I saw the owner and paid him $10,000 for the horses and exhibited them in the New York Aquarium, where they drew great crowds. Among this troupe was the well-known Nettle, the most beautiful animal I ever saw, being of a cream color and about fourteen hands high. He was remarkable more particularly for his jumping feats, being able to jump over an eight-foot gate and six horses, doing this act twice a day for four years. Finally he was able to jump over a gate and eight horses: but this feat was too great a strain and I would not allow it to be repeated. Like a human being he would never undertake this jump until he had first examined the horses carefully to see that all was as it should be, and then, with apparent pride and confidence, he would make his leap. The act performed, he would trot to his trainer with all the pride of one who had accomplished what had been expected of him. INTELLIGENT BRONCHOS I once concluded that it would be good policy to buy a herd of untamed bronchos and educate them for the circus business. Thereupon I hired a young fellow named George Costello and sent him to Colorado, Texas and New Mexico in search of handsome bronchos and Pintos, as this was the same breed of horses that I first owned. They are certainly the wildest and hardest to break, but with these untamed animals I concluded to make a start. It was more difficult work to find exactly what I wanted than we had hoped. Finally, at Pendleton, Oregon, we found a herd of about 3,000 head that were white and spotted and belonged to a tribe of Indians. We bought about forty of them and then shipped them to Chicago, where we sold all but sixteen. We engaged a celebrated trainer and built a training stable, where we watched them work. The bronchos at first refused to take the food which we gave them, and would blow the oats out of the trough; but hunger finally subdued them. They were very curious, investigating everything around them, and it did not take long to learn the customs of civilization. They not only learned to eat tame hay, and whinny for their food, but each horse also learned to know his own name and those of his companions. We would place these horses in a row and call out the name of one of them. If he did not immediately respond the other bronchos would bite him to remind him that he should obey orders. As is usual to a herd, this band of ponies looked to one of their number as the leader. The leader's name was Duke, and when the herd was turned loose in the yard for exercise Duke was evidently commander. In my experience with these wild animals I became convinced that they had different intonations to express different feelings--that they have a language of their own. Their whinnys when happy, when frightened, when angry and as a warning differed greatly, and by careful study could be easily distinguished. THE KING OF THE HERD Mr. Cross, a celebrated animal painter, who owns a ranch in Montana, told me that his horses had, at one time, disappeared in great numbers, much to his astonishment and wonder. He finally discovered that whenever a herd of wild horses, headed by a certain spirited stallion, came near the ranch, some of his own horses were sure to be missed. Setting a watch over them he found that the big handsome stallion was the thief. This magnificent animal would approach the tame horses and by some mute eloquence would induce them to follow him. Mr. Cross determined to capture this noble beast and thief, and procured the best lasso throwers. After following the stallion for many days they were compelled to give up the chase. Finally they decided to shoot the animal if he again interfered with the tame animals. Some weeks passed, but no more horses were lost. Suddenly, however, a number were again gone. With great compunctions of conscience, Mr. Cross at length decided that the leader must be shot. His death struggles were noble--he died as befitted a great chief whose power, strength and beauty had made him the leader of his kind. Next to the dog I believe the horse to be the most intelligent of creatures. AN ELEPHANT'S HUMOR The humor of elephants is sometimes almost as remarkable as their intelligence. In 1887 I purchased an elephant in New York to send to Australia, and as we were in a great hurry to catch the steamer from San Francisco, I arranged to have the animal brought as far west as Chicago by passenger train instead of freight. He was loaded in a special car which was placed just behind the baggage car, and in due time started from the depot in New York. Shortly after leaving Albany the conductor was surprised to have the bell rope pulled violently. The train, of course, stopped, but the conductor could not find that anything was wrong or discover the man who had pulled the rope. Another start was made, and when nearing Syracuse a second violent tugging brought the train to a stop. The conductor instructed the brakeman to keep strict watch on the passengers, thinking all the time that some one had been playing a joke on him. Nearing Rochester, however, the same thing occurred again, to the great fright of some of the passengers, notably one old lady, who declared the train to be haunted, and averred that spirit forms were tugging at the rope. As the rope continued to be pulled thorough investigations were now made and the train crew experienced little difficulty in tracing the cause of the trouble to the elephant. On opening the door of the last car that animal was discovered sitting on his haunches and deliberately pulling the cord, and the elephant seemed to derive as much pleasure from it as a child would from a new toy. The passengers were reassured and the old lady was convinced of her error when she learned that the spirit form that pulled the cord weighed about three tons. In India where elephants are kept at all military barracks for transportation purposes, it is no uncommon thing for the officers to leave their children in the elephants' charge for hours together, the huge animals taking the most tender care of their little friends. Elephants have a great dread of rodents and even insects. The presence of a rat or mouse will greatly excite them, and even the gnats or fleas annoy them exceedingly. One of our largest elephants took quite a fancy to the son of a rider, and the boy used to spend every afternoon in the menagerie lying on the hay close to the animal. The lad never displayed the slightest fear, and the elephant invariably showed its pleasure when its pet came inside the inclosure. It would entwine its trunk around him and gently draw him close, then settle back in a recumbent position, allowing the child to take whatever liberty he liked. The pair attracted great attention and were called "Beauty and the Beast." ZULUS IN LONDON But it is not always animals that make the success of a circus. An unfamiliar type of the human species will occasionally make the fortune of a showman. Mr. N. Berhens, one of my ablest agents and a great traveler, at the time of the breaking out of the Zulu war was connected with the Royal Westminster Aquarium in London, an institution at that time celebrated. These Zulus had made such a bold resistance to the British government that the excitement ran high and the press of the world contained daily reports of England's conflict with this now subdued people. Their bravery in battle and gallant defense of their homes attracted widespread attention and made them objects of deep interest and curiosity. Being satisfied that their exhibition would be everywhere heralded with approval, he determined to visit Africa, although at the risk of his life, and secure a band of these sable sons of the tropics, that the world might know more of their laws, customs and characteristics. He reached Africa after a very perilous voyage early in the spring of 1878, first visiting Durban, the headquarters of the English army and the coast outlet to Zululand. Letters of introduction to the British officers and the experience of three previous trips to that country soon placed him in the way of attaining his object. First securing the services of an interpreter and buying his horses and supplies he followed in the rear of the columns of the British army en route for "Ulundi," the royal Kraal of King Cetewayo of Zululand. When the Tugela river was reached he was surprised by the sudden appearance of what proved to be a band of about four hundred Zulu men, women and children, under the leadership of Oham, brother of King Cetewayo and lieutenant-general of the Zulu army. They had come to surrender to the British authorities, having rebelled against the rule of King Cetewayo, who was then in the British prison at Cape Town, Africa. This surrender was instigated for revenge growing out of the subjugation of Oham, by the Zulu king in a strife for the rulership of the Zulu people. This band of natives contained three genuine Zulu princesses and the daring chief Incomo. Negotiations were at once begun, and through the influence of the British officers were finally concluded. Being at the mercy of their captors a reasonable consideration was agreed upon. The following day the Prince Imperial of France was slain by the formidable assigais only a few miles from where he was stationed. On hearing of his death the Zulus exhibited signs of sincere sorrow, as he was regarded with great admiration on account of his valor. It is characteristic of this tribe to admire and applaud courage in their opponents, so much so, indeed, that they seem to take pleasure in acknowledging their masters after defeat. Arrangements were at once made for their voyage. At first the Zulus were frightened at the idea of going on board a ship and refused to go to the "white man's country" unless they could walk. Further persuasion, however, induced them to yield, and they agreed to undertake the voyage. They embarked at Durban in May, 1878, on board the royal mail steamer "Balmoral Castle," en route for London. The length of the voyage and the absence of land filled them with superstition and fear, and they insisted that the captain had lost his way; that their food would soon be gone and themselves thrown into the sea. Indeed, so excited did they become that they visited the ship officers in a body and insisted on knowing their whereabouts. It was with great difficulty that they were pacified; they were all violently seasick and believed they were under the influence of the "evil one." This embassy consisted of three Zulu princesses, a Zulu baby, the celebrated chief Incomo and twenty-three swarthy warriors. Their arrival in London was greeted by over one hundred thousand people on the docks and as far up the street as the eye could reach. Deafening cheers ascended as they passed through the crowd, many going so far as to pat them on the back in recognition of their bravery. Anonymous letters were received threatening death if they were exhibited. Mr. Cross, Home Secretary of England, issued an order prohibiting their exhibition, but public opinion was so much in favor of their being shown that the authorities were defied, and they were placed on exhibition at the Royal Westminster Aquarium, London, three times a day for two years and four months. All London came to see them. Their performance consisted of songs and dances commemorative of marriage, death, hunting, joy and sorrow, changes of the moon, rain, sunshine and war. They gave exhibitions of the throwing of the assagais, that formidable weapon which is thrown with unerring precision and with a force capable of penetrating a horse at a distance of four hundred yards. The making of fire by means of friction, produced by rubbing together two pieces of wood, was practiced nightly. Here one could see the exhibitions of the witch doctor, his means of ascertaining disease and his method of curing. They showed also their methods of fencing and of conducting battles, their sports, pastimes and strange characteristics. Among their strange customs was that of offering prayer to their king every time they smoked. Their marriage relations are strange. When a man becomes enamored of a girl he immediately begins negotiations with the parents for her purchase, the price being from six to ten cows, according to her beauty and age. A cow is worth about five dollars in our money, so a pretty and attractive Zulu maiden is worth from forty to fifty dollars. A man of any other nationality is at liberty to buy them as if he were a Zulu. A man may have as many wives as he has cows to purchase them with. Their marital laws are very strict and worthy the recognition of many races graded higher in the scale of civilization. It was the intention to bring this group to America to join my show, but owing to their enormous success in London they were not brought until early in the spring of 1881. After their arrival in this country they were visited by many African missionaries. In this way the whereabouts of two missionary families supposed to have been killed during their war were ascertained. IX TRAINING ANIMALS AND PERFORMERS The awe inspired in the breast of the average countryman by the "daring act" of the lion-tamer is well founded. Long years of familiarity with this feature of the show business have not served to dampen my sense of admiration for the grit of a man who does not flinch to enter the cage of any fierce animal and prove man's mastery over the brute creation. In justification of this sentiment I have only to point to the professional animal-trainers of long experience. If there is one of them who does not bear on his body the marks of his encounters with his savage pupils he is a rare exception to the rule. The whole fraternity is physically ragged and tattered--torn and mutilated by the teeth of beasts they have trained. I have never ceased to marvel that men will deliberately choose to follow the subjugation of animals as a profession, particularly when they have only to look upon the veterans in the business to behold a ghastly and discouraging array of ragged ears, of split noses, of shredded limbs and lacerated trunks. But at these substantial warnings the novice and the past-master in the art of "working" animals alike only laugh and scout the idea of danger or dread. At least, this is their attitude in private conversation, when not attempting to make an impression on the minds of their auditors. If all animals subjected to training were even in disposition, and did not have their ugly moods, the same as their human lords, the principal element of danger to trainers would be removed. Unfortunately, it is the universal testimony of the men who have devoted their lives to the training of fierce creatures that the most docile, obedient and friendly carnivorous creature is sure to be in an ugly humor sooner or later, and then is the great time of test. These sudden, unexpected and abnormal moods in the animals handled are responsible for having sent scores of good trainers to early graves. THE PERILS OF A TRAINER'S LIFE Let us suppose an animal to be even-tempered. This means he is always at his maximum of ugliness. He shows every day the worst that is in him, and the trainer knows the limit of what to expect in that direction. But animals are not constituted that way. They are generally on their good behavior, or at least have an astonishing reserve of ferocity to be vented on the hapless trainer when the day of abnormal ill-humor comes--provided, of course, the trainer is not discerning enough to detect the gathering storm. In no other profession is eternal vigilance so surely the price of safety. There is nothing more certain than the fate of the trainer who once relaxes the intensity of his vigilance. Just as surely as he throws himself off guard the animal he is working will get him. This is an accepted rule among those who train and perform with animals. Of course, it often appears to the outsider that the men handling ferocious animals are off their guard and nonchalantly indifferent to the creatures in the cage. But the experienced animal-man knows better. The fact that a trainer or performer allows two or three lions to pass behind his back might seem to indicate that watchfulness is not necessary, and that creatures naturally ferocious may at least sometimes be put absolutely on their good behavior--trusted with a man's life without being subjected to the slightest surveillance. In nine cases of every ten a momentary adherence to this departure would result in disaster. WHERE STEADY NERVES ARE IN DEMAND The best men of the profession I have ever known have all assured me that the stupidest animal is quicker to detect the slightest relaxation of a trainer's watchfulness than is the keenest trainer to observe the abnormal and hostile mood of his pupils. For this reason no trainer or performer should be allowed to enter a cage unless he is in a normal frame of mind--sober, in full command of all his faculties, and not subject to any distracting influence. Most of the tragedies of the profession are chargeable to a disobedience to this rule. The unfailing brute instinct at once detects the fact that the trainer has let down the bars of his mind, and then comes the long-delayed attack! Never do I tire of watching a good trainer work his animals, especially those fresh from their native wilds and full of snap and spirit. What sport more splendid and royal can man imagine than that of placing his life in imminent peril for the purpose of putting a wild beast--a creature far his superior in strength, in swiftness of movement, and in all-round fighting power--in complete subjection to his will! It is truly a sport for a king! CAPTURED ANIMALS PREFERRED TO CAGE-BORN The only universal rule for working animals recognized by all trainers is this: First, _show_ the creature what you wish done; then _make_ him do it. Easily said, but sometimes almost impossible in practice. I have yet to find any other line of human effort demanding such unwearying patience and application, shifty tact and unflagging alertness. All of these mental qualities are brought into activity during every moment that a trainer is working his animals. And not for an instant may he safely slacken his courage or control. A stout heart is his only safety. To go into a cage in a state of fear is recognized among these men as a fool-hardy undertaking. My observation is that trainers almost universally prefer captured animals to those born in captivity, so far as working purposes are concerned. This preference is founded on practical experience--for your animal trainer is little inclined to theorize or experiment in his work. The answer which my trainers have invariably returned to questions on this point of animal nature has been: The wild animal is afraid of man, recognizes him as a strange, dangerous enemy, and is willing to make a safe retreat from him. The carnivorous beast born in captivity is accustomed to the daily sight of man, and has not the wholesome and instinctive fear of him that dwells in the breast of the free-born denizen of the jungle. On the other hand, the cage-born creature seems to retain all the mean, treacherous and savage traits of its race. Then the trainers declare that the jungle-reared animals are more intelligent and active, and therefore make better performers. This I have no reason to doubt. Leopards are the least in favor among trainers, and the latter prefer to undertake the education of lions rather than tigers, as the former have more stability of disposition, and lack the element of treachery which seems so universally a characteristic of cat nature. THE EDUCATION OF A YOUNG JAGUAR The first active step which a trainer takes in the education of an animal which has never been handled is to test its temper. I recall very distinctly watching an excellent trainer working a leopard and a jaguar from start to finish. No man had ever been into the cage along with these vicious brutes before "Frenchy," as we called this crack trainer, laughingly took up his tools and slipped gracefully through the iron door which closed behind him with a sharp bang. Realizing that these animals, which were full grown, belonged to the most spiteful and treacherous of the cat kind, I scrutinized the face of Frenchy to see if I could possibly detect the slightest sign of inward anxiety or disturbance. Not the slightest evidence could I see to indicate that he approached his dangerous task with a particle more excitement than any business man feels in going to his daily work. [Illustration: THE EARLY STEPS IN TRAINING WILD ANIMALS.] As he slipped into the cage he thrust before him an ordinary kitchen chair of light, hard wood. This was held in his left hand by gripping two of the central spindles of the back, thereby obtaining an excellent purchase which enabled him easily to hold the chair outstretched with its legs pointed directly at the animals. In his right hand he carried a short iron training-rod. The only other article which he used in his first lesson was a stout, movable bracket, which could be instantly hooked upon any of the horizontal bars which extended the length of the cage in front. The instant the trainer faced his pupils there was a regular feline explosion--a medley of snarls, growls and hisses. And the way those spotted paws slapped and cuffed the rounds of the extended chair which served as a shield to Frenchy's legs was something to be remembered. Never before had I seen such a startling exhibition of feline quickness as in this preliminary skirmish between master and pupils. The latter's claws seemed to be everywhere in a moment and played a lively tattoo on the shield and against the point of the rod with which the trainer protected himself. During all this excitement the trainer was as calm as if standing safely outside the cage. However, he did make some lively thrusts with his rod as the leopard attempted to dash under the legs of the chair. While one of the beasts was engaged in carrying on an offensive warfare, the other would invariably attempt to sneak behind the trainer. How alert the latter was to the movements of the creature which apparently claimed little of his attention was impressed on me by the fact that every time the crouching animal attempted to steal past the trainer he was met with the quick, sidewise thrusts of the prod, which sent him back spitting and hissing into the corner. THE LEOPARDS AT KINDERGARTEN In less than half an hour the leopard and the jaguar seemed to realize that they, and not the man, were on the defensive. Their savage dashes were less frequent, and they were more inclined to crouch close to the floor and lash their tails in sullen defiance. Then it was that Frenchy began his first attempt at teaching them. Hooking the movable bracket upon one of the lower rounds about three feet from the floor of the cage, he made a forward movement toward the animals, veering a little to the side opposite the bracket. The creatures had long been attempting to get past him, and now their opportunity had apparently come. Together they made a rush to run under the projecting bracket. Quick as a flash, however, the trainer was back again in his old place, and the head of the foremost animal struck the rounds of the chair. This checked the leopard's progress for a moment, but the creature was not given a jab of the rod as before. Instead, the chair was slightly withdrawn, with the result that the spotted cat instantly bounded upon the narrow bracket--precisely the result at which the trainer had been aiming. Before the leopard was fully aware of what was transpiring, Frenchy reached forth his training-rod and rubbed it caressingly along the creature's back from head to tail. Of course the animal struck out spitefully with its paw, but the blows were received by the chair and did no harm, while the trainer had been able to bestow upon his ferocious pupil a caressing touch of approval. Even at that early stage in the education of the animal I fancied I could see an understanding of this commendatory stroke. Certainly within a week this sign was clearly understood, and never did one of the animals leap upon the bracket without receiving this token of approval. Before Frenchy came out of the cage on the occasion of this first experience with these two creatures his chair was splintered beyond repair. Backing out as deftly as he had entered, he leaned up against one of the posts in the winter quarters and remarked: "Those cats will make good performers. They've got just enough fight in them. I don't mind working a leopard that's been captured, but I don't want anything to do with cats that have been born in a cage. By the time an animal has cuffed one chair to pieces I can generally size him up and get at his disposition. I don't mind a creature that's ready for war right at the start. The sulky, sullen brutes are the ones that keep a trainer in a perpetual state of suspicion." HOW THEY PUNISH UNRULY PUPILS Most of the training is done while the animals are in winter quarters, the cages being generally arranged in a semicircle or along the wall, while the center of the main room is occupied by a big ring or circular space inclosed by a very strong and high fence of iron bars. At first the animals are worked in their cages, later in the ring. Lounging about in front of the cages is a man with a long iron rod having a sharp point. The duty of this guard is to keep watch of all the cages where animals are being worked, and to be ready to come to the instant relief of any of the trainers who happen to get into trouble. Occasionally he assists them from the outside in various ways; as, for instance, by slipping his rod between the bars and heading off an animal which is attempting to sneak out of doing his trick. In the main, however, he is there to do heroic service in times of emergency. Should a lion, tiger or any other savage creature get a trainer down or fasten its teeth or claws into his body, the watchful guard on the outside is expected to plunge his spear into the animal, or get into the cage with hot irons, if necessary. The use of heated irons is, of course, only justifiable in cases of extreme peril, but more than one trainer's life has been saved by recourse to this weapon, which quickly cows an infuriated creature which has had a taste of blood when nothing else will avail. PUNISHMENT OF TREACHEROUS BEASTS I have already cited one cardinal rule recognized by all animal workers. There is one other just as universally accepted by the fraternity of trainers. This is, that any animal which has inflicted injury on a trainer must be punished until completely subjugated. This punishment must be given, if possible, by the one whom the creature has injured. No doubt more than one trainer who has been half killed by a treacherous animal has been inclined to overlook this chastisement after recovering from his injuries. This, however, is regarded as professional treachery, for it is practically certain that the rebellious animal that is not chastised in this manner will kill the next man who enters its cage. To neglect to show the brute which has injured you that you are its master is therefore, according to the ethics of the profession, a deed of cowardice, and a sure way of bringing disaster upon any other person having the hardihood to trust himself in the power of an animal that has "downed" its trainer. Of course some trainers are killed outright, and others are so disabled in severe encounters that they are absolutely unable to continue in the service. Then the duty of inflicting the chastisement falls upon a new man, and you may rest assured he never looks forward to the job with any particular pleasure. There is but one course, however, and that is to beat the creature until it howls for mercy. Occasionally an animal famed for its splendid performances is suddenly and without any apparent reason retired from the program. As a performing animal is worth many times as much as one that has not been trained, this would seem a strange and unbusinesslike course on the part of the management. The outsider would immediately ask: "Why not continue the performance with this animal so long as it does not kill a man or conduct itself more savagely than many others of its kind which have the confidence of trainers and performers?" The answer is very simple: The man handling the animal and knowing well its character has been able to discern a radical change in its disposition. He declares that the brute is no longer to be trusted, and any wise and humane showman who receives this kind of a warning from a reliable and efficient trainer or performer will retire the brute in question to a cage and leave it there. On the other hand, some animals which have tasted blood, and even "killed their man," are continued in the service. Why? Because the trainer who goes in to chastise them believes that he has been able to beat the animal into a permanent state of penitence, humility and wholesome fear, and to effectually obliterate the sense of triumph in the mind of the creature. A SINGLE-HAND FIGHT WITH FIVE LIONS Occasionally a foolish and intermeddling spectator will endeavor to show his brilliancy by experimenting with the animals. More than once this tendency has well-nigh cost a performer his life. I recall one instance when a performer was doing an act in a cage containing five lions. He had just begun his work, and the lions had taken their positions. In the middle of the cage, facing him, was one large lion, and at either end sat two others. Of course a big crowd had collected in front of the cage and was pressing heavily against the guard ropes. Suddenly a countryman of the smart kind was seized with a desire to distinguish himself and attract a little attention. Slipping inside the ropes, he stooped down and took up the ragged little dog that was crouching at his heels. The instant he lifted the cur up to the level of the cage every lion gave out a roar and made a wild leap for the yellow mongrel. [Illustration: "EVERY LION GAVE A ROAR AND MADE A WILD LEAP."] For a few moments the performer was completely lost to view, buried underneath the writhing bodies of the infuriated lions. Of course the animal men outside made a rush for the cage door, but before they could reach it with their irons in hand the plucky performer was on his feet again and fighting his own battle. A tooth or a claw had split his nose and upper lip, and the tattered condition of his clothing indicated that he had suffered severely. Although his face was bathed in blood, he stood his ground and plied his rod on the heads and noses of the growling beasts until they were momentarily driven back. But they had tasted blood and were furious. Before he could reach the door they were at him again, and in the onslaught his right arm and hip were frightfully lacerated. His grit, however, was indomitable, and he struck and jabbed right and left like a gladiator. Finally the howls of pain from the lions revealed the fact that he was getting the upper hand of them, and at last they were driven howling and whining into the corners of the cage and he backed out of the door. No sooner was he safely outside the cage than he became unconscious. It was a good thing for the countryman whose folly had stirred up the lions that he contrived to make his escape from the grounds before the circus men got hold of him. This incident is simply typical of hundreds of others perhaps more interesting and exciting. It will, however, serve to indicate the constant perils that surround the trainer or performer, many of which arise from sources over which he has no control. I have often been asked if the training of animals does not quite generally involve considerable cruelty. This, it seems to me, may fairly be answered in the negative, although one exception should be made. Though great firmness must be shown in working wild animals, and frequent and severe chastisements are called for, there is nothing essentially cruel in the method of training. This, however, cannot be said of the methods generally followed by the trainers of horses. I can never forget how forcibly and painfully this exception was brought home to me. In company with Mr. Costello I had brought from Texas and New Mexico a herd of beautiful pinto ponies, or bronchos. They were handsome piebald creatures, and apparently very intelligent, although desperately wild. From a herd of about forty we picked out sixteen to be educated for the ring. About ten miles out of Chicago we put up a convenient stable and engaged one of the most celebrated trainers in the United States. In the course of a few weeks the animals became accustomed to having men about them, and then I told the trainer to begin his work. I had never watched a trainer work horses for the ring, and I was greatly interested to see how it was done. The method was so cruel that I told the trainer if he could not invent a method which inflicted less torture he might quit and we would have the horses sold. He had not the ingenuity or patience to devise a more humane method, and consequently retired from the field, leaving his assistant to work out the problem under my directions. This we finally succeeded in doing with fair results, but the method followed by the trainer is a more general one. TEACHING A HORSE THE TWO-STEP In teaching a horse to dance, the master would strike the poor animal above the fetlock, and this would produce a painful swelling. The result was that in a very short time the motion of the stick, in time with the music, would cause the horse to raise its foot. Before the swollen limb was healed the performance was repeated so frequently that the animal did not need the incentives of fear and pain to cause him to keep step with the music. Jumping the rope is taught in nearly the same manner, a chain being attached to two long sticks swinging back and forth, striking the horse just below the knee. As a man was stationed on each side of him, the poor horse had no way of retreat, and was compelled to jump in order to escape the blow from the swinging bar. A horse is taught to roll an object or to push open a door in a very simple manner, and without cruelty. One man stands in front of the horse and another behind him, the three being stationed in a passageway too narrow for the horse to turn. After standing a bit in this way, the man behind the horse gently slaps him on the back and urges him forward. Instinctively the horse pushes against the man in front, and the latter quickly moves along. In this manner the horse soon learns that by pushing against an object in front of him it may readily be forced out of his way. An intelligent spectator can always tell by the attitude of a horse toward its master whether it has been ill treated. If fear seems to be the governing motive it may be depended upon that the horse has been harshly dealt with; on the other hand, the very nature of the trick performed by the animal goes far to indicate whether fear or intelligence has been the main factor in acquiring the accomplishment displayed. If you see an animal open a trunk or drawer and pick out some article for which it has been sent, you may know that this feat is the result of an appeal to the creature's intelligence and not to its fear, for no amount of punishment could ever teach a thing of this kind. RING PERFORMERS TRAINED WITH A DERRICK Ring horses are generally irritated when the rider first stands upon their backs. Probably the action of the foot pulls the short hair; but the irritation ceases in a short time. Riders are first trained to do their tricks on the ground. When complete masters of themselves on the ground they are put upon the back of a horse having an even gait and a reliable disposition. To the performer's belt, at the back, is attached a stout rope which runs to the end of a strong arm or beam running out from a post set in the center of the ring. This arm is swung around by a helper, who keeps the loose end of the rope in his hand in order to regulate the slack and prevent the young performer from having a heavy fall should he lose his footing. Again and again the rider is pulled up just in time to prevent him from falling under the hoofs of his horse. He is swung forward, dangling from the arm of the derrick, until he regains his balance and his footing upon the back of his horse. To describe in detail how every feat and specialty is taught would require a volume, but on general principles it may be said that all tricks are first learned on the ground, or at a safe and minimum elevation. Then when the performer has attained absolute self-confidence and is wholly without fear he is allowed to swing higher, until he finally reaches the height required in the public performance. CIRCUS PEOPLE A LONG-LIVED CLASS In the old days it was the general custom for the circus proprietors to put their own children into the business, teaching them to do everything in the acrobatic line, from bare-back riding to trapeze and bar work and slack-rope and tight-rope walking. Many of them were also skilled musicians and could play several instruments in the band. At the present day many persons not familiar with the inside life of the circus will no doubt be horrified to think that a man wealthy enough to own a big circus and menagerie would train his sons, and particularly his daughters, for the ring. Let me say on this score that I could name a long list of families in which this custom prevailed, and must say that the private and domestic life of these people was far above that of the average families in fashionable society. Almost invariably the members of each family were devoted to each other and were refined and intelligent. Many of the young women of these families married wealthy and cultured men, and retired from the circus business to become the mistresses of refined and happy homes. Many old showmen whose children were star performers carried accomplished teachers with them on the road, and the children were as well educated as if the entire time had been spent attending school. Their training and work in the ring not only afforded them splendid physical exercise, but taught them patience, application, alertness, and many other valuable lessons which made their progress very rapid when it came to their lessons from books. It is a fact worthy of notice that the circus people are a long-lived race. I can name almost a score of famous performers who have attained an age of more than eighty years. This would tend to show that circus work is quite as healthy as any other. I may add that the charge so frequently brought against showmen, that the training of children for the circus ring is cruel, is not well founded. While I have seen many instances of cruelty in this connection, there is nothing in the work itself which necessitates hardship or harshness. In fact, quite the reverse is true. The child is the sooner trained into an ability to do a dangerous and daring feat through gentleness and encouragement. In other words, the more they overcome their fear in every direction the better able are they to swing from one trapeze to another, to walk the tight rope at a dizzy height, or to turn somersaults from the back of a galloping horse. X MOBS, CYCLONES AND ADVENTURES In a lifetime spent with the circus I have learned the heart of the people. I have felt the pulse of the multitudes who have made the history of the West. This insight into conditions of things in the West brought me many and varied experiences, some of which were rough and severe. They had their interesting sides, however, and many of them are worth the telling, if for no other reason than to throw light upon the character of the people with whom we had to deal. That the show was appreciated by these frontiersmen there can be no doubt. In the earlier days it was the custom to have a concert in a side tent before and after the regular performance in the circus. At one place where we stopped the people paid their money and went in and enjoyed the concert; but so well pleased were they that they insisted upon a repetition of the performance. At the point of their pistols they compelled the poor minstrels to continue their antics nearly all night, until ready to drop from sheer exhaustion. FORCIBLE ARGUMENT WITH A CITY MARSHAL At one time, while in Texas, we were doing an act called An Indian Chase for a Wife, in which we used several guns with blank cartridges. The act opened with a lively fusillade and the reports brought a great crowd to the tent. The Texans appeared to come from every direction, many of them with revolvers ready cocked. The fact that many of them had been drinking greatly increased the perils of our situation. After careful consideration of these facts I decided not to give a night performance, and ordered an early supper so as to be able to load by daylight and, if possible, get out of town before nightfall. The seats were soon taken out and the side wall was dropped. I sat in the cook tent, eating dinner, when a great crowd suddenly surrounded us. The leader, who claimed to be the town marshal, had his revolver pointed directly at my head, and I could see by the inflamed condition of his features that he, like the rest, had been drinking heavily. Realizing my danger, I knocked the pistol down and it went off between my feet. This was taken as the signal for a rush toward me, the crowd evidently thinking I had shot at the marshal. The noise attracted the concourse that had just left the circus and they drew up in line with revolvers cocked. A slaughter of showmen was clearly imminent. I leaped upon a box and tried to pacify the infuriated Texans, while receiving, at the same time, their abuse. I was entirely ignorant of the cause of the disturbance and demanded to be informed of the reason of the uprising. Getting no reply, I appealed to them as law-abiding citizens, and for the first time in my life this appeal was useless. By this time our entire force had collected, and as the show was the "First Hippodrome" and altogether the largest circus ever in the south, we had at least five hundred attachés, three hundred of whom were powerful fellows and well armed. This was the first time that I had ever thought of permitting my people to fight. Our gang was headed by my boss canvasman, "Put." I momentarily expected the attack, but just as I got down from the box a detective who was hired to travel with the show rushed upon the scene and yelled: "In the name of the United States Government, whose officer I am, I command peace!" It was surprising to see that crowd scatter, and certainly this was a master-stroke on the part of the detective. He earned more that day than I ever paid the agency for his services. In ten minutes all was calm and peaceful. BREAKING CAMP UNDER A HOT RIFLE FIRE In 1859 two Philadelphia friends of mine were going to make a trip South, and offered me big inducements to join them, which I accepted. We started from Philadelphia, making our way slowly through the different States, with the usual routine of wagon-show life. No event of importance occurred until we reached Missouri. It was a most foolish trip to undertake, for the people were then so embittered by the John Brown raid that we were in constant danger. First came a tirade of the fiercest abuse and this soon led into a regular knock-down fight, which speedily developed into a shooting-scrape lasting several hours. We were compelled to defend ourselves by every method at our command. Our men were marshalled inside the tent and armed with long, heavy stakes which looked like guns and were really formidable weapons. The wagons and other available goods were grouped in a circle, and behind this pioneer fortification the men paced with their long stakes at their shoulders like the guns of sentries. In the dim light thrown by the torches they certainly looked like armed men. So formidable was our appearance the enemy thought us armed with Winchesters. By putting on this bold front the canvasmen were able to get all the loose stuff into the wagons, leaving the tents standing until the last. Finally these also were taken down and loaded. Then came the most perilous undertaking of all. To get our horses from the stables seemed at first an absolute impossibility. It was the custom, at that time, to stable our horses wherever space could be found for them, and as Granby was only a small village, nearly every stable contained one or more of our horses. We divided the men into two gangs, one of which was left to guard the property on the grounds. Our show was situated in the public square and was thus surrounded by houses and stores, all of which were filled with armed men. By the dim light we could see our enemies running from house to house with guns in their hands. The second detachment of our men was sent to gather in the scattered horses. And a lively time they had accomplishing that business! Shot after shot was fired at them while the horses were being driven into the corral. Fortunately, however, neither man nor horse was hit. AMBUSHED AND SHOT AT ON THE ROAD We remained quiet until daylight, keeping constant guard, for we feared an attack at any moment; but toward daybreak we could see that the ranks of our enemy were thinning out. After careful deliberation I gave the order to march. Just as the first team was leaving the square the sharpshooters opened a vicious fire from the windows and doors of houses and stores. Practically every shot brought down a horse. Strange to say, we could not discover that a single man had been struck. Our men instantly fell into line and began firing together, but as we had only pistols the fight was against us. As our enemies were safely concealed in stores and buildings, only a few exposing themselves to our pistols, we fought at great odds. However, we kept up a rapid fusillade, and under this heavy fire we managed to get out into the open country, leaving our dead horses on the village square. Once safely outside and beyond the range of the enemy we paused for roll-call and found that three of our men were dead. This put the spirit of fight into every man in the company, and there was almost an eagerness to have another encounter. Proceeding cautiously on our way, we came to a stream spanned by an old-fashioned bridge. The first chariot being a very heavy one, the bridge was carried down, throwing the wagon, horses, driver and men into the water twenty feet below. Soon firing was again heard, and two more horses fell. This proved my suspicion that the beams had been cut for the purpose of wrecking us and of trapping us where we could be slaughtered. The next shots brought several of my brave men to the ground--dead in their tracks! The enemy, being in ambush, had us at great disadvantage; but my men were so thoroughly aroused and so fearless that we soon drove our assailants back. This last plucky onslaught won the day for us, although at sad cost. After a delay of several hours, during which we repaired the bridge, we were again able to proceed on our way. Hardly were we fairly started when a new difficulty was encountered in the form of big trees felled across the roadway. This work had been cleverly done by the enemy in order to retard our progress, and we had to stop and remove these obstacles before we could pass. The time lost by the first attack, by the bridge engagement and subsequent delay threw us behind a whole day. Although the people were all anxious to see our show they had not a friendly word for us. Frequently large crowds would force their way into the tents, pointing a cocked revolver at the doorkeeper's head. Finally, however, we managed to reach the Arkansas line with comparatively small loss of life. I am surprised that we were ever able to do so, because of the extreme bitterness which then prevailed toward all Northerners. At length we came to a town called Bucksnort, the scene of the hanging described in one of Mr. Opie Read's short stories. Nearly every man at the tavern was ready for any kind of excitement. They started the quarrel by accusing our men of stealing their hats. A fight quickly ensued; and we were forced again to defend ourselves by resort to arms. At that time we were playing Mazeppa in which we used a number of dull swords. These were instantly placed in the hands of performers and canvasmen who knew how to wield them, and the result was a terrific hand-to-hand encounter in which we came off victorious. At Lickskillet, another place on our line, the principal building was a log tavern. We put up our tents, but shortly afterward noticed several old men with long-bladed knives cutting slits in the canvas. The canvasmen, on seeing the tent walls slashed, vigorously protested. At once bullets began to fly from the corner of the tavern. One of our men was killed at the outset of this mêlée. Previous to this episode our men had become pretty well discouraged and would gladly have had peace, but this last outrage seemed to arouse them to a perfect frenzy. Instead of shooting they went for the gang of roughs with clubs, stakes and every other kind of weapon they could find. The encounter was a terrific one. Our men knocked the desperadoes senseless and seized their guns, and in a very few minutes we were much better prepared to defend ourselves. I think during the battle our men seized fully thirty rifles. Shotguns were seldom used in this section of the country. Most unexpectedly we succeeded in getting some recruits. A few Northern men who had come into the place to settle permanently offered their services for our protection. THE STUDIES OF THE STUDENT TO THE CLOWN In early days many of the young countrymen would be seized with a desire to become "actors," as they called the acrobats. This led the circus performers into the scheme of selling the ambitious wights something to make them limber. A big trade of this kind was carried on by selling an oil made from very cheap grease, the innocent victims being thoroughly convinced that they would come out full-fledged "actors" by the use of this lubricant. Frequently some young fellow would apply for the position of student to the clown. When he presented himself for tuition, the paint prepared for his make-up would be mixed with grease and thoroughly rubbed on his face and limbs. He would then be dressed in an old pair of tights and made to enter the ring, where he would be ordered by the ringmaster to "act up." He would be so embarrassed at this demand that he could not speak, whereupon the ringmaster would lay the whip upon his practically naked limbs, telling him that it was the only way by which to learn the acrobatic art. Another trick was to toss the students to the clown in a strong blanket of canvas. I can now point to an ex-member of Congress who was thus tossed until sore and exhausted. Among the various performances on our circus program one feat was that of placing a large stone on a man's breast, as he lay on his back, and then striking the stone with a sledge-hammer so as to break the rock. The audience was invited to furnish a man to break this stone, and although one would naturally suppose that such an act would hurt the performer on whose breast the stone rested, he would, in fact, receive no shock whatever. But one day, while exhibiting at a small town, a drunken countryman, in attempting to break the stone with a sledge-hammer, missed his mark entirely, and the poor fellow received a blow that nearly killed him. He was obliged to lie in bed and have medical aid. The following day we were compelled to move on to the next town, as advertised, which was a keen rival of the village we were just leaving. Our principal actor being unable to perform, we came near being mobbed, for this rival town did not relish the idea that its competitor had witnessed features which it could not see. All our remonstrances were in vain; and we were finally compelled to allow the injured man to quit his bed and actually go through the performance. These rough countrymen would certainly have kept their word had we not complied with their wishes, and it would have fared very badly with us. However, the sick man went through his part as well as he could, and received the full approbation of the audience. From this town we proceeded to a large Indian encampment. There we obtained permits from John Ross, Chief of the Cherokee Nation, and erected our tents. The government had just made an Indian payment to this tribe, all the money being in twenty-dollar gold pieces. Neither the circus treasurer nor any one in the community could change these coins for money of smaller denomination, and we were almost in despair. Meantime some of the Indians climbed into a tree, seated themselves comfortably in the branches, and prepared to witness the entire performance free of charge. This exasperated me, and, seizing an ax, I commenced hewing at the tree. Instantly I found myself the center of an incipient riot, as there was a law in the Territory forbidding a white person to cut down a tree. John Ross, however, quickly came to my rescue and saved my scalp by an adroit appeal to his people. We adopted the plan of admitting the Indians in squads, charging them a dollar each and taking a double-eagle from every twentieth man. The Indians seemed to enjoy the performance hugely, but were highly excited by the tricks of the magician, whom they regarded as a supernatural being. DEVOTIONAL SERVICES UPSET BY A DEMON At a certain town in Missouri a laughable circumstance occurred. Here, for some time, a revival had been in progress. The revivalists had been abusing the circus, its surroundings and influences, and had tried to prevent us from exhibiting. However, we secured a lot adjoining the church and opened our doors. John Robinson, the chief proprietor of our show, was one of the best equestrians that ever lived, and at that time was introducing what he called his Demon Act. In this act he dressed and made up as nearly as possible like a demon. While riding his four horses at breakneck pace around the ring, he would utter a series of the most ferocious yells imaginable, at the same time working himself up to a great pitch of excitement, until, as the auditors frequently expressed it, he "looked like his Satanic Majesty himself." On this occasion, at the close of his act, he jumped from his horses, ran out of the dressing-room and boldly entered the church, exclaiming in the stentorian voice for which he was famed: "I am victorious! I am victorious!" The effect was magical. The revivalist had been eloquently exhorting on the subject of the Prince of Darkness, and the overwrought congregation took but one glance at the theatrical Satan, and then, leaping madly through the windows and doors of the little church, broke for the woods. At Council Bluffs, Iowa, we had exhibited to a large afternoon audience. The day was extremely hot and sultry, and in the evening, just as the people were seating themselves on the benches, a cyclone struck us without the slightest warning. In a twinkling the poles, seats and canvas were being hurled through the air in all directions. At that time we used an inflammable liquid for illuminating the tent, and this ignited and added the horror of fire to the scene. THE WILD BEASTS LOOSE IN THE BIG CROWD In those days our menagerie was exhibited in the same tent used for our circus performance, the seats being arranged on one side and the animal cages on the other. Imagine the scene! Several thousand terrorized and screaming men, women and children rushed wildly in all directions, the combustible tents and paraphernalia were in flames, and above all could be heard the roar of the terror-stricken animals, beating madly against their iron bars. Two of the largest dens had been placed together and the partition bars withdrawn, so as to form one big cage, wherein the lions and tigers were exercised by their keepers. The fire burned the woodwork so that this double cage came apart and liberated the ferocious animals. These lions and tigers escaped among the people and added a new element to the general pandemonium of terror. Words cannot convey an adequate idea of that awful moment. As the tents and cages slowly burned out, total darkness came upon us. In the excitement, one of the men in the audience happened to jump on a crouching lion and yelled that he was in the clutches of the beast; however, the animal was as thoroughly frightened as the man. Some of the animals were loose all night, and one Royal Bengal tiger disappeared altogether. No trace whatever was found of his remains when the debris was examined, and he probably escaped to the nearest woods. Near to the tent was one of those prickly osage hedges, and into this hundreds of people ran, becoming so entangled in the thorny network that it was almost impossible for them to extricate themselves. Many were badly lacerated by the brambles. There was no sleep in Council Bluffs that night. Several of our wagons disappeared and one carriage was never afterward found. Four or five horses were lifted and blown into a lot some distance from where they had been stabled. To add still further to the misery that prevailed, the catastrophe ended with a cloud-burst and the earth was fairly deluged, so that in a short time what little remained undestroyed by wind and flame was floating around in a sea of water. Dense darkness prevailed and nothing could be done till dawn. It was then found that the cyclone had done even more damage to the city than we had at first supposed. Though the circus was a complete wreck, it was learned that both the city and its suburbs had suffered severely, and it was considered providential that the performance had attracted so great a concourse of the people from their homes. THE MIDNIGHT STAMPEDE OF THE ELEPHANTS When we exhibited in Kansas the country was in such a state of terror, resulting from the "border warfare," that all the towns and villages had organized military companies. At each camping place we were obliged to join these home guards, for protection. One day, while we were exhibiting at Lawrence, a detachment of militia encamped about a mile from us, the posts and guards surrounding the entire city. I had with me a friend from my old home at Delavan, Wisconsin. He was a merchant and had never seen any of the hardships of the camp or of circus life, and all this rough experience was new to him. As we were obliged to travel through the country for weeks without daring to take off our clothes, I had a wagon snugly covered and this served as a sort of sleeping berth. In this wagon my friend and I spent our nights. At our feet slept a faithful watch dog. On this particular night we were sound asleep, when the dog made a sudden lunge, jumping upon us and instantly awakening us. The moon was hid behind a cloud, and it was, for the moment, very dark. As I jumped to my feet, I indistinctly saw what appeared to me to be a body of men coming towards us. I fired several shots from the big pistols I always carried swung from my belt; but still the mass came forward. I soon heard a most pitiful wail of grief, and then I discovered that I had shot into a herd of elephants which had stampeded. The firing, together with the noise, alarmed the militia around the city, who, thinking the border ruffians were upon us, came to our assistance. It was some time before I could convince them of the real state of affairs, as the elephants had made a wild escape and consternation reigned. The militia hunted for the men who fired the guns, threatening dire vengeance for alarming the post, but after a full explanation we succeeded in pacifying them. Then we had a long chase after the stampeded elephants, which were finally captured. A POLAR BEAR HUNT ON FIFTH AVENUE One of the most exciting and amusing episodes connected with my career as a showman is that which passed into Gotham history as "the bear hunt on Fifth Avenue." And certainly nothing could be more strange and picturesque than a hot chase after a ferocious polar bear along this aristocratic thoroughfare! In 1873 there were no polar bears in America, and I thought it would be a good stroke of business to obtain some of these beautiful and imposing animals for my menagerie. Therefore I sent an expedition to the Arctic waters to capture a pair. My men finally succeeded in landing two enormous polars in New York. In the process of shifting them from the shipping-box one of these monsters made his escape, and started on a run down the middle of Fifth Avenue. His course was marked by general consternation. Children playing on the streets, seeing an immense white bear lumbering toward them at full speed, screamed and fled in every direction for shelter; horses, frightened at this unusual spectacle, became unmanageable and ran away; nurse-maids, wheeling their small charges, were stricken helpless with terror, and even the street dogs fled howling down the cross streets and into business houses. Everywhere disorder and terror reigned supreme; the streets became suddenly deserted, and one would have supposed that a plague had instantly depopulated the city. The police were called out from every adjacent station as soon as it became known that a white bear was loose in the streets of New York. The poor animal, unaccustomed to the strange medley of metropolitan civilization, was more frightened than those who fled before him. [Illustration: A BEAR LOOSE IN FIFTH AVENUE.] Finally, by the aid of the police and some of the braver citizens, the beast was driven into a basement of a private residence, and there shot. Had the people only realized it, the creature could easily have been captured alive; but fear reigned in every heart, from the child to the policeman, and the latter would not consider anything save instant death to the bear. The animal was very valuable and had cost me a large sum of money, not only for its capture but also for its transportation, and I was exceedingly sorry to lose him in this way. I considered myself exceedingly fortunate, however, to escape as easily as I did, for had the bear done any harm I should have had to pay heavy damages. No person fortunate enough to witness the tumult of that exciting scene can ever forget the bear hunt on Fifth Avenue! AN EQUINE OFFICER OF ARTILLERY At one time certain towns in Pennsylvania were greatly dreaded by all showmen, from the fact that the "tough" element there predominated, and rarely did a circus escape without a pitched battle with these desperadoes. Mahanoy City was one of the worst of these towns, and on my last visit there nothing but the sound "horse sense" of one of our trained animals saved the show from a conflict the result of which might have been deplorable. I had wired my agent, weeks before, to drop this town from the list, but he had written back that, under favorable circumstances, we were sure of taking about $10,000 there, and therefore, in accordance with my instructions, the town had been billed. We had a fair afternoon's business, and at night, judging from the appearance of the house, we ought to have had at least $5,000 in the treasury. But, as usual in that town, the toughs had simply forced their way in without paying, and, as a consequence, only about $800 had been taken. On the outside were several hundred hoodlums clamoring for a fight, and I am bound to say that "Old Put," our boss canvasman, and his faithful followers were anxious for the same means of satisfaction, and only refrained from an outbreak because they knew that instant dismissal from my employ would follow any attempt on their part to take the initiative in any trouble. At last, however, a fight did come off, and a hot one it was, too! Right in the midst of it one of my horses, which had been trained to fire off a cannon from its back, got loose and, fully accoutred, galloped into the thick of the mélêe. The creature seized the strap which operated the trigger and began firing blank cartridges in every direction. If ever a mob of toughs was frightened it was then! They stopped not upon the order of their going, but fairly flew in all directions. One of them afterward told a policeman that they could fight any gang of showmen that ever traveled, but when a horse commenced to unload on them with a cannon, he knew it was time to quit. XI STORIES OF OLD-TIME SHOWS AND SHOWMEN Nothing can afford a better idea of the variety and picturesqueness of a showman's life than the medley of odd incidents, of strange experiences and homely happenings that crowd the thought of a veteran when in a reminiscent mood. It is under this kind of inspiration that I have jotted down, in this scrappy and haphazard way, the episodes which sufficiently impressed me at the time of their occurrence to claim frequent rehearsal when talking over the "old days" with other pioneers of the tent and the ring. It is the clowns who in one way or another furnish most material for anecdotes, and the greatest clown America ever saw was Dan Rice, who at one time was the most famous circus performer in America, and, with the exception of John Robinson, the most daring. I have never met a more nervy man; he was without an equal in trying emergencies. He would face a mob at any time and under any circumstances. Besides being a natural fighter he was a natural orator. He had a sonorous, penetrating voice, his enunciation was clear and distinct, and he knew the secret of flattering and delighting his auditors. Dan had many competitors for the patronage of the river towns, the most prominent of whom were two veteran showmen who owned a floating palace. The "Palace" was simply a large boat fitted up as an opera house with the most elegant appointments. It would seat several hundred people and was provided with a complete stage and elaborate sets of scenery. This was towed by a tug called the "James Raymond," on which all the performers roomed and took their meals. They had, besides, a steamer called the "Banjo," on which they gave a minstrel performance. DAN RICE'S ONE-HORSE SHOW Dan had formerly been "featured" as one of their attractions; but, some trouble arising, he had left them and started in business on his own account. He experienced the usual ups and downs of a showman's life, finally "went broke," and was at last cleaned out to what he boldly announced as "Dan Rice's One-Horse Show." With this little affair he courageously fought his former associates and did a large business. During the performances he was in the habit of singing a song entitled My One-Horse Show, which took the popular fancy and materially helped him. In this song he told how the opposition had placed false buoys in the river, thereby misleading his pilots and throwing him on sand bars where his craft stuck for days. For the information of those unacquainted with river travel I will say that buoys are placed by the government in dangerous parts of the river to point out the only safe channel. Now, whether or not the opposition was really guilty of this trick, Dan's verses gained him the sympathy of the people, and with that sympathy came their dollars. In fact, to such an extent did Dan work upon the sympathies of the people that, at many points, they actually refused to allow the opposition boats to land. At some of these places the opposition had themselves incurred the displeasure of the people by touching at the landing only long enough to receive their audiences, and then going into the middle of the river to give their performances, thus avoiding the payment of the license fee. This lasted through the winter, and when summer came both shows took to their tents and traveled toward New York State. There Dan's enemies succeeded on some charge or other in getting him in jail. While in his cell he composed the song "Blue Eagle Jail," in which he described the jailer, whom he disliked, as "Dot-and-Go-One," from the fact of his having a wooden leg. This song made the one-legged jailer notorious all over the country. One thing I must say for Dan Rice: He was the only original clown I ever heard--with the single exception of Dilly Fay. The latter was an erratic individual who actually became a clown that he might save money to complete his studies in Paris. Fay was educated and original, but lacked the physical power and deep voice of Rice. I never heard of Fay after he started for Paris, but presume he never reëntered the ring. TAN-BARK ORATORY AND HARLEQUIN PLUCK Once when I was with Dan Rice on the river circus we showed at Memphis. At this place a certain fellow was loud in his denunciation of Dan and the show. He was a source of great annoyance to the showman and had also made himself very unpopular by declaiming against slavery. In retaliation Dan entered the ring and returned the compliment in kind. He capped the climax by singing a song in which he described his enemy as playing cards with a negro on a log, and so boldly was this done that the people believed it and the fellow became so exasperated that he threatened to shoot Dan. The clown, however, defied him, and continued ridiculing him until the man was actually obliged to leave the city in a hurry. Dan also had trouble at Yazoo City, Mississippi. He had, it appears, on a former visit, flogged a prominent man there, and the latter had sworn to shoot him on sight. One night when Dan was clowning in the ring the prominent citizen entered and drew his revolver to kill. A plucky bystander, however, knocked the iron from his hand and prevented bloodshed. The scene that followed I shall never forget. Dan stood undaunted in the ring, called the man a coward and dared him to shoot. His audience went into ecstacies over such an exhibition of bravery and applauded to the echo. Whereupon Dan, stimulated to further efforts, poured forth a torrent of the most stinging denunciation of cowards that ever fell from mortal lips. I have often wondered where Dan picked up such a command of language. [Illustration: "A SPECTATOR JUMPED INTO THE RING AND TRIED TO SHOOT THE CLOWN."] At that time he was not an educated man, although years after, when visiting him at his magnificent house at Girard, Pa., I found that he had a well-stocked private library, and he had certainly become an exceedingly well-read man. AN IMITATION PATRIOT SHOWN UP My last experience with Dan Rice when he was in the circus business was at Elkhart, Ind. It was a very stormy day during the war. The weather was too windy to permit the hoisting of the usual flags, and one pompous young fellow, inflated with conceit, appointed himself a committee and visited Dan, demanding that the flags be hoisted. He charged that Dan had made secession speeches in the South. With an ugly mob at his heels the fellow declared that if the flags were not hoisted he would burn the whole outfit. Dan truthfully told the crowd that he had already erected, at Girard, Pa., a monument to the Union soldiers; that he owned more flags than the whole city of Elkhart, and that he would show them if they desired; but he absolutely refused to hoist a stitch of bunting upon such a demand. Threats and arguments were alike powerless to move him from his stand. I thought him rather foolish, in those exciting times, and there appeared to me great danger in his action. Dan, however, mastered the situation. He publicly announced that at the night show he would give a full history of the leader of the mob, and did so with a vengeance. He had learned by careful inquiries something of the character of this fellow, who was a cashier in a bank, and at the evening performance, and in the actual presence of the man and his associates, Dan mounted a stool and gave his enemy such a verbal castigation as few persons have ever received. As he progressed in his speech he waxed eloquent, and in a marvelously deep, clear and penetrating voice pictured the vices and foibles of this "patriotic" cashier, until the audience was ready to mob the man. Suddenly a rush was made to where he had been sitting. But he was gone and the eloquent showman was a complete victor. That night I roomed at the hotel where Rice was stopping, and in the morning he accompanied me to the depot, to see me off for my home in the West. While waiting there the cashier appeared and begged Dan to retract his assertions of the night before, declaring that otherwise he would be run out of town. Dan replied that if he did not immediately leave him he would receive the worst thrashing of his life--and Dan would have kept his word, to the letter, had not the fellow beat a quick retreat. I saw Rice but once after that time, but always regarded him as a prince of the circus ring. At one time we started our show through Kentucky, where we did a splendid business. On this journey through the South our horses were all caught in a fire and so charred and burned that we had to shoot many of them. In Mississippi we were greatly troubled and delayed by the muddy roads. We were three days going a distance of only eighteen miles. At one point, where there was only one house, our tent was delayed on account of the deep mud, and we were forced to show without it, putting up the seats in the form of a circle, thus making a ring in which the performance was given. The people could see the performance without paying, but nearly all of them had principle enough to pay. A few ruffians, however, began abusing the showmen, and a genuine fight ensued, which was a repetition of most of the others, and some of the toughs were badly hurt. Our men had all gone to the farmhouse to bed, and I was alone on the grounds to look after my property, when, after midnight, a crowd began to gather and suddenly surrounded me, shoving the muzzles of their pistols and guns in my face. This crowd hung about until daylight, and I pleaded so heartily that they did not shoot. The fact that I was then little more than a boy in years was, I think, the only reason I was not instantly shot by the ruffians. When our company began to gather in the morning these ruffians left, but I shall never forget that night sitting there surrounded by a half-drunken mob, in a drizzling fall of rain. I was completely exhausted and half frozen, and never before nor since was I so glad to see daylight come. This trip led us through Georgia, Alabama, Florida and North Carolina. In those States we frequently traveled at night, and sometimes all night, illuminating our way by setting fire to the patches of gum on the pine trees at the spots where they had been "blazed" for their sap. In the mountains of North Carolina we encountered the "clay eaters." I was assured that they subsisted to a great extent upon a certain kind of clay which appears to be able to sustain life. The reader can imagine the character and intelligence of these beings. There was also, in a certain region, a strange people who held regular monthly fairs where they met to barter. They were said to be descendants of a certain Scottish clan, who, when they first came to this country, were fairly well civilized, but instead of settling in the fertile soils and lowlands, took up their homes in the mountains, because the latter reminded them of their native country. Here they became more and more isolated until, at length, they were governed solely by their own outlandish laws and customs, knowing nothing of the usages of civilization. Outside of the clay-eating districts these mountain people grew to an enormous stature and possessed great strength. I found them very hospitable, always treating their guests with marked kindness. IN WHICH CUPID WAS MASTER OF THE RING When we went to New Orleans to close up and pay off a show that had been "flooded out" in one of my earliest ventures, it was our intention to take the New Orleans company to New York, but I found it impracticable. I thereupon called all the members to my rooms at the hotel and explained to them the situation. I proposed to pay them all off and let them remain idle until the opening in the following spring. To this all agreed save two, our principal riders, a woman and a man. These positively refused to make any compromise. The woman snapped her fingers in my face and said: "No, I was engaged for a year and you will have to pay me my salary just the same. You are able to do it, and do it you shall." The man took precisely the same stand, and as they were not only our star riders, but also the best equestrians in America, I was at a loss to know what to do. I took a little time for deliberation, and learned that both malcontents were very much in love with each other. This immediately helped me to determine what course to pursue. I first sent for the woman and told her to get ready at once to go to my farm in Wisconsin, where I intended to build a ring around a tree, to furnish her with a ringmaster, and to allow her to earn her salary by giving two performances daily to the birds and squirrels. She claimed that her contract did not call for such performances, but a reference to the contract proved that she was to ride in any part of America I might designate. Then I sent for the man and told him that he and his horses must take the next steamer for New York City. He refused to do this, but I quickly proved to him that his contract with us, though calling for transportation for himself and horses, did not specify of what nature that transportation should be; I had a perfect right to send him by sailing vessel if I chose. His refusal to go of course canceled his contract, and I accordingly left him. The woman expressed her willingness to go to Wisconsin, but I knew she could not leave her sweetheart--and I was right. In less than half an hour they proposed a compromise, but I refused. Finally I agreed to take the woman to New York and pay her half salary until the season opened. Among the many men employed with the Barnum show was one large, handsome fellow who was superintendent of the equestrian department. As showmen are fond of having nicknames, some one called this man "Barnum." The poor fellow was wholly illiterate and tolerably fond of whisky, consequently the name was decidedly inappropriate, but, as a nickname will, it stuck to him hard and fast. One day, while Mr. Barnum was visiting the show, his namesake was lying asleep outside one of the horse tents on a pile of hay, and one of the hands, desiring to waken him, shouted at the top of his voice: "Barnum! Barnum! Wake up!" Mr. Barnum had been a witness to this scene and he came to me in a tremendous rage, saying: "Have you no respect for me at all?" "What do you mean, Mr. Barnum?" "What do I mean?" he replied. "Why, I wish to know your intent in calling that drunken, illiterate brute by my name." Of course, after an explanation, Mr. Barnum's rage cooled, but I think he was never so much annoyed in his life. It well illustrates how thoroughly he hated the vice of drunkenness. After that episode strict injunctions were given to refrain from calling the man "Barnum." On one occasion when we had run to Joplin, Mo., the train was divided into three sections, the first having been switched on a siding to wait for the other two. I was sitting at the hotel, eating breakfast, when the superintendent of the road came in and announced, "I am afraid you will not show to-day." "Why not?" I replied. "Well," said he, "the section of your train that has already pulled out has run wild down a steep grade over an immense trestle with nothing but zigzags and reverse curves. We have to run over them with our passenger trains at a very slow speed, and, as your cars are top-heavy, I can see nothing but complete destruction for them." "Well," said I, "can't you send an engine after the runaway section?" He promised to do this and, as there was nothing more I could do, I finished my breakfast at leisure. BARNUM'S ONE UNCONQUERABLE SUPERSTITION The locomotive went out and caught the train. It had passed safely over the trestle and had reached a heavy ascending grade. Here it naturally lost its momentum and began to back down the grade toward the city. I was unaware, at that time, that a passenger train was then due and that the superintendent fully expected a collision to take place. I can assure my readers that I drew a long breath when the operator looked up from his key and remarked: "Thank the Lord! Number Six, the passenger, is an hour late!" Thus a dreadful catastrophe was prevented. Two men were asleep on one of the platform cars of the circus train, and one of them, in the stress of excitement, jumped off and was instantly dashed to pieces one hundred feet below. The man who stuck to the train was saved, although nearly frightened to death. Mr. Barnum, although never particularly nervous about accidents, usually refused to travel in the same train with me, giving as his reason that should we both be killed the show would be without a head. Really he regarded me as something of a "hoodoo." In the course of one trip from New Orleans to New York we were compelled to ride together, and on that occasion the sleeper caught fire and was very nearly destroyed. Fortunately this happened in the daytime. Not only was Mr. Barnum quick to grasp a situation, but was also ready at repartee. Once, at the hotel at Block Island, the dining-room was crowded with people from all over America. One of the guests was a somewhat notorious Mayor of a well-known Western city. During a partial lull in the conversation, this politician had the temerity to bawl out: "Barnum, what is going to be your next humbug? Your last one, the White Elephant, was a failure!" Mr. Barnum, in a voice equally loud and without a moment's hesitation, replied: "I think my next humbug will be the present Mayor of your city! I have been twice Senator of my State and three times Mayor of Bridgeport; but from what I have learned of politicians and their methods in the West I have come to the conclusion that I am now in a far more respectable business--that of showman--in which no man is either corrupted or injured." GULLIBLE PATRONS IN EARLY DAYS The people who were patrons of the circus in early days were very "gullible." Every showman of ripe years has in his memory incidents from his own experience which fully corroborate this statement. The old-time show was an "event" of large importance in the life of the small village, no matter whether that village were hid among the hills or were a landmark upon the open plains--in either instance it was as effectually separated from the rest of mankind as if it had been an isle at sea. The circus, to the villagers and the farmers, was an unending cause of wonder and curiosity. Strange reports floated ahead and behind the circus--and, for the most part, were believed. The exact size of the coming wonder was a subject for animated discussion. Of course the people did not believe all that the billboards said; but they believed enough to credit the coming show with being two or three times as large as it really was in fact. When a circus proved to be smaller than the popular estimate, it was said to have split or divided, one section going to some other "small" place. As these rumors were never contradicted by the showmen they spread rapidly and the circus became near kin to some fabulous, hydra-headed sea serpent--a creature which has a habit of taking on more heads and bristling manes every time it is seen. As a matter of fact it would have been exceedingly impracticable to have divided a show and, so far as my knowledge goes this was never done. Showmen did not deny these reports for the simple reason that they had no time to answer questions. Many inquiries had hardened them, and, if they ever relented in this particular it was only to fill their auditors' ears with bigger yarns because that course was the easiest way to get rid of the questioners. In explanation of this I may say that the questions which are "fired" at showmen in every town would go a long way toward filling a volume. Showmen in the early days had a habit of agreeing, without hesitation, to every story advanced by patrons. For example, I remember that, on coming into a certain town we selected our lot and began to pitch our tent. During the process of the work one of our men--a strong, burly Irishman--was approached by an angry countryman who demanded to know what had become of his calf which, it appeared, had been stolen from him during the run of the last circus which had stopped at the town. Of course the countryman had laid the blame at the door of the circus men and, although ours was an entirely different show, it was evident that all circuses looked alike to him, and that he believed them all to belong to a strongly knit brotherhood whose mission was for the accumulation of dollars and, incidentally, the promotion of general deviltry. He threatened our men with many things if they did not disclose the whereabouts of his lost calf. "Well," said big Pat, when the countryman had ceased his tirade; "now you spake av it, Oi balave Oi do remember thot calf. We took her down here to Jonesville and--domn me--she's a foine big cow now." EXPEDIENTS OF ADVANCE AGENTS In the days of the wagon shows--particularly before and just after the war--the advance agent of the show usually had many experiences to relate. Sometimes, when the show was traveling in the South, this genius would come upon some old negro who, with ax over his shoulder, was on his way to the woods to cut timber. When the agent came up he would call out to the negro: "Uncle, where you going?" "Ise gwine to chop fiah wood, boss," would be the reply. Then the agent would say: "Did you hear about the fire last night? We had a big fire last night, and all our animals got away from us and took to the woods. They're running wild down there now, elephants, tigers, lions--they all got away." Having finished relating this alarming bit of news the agent would reach under the seat of his buggy, take up the halter and say: "Here, Uncle, take this halter and if you see any of those animals catch them and take them to the tent--we will pay you a good reward for each and every animal." By this time the whites of the negro's eyes were the most prominent parts of his countenance. "No, sah," he always managed to say as he backed off; "Ise not gwine t' dem woods dis day." "All right," the agent would respond, and, taking the reins, would start on his way. One of our agents had reached this point in the program when he heard the negro calling to him. He immediately reined in his horse and looked back. "Say, boss," called the old uncle, "what animal have de mos' preference fo' a colored man--a lion or a tiger?" Whenever our advance wagons came upon a field in which the negroes were picking cotton the negroes would immediately be observed to edge toward the fence so that they could see the show go by. Then our men would advance on horseback and cry out lustily: "Look out boys, de elephants am comin'; climb yore trees--dem elephants get you shore!" The cotton-pickers seldom needed a second warning, but, as one man, they would turn and make for the other end of the field as if they were possessed of demons. They were a very superstitious and impressionable race. The managers of our show had great difficulty in preventing the candy boys from filling the negroes up with ghost stories, hoodoo stories and the like, a course that tended to scare them away and reduce our receipts. One day a young fellow, an attaché of our show, went up to a group of plantation negroes and commenced to go through a series of outlandish contortions and crazy antics. Finally one of the negroes asked: "What you all doin'?" "Now keep still," he replied, "I'm hoodooin' that girl there." Finally the girl herself thought she was hoodooed and fell to the ground kicking and screaming. The rest of the negroes did not care to linger in so dangerous a quarter. PLANTATION SHOWS In the early days in the South the country was so sparsely settled that we did not content ourselves with showing in the towns, but were in the habit of putting our tents up on any large plantation which appeared to be centrally located for a region in which we believed we could make a good "stand." It was invariably our custom to show in the afternoon. In the evening the attachés of the show were quite apt to be invited to a plantation dance or "hoedown." The "acting" at these impromptu gatherings was of no mean order. The negroes would bring out all their finery and there was sure to be a "Miss Sue" or a "Miss Lucinda" to carry off the honors. Many people--and this was particularly true in the South--entertained the notion that circuses secured most of their performers by stealing children. One time when we were showing down in Texas an incident occurred which will illustrate under what strong suspicion we were held in certain localities. It so happened that at the time we were showing in a certain Texas town, a little colored chap named "Josh" became lost. Of course there was a great hubbub over this incident, and we were immediately blamed for having a hand in the matter. A thorough search of all our belongings, however, failed to reveal to the angry inhabitants the whereabouts of the missing boy. At intervals during the excitement the boy's mother, a great negro "Mammy," went about among her people moaning and wailing: "Ain't dat horrible, ain't dat sorrowful, the old showman done stole little Josh away from his paw an' his maw." This incensed the crowd and for the time being we were in imminent danger of being torn limb from limb by the enraged crowd. Finally, however, the missing boy turned up, and, to make amends, the old negress went about exclaiming: "Little Josh done got home; little Josh done got home!" EXHIBITING "YANKEES" IN THE SOUTH Just after the war many of the Southern people regarded a "Yankee" as an unending wonder. They had heard so much of Yankee ingenuity that they came to regard a Northerner as a curiosity. We conceived the scheme of utilizing our knowledge of this fact to swell our receipts. We advertised that we had with our show a number of Yankees from various States. The crier dilated upon the wonderful ingenuity of the Yankee and told the people that if they had any old clocks or other things which needed fixing that they might bring them and watch the Yankees fix them. Our first attempt to put this scheme into operation turned out somewhat disastrously. It was Saturday and the people flocked to see the Yankees. When they saw, however, that Yankees are a good deal like other people we narrowly escaped a riot. The attachés of our show got into trouble with the quarrelsome element of the crowd and ended by boasting that they were all Yankees. Only by the exercise of great diplomacy was a combat avoided. SLEEPING IN STRANGE ATTITUDES As I stated in the beginning of this chapter, our patrons at this early day were very gullible. At one place the people had a great curiosity to know how the circus performers slept at night. After filling these questioners up with outlandish stories the attachés of the show decided to have a little fun at their expense. To bring this about they bribed the hotel keeper to let them have for a sleeping room one of the front rooms which faced the streets. When it became rumored about the town that the circus men would occupy this room a crowd composed of the curious assembled on the sidewalk outside. When night came each and every showman stood on his head. They ranged themselves in rows and the countrymen who caught glimpses of them were told that this was the way all showmen slept. The advertising agents for a large circus of the present day would, no doubt, get a good deal of amusement from the tales of the experiences of the advertising men who traveled in advance of the old-time wagon show. One time when I was traveling with a show owned by a man named Yankee Robinson we discovered that we were almost entirely out of show-bills. We were for a time in a serious quandary--but we were not to be downed in this manner. We finally hired a "democrat" wagon and with a single bill in our possession started out to bill the country from which we hoped to draw our patrons. At the gate of every farmer we stopped and called loudly. When the king of the soil appeared we would hand him the bill and allow him to read it; then we would take the bill and ride on to the next house. It was tedious work, but we succeeded in drawing our crowd and felt repaid for our efforts. THE CIRCUS "CRIER" It is doubtful if there was to be found a more interesting character than the circus crier in the days of the wagon shows. He was often a man of ability--many men who were circus criers have attained substantial success in the world of affairs. They were chosen for this position largely on account of their good "talking" qualities, and were, as a rule, resourceful and given to witty jests. The show once had a "Little Man" whom they exhibited as Tom Thumb. He was in reality a boy of about eleven years of age. But he was fitted out with a little carriage and ponies, and filled the bill very well. When the crier took his stand in front of the tent he would call out: "Ladies and gentlemen; we have little Tom Thumb inside. More than this, we have the carriage which was presented to him by her Majesty, Queen Victoria of England. Ladies and gentlemen, Queen Victoria gave this superb outfit to him with the words: 'Here, Tom Thumb, is the little carriage, together with the horses, together with the harness--here, Thomas, take it. Take these to America; show it to your countrymen. Tell the people of America that it cost three thousand pounds in our money or $15,000 in their money. Take it, Thomas, take it.'" SHOWMEN'S NAMES Showmen were often given names for the city or county in which they were hired. Thus "Cincinnati Bill" or "Chicago Jim" would not only serve as well as any other name, but they possessed this advantage, that they indicated in a breath where Bill or Jim had been picked up by the circus. When the show was touring Texas we chanced to hire a man in Bastrop county. Of course we called him Bastrop. He proved to be an "all around" handy man, and, while he had no professional training for any particular feat or "turn," he proved a capable man in whatever position he was placed. One of his early duties was that of driving; but there came a time when he was given a chance to distinguish himself. After we had "opened our doors" for business in a certain town our crier was taken sick and we could think of no better man to take his place than Bastrop. Our position was particularly trying from the fact that an opposition show had started up soon after we had got under way, and there promised to be some lively music between us before we left the town. For some reason or other the opposition show seemed to be doing the biggest business and we were unable to account for it save by the fact that they had a big snake which seemed to attract the crowds. In every crowd of countrymen visiting a circus there is sure to be some sympathetic chap who is quick to catch the pathos of a thing of this kind and try to console the one that is being worsted. There was such an one in this crowd. This man came over to Bastrop, stood watching the latter's lips and drinking in the marvelous flow of words that proceeded therefrom. Finally he blurted out: "Wall, you don't appear to be gettin' em as fast as that young man over there." "No," replied Bastrop, "I don't because I'm no d---- Yankee liar. But I've got the best show. I am from Bastrop, Bastrop County, Texas. I have got a human family--Master Eastwood of Ohio, the lonely star that is now shining for you. If I had the merits and qualifications of Master Eastwood [Eastwood could write and Bastrop couldn't] I would now fill the President's chair. Then I have the "Little Man" with the chariot and horses presented by Queen Victoria. Then I have the tall man. The great curiosity is why one should _grow_ so small and the other _remain_ so large. Why, ever since Adam, people have been of the human family, and if it were not for the human family where would the show be?" This sort of talk given out with a showman's gusto would be sure to draw a crowd. THE ESCAPE OF A LEOPARD In the days when one large tent answered for both the circus and menagerie we once met with an experience that seemed to reverse all the laws relative to the handling of animals. We were stopping at a small place in Indiana. The crowd which we had managed to get under the canvas was a large one, and they were taking in the show with all the eyes they had. Suddenly one of our leopards, made uneasy by something or other, managed to make his escape from the cage. With a snarling cry the creature ran into the ring where the ponies were doing their "turn." The presence of this ferocious animal almost threw the crowd into hysterics--women screamed and men shouted; some of them made a hasty exit under the canvas wall. Meanwhile the leopard had crouched for a spring. All the wildness of the jungles seemed to have returned to his veins and shone out in the flashes from his cat-like eyes in a way to send terror to the heart of the veteran trainer. The crowd seemed to hold its breath for an instant as the critical moment came. With a peculiar scream the creature leaped into the air and landed squarely upon the back of the nearest pony. At this exciting juncture a drunken countryman was seen making his way toward the ring. People shouted to him, but to no avail; the fellow swaggered on into the ring and made straight for the leopard. The pony was rearing frantically and crying piteously. As the madman ran he grabbed up a whip which had been lying in the ring and approached the leopard with upraised hand. The creature was too busily engaged with the pony to take notice of its new enemy. Soon the air was filled with the sound of resounding blows, that fell upon the back of the leopard. Soon the creature was compelled to loosen its hold; but the man did not stop. With an awful frenzy he rained the blows upon the creature until the animal whined with terror. By this time the trainers had arrived on the scene and the creature was driven back to its cage thoroughly cowed. But the madman was not satisfied. He continued to prance about in the ring, kicked up his heels and shouted: "Turn yer elephants and lions loose!" Of course he was the hero of the hour. HOTEL KEEPERS We used to have many amusing experiences with hotel proprietors, particularly when we were showing in regions in which the Irish or Germans comprised the greater part of the population. For policy we made a practice of humoring these peoples and made it a rule always to be friendly with them. One of our showmen once had an educated pig that he had named Bismarck. The pig was carried in a sort of box cage on the side of which was printed "Hotel de Bismarck." Coming into one town the population of which was largely German we found that we had pulled a storm over our heads. The German residents were insulted that a pig should be named after the beloved founder of their empire, and threatened summary vengeance. It was only by making many promises that we escaped with whole skins. But speaking of hotels: In billing a town in which there were several hotels run by Irishmen our advance agent usually promised each hotel proprietor that his particular hotel should be patronized by the show. As a result of this I usually found myself in an extremely embarrassing position when the show arrived at the town. Of course I could not patronize all of the hotels, and, at the same time, it was necessary for us to keep the good will of the proprietors. I usually went around to all of the disappointed ones, gave them free tickets, praised their children, their wives; berated our advance agent and promised better things for next time. In the end I managed to make friends with them and left them with no bad tastes in their mouths. I have always found them a jovial and reasonable people. Of course the hotel that did secure our patronage always had something to look back upon. It was a day of hustling, of real business, that came only once or twice in a lifetime. In those days napkins were entirely unknown. At one place some of our showmen asked the waitress to bring them napkins, and she answered: "I am sorry, sirs, but the last show that was here ate them all up." EARLY BREAKFASTS It was often necessary for the showmen to have their breakfast at three o'clock in the morning, and this, as the reader may well imagine, made it impracticable for the keeper of the little country hotel to go to bed at all. He usually stayed up all night on a "star" occasion of this kind and cooked for his deluge of boarders. The following little incident may illustrate the situation better, perhaps, than I can tell it: We had just hired a man to travel with our wagons. He was a "green" hand; but he felt it necessary, of course, to fill the proprietor of the little hotel where we stopped with an appreciation of a showman's importance. He got up about two o'clock to attend to the horses. As he passed out he came upon the hotel keeper who, with sleeves rolled up, was working for all he was worth. The new attaché stretched himself, yawned and said: "I'll tell you what, this is the last season that I'm goin' to travel with a show." "Yes," replied the other, "I guess--next to keeping a tavern--the circus business is about the hardest goin'." We once had with our show a woman whom we were exhibiting for her immense size. To enhance her value as a feature in the eyes of the countrymen she wore a gorgeous crown set with cheap but flashy stones. The crier would tell the people that the crown had been presented to the woman by the Prince of Wales and that it cost, in England, 5,000 pounds. Then the people would go in, examine it, and exclaim: "See the green diamonds and the blue diamonds and the red diamonds!" Once, when I was in a hotel in Wisconsin, I heard two waitresses talking about the show. One said she did not believe the crown cost such an amount. The other said: "Well; we can't tell, of course; we only know what we hear--but wasn't it beautiful!" XII HOW THE GREAT NEW YORK AQUARIUM WAS MADE AND LOST Every prominent showman has had some venture into which he has put his whole heart. Nothing in my career touched and moved me like the great New York Aquarium enterprise. Into this I not only put a fortune--more hundreds of thousands of dollars than were ever put into anything of the kind before or since--but I also invested the ambitions of my life. I was inspired by a profound desire to promote the interests of natural science in what appeared to me its most picturesque and attractive field--the marine world; and everything concerned in this mammoth undertaking exercised a strange fascination over me. All commercialism vanished, and I was as true and devoted a student of the wonders which I had collected as was the most erudite scientist that had ever looked upon that strange assemblage of creatures from the depths of arctic and torrid oceans. Night after night I remained alone in the great museum for the purpose of studying the habits of those fishes which displayed their most peculiar traits while the world slept. The finale of this enterprise was, it seems to me, in keeping with its remarkable character, and anything less picturesque than that which actually transpired in this connection would have fallen short of poetic justice. It is not too much to say that never before had the scientific world been permitted to view so comprehensive a collection of the varied and almost numberless types of deep sea life. Neither money nor pains was spared to the end of maintaining an aquarium approximating that of my fondest dreams. Early in the history of this gigantic enterprise I became associated with a member of one of the great animal importing houses, a German, my partner, although I undertook the active management of the institution. The Aquarium was first opened in October, 1876, the year of the Centennial, and I think I may truthfully say that the former received as frequent mention in the press of the day as did the latter. My connection with the Aquarium afforded me an opportunity to meet and become acquainted with the leading scientists and literary people of the day. I know of no institution of the kind that has been opened to the public under more favorable auspices. It was looked upon as an institution of education, and public and private schools attended in bodies. Men who have grown rich in the dime-museum business believe that the public do not wish instruction, but prefer to be amused with fakes. Nevertheless, the financial success of the New York Aquarium, during the period when it received its strongest support from the clergy and the men of science, has proved the allegation of the fake museum proprietors to be false. THE QUEST OF THE THREE-TAILED KINGIO On the first opening of the New York Aquarium I exhibited a fish from Japanese waters which was no larger than a man's hand. The Japanese name of this species is _kingio_, and the fish is very handsome in appearance, having three perfect tails, and is so graceful in its movements that these tails resemble folds of beautiful lace. It was presented to me by a friend of mine in Baltimore, who was in the habit of spending a portion of each year in Japan. Knowing how far advanced are the Japanese in pisciculture, this gentleman succeeded in persuading me to interest myself in their methods. I soon learned that these three-tailed fishes were the result of the Japanese system of breeding, of which they alone knew the secret, and when, on investigation, I learned that their waters contain many varieties of fish of gorgeous colors, I determined to spare no expense to possess a collection from this coast, especially after I learned that even Nature itself seemed reversed there, and that there are fishes in those waters that swim on their backs. Supplying a trusty agent with the necessary money, I first sent him to Yokohama, with letters of introduction to some friends of mine. Here, assisted by the natives, he commenced forming his collection. The captured fish were placed in a series of tanks swung from the deck of the steamer, and so arranged that a constant flow of water from a cheaply improvised reservoir should keep the fish in a healthy condition. However, the use of this device proved the inexperience of the agent, for, although the fish managed to thrive for about twenty days' time, one after another died until, on the twenty-eighth day of the voyage, on landing in San Francisco, he was obliged to wire me that not a single fish had survived the passage. My answer was: "Take the same steamer back to Japan and try again." This he did, with somewhat better success, reaching San Francisco with eighteen live fish belonging to rare and beautiful species. From his description I judged that they could not be worth less than $1,000 each. My hopes were high for the ultimate success of the undertaking. But my pleasure was destined to be short-lived, as my agent arrived at the Aquarium with only one living fish. The changeable climate and the overland journey had been too much for the delicate beauties from Oriental waters, and one by one they had expired, leaving "a sole survivor to tell the tale." Just as a matter of personal curiosity I figured up the cost of this precious member of the finny tribe from far-away Japan. He cost me more than $2,200 in gold. This may be scoffed at by some as a very fishy fish story, but when it is remembered that this specimen represented the outlay of two expeditions from America to Japan, including expenses for tanks, Japanese assistance, and all the ocean transportation, it will easily be realized that this statement is within reasonable limits. HALF-HOURS WITH BASHFUL WHALES We were equally zealous in our efforts to obtain the largest living creatures of the deep; and the fact that we exhibited live whales from the Isle Aux Condries was proof of our enterprise in this direction. Whales are timid, stupid creatures; in pursuit of small fish they run up close to the shore, and are captured by a comparatively simple method. Across the mouth of some deep bay a line of piles is driven when the water is at low tide; then the fishing fleet only awaits the arrival of a school of cetacea. These will sooner or later be seen rushing madly shoreward in pursuit of the schools of smaller fish on which they feed. When the whales are sighted the fishing vessels separate and endeavor to surround the assemblage of marine monsters. At high tide, when the line of piles is deeply submerged, the fleet crowds in toward the shore, and the frightened whales take refuge in the bay. Here they remain undisturbed, and are generally quiet until they feel the tide receding. Then they become restless, and finally make a dash for deep water, only to run against the line of piles. It would be comparatively easy for a big whale to batter a great gap in the improvised fence, and, in fact, there is frequently room enough between certain piles for him to pass through unharmed, but he is naturally timid and cowardly, and when within a yard or two of the piles, wheels about and darts back in terror toward the shore. This fruitless and exhausting manoeuvre is kept up until the tide has completely gone out and he is left helpless and stranded. In all my experience in this peculiar line of live fishing I have never known a whale to break through the barrier of piles and make his escape. The boxing and transportation to New York of these big fish was a great labor, and it often took fifty strong men several hours to get one of the monsters into its traveling case. Once in its box, water had to be poured over the back and blowholes of the imprisoned whale. The water pouring, by the way, was a monotonous and tiresome job which had to be continued without intermission during the subsequent ninety hours while the whale was being carried by vessel to Quebec, thence by rail via Montreal and Albany to New York. The water in which they lie must not cover their blow-holes, for, having no room to move they would be unable to rise and breathe and consequently would drown. Their boxes, therefore, were tight from the bottom up only as far as their eyes. Above that line there were cracks for the surplus water to flow off, and it was necessary for a man to stand over the whale and constantly drench him until the receiving tank was reached,--a difficult undertaking. I contracted to send a living whale to A. A. Stewart, of the �tna Insurance Company, a speculator, who with others in Cincinnati decided they wanted a whale. For a certain sum of money, therefore, I agreed to land one alive in that city. This venture made me much trouble and great expense, for, notwithstanding the great care exercised the animal died en route, and it was not until three had been lost that I succeeded, June 26, 1877, in landing one alive. This was considered a great achievement and was telegraphed all over the nation. A SLIPPERY DEAL IN SEA-LIONS In 1870 my men captured the first seals, or "sea-lions," as we termed them. The hunters experienced no difficulty in ensnaring these creatures by means of wire nets. This observation is a most interesting one in view of the fact that later we found it impossible to procure them by this method, showing that their intuitive sense of self-protection had taught them to fear man and to avoid his devices. No sooner did we find that these curious creatures had learned wisdom from the experience of their unfortunate fellows than we set about to originate some other plan by which we might make captives. Each of our first seals cost more than would five good specimens to-day, and they died before we could perfect our arrangements for exhibiting them. This was very discouraging, but we determined to try again, and our renewed efforts were rewarded with better success. One of the captives was an enormous creature and lived until the Fourteenth Street fire, when he was burned, together with $300,000 worth of other personal property. Some of these monster sea-lions are very deceiving when seen in their native element and surroundings. At a little distance they do not appear larger than an ordinary Newfoundland dog, but when captured are found to weigh from twelve hundred to two thousand pounds, and to measure from thirteen to fifteen feet in length. It is a splendid sight to see these glossy creatures leap from overhanging cliffs into the water fully fifty feet below. After our first capture there was a great demand for these animals from superintendents of zoölogical gardens in all the large cities of this and foreign countries. Realizing the large profits to be acquired by meeting this demand, I greatly desired to replenish our stock of sea-lions, and made an arrangement to that end with a man in California. We supplied him with all the money he required, which mounted high in the thousands of dollars by the time he had captured about three carloads of the interesting creatures. The man then came on to New York and delivered ten of the animals to us, stating that the others were en route. We at once wrote to the zoölogical gardens at Cincinnati and Philadelphia, offering to supply them with these rare animals. Imagine my surprise and indignation when I received answers to these communications, stating that the gardens had already procured sea-lions--from our agent! Of course we instantly made an investigation, and discovered that this crafty hunter had also supplied various European institutions with sea-lions, for the capture of which we had furnished the money. The fellow disappeared before we were thoroughly alive to the extent of the swindle which he had carried forward to such a brilliant success, and I have never seen him since. As he was "a canny Scot," he probably retired to his native heath and purchased himself a castle in the Highlands. Certainly he could easily have done this on the proceeds of his nefarious enterprise, for at that time the sea-lions commanded from $2,000 to $2,500 each in the European cities, and the market could not be satisfied even at that price. Take several carloads of sea-lions at these figures and the total would represent a snug little fortune. Afterwards when I opened the New York Aquarium, I bought a large sea lion, had an immense tank built, and a rock cliff made for him so he could jump into the water and sport around; but he kept up such a constant barking that he became a great nuisance. Having a showman friend who intended to spend the winter in Bermuda I permitted him to take the animal for exhibition purposes. Some few weeks afterwards I was surprised to receive a note from my friend saying he had returned the sea-lion and that he would follow on the next boat. No sooner was the sea-lion comfortably ensconced in his old quarters than he again began barking to such an extent that I heartily wished him in the Atlantic. His appetite, too, was most voracious, and we could scarcely get enough live fish to satisfy him. The strange thing about it was, as I learned on the arrival of my showman friend from Bermuda, the old fellow had refused food during the whole trip, and instead of barking and attracting attention, as we had hoped he would do, he had silently sulked until once more in the old home in the Aquarium. From this I gather that the barking which was so disagreeable to us must have been his expression of joy. The fact that he lived so long without food is most remarkable. AN EVENTFUL MONDAY MORNING AT THE AQUARIUM So far as I am able to learn, no enterprise of the magnitude of the New York Aquarium was ever disposed of on the flip of a penny. This transaction may not, at first thought, appeal to the church people of the country as being right, and the average business man will doubtless condemn it as unbusinesslike. The attending circumstances, however, were peculiar. This true story was never made public by my partner or myself, and the transaction always had a touch of mystery in the eyes of the showmen of the country. From the opening of the Aquarium until a certain eventful day its success, financially, scientifically and morally, was unqualified. This, as I have already intimated, was in large measure due to the enthusiastic support of clergymen, scientists and educators, whose commendations brought us the patronage of the intelligent masses with whom these eminent leaders of thought had the greatest influence. I received scores of letters from celebrated divines indorsing the Aquarium, and these were, of course, made use of in the way of advertising. My partner was a German and could not appreciate the American feeling for the Sabbath. He was determined to open the doors of the museum for Sunday patronage, declaring that this would bring in a very large number of people who were naturally inclined to Sabbath-day pleasure-seeking, and were quite generally interested in things of a scientific nature. He continued this campaign of argument for two years, during which I steadfastly urged that such a step would be an offense to the belief of the majority of our patrons; that it would bring into the place an undesirable element, from which it had been entirely free, and that the enterprise was enjoying a steady prosperity with which it would be wise to remain content. Then I repeatedly tried to buy his interest in the Aquarium, but he steadfastly refused to yield a single point, and became more imperative in his demands for Sunday opening. This persistency and increasing aggressiveness at last wore me out. One Monday morning, as he dropped in at the office and once more brought up the old contention, I determined that it should be settled, in one way or another, before he left the room. Instinctively I felt there was no use offering to purchase his interest, for I had previously gone to the limit of reason in that direction. THE ULTIMATE FATE OF THE AQUARIUM Calmly and coolly I took a mental survey of the whole situation during a moment of silence between his arguments for Sunday opening. In addition to the Aquarium, we also had a joint interest in four giraffes and five small elephants. The Aquarium was worth at least half a million dollars, as it included the two acres of land at Coney Island, on which was located our storage and supply aquarium, from which the exhibition house was replenished with attractions. Suddenly, as if waking out of a reverie, I fairly startled my partner with the exclamation: "See here! we can never agree on this Sunday business in the world. I'll stump you to flip a penny to see which one of us shall take those giraffes and elephants as his portion and walk out of this place next Saturday night, leaving the other in full possession of all the Aquarium property." "All right," he calmly answered, and led the way into the private office. There he drew up a brief statement embodying my proposition. We both signed it, and then I reached into my pocket and drew forth an old-fashioned copper cent. "Heads I win, tails you win," said the German, as I poised the coin on the nail of my thumb. As I nodded assent to this I realized that not only my fortune, but the dearest dreams of my life depended upon the fall of that copper. More to me than this, however, was the thought that my wife had become intensely interested and strongly attached to this undertaking--so much so that it was her personal pride and joy. Still another consideration which flashed through my mind at that instant was the realization that if I lost it would mean months and years of the same sort of homeless wandering life that I had lived while building up the fortune invested in the Aquarium. These thoughts and many others flashed through my mind in less time than it takes to tell them. After scarcely a moment's hesitation I sent the coin spinning into the air. It dropped upon the desk, and I can now see just how the light fell upon the fateful "head" which transferred my fortune to my partner! Instantly I executed to him a bill of sale, covering my entire interest in the concern. THE END 
3795	----	Under the Lilacs by Louisa May Alcott TO EMMA, IDA, CARL, AND LINA, Over The Sea, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THEIR NEW FRIEND AND SISTER, L. M. A. Contents I. A MYSTERIOUS DOG II. WHERE THEY FOUND HIS MASTER III. BEN IV. HIS STORY V. BEN GETS A PLACE VI. A CIRCULATING LIBRARY VII. NEW FRIENDS TROT IN VIII. MISS CELIA'S MAN IX. A HAPPY TEA X. A HEAVY TROUBLE XI. SUNDAY XII. GOOD TIMES XIII. SOMEBODY RUNS AWAY XIV. SOMEBODY GETS LOST XV. BEN'S RIDE XVI. DETECTIVE THORNTON XVII. BETTY'S BRAVERY XVIII. BOWS AND ARROWS XIX. SPEAKING PIECES XX. BEN'S BIRTHDAY XXI. CUPID'S LAST APPEARANCE XXII. A BOY'S BARGAIN XXIII. SOMEBODY COMES XXIV. THE GREAT GATE IS OPENED UNDER THE LILACS CHAPTER I A MYSTERIOUS DOG The elm-tree avenue was all overgrown, the great gate was never unlocked, and the old house had been shut up for several years. Yet voices were heard about the place, the lilacs nodded over the high wall as if they said, "We could tell fine secrets if we chose," and the mullein outside the gate made haste to reach the keyhole, that it might peep in and see what was going on. If it had suddenly grown up like a magic bean-stalk, and looked in on a certain June day, it would have seen a droll but pleasant sight, for somebody evidently was going to have a party. From the gate to the porch went a wide walk, paved with smooth slabs of dark stone, and bordered with the tall bushes which met overhead, making a green roof. All sorts of neglected flowers and wild weeds grew between their stems, covering the walls of this summer parlor with the prettiest tapestry. A board, propped on two blocks of wood, stood in the middle of the walk, covered with a little plaid shawl much the worse for wear, and on it a miniature tea-service was set forth with great elegance. To be sure, the tea-pot had lost its spout, the cream-jug its handle, the sugar-bowl its cover, and the cups and plates were all more or less cracked or nicked; but polite persons would not take notice of these trifling deficiencies, and none but polite persons were invited to this party. On either side of the porch was a seat, and here a somewhat remarkable sight would have been revealed to any inquisitive eye peering through the aforesaid keyhole. Upon the left-hand seat lay seven dolls, upon the right-hand seat lay six; and so varied were the expressions of their countenances, owing to fractures, dirt, age, and other afflictions, that one would very naturally have thought this a doll's hospital, and these the patients waiting for their tea. This, however, would have been a sad mistake; for if the wind had lifted the coverings laid over them, it would have disclosed the fact that all were in full dress, and merely reposing before the feast should begin. There was another interesting feature of the scene which would have puzzled any but those well acquainted with the manners and customs of dolls. A fourteenth rag baby, with a china head, hung by her neck from the rusty knocker in the middle of the door. A sprig of white and one of purple lilac nodded over her, a dress of yellow calico, richly trimmed with red-flannel scallops, shrouded her slender form, a garland of small flowers crowned her glossy curls, and a pair of blue boots touched toes in the friendliest, if not the most graceful, manner. An emotion of grief, as well as of surprise, might well have thrilled any youthful breast at such a spectacle; for why, oh! why, was this resplendent dolly hung up there to be stared at by thirteen of her kindred? Was she a criminal, the sight of whose execution threw them flat upon their backs in speechless horror? Or was she an idol, to be adored in that humble posture? Neither, my friends. She was blonde Belinda, set, or rather hung, aloft, in the place of honor, for this was her seventh birthday, and a superb ball was about to celebrate the great event. All were evidently awaiting a summons to the festive board; but such was the perfect breeding of these dolls, that not a single eye out of the whole twenty-seven (Dutch Hans had lost one of the black beads from his worsted countenance) turned for a moment toward the table, or so much as winked, as they lay in decorous rows, gazing with mute admiration at Belinda. She, unable to repress the joy and pride which swelled her sawdust bosom till the seams gaped, gave an occasional bounce as the wind waved her yellow skirts, or made the blue boots dance a sort of jig upon the door. Hanging was evidently not a painful operation, for she smiled contentedly, and looked as if the red ribbon around her neck was not uncomfortably tight; therefore, if slow suffocation suited her, who else had any right to complain? So a pleasing silence reigned, not even broken by a snore from Dinah, the top of whose turban alone was visible above the coverlet, or a cry from baby Jane, though her bare feet stuck out in a way that would have produced shrieks from a less well-trained infant. Presently voices were heard approaching, and through the arch which led to a side-path came two little girls, one carrying a small pitcher, the other proudly bearing a basket covered with a napkin. They looked like twins, but were not, for Bab was a year older than Betty, though only an inch taller. Both had on brown calico frocks, much the worse for a week's wear; but clean pink pinafores, in honor of the occasion, made up for that, as well as the gray stockings and thick boots. Both had round, rosy faces rather sunburnt, pug noses somewhat freckled, merry blue eyes, and braided tails of hair hanging down their backs like those of the dear little Kenwigses. "Don't they look sweet?" cried Bab, gazing with maternal pride upon the left-hand row of dolls, who might appropriately have sung in chorus, "We are seven." "Very nice; but my Belinda beats them all. I do think she is the splendidest child that ever was!" And Betty set down the basket to run and embrace the suspended darling, just then kicking up her heels with joyful abandon. "The cake can be cooling while we fix the children. It does smell perfectly delicious!" said Bab, lifting the napkin to hang over the basket, fondly regarding the little round loaf that lay inside. "Leave some smell for me!" commanded Betty, running back to get her fair share of the spicy fragrance. The pug noses sniffed it up luxuriously, and the bright eyes feasted upon the loveliness of the cake, so brown and shiny, with a tipsy-looking B in pie-crust staggering down one side, instead of sitting properly a-top. "Ma let me put it on the very last minute, and it baked so hard I couldn't pick it off. We can give Belinda that piece, so it's just as well," observed Betty, taking the lead, as her child was queen of the revel. "Let's set them round, so they can see too," proposed Bab, going, with a hop, skip, and jump, to collect her young family. Betty agreed, and for several minutes both were absorbed in seating their dolls about the table; for some of the dear things were so limp they wouldn't sit up, and others so stiff they wouldn't sit down, and all sorts of seats had to be contrived to suit the peculiarities of their spines. This arduous task accomplished, the fond mammas stepped back to enjoy the spectacle, which, I assure you, was an impressive one. Belinda sat with great dignity at the head, her hands genteelly holding a pink cambric pocket-handkerchief in her lap. Josephus, her cousin, took the foot, elegantly arrayed in a new suit of purple and green gingham, with his speaking countenance much obscured by a straw hat several sizes too large for him; while on either side sat guests of every size, complexion, and costume, producing a very gay and varied effect, as all were dressed with a noble disregard of fashion. "They will like to see us get tea. Did you forget the buns?" inquired Betty, anxiously. "No; got them in my pocket." And Bab produced from that chaotic cupboard two rather stale and crumbly ones, saved from lunch for the fete. These were cut up and arranged in plates, forming a graceful circle around the cake, still in its basket. "Ma couldn't spare much milk, so we must mix water with it. Strong tea isn't good for children, she says." And Bab contentedly surveyed the gill of skim-milk which was to satisfy the thirst of the company. "While the tea draws and the cake cools, let's sit down and rest; I'm so tired!" sighed Betty, dropping down on the door-step and stretching out the stout little legs which had been on the go all day; for Saturday had its tasks as well as its fun, and much business had preceded this unusual pleasure. Bab went and sat beside her, looking idly down the walk toward the gate, where a fine cobweb shone in the afternoon sun. "Ma says she is going over the house in a day or two, now it is warm and dry after the storm, and we may go with her. You know she wouldn't take us in the fall, cause we had whooping-cough, and it was damp there. Now we shall see all the nice things; won't it be fun?" observed Bab, after a pause. "Yes, indeed! Ma says there's lots of books in one room, and I can look at 'em while she goes round. May be I'll have time to read some, and then I can tell you," answered Betty, who dearly loved stories, and seldom got any new ones. "I'd rather see the old spinning-wheel up garret, and the big pictures, and the queer clothes in the blue chest. It makes me mad to have them all shut up there, when we might have such fun with them. I'd just like to bang that old door down!" And Bab twisted round to give it a thump with her boots. "You needn't laugh; you know you'd like it as much as me," she added, twisting back again, rather ashamed of her impatience. "I didn't laugh." "You did! Don't you suppose I know what laughing is?" "I guess I know I didn't." "You did laugh! How darst you tell such a fib?" "If you say that again I'll take Belinda and go right home; then what will you do?" "I'll eat up the cake." "No, you won't! It's mine, Ma said so; and you are only company, so you'd better behave or I won't have any party at all, so now." This awful threat calmed Bab's anger at once, and she hastened to introduce a safer subject. "Never mind; don't let's fight before the children. Do you know, Ma says she will let us play in the coach-house next time it rains, and keep the key if we want to." "Oh, goody! that's because we told her how we found the little window under the woodbine, and didn't try to go in, though we might have just as easy as not," cried Betty, appeased at once, for, after a ten years' acquaintance, she had grown used to Bab's peppery temper. "I suppose the coach will be all dust and rats and spiders, but I don't care. You and the dolls can be the passengers, and I shall sit up in front drive." "You always do. I shall like riding better than being horse all the time, with that old wooden bit in my mouth, and you jerking my arms off," said poor Betty, who was tired of being horse continually. "I guess we'd better go and get the water now," suggested Bab, feeling that it was not safe to encourage her sister in such complaints. "It is not many people who would dare to leave their children all alone with such a lovely cake, and know they wouldn't pick at it," said Betty proudly, as they trotted away to the spring, each with a little tin pail in her hand. Alas, for the faith of these too confiding mammas! They were gone about five minutes, and when they returned a sight met their astonished eyes which produced a simultaneous shriek of horror. Flat upon their faces lay the fourteen dolls, and the cake, the cherished cake, was gone. For an instant the little girls could only stand motionless, gazing at the dreadful scene. Then Bab cast her water-pail wildly away, and, doubling up her fist, cried out fiercely,-- "It was that Sally! She said she'd pay me for slapping her when she pinched little Mary Ann, and now she has. I'll give it to her! You run that way. I'll run this. Quick! quick!" Away they went, Bab racing straight on, and bewildered Betty turning obediently round to trot in the opposite direction as fast as she could, with the water splashing all over her as she ran, for she had forgotten to put down her pail. Round the house they went, and met with a crash at the back door, but no sign of the thief appeared. "In the lane!" shouted Bab. "Down by the spring!" panted Betty; and off they went again, one to scramble up a pile of stones and look over the wall into the avenue, the other to scamper to the spot they had just left. Still, nothing appeared but the dandelions' innocent faces looking up at Bab, and a brown bird scared from his bath in the spring by Betty's hasty approach. Back they rushed, but only to meet a new scare, which made them both cry "Ow!" and fly into the porch for refuge. A strange dog was sitting calmly among the ruins of the feast, licking his lips after basely eating up the last poor bits of bun, when he had bolted the cake, basket, and all, apparently. "Oh, the horrid thing!" cried Bab, longing to give battle, but afraid, for the dog was a peculiar as well as a dishonest animal. "He looks like our China poodle, doesn't he?" whispered Betty, making herself as small as possible behind her more valiant sister. He certainly did; for, though much larger and dirtier than the well-washed China dog, this live one had the same tassel at the end of his tail, ruffles of hair round his ankles, and a body shaven behind and curly before. His eyes, however, were yellow, instead of glassy black, like the other's; his red nose worked as he cocked it up, as if smelling for more cakes, in the most impudent manner; and never, during the three years he had stood on the parlor mantel-piece, had the China poodle done the surprising feats with which this mysterious dog now proceeded to astonish the little girls almost out of their wits. First he sat up, put his forepaws together, and begged prettily; then he suddenly flung his hind-legs into the air, and walked about with great ease. Hardly had they recovered from this shock, when the hind-legs came down, the fore-legs went up, and he paraded in a soldierly manner to and fro, like a sentinel on guard. But the crowning performance was when he took his tail in his mouth and waltzed down the walk, over the prostrate dolls, to the gate and back again, barely escaping a general upset of the ravaged table. Bab and Betty could only hold each other tight and squeal with delight, for never had they seen any thing so funny; but, when the gymnastics ended, and the dizzy dog came and stood on the step before them barking loudly, with that pink nose of his sniffing at their feet, and his queer eyes fixed sharply upon them, their amusement turned to fear again, and they dared not stir. "Whish, go away!" commanded Bab. "Scat!" meekly quavered Betty. To their great relief, the poodle gave several more inquiring barks, and then vanished as suddenly as he appeared. With one impulse, the children ran to see what became of him, and, after a brisk scamper through the orchard, saw the tasselled tail disappear under the fence at the far end. "Where do you s'pose he came from?" asked Betty, stopping to rest on a big stone. "I'd like to know where he's gone, too, and give him a good beating, old thief!" scolded Bab, remembering their wrongs. "Oh, dear, yes! I hope the cake burnt him dreadfully if he did eat it," groaned Betty, sadly remembering the dozen good raisins she chopped up, and the "lots of 'lasses" mother put into the dear lost loaf. "The party's all spoilt, so we may as well go home; and Bab mournfully led the way back. Betty puckered up her face to cry, but burst out laughing in spite of her woe. "It was so funny to see him spin round and walk on his head! I wish he'd do it all over again; don't you?" "Yes: but I hate him just the same. I wonder what Ma will say when--why! why!" and Bab stopped short in the arch, with her eyes as round and almost as large as the blue saucers on the tea-tray. "What is it? oh, what is it?" cried Betty, all ready to run away if any new terror appeared. "Look! there! it's come back!" said Bab in an awe-stricken whisper, pointing to the table. Betty did look, and her eyes opened even wider,--as well they might,--for there, just where they first put it, was the lost cake, unhurt, unchanged, except that the big B had coasted a little further down the gingerbread hill. CHAPTER II WHERE THEY FOUND HIS MASTER Neither spoke for a minute, astonishment being too great for words; then, as by one impulse, both stole up and touched the cake with a timid finger, quite prepared to see it fly away in some mysterious and startling manner. It remained sitting tranquilly in the basket, however, and the children drew a long breath of relief, for, though they did not believe in fairies, the late performances did seem rather like witchcraft. "The dog didn't eat it!" "Sally didn't take it!" "How do you know?" "She never would have put it back." "Who did?" "Can't tell, but I forgive 'em." "What shall we do now?" asked Betty, feeling as if it would be very difficult to settle down to a quiet tea-party after such unusual excitement. "Eat that cake up just as fast as ever we can," and Bab divided the contested delicacy with one chop of the big knife, bound to make sure of her own share at all events. It did not take long, for they washed it down with sips of milk, and ate as fast as possible, glancing round all the while to see if the queer dog was coming again. "There! now I'd like to see any one take my cake away," said Bab, defiantly crunching her half of the pie-crust B. "Or mine either," coughed Betty, choking over a raisin that wouldn't go down in a hurry. "We might as well clear up, and play there had been an earthquake," suggested Bab, feeling that some such convulsion of Nature was needed to explain satisfactorily the demoralized condition of her family. "That will be splendid. My poor Linda was knocked right over on her nose. Darlin' child, come to your mother and be fixed," purred Betty, lifting the fallen idol from a grove of chickweed, and tenderly brushing the dirt from Belinda's heroically smiling face. "She'll have croup to-night as sure as the world. We'd better make up some squills out of this sugar and water," said Bab, who dearly loved to dose the dollies all round. "P'r'aps she will, but you needn't begin to sneeze yet awhile. I can sneeze for my own children, thank you, ma'am," returned Betty, sharply, for her usually amiable spirit had been ruffled by the late occurrences. "I didn't sneeze! I've got enough to do to talk and cry and cough for my own poor dears, without bothering about yours," cried Bab, even more ruffled than her sister. "Then who did? I heard a real live sneeze just as plain as anything," and Betty looked up to the green roof above her, as if the sound came from that direction. A yellow-bird sat swinging and chirping on the tall lilac-bush, but no other living thing was in sight. "Birds don't sneeze, do they?" asked Betty, eying little Goldy suspiciously. "You goose! of course they don't." "Well. I should just like to know who is laughing and sneezing round here. May be it is the dog," suggested Betty looking relieved. "I never heard of a dog's laughing, except Mother Hubbard's. This is such a queer one, may be he can, though. I wonder where he went to?" and Bab took a survey down both the side-paths, quite longing to see the funny poodle again. "I know where I 'm going to," said Betty, piling the dolls into her apron with more haste than care. "I'm going right straight home to tell Ma all about it. I don't like such actions, and I 'm afraid to stay." "I ain't; but I guess it is going to rain, so I shall have to go any way," answered Bab, taking advantage of the black clouds rolling up the sky, for she scorned to own that she was afraid of any thing. Clearing the table in a summary manner by catching up the four corners of the cloth, Bab put the rattling bundle into her apron, flung her children on the top and pronounced herself ready to depart. Betty lingered an instant to pick up and ends that might be spoilt by the rain, and, when she turned from taking the red halter off the knocker, two lovely pink roses lay on the stone steps. "Oh, Bab, just see! Here's the very ones we wanted. Wasn't it nice of the wind to blow 'em down?" she called out, picking them up and running after her sister, who had strolled moodily along, still looking about for her sworn foe, Sally Folsom. The flowers soothed the feelings of the little girls, because they had longed for them, and bravely resisted the temptation to climb up the trellis and help themselves, since their mother had forbidden such feats, owing to a fall Bab got trying to reach a honeysuckle from the vine which ran all over the porch. Home they went and poured out their tale, to Mrs. Moss's great amusement; for she saw in it only some playmate's prank, and was not much impressed by the mysterious sneeze and laugh. "We'll have a grand rummage Monday, and find out what is going on over there," was all she said. But Mrs. Moss could not keep her promise, for on Monday it still rained, and the little girls paddled off to school like a pair of young ducks, enjoying every puddle they came to, since India-rubber boots made wading a delicious possibility. They took their dinner, and at noon regaled a crowd of comrades with an account of the mysterious dog, who appeared to be haunting the neighborhood, as several of the other children had seen him examining their back yards with interest. He had begged of them, but to none had he exhibited his accomplishments except Bab and Betty; and they were therefore much set up, and called him "our dog" with an air. The cake transaction remained a riddle, for Sally Folsom solemnly declared that she was playing tag in Mamie Snow's barn at that identical time. No one had been near the old house but the two children, and no one could throw any light upon that singular affair. It produced a great effect, however; for even "teacher" was interested, and told such amazing tales of a juggler she once saw, that doughnuts were left forgotten in dinner-baskets, and wedges of pie remained suspended in the air for several minutes at a time, instead of vanishing with miraculous rapidity as usual. At afternoon recess, which the girls had first, Bab nearly dislocated every joint of her little body trying to imitate the poodle's antics. She had practised on her bed with great success, but the wood-shed floor was a different thing, as her knees and elbows soon testified. "It looked just as easy as any thing; I don't see how he did it," she said, coming down with a bump after vainly attempting to walk on her hands. "My gracious, there he is this very minute!" cried Betty, who sat on a little wood-pile near the door. There was a general rush,--and sixteen small girls gazed out into the rain as eagerly as if to behold Cinderella's magic coach, instead of one forlorn dog trotting by through the mud. "Oh, do call him in and make him dance!" cried the girls, all chirping at once, till it sounded as if a flock of sparrows had taken possession of the shed. "I will call him, he knows me," and Bab scrambled up, forgetting how she had chased the poodle and called him names two days ago. He evidently had not forgotten, however; for, though he paused and looked wistfully at them, he would not approach, but stood dripping in the rain, with his frills much bedraggled, while his tasselled tail wagged slowly, and his pink nose pointed suggestively to the pails and baskets, nearly empty now. "He's hungry; give him something to eat, and then he'll see that we don't want to hurt him," suggested Sally, starting a contribution with her last bit of bread and butter. Bab caught up her new pail, and collected all the odds and ends; then tried to beguile the poor beast in to eat and be comforted. But he only came as far as the door, and, sitting up, begged with such imploring eyes that Bab put down the pail and stepped back, saying pitifully,-- "The poor thing is starved; let him eat all he wants, and we won't touch him." The girls drew back with little clucks of interest and compassion; but I regret to say their charity was not rewarded as they expected, for, the minute the coast was clear, the dog marched boldly up, seized the handle of the pail in his mouth, and was off with it, galloping down the road at a great pace. Shrieks arose from the children, especially Bab and Betty, basely bereaved of their new dinner-pail; but no one could follow the thief, for the bell rang, and in they went, so much excited that the boys rushed tumultuously forth to discover the cause. By the time school was over the sun was out, and Bab and Betty hastened home to tell their wrongs and be comforted by mother, who did it most effectually. "Never mind, dears, I'll get you another pail, if he doesn't bring it back as he did before. As it is too wet for you to play out, you shall go and see the old coach-house as I promised. Keep on your rubbers and come along." This delightful prospect much assuaged their woe, and away they went, skipping gayly down the gravelled path, while Mrs. Moss followed, with skirts well tucked up, and a great bunch of keys in her hand; for she lived at the Lodge, and had charge of the premises. The small door of the coach-house was fastened inside, but the large one had a padlock on it; and this being quickly unfastened, one half swung open, and the little girls ran in, too eager and curious even to cry out when they found themselves at last in possession of the long-coveted old carriage. A dusty, musty concern enough; but it had a high seat, a door, steps that let down, and many other charms which rendered it most desirable in the eyes of children. Bab made straight for the box and Betty for the door; but both came tumbling down faster than they went up, when from the gloom of the interior came a shrill bark, and a low voice saying quickly, "Down, Sancho! down!" "Who is there?" demanded Mrs. Moss, in a stern tone, backing toward the door with both children clinging to her skirts. The well-known curly white head was popped out of the broken window, and a mild whine seemed to say, "Don't be alarmed, ladies; we won't hurt you. Come out this minute, or I shall have to come and get you," called Mrs. Moss, growing very brave all of a sudden as she caught sight of a pair of small, dusty shoes under the coach. "Yes, 'm, I'm coming, as fast as I can," answered a meek voice, as what appeared to be a bundle of rags leaped out of the dark, followed by the poodle, who immediately sat down at the bare feet of his owner with a watchful air, as if ready to assault any one who might approach too near. "Now, then, who are you, and how did you get here?" asked Mrs. Moss, trying to speak sternly, though her motherly eyes were already full of pity, as they rested on the forlorn little figure before her. CHAPTER III BEN "Please, 'm, my name is Ben Brown, and I'm travellin'." "Where are you going?" "Anywheres to get work." "What sort of work can you do?" "All kinds. I'm used to horses." "Bless me! such a little chap as you? "I'm twelve, ma'am, and can ride any thing on four legs;" and the small boy gave a nod that seemed to say, "Bring on your Cruisers. I'm ready for 'em." "Haven't you got any folks?" asked Mrs. Moss, amused but still anxious, for the sunburnt face was very thin, the eyes hollow with hunger or pain, and the ragged figure leaned on the wheel as if too weak or weary to stand alone. "No, 'm, not of my own; and the people I was left with beat me so, I--run away." The last words seemed to bolt out against his will as if the woman's sympathy irresistibly won the child's confidence. "Then I don't blame you. But how did you get here?" "I was so tired I couldn't go any further, and I thought the folks up here at the big house would take me in. But the gate was locked, and I was so discouraged, I jest laid down outside and give up." "Poor little soul, I don't wonder," said Mrs. Moss, while the children looked deeply interested at mention of their gate. The boy drew a long breath, and his eyes began to twinkle in spite of his forlorn state as he went on, while the dog pricked up his ears at mention of his name:-- "While I was restin' I heard some one come along inside, and I peeked, and saw them little girls playin'. The vittles looked so nice I couldn't help wantin' 'em; but I didn't take nothin',--it was Sancho, and he took the cake for me." Bab and Betty gave a gasp and stared reproachfully at the poodle, who half closed his eyes with a meek, unconscious look that was very droll. "And you made him put it back?" cried Bab. "No; I did it myself. Got over the gate when you was racin' after Sancho, and then clim' up on the porch and hid," said the boy with a grin. "And you laughed?" asked Bab. "Yes." "And sneezed?" added Betty. "Yes." "And threw down the roses?" cried both. "Yes; and you liked 'em, didn't you?" "Course we did! What made you hide?" said Bab. "I wasn't fit to be seen," muttered Ben, glancing at his tatters as if he'd like to dive out of sight into the dark coach again. "How came you here?" demanded Mrs. Moss, suddenly remembering her responsibility. "I heard 'em talk about a little winder and a shed, and when they'd gone I found it and come in. The glass was broke, and I only pulled the nail out. I haven't done a mite of harm sleepin' here two nights. I was so tuckered out I couldn't go on nohow, though I tried a Sunday." "And came back again? "Yes, 'm; it was so lonesome in the rain, and this place seemed kinder like home, and I could hear 'em talkin' outside, and Sanch he found vittles, and I was pretty comfortable." "Well, I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Moss, whisking up a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, for the thought of the poor little fellow alone there for two days and nights with no bed but musty straw, no food but the scraps a dog brought him, was too much for her. "Do you know what I'm going to do with you?" she asked, trying to look calm and cool, with a great tear running down her wholesome red cheek, and a smile trying to break out at the corners of her lips. "No, ma'am, and I dunno as I care. Only don't be hard on Sanch; he's been real good to me, and we 're fond of one another; ain't us, old chap?" answered the boy, with his arm around the dog's neck, and an anxious look which he had not worn for himself. "I'm going to take you right home, and wash and feed and put you in a good bed; and to-morrow,--well, we'll see what'll happen then," said Mrs. Moss, not quite sure about it herself. "You're very kind, ma'am, I'll be glad to work for you. Ain't you got a horse I can see to?" asked the boy, eagerly. "Nothing but hens and a cat." Bab and Betty burst out laughing when their mother said that, and Ben gave a faint giggle, as if he would like to join in if he only had the strength to do it. But his legs shook under him, and he felt a queer dizziness; so he could only hold on to Sancho, and blink at the light like a young owl. "Come right along, child. Run on, girls, and put the rest of the broth to warming, and fill the kettle. I'll see to the boy," commanded Mrs. Moss, waving off the children, and going up to feel the pulse of her new charge, for it suddenly occurred to her that he might be sick and not safe to take home. The hand he gave her was very thin, but clean and cool, and the black eyes were clear though hollow, for the poor lad was half-starved. "I'm awful shabby, but I ain't dirty. I had a washin' in the rain last night, and I've jest about lived on water lately," he explained, wondering why she looked at him so hard. "Put out your tongue." He did so, but took it in again to say quickly,-- "I ain't sick,--I'm only hungry; for I haven't had a mite but what Sanch brought, for three days; and I always go halves, don't I, Sanch?" The poodle gave a shrill bark, and vibrated excitedly between the door and his master as if he understood all that was going on, and recommended a speedy march toward the promised food and shelter. Mrs. Moss took the hint, and bade the boy follow her at once and bring his "things" with him. "I ain't got any. Some big fellers took away my bundle, else I wouldn't look so bad. There's only this. I'm sorry Sanch took it, and I'd like to give it back if I knew whose it was," said Ben, bringing the new dinner-pail out from the depths of the coach where he had gone to housekeeping. "That's soon done; it's mine, and you're welcome to the bits your queer dog ran off with. Come along, I must lock up," and Mrs. Moss clanked her keys suggestively. Ben limped out, leaning on a broken hoe-handle, for he was stiff after two days in such damp lodgings, as well as worn out with a fortnight's wandering through sun and rain. Sancho was in great spirits, evidently feeling that their woes were over and his foraging expeditions at an end, for he frisked about his master with yelps of pleasure, or made playful darts at the ankles of his benefactress, which caused her to cry, "Whish!" and "Scat!" and shake her skirts at him as if he were a cat or hen. A hot fire was roaring in the stove under the broth-skillet and tea-kettle, and Betty was poking in more wood, with a great smirch of black on her chubby cheek, while Bab was cutting away at the loaf as if bent on slicing her own fingers off. Before Ben knew what he was about, he found himself in the old rocking-chair devouring bread and butter as only a hungry boy can, with Sancho close by gnawing a mutton-bone like a ravenous wolf in sheep's clothing. While the new-comers were thus happily employed, Mrs. Moss beckoned the little girls out of the room, and gave them both an errand. "Bab, you run over to Mrs. Barton's, and ask her for any old duds Billy don't want; and Betty, you go to the Cutters, and tell Miss Clarindy I'd like a couple of the shirts we made at last sewing circle. Any shoes, or a hat, or socks, would come handy, for the poor dear hasn't a whole thread on him." Away went the children full of anxiety to clothe their beggar; and so well did they plead his cause with the good neighbors, that Ben hardly knew himself when he emerged from the back bedroom half an hour later, clothed in Billy Barton's faded flannel suit, with an unbleached cotton shirt out of the Dorcas basket, and a pair of Milly Cutter's old shoes on his feet. Sancho also had been put in better trim, for, after his master had refreshed himself with a warm bath, he gave his dog a good scrub while Mrs. Moss set a stitch here and there in the new old clothes; and Sancho reappeared, looking more like the china poodle than ever, being as white as snow, his curls well brushed up, and his tasselly tail waving proudly over his back. Feeling eminently respectable and comfortable, the wanderers humbly presented themselves, and were greeted with smiles of approval from the little girls and a hospitable welcome from the mother, who set them near the stove to dry, as both were decidedly damp after their ablutions. "I declare I shouldn't have known you!" exclaimed the good woman, surveying the boy with great satisfaction; for, though still very thin and tired, the lad had a tidy look that pleased her, and a lively way of moving about in his clothes, like an eel in a skin rather too big for him. The merry black eyes seemed to see every thing, the voice had an honest sound, and the sunburnt face looked several years younger since the unnatural despondency had gone out of it. "It's very nice, and me and Sanch are lots obliged, ma'am," murmured Ben, getting red and bashful under the three pairs of friendly eyes fixed upon him. Bab and Betty were doing up the tea-things with unusual despatch, so that they might entertain their guest, and just as Ben spoke Bab dropped a cup. To her great surprise no smash followed, for, bending quickly, the boy caught it as it fell, and presented it to her on the back of his hand with a little bow. "Gracious! how could you do it?" asked Bab, looking as if she thought there was magic about. "That's nothing; look here," and, taking two plates, Ben sent them spinning up into the air, catching and throwing so rapidly that Bab and Betty stood with their mouths open, as if to swallow the plates should they fall, while Mrs. Moss, with her dish-cloth suspended, watched the antics of her crockery with a housewife's anxiety. "That does beat all!" was the only exclamation she had time to make; for, as if desirous of showing his gratitude in the only way he could, Ben took clothes-pins from a basket near by, sent several saucers twirling up, caught them on the pins, balanced the pins on chin, nose, forehead, and went walking about with a new and peculiar sort of toadstool ornamenting his countenance. The children were immensely tickled, and Mrs. Moss was so amused she would have lent her best soup-tureen if he had expressed a wish for it. But Ben was too tired to show all his accomplishments at once, and he soon stopped, looking as if he almost regretted having betrayed that he possessed any. "I guess you've been in the juggling business," said Mrs. Moss, with a wise nod, for she saw the same look on his face as when he said his name was Ben Brown,--the look of one who was not telling the whole truth. "Yes, 'm. I used to help Senor Pedro, the Wizard of the World, and I learned some of his tricks," stammered Ben, trying to seem innocent. "Now, look here, boy, you'd better tell me the whole story, and tell it true, or I shall have to send you up to judge Morris. I wouldn't like to do that, for he is a harsh sort of a man; so, if you haven't done any thing bad, you needn't be afraid to speak out, and I'll do what I can for you," said Mrs. Moss, rather sternly, as she went and sat down in her rocking-chair, as if about to open the court. "I haven't done any thing bad, and I ain't afraid, only I don't want to go back; and if I tell, may be you'll let 'em know where I be," said Ben, much distressed between his longing to confide in his new friend and his fear of his old enemies. "If they abused you, of course I wouldn't. Tell the truth, and I'll stand by you. Girls, you go for the milk." "Oh, Ma, do let us stay! We'll never tell, truly, truly!" cried Bab and Betty, full of dismay being sent off when secrets were about to be divulged. "I don't mind 'em," said Ben handsomely. "Very well, only hold your tongues. Now, boy where did you come from?" said Mrs. Moss, as the little girls hastily sat down together on their private and particular bench opposite their mother, brimming with curiosity and beaming with satisfaction at the prospect before them. CHAPTER IV HIS STORY "I ran away from a circus," began Ben, but got no further, for Bab and Betty gave a simultaneous bounce of delight, and both cried out at once,-- "We've been to one! It was splendid!" "You wouldn't think so if you knew as much about it as I do," answered Ben, with a sudden frown and wriggle, as if he still felt the smart of the blows he had received. "We don't call it splendid; do we, Sancho?" he added, making a queer noise, which caused the poodle to growl and bang the floor irefully with his tail, as he lay close to his master's feet, getting acquainted with the new shoes they wore. "How came you there?" asked Mrs. Moss, rather disturbed at the news. "Why, my father was the 'Wild Hunter of the Plains.' Didn't you ever see or hear of him?" said Ben, as if surprised at her ignorance. "Bless your heart, child, I haven't been to a circus this ten years, and I'm sure I don't remember what or who I saw then," answered Mrs. Moss, amused, yet touched by the son's evident admiration for his father. "Didn't you see him?" demanded Ben, turning to the little girls. "We saw Indians and tumbling men, and the Bounding Brothers of Borneo, and a clown and monkeys, and a little mite of a pony with blue eyes. Was he any of them?" answered Betty, innocently. "Pooh! he didn't belong to that lot. He always rode two, four, six, eight horses to oncet, and I used to ride with him till I got too big. My father was A No. 1, and didn't do any thing but break horses and ride 'em," said Ben, with as much pride as if his parent had been a President. "Is he dead?" asked Mrs. Moss. "I don't know. Wish I did,"--and poor Ben gave a gulp as if something rose in his throat and choked him. "Tell us all about it, dear, and may be we can find out where he is," said Mrs. Moss, leaning forward to pat the shiny dark head that was suddenly bent over the dog. "Yes, ma'am. I will, thank y'," and with an effort the boy steadied his voice and plunged into the middle of his story. "Father was always good to me, and I liked bein' with him after granny died. I lived with her till I was seven; then father took me, and I was trained for rider. You jest oughter have seen me when I was a little feller all in white tights, and a gold belt, and pink riggin', standing' on father's shoulder, or hangin' on to old General's tail, and him gallopin' full pelt; or father ridin' three horses with me on his head wavin' flags, and every one clapping like fun." "Oh, weren't you scared to pieces?" asked Betty, quaking at the mere thought. "Not a bit. I liked it." "So should I!" cried Bab enthusiastically. "Then I drove the four ponies in the little chariot, when we paraded," continued Ben, "and I sat on the great ball up top of the grand car drawed by Hannibal and Nero. But I didn't like that, 'cause it was awful high and shaky, and the sun was hot, and the trees slapped my face, and my legs ached holdin' on." "What's hanny bells and neroes?" demanded Betty. "Big elephants. Father never let 'em put me up there, and they didn't darst till he was gone; then I had to, else they'd 'a' thrashed me." "Didn't any one take your part?" asked Mrs. Moss. "Yes, 'm, 'most all the ladies did; they were very good to me, 'specially 'Melia. She vowed she wouldn't go on in the Tunnymunt act if they didn't stop knockin' me round when I wouldn't help old Buck with the bears. So they had to stop it, 'cause she led first rate, and none of the other ladies rode half as well as 'Melia." "Bears! oh, do tell about them!" exclaimed Bab, in great excitement, for at the only circus she had seen the animals were her delight. "Buck had five of 'em, cross old fellers, and he showed 'em off. I played with 'em once, jest for fun, and he thought it would make a hit to have me show off instead of him. But they had a way of clawin' and huggin' that wasn't nice, and you couldn't never tell whether they were good-natured or ready to bite your head off. Buck was all over scars where they'd scratched and bit him, and I wasn't going to do it; and I didn't have to, owin' to Miss St. John's standin' by me like a good one." "Who was Miss St. John?" asked Mrs. Moss, rather confused by the sudden introduction of new names and people. "Why she was 'Melia,--Mrs. Smithers, the ringmaster's wife. His name wasn't Montgomery any more'n hers was St. John. They all change 'em to something fine on the bills, you know. Father used to be Senor Jose Montebello; and I was Master Adolphus Bloomsbury, after I stopped bein' a flyin' Coopid and a infant Progidy." Mrs. Moss leaned back in her chair to laugh at that, greatly to the surprise of the little girls, who were much impressed with the elegance of these high-sounding names. "Go on with your story, Ben, and tell why you ran away and what became of your Pa," she said, composing herself to listen, really interested in the child. "Well, you see, father had a quarrel with old Smithers, and went off sudden last fall, just before tenting season' was over. He told me he was goin' to a great ridin' school in New York and when he was fixed he'd send for me. I was to stay in the museum and help Pedro with the trick business. He was a nice man and I liked him, and 'Melia was goin' to see to me, and I didn't mind for awhile. But father didn't send for me, and I began to have horrid times. If it hadn't been for 'Melia and Sancho I would have cut away long before I did." "What did you have to do?" "Lots of things, for times was dull and I was smart. Smithers said so, any way, and I had to tumble up lively when he gave the word. I didn't mind doin' tricks or showin' off Sancho, for father trained him, and he always did well with me. But they wanted me to drink gin to keep me small, and I wouldn't, 'cause father didn't like that kind of thing. I used to ride tip-top, and that just suited me till I got a fall and hurt my back; but I had to go on all the same, though I ached dreadful, and used to tumble off, I was so dizzy and weak." "What a brute that man must have been! Why didn't 'Melia put a stop to it?" asked Mrs. Moss, indignantly. "She died, ma'am, and then there was no one left but Sanch; so I run away." Then Ben fell to patting his dog again, to hide the tears he could not keep from coming at the thought of the kind friend he had lost. "What did you mean to do?" "Find father; but I couldn't, for he wasn't at the ridin' school, and they told me he had gone out West to buy mustangs for a man who wanted a lot. So then I was in a fix, for I couldn't go to father, didn't know jest where he was, and I wouldn't sneak back to Smithers to be abused. Tried to make 'em take me at the ridin' school, but they didn't want a boy, and I travelled along and tried to get work. But I'd have starved if it hadn't been for Sanch. I left him tied up when I ran off, for fear they'd say I stole him. He's a very valuable dog, ma'am, the best trick dog I ever see, and they'd want him back more than they would me. He belongs to father, and I hated to leave him; but I did. I hooked it one dark night, and never thought I'd see him ag'in. Next mornin' I was eatin' breakfast in a barn miles away, and dreadful lonesome, when he came tearin' in, all mud and wet, with a great piece of rope draggin'. He'd gnawed it and come after me, and wouldn't go back or be lost; and I'll never leave him again, will I, dear old feller?" Sancho had listened to this portion of the tale with intense interest, and when Ben spoke to him he stood straight up, put both paws on the boy's shoulders, licked his face with a world of dumb affection in his yellow eyes, and gave a little whine which said as plainly as words,-- "Cheer up, little master; fathers may vanish and friends die, but I never will desert you." Ben hugged him close and smiled over his curly, white head at the little girls, who clapped their hands at the pleasing tableau, and then went to pat and fondle the good creature, assuring him that they entirely forgave the theft of the cake and the new dinner-pail. Inspired by these endearments and certain private signals given by Ben, Sancho suddenly burst away to perform all his best antics with unusual grace and dexterity. Bab and Betty danced about the room with rapture, while Mrs. Moss declared she was almost afraid to have such a wonderfully intelligent animal in the house. Praises of his dog pleased Ben more than praises of himself, and when the confusion had subsided he entertained his audience with a lively account of Sancho's cleverness, fidelity, and the various adventures in which he had nobly borne his part. While he talked, Mrs. Moss was making up her mind about him, and when he came to an end of his dog's perfections, she said, gravely,-- "If I can find something for you to do, would you like to stay here awhile?" "Oh, yes, ma'am, I'd be glad to!" answered Ben, eagerly; for the place seemed home-like already, and the good woman almost as motherly as the departed Mrs. Smithers. "Well, I'll step over to the Squire's to-morrow to see what he says. Shouldn't wonder if he'd take you for a chore-boy, if you are as smart as you say. He always has one in the summer, and I haven't seen any round yet. Can you drive cows?" "Hope so;" and Ben gave a shrug, as if it was a very unnecessary question to put to a person who had driven four calico ponies in a gilded chariot. "It mayn't be as lively as riding elephants and playing with bears, but it is respectable; and I guess you'll be happier switching Brindle and Buttercup than being switched yourself," said Mrs. Moss, shaking her head at him with a smile. "I guess I will, ma'am," answered Ben, with sudden meekness, remembering the trials from which he had escaped. Very soon after this, he was sent off for a good night's sleep in the back bedroom, with Sancho to watch over him. But both found it difficult to slumber till the racket overhead subsided; for Bab insisted on playing she was a bear and devouring poor Betty, in spite of her wails, till their mother came up and put an end to it by threatening to send Ben and his dog away in the morning, if the girls "didn't behave and be as still as mice." This they solemnly promised; and they were soon dreaming of gilded cars and mouldy coaches, runaway boys and dinner-pails, dancing dogs and twirling teacups. CHAPTER V BEN GETS A PLACE When Ben awoke next morning, he looked about him for a moment half bewildered, because there was neither a canvas tent, a barn roof, nor the blue sky above him, but a neat white ceiling, where several flies buzzed sociably together, while from without came, not the tramping of horses, the twitter of swallows, or the chirp of early birds, but the comfortable cackle of hens and the sound of two little voices chanting the multiplication table. Sancho sat at the open window, watching the old cat wash her face, and trying to imitate her with his great ruffled paw, so awkwardly that Ben laughed; and Sanch, to hide his confusion at being caught, made one bound from chair to bed, and licked his master's face so energetically that the boy dived under the bedclothes to escape from the rough tongue. A rap on the floor from below made both jump up, and in ten minutes a shiny-faced lad and a lively dog went racing downstairs,--one to say, "Good-mornin', ma'am," the other to wag his tail faster than ever tail wagged before, for ham frizzled on the stove, and Sancho was fond of it. "Did you rest well?" asked Mrs. Moss, nodding at him, fork in hand. "Guess I did! Never saw such a bed. I'm used to hay and a horse-blanket, and lately nothin' but sky for a cover and grass for my feather-bed," laughed Ben, grateful for present comforts and making light of past hardships. "Clean, sweet corn-husks ain't bad for young bones, even if they haven't got more flesh on them than yours have," answered Mrs. Moss, giving the smooth head a motherly stroke as she went by. "Fat ain't allowed in our profession, ma'am. The thinner the better for tight-ropes and tumblin'; likewise bareback ridin' and spry jugglin'. Muscle's the thing, and there you are." Ben stretched out a wiry little arm with a clenched fist at the end of it, as if he were a young Hercules, ready to play ball with the stove if she gave him leave. Glad to see him in such good spirits, she pointed to the well outside, saying pleasantly,-- "Well, then, just try your muscle by bringing in some fresh water." Ben caught up a pail and ran off, ready to be useful; but, while he waited for the bucket to fill down among the mossy stones, he looked about him, well pleased with all he saw,--the small brown house with a pretty curl of smoke rising from its chimney, the little sisters sitting in the sunshine, green hills and newly-planted fields far and near, a brook dancing through the orchard, birds singing in the elm avenue, and all the world as fresh and lovely as early summer could make it. "Don't you think it's pretty nice here?" asked Bab, as his eye came back to them after a long look, which seemed to take in every thing, brightening as it roved. "Just the nicest place that ever was. Only needs a horse round somewhere to be complete," answered Ben, as the long well-sweep came up with a dripping bucket at one end, an old grindstone at the other. "The judge has three, but he's so fussy about them he won't even let us pull a few hairs out of old Major's tail to make rings of," said Betty, shutting her arithmetic, with an injured expression. "Mike lets me ride the white one to water when the judge isn't round. It's such fun to go jouncing down the lane and back. I do love horses!" cried Bab, bobbing up and down on the blue bench to imitate the motion of white Jenny. "I guess you are a plucky sort of a girl," and Ben gave her an approving look as he went by, taking care to slop a little water on Mrs. Puss, who stood curling her whiskers and humping up her back at Sancho. "Come to breakfast!" called Mrs. Moss; and for about twenty minutes little was said, as mush and milk vanished in a way that would have astonished even Jack the Giant-killer with his leather bag. "Now, girls, fly round and get your chores done up; Ben, you go chop me some kindlings; and I'll make things tidy. Then we can all start off at once," said Mrs. Moss, as the last mouthful vanished, and Sancho licked his lips over the savory scraps that fell to his share. Ben fell to chopping so vigorously that chips flew wildly all about the shed; Bab rattled the cups into her dish-pan with dangerous haste, and Betty raised a cloud of dust "sweeping-up;" while mother seemed to be everywhere at once. Even Sanch, feeling that his fate was at stake, endeavored to help in his own somewhat erratic way,--now frisking about Ben at the risk of getting his tail chopped off, then trotting away to poke his inquisitive nose into every closet and room whither he followed Mrs. Moss in her "flying round" evolutions; next dragging off the mat so Betty could brush the door-steps, or inspecting Bab's dish-washing by standing on his hind-legs to survey the table with a critical air. When they drove him out he was not the least offended, but gayly barked Puss up a tree, chased all the hens over the fence, and carefully interred an old shoe in the garden, where the remains of the mutton-bone were already buried. By the time the others were ready, he had worked off his superfluous spirits, and trotted behind the party like a well-behaved dog accustomed to go out walking with ladies. At the cross-roads they separated, the little girls running on to school, while Mrs. Moss and Ben went up to the Squire's big house on the hill. "Don't you be scared, child. I'LL make it all right about your running away; and if the Squire gives you a job, just thank him for it, and do your best to be steady and industrious; then you'll get on, I haven't a doubt," she whispered, ringing the Ben at a side-door, on which the word "Morris" shone in bright letters. "Come in!" called a gruff voice; and, feeling very much as if he were going to have a tooth out, Ben meekly followed the good woman, who put on her pleasantest smile, anxious to make the best possible impression. A white-headed old gentleman sat reading a paper, and peered over his glasses at the new-comers with a pair of sharp eyes, saying in a testy tone, which would have rather daunted any one who did not know what a kind heart he had under his capacious waistcoat,-- "Good-morning, ma'am. What's the matter now? Young tramp been stealing your chickens?" "Oh, dear no, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Moss, as if shocked at the idea. Then, in a few words, she told Ben's story, unconsciously making his wrongs and destitution so pathetic by her looks and tones, that the Squire could not help being interested, and even Ben pitied himself as if he were somebody else. "Now, then, boy, what can you do?" asked the old gentleman, with an approving nod to Mrs. Moss as she finished, and such a keen glance from under his bushy brows that Ben felt as if he was perfectly transparent. "'Most any thing, sir, to get my livin'." "Can you weed?" "Never did, but I can learn, sir." "Pull up all the beets and leave the pigweed, hey? Can you pick strawberries?" "Never tried any thing but eatin' 'em, sir," "Not likely to forget that part of the job. Can you ride a horse to plow?" "Guess I could, sir!"--and Ben's eyes began to sparkle, for he dearly loved the noble animals who had been his dearest friends lately. "No antics allowed. My horse is a fine fellow, and I'm very particular about him." The Squire spoke soberly, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and Mrs. Moss tried not to smile; for the Squire's horse was a joke all over the town, being about twenty years old, and having a peculiar gait of his own, lifting his fore-feet very high, with a great show of speed, though never going out of a jog-trot. The boys used to say he galloped before and walked behind, and made all sorts of fun of the big, Roman-nosed beast, who allowed no liberties to be taken with him. "I'm too fond of horses to hurt 'em, Sir. As for ridin', I ain't afraid of any thing on four legs. The King of Morocco used to kick and bite like fun, but I could manage him first-rate." "Then you'd be able to drive cows to pasture, perhaps?" "I've drove elephants and camels, ostriches and grizzly bears, and mules, and six yellow ponies all to oncet. May be I could manage cows if I tried hard," answered Ben, endeavoring to be meek and respectful when scorn filled his soul at the idea of not being able to drive a cow. The Squire liked him all the better for the droll mixture of indignation and amusement betrayed by the fire in his eyes and the sly smile round his lips; and being rather tickled by Ben's list of animals, he answered gravely,-- "Don't raise elephants and camels much round here. Bears used to be plenty, but folks got tired of them. Mules are numerous, but we have the two-legged kind; and as a general thing prefer Shanghae fowls to ostriches." He got no farther, for Ben laughed out so infectiously that both the others joined him; and somehow that jolly laugh seemed to settle matters than words. As they stopped, the Squire tapped on the window behind him, saying, with an attempt at the former gruffness,-- "We'll try you on cows awhile. My man will show you where to drive them, and give you some odd jobs through the day. I'll see what you are good for, and send you word to-night, Mrs. Moss. The boy can sleep at your house, can't he?" "Yes, indeed, sir. He can go on doing it, and come up to his work just as well as not. I can see to him then, and he won't be a care to any one," said Mrs. Moss, heartily. "I'll make inquiries concerning your father, boy; meantime mind what you are about, and have a good report to give when he comes for you," returned the Squire, with a warning wag of a stern fore-finger. "Thanky', sir. I will, sir. Father'll come just as soon as he can, if he isn't sick or lost," murmured Ben, inwardly thanking his stars that he had not done any thing to make him quake before that awful finger, and resolved that he never would. Here a red-headed Irishman came to the door, and stood eying the boy with small favor while the Squire gave his orders. "Pat, this lad wants work. He's to take the cows and go for them. Give him any light jobs you have, and let me know if he's good for any thing." "Yis, your honor. Come out o' this, b'y, till I show ye the bastes," responded Pat; and, with a hasty good-by to Mrs. Moss, Ben followed his new leader, sorely tempted to play some naughty trick upon him in return for his ungracious reception. But in a moment he forgot that Pat existed, for in the yard stood the Duke of Wellington, so named in honor of his Roman nose. If Ben had known any thing about Shakespeare, he would have cried, "A horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" for the feeling was in his heart, and he ran up to the stately animal without a fear. Duke put back his ears and swished his tail as if displeased for a moment; but Ben looked straight in his eyes, gave a scientific stroke to the iron-gray nose, and uttered a chirrup which made the ears prick up as if recognizing a familiar sound. "He'll nip ye, if ye go botherin' that way. Leave him alone, and attend to the cattle as his honor told ye," commanded Pat, who made a great show of respect toward Duke in public, and kicked him brutally in private. "I ain't afraid! You won't hurt me, will you, old feller? See there now!--he knows I 'm a friend, and takes to me right off," said Ben, with an arm around Duke's neck, and his own cheek confidingly laid against the animal's; for the intelligent eyes spoke to him as plainly as the little whinny which he understood and accepted as a welcome. The Squire saw it all from the open window, and suspecting from Pat's face that trouble was brewing, called out,-- "Let the lad harness Duke, if he can. I'm going out directly, and he may as well try that as any thing." Ben was delighted, and proved himself so brisk and handy that the roomy chaise stood at the door in a surprisingly short time, with a smiling little ostler at Duke's head when the Squire came out. His affection for the horse pleased the old gentleman, and his neat way of harnessing suited as well; but Ben got no praise, except a nod and a brief "All right, boy," as the equipage went creaking and jogging away. Four sleek cows filed out of the barnyard when Pat opened the gate, and Ben drove them down the road to a distant pasture where the early grass awaited their eager cropping. By the school they went, and the boy looked pityingly at the black, brown, and yellow heads bobbing past the windows as a class went up to recite; for it seemed a hard thing to the liberty-loving lad to be shut up there so many hours on a morning like that. But a little breeze that was playing truant round the steps did Ben a service without knowing it, for a sudden puff blew a torn leaf to his feet, and seeing a picture he took it up. It evidently had fallen from some ill-used history, for the picture showed some queer ships at anchor, some oddly dressed men just landing, and a crowd of Indians dancing about on the shore. Ben spelt out all he could about these interesting personages, but could not discover what it meant, because ink evidently had deluged the page, to the new reader's great disappointment. "I'll ask the girls; may be they will know," said Ben to himself as, after looking vainly for more stray leaves, he trudged on, enjoying the bobolink's song, the warm sunshine, and a comfortable sense of friendliness and safety, which soon set him to whistling as gayly as any blackbird in the meadow. CHAPTER VI A CIRCULATING LIBRARY After supper that night, Bab and Betty sat in the old porch playing with Josephus and Belinda, and discussing the events of the day; for the appearance of the strange boy and his dog had been a most exciting occurrence in their quiet lives. They had seen nothing of him since morning, as he took his meals at the Squire's, and was at work with Pat in a distant field when the children passed. Sancho had stuck closely to his master, evidently rather bewildered by the new order of things, and bound to see that no harm happened to Ben. "I wish they'd come. It's sundown, and I heard the cows mooing, so I know they have gone home," said Betty, impatiently; for she regarded the new-comer in the light of an entertaining book, and wished to read on as fast as possible. "I'm going to learn the signs he makes when he wants Sancho to dance; then we can have fun with him whenever we like. He's the dearest dog I ever saw!" answered Bab, who was fonder of animals than her sister. "Ma said--Ow, what's that?" cried Betty with a start, as something bumped against the gate outside; and in a moment Ben's head peeped over the top as he swung himself up to the iron arch, in the middle of which was the empty lantern frame. "Please to locate, gentlemen; please to locate. The performance is about to begin with the great Flyin' Coopid act, in which Master Bloomsbury has appeared before the crowned heads of Europe. Pronounced by all beholders the most remarkable youthful progidy agoin'. Hooray! here we are!" Having rattled off the familiar speech in Mr. Smithers's elegant manner, Ben begin to cut up such capers that even a party of dignified hens, going down the avenue to bed, paused to look on with clucks of astonishment, evidently fancying that salt had set him to fluttering and tumbling as it did them. Never had the old gate beheld such antics, though it had seen gay doings in its time; for of all the boys who had climbed over it, not one had ever stood on his head upon each of the big balls which ornamented the posts, hung by his heels from the arch, gone round and round like a wheel with the bar for an axis, played a tattoo with his toes while holding on by his chin, walked about the wall on his hands, or closed the entertainment by festooning himself in an airy posture over the side of the lantern frame, and kissing his hand to the audience as a well-bred Cupid is supposed to do on making his bow. The little girls clapped and stamped enthusiastically, while Sancho, who had been calmly surveying the show, barked his approval as he leaped up to snap at Ben's feet. "Come down and tell what you did up at the Squire's. Was he cross? Did you have to work hard? Do you like it?" asked Bab, when the noise had subsided. "It's cooler up here," answered Ben, composing himself in the frame, and fanning his hot face with a green spray broken from the tall bushes rustling odorously all about him. "I did all sorts of jobs. The old gentleman wasn't cross; he gave me a dime, and I like him first-rate. But I just hate 'Carrots;' he swears at a feller, and fired a stick of wood at me. Guess I'll pay him off when I get a chance." Fumbling in his pocket to show the bright dime, he found the torn page, and remembered the thirst for information which had seized him in the morning. "Look here, tell me about this, will you? What are these chaps up to? The ink has spoilt all but the picture and this bit of reading. I want to know what it means. Take it to 'em, Sanch." The dog caught the leaf as it fluttered to the ground, and carrying it carefully in his mouth, deposited it at the feet of the little girls, seating himself before them with an air of deep interest. Bab and Betty picked it up and read it aloud in unison, while Ben leaned from his perch to listen and learn. "'When day dawned, land was visible. A pleasant land it was. There were gay flowers, and tall trees with leaves and fruit, such as they had never seen before. On the shore were unclad copper-colored men, gazing with wonder at the Spanish ships. They took them for great birds, the white sails for their wings, and the Spaniards for superior beings brought down from heaven on their backs." "Why, that's Columbus finding San Salvador. Don't you know about him?" demanded Bab, as if she were one of the "superior beings," and intimately acquainted with the immortal Christopher. "No, I don't. Who was he any way? I s'pose that's him paddlin' ahead; but which of the Injuns is Sam Salvindoor?" asked Ben, rather ashamed of his ignorance, but bent on finding out now he had begun. "My gracious! twelve years old and not know your Quackenbos!" laughed Bab, much amused, but rather glad to find that she could teach the "whirligig boy" something, for she considered him a remarkable creature. "I don't care a bit for your quackin' boss, whoever he is. Tell about this fine feller with the ships; I like him," persisted Ben. So Bab, with frequent interruptions and hints from Betty, told the wonderful tale in a simple way, which made it easy to understand; for she liked history, and had a lively tongue of her own. "I'd like to read some more. Would my ten cents buy a book?" asked Ben, anxious to learn a little since Bab laughed at him. "No, indeed! I'll lend you mine when I'm not using it, and tell you all about it," promised Bab; forgetting that she did not know "all about it" herself yet. "I don't have any time only evenings, and then may be you'll want it," begun Ben, in whom the inky page had roused a strong curiosity. "I do get my history in the evening, but you could have it mornings before school." "I shall have to go off early, so there won't be any chance. Yes, there will,--I'LL tell you how to do it. Let me read while I drive up the cows. Squire likes 'em to eat slow along the road, so's to keep the grass short and save mowin'. Pat said so, and I could do history instead of loafin' round!" cried Ben full of this bright idea. "How will I get my book back in time to recite?" asked Bab, prudently. "Oh, I'll leave it on the window-sill, or put it inside the door as I go back. I'll be real careful, and just as soon as I earn enough, I'll buy you a new one and take the old one. Will you?" "Yes; but I'll tell you a nicer way to do. Don't put the book on the window, 'cause teacher will see you; or inside the door, 'cause some one may steal it. You put it in my cubby-house, right at the corner of the wall nearest the big maple. You'll find a cunning place between the roots that stick up under the flat stone. That's my closet, and I keep things there. It's the best cubby of all, and we take turns to have it." "I'll find it, and that'll be a first-rate place," said Ben, much gratified. "I could put my reading-book in sometimes, if you'd like it. There's lots of pretty stories in it and pictures," proposed Betty, rather timidly; for she wanted to share the benevolent project, but had little to offer, not being as good a scholar as Bab. "I'd like a 'rithmetic better. I read tip-top, but I ain't much on 'rithmetic; so, if you can spare yours, I might take a look at it. Now I'm goin' to earn wages, I ought to know about addin' 'em up, and so on," said Ben, with the air of a Vanderbilt oppressed with the care of millions. "I'll teach you that. Betty doesn't know much about sums. But she spells splendidly, and is always at the head of her class. Teacher is real proud of her, 'cause she never misses, and spells hard, fussy words, like chi-rog-ra-phy and bron-chi-tis as easy as any thing." Bab quite beamed with sisterly pride, and Betty smoothed down her apron with modest satisfaction, for Bab seldom praised her, and she liked it very much. "I never went to school, so that's the reason I ain't smart. I can write, though, better 'n some of the boys up at school. I saw lots of names on the shed door. See here, now,"--and scrambling down, Ben pulled out a cherished bit of chalk, and flourished off ten letters of the alphabet, one on each of the dark stone slabs that paved the walk. "Those are beautiful! I can't make such curly ones. Who taught you to do it?" asked Bab, as she and Betty walked up and down admiring them. "Horse blankets," answered Ben, soberly. "What!" cried both girls, stopping to stare. "Our horses all had their names on their blankets, and I used to copy 'em. The wagons had signs, and I learned to read that way after father taught me my letters off the red and yellow posters. First word I knew was lion, 'cause I was always goin' to see old Jubal in his cage. Father was real proud when I read it right off. I can draw one, too." Ben proceeded to depict an animal intended to represent his lost friend; but Jubal would not have recognized his portrait, since it looked much more like Sancho than the king of the forest. The children admired it immensely, however, and Ben gave them a lesson in natural history which was so interesting that it kept them busy and happy till bedtime; for the boy described what he had seen in such lively language, and illustrated in such a droll way, it was no wonder they were charmed. CHAPTER VII NEW FRIENDS TROT IN Next day Ben ran off to his work with Quackenbos's "Elementary History of the United States" in his pocket, and the Squire's cows had ample time to breakfast on way-side grass before they were put into their pasture. Even then the pleasant lesson was not ended, for Ben had an errand to town; and all the way he read busily, tumbling over the hard words, and leaving bits which he did not understand to be explained at night by Bab. At "The First Settlements" he had to stop, for the schoolhouse was reached, and the book must be returned. The maple-tree closet was easily found, and a little surprise hidden under the flat stone; for Ben paid two sticks of red and white candy for the privilege of taking books from the new library. When recess came, great was the rejoicing of the children over their unexpected treat, for Mrs. Moss had few pennies to spare for sweets, and, somehow, this candy tasted particularly nice, bought out of grateful Ben's solitary dime. The little girls shared their goodies with their favorite mates, but said nothing about the new arrangement, fearing it would be spoilt if generally known. They told their mother, however, and she gave them leave to lend their books and encourage Ben to love learning all they could. She also proposed that they should drop patch-work, and help her make some blue shirts for Ben. Mrs. Barton had given her the materials, and she thought it would be an excellent lesson in needle-work as well as a useful gift to Ben,--who, boy-like, never troubled himself as to what he should wear when his one suit of clothes gave out. Wednesday afternoon was the sewing time; so the two little B's worked busily at a pair of shirt-sleeves, sitting on their bench in the doorway, while the rusty needles creaked in and out, and the childish voices sang school-songs, with frequent stoppages for lively chatter. For a week, Ben worked away bravely, and never shirked nor complained, although Pat put many a hard or disagreeable job upon him, and chores grew more and more distasteful. His only comfort was the knowledge that Mrs. Moss and the Squire were satisfied with him; his only pleasure the lessons he learned while driving the cows, and recited in the evening when the three children met under the lilacs to "play school." He had no thought of studying when he began, and hardly knew that he was doing it as he pored over the different books he took from the library. But the little girls tried him with all they Possessed, and he was mortified to find how ignorant he was. He never owned it in words, but gladly accepted all the bits of knowledge they offered from their small store; getting Betty to hear him spell "just for fun;" agreeing to draw Bab all the bears and tigers she wanted if she would show him how to do sums on the flags, and often beguiled his lonely labors by trying to chant the multiplication table as they did. When Tuesday night came round, the Squire paid him a dollar, said he was "a likely boy," and might stay another week if he chose. Ben thanked him and thought he would; but the next morning, after he had put up the bars, he remained sitting on the top rail to consider his prospects, for he felt uncommonly reluctant to go back to the society of rough Pat. Like most boys, he hated work, unless it was of a sort which just suited him; then he could toil like a beaver and never tire. His wandering life had given him no habits of steady industry; and, while he was an unusually capable lad of his age, he dearly loved to "loaf" about and have a good deal of variety and excitement in his life. Now he saw nothing before him but days of patient and very uninteresting labor. He was heartily sick of weeding; even riding Duke before the cultivator had lost its charms, and a great pile of wood lay in the Squire's yard which he knew he would be set to piling up in the shed. Strawberry-picking would soon follow the asparagus cultivation; then haying; and and so on all the long bright summer, without any fun, unless his father came for him. On the other hand, he was not obliged to stay a minute longer unless he liked. With a comfortable suit of clothes, a dollar in his pocket, and a row of dinner-baskets hanging in the school-house entry to supply him with provisions if he didn't mind stealing them, what was easier than to run away again? Tramping has its charms in fair weather, and Ben had lived like a gypsy under canvas for years; so he feared nothing, and began to look down the leafy road with a restless, wistful expression, as the temptation grew stronger and stronger every minute. Sancho seemed to share the longing, for he kept running off a little way and stopping to frisk and bark; then rushed back to sit watching his master with those intelligent eyes of his, which seemed to say, "Come on, Ben, let us scamper down this pleasant road and never stop till we are tired." Swallows darted by, white clouds fled before the balmy west wind, a squirrel ran along the wall, and all things seemed to echo the boy's desire to leave toil behind and roam away as care-free as they. One thing restrained him, the thought of his seeming ingratitude to good Mrs. Moss, and the disappointment of the little girls at the loss of their two new play-fellows. While he paused to think of this, something happened which kept him from doing what he would have been sure to regret afterward. Horses had always been his best friends, and one came trotting up to help him now; though he did not know how much he owed it till long after. Just in the act of swinging himself over the bars to take a shortcut across the fields, the sound of approaching hoofs, unaccompanied by the roll of wheels, caught his ear; and, pausing, he watched eagerly to see who was coming at such a pace. At the turn of road, however, the quick trot stopped, and in a moment a lady on a bay mare came pacing slowly into sight,--a young and pretty lady, all in dark blue, with a bunch of dandelions like yellow stars in her button-hole, and a silver-handled whip hanging from the pommel of her saddle, evidently more for ornament than use. The handsome mare limped a little, and shook her head as if something plagued her; while her mistress leaned down to see what was the matter, saying, as if she expected an answer of some sort,-- "Now, Chevalita, if you have got a stone in your foot, I shall have to get off and take it out. Why don't you look where you step, and save me all this trouble?" "I'll look for you, ma'am; I'd like to!" said an eager voice so unexpectedly, that both horse and rider started as a boy came down the bank with a jump. "I wish you would. You need not be afraid; Lita is as gentle as a lamb," answered the young lady, smiling, as if amused by the boy's earnestness. "She's a beauty, any way," muttered Ben, lifting one foot after another till he found the stone, and with some trouble got it out. "That was nicely done, and I'm much obliged. Can you tell me if that cross-road leads to the Elms?" asked the lady, as she went slowly on with Ben beside her. "No, ma'am; I'm new in these parts, and I only know where Squire Morris and Mrs. Moss live." "I want to see both of them, so suppose you show me the way. I was here long ago, and thought I should remember how to find the old house with the elm avenue and the big gate, but I don't." "I know it; they call that place the Laylocks now, 'cause there's a hedge of 'em all down the path and front wall. It's a real pretty place; Bab and Betty play there, and so do I." Ben could not restrain a chuckle at the recollection of his first appearance there, and, as if his merriment or his words interested her, the lady said pleasantly, "Tell me all about it. Are Bab and Betty your sisters?" Quite forgetting his intended tramp, Ben plunged into a copious history of himself and new-made friends, led on by a kind look, an inquiring word, and sympathetic smile, till he had told every thing. At the school-house corner he stopped and said, spreading his arms like a sign-post,-- "That's the way to the Laylocks, and this is the way to the Squire's." "As I'm in a hurry to see the old house, I'll go this way first, if you will be kind enough to give my love to Mrs. Morris, and tell the Squire Miss Celia is coming to dine with him. I won't say good-by, because I shall see you again." With a nod and a smile, the young lady cantered away, and Ben hurried up the hill to deliver his message, feeling as if something pleasant was going to happen; so it would be wise to defer running away, for the present at least. At one o'clock Miss Celia arrived, and Ben had the delight of helping Pat stable pretty Chevalita; then, his own dinner hastily eaten, he fell to work at the detested wood-pile with sudden energy; for as he worked he could steal peeps into the dining-room, and see the curly brown head between the two gay ones, as the three sat round the table. He could not help hearing a word now and then, as the windows were open, and these bits of conversation filled him with curiosity for the names "Thorny," "Celia," and "George" were often repeated, and an occasional merry laugh from the young lady sounded like music in that usually quiet place. When dinner was over, Ben's industrious fit left him, and he leisurely trundled his barrow to and fro till the guest departed. There was no chance for him to help now, since Pat, anxious to get whatever trifle might be offered for his services, was quite devoted in his attentions to the mare and her mistress, till she was mounted and off. But Miss Celia did not forget her little guide, and, spying a wistful face behind the wood-pile, paused at the gate and beckoned with that winning smile of hers. If ten Pats had stood scowling in the way, Ben would have defied them all; and, vaulting over the fence, he ran up with a shining face, hoping she wanted some last favor of him. Leaning down, Miss Celia slipped a new quarter into his hand, saying, "Lita wants me to give you this for taking the stone out of her foot." "Thank y', ma'am; I liked to do it, for I hate to see 'em limp, 'specially such a pretty one as she is," answered Ben, stroking the glossy neck with a loving touch. "The Squire says you know a good deal about horses, so I suppose you understand the Houyhnhnm language? I'm learning it, and it is very nice," laughed Miss Celia, as Chevalita gave a little whinny and snuffled her nose into Ben's pocket. "No, miss, I never went to school." "That is not taught there. I'll bring you a book all about it when I come back. Mr. Gulliver went to the horse-country and heard the dear things speak their own tongue." "My father has been on the prairies, where there's lots of wild ones, but he didn't hear 'em speak. I know what they want without talkin'," answered Ben, suspecting a joke, but not exactly seeing what it was. "I don't doubt it, but I won't forget the book. Good-by, my lad, we shall soon meet again," and away went Miss Celia as if she were in a hurry to get back. "If she only had a red habit and a streamin' white feather, she'd look as fine as 'Melia used to. She is 'most as kind and rides 'most as well. Wonder where she's goin' to. Hope she will come soon," thought Ben, watching till the last flutter of the blue habit vanished round the corner; and then he went back to his work with his head full of the promised book, pausing now and then to chink the two silver halves and the new quarter together in his pocket, wondering what he should buy with this vast sum. Bab and Betty meantime had had a most exciting day; for when they went home at noon they found the pretty lady there, and she had talked to them like an old friend, given them a ride on the little horse, and kissed them both good-by when they went back to school. In the afternoon the lady was gone, the old house all open, and their mother sweeping, airing, in great spirits. So they had a splendid frolic tumbling on feather-beds, beating bits of carpet, opening closets, and racing from garret to cellar like a pair of distracted kittens. Here Ben found them, and was at once overwhelmed with a burst of news which excited him as much as it did them. Miss Celia owned the house, was coming to liver there, and things were to be made ready as soon as possible. All thought the prospect a charming one: Mrs. Moss, because life had been dull for her during the year she had taken charge of the old house; the little girls had heard rumors of various pets who were coming; and Ben, learning that a boy and a donkey were among them, resolved that nothing but the arrival of his father should tear him from this now deeply interesting spot. "I'm in such a hurry to see the peacocks and hear them scream. She said they did, and that we'd laugh when old Jack brayed," cried Bab, hopping about on one foot to work off her impatience. "Is a faytun a kind of a bird? I heard her say she could keep it in the coach-house," asked Betty, inquiringly. "It's a little carriage," and Ben rolled in the grass, much tickled at poor Betty's ignorance. "Of course it is. I looked it out in the dic., and you mustn't call it a payton, though it is spelt with a p," added Bab, who liked to lay down the law on all occasions, and did not mention that she had looked vainly among the Vs till a school-mate set her right. "You can't tell me much about carriages. But what I want to know is where Lita will stay?" said Ben. "Oh, she's to be up at the Squire's till things are fixed, and you are to bring her down. Squire came and told Ma all about it, and said you were a boy to be trusted, for he had tried you." Ben made no answer, but secretly thanked his stars that he had not proved himself untrustworthy by running away, and so missing all this fun. "Won't it be fine to have the house open all the time? We can run over and see the pictures and books whenever we like. I know we can, Miss Celia is so kind," began Betty, who cared for these things more than for screaming peacocks and comical donkeys. "Not unless you are invited," answered their mother, locking the front door behind her. "You'd better begin to pick up your duds right away, for she won't want them cluttering round her front yard. If you are not too tired, Ben, you might rake round a little while I shut the blinds. I want things to look nice and tidy." Two little groans went up from two afflicted little girls as they looked about them at the shady bower, the dear porch, and the winding walks where they loved to run "till their hair whistled in the wind," as the fairy-books say. "Whatever shall we do! Our attic is so hot and the shed so small, and the yard always full of hens or clothes. We shall have to pack all our things away, and never play any more," said Bab, tragically. "May be Ben could build us a little house in the orchard," proposed Betty, who firmly believed that Ben could do any thing. "He won't have any time. Boys don't care for baby-houses," returned Bab, collecting her homeless goods and chattels with a dismal face. "We sha'n't want these much when all the new things come; see if we do," said cheerful little Betty, who always found out a silver lining to every cloud. CHAPTER VIII MISS CELIA'S MAN Ben was not too tired, and the clearing-up began that very night. None too soon, for in a day or two things arrived, to the great delight of the children, who considered moving a most interesting play. First came the phaeton, which Ben spent all his leisure moments in admiring; wondering with secret envy what happy boy would ride in the little seat up behind, and beguiling his tasks by planning how, when he got rich, he would pass his time driving about in just such an equipage, and inviting all the boys he met to have a ride. Then a load of furniture came creaking in at the lodge gate, and the girls had raptures over a cottage piano, several small chairs, and a little low table, which they pronounced just the thing for them to play at. The live stock appeared next, creating a great stir in the neighborhood, for peacocks were rare birds there; the donkey's bray startled the cattle and convulsed the people with laughter; the rabbits were continually getting out to burrow in the newly made garden; and Chevalita scandalized old Duke by dancing about the stable which he had inhabited for years in stately solitude. Last but by no means least, Miss Celia, her young brother, and two maids arrived one evening so late that only Mrs. Moss went over to help them settle. The children were much disappointed, but were appeased by a promise that they should all go to pay their respects in the morning. They were up so early, and were so impatient to be off, that Mrs. Moss let them go with the warning that they would find only the servants astir. She was mistaken, however, for, as the procession approached, a voice from the porch called out, "Good-morning little neighbors!" so unexpectedly, that Bab nearly spilt the new milk she carried, Betty gave such a start that the fresh-laid eggs quite skipped in the dish, and Ben's face broke into a broad grin over the armful of clover which he brought for the bunnies, as he bobbed his head, saying briskly,-- "She's all right, miss, Lita is; and I can bring her over any minute you say." "I shall want her at four o'clock. Thorny will be too tired to drive, but I must hear from the post-office, rain or shine;" and Miss Celia's pretty color brightened as she spoke, either from some happy thought or because she was bashful, for the honest young faces before her plainly showed their admiration of the white-gowned lady under the honeysuckles. The appearance of Miranda, the maid, reminded the children of their errand; and having delivered their offerings, they were about to retire in some confusion, when Miss Celia said pleasantly,-- "I want to thank you for helping put things in such nice order. I see signs of busy hands and feet both inside the house and all about the grounds, and I am very much obliged." "I raked the beds," said Ben, proudly eying the neat ovals and circles. "I swept all the paths," added Bab, with a reproachful glance at several green sprigs fallen from the load of clover on the smooth walk. "I cleared up the porch," and Betty's clean pinafore rose and fell with a long sigh, as she surveyed the late summer residence of her exiled family. Miss Celia guessed the meaning of that sigh, and made haste to turn it into a smile by asking anxiously,-- "What has become of the playthings? I don't see them anywhere." "Ma said you wouldn't want our duds round, so we took them all home," answered Betty, with a wistful face. "But I do want them round. I like dolls and toys almost as much as ever, and quite miss the little 'duds' from porch and path. Suppose you come to tea with me to-night and bring some of them back? I should be very sorry to rob you of your pleasant play-place." "Oh, yes, 'm, we'd love to come! and we'll bring our best things." "Ma always lets us have our shiny pitchers and the china poodle when we go visiting or have company at home," said Bab and Betty, both speaking at once. "Bring what you like, and I'll hunt up my toys, too. Ben is to come also, and his poodle is especially invited," added Miss Celia, as Sancho came and begged before her, feeling that some agreeable project was under discussion. "Thank you, miss. I told them you'd be willing they should come sometimes. They like this place ever so much, and so do I," said Ben, feeling that few spots combined so many advantages in the way of climbable trees, arched gates, half-a-dozen gables, and other charms suited to the taste of an aspiring youth who had been a flying Cupid at the age of seven. "So do I," echoed Miss Celia, heartily. "Ten years ago I came here a little girl, and made lilac chains under these very bushes, and picked chickweed over there for my bird, and rode Thorny in his baby-wagon up and down these paths. Grandpa lived here then, and we had fine times; but now they are all gone except us two." "We haven't got any father, either," said Bab, for something in Miss Celia's face made her feel as if a cloud had come over the sun. "I have a first-rate father, if I only knew where he'd gone to," said Ben, looking down the path as eagerly as if one waited for him behind the locked gate. "You are a rich boy, and you are happy little girls to have so good a mother; I've found that out already," and the sun shone again as the young lady nodded to the neat, rosy children before her. "You may have a piece of her if you want to, 'cause you haven't got any of your own," said Betty with a pitiful look which made her blue eyes as sweet as two wet violets. "So I will! and you shall be my little sisters. I never had any, and I'd love to try how it seems;" and Celia took both the chubby hands in hers, feeling ready to love every one this first bright morning in the new home, which she hoped to make a very happy one. Bab gave a satisfied nod, and fell to examining the rings upon the white hand that held her own. But Betty put her arms about the new friend's neck, and kissed her so softly that the hungry feeling in Miss Celia's heart felt better directly; for this was the food it wanted, and Thorny had not learned yet to return one half of the affection he received. Holding the child close, she played with the yellow braids while she told them about the little German girls in their funny black-silk caps, short-waisted gowns, and wooden shoes, whom she used to see watering long webs of linen bleaching on the grass, watching great flocks of geese, or driving pigs to market, knitting or spinning as they went. Presently "Randa," as she called her stout maid, came to tell her that "Master Thorny couldn't wait another minute;" and she went in to breakfast with a good appetite, while the children raced home to bounce in upon Mrs. Moss, talking all at once like little lunatics. "The phaeton at four,--so sweet in a beautiful white gown,--going to tea, and Sancho and all the baby things invited. Can't we wear our Sunday frocks? A splendid new net for Lita. And she likes dolls. Goody, goody, won't it be fun!" With much difficulty their mother got a clear account of the approaching festivity out of the eager mouths, and with still more difficulty, got breakfast into them, for the children had few pleasures, and this brilliant prospect rather turned their heads. Bab and Betty thought the day would never end, and cheered the long hours by expatiating on the pleasures in store for them, till their playmates were much afflicted because they were not going also. At noon their mother kept them from running over to the old house lest they should be in the way; so they consoled themselves by going to the syringa bush at the corner and sniffing the savory odors which came from the kitchen, where Katy, the cook, was evidently making nice things for tea. Ben worked as if for a wager till four; then stood over Pat while he curried Lita till her coat shone like satin, then drove her gently down to the coach-house, where he had the satisfaction of harnessing her "all his own self". "Shall I go round to the great gate and wait for you there, miss?" he asked, when all was ready, looking up at the porch, where the young lady stood watching him as she put on her gloves. "No, Ben, the great gate is not to be opened till next October. I shall go in and out by the lodge, and leave the avenue to grass and dandelions, meantime," answered Miss Celia, as she stepped in and took the reins, with a sudden smile. But she did not start, even when Ben had shaken out the new duster and laid it neatly over her knees. "Isn't it all right now?" asked the boy, anxiously. "Not quite; I need one thing more. Can't you guess what it is?" and Miss Celia watched his anxious face as his eyes wandered from the tips of Lita's ears to the hind-wheel of the phaeton, trying to discover what had been omitted. "No, miss, I don't see--" he began, much mortified to think he had forgotten any thing. "Wouldn't a little groom up behind improve the appearance of my turnout?" she said, with a look which left no doubt in his mind that he was to be the happy boy to occupy that proud perch. He grew red with pleasure, but stammered, as he hesitated, looking down at his bare feet and blue shirt,-- "I ain't fit, miss; and I haven't got any other clothes." Miss Celia only smiled again more kindly than before, and answered, in a tone which he understood better than her words,--"A great man said his coat-of-arms was a pair of shirt-sleeves, and a sweet poet sang about a barefooted boy; so I need not be too proud to ride with one. Up with you, Ben, my man, and let us be off, or we shall be late for our party." With one bound the new groom was in his place, sitting very erect, with his legs stiff, arms folded, and nose in the air, as he had seen real grooms sit behind their masters in fine dog-carts or carriages. Mrs. Moss nodded as they drove past the lodge, and Ben touched his torn hat-brim in the most dignified manner, though he could not suppress a broad grin of delight, which deepened into a chuckle when Lita went off at a brisk trot along the smooth road toward town. It takes so little to make a child happy, it is a pity grown people do not oftener remember it and scatter little bits of pleasure before the small people, as they throw crumbs to the hungry sparrows. Miss Celia knew the boy was pleased, but he had no words in which to express his gratitude for the great contentment she had given him. He could only beam at all he met, smile when the floating ends of the gray veil blew against his face, and long in his heart to give the new friend a boyish hug, as he used to do his dear 'Melia when she was very good to him. School was just out as they passed; and it was a spectacle, I assure you, to see the boys and girls stare at Ben up aloft in such state; also to see the superb indifference with which that young man regarded the vulgar herd who went afoot. He couldn't resist an affable nod to Bab and Betty, for they stood under the maple-tree, and the memory of their circulating library made him forget his dignity in his gratitude. "We will take them next time, but now I want to talk to you," began Miss Celia, as Lita climbed the hill. "My brother has been ill, and I have brought him here to get well. I want to do all sorts of things to amuse him, and I think you can help me in many ways. Would you like to work for me instead of the Squire? "I guess I would!" ejaculated Ben, so heartily that no further assurances were needed, and Miss Celia went on, well pleased:-- "You see, poor Thorny is weak and fretful, and does not like to exert himself, though he ought to be out a great deal, and kept from thinking of his little troubles. He cannot walk much yet, so I have a wheeled chair to push him in; and the paths are so hard, it will be easy to roll him about. That will be one thing you can do. Another is to take care of his pets till he is able to do it himself. Then you can tell him your adventures, and talk to him as only a boy can talk to a boy. That will amuse him when I want to write or go out; but I never leave him long, and hope he will soon be running about as well as the rest of us. How does that sort of work look to you?" "First-rate! I'll take real good care of the little feller, and do every thing I know to please him, and so will Sanch; he's fond of children," answered Ben, heartily, for the new place looked very inviting to him. Miss Celia laughed, and rather damped his ardor by her next words. "I don't know what Thorny would say to hear you call him 'little.' He is fourteen, and appears to get taller and taller every day. He seems like a child to me, because I am nearly ten years older than he is; but you needn't be afraid of his long legs and big eyes, he is too feeble to do any harm; only you mustn't mind if he orders you about." "I'm used to that. I don't mind it if he won't call me a 'spalpeen,' and fire things at me," said Ben, thinking of his late trials with Pat. "I can promise that; and I am sure Thorny will like you, for I told him your story, and he is anxious to see 'the circus boy' as he called you. Squire Allen says I may trust you, and I am glad to do so, for it saves me much trouble to find what I want all ready for me. You shall be well fed and clothed, kindly treated and honestly paid, if you like to stay with me." "I know I shall like it--till father comes, anyway. Squire wrote to Smithers right off, but hasn't got any answer yet. I know they are on the go now, so may be we won't hear for ever so long," answered Ben, feeling less impatient to be off than before this fine proposal was made to him. "I dare say; meantime, we will see how we get on together, and perhaps your father will be willing leave you for the summer if he is away. Now show me the baker's, the candy-shop, and the post-office," said Miss Celia, as they rattled down the main street of the village. Ben made himself useful; and when all the other errands were done, received his reward in the shape of a new pair of shoes and a straw hat with a streaming blue ribbon, on the ends of which shone silvery anchors. He was also allowed to drive home, while his new mistress read her letters. One particularly long one, with a queer stamp on the envelope, she read twice, never speaking a word till they got back. Then Ben was sent off with Lita and the Squire's letters, promising to get his chores done in time for tea. CHAPTER IX A HAPPY TEA Exactly five minutes before six the party arrived in great state, for Bab and Betty wore their best frocks and hair-ribbons, Ben had a new blue shirt and his shoes on as full-dress, and Sancho's curls were nicely brushed, his frills as white as if just done up. No one was visible to receive them, but the low table stood in the middle of the walk, with four chairs and a foot-stool around it. A pretty set of green and white china caused the girls to cast admiring looks upon the little cups and plates, while Ben eyed the feast longingly, and Sancho with difficulty restrained himself from repeating his former naughtiness. No wonder the dog sniffed and the children smiled, for there was a noble display of little tarts and cakes, little biscuits and sandwiches, a pretty milk-pitcher shaped like a white calla rising out of its green leaves, and a jolly little tea-kettle singing away over the spirit-lamp as cosily as you please. "Isn't it perfectly lovely?" whispered Betty, who had never seen any thing like it before. "I just wish Sally could see us now," answered Bab, who had not yet forgiven her enemy. "Wonder where the boy is," added Ben, feeling as good as any one, but rather doubtful how others might regard him. Here a rumbling sound caused the guests to look toward the garden, and in a moment Miss Celia appeared, pushing a wheeled chair, in which sat her brother. A gay afghan covered the long legs, a broad-brimmed hat half hid the big eyes, and a discontented expression made the thin face as unattractive as the fretful voice, which said, complainingly,-- "If they make a noise, I'll go in. Don't see what you asked them for." "To amuse you, dear. I know they will, if you will only try to like them," whispered the sister, smiling, and nodding over the chair-back as she came on, adding aloud, "Such a punctual party! I am all ready, however, and we will sit down at once. This is my brother Thornton, and we are all going to be very good friends by-and-by. Here 's the droll dog, Thorny; isn't he nice and curly?" Now, Ben had heard what the other boy said, and made up his mind that he shouldn't like him; and Thorny had decided beforehand that he wouldn't play with a tramp, even if he cut capers; go both looked decidedly cool and indifferent when Miss Celia introduced them. But Sancho had better manners and no foolish pride; he, therefore, set them a good example by approaching the chair, with his tail waving like a flag of truce, and politely presented his ruffled paw for a hearty shake. Thorny could not resist that appeal, and patted the white head, with a friendly look into the affectionate eyes of the dog, saying to his sister as he did so,-- "What a wise old fellow he is! It seems as if he could almost speak, doesn't it?" "He can. Say 'How do you do,' Sanch," commanded Ben, relenting at once, for he saw admiration in Thorny's face. "Wow, wow, wow!" remarked Sancho, in a mild and conversational tone, sitting up and touching one paw to his head, as if he saluted by taking off his hat. Thorny laughed in spite of himself, and Miss Celia seeing that the ice was broken, wheeled him to his place at the foot of the table. Then, seating the little girls on one side, Ben and the dog on the other, took the head herself and told her guests to begin. Bab and Betty were soon chattering away to their pleasant hostess as freely as if they had known her for months; but the boys were still rather shy, and made Sancho the medium through which they addressed one another. The excellent beast behaved with wonderful propriety, sitting upon his cushion in an attitude of such dignity that it seemed almost a liberty to offer him food. A dish of thick sandwiches had been provided for his especial refreshment; and, as Ben from time to time laid one on his plate, he affected entire unconsciousness of it till the word was given, when it vanished at one gulp, and Sancho again appeared absorbed in deep thought. But, having once tasted of this pleasing delicacy, it was very hard to repress his longing for more; and, in spite of all his efforts, his nose would work, his eye kept a keen watch upon that particular dish, and his tail quivered with excitement as it lay like a train over the red cushion. At last, a moment came when temptation proved too strong for him. Ben was listening to something Miss Celia said; a tart lay unguarded upon his plate; Sanch looked at Thorny who was watching him; Thorny nodded, Sanch gave one wink, bolted the tart, and then gazed pensively up at a sparrow swinging on a twig overhead. The slyness of the rascal tickled the boy so much that he pushed back his hat, clapped his hands, and burst out laughing as he had not done before for weeks. Every one looked round surprised, and Sancho regarded them with a mildly inquiring air, as if he said, "Why this unseemly mirth, my friends?" Thorny forgot both sulks and shyness after that, and suddenly began to talk. Ben was flattered by his interest in the dear dog, and opened out so delightfully that he soon charmed the other by his lively tales of circus-life. Then Miss Celia felt relieved, and every thing went splendidly, especially the food; for the plates were emptied several times, the little tea-pot ran dry twice, and the hostess was just wondering if she ought to stop her voracious guests, when something occurred which spared her that painful task. A small boy was suddenly discovered standing in the path behind them, regarding the company with an air of solemn interest. A pretty, well-dressed child of six, with dark hair cut short across the brow, a rosy face, a stout pair of legs, left bare by the socks which had slipped down over the dusty little shoes. One end of a wide sash trailed behind him, a straw hat hung at his back, his right hand firmly grasped a small turtle, and his left a choice collection of sticks. Before Miss Celia could speak, the stranger calmly announced his mission. "I have come to see the peacocks." "You shall presently--" began Miss Celia, but got no further, for the child added, coming a step nearer,-- "And the wabbits." "Yes, but first won't you--" "And the curly dog," continued the small voice, as another step brought the resolute young personage nearer. "There he is." A pause, a long look; then a new demand with the same solemn tone, the same advance. "I wish to hear the donkey bray." "Certainly, if he will." "And the peacocks scream." "Any thing more, sir?" Having reached the table by this time, the insatiable infant surveyed its ravaged surface, then pointed a fat little finger at the last cake, left for manners, and said, commandingly,-- "I will have some of that." "Help yourself; and sit upon the step to eat it, while you tell me whose boy you are," said Miss Celia, much amused at his proceedings. Deliberately putting down his sticks, the child took the cake, and, composing himself upon the step, answered with his rosy mouth full,-- "I am papa's boy. He makes a paper. I help him a great deal." "What is his name?" "Mr. Barlow. We live in Springfield," volunteered the new guest, unbending a trifle, thanks to the charms of the cake. "Have you a mamma, dear?" "She takes naps. I go to walk then." "Without leave, I suspect. Have you no brothers or sisters to go with you?" asked Miss Celia, wondering where the little runaway belonged. "I have two brothers, Thomas Merton Barlow and Harry Sanford Barlow. I am Alfred Tennyson Barlow. We don't have any girls in our house, only Bridget." "Don't you go to school?" "The boys do. I don't learn any Greeks and Latins yet. I dig, and read to mamma, and make poetrys for her." "Couldn't you make some for me? I'm very fond of poetrys," proposed Miss Celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children. "I guess I couldn't make any now; I made some coming along. I will say it to you." And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung the following poem: (1) "Sweet are the flowers of life, Swept o'er my happy days at home; Sweet are the flowers of life When I was a little child. "Sweet are the flowers of life That I spent with my father at home; Sweet are the flowers of life When children played about the house. "Sweet are the flowers of life When the lamps are lighted at night; Sweet are the flowers of life When the flowers of summer bloomed. "Sweet are the flowers of life Dead with the snows of winter; Sweet are the flowers of life When the days of spring come on. (1) These lines were actually composed by a six-year old child. "That's all of that one. I made another one when I digged after the turtle. I will say that. It is a very pretty one," observed the poet with charming candor; and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little lyre afresh: Sweet, sweet days are passing O'er my happy home. Passing on swift wings through the valley of life. Cold are the days when winter comes again. When my sweet days were passing at my happy home, Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink; Sweet were the days when I read my father's books; Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing." "Bless the baby! where did he get all that?" exclaimed Miss Celia, amazed; while the children giggled as Tennyson, Jr., took a bite at the turtle instead of the half-eaten cake, and then, to prevent further mistakes, crammed the unhappy creature into a diminutive pocket in the most business-like way imaginable. "It comes out of my head. I make lots of them," began the imperturbable one, yielding more and more to the social influences of the hour. "Here are the peacocks coming to be fed," interrupted Bab, as the handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage glittering in the sun. Young Barlow rose to admire; but his thirst for knowledge was not yet quenched, and he was about to request a song from Juno and Jupiter, when old Jack, pining for society, put his head over the garden wall with a tremendous bray. This unexpected sound startled the inquiring stranger half out of his wits; for a moment the stout legs staggered and the solemn countenance lost its composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air, "Is that the way peacocks scream?" The children were in fits of laughter, and Miss Celia could hardly make herself heard as she answered merrily,-- "No, dear; that is the donkey asking you to come and see him: will you go? "I guess I couldn't stop now. Mamma might want me." And, without another word, the discomfited poet precipitately retired, leaving his cherished sticks behind him. Ben ran after the child to see that he came to no harm, and presently returned to report that Alfred had been met by a servant, and gone away chanting a new verse of his poem, in which peacocks, donkeys, and "the flowers of life" were sweetly mingled. "Now I'll show you my toys, and we'll have a little play before it gets too late for Thorny to stay with us," said Miss Celia, as Randa carried away the tea-things and brought back a large tray full of picture-books, dissected maps, puzzles, games, and several pretty models of animals, the whole crowned with a large doll dressed as a baby. At sight of that, Betty stretched out her arms to receive it with a cry of delight. Bab seized the games, and Ben was lost in admiration of the little Arab chief prancing on the white horse,--all saddled and bridled and fit for the fight. Thorny poked about to find a certain curious puzzle which he could put together without a mistake after long study. Even Sancho found something to interest him; and, standing on his hind-legs, thrust his head between the boys to paw at several red and blue letters on square blocks. "He looks as if he knew them," said Thorny, amused at the dog's eager whine and scratch. "He does. Spell your name, Sanch;" and Ben put all the gay letters down upon the flags with a chirrup which set the dog's tail to wagging as he waited till the alphabet was spread before him. Then, with great deliberation, he pushed the letters about till he had picked out six; these he arranged with nose and paw till the word "Sancho" lay before him correctly spelt. "Isn't that clever? Can he do any more?" cried Thorny, delighted. "Lots; that's the way he gets his livin', and mine too," answered Ben; and proudly put his poodle through his well-learned lessons with such success that even Miss Celia was surprised. "He has been carefully trained. Do you know how it was done?" she asked, when Sancho lay down to rest and be caressed by the children. "No, 'm, father did it when I was a little chap, and never told me how. I used to help teach him to dance, and that was easy enough, he is so smart. Father said the middle of the night was the best time to give him his lessons; it was so still then, and nothing disturbed Sanch and made him forget. I can't do half the tricks, but I'm goin' to learn when father comes back. He'd rather have me show off Sanch than ride, till I'm older." "I have a charming book about animals, and in it an interesting account of some trained poodles who could do the most wonderful things. Would you like to hear it while you put your maps and puzzles together?" asked Miss Celia, glad to keep her brother interested in their four-footed guest at least. "Yes,'m, yes,'m," answered the children; and, fetching the book, she read the pretty account, shortening and simplifying it here and there to suit her hearers. "I invited the two dogs to dine and spend the evening; and they came with their master, who was a Frenchman. He had been a teacher in a deaf and dumb school, and thought he would try the same plan with dogs. He had also been a conjurer, and now was supported by Blanche and her daughter Lyda. These dogs behaved at dinner just like other dogs; but when I gave Blanche a bit of cheese and asked if she knew the word for it, her master said she could spell it. So a table was arranged with a lamp on it, and round the table were laid the letters of the alphabet painted on cards. Blanche sat in the middle, waiting till her master told her to spell cheese, which she at once did in French, F R O M A G E. Then she translated a word for us very cleverly. Some one wrote pferd, the German for horse, on a slate. Blanche looked at it and pretended to read it, putting by the slate with her paw when she had done. 'Now give us the French for that word,' said the man; and she instantly brought CHEVAL. 'Now, as you are at an Englishman's house, give it to us in English;' and she brought me HORSE. Then we spelt some words wrong, and she corrected them with wonderful accuracy. But she did not seem to like it, and whined and growled and looked so worried, that she was allowed to go and rest and eat cakes in a corner. "Then Lyda took her place on the table, and did sums on the slate with a set of figures. Also mental arithmetic, which was very pretty. 'Now, Lyda,' said her master, 'I want to see if you understand division. Suppose you had ten bits of sugar, and you met ten Prussian dogs, how many lumps would you, a French dog, give to each of the Prussians?' Lyda very decidedly replied to this with a cipher. 'But, suppose you divided your sugar with me, how many lumps would you give me?' Lyda took up the figure five and politely presented it to her master." "Wasn't she smart? Sanch can't do that," exclaimed Ben, forced to own that the French doggie beat his cherished pet. "He is not too old to learn. Shall I go on?" asked Miss Celia, seeing that the boys liked it, though Betty was absorbed with the doll, and Bab deep in a puzzle. "Oh, yes! What else did they do?" "They played a game of dominoes together, sitting in chairs opposite each other, and touched the dominoes that were wanted; but the man placed them and kept telling how the game went. Lyda was beaten, and hid under the sofa, evidently feeling very badly about it. Blanche was then surrounded with playing-cards, while her master held another pack and told us to choose a card; then he asked her what one had been chosen, and she always took up the right one in her teeth. I was asked to go into another room, put a light on the floor with cards round it, and leave the doors nearly shut. Then the man begged some one to whisper in the dog's ear what card she was to bring, and she went at once and fetched it, thus showing that she understood their names. Lyda did many tricks with the numbers, so curious that no dog could possibly understand them; yet what the secret sign was I could not discover, but suppose it must have been in the tones of the master's voice, for he certainly made none with either head or hands. "It took an hour a day for eighteen months to educate a dog enough to appear in public, and (as you say, Ben) the night was the best time to give the lessons. Soon after this visit, the master died; and these wonderful dogs were sold because their mistress did not know how to exhibit them." "Wouldn't I have liked to see 'em and find out how they were taught! Sanch, you'll have to study up lively, for I'm not going to have you beaten by French dogs," said Ben, shaking his finger so sternly that Sancho grovelled at his feet and put both paws over his eyes in the most abject manner. "Is there a picture of those smart little poodles?" asked Ben, eying the book, which Miss Celia left open before her. "Not of them, but of other interesting creatures; also anecdotes about horses, which will please you, I know," and she turned the pages for him, neither guessing how much good Mr. Hamerton's charming "Chapters on Animals" were to do the boy when he needed comfort for a sorrow which was very near. CHAPTER X A HEAVY TROUBLE "Thank you, ma'am, that's a tip-top book, 'specially the pictures. But I can't bear to see these poor fellows;" and Ben brooded over the fine etching of the dead and dying horses on a battle-field, one past all further pain, the other helpless, but lifting his head from his dead master to neigh a farewell to the comrades who go galloping away in a cloud of dust. "They ought to stop for him, some of 'em," muttered Ben, hastily turning back to the cheerful picture of the three happy horses in the field, standing knee-deep among the grass as they prepare to drink at the wide stream. "Ain't that black one a beauty? Seems as if I could see his mane blow in the wind, and hear him whinny to that small feller trotting down to see if he can't get over and be sociable. How I'd like to take a rousin' run round that meadow on the whole lot of 'em!" and Ben swayed about in his chair as if he was already doing it in imagination. "You may take a turn round my field on Lita any day. She would like it, and Thorny's saddle will be here next week," said Miss Celia, pleased to see that the boy appreciated the fine pictures, and felt such hearty sympathy with the noble animals whom she dearly loved herself. "Needn't wait for that. I'd rather ride bareback. Oh, I say, is this the book you told about, where the horses talked?" asked Ben, suddenly recollecting the speech he had puzzled over ever since he heard it. "No; I brought the book, but in the hurry of my tea-party forgot to unpack it. I'll hunt it up to-night. Remind me, Thorny." "There, now, I've forgotten something, too! Squire sent you a letter; and I'm having such a jolly time, I never thought of it." Ben rummaged out the note with remorseful haste, protesting that he was in no hurry for Mr. Gulliver, and very glad to save him for another day. Leaving the young folks busy with their games, Miss Celia sat in the porch to read her letters, for there were two; and as she read her face grew so sober, then so sad, that if any one had been looking he would have wondered what bad news had chased away the sunshine so suddenly. No one did look; no one saw how pitifully her eyes rested on Ben's happy face when the letters were put away, and no one minded the new gentleness in her manner as she came back, to the table. But Ben thought there never was so sweet a lady as the one who leaned over him to show him how the dissected map went together and never smiled at his mistakes. So kind, so very kind was she to them all, that when, after an hour of merry play, she took her brother in to bed, the three who remained fell to praising her enthusiastically as they put things to rights before taking leave. "She's like the good fairies in the books, and has all sorts of nice, pretty things in her house," said Betty, enjoying a last hug of the fascinating doll whose lids would shut so that it was a pleasure to Sing, "Bye, sweet baby, bye," with no staring eyes to Spoil the illusion. "What heaps she knows! More than Teacher, I do believe; and she doesn't mind how many questions we ask. I like folks that will tell me things," added Bab, whose inquisitive mind was always hungry. "I like that boy first-rate, and I guess he likes me, though I didn't know where Nantucket ought to go. He wants me to teach him to ride when he's on his pins again, and Miss Celia says I may. She knows how to make folks feel good, don't she?" and Ben gratefully surveyed the Arab chief, now his own, though the best of all the collection. "Won't we have splendid times? She Says we may come over every night and play with her and Thorny." "And she's goin', to have the seats in the porch lift up, so we can put our things in there all day and have 'em handy." "And I'm going to be her boy, and stay here all the time. I guess the letter I brought was a recommend from the Squire." "Yes, Ben; and if I had not already made up my mind to keep you before, I certainly would now, my boy." Something in Miss Celia's voice, as she said the last two words with her hand on Ben's shoulder, made him look up quickly and turn red with pleasure, wondering what the Squire had written about him. "Mother must have some of the party; so you shall take her these, Bab, and Betty may carry Baby home for the night. She is so nicely asleep, it is a pity to wake her. Good by till to-morrow, little neighbors," continued Miss Celia, and dismissed the girls with a kiss. "Is Ben coming, too?" asked Bab, as Betty trotted off in a silent rapture with the big darling bobbing over her shoulder. "Not yet; I've several things to settle with my new man. Tell mother he will come by-and-by." Off rushed Bab with the plateful of goodies; and, drawing Ben down beside her on the wide step, Miss Celia took out the letters, with a shadow creeping over her face as softly as the twilight was stealing over the world, while the dew fell, and every thing grew still and dim. "Ben, dear, I've something to tell you," she began, slowly; and the boy waited with a happy face, for no one had called him so since 'Melia died. "The Squire has heard about your father, and this is the letter Mr. Smithers sends." "Hooray! where is he, please?" cried Ben, wishing she would hurry up; for Miss Celia did not even offer him the letter, but sat looking down at Sancho on the lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her. "He went after the mustangs, and sent some home, but could not come himself." "Went further on, I s'pose. Yes, he said he might go as far as California, and if he did he'd send for me. I'd like to go there; it's a real splendid place, they say." "He has gone further away than that, to a lovelier country than California, I hope." And Miss Celia's eyes turned to the deep sky, where early stars were shining. "Didn't he send for me? Where's he gone? When 's he coming back?" asked Ben, quickly; for there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which he felt before he understood. Miss Celia put her arms about him, and answered very tenderly,--"Ben, dear, if I were to tell you that he was never coming back, could you bear it?" "I guess I could,--but you don't mean it? Oh, ma'am, he isn't dead?" cried Ben, with a cry that made her heart ache, and Sancho leap up with a bark. "My poor little boy, I wish I could say no." There was no need of any more words, no need of tears or kind arms around him. He knew he was an orphan now, and turned instinctively to the old friend who loved him best. Throwing himself down beside his dog, Ben clung about the curly neck, sobbing bitterly,-- "Oh, Sanch, he's never coming back again; never, never any more!" Poor Sancho could only whine and lick away the tears that wet the half-hidden face, questioning the new friend meantime with eyes so full of dumb love and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost human. Wiping away her own tears, Miss Celia stooped to pat the white head, and to stroke the black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was the boy's pillow. Presently the sobbing ceased, and Ben whispered, without looking up,-- "Tell me all about it; I'll be good." Then, as kindly as she could, Miss Celia read the brief letter which told the hard news bluntly; for Mr. Smithers was obliged to confess that he had known the truth months before, and never told the boy, lest he should be unfitted for the work they gave him. Of Ben Brown the elder's death there was little to tell, except that he was killed in some wild place at the West, and a stranger wrote the fact to the only person whose name was found in Ben's pocket-book. Mr. Smithers offered to take the boy back and "do well by him," averring that the father wished his son to remain where he left him, and follow the profession to which he was trained. "Will you go, Ben?" asked Miss Celia, hoping to distract his mind from his grief by speaking of other things. "No, no; I'd rather tramp and starve. He's awful hard to me and Sanch; and he'd be worse, now father's gone. Don't send me back! Let me stay here; folks are good to me; there's nowhere else to go." And the head Ben had lifted up with a desperate sort of look, went down again on Sancho's breast as if there were no other refuge left. "You shall stay here, and no one shall take you away against your will. I called you 'my boy' in play, now you shall be my boy in earnest; this shall be your home, and Thorny your brother. We are orphans, too; and we will stand by one another till a stronger friend comes to help us," said Miss Celia, with such a mixture of resolution and tenderness in her voice, that Ben felt comforted at once, and thanked her by laying his cheek against the pretty slipper that rested on the step beside him, as if he had no words in which to swear loyalty to the gentle mistress whom he meant henceforth to serve with grateful fidelity. Sancho felt that he must follow suit; and gravely put his paw upon her knee, with a low whine, as if he said, "Count me in, and let me help to pay my master's debt if I can." Miss Celia shook the offered paw cordially, and the good creature crouched at her feet like a small lion, bound to guard her and her house for evermore. "Don't lie on that cold stone, Ben; come here and let me try to comfort you," she said, stooping to wipe away the great drops that kept rolling down the brown cheek half hidden in her dress. But Ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out with a fresh burst of grief,-- "You can't, you didn't know him! Oh, daddy! daddy! if I'd only seen you jest once more!" No one could grant that wish; but Miss Celia did comfort him, for presently the sound of music floated out from the parlor,--music so soft, so sweet, that involuntarily the boy stopped his crying to listen; then quieter tears dropped slowly, seeming to soothe his pain as they fell, while the sense of loneliness passed away, and it grew possible to wait till it was time to go to father in that far-off country lovelier than golden California. How long she played Miss Celia never minded; but, when she stole out to see if Ben had gone, she found that other friends, even kinder than herself, had taken the boy into their gentle keeping. The wind had sung a lullaby among the rustling lilacs, the moon's mild face looked through the leafy arch to kiss the heavy eyelids, and faithful Sancho still kept guard beside his little master, who, with his head pillowed on his arm, lay fast asleep, dreaming, happily, that Daddy had come home again. CHAPTER XI SUNDAY Mrs. Moss woke Ben with a kiss next morning, for her heart yearned over the fatherless lad as if he had been her own, and she had no other way of showing her sympathy. Ben had forgotten his troubles in sleep; but the memory of them returned as soon as he opened his eyes, heavy with the tears they had shed. He did not cry any more, but felt strange and lonely till he called Sancho and told him all about it, for he was shy even with kind Mrs. Moss, and glad when she went away. Sancho seemed to understand that his master was in trouble, and listened to the sad little story with gurgles of interest, whines of condolence, and intelligent barks whenever the word "daddy" was uttered. He was only a brute, but his dumb affection comforted the boy more than any words; for Sanch had known and loved "father" almost as long and well as his son, and that seemed to draw them closely together, now they were left alone. "We must put on mourning, old feller. It's the proper thing, and there's nobody else to do it now," said Ben, as he dressed, remembering how all the company wore bits of crape somewhere about them at 'Melia's funeral. It was a real sacrifice of boyish vanity to take the blue ribbon with its silver anchors off the new hat, and replace it with the dingy black band from the old one; but Ben was quite sincere in doing this, though doubtless his theatrical life made him think of the effect more than other lads would have done. He could find nothing in his limited wardrobe with which to decorate Sanch except a black cambric pocket. It was already half torn out of his trousers with the weight of nails, pebbles, and other light trifles; so he gave it a final wrench and tied it into the dog's collar, saying to himself, as he put away his treasures, with a sigh,-- "One pocket is enough; I sha'n't want anything but a han'k'chi'f to-day." Fortunately, that article of dress was clean, for he had but one; and, with this somewhat ostentatiously drooping from the solitary pocket, the serious hat upon his head, the new shoes creaking mournfully, and Sanch gravely following, much impressed with his black bow, the chief mourner descended, feeling that he had done his best to show respect to the dead. Mrs. Moss's eyes filled as she saw the rusty band, and guessed why it was there; but she found it difficult to repress a smile when she beheld the cambric symbol of woe on the dog's neck. Not a word was said to disturb the boy's comfort in these poor attempts, however; and he went out to do his chores, conscious that he was an object of interest to his friends, especially so to Bab and Betty, who, having been told of Ben's loss, now regarded him with a sort of pitying awe very grateful to his feelings. "I want you to drive me to church by-and-by. It is going to be pretty warm, and Thorny is hardly strong enough to venture yet," said Miss Celia, when Ben ran over after breakfast to see if she had any thing for him to do; for he considered her his mistress now, though he was not to take possession of his new quarters till the morrow. "Yes, 'm, I'd like to, if I look well enough," answered Ben, pleased to be asked, but impressed with the idea that people had to be very fine on such occasions. "You will do very well when I have given you a touch. God doesn't mind our clothes, Ben, and the poor are as welcome as the rich to him. You have not been much, have you?" asked Miss Celia, anxious to help the boy, and not quite sure how to begin. "No, 'm; our folks didn't hardly ever go, and father was so tired he used to rest Sundays, or go off in the woods with me." A little quaver came into Ben's voice as he spoke, and a sudden motion made his hat-brim hide his eyes, for the thought of the happy times that would never come any more was almost too much for him. "That was a pleasant way to rest. I often do so, and we will go to the grove this afternoon and try it. But I have to go to church in the morning; it seems to start me right for the week; and if one has a sorrow that is the place where one can always find comfort. Will you come and try it, Ben, dear?" "I'd do any thing to please you," muttered Ben, without looking up; for, though he felt her kindness to the bottom of his heart, he did wish that no one would talk about father for a little while; it was so hard to keep from crying, and he hated to be a baby. Miss Celia seemed to understand, for the next thing she said, in a very cheerful tone, was, "See what a pretty sight that is. When I was a little girl I used to think spiders spun cloth for the fairies, and spread it on the grass to bleach." Ben stopped digging a hole in the ground with his toe, and looked up, to see a lovely cobweb like a wheel, circle within circle, spun across a corner of the arch over the gate. Tiny drops glittered on every thread as the light shone through the gossamer curtain, and a soft breath of air made it tremble as if about to blow it away. "It's mighty pretty, but it will fly off, just as the others did. I never saw such a chap as that spider is. He keeps on spinning a new one every day, for they always get broke, and he don't seem to be discouraged a mite," said Ben, glad to change the subject, as she knew he would be. "That is the way he gets his living, he spins his web and waits for his daily bread,--or fly, rather; and it always comes, I fancy. By-and-by you will see that pretty trap full of insects, and Mr. Spider will lay up his provisions for the day. After that he doesn't care how soon his fine web blows away." "I know him; he's a handsome feller, all black and yellow, and lives up in that corner where the shiny sort of hole is. He dives down the minute I touch the gate, but comes up after I've kept still a minute. I like to watch him. But he must hate me, for I took away a nice green fly and some little millers one day." "Did you ever hear the story of Bruce and his spider? Most children know and like that," said Miss Celia, seeing that he seemed interested. "No, 'm; I don't know ever so many things most children do," answered Ben, soberly; for, since he had been among his new friends, he had often felt his own deficiencies. "Ah, but you also know many things which they do not. Half the boys in town would give a great deal to be able to ride and run and leap as you do; and even the oldest are not as capable of taking care of themselves as you are. Your active life has done much in some ways to make a man of you; but in other ways it was bad, as I think you begin to see. Now, suppose you try to forget the harmful part, and remember only the good, while learning to be more like our boys, who go to school and church, and fit themselves to become industrious, honest men." Ben had been looking straight up in Miss Celia's face as she spoke, feeling that every word was true, though he could not have expressed it if he had tried; and, when she paused, with her bright eyes inquiringly fixed on his, he answered heartily,-- "I'd like to stay here and be respectable; for, since I came, I've found out that folks don't think much of circus riders, though they like to go and see 'em. I didn't use to care about school and such things, but I do now; and I guess he'd like it better than to have me knockin' round that way without him to look after me." "I know he would; so we will try, Benny. I dare say it will seem dull and hard at first, after the gay sort of life you have led, and you will miss the excitement. But it was not good for you, and we will do our best to find something safer. Don't be discouraged; and, when things trouble you, come to me as Thorny does, and I'll try to straighten them out for you. I've got two boys now, and I want to do my duty by both." Before Ben had time for more than a grateful look, a tumbled head appeared at an upper window, and a sleepy voice drawled out,-- "Celia! I can't find a bit of a shoe-string, and I wish you'd come and do my neck-tie." "Lazy boy, come down here, and bring one of your black ties with you. Shoe-strings are in the little brown bag on my bureau," called back Miss Celia; adding, with a laugh, as the tumbled head disappeared mumbling something about "bothering old bags", "Thorny has been half spoiled since he was ill. You mustn't mind his fidgets and dawdling ways. He'll get over them soon, and then I know you two will be good friends." Ben had his doubts about that, but resolved to do his best for her sake; so, when Master Thorny presently appeared, with a careless "How are you, Ben?" that young person answered respectfully,--"Very well, thank you," though his nod was as condescending as his new master's; because he felt that a boy who could ride bareback and turn a double somersault in the air ought not to "knuckle under" to a fellow who had not the strength of a pussy-cat. "Sailor's knot, please; keeps better so," said Thorny, holding up his chin to have a blue-silk scarf tied to suit him, for he was already beginning to be something of a dandy. "You ought to wear red till you get more color, dear;" and his sister rubbed her blooming cheek against his pale one, as if to lend him some of her own roses. "Men don't care how they look," said Thorny, squirming out of her hold, for he hated to be "cuddled" before people. "Oh, don't they? Here 's a vain boy who brushes his hair a dozen times a day, and quiddles over his collar till he is so tired he can hardly stand," laughed Miss Celia, with a little tweak of his ear. "I should like to know what this is for?" demanded Thorny, in a dignified tone, presenting a black tie. "For my other boy. He is going to church with me," and Miss Celia tied a second knot for this young gentleman, with a smile that seemed to brighten up even the rusty hat-band. "Well, I like that--" began Thorny, in a tone that contradicted his words. A look from his sister reminded him of what she had told him half an hour ago, and he stopped short, understanding now why she was "extra good to the little tramp." "So do I, for you are of no use as a driver yet, and I don't like to fasten Lita when I have my best gloves on," said Miss Celia, in a tone that rather nettled Master Thorny. "Is Ben going to black my boots before he goes? with a glance at the new shoes which caused them to creak uneasily. "No; he is going to black mine, if he will be so kind. You won't need boots for a week yet, so we won't waste any time over them. You will find every thing in the shed, Ben; and at ten you may go for Lita." With that, Miss Celia walked her brother off to the diningroom, and Ben retired to vent his ire in such energetic demonstrations with the blacking-brush that the little boots shone splendidly. He thought he had never seen any thing as pretty as his mistress when, an hour later, she came out of the house in her white shawl and bonnet, holding a book and a late lily-of-the-valley in the pearl-colored gloves, which he hardly dared to touch as he helped her into the carriage. He had seen a good many fine ladies in his life; and those he had known had been very gay in the colors of their hats and gowns, very fond of cheap jewelry, and much given to feathers, lace, and furbelows; so it rather puzzled him to discover why Miss Celia looked so sweet and elegant in such a simple suit. He did not then know that the charm was in the woman, not the clothes; or that merely living near such a person would do more to give him gentle manners, good principles, and pure thoughts, than almost any other training he could have had. But he was conscious that it was pleasant to be there, neatly dressed, in good company, and going to church like a respectable boy. Somehow, the lonely feeling got better as he rolled along between green fields, with the June sunshine brightening every thing, a restful quiet in the air, and a friend beside him who sat silently looking out at the lovely world with what he afterward learned to call her "Sunday face,"--a soft, happy look, as if all the work and weariness of the past week were forgotten, and she was ready to begin afresh when this blessed day was over. "Well, child, what is it?" she asked, catching his eye as he stole a shy glance at her, one of many which she had not seen. "I was only thinking, you looked as if--" "As if what? Don't be afraid," she said, for Ben paused and fumbled at the reins, feeling half ashamed to tell his fancy. "You were saying prayers," he added, wishing she had not caught him. "So I was. Don't you, when you are happy? "No,'m. I'm glad, but I don't say any thing." "Words are not needed; but they help, sometimes, if they are sincere and sweet. Did you never learn any prayers, Ben?" "Only 'Now I lay me.' Grandma taught me that when I was a little mite of a boy." "I will teach you another, the best that was ever made, because it says all we need ask." "Our folks wasn't very pious; they didn't have time, I s'pose." "I wonder if you know just what it means to be pious?" "Goin' to church, and readin' the Bible, and sayin' prayers and hymns, ain't it?" "Those things are a part of it; but being kind and cheerful, doing one's duty, helping others, and loving God, is the best way to show that we are pious in the true sense of the word." "Then you are!" and Ben looked as if her acts had been a better definition than her words. "I try to be, but I very often fail; so every Sunday I make new resolutions, and work hard to keep them through the week. That is a great help, as you will find when you begin to try it." "Do you think if I said in meetin', 'I won't ever swear any more,' that I wouldn't do it again?" asked Ben, soberly; for that was his besetting sin just now. "I'm afraid we can't get rid of our faults quite so easily; I wish we could: but I do believe that if you keep saying that, and trying to stop, you will cure the habit sooner than you think." "I never did swear very bad, and I didn't mind much till I came here; but Bab and Betty looked so scared when I said 'damn,' and Mrs. Moss scolded me so, I tried to leave off. It's dreadful hard, though, when I get mad. 'Hang it!' don't seem half so good if I want to let off steam." "Thorny used to 'confound!' every thing, so I proposed that he should whistle instead; and now he sometimes pipes up so suddenly and shrilly that it makes me jump. How would that do, instead of swearing?" proposed Miss Celia, not the least surprised at the habit of profanity, which the boy could hardly help learning among his former associates. Ben laughed, and promised to try it, feeling a mischievous satisfaction at the prospect of out-whistling Master Thorny, as he knew he should; for the objectionable words rose to his lips a dozen times a day. The Ben was ringing as they drove into town; and, by the time Lita was comfortably settled in her shed, people were coming up from all quarters to cluster around the steps of the old meeting-house like bees about a hive. Accustomed to a tent, where people kept their hats on, Ben forgot all about his, and was going down the aisle covered, when a gentle hand took it off, and Miss Celia whispered, as she gave it to him,-- "This is a holy place; remember that, and uncover at the door." Much abashed, Ben followed to the pew, where the Squire and his wife soon joined them. "Glad to see him here," said the old gentleman with an approving nod, as he recognized the boy and remembered his loss. "Hope he won't nestle round in meeting-time," whispered Mrs. Allen, composing herself in the corner with much rustling of black silk. "I'll take care that he doesn't disturb you," answered Miss Celia, pushing a stool under the short legs, and drawing a palm-leaf fan within reach. Ben gave an inward sigh at the prospect before him; for an hour's captivity to an active lad is hard to bear, and he really did want to behave well. So he folded his arms and sat like a statue, with nothing moving but his eyes. They rolled to and fro, up and down, from the high red pulpit to the worn hymnbooks in the rack, recognizing two little faces under blue-ribboned hats in a distant pew, and finding it impossible to restrain a momentary twinkle in return for the solemn wink Billy Barton bestowed upon him across the aisle. Ten minutes of this decorous demeanor made it absolutely necessary for him to stir; so he unfolded his arms and crossed his legs as cautiously as a mouse moves in the presence of a cat; for Mrs. Allen's eye was on him, and he knew by experience that it was a very sharp one. The music which presently began was a great relief to him, for under cover of it he could wag his foot and no one heard the creak thereof; and when they stood up to sing, he was so sure that all the boys were looking at him, he was glad to sit down again. The good old minister read the sixteenth chapter of Samuel, and then proceeded to preach a long and somewhat dull sermon. Ben listened with all his ears, for he was interested in the young shepherd, "ruddy and of a beautiful countenance," who was chosen to be Saul's armor-bearer. He wanted to hear more about him, and how he got on, and whether the evil spirits troubled Saul again after David had harped them out. But nothing more came; and the old gentleman droned on about other things till poor Ben felt that he must either go to sleep like the Squire, or tip the stool over by accident, since "nestling" was forbidden, and relief of some sort he must have. Mrs. Allen gave him a peppermint, and he dutifully ate it, though it was so hot it made his eyes water. Then she fanned him, to his great annoyance, for it blew his hair about; and the pride of his life was to have his head as smooth and shiny as black satin. An irrepressible sigh of weariness attracted Miss Celia's attention at last; for, though she seemed to be listening devoutly, her thoughts had flown over the sea, with tender prayers for one whom she loved even more than David did his Jonathan. She guessed the trouble in a minute, and had provided for it, knowing by experience that few small boys can keep quiet through sermon-time. Finding a certain place in the little book she had brought, she put it into his hands, with the whisper, "Read if you are tired." Ben clutched the book and gladly obeyed, though the title, "Scripture Narratives," did not look very inviting. Then his eye fell on the picture of a slender youth cutting a large man's head off, while many people stood looking on. "Jack, the giant-killer," thought Ben, and turned the page to see the words "David and Goliath", which was enough to set him to reading the story with great interest; for here was the shepherd boy turned into a hero. No more fidgets now; the sermon was no longer heard, the fan flapped unfelt, and Billy Barton's spirited sketches in the hymnbook were vainly held up for admiration. Ben was quite absorbed in the stirring history of King David, told in a way that fitted it for children's reading, and illustrated with fine pictures which charmed the boy's eye. Sermon and story ended at the same time; and, while he listened to the prayer, Ben felt as if he understood now what Miss Celia meant by saying that words helped when they were well chosen and sincere. Several petitions seemed as if especially intended for him; and he repeated them to himself that he might remember them, they sounded so sweet and comfortable heard for the first time just when he most needed comfort. Miss Celia saw a new expression in the boy's face as she glanced down at him, and heard a little humming at her side when all stood up to sing the cheerful hymn with which they were dismissed. "How do you like church?" asked the young lady, as they drove away. "First-rate!" answered Ben, heartily. "Especially the sermon?" Ben laughed, and said, with an affectionate glance at the little book in her lap,-- "I couldn't understand it; but that story was just elegant. There's more; and I'd admire to read 'em, if I could." "I'm glad you like them; and we will keep the rest for another sermon-time. Thorny used to do so, and always called this his 'pew book.' I don't expect you to understand much that you hear yet awhile; but it is good to be there, and after reading these stories you will be more interested when you hear the names of the people mentioned here." "Yes, 'm. Wasn't David a fine feller? I liked all about the kid and the corn and the ten cheeses, and killin' the lion and bear, and slingin' old Goliath dead first shot. I want to know about Joseph next time, for I saw a gang of robbers puttin' him in a hole, and it looked real interesting." Miss Celia could not help smiling at Ben's way of telling things; but she was pleased to see that he was attracted by the music and the stories, and resolved to make church-going so pleasant that he would learn to love it for its own sake. "Now, you have tried my way this morning, and we will try yours this afternoon. Come over about four and help me roll Thorny down to the grove. I am going to put one of the hammocks there, because the smell of the pines is good for him, and you can talk or read or amuse yourselves in any quiet way you like." "Can I take Sanch along? He doesn't like to be left, and felt real bad because I shut him up, for fear he'd follow and come walkin' into meetin' to find me." "Yes, indeed; let the clever Bow-wow have a good time and enjoy Sunday as much as I want my boys to." Quite content with this arrangement, Ben went home to dinner, which he made very lively by recounting Billy Barton's ingenious devices to beguile the tedium of sermon time. He said nothing of his conversation with Miss Celia, because he had not quite made up his mind whether he liked it or not; it was so new and serious, he felt as if he had better lay it by, to think over a good deal before he could understand all about it. But he had time to get dismal again, and long for four o'clock; because he had nothing to do except whittle. Mrs. Moss went to take a nap; Bab and Betty sat demurely on their bench reading Sunday books; no boys were allowed to come and play; even the hens retired under the currant-bushes, and the cock stood among them, clucking drowsily, as if reading them a sermon. "Dreadful slow day!" thought Ben; and, retiring to the recesses of his own room, he read over the two letters which seemed already old to him. Now that the first shock was over, he could not make it true that his father was dead, and he gave up trying; for he was an honest boy, and felt that it was foolish to pretend to be more unhappy than he really was. So he put away his letters, took the black pocket off Sanch's neck, and allowed himself to whistle softly as he packed up his possessions, ready to move next day, with few regrets and many bright anticipations for the future. "Thorny, I want you to be good to Ben, and amuse him in some quiet way this afternoon. I must stay and see the Morrises, who are coming over; but you can go to the grove and have a pleasant time," said Miss Celia to her brother. "Not much fun in talking to that horsey fellow. I'm sorry for him, but I can't do anything to amuse him," objected Thorny, pulling himself up from the sofa with a great yawn. "You can be very agreeable when you like; and Ben has had enough of me for this time. To-morrow he will have his work, and do very well; but we must try to help him through to-day, because he doesn't know what to do with himself. Besides, it is just the time to make a good impression on him, while grief for his father softens him, and gives us a chance. I like him, and I'm sure he wants to do well; so it is our duty to help him, as there seems to be no one else." "Here goes, then! Where is he?" and Thorny stood up, won by his sister's sweet earnestness, but very doubtful of his own success with the "horsey fellow." "Waiting with the chair. Randa has gone on with the hammock. Be a dear boy, and I'll do as much for you some day." "Don't see how you can be a dear boy. You're the best sister that ever was; so I'll love all the scallywags you ask me to." With a laugh and a kiss, Thorny shambled off to ascend his chariot, good-humoredly saluting his pusher, whom he found sitting on the high rail behind, with his feet on Sanch. "Drive on, Benjamin. I don't know the way, so I can't direct. Don't spill me out,--that's all I've got to say." "All right, sir,"--and away Ben trundled down the long walk that led through the orchard to a little grove of seven pines. A pleasant spot; for a soft rustle filled the air, a brown carpet of pine needles, with fallen cones for a pattern, lay under foot; and over the tops of the tall brakes that fringed the knoll one had glimpses of hill and valley, farm-houses and winding river, like a silver ribbon through the low, green meadows. "A regular summer house!" said Thorny, surveying it with approval. "What's the matter, Randa? Won't it do?" he asked, as the stout maid dropped her arms with a puff, after vainly trying to throw the hammock rope over a branch. "That end went up beautiful, but this one won't; the branches is so high, I can't reach 'em; and I'm no hand at flinging ropes round." "I'll fix it;" and Ben went up the pine like a squirrel, tied a stout knot, and swung himself down again before Thorny could get out of the chair. "My patience, what a spry boy!" exclaimed Randa, admiringly. "That 's nothing; you ought to see me shin up a smooth tent-pole," said Ben, rubbing the pitch off his hands, with a boastful wag of the head. "You can go, Randa. Just hand me my cushion and books, Ben; then you can sit in the chair while I talk to you," commanded Thorny, tumbling into the hammock. "What's he goin' to say to me?" wondered Ben to himself, as he sat down with Sanch sprawling among the wheels. "Now, Ben, I think you'd better learn a hymn; I always used to when I was a little chap, and it is a good thing to do Sundays," began the new teacher, with a patronizing air, which ruffled his pupil as much as the opprobrious term "little chap." "I'll be--whew--if I do!" whistled Ben, stopping an oath just in time. "It is not polite to whistle in company," said Thorny, with great dignity. "Miss Celia told me to. I'll say 'confound it,' if you like that better," answered Ben, as a sly smile twinkled in his eyes. "Oh, I see! She 's told you about it? Well, then, if you want to please her, you'll learn a hymn right off. Come, now, she wants me to be clever to you, and I'd like to do it; but if you get peppery, how can I?" Thorny spoke in a hearty, blunt way, which suited Ben much better than the other, and he responded pleasantly,-- "If you won't be grand I won't be peppery. Nobody is going to boss me but Miss Celia; so I'll learn hymns if she wants me to." "'In the soft season of thy youth' is a good one to begin with. I learned it when I was six. Nice thing; better have it." And Thorny offered the book like a patriarch addressing an infant. Ben surveyed the yellow page with small favor, for the long s in the old-fashioned printing bewildered him; and when he came to the last two lines, he could not resist reading them wrong,-- "The earth affords no lovelier fight Than a religious youth." "I don't believe I could ever get that into my head straight. Haven't you got a plain one any where round?" he asked, turning over the leaves with some anxiety. "Look at the end, and see if there isn't a piece of poetry pasted in. You learn that, and see how funny Celia will look when you say it to her. She wrote it when she was a girl, and somebody had it printed for other children. I like it best, myself." Pleased by the prospect of a little fun to cheer his virtuous task, Ben whisked over the leaves, and read with interest the lines Miss Celia had written in her girlhood: "MY KINGDOM A little kingdom I possess, Where thoughts and feelings dwell; And very hard I find the task Of governing it well. For passion tempts and troubles me, A wayward will misleads, And selfishness its shadow casts On all my words and deeds. "How can I learn to rule myself, To be the child I should,-- Honest and brave,--nor ever tire Of trying to be good? How can I keep a sunny soul To shine along life's way? How can I tune my little heart To sweetly sing all day? "Dear Father, help me with the love That casteth out my fear! Teach me to lean on thee, and feel That thou art very near; That no temptation is unseen, No childish grief too small, Since Thou, with patience infinite, Doth soothe and comfort all. "I do not ask for any crown, But that which all may will Nor seek to conquer any world Except the one within. Be then my guide until I find, Led by a tender hand, Thy happy kingdom in myself, And dare to take command." "I like that!" said Ben, emphatically, when he had read the little hymn. "I understand it, and I'll learn it right away. Don't see how she could make it all come out so nice and pretty." "Celia can do any thing!" and Thorny gave an all-embracing wave of the hand, which forcibly expressed his firm belief in his sister's boundless powers. "I made some poetry once. Bab and Betty thought it was first-rate, I didn't," said Ben, moved to confidence by the discovery of Miss Celia's poetic skill. "Say it," commanded Thorny, adding with tact, "I can't make any to save my life,--never could but I'm fond of it." "Chevalita, Pretty cretr, I do love her Like a brother; Just to ride Is my delight, For she does not Kick or bite," recited Ben, with modest pride, for his first attempt had been inspired by sincere affection, and pronounced "lovely" by the admiring girls. "Very good! You must say them to Celia, too. She likes to hear Lita praised. You and she and that little Barlow boy ought to try for a prize, as the poets did in Athens. I'll tell you all about it some time. Now, you peg away at your hymn." Cheered by Thorny's commendation, Ben fell to work at his new task, squirming about in the chair as if the process of getting words into his memory was a very painful one. But he had quick wits, and had often learned comic songs; so he soon was able to repeat the four verses without mistake, much to his own and Thorny's satisfaction. "Now we'll talk," said the well-pleased preceptor; and talk they did, one swinging in the hammock, the other rolling about on the pine-needles, as they related their experiences boy fashion. Ben's were the most exciting; but Thorny's were not without interest, for he had lived abroad for several years, and could tell all sorts of droll stories of the countries he had seen. Busied with friends, Miss Celia could not help wondering how the lads got on; and, when the tea-bell rang, waited a little anxiously for their return, knowing that she could tell at a glance if they had enjoyed themselves. "All goes well so far," she thought, as she watched their approach with a smile; for Sancho sat bolt upright in the chair which Ben pushed, while Thorny strolled beside him, leaning on a stout cane newly cut. Both boys were talking busily, and Thorny laughed from time to time, as if his comrade's chat was very amusing. "See what a jolly cane Ben cut for me! He's great fun if you don't stroke him the wrong way," said the elder lad, flourishing his staff as they came up. "What have you been doing down there? You look so merry, I suspect mischief," asked Miss Celia, surveying them front the steps. "We've been as good as gold. I talked, and Ben learned a hymn to please you. Come, young man, say your piece," said Thorny, with an expression of virtuous content. Taking off his hat, Ben soberly obeyed, much enjoying the quick color that came up in Miss Celia's face as she listened, and feeling as if well repaid for the labor of learning by the pleased look with which she said, as he ended with a bow,-- "I feel very proud to think you chose that, and to hear you say it as if it meant something to you. I was only fourteen when I wrote it; but it came right out of my heart, and did me good. I hope it may help you a little." Ben murmured that he guessed it would; but felt too shy to talk about such things before Thorny, so hastily retired to put the chair away, and the others went in to tea. But later in the evening, when Miss Celia was singing like a nightingale, the boy slipped away from sleepy Bab and Betty to stand by the syringa bush and listen, with his heart full of new thoughts and happy feelings; for never before had he spent a Sunday like this. And when he went to bed, instead of saying "Now I lay me," he repeated the third verse of Miss Celia's hymn; for that was his favorite, because his longing for the father whom he had seen made it seem sweet and natural now to love and lean, without fear upon the Father whom he had not seen. CHAPTER XII GOOD TIMES Every one was very kind to Ben when his loss was known. The Squire wrote to Mr. Smithers that the boy had found friends and would stay where he was. Mrs. Moss consoled him in her motherly way, and the little girls did their very best to "be good to poor Benny." But Miss Celia was his truest comforter, and completely won his heart, not only by the friendly words she said and the pleasant things she did, but by the unspoken sympathy which showed itself just at the right minute, in a look, a touch, a smile, more helpful than any amount of condolence. She called him "my man," and Ben tried to be one, bearing his trouble so bravely that she respected him, although he was only a little boy, because it promised well for the future. Then she was so happy herself, it was impossible for those about her to be sad, and Ben soon grew cheerful again in spite of the very tender memory of his father laid quietly away in the safest corner of his heart. He would have been a very unboyish boy if he had not been happy, for the new place was such a pleasant one, he soon felt as if, for the first time, he really had a home. No more grubbing now, but daily tasks which never grew tiresome, they were so varied and so light. No more cross Pats to try his temper, but the sweetest mistress that ever was, since praise was oftener on her lips than blame, and gratitude made willing service a delight. At first, it seemed as if there was going to be trouble between the two boys; for Thorny was naturally masterful, and illness had left him weak and nervous, so he was often both domineering and petulant. Ben had been taught instant obedience to those older than him self, and if Thorny had been a man Ben would have made no complaint; but it was hard to be "ordered round" by a boy, and an unreasonable one into the bargain. A word from Miss Celia blew away the threatening cloud, however; and for her sake her brother promised to try to be patient; for her sake Ben declared he never would "get mad" if Mr. Thorny did fidget; and both very soon forgot all about master and man and lived together like two friendly lads, taking each other's ups and downs good-naturedly, and finding mutual pleasure and profit in the new companionship. The only point on which they never could agree was legs, and many a hearty laugh did they give Miss Celia by their warm and serious discussion of this vexed question. Thorny insisted that Ben was bowlegged; Ben resented the epithet, and declared that the legs of all good horsemen must have a slight curve, and any one who knew any thing about the matter would acknowledge both its necessity and its beauty. Then Thorny Would observe that it might be all very well in the saddle, but it made a man waddle like a duck when afoot; whereat Ben would retort that, for his part, he would rather waddle like a duck than tumble about like a horse with the staggers. He had his opponent there, for poor Thorny did look very like a weak-kneed colt when he tried to walk; but he would never own it, and came down upon Ben with crushing allusions to centaurs, or the Greeks and Romans, who were famous both for their horsemanship and fine limbs. Ben could not answer that, except by proudly referring to the chariot-races copied from the ancients, in which he had borne a part, which was more than some folks with long legs could say. Gentlemen never did that sort of thing, nor did they twit their best friends with their misfortunes, Thorny would remark; casting a pensive glance at his thin hands, longing the while to give Ben a good shaking. This hint would remind the other of his young master's late sufferings and all he owed his dear mistress; and he usually ended the controversy by turning a few lively somersaults as a vent for his swelling wrath, and come up with his temper all right again. Or, if Thorny happened to be in the wheeled chair, he would trot him round the garden at a pace which nearly took his breath away, thereby proving that if "bow-legs" were not beautiful to some benighted beings they were "good to go." Thorny liked that, and would drop the subject for the time by politely introducing some more agreeable topic; so the impending quarrel would end in a laugh over some boyish joke, and the word "legs" be avoided by mutual consent till accident brought it up again. The spirit of rivalry is hidden in the best of us, and is a helpful and inspiring power if we know how to use it. Miss Celia knew this, and tried to make the lads help one another by means of it,--not in boastful or ungenerous comparison of each other's gifts, but by interchanging them, giving and taking freely, kindly, and being glad to love what was admirable wherever they found it. Thorny admired Ben's strength, activity, and independence; Ben envied Thorny's learning, good manners, and comfortable surroundings; and, when a wise word had set the matter rightly before them, both enjoyed the feeling that there was a certain equality between them, since money could not buy health, and practical knowledge was as useful as any that can be found in books. So they interchanged their small experiences, accomplishments, and pleasures, and both were the better, as well as the happier, for it; because in this way only can we truly love our neighbor as ourself, and get the real sweetness out of life. There was no end to the new and pleasant things Ben had to do, from keeping paths and flower-beds neat, feeding the pets, and running errands, to waiting on Thorny and being right-hand man to Miss Celia. He had a little room in the old house, newly papered with hunting scenes, which he was never tired of admiring. In the closet hung several out-grown suits of Thorny's, made over for his valet; and, what Ben valued infinitely more, a pair of boots, well blacked and ready for grand occasions, when he rode abroad, with one old spur, found in the attic, brightened up and merely worn for show, since nothing would have induced him to prick beloved Lita with it. Many pictures, cut from illustrated papers, of races, animals, and birds, were stuck round the room, giving it rather the air of a circus and menagerie. This, however, made it only the more home-like to its present owner, who felt exceedingly rich and respectable as he surveyed his premises; almost like a retired showman who still fondly remembers past successes, though now happy in the more private walks of life. In one drawer of the quaint little bureau which he used, were kept the relics of his father; very few and poor, and of no interest to any one but himself,--only the letter telling of his death, a worn-out watch-chain, and a photograph of Senor Jose Montebello, with his youthful son standing on his head, both airily attired, and both smiling with the calmly superior expression which gentlemen of their profession usually wear in public. Ben's other treasures had been stolen with his bundle; but these he cherished and often looked at when he went to bed, wondering what heaven was like, since it was lovelier than California, and usually fell asleep with a dreamy impression that it must be something like America when Columbus found it,--"a pleasant land, where were gay flowers and tall trees, with leaves and fruit such as they had never seen before." And through this happy hunting-ground "father" was for ever riding on a beautiful white horse with wings, like the one of which Miss Celia had a picture. Nice times Ben had in his little room poring over his books, for he soon had several of his own; but his favorites were Hamerton's "Animals" and "Our Dumb Friends," both full of interesting pictures and anecdotes such as boys love. Still nicer times working about the house, helping get things in order; and best of all were the daily drives with Miss Celia and Thorny, when weather permitted, or solitary rides to town through the heaviest rain, for certain letters must go and come, no matter how the elements raged. The neighbors soon got used to the "antics of that boy," but Ben knew that he was an object of interest as he careered down the main street in a way that made old ladies cry out and brought people flying to the window, sure that some one was being run away with. Lita enjoyed the fun as much as he, and apparently did her best to send him heels over head, having rapidly earned to understand the signs he gave her by the touch of hand and foot, or the tones of his voice. These performances caused the boys to regard Ben Brown with intense admiration, the girls with timid awe, all but Bab, who burned to imitate him, and tried her best whenever she got a chance, much to the anguish and dismay of poor Jack, for that long-suffering animal was the only steed she was allowed to ride. Fortunately, neither she nor Betty had much time for play just now, as school was about to close for the long vacation, and all the little people were busy finishing up, that they might go to play with free minds. So the "lilac-parties," as they called them, were deferred till later, and the lads amused themselves in their own way, with Miss Celia to suggest and advise. It took Thorny a long time to arrange his possessions, for he could only direct while Ben unpacked, wondering and admiring as he worked, because he had never seen so many boyish treasures before. The little printing-press was his especial delight, and leaving every thing else in confusion, Thorny taught him its and planned a newspaper on the spot, with Ben for printer, himself for editor, and "Sister" for chief contributor, while Bab should be carrier and Betty office-boy. Next came a postage-stamp book, and a rainy day was happily spent in pasting a new collection where each particular one belonged, with copious explanations from Thorny as they went along. Ben did not feel any great interest in this amusement after one trial of it, but when a book containing patterns of the flags of all nations turned up, he was seized with a desire to copy them all, so that the house could be fitly decorated on gala occasions. Finding that it amused her brother, Miss Celia generously opened her piece-drawer and rag-bag, and as the mania grew till her resources were exhausted, she bought bits of gay cambric and many-colored papers, and startled the store-keeper by purchasing several bottles of mucilage at once. Bab and Betty were invited to sew the bright strips of stars, and pricked their little fingers assiduously, finding this sort of needle-work much more attractive than piecing bed-quilts. Such a snipping and pasting, planning and stitching as went on in the big back room, which was given up to them, and such a noble array of banners and petitions as soon decorated its walls, would have caused the dullest eye to brighten with amusement, if not with admiration. Of course, the Stars and Stripes hung highest, with the English lion ramping on the royal standard close by; then followed a regular picture-gallery, for there was the white elephant of Siam, the splendid peacock of Burmah, the double-headed Russian eagle, and black dragon of China, the winged lion of Venice, and the prancing pair on the red, white, and blue flag of Holland. The keys and mitre of the Papal States were a hard job, but up they went at last, with the yellow crescent of Turkey on one side and the red full moon of Japan on the other; the pretty blue and white flag of Greece hung below and the cross of free Switzerland above. If materials had held out, the flags of all the United States would have followed; but paste and patience were exhausted, so the busy workers rested awhile before they "flung their banner to the breeze," as the newspapers have it. A spell of ship-building and rigging followed the flag fit; for Thorny, feeling too old now for such toys, made over his whole fleet to "the children," condescending, however, to superintend a thorough repairing of the same before he disposed of all but the big man-of-war, which continued to ornament his own room, with all sail set and a little red officer perpetually waving his sword on the quarter-deck. These gifts led to out-of-door water-works, for the brook had to be dammed up, that a shallow ocean might be made, where Ben's piratical "Red Rover," with the black flag, might chase and capture Bab's smart frigate, "Queen," while the "Bounding Betsey," laden with lumber, safely sailed from Kennebunkport to Massachusetts Bay. Thorny, from his chair, was chief-engineer, and directed his gang of one how to dig the basin, throw up the embankment, and finally let in the water till the mimic ocean was full; then regulate the little water-gate, lest it should overflow and wreck the pretty squadron or ships, boats, canoes, and rafts, which soon rode at anchor there. Digging and paddling in mud and water proved such a delightful pastime that the boys kept it up, till a series of water-wheels, little mills and cataracts made the once quiet brook look as if a manufacturing town was about to spring up where hitherto minnows had played in peace and the retiring frog had chanted his serenade unmolested. Miss Celia liked all this, for any thing which would keep Thorny happy out-of-doors in the sweet June weather found favor in her eyes, and when the novelty had worn off from home affairs, she planned a series of exploring expeditions which filled their boyish souls with delight. As none of them knew much about the place, it really was quite exciting to start off on a bright morning with a roll of wraps and cushions, lunch, books, and drawing materials packed into the phaeton, and drive at random about the shady roads and lanes, pausing when and where they liked. Wonderful discoveries were made, pretty places were named, plans were drawn, and all sorts of merry adventures befell the pilgrims. Each day they camped in a new spot, and while Lita nibbled the fresh grass at her ease, Miss Celia sketched under the big umbrella, Thorny read or lounged or slept on his rubber blanket, and Ben made himself generally useful. Unloading, filling the artist's water-bottle, piling the invalid's cushions, setting out the lunch, running to and fro for a Bower or a butterfly, climbing a tree to report the view, reading, chatting, or frolicking with Sancho,--any sort of duty was in Ben's line, and he did them all well, for an out-of-door life was natural to him and he liked it. "Ben, I want an amanuensis," said Thorny, dropping book and pencil one day after a brief interval of silence, broken only by the whisper of the young leaves overhead and the soft babble of the brook close by. "A what?" asked Ben, pushing back his hat with such an air of amazement that Thorny rather loftily inquired: "Don't you know what an amanuensis is?" "Well, no; not unless it's some relation to an anaconda. Shouldn't think you'd want one of them, anyway." Thorny rolled over with a hoot of derision, and his sister, who sat close by, sketching an old gate, looked up to see what was going on. "Well, you needn't laugh at a feller. You didn't know what a wombat was when I asked you, and I didn't roar," said Ben, giving his hat a slap, as nothing else was handy. "The idea of wanting an anaconda tickled me so, I couldn't help it. I dare say you'd have got me one if I had asked for it, you are such an obliging chap." "Of course I would if I could. Shouldn't be surprised if you did some day, you want such funny things," answered Ben, appeased by the compliment. "I'll try the amanuensis first. It's only some one to write for me; I get so tired doing it without a table. You write well enough, and it will be good for you to know something about botany. I intend to teach you, Ben," said Thorny, as if conferring a great favor. "It looks pretty hard," muttered Ben, with a doleful Glance at the book laid open upon a strew of torn leaves and flowers. "No, it isn't; it's regularly jolly; and you'd be no end of a help if you only knew a little. Now, suppose I say, 'Bring me a "ranunculus bulbosus,"' how would you know what I wanted?" demanded Thorny, waving his microscope with a learned air. "Shouldn't." "There are quantities of them all round us; and I want to analyze one. See if you can't guess." Ben stared vaguely from earth to sky, and was about to give it up, when a buttercup fell at his feet, and he caught sight of Miss Celia smiling at him from behind her brother, who did not see the flower. "S'pose you mean this? I don't call 'em rhinocerus bulburses, so I wasn't sure." And, taking the hint as quickly as it was given, Ben presented the buttercup as if he knew all about it. "You guessed that remarkably well. Now bring me a 'leontodon taraxacum,'" said Thorny, charmed with the quickness of his pupil, and glad to display his learning. Again Ben gazed, but the field was full of early flowers; and, if a long pencil had not pointed to a dandelion close by, he would have been lost. "Here you are, sir," he answered with a chuckle and Thorny took his turn at being astonished now. "How the dickens did you know that?" "Try it again, and may be you'll find out," laughed Ben. Diving hap-hazard into his book, Thorny demanded a "trifolium pratense." The clever pencil pointed, and Ben brought a red clover, mightily enjoying the joke, and thinking that their kind of botany wasn't bad fun. "Look here, no fooling!" and Thorny sat up to investigate the matter, so quickly that his sister had not time to sober down. "Ah, I've caught you! Not fair to tell, Celia. Now, Ben, you've got to learn all about this buttercup, to pay for cheating." "Werry good, sir; bring on your rhinoceriouses," answered Ben, who couldn't help imitating his old friend the clown when he felt particularly jolly. "Sit there and write what I tell you," ordered Thorny, with all the severity of a strict schoolmaster. Perching himself on the mossy stump, Ben obediently floundered through the following analysis, with constant help in the spelling, and much private wonder what would come of it:-- "Phaenogamous. Exogenous. Angiosperm. Polypetalous. Stamens, more than ten. Stamens on the receptacle. Pistils, more than one and separate. Leaves without stipules. Crowfoot family. Genus ranunculus. Botanical name, Ranunculus bulbosus." "Jerusalem! what a flower! Pistols and crows' feet, and Polly put the kettles on, and Angy sperms and all the rest of 'em! If that's your botany, I won't take any more, thank you," said Ben, as he paused as hot and red as if he had been running a race. "Yes, you Will; you'll learn that all by heart, and then I shall give you a dandelion to do. You'll like that, because it means dent de lion, or lion's tooth; and I'll show them to you through my glass. You've no idea how interesting it is, and what heaps of pretty things you'll see," answered Thorny, who had already discovered how charming the study was, and had found great satisfaction in it, since he had been forbidden more active pleasures. "What's the good of it, anyway?" asked Ben, who would rather have been set to mowing the big field than to the task before him. "It tells all about it in my book here,--'Gray's Botany for Young People.' But I can tell you what use it is to us," continued Thorny, crossing his legs in the air and preparing to argue the matter, comfortably lying flat on his back. "We are a Scientific Exploration Society, and we must keep an account of all the plants, animals, minerals, and so on, as we come across them. Then, suppose we get lost, and have to hunt for food, how are we to know what is safe and what isn't? Come, now, do you know the difference between a toadstool and a mushroom?" "No, I don't." "Then I'll teach you some day. There is sweet flag and poisonous flag, and all sorts of berries and things; and you'd better look out when you are in the woods, or you'll touch ivy and dogwood, and have a horrid time, if you don't know your botany." "Thorny learned much of his by sad experience; and you will be wise to take his advice," said Miss Celia, recalling her brother's various mishaps before the new fancy came on. "Didn't I have a time of it, though, when I had to go round for a week with plantain leaves and cream stuck all over my face! Just picked some pretty red dogwood, Ben; and then I was a regular guy, with a face like a lobster, and my eyes swelled out of sight. Come along, and learn right away, and never get into scrapes like most fellows." Impressed by this warning, and attracted by Thorny's enthusiasm, Ben cast himself down upon the blanket, and for an hour the two heads bobbed to and fro, from microscope to book, the teacher airing his small knowledge, the pupil more and more interested in the new and curious things he saw or heard,--though it must be confessed that Ben infinitely preferred to watch ants and bugs, queer little worms and gauzy-winged flies, rather than "putter" over plants with long names. He did not dare to say so, however; but, when Thorny asked him if it wasn't capital fun, he dodged cleverly by proposing to hunt up the flowers for his master to study, offering to learn about the dangerous ones, but pleading want of time to investigate this pleasing science very deeply. As Thorny had talked himself hoarse, he was very ready to dismiss his class of one to fish the milk-bottle out of the brook; and recess was prolonged till next day. But both boys found a new pleasure in the pretty pastime they made of it; for active Ben ranged the woods and fields with a tin box slung over his shoulder, and feeble Thorny had a little room fitted up for his own use, where he pressed flowers in newspaper books, dried herbs on the walls, had bottles and cups, pans and platters, for his treasures, and made as much litter as he liked. Presently, Ben brought such lively accounts of the green nooks where jacks-in-the-pulpit preached their little sermons; brooks, beside which grew blue violets and lovely ferns; rocks, round which danced the columbines like rosy elves, or the trees where birds built, squirrels chattered, and woodchucks burrowed, that Thorny was seized with a desire to go and see these beauties for himself. So Jack was saddled, and went plodding, scrambling, and wandering into all manner of pleasant places, always bringing home a stronger, browner rider than he carried away. This delighted Miss Celia; and she gladly saw them ramble off together, leaving her time to stitch happily at certain dainty bits of sewing, write voluminous letters, or dream over others quite as long, swinging in her hammock under the lilacs. CHAPTER XIII SOMEBODY RUNS AWAY "'School is done, Now we'll have fun," Sung Bab and Betty, slamming down their books as if they never meant to take them up again, when they came home on the last day of June. Tired teacher had dismissed them for eight whole weeks, and gone away to rest; the little school-house was shut up, lessons were over, spirits rising fast, and vacation had begun. The quiet town seemed suddenly inundated with children, all in such a rampant state that busy mothers wondered how they ever should be able to keep their frisky darlings out of mischief; thrifty fathers planned how they could bribe the idle hands to pick berries or rake hay; and the old folks, while wishing the young folks well, secretly blessed the man who invented schools. The girls immediately began to talk about picnics, and have them, too; for little hats sprung up in the fields like a new sort of mushroom,--every hillside bloomed with gay gowns, looking as if the flowers had gone out for a walk; and the woods were full of featherless birds chirping away as blithely as the thrushes, robins, and wrens. The boys took to base-ball like ducks to water, and the common was the scene of tremendous battles, waged with much tumult, but little bloodshed. To the uninitiated, it appeared as if these young men had lost their wits; for, no matter how warm it was, there they were, tearing about in the maddest manner, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, queer caps flung on any way, all batting shabby leather balls, and catching the same, as if their lives depended on it. Every one talking in his gruffest tone, bawling at the top of his voice, squabbling over every point of the game, and seeming to enjoy himself immensely, in spite of the heat, dust, uproar, and imminent danger of getting eyes or teeth knocked out. Thorny was an excellent player, but, not being strong enough to show his prowess, he made Ben his proxy; and, sitting on the fence, acted as umpire to his heart's content. Ben was a promising pupil, and made rapid progress; for eye, foot, and hand had been so well trained, that they did him good service now; and Brown was considered a first-rate "catcher". Sancho distinguished himself by his skill in hunting up stray balls, and guarding jackets when not needed, with the air of one of the Old Guard on duty at the tomb of Napoleon. Bab also longed to join in the fun, which suited her better than "stupid picnics" or "fussing over dolls;" but her heroes would not have her at any price; and she was obliged to content herself with sitting by Thorny, and watching with breathless interest the varying fortunes of "our side." A grand match was planned for the Fourth of July; but when the club met, things were found to be unpropitious. Thorny had gone out of town with his sister to pass the day, two of the best players did not appear, and the others were somewhat exhausted by the festivities, which began at sunrise for them. So they lay about on the grass in the shade of the big elm, languidly discussing their various wrongs and disappointments. "It's the meanest Fourth I ever saw. Can't have no crackers, because somebody's horse got scared last year," growled Sam Kitteridge, bitterly resenting the stern edict which forbade free-born citizens to burn as much gunpowder as they liked on that glorious day. "Last year Jimmy got his arm blown off when they fired the old cannon. Didn't we have a lively time going for the doctors and getting him home?" asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of the most interesting part of the anniversary, because no accident had occurred. "Ain't going to be fireworks either, unless somebody's barn burns up. Don't I just wish there would," gloomily responded another youth who had so rashly indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a neighbor's cow had been roasted whole. "I wouldn't give two cents for such a slow old place as this. Why, last Fourth at this time, I was rumbling though Boston streets on top of our big car, all in my best toggery. Hot as pepper, but good fun looking in at the upper windows and hearing the women scream when the old thing waggled round and I made believe I was going to tumble off, said Ben, leaning on his bat with the air of a man who had seen the world and felt some natural regret at descending from so lofty a sphere. "Catch me cuttin' away if I had such a chance as that!" answered Sam, trying to balance his bat on his chin and getting a smart rap across the nose as he failed to perform the feat. "Much you know about it, old chap. It's hard work, I can tell you, and that wouldn't suit such a lazy-bones. Then you are too big to begin, though you might do for a fat boy if Smithers wanted one," said Ben, surveying the stout youth, with calm contempt. "Let's go in swimming, not loaf round here, if we can't play," proposed a red and shiny boy, panting for a game of leap-frog in Sandy pond. "May as well; don't see much else to do," sighed Sam, rising like a young elephant. The others were about to follow, when a shrill "Hi, hi, boys, hold on!" made them turn about to behold Billy Barton tearing down the street like a runaway colt, waving a long strip of paper as he ran. "Now, then, what's the matter?" demanded Ben, as the other came up grinning and puffing, but full of great news. "Look here, read it! I'm going; come along, the whole of you," panted Billy, putting the paper into Sam's hand, and surveying the crowd with a face as beaming as a full moon. "Look out for the big show," read Sam. "Van Amburgh & Co.'s New Great Golden Menagerie, Circus and Colosseum, will exhibit at Berryville, July 4th, at 1 and 7 precisely. Admission 50 cents, children half-price. Don't forget day and date. H. Frost, Manager." While Sam read, the other boys had been gloating over the enticing pictures which covered the bill. There was the golden car, filled with noble beings in helmets, all playing on immense trumpets; the twenty-four prancing steeds with manes, tails, and feathered heads tossing in the breeze; the clowns, the tumblers, the strong men, and the riders flying about in the air as if the laws of gravitation no longer existed. But, best of all, was the grand conglomeration of animals where the giraffe appears to stand on the elephant's back, the zebra to be jumping over the seal, the hippopotamus to be lunching off a couple of crocodiles, and lions and tigers to be raining down in all directions with their mouths, wide open and their tails as stiff as that of the famous Northumberland House lion. "Cricky! wouldn't I like to see that," said little Cyrus Fay, devoutly hoping that the cage, in which this pleasing spectacle took place, was a very strong one. "You never would, it's only a picture! That, now, is something like," and Ben, who had pricked up his ears at the word "circus," laid his finger on a smaller cut of a man hanging by the back of his neck with a child in each hand, two men suspended from his feet, and the third swinging forward to alight on his head. "I 'm going," said Sam, with calm decision, for this superb array of unknown pleasures fired his soul and made him forget his weight. "How will you fix it?" asked Ben, fingering the bill with a nervous thrill all through his wiry limbs, just as he used to feel it when his father caught him up to dash into the ring. "Foot it with Billy. It's only four miles, and we've got lots of time, so we can take it easy. Mother won't care, if I send word by Cy," answered Sam, producing half a dollar, as if such magnificent sums were no strangers to his pocket. "Come on, Brown; you'll be a first-rate fellow to show us round, as you know all the dodges," said Billy, anxious to get his money's worth. "Well, I don't know," began Ben, longing to go, but afraid Mrs. Moss would say "No!" if he asked leave. "He's afraid," sneered the red-faced boy, who felt bitterly toward all mankind at that instant, because he knew there was no hope of his going. "Say that again, and I'll knock your head off," and Ben faced round with a gesture which caused the other to skip out of reach precipitately. "Hasn't got any money, more likely," observed a shabby youth, whose pockets never had any thing in them but a pair of dirty hands. Ben calmly produced a dollar bill and waved it defiantly before this doubter, observing with dignity: "I've got money enough to treat the whole crowd, if I choose to, which I don't." "Then come along and have a jolly time with Sam and me. We can buy some dinner and get a ride home, as like as not," said the amiable Billy, with a slap on the shoulder, and a cordial grin which made it impossible for Ben to resist. "What are you stopping for?" demanded Sam, ready to be off, that they might "take it easy." "Don't know what to do with Sancho. He'll get lost or stolen if I take him, and it's too far to carry him home if you are in a hurry," began Ben, persuading himself that this was the true reason of his delay. "Let Cy take him back. He'll do it for a cent; won't you, Cy?" proposed Billy, smoothing away all objections, for he liked Ben, and saw that he wanted to go. "No, I won't; I don't like him. He winks at me, and growls when I touch him," muttered naughty Cy, remembering how much reason poor Sanch had to distrust his tormentor. "There 's Bab; she'll do it. Come here, sissy; Ben wants you," called Sam, beckoning to a small figure just perching on the fence. Down it jumped and Came fluttering up, much elated at being summoned by the captain of the sacred nine. "I want you to take Sanch home, and tell your mother I'm going to walk, and may be won't be back till sundown. Miss Celia said I Might do what I pleased, all day. You remember, now." Ben spoke without looking up, and affected to be very busy buckling a strap into Sanch's collar, for the two were so seldom parted that the dog always rebelled. It was a mistake on Ben's part, for while his eyes were on his work Bab's were devouring the bill which Sam still held, and her suspicions were aroused by the boys' faces. "Where are you going? Ma will want to know," she said, as curious as a magpie all at once. "Never you mind; girls can't know every thing. You just catch hold of this and run along home. Lock Sanch up for an hour, and tell your mother I'm all right," answered Ben, bound to assert his manly supremacy before his mates. "He's going to the circus," whispered Fay, hoping to make mischief. "Circus! Oh, Ben, do take me!" cried Bab, falling into a state of great excitement at the mere thought of such delight. "You couldn't walk four miles," began Ben. "Yes, I could, as easy as not." "You haven't got any money." "You have; I saw you showing your dollar, and you could pay for me, and Ma would pay it back." "Can't wait for you to get ready." "I'll go as I am. I don't care if it is my old hat," and Bab jerked it on to her head. "Your mother wouldn't like it." "She won't like your going, either." "She isn't my missis now. Miss Celia wouldn't care, and I'm going, any way." "Do, do take me, Ben! I'll be just as good as ever was, and I'll take care of Sanch all the way," pleaded Bab, clasping her hands and looking round for some sign of relenting in the faces of the boys. "Don't you bother; we don't want any girls tagging after us," said Sam, walking off to escape the annoyance. "I'll bring you a roll of chickerberry lozengers, if you won't tease," whispered kind-hearted Billy, with a consoling pat on the crown of the shabby straw hat. "When the circus comes here you shall go, certain sure, and Betty too," said Ben, feeling mean while he proposed what he knew was a hollow mockery. "They never do come to such little towns; you said so, and I think you are very cross, and I won't take care of Sanch, so, now!" cried Bab, getting into a passion, yet ready to cry, she was so disappointed. "I Suppose it wouldn't do--" hinted Billy, with a look from Ben to the little girl, who stood winking hard to keep the tears back. "Of Course it wouldn't. I'd like to see her walking eight miles. I don't mind paying for her; it's getting her there and back. Girls are such a bother when you want to knock round. No, Bab, you can't go. Travel right home and don't make a fuss. Come along, boys; it 's most eleven, and we don't want to walk fast." Ben spoke very decidedly; and, taking Billy's arm, away they went, leaving poor Bab and Sanch to watch them out of sight, one sobbing, the other whining dismally. Somehow those two figures seemed to go before Ben all along the pleasant road, and half spoilt his fun; for though he laughed and talked, cut canes, and seemed as merry as a grig, he could not help feeling that he ought to have asked leave to go, and been kinder to Bab. "Perhaps Mrs. Moss would have planned somehow so we could all go, if I'd told her, I'd like to show her round, and she's been real good to me. No use now. I'll take the girls a lot of candy and make it all right." He tried to settle it in that way and trudged gayly off, hoping Sancho wouldn't feel hurt at being left, wondering if any of "Smithers's lot" would be round, and planning to do the honors handsomely to the boys. It was very warm; and just outside of the town they paused by a wayside watering-trough to wash their dusty faces, and cool off before plunging into the excitements of the afternoon. As they stood refreshing themselves, a baker's cart came jingling by; and Sam proposed a hasty lunch while they rested. A supply of gingerbread was soon bought; and, climbing the green bank above, they lay on the grass under a wild cherry-tree, munching luxuriously, while they feasted their eyes at the same time on the splendors awaiting them; for the great tent, with all its flags flying, was visible from the hill. "We'll cut across those fields,--it 's shorter than going by the road,--and then we can look round outside till it's time to go in. I want to have a good go at every thing, especially the lions," said Sam, beginning on his last cookie. "I heard 'em roar just now;" and Billy stood up to gaze with big eyes at the flapping canvas which hid the king of beasts from his longing sight. "That was a cow mooing. Don't you be a donkey, Bill. When you hear a real roar, you'll shake in your boots," said Ben, holding up his handkerchief to dry, after it had done double duty as towel and napkin. "I wish you'd hurry up, Sam. Folks are going in now. I see 'em!" and Billy pranced with impatience; for this was his first circus, and he firmly believed that he was going to behold all that the pictures promised. "Hold on a minute, while I get one more drink. Buns are dry fodder," said Sam, rolling over to the edge of the bank and preparing to descend with as little trouble as possible. He nearly went down head first, however; for, as he looked before he leaped, he beheld a sight which caused him to stare with all his might for an instant, then turn and beckon, saying in an eager whisper, "Look here, boys,--quick!" Ben and Billy peered over, and both suppressed an astonished "Hullo!" for there stood Bab, waiting for Sancho to lap his fill out of the overflowing trough. Such a shabby, tired-looking couple as they were! Bab with a face as red as a lobster and streaked with tears, shoes white with dust, playfrock torn at the gathers, something bundled up in her apron, and one shoe down at the heel as if it hurt her. Sancho lapped eagerly, with his eyes shut; all his ruffles were gray with dust, and his tail hung wearily down, the tassel at half mast, as if in mourning for the master whom he had come to find. Bab still held the strap, intent on keeping her charge safe, though she lost herself; but her courage seemed to be giving out, as she looked anxiously up and down the road, seeing no sign of the three familiar figures she had been following as steadily as a little Indian on the war-trail. "Oh, Sanch, what shall I do if they don't come along? We must have gone by them somewhere, for I don't see any one that way, and there isn't any other road to the circus, seems to me." Bab spoke as if the dog could understand and answer; and Sancho looked as if he did both, for he stopped drinking, pricked up his cars, and, fixing his sharp eyes on the grass above him, gave a suspicious bark. "It's only squirrels; don't mind, but come along and be good; for I 'm so tired, I don't know what to do!" sighed Bab, trying to pull him after her as she trudged on, bound to see the outside of that wonderful tent, even if she never got in. But Sancho had heard a soft chirrup; and, with a sudden bound, twitched the strap away, sprang up the bank, and landed directly on Ben's back as he lay peeping over. A peal of laughter greeted him; and, having got the better of his master in more ways than one, he made the most of the advantage by playfully worrying him as he kept him down, licking his face in spite of his struggles, burrowing in his neck with a ticklish nose, snapping at his buttons, and yelping joyfully, as if it was the best joke in the world to play hide-and-seek for four long miles. Before Ben could quiet him, Bab came climbing up the bank, with such a funny mixture of fear, fatigue, determination, and relief in her dirty little face, that the boys could not look awful if they tried. "How dared you come after us, miss?" demanded Sam, as she looked calmly about her, and took a seat before she was asked. "Sanch would come after Ben; I couldn't make him go home, so I had to hold on till he was safe here, else he'd be lost, and then Ben would feel bad." The cleverness of that excuse tickled the boys immensely; and Sam tried again, while Ben was getting the dog down and sitting on him. "Now you expect to go to the circus, I suppose." "Course I do. Ben said he didn't mind paying, if I could get there without bothering him, and I have; and I'll go home alone. I ain't afraid. Sanch will take care of me, if you won't," answered Bab, stoutly. "What do you suppose your mother will say to you?" asked Ben, feeling much reproached by her last words. "I guess she'll say you led me into mischief; and the sharp child nodded, as if she defied him to deny the truth of that. "You'll catch it when you get home, Ben; so you'd better have a good time while you can," advised Sam, thinking Bab great fun, since none of the blame of her pranks would fall on him. "What would you have done if you hadn't found us?" asked Billy, forgetting his impatience in his admiration for this plucky young lady. "I'd have gone on and seen the circus, and then I'd have gone home again and told Betty all about it," was the prompt answer. "But you haven't any money." "Oh, I'd ask somebody to pay for me. I 'm so little, it wouldn't be much." "Nobody would do it; so you'd have to stay outside, you see." "No, I wouldn't. I thought of that, and planned how I'd fix it if I didn't find Ben. I'd make Sanch do his tricks, and get a quarter that way; so, now! answered Bab, undaunted by any obstacle. "I do believe she would! You are a smart child, Bab; and if I had enough I'd take you in myself," said Billy, heartily; for, having sisters of his own, he kept a soft place in his heart for girls, especially enterprising ones. "I'll take care of her. It was very naughty to come, Bab; but, so long as you did, you needn't worry about any thing. I'll see to you; and you shall have a real good time," said Ben, accepting his responsibilities without a murmur, and bound to do the handsome thing by his persistent friend. "I thought you would;" and Bab folded her arms, as if she had nothing further to do but enjoy herself. "Are you hungry?" asked Billy, fishing out several fragments of gingerbread. "Starving!" and Bab ate them with such a relish that Sam added a small contribution; and Ben caught some water for her in his hand, where the little spring bubbled up beside a stone. "Now, you wash your face and spat down your hair, and put your hat on straight, and then we'll go," commanded Ben, giving Sanch a roll on the grass to clean him. Bab scrubbed her face till it shone; and, pulling down her apron to wipe it, scattered a load of treasures collected in her walk. Some of the dead flowers, bits of moss, and green twigs fell near Ben, and one attracted his attention,--a spray of broad, smooth leaves, with a bunch of whitish berries on it. "Where did you get that?" he asked, poking it with his foot. "In a swampy place, coming along. Sanch saw something down there; and I went with him, 'cause I thought may be it was a musk-rat, and you'd like one if we could get him." "Was it?" asked the boys all at once, and with intense interest. "No; only a snake, and I don't care for snakes. I picked some of that, it was so green and pretty. Thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you know," answered Bab, "spatting," down her rough locks. "Well, he won't like that, nor you either; it's poisonous, and I shouldn't wonder if you'd got poisoned, Bab. Don't touch it! Swamp-sumach is horrid stuff,--Miss Celia said so;" and Ben looked anxiously at Bab, who felt her chubby face all over, and examined her dingy hands with a solemn air, asking, eagerly,-- "Will it break out on me 'fore I get to the circus?" "Not for a day or so, I guess; but it's bad when it does come." "I don't care, if I see the animals first. Come quick, and never mind the old weeds and things," said Bab, much relieved; for present bliss was all she had room for now in her happy little heart. CHAPTER XIV SOMEBODY GETS LOST Putting all care behind them, the young folks ran down the hill, with a very lively dog gambolling beside them, and took a delightfully tantalizing survey of the external charms of the big tent. But people were beginning to go in, and it was impossible to delay when they came round to the entrance. Ben felt that now "his foot was on his native heath," and the superb air of indifference with which he threw down his dollar at the ticket-office, carelessly swept up the change, and strolled into the tent with his hands in his pockets, was so impressive that even big Sam repressed his excitement and meekly followed their leader, as he led them from cage to cage, doing the honors as if he owned the whole concern. Bab held tight to the flap of his jacket, staring about her with round eyes, and listening with little gasps of astonishment or delight to the roaring of lions, the snarling of tigers, the chatter of the monkeys, the groaning of camels, and the music of the very brass band shut up in a red bin. Five elephants were tossing their hay about in the middle of the menagerie, and Billy's legs shook under him as he looked up at the big beasts whose long noses and small, sagacious eyes filled him with awe. Sam was so tickled by the droll monkeys that the others left him before the cage and went on to see the zebra, "striped just like Ma's muslin gown," Bab declared. But the next minute she forgot all about him in her raptures over the ponies and their tiny colts; especially one mite of a thing who lay asleep on the hay, such a miniature copy of its little mouse-colored mamma that one could hardly believe it was alive. "Oh, Ben, I must feel of it!--the cunning baby horse!" and down went Bab inside the rope to pat and admire the pretty creature, while its mother smelt suspiciously at the brown hat, and baby lazily opened one eye to see what was going on. "Come out of that, it isn't allowed," commanded Ben, longing to do the same thing, but mindful of the proprieties and his own dignity. Bab reluctantly tore herself away to find consolation in watching the young lions, who looked so like big puppies, and the tigers washing their faces just as puss did. "If I stroked 'em, wouldn't they purr?" she asked, bent on enjoying herself, while Ben held her skirts lest she should try the experiment. "You'd better not go to patting them, or you'll get your hands clawed up. Tigers do purr like fun when they are happy, but these fellers never are, and you'll only see 'em spit and snarl," said Ben, leading the way to the humpy carrels, who were peacefully chewing their cud and longing for the desert, with a dreamy, far-away look in their mournful eyes. Here, leaning on the rope, and scientifically biting a straw while he talked, Ben played showman to his heart's content till the neigh of a horse from the circus tent beyond reminded him of the joys to come. "We'd better hurry along and get good seats before folks begin to crowd. I want to sit near the curtain and see if any of Smitthers's lot are 'round." "I ain't going way off there; you can't see half so well, and that big drum makes such a noise you can't hear yourself think," said Sam, who had rejoined them. So they settled in good places where they could see and hear all that went on in the ring and still catch glimpses of white horses, bright colors, and the glitter of helmets beyond the dingy red curtains. Ben treated Bab to peanuts and pop-corn like an indulgent parent, and she murmured protestations of undying gratitude with her mouth full, as she sat blissfully between him and the congenial Billy. Sancho, meantime, had been much excited by the familiar sights and sounds, and now was greatly exercised in his doggish mind at the unusual proceeding of his master; for he was sure that they ought to be within there, putting on their costumes, ready to take their turn. He looked anxiously at Ben, sniffed disdainfully at the strap as if to remind him that a scarlet ribbon ought to take its place, and poked peanut shells about with his paw as if searching for the letters with which to spell his famous name. "I know, old boy, I know; but it can't be done. We've quit the business and must just look on. No larks for us this time, Sanch, so keep quiet and behave,' whispered Ben, tucking the dog away under the seat with a sympathetic cuddle of the curly head that peeped out from between his feet. "He wants to go and cut up, don't he?" said Billy, "and so do you, I guess. Wish you were going to. Wouldn't it be fun to see Ben showing off in there?" "I'd be afraid to have him go up on a pile of elephants and jump through hoops like these folks," answered Bab, poring over her pictured play-bill with unabated relish. "Done it a hundred times, and I'd just like to show you what I can do. They don't seem to have any boys in this lot; shouldn't wonder if they'd take me if I asked 'em," said Ben, moving uneasily on his seat and casting wistful glances toward the inner tent where he knew he would feel more at home than in his present place. "I heard some men say that it's against the law to have small boys now; it's so dangerous and not good for them, this kind of thing. If that's so, you're done for, Ben," observed Sam, with his most grown-up air, remembering Ben's remarks on "fat boys." "Don't believe a word of it, and Sanch and I could go this minute and get taken on, I'll bet. We are a valuable couple, and I could prove it if I chose to," began Ben, getting excited and boastful. "Oh, see, they're coming!--gold carriages and lovely horses, and flags and elephants, and every thing," cried Bab, giving a clutch at Ben's arm as the opening procession appeared headed by the band, tooting and banging till their faces were as red as their uniforms. Round and round they went till every one had seen their fill, then the riders alone were left caracoling about the ring with feathers flying, horses prancing, and performers looking as tired and indifferent as if they would all like to go to sleep then and there. "How splendid!" sighed Bab, as they went dashing out, to tumble off almost before the horses stopped. "That's nothing! You wait till you see the bareback riding and the 'acrobatic exercises,'" said Ben, quoting from the play-bill, with the air of one who knew all about the feats to come, and could never be surprised any more. "What are 'crowbackic exercises'?" asked Billy, thirsting for information. "Leaping and climbing and tumbling; you'll see George! what a stunning horse!" and Ben forgot every thing else to feast his eyes on the handsome creature who now came pacing in to dance, upset and replace chairs, kneel, bow, and perform many wonderful or graceful feats, ending with a swift gallop while the rider sat in a chair on its back fanning himself, with his legs crossed, as comfortably as you please. "That, now, is something like," and Ben's eyes shone with admiration and envy as the pair vanished, and the pink and silver acrobats came leaping into the ring. The boys were especially interested in this part, and well they might be; for strength and agility are manly attributes which lads appreciate, and these lively fellows flew about like India-rubber balls, each trying to outdo the other, till the leader of the acrobats capped the climax by turning a double somersault over five elephants standing side by side. "There, Sir, how's that for a jump?" asked Ben, rubbing his hands with satisfaction as his friends clapped till their palms tingled. "We'll rig up a spring-board and try it," said Billy, fired with emulation. "Where'll you get your elephants?" asked Sam, scornfully, for gymnastics were not in his line. "You'll do for one," retorted Ben, and Billy and Bab joined in his laugh so heartily that a rough-looking, man who sat behind them, hearing all they said, pronounced them a "jolly set," and kept his eye on Sancho, who now showed signs of insubordination. "Hullo, that wasn't on the bill!" cried Ben, as a parti-colored clown came in, followed by half a dozen dogs. "I'm so glad; now Sancho will like it. There's a poodle that might be his ownty donty brother--the one with the blue ribbon," said Bab. beaming with delight as the dogs took their seats in the chairs arranged for them. Sancho did like it only too well, for be scrambled out from under the seat in a great hurry to go and greet his friends; and, being sharply checked, sat up and begged so piteously that Ben found it very hard to refuse and order him down. He subsided for a moment, but when the black spaniel, who acted the canine clown, did something funny and was applauded, Sancho made a dart as if bent on leaping into the ring to outdo his rival, and Ben was forced to box his ears and put his feet on the poor beast, fearing he would be ordered out if he made any disturbance. Too well trained to rebel again, Sancho lay meditating on his wrongs till the dog act was over, carefully abstaining from any further sign of interest in their tricks, and only giving a sidelong glance at the two little poodles who came out of a basket to run up and down stairs on their fore-paws, dance jigs on their hind-legs, and play various pretty pranks to the great delight of all the children in the audience. If ever a dog expressed by look and attitude, "Pooh! I could do much better than that, and astonish you all, if I were only allowed to," that dog was Sancho, as he curled himself up and affected to turn his back on an unappreciative world. "It's too bad, when he knows more than all those chaps put together. I'd give any thing if I could show him off as I used to. Folks always like it, and I was ever so proud of him. He's mad now because I had to cuff him, and won't take any notice of me till I make up," said Ben, regretfully eying his offended friend, but not daring to beg pardon yet. More riding followed, and Bab was kept in a breathless state by the marvellous agility and skill of the gauzy lady who drove four horses at once, leaped through hoops, over banners and bars, sprang off and on at full speed, and seemed to enjoy it all so much it was impossible to believe that there could be any danger or exertion in it. Then two girls flew about on the trapeze, and walked on a tight rope, causing Bab to feel that she had at last found her sphere; for, young as she was, her mother often said, "I really don't know what this child is fit for, except mischief, like a monkey." "I'll fix the clothes-line when I get home, and show Ma how nice it is. Then, may be, she'd let me wear red and gold trousers, and climb round like these girls," thought the busy little brain, much excited by all it saw on that memorable day. Nothing short of a pyramid of elephants with a glittering gentleman in a turban and top boots on the summit would have made her forget this new and charming plan. But that astonishing spectacle, and the prospect of a cage of Bengal tigers with a man among them, in imminent danger of being eaten before her eyes, entirely absorbed her thoughts till, just as the big animals went lumbering out, a peal of thunder caused considerable commotion in the audience. Men on the highest seats popped their heads through the openings in the tent-cover and reported that a heavy shower was coming up. Anxious mothers began to collect their flocks of children as hens do their chickens at sunset; timid people told cheerful stories of tents blown over in gales, cages upset and wild beasts let loose. Many left in haste, and the performers hurried to finish as soon as possible. "I'm going now before the crowd comes, so I can get a lift home. I see two or three folks I know, so I'm off;" and, climbing hastily down, Sam vanished without further ceremony. "Better wait till the shower is over. We can go and see the animals again, and get home all dry, just as well as not," observed Ben, encouragingly, as Billy looked anxiously at the billowing canvas over his head, the swaying posts before him, and heard the quick patter of drops outside, not to mention the melancholy roar of the lion which sounded rather awful through the sudden gloom which filled the strange place. "I wouldn't miss the tigers for any thing. See, they are pulling in the cart now, and the shiny man is all ready with his gun. Will he shoot any of them, apprehension, for the sharp crack of a rifle startled her more than the loudest thunder-clap she ever heard. "Bless you, no, child; it 's only powder to make a noise and scare 'em. I wouldn't like to be in his place, though; father says you can never trust tigers as you can lions, no matter how tame they are. Sly fellers, like cats, and when they scratch it's no joke, I tell you," answered Ben, with a knowing wag of the head, as the sides of the cage rattled down, and the poor, fierce creatures were seen leaping and snarling as if they resented this display of their captivity. Bab curled up her feet and winked fast with excitement as she watched the "shiny man" fondle the great cats, lie down among them, pull open their red mouths, and make them leap over him or crouch at his feet as he snapped the long whip. When he fired the gun and they all fell as if dead, she with difficulty suppressed a small scream and clapped her hands over her ears; but poor Billy never minded it a bit, for he was pale and quaking with the fear of "heaven's artillery" thundering overhead, and as a bright flash of lightning seemed to run down the tall tent-poles he hid his eyes and wished with all his heart that he was safe with mother. "Afraid of thunder, Bill?" asked Ben, trying to speak stoutly, while a sense of his own responsibilities began to worry him, for how was Bab to be got home in such a pouring rain? "It makes me sick; always did. Wish I hadn't come," sighed Billy, feeling, all too late, that lemonade and "lozengers" were not the fittest food for man, or a stifling tent the best place to be in on a hot July day, especially in a thunder-storm. "I didn't ask you to come; you asked me; so it isn't my fault," said Ben, rather gruffly, as people crowded by without pausing to hear the comic song the clown was singing in spite of the confusion. "Oh, I'm so tired," groaned Bab, getting up with a long stretch of arms and legs. "You'll be tireder before you get home, I guess. Nobody asked you to Come, any way;" and Ben gazed dolefully round him, wishing he could see a familiar face or find a wiser head than his own to help him out of the scrape he was in. "I said I wouldn't be a bother, and I won't. I'll walk right home this minute. I ain't afraid of thunder, and the rain won't hurt these old clothes. Come along," cried Bab, bravely, bent on keeping her word, though it looked much harder after the fun was all over than before. "My head aches like fury. Don't I wish old Jack was here to take me back," said Billy, following his companions in misfortune with sudden energy, as a louder peal than before rolled overhead. "You might as well wish for Lita and the covered wagon while you are about it, then we could all ride," answered Ben, leading the way to the outer tent, where many people were lingering in hopes of fair weather. "Why, Billy Barton, how in the world did you get here?" cried a surprised voice as the crook of a cane caught the boy by the collar and jerked him face to face with a young farmer, who was pushing along, followed by his, wife and two or three children. "Oh, Uncle Eben, I'm so glad you found Me! I walked over, and it's raining, and I don't feel well. Let me go with you, can't I?" asked Billy, casting himself and all his woes upon the strong arm that had laid hold of him. "Don't see what your mother was about to let you come so far alone, and you just over scarlet fever. We are as full as ever we can be, but we'll tuck you in somehow," said the pleasant-faced woman, bundling up her baby, and bidding the two little lads "keep close to father." "I didn't come alone. Sam got a ride, and can't you tuck Ben and Bab in too? They ain't very big, either of them," whispered Billy, anxious to serve his friends now that he was provided for himself. "Can't do it, any way. Got to pick up mother at the corner, and that will be all I can carry. It's lifting a little; hurry along, Lizzie, and let us get out of this as quick is possible," said Uncle Eben, impatiently; for going to a circus with a young family is not an easy task, as every one knows who has ever tried it. "Ben, I'm real sorry there isn't room for you. I'll tell Bab's mother where she is, and may be some one will come for you," said Billy, hurriedly, as he tore himself away, feeling rather mean to desert the others, though he could be of no use. "Cut away, and don't mind us. I'm all right, and Bab must do the best she can," was all Ben had time to answer before his comrade was hustled away by the crowd pressing round the entrance with much clashing of umbrellas and scrambling of boys and men, who rather enjoyed the flurry. "No use for us to get knocked about in that scrimmage. We'll wait a minute and then go out easy. It's a regular rouser, and you'll be as wet as a sop before we get home. Hope you'll like that?" added Ben, looking out at the heavy rain poring down as if it never meant to stop. "Don't care a bit," said Bab, swinging on one of the ropes with a happy-go-lucky air, for her spirits were not extinguished yet, and she was bound to enjoy this exciting holiday to the very end. "I like circuses so much! I wish I lived here all the time, and slept in a wagon, as you did, and had these dear little colties to play with." "It wouldn't be fun if you didn't have any folks to take care of you," began Ben, thoughtfully looking about the familiar place where the men were now feeding the animals, setting their refreshment tables, or lounging on the hay to get such rest as they could before the evening entertainment. Suddenly he started, gave a long look, then turned to Bab, and thrusting Sancho's strap into her hand, said, hastily: "I see a fellow I used to know. May be he can tell me something about father. Don't you stir till I come back." Then he was off like a shot, and Bab saw him run after a man with a bucket who bad been watering the zebra. Sancho tried to follow, but was checked with an impatient,-- "No, you can't go! What a plague you are, tagging around when people don't want you." Sancho might have answered, "So are you," but, being a gentlemanly dog, he sat down with a resigned expression to watch the little colts, who were now awake and seemed ready for a game of bo-peep behind their mammas. Bab enjoyed their funny little frisks so much that she tied the wearisome strap to a post, and crept under the rope to pet the tiny mouse-colored one who came and talked to her with baby whinnies and confiding glances of its soft, dark eyes. "Oh, luckless Bab! why did you turn your back? Oh, too accomplished Sancho! why did you neatly untie that knot and trot away to confer with the disreputable bull-dog who stood in the entrance beckoning with friendly wavings of an abbreviated tail? Oh, much afflicted Ben! why did you delay till it was too late to save your pet from the rough man who set his foot upon the trailing strap, and led poor Sanch quickly out of sight among the crowd? "It was Bascum, but he didn't know any thing. Why, where's Sanch?" said Ben, returning. A breathless voice made Bab turn to see Ben looking about him with as much alarm in his hot face as if the dog had been a two years' child. "I tied him--he's here somewhere--with the ponies," stammered Bab, in sudden dismay, for no sign of a dog appeared as her eyes roved wildly to and fro. Ben whistled, called and searched in vain, till one of the lounging men said, lazily, "If you are looking after the big poodle you'd better go outside; I saw him trotting off with another dog." Away rushed Ben, with Bab following, regardless of the rain, for both felt that a great misfortune had befallen them. But, long before this, Sancho had vanished, and no one minded his indignant howls as he was driven off in a covered cart. "If he is lost I'll never forgive you; never, never, never!" and Ben found it impossible to resist giving Bab several hard shakes, which made her yellow braids fly up and down like pump handles. "I'm dreadful sorry. He'll come back--you said he always did," pleaded Bab, quite crushed by her own afflictions, and rather scared to see Ben look so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or was rough with the little girls. "If he doesn't come back, don't you speak to me for a year. Now, I'm going home." And, feeling that words were powerless to express his emotions, Ben walked away, looking as grim as a small boy could. A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found than Bab was, as she pattered after him, splashing recklessly through the puddles, and getting as wet and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her sins. For a mile or two she trudged stoutly along, while Ben marched before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and oppressive because so unusual, and such a proof of his deep displeasure. Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder how she could possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to her for a whole year. But presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were wet and cold as well as very tired; pop-corn and peanuts were not particularly nourishing food; and hunger made her feel faint; excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed to lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the end seemed a very different affair from the homeward trip with a distracted mother awaiting her. The shower had subsided into a dreary drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on so fast with never a look or sound, added the last touch to Bab's remorseful anguish. Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride. Men and boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made them look like young tramps. But there was no brave Sancho to resent the impertinence, and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds by the appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after a carriage. The good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes, and poking his nose into Ben's hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled over his back. Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through a thicker mist than any the rain made. But Bab broke down; for the wistful look of the creature's eyes reminded her of lost Sancho, and she sobbed quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging along in the rear. Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder, seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased, saying to himself as if to excuse his late sternness,-- "She is a naughty girl, but I guess she is about sorry enough now. When we get to that sign-post I'll speak to her, only I won't forgive her till Sanch comes back." But he was better than his word; for, just before the post was reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root of a tree, and, rolling down the bank, landed in a bed of wet nettles. Ben had her out in a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was past any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally as she wrung her tingling hands, with great drops running over her cheeks almost as fast as the muddy little rills ran down the road. "Oh dear, oh dear! I'm all stinged up, and I want my supper; and my feet ache, and I'm cold, and every thing is so horrid!" wailed the poor child lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that the sternest parent would have melted at the sight. "Don't cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I'm sorry. I'll forgive you right away now, and never shake you any more," cried Ben, so full of pity for her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous little man. "Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was very bad to tag and lose Sanch. I never will any more, and I'm so sorry, I don't know what to do," answered Bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity. "Never mind; you just wipe up your face and come along, and we'll tell Ma all about it, and she'll fix us as nice as can be. I shouldn't wonder if Sanch got home now before we did," said Ben, cheering himself as well as her by the fond hope. "I don't believe I ever shall. I'm so tired my legs won't go, and the water in my boots makes them feel dreadfully. I wish that boy would wheel me a piece. Don't you s'pose he would? asked Bab, wearily picking herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came out of a yard near by. "Hullo, Joslyn!" said Ben, recognizing the boy as one of the "hill fellows" who came to town Saturday nights for play or business. "Hullo, Brown!" responded the other, arresting his squeaking progress with signs of surprise at the moist tableau before him. "Where goin'?" asked Ben with masculine brevity. "Got to carry this home, hang the old thing." "Where to?" "Batchelor's, down yonder," and the boy pointed to a farm-house at the foot of the next hill. "Goin' that way, take it right along." "What for?" questioned the prudent youth, distrusting such unusual neighborliness. "She's tired, wants a ride; I'll leave it all right, true as I live and breathe," explained Ben, half ashamed yet anxious to get his little responsibility home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to thicken. "Ho, you couldn't cart her all that way! she's most as heavy as a bag of meal," jeered the taller lad, amused at the proposition. "I'm stronger than most fellers of my size. Try, if I ain't," and Ben squared off in such scientific style that Joslyn responded with sudden amiability,-- "All right, let's see you do it." Bab huddled into her new equipage without the least fear, and Ben trundled her off at a good pace, while the boy retired to the shelter of a barn to watch their progress, glad to be rid of an irksome errand. At first, all went well, for the way was down hill, and the wheel squeaked briskly round and round; Bab smiled gratefully upon her bearer, and Ben "went in on his muscle with a will," as he expressed it. But presently the road grew sandy, began to ascend, and the load seemed to grow heavier with every step. "I'll get out now. It's real nice, but I guess I am too heavy," said Bab, as the face before her got redder and redder, and the breath began to come in puffs. "Sit still. He said I couldn't. I'm not going to give in with him looking on," panted Ben, and he pushed gallantly up the rise, over the grassy lawn to the side gate of the Batchelors' door-yard, with his head down, teeth set, and every muscle of his slender body braced to the task. "Did ever ye see the like of that now? Ah, ha! "The streets were so wide, and the lanes were so narry, He brought his wife home on a little wheelbarry," sung a voice with an accent which made Ben drop his load and push back his hat, to see Pat's red head looking over the fence. To have his enemy behold him then and there was the last bitter drop in poor Ben's cup of humiliation. A shrill approving whistle from the hill was some comfort, however, and gave him spirit to help Bab out with composure, though his hands were blistered and he had hardly breath enough to issue the Command,-- "Go along home, and don't mind him." "Nice childer, ye are, runnin' off this way, settin' the women distracted, and me wastin' me time comin' after ye when I'd be milkin' airly so I'd get a bit of pleasure the day," grumbled Pat, coming up to untie the Duke, whose Roman nose Ben had already recognized, as well as the roomy chaise standing before the door. "Did Billy tell you about us?" asked Bab, gladly following toward this welcome refuge. "Faith he did, and the Squire sent me to fetch ye home quiet and aisy. When ye found me, I'd jist stopped here to borry a light for me pipe. Up wid ye, b'y, and not be wastin' me time stramashin' after a spalpeen that I'd like to lay me whip over," said Pat, gruffly, as Ben came along, having left the barrow in the shed. "Don't you wish you could? You needn't wait for me; I'll come when I'm ready," answered Ben dodging round the chaise, bound not to mind Pat, if he spent the night by the road-side in consequence. "Bedad, and I won't then. It's lively ye are; but four legs is better than two, as ye'll find this night, me young man." With that he whipped up and was off before Bab could say a word to persuade Ben to humble himself for the sake of a ride. She lamented and Pat chuckled, both forgetting what an agile monkey the boy was, and as neither looked back, they were unaware Master Ben was hanging on behind among the straps and springs, making derisive grimaces at his unconscious foe through the little glass in the leathern back. At the lodge gate Ben jumped down to run before with whoops of naughty satisfaction, which brought the anxious waiters to the door in a flock; so Pat could only shake his fist at the exulting little rascal as he drove away, leaving the wanderers to be welcomed as warmly as if they were a pair of model children. Mrs. Moss had not been very much troubled after all; for Cy had told her that Bab went after Ben, and Billy had lately reported her safe arrival among them, so, mother-like, she fed, dried, and warmed the runaways, before she scolded them. Even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when they tried to tell the adventures which to them seemed so exciting, not to say tragical, the effect astonished them immensely, as their audience went into gales of laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow episode, which Bab insisted on telling, with grateful minuteness, to Ben's confusion. Thorny shouted, and even tender-hearted Betty forgot her tears over the lost dog to join in the familiar melody when Bab mimicked Pat's quotation from Mother Goose. "We must not laugh any more, or these naughty children will think they have done something very clever in running away," said Miss Celia, when the fun subsided, adding, soberly, "I am displeased, but I will say nothing, for I think Ben is already punished enough." "Guess I am," muttered Ben, with a choke in his voice as he glanced toward the empty mat where a dear curly bunch used to be with a bright eye twinkling out of the middle of it. CHAPTER XV BEN'S RIDE Great was the mourning for Sancho, because his talents and virtues made him universally admired and beloved. Miss Celia advertised, Thorny offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a sharp look-out for poodle dogs when he went to market; but no Sancho or any trace of him appeared. Ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it served Bab right when the dogwood poison affected both face and hands. Poor Bab thought so, too, and dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept her supplied with an endless succession of them steeped in cream and pitying tears. This treatment was so successful that the patient soon took her place in society as well as ever, but for Ben's affliction there was no cure, and the boy really suffered in his spirits. "I don't think it's fair that I should have so much trouble,--first losing father and then Sanch. If it wasn't for Lita and Miss Celia, I don't believe I could stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of despair, about a week after the sad event. "Oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow. We'll find him if he s alive, and if he isn't I'll try and get you another as good," answered Thorny, with a friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat disconsolately among the beans he had been hoeing. "As if there ever could be another half as good!" cried Ben, indignant at the idea; "or as if I'd ever try to fill his place with the best and biggest dog that ever wagged a tail! No, sir, there's only one Sanch in all the world, and if I can't have him I'll never have a dog again." "Try some other sort of pet, then. You may have any of mine you like. Have the peacocks; do now," urged Thorny, full of boyish sympathy and good-will. "They are dreadful pretty, but I don't seem to care about em, thank you," replied the mourner. "Have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome offer on Thorny's part, for there were a dozen at least. "They don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they care for is stuff to eat and dirt to burrow in. I'm sick of rabbits." And well he might be, for he had had the charge of them ever since they came, and any boy who has ever kept bunnies knows what a care they are. "So am I! Guess we'll have an auction and sell out. Would Jack be a comfort to you? If he will, you may have him. I'm so well now, I can walk, or ride anything," added Thorny, in a burst of generosity. "Jack couldn't be with me always, as Sanch was, and I couldn't keep him if I had him." Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of Lita would have healed his wounded heart, and she was not Thorny's to give, or he would probably have offered her to his afflicted friend. "Well, no, you couldn't take Jack to bed with you, or keep him up in your room, and I'm afraid he Would never learn to do any thing clever. I do wish I had something you wanted, I'd so love to give it to you." He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben looked up, feeling that he had given him one of the sweetest things in the world--friendship; he wanted to tell him so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up his hoe and fell to work, saying, in a tone Thorny understood better than words,-- "You are real good to me-never mind, I won't worry about it; only it seems extra hard coming so soon after the other--" He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean leaves, to shine like dew till Ben saw clearly enough to bury it out of sight in a great flurry. "By Jove! I'll find that dog, if he is out of the ground. Keep your spirits up, my lad, and we'll have the dear old fellow back yet." With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off to rack his brains as to what could be done about the matter. Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in the avenue roused him from the brown study into which he had fallen as he lay on the newly mown grass of the lawn. Peeping over the wall, Thorny reconnoitred, and, finding the organ a good one, the man a pleasant-faced Italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he ordered them all in, as a delicate attention to Ben, for music and monkey together might suggest soothing memories of the past, and so be a comfort. In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by Bab and Betty, full of glee, for hand-organs were rare in those parts, and the children delighted in them. Smiling till his white teeth shone and his black eyes sparkled, the man played away while the monkey made his pathetic little bows, and picked up the pennies Thorny threw him. "It is warm, and you look tired. Sit down and I'll get you some dinner," said the young master, pointing to the seat which now stood near the great gate. With thanks in broken English the man gladly obeyed, and Ben begged to be allowed to make Jacko equally comfortable, explaining that he knew all about monkeys and what they liked. So the poor thing was freed from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread and milk, and allowed to curl himself up in the cool grass for a nap, looking so like a tired littie old man in a fur coat that the children were never weary of watching him. Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was talking Italian to Giacomo in a way that delighted his homesick heart. She had been to Naples, and could understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth, so they had a little chat in the language which is all Music, and the good fellow was so grateful that he played for the children to dance till they were glad to stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set out again upon his lonely, dusty walk. "I'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week or so. Could make enough to live on as easy as not, if I only I had Sanch to show off," said Ben, as he was coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested. "You go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and smiling, well pleased at the prospect of company, for his quick eye and what the boys let fall in their talk showed him that Ben was not one of them. "If I had my dog I'd love to," and with sad eagerness Ben told the tale of his loss, for the thought of it was never long out of his mind. "I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New York. He do leetle trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he head, and many tings to make laugh," said the man, when he had listened to a list of Sanch's beauties and accomplishments. "Who had him?" asked Thorny, full of interest at once. "A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat him when he do letters bad." "Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly. "No; that for why man beat him. He name Generale, and he go spell Sancho all times, and cry when whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name true one; not Generale?" and the man nodded, waved his hands, and showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the boys. "It's Sanch! let's go and get him now, right off! cried Ben, in a fever to be gone. "A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's story? We must wait a little, Ben, and be sure before we set out," said Miss Celia, ready to do almost any thing, but not so certain as the boys. "What sort of a dog was it? A large, curly, white poodle, with a queer tail?" she asked of Giacomo. "No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite; he black, smooth dog, littel tail, small, so;" and the man held up one brown finger with a gesture which suggested a short, wagging tail. "There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs are often named Sancho, especially Spanish poodles; for the original Sancho was a Spaniard, you know. This dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry." The boys' faces had fallen dismally as their hope was destroyed; but Ben would not give up. For him there was and could be only one Sancho in the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one else thought of. "It may be my dog,--they color 'em as we used to paint over trick horses. I told you he was a valuable chap, and those that stole him hide him that way, else he'd be no use, don't you see? because we'd know him." "But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny, longing to be convinced, but still doubtful. Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he said, in a grim tone,-- "They might have cut Sanch's off." "Oh, no! no! they mustn't,--they wouldn't! How Could any one be so wicked?" cried Bab and Betty, horrified at the suggestion. "You don't know what such fellows would do to make all safe, so they could use a dog to earn their living for 'em," said Ben, with mysterious significance, quite forgetting in his wrath that he had just proposed to get his own living in that way himself. "He no your dog? Sorry I not find him for you. Addio, signorina! Grazia, signor! Buon giorno, buon giorno!" and, kissing his hand, the Italian shouldered organ and monkey, ready to go. Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him her address, and beg him to let her know if he met poor Sanch in any of his wanderings; for such itinerant showmen often cross each other's paths. Ben and Thorny walked to the school-corner with him, getting more exact information about the black dog and his owner, for they had no intention of giving it up so soon. That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin in New York, giving all the particulars of the case, and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate the dog, and see that the police made sure that every thing was right. Much relieved by this performance, the boys waited anxiously for a reply, and when it came found little comfort in it. Cousin Horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted that he could only report a failure. The owner of the black poodle was a suspicious character, but told a straight story, how he had bought the dog from a stranger, and exhibited him with success till he was stolen. Knew nothing of his history, and was very sorry to lose him, for he was a remarkably clever beast. "I told my dog-man to look about for him, but he says he has probably been killed, with ever so many more; so there is an end of it, and I call it a mean shame." "Good for Horace! I told you he'd do it up thoroughly and see the end of it," said Thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting letter. "May be the end of that dog, but not of mine. I'll bet he ran away; and if it was Sanch, he'll come home. You see if he doesn't!" cried Ben, refusing to believe that all was over. "A hundred wiles off? Oh, he couldn't find you without help, smart as he is," answered Thorny, incredulously. Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered him up again by saying,-- "Yes, he could. My father had a friend who left a little dog in Paris; and the creature found her in Milan, and died of fatigue next day. That was very wonderful, but true; and I've no doubt that if Sanch is alive he will come home. Let us hope so, and be happy, while we wait." "We will!" said the boys; and day after day looked for the wanderer's return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he came. But weeks passed, and still no Sanch. Something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost forgotten for a time; and Ben found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best friend. Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward, as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita dashed into the yard with the reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side covered with black mud, showing that she had been down. For a minute, Ben's heart stood still; then he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils, and wet coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed. "She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened," thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the ground, and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the disaster, whatever it was. "Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking straight into the intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild. Lita threw up her head, and neighed loud and clear, as if she called her mistress; and, turning, would have gone again if Ben had not caught the reins and held her. "All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the broken saddle, kicking away his shoes, and ramming his hat firmly on, Ben was up like a flash, tingling all over with a sense of power as he felt the bare back between his knees, and caught the roll of Lita's eye as she looked round with an air of satisfaction. "Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened to Miss Celia, and I'm going to find her. Thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and I'll come back as soon as I can!" Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the startled woman had time to do more than wring her hands and cry out,-- "Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?" As if she knew exactly what was wanted of her, Lita went back the way she had come, as Ben could see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut up the road where she had galloped for help. For a mile or more they went, then she paused at a pair of bars, which were let down to allow the carts to pass into the wide hay-fields beyond. On she went again, cantering across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across which she had evidently taken a leap before; for, on the further side, at a place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed signs of a fall. "You were a fool to try there; but where is Miss Celia?" said Ben, who talked to animals as if they were people, and was understood much better than any one not used to their companionship would imagine. Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down, as if she expected to find her mistress where she had left her, somewhere on the ground. Ben called, but there was no answer; and he rode slowly along the brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious eyes. "May be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that house to wait," thought the boy, pausing for a last survey of the great, sunny field, which had no place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the little stream. As his eye wandered over it, something dark seemed to blow out from behind it, as if the wind played in the folds of a shirt, or a human limb moved. Away went Lita, and in a moment Ben had found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock, so white and motionless, he feared that she was dead. He leaped down, touched her, spoke to her; and, receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them do when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or fainted from exhaustion after they left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto all adopted. In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized the anxious face bending over her, saying faintly, as she touched it,-- "My good little Ben, I knew you'd find me,--I sent Lita for you,-- I'm so hurt, I couldn't come." "Oh, where? What shall I do? Had I better run up to the house?" asked Ben, overjoyed to hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them, too. "I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I'm afraid. Lita tried not to hurt me. She slipped, and we went down. I came here into the shade, and the pain made me faint, I suppose. Call somebody, and get me home." Then she shut her eyes, and looked so white that Ben hurried away, and burst upon old Mrs. Paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly that, as she afterward said, "It sca't her like a clap o' thunder." "Ain't a man nowheres around. All down in the big medder gettin' in hay," was her reply to Ben's breathless demand for "everybody to come and see to Miss Celia." He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket, and asked half a dozen questions in a breath. "Who's your folks? What's broke? How'd she fall? Where is she? Why didn't she come right here? Is it a sunstroke?" As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth, Ben answered, and then tried to free himself; but the old lady held on, while she gave her directions, expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality with incoherent warmth. "Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in. Liddy, get out the camphire; and, Melissy, you haul down a bed to lay her on. Falls is dretful uncert'in things; shouldn't wonder if her back was broke. Father's down yender, and he and Bijah will see to her. You go call 'em, and I'll blow the horn to start 'em up. Tell her we'd be pleased to see her, and it won't make a mite of trouble." Ben heard no more, fur as Mrs. Paine turned to take down the tin horn he was up and away. Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse, and "father and Bijah," alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman approaching like a whirlwind. "Guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke. Told 'em to send over soon 's ever it come," said the farmer, calmly. "Shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's," conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke. Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told his tale. "Sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously. "That brook always was the darndest place," added Bijah; then both men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying to Miss Cella while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her on. "Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. My own folks will see to the lady, and she'd better keep quiet up yender till we see what the matter is," said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as four strong arms could do it. "Hold on," he added, as Ben made one leap to Lita's back. "You'll have to go to Berryville. Dr. Mills is a master hand for broken bones and old Dr. Babcock ain't. 'Tisn't but about three miles from here to his house, and you'll fetch him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'." "Don't kill Lita," called Miss Celia from the cart, as it began to move. But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his speed. "That boy will break his neck," said Mr. Paine, standing still to watch horse and rider go over the wall as if bent on instant destruction. "No fear for Ben, he can ride any thing, and Lita was trained to leap," answered Miss Celia, falling back on the hay with a groan, for she had involuntarily raised her head to see her little squire dash away in gallant style. "I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy. Never see any thing like it out of a race-ground," and Farmer Paine strode on, still following with his eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge, up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of cloud of dust behind. Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for Lita had good blood in her, and proved it that day by doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time. People jogging along in wagons and country carry-alls stared amazed as the reckless pair went by. Women, placidly doing their afternoon sewing at the front windows, dropped their needles to run out with exclamations of alarm, sure some one was being run away with; children playing by the roadside scattered like chickens before a hawk, as Ben passed with a warning whoop, and baby-carriages were scrambled into door-yards with perilous rapidity at his approach. But when he clattered into town, intense interest was felt in this barefooted boy on the foaming steed, and a dozen voices asked, "Who's killed?" as he pulled up at the doctor's gate. "Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn's baby's in a fit," cried a stout lady from the piazza, never ceasing to rock, though several passers-by paused to hear the news, for she was a doctor's wife, and used to the arrival of excited messengers from all quarters at all hours of the day and night. Deigning no reply to any one, Ben rode away, wishing he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or ford a raging torrent, to prove his devotion to Miss Celia, and his skill in horsemanship. But no dangers beset his path, and he found the doctor pausing to water his tired horse at the very trough where Bab and Sancho had been discovered on that ever-memorable day. The story was quickly told, and, promising to be there as soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to relieve baby Flynn's inner man, a little disturbed by a bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had privately lunched while his mamma was busy at the wash-tub. Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more than once, that he knew how to take care of a horse; for he delayed by the watering-place long enough to wash out Lita's mouth with a handful of wet grass, to let her have one swallow to clear her dusty throat, and then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting and praising the good creature for her intelligence and speed. She knew well enough that she had been a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched her glossy neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious and coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at her admiring rider to return his compliments by glance of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet nose at his bare feet. Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the farmer's wife and daughter; and, when the doctor arrived, bore the setting of her arm bravely. No other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon heal, so Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny with a good report, and ask the Squire to drive up in his big carry-all for her the next day, if she was able to be moved. Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing, but quietly made what preparations she could, and waited for tidings. Bab and Betty were away berrying, so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he had his afternoon nap in peace,--an unusually long one, owing to the stillness which prevailed in the absence of the children; and when he awoke he lay reading for a while before he began to wonder where every one was. Lounging out to see, he found Ben and Lita reposing side by side on the fresh straw in the loose box, which had been made for her in the coach-house. By the pails, sponges and curry-combs lying about, it was evident that she had been refreshed by a careful washing and rubbing down, and my lady was now luxuriously resting after her labors, with her devoted groom half asleep close by. "Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to spend this hot afternoon fussing over Lita, just for the fun of it!" cried Thorny, looking in at them with much amusement. "If you knew what we'd been doing, you'd think I ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right to rest!" answered Ben, rousing up as bright as a button; for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had with difficulty been restrained from bursting in on Thorny as soon as he arrived. He made short work of the story, but was quite satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his listener was startled, relieved, excited and charmed, in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit upon the meal-chest and get his breath before he Could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of his heels against the bin,-- "Ben Brown, I'll never forget what you've done for Celia this day, or say 'bow-legs' again as long as I live." "George! I felt as if I had six legs when we were going the pace. We were all one piece, and had a jolly spin, didn't we, my beauty?" and Ben chuckled as he took Lita's head in his lap, while she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him away. "Like the fellow that brought the good news from Ghent to Aix," said Thorny, surveying the recumbent pair with great admiration. "What follow?" asked Ben, wondering if he didn't mean Sheridan, of whose ride he had heard. "Don't you know that piece? I spoke it at school. Give it to you now; see if it isn't a rouser." And, glad to find a vent from his excitement, Thorny mounted the meal-chest, to thunder out that stirring ballad with such spirit that Lita pricked up her ears and Ben gave a shrill "Hooray!" as the last verse ended. "And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent." CHAPTER XVI DETECTIVE THORNTON A few days later, Miss Celia was able to go about with her arm in a sling, pale still, and rather stiff, but so much better than any one expected, that all agreed Mr. Paine was right in pronouncing Dr. Mills "a master hand with broken bones." Two devoted little maids waited on her, two eager pages stood ready to run her errands, and friendly neighbors sent in delicacies enough to keep these four young persons busily employed in disposing of them. Every afternoon the great bamboo lounging chair was brought out and the interesting invalid conducted to it by stout Randa, who was head nurse, and followed by a train of shawl, cushion, foot-stool and book bearers, who buzzed about like swarming bees round a new queen. When all were settled, the little maids sewed and the pages read aloud, with much conversation by the way; for one of the rules was, that all should listen attentively, and if any one did not understand what was read, he or she should ask to have it explained on the spot. Whoever could answer was invited to do so, and at the end of the reading Miss Celia could ask any she liked, or add any explanations which seemed necessary. In this way much pleasure and profit was extracted from the tales Ben and Thorny read, and much unexpected knowledge as well as ignorance displayed, not to mention piles of neatly hemmed towels for which Bab and Betty were paid like regular sewing-women. So vacation was not all play, and the girls found their picnics, berry parties, and "goin' a visitin'," all the more agreeable for the quiet hour spent with Miss Celia. Thorny had improved wonderfully, and was getting to be quite energetic, especially since his sister's accident; for while she was laid up he was the head of the house, and much enjoyed his promotion. But Ben did not seem to flourish as he had done at first. The loss of Sancho preyed upon him sadly, and the longing to go and find his dog grew into such a strong temptation that he could hardly resist it. He said little about it; but now, and then a word escaped him which might have enlightened any one who chanced to be watching him. No one was, just then, so he brooded over this fancy, day by day, in silence and solitude, for there was no riding and driving now. Thorny was busy with his sister trying to show her that he remembered how good she had been to him when he was ill, and the little girls had their own affairs. Miss Celia was the first to observe the change, having nothing to do but lie on the sofa and amuse herself by seeing others work or play. Ben was bright enough at the readings, because then he forgot his troubles; but when they were over and his various duties done, he went to his own room or sought consolation with Lita, being sober and quiet, and quite unlike the merry monkey all knew and liked so well. "Thorny, what is the matter with Ben?" asked Miss Celia, one day, when she and her brother were alone in the "green parlor," as they called the lilac-tree walk. "Fretting about Sanch, I suppose. I declare I wish that dog had never been born! Losing him has just spoilt Ben. Not a bit of fun left in him, and he won't have any thing I offer to cheer him up." Thorny spoke impatiently, and knit his brows over the pressed flowers he was neatly gumming into his herbal. "I wonder if he has any thing on his mind? He acts as if he was hiding a trouble he didn't dare to tell. Have you talked with him about it?" asked Miss Celia, looking as if she was hiding a trouble she did not like to tell. "Oh, yes, I poke him up now and then, but he gets peppery, so I let him alone. May be he is longing for his old circus again. Shouldn't blame him much if he was; it isn't very lively here, and he's used to excitement, you know." "I hope it isn't that. Do you think he would slip away without telling us, and go back to the old life again? Don't believe he would. Ben isn't a bit of a sneak; that's why I like him." "Have you ever found him sly or untrue in any way?" asked Miss Celia, lowering her voice. "No; he's as fair and square a fellow as I ever saw. Little bit low, now and then, but he doesn't mean it, and wants to be a gentleman, only he never lived with one before, and it's all new to him. I'll get him polished up after a while." "Oh, Thorny, there are three peacocks on the place, and you are the finest!" laughed Miss Celia, as her brother spoke in his most condescending way with a lift of the eyebrows very droll to see. "And two donkeys, and Ben's the biggest, not to know when he is well off and happy!" retorted the "gentleman," slapping a dried specimen on the page as if he were pounding discontented Ben. "Come here and let me tell you something which worries me. I would not breathe it to another soul, but I feel rather helpless, and I dare say you can manage the matter better than I." Looking much mystified, Thorny went and sat on the stool at his sister's feet, while she whispered confidentially in his ear: "I've lost some money out of my drawer, and I'm so afraid Ben took it." "But it's always locked up and you keep the keys of the drawer and the little room?" "It is gone, nevertheless, and I've had my keys safe all the time." "But why think it is he any more than Randa, or Katy, or me?" "Because I trust you three as I do myself. I've known the girls for years, and you have no object in taking it since all I have is yours, dear." "And all mine is yours, of course. But, Celia, how could he do it? He can't pick locks, I know, for we fussed over my desk together, and had to break it after all." "I never really thought it possible till to-day when you were playing ball and it went in at the upper window, and Ben climbed up the porch after it; you remember you said, 'If it had gone in at the garret gable you couldn't have done that so well;' and he answered, 'Yes, I could, there isn't a spout I can't shin up, or a bit of this roof I haven't been over.'" "So he did; but there is no spout near the little room window." "There is a tree, and such an agile boy as Ben could swing in and out easily. Now, Thorny, I hate to think this of him, but it has happened twice, and for his own sake I must stop it. If he is planning to run away, money is a good thing to have. And he may feel that it is his own; for you know he asked me to put his wages in the bank, and I did. He may not like to come to me for that, because he can give no good reason for wanting it. I'm so troubled I really don't know what to do." She looked troubled, and Thorny put his arms about her as if to keep all worries but his own away from her. "Don't you fret, Cely, dear; you leave it to me. I'll fix him--ungrateful little scamp!" "That is not the way to begin. I am afraid you will make him angry and hurt his feelings, and then we can do nothing." "Bother his feelings! I shall just say, calmly and coolly: 'Now, look here, Ben, hand over the money you took out of my sister's drawer, and we'll let you off easy,' or something like that." "It wouldn't do, Thorny; his temper would be up in a minute, and away he would go before we could find out whether he was guilty or not. I wish I knew how to manage." "Let me think," and Thorny leaned his chin on the arm of the chair, staring hard at the knocker as if he expected the lion's mouth to open with words of counsel then and there. "By Jove, I do believe Ben took it!" he broke out suddenly; "for when I went to his room this morning to see why he didn't come and do my boots, he shut the drawer in his bureau as quick as a flash, and looked red and queer, for I didn't knock, and sort of startled him." "He wouldn't be likely to put stolen money there. Ben is too wise for that." "He wouldn't keep it there, but he might be looking at it and pitch it in when I called. He's hardly spoken to me since, and when I asked him what his flag was at half-mast for, he wouldn't answer. Besides, you know in the reading this afternoon he didn't listen, and when you asked what he was thinking about, he colored up and muttered something about Sanch. I tell you, Celia, it looks bad--very bad," and Thorny shook his head with a wise air. "It does, and yet we may be all wrong. Let us wait a little and give the poor boy a chance to clear himself before we speak. I'd rather lose my money than suspect him falsely." "How much was it?" "Eleven dollars; a one went first, and I supposed I'd miscalculated somewhere when I took some out; but when I missed a ten, I felt that I ought not to let it pass." "Look here, sister, you just put the case into my hands and let me work it up. I won't say any thing to Ben till you give the word; but I'll watch him, and now that my eyes are open, it won't be easy to deceive me." Thorny was evidently pleased with the new play of detective, and intended to distinguish himself in that line; but when Miss Celia asked how he meant to begin, he could only respond with a blank expression: "Don't know! You give me the keys and leave a bill or two in the drawer, and may be I can find him out somehow." So the keys were given, and the little dressing-room where the old secretary stood was closely watched for a day or two. Ben cheered up a trifle which looked as if he knew an eye was upon him, but otherwise he went on as usual, and Miss Celia feeling a little guilty at even harboring a suspicion of him, was kind and patient with his moods. Thorny was very funny in the unnecessary mystery and fuss he made; his affectation of careless indifference to Ben's movements and his clumsy attempts to watch every one of them; his dodgings up and down stairs, ostentatious clanking of keys, and the elaborate traps he set to catch his thief, such as throwing his ball in at the dressing-room window and sending Ben up the tree to get it, which he did, thereby proving beyond a doubt that he alone could have taken the money, Thorny thought. Another deep discovery was, that the old drawer was so shrunken that the lock could be pressed down by slipping a knife-blade between the hasp and socket. "Now it is as clear as day, and you'd better let me speak," he said, full of pride as well as regret at this triumphant success of his first attempt as a detective. "Not yet, and you need do nothing more. I'm afraid it was a mistake of mine to let you do this; and if it has spoiled your friendship with Ben, I shall be very sorry; for I do not think he is guilty," answered Miss Celia. "Why not?" and Thorny looked annoyed. "I've watched also, and he doesn't act like a deceitful boy. To-day I asked him if he wanted any money, or should I put what I owe him with the rest, and he looked me straight in the face with such honest, grateful eyes, I could not doubt him when he said 'Keep it, please, I don't need any thing here, you are all so good to me.'" "Now, Celia, don't you be soft-hearted. He's a sly little dog, and knows my eye is on him. When I asked him what he saw in the dressing-room, after he brought out the ball, and looked sharply at him, he laughed, and said 'Only a mouse,' as saucy as you please." "Do set the trap there, I heard the mouse nibbling last night, and it kept me awake. We must have a cat or we shall be overrun." "Well, shall I give Ben a good blowing up, or will you?" asked Thorny, scorning such poor prey as mice, and bound to prove that he was in the right. "I'll let you know what I have decided in the morning. Be kind to Ben, meantime, or I shall feel as if I had done you harm by letting you watch him." So it was left for that day, and by the next, Miss Celia had made up her mind to speak to Ben. She was just going down to breakfast when the sound of loud voices made her pause and listen. It came from Ben's room, where the two boys seemed to be disputing about something. "I hope Thorny has kept his promise," she thought, and hurried through the back entry, fearing a general explosion. Ben's chamber was at the end, and she could see and hear what was going on before she was near enough to interfere. Ben stood against his closet door looking as fierce and red as a turkey-cock; Thorny sternly confronted him, saying in an excited tone, and with a threatening gesture: "You are hiding something in there, and you can't deny it." "I don't." "Better not; I insist on seeing it." "Well, you won't." "What have you been stealing now?" "Didn't steal it,--used to be mine,--I only took it when I wanted it." "I know what that means. You'd better give it back or I'll make you." "Stop!" cried a third voice, as Thorny put out his arm to clutch Ben, who looked ready to defend himself to the last gasp, "Boys, I will settle this affair. Is there anything hidden in the closet, Ben?" and Miss Celia came between the belligerent parties with her one hand up to part them. Thorny fell back at once, looking half ashamed of his heat, and Ben briefly answered, with a gulp as if shame or anger made it hard to speak steadily: "Yes 'm, there is." "Does it belong to you?" "Yes 'm, it does." "Where did you get it?" "Up to Squire's." "That's a lie!" muttered Thorny to himself. Ben's eye flashed, and his fist doubled up in spite of him, but he restrained himself out of respect for Miss Celia, who looked puzzled, as she asked another question, not quite sure how to proceed with the investigation: "Is it money, Ben?" "No 'm, it isn't." "Then what can it be?" "Meow!" answered a fourth voice from the closet; and as Ben flung open the door a gray kitten walked out, purring with satisfaction at her release. Miss Celia fell into a chair and laughed till her eyes were full; Thorny looked foolish, and Ben folded his arms, curled up his nose, and regarded his accuser with calm defiance, while pussy sat down to wash her face as if her morning toilette had been interrupted by her sudden abduction. "That's all very well, but it doesn't mend matters much, so you needn't laugh, Celia," began Thorny, recovering himself, and stubbornly bent on sifting the case to the bottom, now he had begun. "Well, it would, if you'd let a feller alone. She said she wanted a cat, so I went and got the one they gave me when I was at the Squire's. I went early and took her without asking, and I had a right to," explained Ben, much aggrieved by having his surprise spoiled. "It was very kind of you, and I'm glad to have this nice kitty. We will shut her up in my room to catch the mice that plague me," said Miss Celia, picking up the little cat, and wondering how she would get her two angry boys safely down stairs. "The dressing-room, she means; you know the way, and you don't need keys to get in," added Thorny, with such sarcastic emphasis that Ben felt some insult was intended, and promptly resented it. "You won't get me to climb any more trees after your balls, and my cat won't catch any of your mice, so you needn't ask me." "Cats don't catch thieves, and they are what I'm after!" "What do you mean by that?" fiercely demanded Ben. "Celia has lost some money out of her drawer, and you won't let me see what's in yours; So I thought, perhaps, you'd got it!" blurted out Thorny, finding it hard to say the words, angry as he was, for the face opposite did not look like a guilty one. For a minute, Ben did not seem to understand him, plainly as he spoke; then he turned an angry scarlet, and, with a reproachful glance at his mistress, opened the little drawer so that both could see all that it contained. "They ain't any thing; but I'm fond of 'em they are all I've got--I was afraid he'd laugh at me that time, so I wouldn't let him look--it was father's birthday, and I felt bad about him and Sanch--" Ben's indignant voice got more and more indistinct as he stumbled on, and broke down over the last words. He did not cry, however, but threw back his little treasures as if half their sacredness was gone; and, making a strong effort at self-control, faced around, asking of Miss Celia, with a grieved look, "Did you think I'd steal anything of yours?" "I tried not to, Ben, but what could I do? It was gone, and you the only stranger about the place." "Wasn't there any one to think bad of but me? he said, so sorrowfully that Miss Celia made up her mind on the spot that he was as innocent of the theft as the kitten now biting her buttons, no other refreshment being offered. "Nobody, for I know my girls well. Yet, eleven dollars are gone, and I cannot imagine where or how for both drawer and door are always locked, because my papers and valuables are in that room." "What a lot! But how could I get it if it was locked up?" and Ben looked as if that question was unanswerable. "Folks that can climb in at windows for a ball, can go the same way for money, and get it easy enough when they've only to pry open an old lock!" Thorny's look and tone seemed to make plain to Ben all that they had been suspecting, and, being innocent, he was too perplexed and unhappy to defend himself. His eye went from one to the other, and, seeing doubt in both faces, his boyish heart sunk within him; for he could prove nothing, and his first impulse was to go away at once. "I can't say any thing, only that I didn't take the money. You won't believe it, so I'd better go back where I come from. They weren't so kind, but they trusted me, and knew I wouldn't steal a cent. You may keep my money, and the kitty, too; I don't want 'em," and, snatching up his hat, Ben would gone straight away, if Thorny had not barred his passage. "Come, now, don't be mad. Let's talk it over, and if I 'm wrong I'll take it all back and ask your pardon," he said, in a friendly tone, rather scared at the consequences of his first attempt, though as sure as ever that he was right. "It would break my heart to have you go in that way, Ben. Stay at least till your innocence is proved, then no one can doubt what you say now." "Don't see how it can be proved," answered Ben, appeased by her evident desire to trust him. "We'll try as well as we know how, and the first thing we will do is to give that old secretary a good rummage from top to bottom. I've done it once, but it is just possible that the bills may have slipped out of sight. Come, now, I can't rest till I've done all I can to comfort you and convince Thorny." Miss Celia rose as she spoke, and led the way to the dressing-room, which had no outlet except through her chamber. Still holding his hat, Ben followed with a troubled face, and Thorny brought up the rear, doggedly determined to keep his eye on "the little scamp" till the matter was satisfactorily cleared up. Miss Celia had made her proposal more to soothe the feelings of one boy and to employ the superfluous energies of the other, than in the expectation of throwing any light upon the mystery; for she was sadly puzzled by Ben's manner, and much regretted that she had let her brother meddle in the matter. "There," she said, unlocking the door with the key Thorny reluctantly gave up to her, "this is the room and that is the drawer on the right. The lower ones have seldom been opened since we came, and hold only some of papa's old books. Those upper ones you may turn out and investigate as much as you-- Bless me! here's something in your trap," Thorny and Miss Celia gave a little skip as she nearly trod on a long, gray tall, which hung out of the bole now filled by a plump mouse. But her brother was intent on more serious things, and merely pushed the trap aside as he pulled out the drawer with an excited gesture, which sent it and all its contents clattering to the floor. "Confound the old thing! It always stuck so I had to give a jerk. Now, there it is, topsy-turvy," and Thorny looked Much disgusted at his own awkwardness. "No harm done; I left nothing of value in it. Look back there, Ben, and see if there is room for a paper to get worked over the top of the drawer. I felt quite a crack, but I don't believe it is possible for things to slip out; the place was never full enough to overflow in any way." Miss Celia spoke to Ben, who was kneeling down to pick up the scattered papers, among which were two marked dollar bills,--Thorny's bait for the thief. Ben looked into the dusty recess, and then put in his hand, saying carelessly,-- "There's nothing but a bit of red stuff." "My old pen-wiper--Why, what's the matter?" asked Miss Celia, as Ben dropped the handful of what looked like rubbish. "Something warm and wiggly inside of it," answered Ben, stooping to examine the contents of the little scarlet bundle. "Baby mice! Ain't they funny? Look just like mites of young pigs. We'll have to kill 'em if you've caught their mamma," he said, forgetting his own trials in boyish curiosity about his "find." Miss Celia stooped also, and gently poked the red cradle with her finger; for the tiny mice were nestling deeper into the fluff with small squeals of alarm. Suddenly she cried out: "Boys, boys, I've found the thief! Look here; pull out these bits and see if they won't make up my lost bills." Down went the motherless babies as four ruthless hands pulled apart their cosey nest, and there, among the nibbled fragments, appeared enough finely printed, greenish paper, to piece out parts of two bank bills. A large cypher and part of a figure one were visible, and that accounted for the ten; but though there were other bits, no figures could be found, and they were willing to take the other bill on trust. "Now, then, am I a thief and a liar?" demanded Ben, pointing proudly to the tell-tale letters spread forth on the table, over which all three had been eagerly bending. "No; I beg your pardon, and I'm very sorry that we didn't look more carefully before we spoke, then we all should have been spared this pain." "All right, old fellow, forgive and forget. I'll never think hard of you again,--on my honor I won't." As they spoke, Miss Celia and her brother held out their hands frankly and heartily. Ben shook both, but with a difference; for he pressed the soft one gratefully, remembering that its owner had always been good to him; but the brown paw he gripped with a vengeful squeeze that made Thorny pull it away in a hurry, exclaiming, good-naturedly, in spite of both physical and mental discomfort,-- "Come, Ben, don't you bear malice; for you've got the laugh on your side, and we feel pretty small. I do, any way; for, after my fidgets, all I've caught is a mouse!" "And her family. I'm so relieved I'm almost sorry the poor little mother is dead--she and her babies were so happy in the old pen-wiper," said Miss Celia, hastening to speak merrily, for Ben still looked indignant, and she was much grieved at what had happened. "A pretty expensive house," began Thorny, looking about for the interesting orphans, who had been left on the floor while their paper-hangings were examined. No further anxiety need be felt for them, however; Kitty had come upon the scene, and as judge, jury, and prisoner, turned to find the little witnesses, they beheld the last pink mite going down Pussy's throat in one mouthful. "I call that summary justice,--the whole family executed on the spot! Give Kit the mouse also, and let us go to breakfast. I feel as if I had found my appetite, now this worry is off my mind," said Miss Celia, laughing so infectiously that Ben had to join in spite of himself, as she took his arm and led him away with a look which mutely asked his pardon over again. "Rather lively for a funeral procession," said Thorny, following with the trap in his hand and Puss at his heels, adding, to comfort his pride as a detective: "Well, I said I'd catch the thief, and I have, though it is rather a small one!" CHAPTER XVII BETTY'S BRAVERY "Celia, I've a notion that we ought to give Ben something. A sort of peace-offering, you know; for he feels dreadfully hurt about our suspecting him," said Thorny, at dinner that day. "I see he does, though he tries to seem as bright and pleasant as ever. I do not wonder, and I've been thinking what I could do to soothe his feelings. Can you suggest any thing?" "Cuff-buttons. I saw some jolly ones over at Berryville, oxidized silver, with dogs' heads on them, yellow eyes, and all as natural as could be. Those, now, would just suit him for his go-to-meeting white shirts,--neat, appropriate, and in memoriam." Miss Celia could not help laughing, it was such a boyish suggestion; but she agreed to it, thinking Thorny knew best, and hoping the yellow-eyed dogs would be as balm to Ben's wounds. "Well, dear, you may give those, and Lita shall give the little whip with a horse's foot for a handle, if it is not gone. I saw it at the harness shop in town; and Ben admired it so much that I planned to give it to him on his birthday." "That will tickle him immensely; and if you'd just let him put brown tops to my old boots, and stick a cockade in his hat when he sits up behind the phaeton, he'd be a happy fellow," laughed Thorny, who had discovered that one of Ben's ambitions was to be a tip-top groom. "No, thank you; those things are out of place in America, and would be absurd in a small country place like this. His blue suit and straw hat please me better for a boy; though a nicer little groom, in livery or out, no one could desire, and you may tell him I said so." "I will, and he'll look as proud as punch; for he thinks every word you say worth a dozen from any one else. But won't you give him something? Just some little trifle, to show that we are both eating humble pie, feeling sorry about the mouse money." "I shall give him a set of school-books, and try to get him ready to begin when vacation is over. An education is the best present we can make him; and I want you to help me fit him to enter as well is he can. Bab and Betty began, little dears,--lent him their books and taught all they knew; so Ben got a taste, and, with the right encouragement, would like to go on, I am sure." "That's so like you Celia! Always thinking of the best thing and doing it handsomely. I'll help like a house a-fire, if he will let me; but, all day, he's been as stiff as a poker, so I don't believe he forgives me a bit." "He will in time, and if you are kind and patient, he will be glad to have you help him. I shall make it a sort of favor to me on his part, to let you see to his lessons, now and then. It will be quite true, for I don't want you to touch your Latin or algebra till cool weather; teaching him will be play to you." Miss Celia's last words made her brother unbend his brows, for he longed to get at his books again, and the idea of being tutor to his "man-servant" did not altogether suit him. "I'll tool him along at a great pace, if he will only go. Geography and arithmetic shall be my share, and you may have the writing and spelling; it gives me the fidgets to set copies', and hear children make a mess of words. Shall I get the books when I buy the other things? Can I go this afternoon?" "Yes, here is the list; Bab gave it to me. You can go if you will come home early and have your tooth filled." Gloom fell at once upon Thorny's beaming face, and he gave such a shrill whistle that his sister jumped in her chair, as she added, persuasively,-- "It won't hurt a bit, now, and the longer you leave it the worse it will be. Dr. Mann is ready at any time; and, once over, you will be at peace for months. Come, my hero, give your orders, and take one of the girls to support you in the trying hour. Have Bab; she will enjoy it, and amuse you with her chatter." "As if I needed girls round for such a trifle as that!" returned Thorny with a shrug, though he groaned inwardly at the prospect before him, as most of us do on such occasions. "I wouldn't take Bab at any price; she'd only get into some scrape, and upset the whole plan. Betty is the chicken for me,--a real little lady, and as nice and purry as a kitten." "Very well; ask her mother, and take good care of her. Let her tuck her dolly in, and she will be contented anywhere. There's a fine air, and the awning is on the phaeton, so you won't feel the sun. Start about three, and drive carefully." Betty was charmed to go, for Thorny was a sort of prince in her eyes; and to be invited to such a grand expedition was an overwhelming honor. Bab was not surprised, for, since Sancho's loss, she had felt herself in disgrace, and been unusually meek; Ben let her "severely alone," which much afflicted her, for he was her great admiration, and had been pleased to express his approbation of her agility and courage so often, that she was ready to attempt any fool-hardy feat to recover his regard. But vainly did she risk her neck jumping off the highest beams in the barn, trying to keep her balance standing on the donkey's back, and leaping the lodge gate at a bound; Ben vouchsafed no reward by a look, a smile, a word of commendation; and Bab felt that nothing but Sancho's return would ever restore the broken friendship. Into faithful Betty's bosom did she pour forth her remorseful lamentations, often bursting out with the passionate exclamation, "If I could only find Sanch, and give him back to Ben, I wouldn't care if I tumbled down and broke all my legs right away!" Such abandonment of woe made a deep impression on Betty; and she fell into the way of consoling her sister by cheerful prophecies, and a firm belief that the organ-man would yet appear with the lost darling. "I've got five cents of my berry money, and I'll buy you an orange if I see any," promised Betty stepping to kiss Bab, as the phaeton came to the door, and Thorny handed in a young lady whose white frock was so stiff with starch that it crackled like paper. "Lemons will do if oranges are gone. I like 'em to suck with lots of sugar," answered Bab, feeling that the sour sadly predominated in her cup just now. "Don't she look sweet, the dear!" murmured Mrs. Moss, proudly surveying her youngest. She certainly did, sitting under the fringed canopy with "Belinda," all in her best, upon her lap, as she turned to smile and nod, with a face so bright and winsome under the little blue hat, that it was no wonder mother and sister thought there never was such a perfect child as "our Betty." Dr. Mann was busy when they arrived, but would be ready in an hour; so they did their shopping at once, having made sure of the whip as they came along. Thorny added some candy to Bab's lemon, and Belinda had a cake, which her mamma obligingly ate for her. Betty thought that Aladdin's palace could not have been more splendid than the jeweller's shop where the canine cuff-buttons were bought; but when they came to the book-store, she forgot gold, silver, and precious stones, to revel in picture-books, while Thorny selected Ben's modest school outfit. Seeing her delight, and feeling particularly lavish with plenty of money in his pocket, the young gentleman completed the child's bliss by telling her to choose whichever one she liked best out of the pile of Walter Crane's toy-books lying in bewildering colors before her. "This one; Bab always wanted to see the dreadful cupboard, and there's a picture of it here," answered Betty, clasping a gorgeous copy of "Bluebeard" to the little bosom, which still heaved with the rapture of looking at that delicious mixture of lovely Fatimas in pale azure gowns, pink Sister Annes on the turret top, crimson tyrants, and yellow brothers with forests of plumage blowing wildly from their mushroom-shaped caps. "Very good; there you are, then. Now, come on, for the fun is over and the grind begins," said Thorny, marching away to his doom, with his tongue in his tooth, and trepidation in his manly breast. "Shall I shut my eyes and hold your head?" quavered devoted Betty, as they went up the stairs so many reluctant feet had mounted before them. "Nonsense, child, never mind me! You look out of window and amuse yourself; we shall not be long, I guess;" and in went Thorn silently hoping that the dentist had been suddenly called away, or some person with an excruciating toothache would be waiting to take ether, and so give our young man an excuse for postponing his job. But no; Dr. Mann was quite at leisure, and, full of smiling interest, awaited his victim, laying forth his unpleasant little tools with the exasperating alacrity of his kind. Glad to be released from any share in the operation, Betty retired to the back window to be as far away as possible, and for half in hour was so absorbed in her book that poor Thorny might have groaned dismally without disturbing her. "Done now, directly, only a trifle of polishing off and a look round," said Dr. Mann, at last; and Thorny, with a yawn that nearly rent him asunder, called out,-- "Thank goodness! Pack up, Bettykin." "I'm all ready!" and, shutting her book with a start, she slipped down from the easy chair in a great hurry. But "looking round" took time; and, before the circuit of Thorny's mouth was satisfactorily made, Betty had become absorbed by a more interesting tale than even the immortal "Bluebeard." A noise of children's voices in the narrow alley-way behind the house attracted her attention; the long window opened directly on the yard, and the gate swung in the wind. Curious as Fatima, Betty went to look; but all she saw was a group of excited boys peeping between the bars of another gate further down. "What's the matter?" she asked of two small girls, who stood close by her, longing but not daring to approach the scene of action. "Boys chasing a great black cat, I believe," answered one child. "Want to come and see?" added the other, politely extending the invitation to the stranger. The thought of a cat in trouble would have nerved Betty to face a dozen boys; so she followed at once, meeting several lads hurrying away on some important errand, to judge from their anxious countenances. "Hold tight, Jimmy, and let 'em peek, if they want to. He can't hurt anybody now," said one of the dusty huntsmen, who sat on the wide coping of the wall, while two others held the gate, as if a cat could only escape that way. "You peek first, Susy, and see if it looks nice," said one little girl, boosting her friend so that she could look through the bars in the upper part of the gate. "No; it 's only an ugly old dog!" responded Susy, losing all interest at once, and descending with a bounce. "He's mad! and Jud's gone to get his gun, so we can shoot him!" called out one mischievous boy, resenting the contempt expressed for their capture. "Ain't, neither!" howled another lad from his perch. "Mad dogs won't drink; and this one is lapping out of a tub of water." "Well, he may be, and we don't know him, and he hasn't got any muzzle on, and the police will kill him if Jud don't," answered the sanguinary youth who had first started the chase after the poor animal, which had come limping into town, so evidently a lost dog that no one felt any hesitation in stoning him. "We must go right home; my mother is dreadful 'fraid of mad dogs, and so is yours," said Susy; and, having satisfied their curiosity, the young ladies prudently retired. But Betty had not had her "peep," and could not resist one look; for she had heard of these unhappy animals, and thought Bab would like to know how they looked. So she stood on tip-toe and got a good view of a dusty, brownish dog, lying on the grass close by, with his tongue hanging out while he panted, as if exhausted by fatigue and fear, for he still cast apprehensive glances at the wall which divided him from his tormentors. "His eyes are just like Sanch's," said Betty to herself, unconscious that she spoke aloud, till she saw the creature prick up his cars and half rise, as if he had been called. "He looks as if he knew me, but it isn't our Sancho; he was a lovely dog." Betty said that to the little boy peeping in beside her; but before he could make any reply, the brown beast stood straight up with an inquiring bark, while his eyes shone like topaz, and the short tail wagged excitedly. "Why, that's just the way Sanch used to do!" cried Betty, bewildered by the familiar ways of this unfamiliar-looking dog. As if the repetition of his name settled his own doubts, he leaped toward the gate and thrust a pink nose between the bars, with a howl of recognition as Betty's face was more clearly seen. The boys tumbled precipitately from their perches, and the little girl fell back alarmed, yet could not bear to run away and leave those imploring eyes pleading to her through the bars so eloquently. "He acts just like our dog, but I don't see how it can be him. Sancho, Sancho, is it really you?" called Betty, at her wits' end what to do. "Bow, wow, wow!" answered the well-known bark, and the little tail did all it could to emphasize the sound, while the eyes were so full of dumb love and joy, the child could not refuse to believe that this ugly stray was their own Sancho strangely transformed. All of a sudden, the thought rushed into her mind, how glad Ben would be!--and Bab would feel all happy again. "I must carry him home." Never stopping to think of danger, and forgetting all her doubts, Betty caught the gate handle out of Jimmy's grasp, exclaiming eagerly: "He is our dog! Let me go in; I ain't afraid." "Not till Jud comes back; he told us we mustn't," answered the astonished Jimmy, thinking the little girl as mad as the dog. With a confused idea that the unknown Jud had gone for a gun to shoot Sanch, Betty gave a desperate pull at the latch and ran into the yard, bent on saving her friend. That it was a friend there could be no further question; for, though the creature rushed at her as if about to devour her at a mouthful, it was only to roll ecstatically at her feet, lick her hands, and gaze into her face, trying to pant out the welcome which he could not utter. An older and more prudent person would have waited to make sure before venturing in; but confiding Betty knew little of the danger which she might have run; her heart spoke more quickly than her head, and, not stopping to have the truth proved, she took the brown dog on trust, and found it was indeed dear Sanch. Sitting on the grass, she hugged him close, careless of tumbled hat, dusty paws on her clean frock, or a row of strange boys staring from the wall. "Darling doggy, where have you been so long?" she cried, the great thing sprawling across her lap, as if he could not get near enough to his brave little protector. "Did they make you black and beat you, dear? Oh, Sanch, where is your tail--your pretty tail?" A plaintive growl and a pathetic wag was all the answer he could make to these tender inquiries; for never would the story of his wrongs be known, and never could the glory of his doggish beauty be restored. Betty was trying to comfort him with pats and praises, when a new face appeared at the gate, and Thorny's authoritative voice called out,-- "Betty Moss, what on earth are you doing in there with that dirty beast?" "It's Sanch, it's Sanch! Oh, come and see!" shrieked Betty, flying up to lead forth her prize. But the gate was held fast, for some one said the words, "Mad dog," and Thorny was very naturally alarmed, because he had already seen one. "Don't stay there another minute. Get up on that bench and I'll pull you over," directed Thorny, mounting the wall to rescue his charge in hot haste; for the dog did certainly behave queerly, limping hurriedly to and fro, as if anxious to escape. No wonder, when Sancho heard a voice he knew, and recognized another face, yet did not meet as kind a welcome as before. "No, I'm not coming out till he does. It is Sanch, and I'm going to take him home to Ben," answered Betty, decidedly, as she wet her handkerchief in the rain water to bind up the swollen paw that had travelled many miles to rest in her little hand again. "You're crazy, child. That is no more Ben's dog than I am." "See if it isn't!" cried Betty, perfectly unshaken in her faith; and, recalling the words of command as well as she could, she tried to put Sancho through his little performance, as the surest proof that she was right. The poor fellow did his best, weary and foot-sore though he was; but when it came to taking his tail in his mouth to waltz, he gave it up, and, dropping down, hid his face in his paws, as he always did when any of his tricks failed. The act was almost pathetic now, for one of the paws was bandaged, and his whole attitude expressed the humiliation of a broken spirit. That touched Thorny, and, quite convinced both of the dog's sanity and identity, he sprung down from the wall with Ben's own whistle, which gladdened Sancho's longing ear as much as the boy's rough caresses comforted his homesick heart. "Now, let's carry him right home, and surprise Ben. Won't he be pleased?" said Betty, so in earnest that she tried to lift the big brute in spite of his protesting yelps. "You are a little trump to find him out in spite of all the horrid things that have been done to him. We must have a rope to lead him, for he's got no collar and no muzzle. He has got friends though, and I'd like to see any one touch him now. Out of the way, there, boy!" Looking as commanding as a drum-major, Thorny cleared a passage, and with one arm about his neck, Betty proudly led her treasure magnanimously ignoring his late foes, and keeping his eye fixed on the faithful friend whose tender little heart had known him in spite of all disguises. "I found him, sir," and the lad who had been most eager for the shooting, stepped forward to claim any reward that might be offered for the now valuable victim. "I kept him safe till she came," added the jailer Jimmy, speaking for himself. "I said he wasn't mad," cried a third, feeling that his discrimination deserved approval. "Jud ain't my brother," said the fourth, eager to clear his skirts from all offence. "But all of you chased and stoned him, I suppose? You'd better look out or you'll get reported to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals." With this awful and mysterious threat, Thorny slammed the doctor's gate in the faces of the mercenary youths, nipping their hopes in the bud, and teaching them a good lesson. After one astonished stare, Lita accepted Sancho without demur, and they greeted one another cordially, nose to nose, instead of shaking hands. Then the dog nestled into his old place under the linen duster with a grunt of intense content, and soon fell fast asleep, quite worn out with fatigue. No Roman conqueror bearing untold treasures with him, ever approached the Eternal City feeling richer or prouder than did Miss Betty as she rolled rapidly toward the little brown house with the captive won by her own arms. Poor Belinda was forgotten in a corner, "Bluebeard" was thrust under the cushion, and the lovely lemon was squeezed before its time by being sat upon; for all the child could think of was Ben's delight, Bab's remorseful burden lifted off, "Ma's" surprise, and Miss Celia's pleasure. She could hardly realize the happy fact, and kept peeping under the cover to be sure that the dear dingy bunch at her feet was truly there. "I'll tell you how we'll do it," said Thorny, breaking a long silence as Betty composed herself with an irrepressible wriggle of delight after one of these refreshing peeps. "We'll keep Sanch hidden, and smuggle him into Ben's old room at your house. Then I'll drive on to the barn, and not say a word, but send Ben to get something out of that room. You just let him in, to see what he'll do. I'll bet you a dollar he won't know his own dog." "I don't believe I can keep from screaming right out when I see him, but I'll try. Oh, won't it be fun!"--and Betty clapped her hands in joyful anticipation of that exciting moment. A nice little plan, but Master Thorny forgot the keen senses of the amiable animal snoring peacefully among his boots; and, when they stopped at the Lodge, he had barely time to say in a whisper, "Ben's coming; cover Sanch and let me get him in quick!" before the dog was out of the phaeton like a bombshell, and the approaching boy went down as if shot, for Sancho gave one leap, and the two rolled over and over, with a shout and a bark of rapturous recognition. "Who is hurt?" asked Mrs. Moss, running out with floury hands uplifted in alarm. "Is it a bear?" cried Bab, rushing after her, beater in hand, for a dancing bear was the delight of her heart. "Sancho's found! Sancho's found!" shouted Thorny, throwing up his hat like a lunatic. "Found, found, found!" echoed Betty, dancing wildly about as if she too had lost her little wits. "Where? how? when? who did it?" asked Mrs. Moss, clapping her dusty hands delightedly. "It isn't; it's an old dirty brown thing," stammered Bab, as the dog came uppermost for a minute, and then rooted into Ben's jacket as if he smelt a woodchuck, and was bound to have him out directly. Then Thorny, with many interruptions from Betty, poured forth the wondrous tale, to which Bab and his mother listened breathlessly, while the muffins burned as black as a coal, and nobody cared a bit. "My precious lamb, how did you dare to do such a thing?" exclaimed Mrs. Moss, hugging the small heroine with mingled admiration and alarm. "I'd have dared, and slapped those horrid boys, too. I wish I'd gone!" and Bab felt that she had for ever lost the chance of distinguishing herself. "Who cut his tail off?" demanded Ben, in a menacing tone, as he came uppermost in his turn, dusty, red and breathless, but radiant. "The wretch who stole him, I suppose; and he deserves to be hung," answered Thorny, hotly. "If ever I catch him, I'll--I'll cut his nose off," roared Ben, with such a vengeful glare that Sanch barked fiercely; and it was well that the unknown "wretch" was not there, for it would have gone hardly with him, since even gentle Betty frowned, while Bab brandished the egg-beater menacingly, and their mother indignantly declared that "it was too bad!" Relieved by this general outburst, they composed their outraged feelings; and while the returned wanderer went from one to another to receive a tender welcome from each, the story of his recovery was more calmly told. Ben listened with his eye devouring the injured dog; and when Thorny paused, he turned to the little heroine, saying solemnly, as he laid her hand with his own on Sancho's head, "Betty Moss, I'll never forget what you did; from this minute half of Sanch is your truly own, and if I die you shall have the whole of him," and Ben sealed the precious gift with a sounding kiss on either chubby check. Betty was so deeply touched by this noble bequest, that the blue eyes filled and would have overflowed if Sanch had not politely offered his tongue like a red pocket-handkerchlef, and so made her laugh the drops away, while Bab set the rest off by saying gloomily,-- "I mean to play with all the mad dogs I can find; then folks will think I'm smart and give me nice things." "Poor old Bab, I'll forgive you now, and lend you my half whenever you want it," said Ben, feeling at peace now with all mankind, including, girls who tagged. "Come and show him to Celia," begged Thorny, eager to fight his battles over again. "Better wash him up first; he's a sight to see, poor thing," suggested Mrs. Moss, as she ran in, suddenly remembering her muffins. "It will take a lot of washings to get that brown stuff off. See, his pretty, pink skin is all stained with it. We'll bleach him out, and his curls will grow, and he'll be as good as ever--all but--" Ben could not finish, and a general wail went up for the departed tassel that would never wave proudly in the breeze again. "I'll buy him a new one. Now form the procession and let us go in style," said Thorny, cheerily, as he swung Betty to his shoulder and marched away whistling "Hail! the conquering hero comes," while Ben and his Bow-wow followed arm-in-arm, and Bab brought up the rear, banging on a milk-pan with the egg-beater. CHAPTER XVIII BOWS AND ARROWS If Sancho's abduction made a stir, one may easily imagine with what warmth and interest he was welcomed back when his wrongs and wanderings were known. For several days he held regular levees, that curious boys and sympathizing girls might see and pity the changed and curtailed dog. Sancho behaved with dignified affability, and sat upon his mat in the coach-house pensively eying his guests, and patiently submitting to their caresses; while Ben and Thorny took turns to tell the few tragical facts which were not shrouded in the deepest mystery. If the interesting sufferer could only have spoken, what thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes he might have related. But, alas! he was dumb; and the secrets of that memorable month never were revealed. The lame paw soon healed, the dingy color slowly yielded to many washings, the woolly coat began to knot up into little curls, a new collar, handsomely marked, made him a respectable dog, and Sancho was himself again. But it was evident that his sufferings were not forgotten; his once sweet temper was a trifle soured; and, with a few exceptions, he had lost his faith in mankind. Before, he had been the most benevolent and hospitable of dogs; now, he eyed all strangers suspiciously, and the sight of a shabby man made him growl and bristle up, as if the memory of his wrongs still burned hotly within him. Fortunately, his gratitude was stronger than his resentment, and he never seemed to forget that he owed his life to Betty,--running to meet her whenever she appeared, instantly obeying her commands, and suffering no one to molest her when he walked watchfully beside her, with her hand upon his neck, as they had walked out of the almost fatal backyard together, faithful friends for ever. Miss Celia called them little Una and her lion, and read the pretty story to the children when they wondered what she meant. Ben, with great pains, taught the dog to spell "Betty," and surprised her with a display of this new accomplishment, which gratified her so much that she was never tired of seeing Sanch paw the five red letters into place, then come and lay his nose in her hand, as if he added, "That's the name of my dear mistress." Of course Bab was glad to have everything pleasant and friendly again; but in a little dark corner of her heart there was a drop of envy, and a desperate desire to do something which would make every one in her small world like and praise her as they did Betty. Trying to be as good and gentle did not satisfy her; she must do something brave or surprising, and no chance for distinguishing herself in that way seemed likely to appear. Betty was as fond as ever, and the boys were very kind to her; but she felt that they both liked "little Betcinda," as they called her, best, because she found Sanch, and never seemed to know that she had done any thing brave in defending him against all odds. Bab did not tell any one how she felt, but endeavored to be amiable, while waiting for her chance to come; and, when it did arrive, made the most of it, though there was nothing heroic to add a charm. Miss Celia's arm had been doing very well, but would, of course, be useless for some time longer. Finding that the afternoon readings amused herself as much as they did the children, she kept them up, and brought out all her old favorites enjoying a double pleasure in seeing that her young audience relished them as much as she did when a child for to all but Thorny they were brand new. Out of one of these stories came much amusement for all, and satisfaction for one of the party. "Celia, did you bring our old bows?" asked her brother, eagerly, as she put down the book from which she had been reading Miss Edgeworth's capital story of "Waste not Want not; or, Two Strings to your Bow." "Yes, I brought all the playthings we left stored away in uncle's garret when we went abroad. The bows are in the long box where you found the mallets, fishing-rods, and bats. The old quivers and a few arrows are there also, I believe. What is the idea now? asked Miss Celia in her turn, as Thorny bounced up in a great hurry. "I'm going to teach Ben to shoot. Grand fun this hot weather; and by-and-by we'll have an archery meeting, and you can give us a prize. Come on, Ben. I've got plenty of whip-cord to rig up the bows, and then we'll show the ladies some first-class shooting." "I can't; never had a decent bow in my life. The little gilt one I used to wave round when I was a Coopid wasn't worth a cent to go," answered Ben, feeling as if that painted "prodigy" must have been a very distant connection of the respectable young person now walking off arm in arm with the lord of the manor. "Practice is all you want. I used to be a capital shot, but I don't believe I could hit any thing but a barn-door now," answered Thorny, encouragingly. As the boys vanished, with much tramping of boots and banging of doors, Bab observed, in the young-ladyish tone she was apt to use when she composed her active little mind and body to the feminine task of needlework,-- "We used to make bows of whalebone when we were little girls, but we are too old to play so now." "I'd like to, but Bab won't, 'cause she 's most 'leven years old," said honest Betty, placidly rubbing her needle in the "ruster," as she called the family emery-bag. "Grown people enjoy archery, as bow and arrow shooting is called, especially in England. I was reading about it the other day, and saw a picture of Queen Victoria with her bow; so you needn't be ashamed of it, Bab," said Miss Celia, rummaging among the books and papers in her sofa corner to find the magazine she wanted, thinking a new play would be as good for the girls as for the big boys. "A queen, just think!" and Betty looked much impressed by the fact, as well as uplifted by the knowledge that her friend did not agree in thinking her silly because she preferred playing with a harmless home-made toy to firing stones or snapping a pop-gun. "In old times, bows and arrows were used to fight great battles with; and we read how the English archers shot so well that the air was dark with arrows, and many men were killed." "So did the Indians have 'em; and I've got some stone arrow-heads,--found 'em by the river, in the dirt!" cried Bab, waking up, for battles interested her more than queens. "While you finish your stints I'll tell you a little story about the Indians," said Miss Celia, lying back on her cushions, while the needles began to go again, for the prospect of a story could not be resisted. "A century or more ago, in a small settlement on the banks of the Connecticut,--which means the Long River of Pines,--there lived a little girl called Matty Kilburn. On a hill stood the fort where the people ran for protection in any danger, for the country was new and wild, and more than once the Indians had come down the river in their canoes and burned the houses, killed men, and carried away women and children. Matty lived alone with her father, but felt quite safe in the log house, for he was never far away. One afternoon, as the farmers were all busy in their fields, the bell rang suddenly,--a sign that there was danger near,--and, dropping their rakes or axes, the men hurried to their houses to save wives and babies, and such few treasures as they could. Mr. Kilburn caught up his gun with one hand and his little girl with the other, and ran as fast as he could toward the fort. But before he could reach it he heard a yell, and saw the red men coming up from the river. Then he knew it would be in vain to try to get in, so he looked about for a safe place to hide Matty till he could come for her. He was a brave man, and could fight, so he had no thought of hiding while his neighbors needed help; but the dear little daughter must be cared for first. "In the corner of the lonely pasture which they dared not cross, stood a big hollow elm, and there the farmer hastily hid Matty, dropping her down into the dim nook, round the mouth of which young shoots had grown, so that no one would have suspected any hole was there. "Lie still, child, till I come; say your prayers and wait for father,' said the man, as he parted the leaves for a last glance at the small, frightened face looking up at him. "'Come soon,' whispered Matty, and tried to smile bravely, as a stout settler's girl should. "Mr. Kilburn went away, and was taken prisoner in the fight, carried off, and for years no one knew whether he was alive or dead. People missed Matty, but supposed she was with her father, and never expected to see her again. A great while afterward the poor man came back, having escaped and made his way through the wilderness to his old home. His first question was for Matty, but no one had seen her; and when he told them where he had left her, they shook their heads as if they thought he was crazy. But they went to look, that he might be satisfied; and he was; for they they found some little bones, some faded bits of cloth, and two rusty silver buckles marked with Matty's name in what had once been her shoes. An Indian arrow lay there, too, showing why she had never cried for help, but waited patiently so long for father to come and find her." If Miss Celia expected to see the last bit of hem done when her story ended, she was disappointed; for not a dozen stitches had been taken. Betty was using her crash towel for a handkerchief, and Bab's lay on the ground as she listened with snapping eyes to the little tragedy. "Is it true?" asked Betty, hoping to find relief in being told that it was not. "Yes; I have seen the tree, and the mound where the fort was, and the rusty buckles in an old farmhouse where other Kilburns live, near the spot where it all happened," answered Miss Celia, looking out the picture of Victoria to console her auditors. "We'll play that in the old apple-tree. Betty can scrooch down, and I'll be the father, and put leaves on her, and then I'll be a great Injun and fire at her. I can make arrows, and it will be fun, won't it?" cried Bab, charmed with the new drama in which she could act the leading parts. "No, it won't! I don't like to go in a cobwebby hole, and have you play kill me, I'll make a nice fort of hay, and be all safe, and you can put Dinah down there for Matty. I don't love her any more, now her last eye has tumbled out, and you may shoot her just as much as yon like." Before Bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement, Thorny appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat robin, whose red waistcoat looked rather warm and winterish that August day,-- "So he took up his bow, And he feathered his arrow, And said, 'I will shoot This little cock-sparrow.'" "But he didn't," chirped the robin, flying away, with a contemptuous flirt of his rusty-black tail. "That is exactly what you must promise not to do, boys. Fire away at your targets as much as you like, but do not harm any living creature," said Miss Celia, as Ben followed armed and equipped with her own long-unused accoutrements. "Of course we won't if you say so; but, with a little practice, I could bring down a bird as well as that fellow you read to me about with his woodpeckers and larks and herons," answered Thorny, who had much enjoyed the article, while his sister lamented over the destruction of the innocent birds. "You'd do well to borrow the Squire's old stuffed owl for a target; there would be some chance of your hitting him, he is so big," said his sister, who always made fun of the boy when he began to brag. Thorny's only reply was to send his arrow straight up so far out of sight that it was a long while coming down again to stick quivering in the ground near by, whence Sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently highly approving of a game in which he could join. "Not bad for a beginning. Now, Ben, fire away." But Ben's experience with bows was small, and, in spite of his praiseworthy efforts to imitate his great exemplar, the arrow only turned a feeble sort of somersault and descended perilously near Bab's uplifted nose. "If you endanger other people's life and liberty in your pursuit of happiness, I shall have to confiscate your arms, boys. Take the orchard for your archery ground; that is safe, and we can see you as we sit here. I wish I had two hands, so that I could paint you a fine, gay target;" and Miss Celia looked regretfully at the injured arm, which as yet was of little use. "I wish you could shoot, too; you used to beat all the girls, and I was proud of you," answered Thorny, with the air of a fond elder brother; though, at the time he alluded to, he was about twelve, and hardly up to his sister's shoulder. "Thank you. I shall be happy to give my place to Bab and Betty if you will make them some bows and arrows; they could not use those long ones." The young gentlemen did not take the hint as quickly as Miss Celia hoped they would; in fact, both looked rather blank at the suggestion, as boys generally do when it is proposed that girls--especially small ones--shall join in any game they are playing. "P'r'aps it would be too much trouble," began Betty, in her winning little voice. "I can make my own," declared Bab, with an independent toss of the head. "Not a bit; I'll make you the jolliest small bow that ever was, Belinda," Thorny hastened to say, softened by the appealing glance of the little maid. "You can use mine, Bab; you've got such a strong fist, I guess you could pull it," added Ben, remembering that it would not be amiss to have a comrade who shot worse than he did, for he felt very inferior to Thorny in many ways, and, being used to praise, had missed it very much since he retired to private life. "I will be umpire, and brighten up the silver arrow I sometimes pin my hair with, for a prize, unless we can find something better," proposed Miss Celia, glad to see that question settled, and every prospect of the new play being a pleasant amusement for the hot weather. It was astonishing how soon archery became the fashion in that town, for the boys discussed it enthusiastically all that evening, formed the "William Tell Club" next day, with Bab and Betty as honorary members, and, before the week was out, nearly every lad was seen, like young Norval, "With bended bow and quiver full of arrows," shooting away, with a charming disregard of the safety of their fellow citizens. Banished by the authorities to secluded spots, the members of the club set up their targets and practised indefatigably, especially Ben, who soon discovered that his early gymnastics had given him a sinewy arm and a true eye; and, taking Sanch into partnership as picker-up, he got more shots out of an hour than those who had to run to and fro. Thorny easily recovered much of his former skill, but his strength had not fully returned, and he soon grew tired. Bab, on the contrary, threw herself into the contest heart and soul, and tugged away at the new bow Miss Celia gave her, for Ben's was too heavy. No other girls were admitted, so the outsiders got up a club of their own, and called it "The Victoria," the name being suggested by the magazine article, which went the rounds as a general guide and reference book. Bab and Betty belonged to this club and duly reported the doings of the boys, with whom they had a right to shoot if they chose, but soon waived the right, plainly seeing that their absence would be regarded in the light of a favor. The archery fever raged as fiercely as the base-ball epidemic had done before it, and not only did the magazine circulate freely, but Miss Edgeworth's story, which was eagerly read, and so much admired that the girls at once mounted green ribbons, and the boys kept yards of whip-cord in their pockets like the provident Benjamin of the tale. Every one enjoyed the new play very much, and something grew out of it which was a lasting pleasure to many, long after the bows and arrows were forgotten. Seeing how glad the children were to get a new story, Miss Celia was moved to send a box of books--old and new--to the town library, which was but scantily supplied, as country libraries are apt to be. This donation produced a good effect; for other people hunted up all the volumes they could spare for the same purpose, and the dusty shelves in the little room behind the post-office filled up amazingly. Coming in vacation time they were hailed with delight, and ancient books of travel, as well as modern tales, were feasted upon by happy young folks, with plenty of time to enjoy them in peace. The success of her first attempt at being a public benefactor pleased Miss Celia very much, and suggested other ways in which she might serve the quiet town, where she seemed to feel that work was waiting for her to do. She said little to any one but the friend over the sea, yet various plans were made then that blossomed beautifully by-and-by. CHAPTER XIX SPEAKING PIECES The first of September came all too soon, and school began. Among the boys and girls who went trooping up to the "East Corner knowledge-box," as they called it, was our friend Ben, with a pile of neat books under his arm. He felt very strange, and decidedly shy; but put on a bold face, and let nobody guess that, though nearly thirteen, he had never been to school before. Miss Celia had told his story to Teacher, and she, being a kind little woman, with young brothers of her own, made things as easy for him as she could. In reading and writing he did very well, and proudly took his place among lads of his own age; but when it came to arithmetic and geography, he had to go down a long way, and begin almost at the beginning, in spite of Thorny's efforts to "tool him along fast." It mortified him sadly, but there was no help for it; and in some of the classes he had dear little Betty to console with him when he failed, and smile contentedly when he got above her, as he soon began to do,--for she was not a quick child, and plodded through First Parts long after sister Bab was flourishing away among girls much older than herself. Fortunately, Ben was a short boy and a clever one, so he did not look out of place among the ten and eleven year olders, and fell upon his lessons with the same resolution with which he used to take a new leap, or practise patiently till he could touch his heels with his head. That sort of exercise had given him a strong, elastic little body; this kind was to train his mind, and make its faculties as useful, quick and sure, as the obedient muscles, nerves and eye, which kept him safe where others would have broken their necks. He knew this, and found much consolation in the fact that, though mental arithmetic was a hopeless task, he could turn a dozen somersaults, and come up as steady as a judge. When the boys laughed at him for saying that China was in Africa, he routed them entirely by his superior knowledge of the animals belonging to that wild country; and when "First class in reading" was called, he marched up with the proud consciousness that the shortest boy in it did better than tall Moses Towne or fat Sam Kitteridge. Teacher praised him all she honestly could, and corrected his many blunders so quietly that he soon ceased to be a deep, distressful red during recitation, and tugged away so manfully that no one could help respecting him for his efforts, and trying to make light of his failures. So the first hard week went by, and though the boy's heart had sunk many a time at the prospect of a protracted wrestle with his own ignorance, he made up his mind to win, and went at it again on the Monday with fresh zeal, all the better and braver for a good, cheery talk with Miss Celia in the Sunday evening twilight. He did not tell her one of his greatest trials, however, because he thought she could not help him there. Some of the children rather looked down upon him, called him "tramp" and "beggar," twitted him with having been a circus boy, and lived in a tent like a gypsy. They did not mean to be cruel, but did it for the sake of teasing, never stopping to think how much such sport can make a fellow-creature suffer. Being a plucky fellow, Ben pretended not to mind; but he did feel it keenly, because he wanted to start afresh, and be like other boys. He was not ashamed of the old life; but, finding those around him disapproved of it, he was glad to let it be forgotten, even by himself; for his latest recollections were not happy ones, and present comforts made past hardships seem harder than before. He said nothing of this to Miss Celia; but she found it out, and liked him all the better for keeping some of his small worries to himself. Bab and Betty came over Monday afternoon full of indignation at some boyish insult Sam had put upon Ben; and, finding them too full of it to enjoy the reading, Miss Celia asked what the matter was. Then both little girls burst out in a rapid succession of broken exclamations, which did not give a very clear idea of the difficulty,-- "Sam didn't like it because Ben jumped farther than he did--" "And he said Ben ought to be in the poor-house." "And Ben said he ought to be in it pigpen." "So he had!--such a greedy thing, bringing lovely big apples, and not giving any one a single bite!" "Then he was mad, and we all laughed; and he said, 'Want to fight?' "And Ben said, 'No, thanky, not much fun in pounding a feather-bed.'" "Oh, he was awfully mad then, and chased Ben up the big maple." "He's there now, for Sam won't let him come down till he takes it all back." "Ben won't; and I do believe he'll have to stay up all night," said Betty, distressfully. "He won't care, and we'll have fun firing up his supper. Nut cakes and cheese will go splendidly; and may be baked pears wouldn't get smashed, he's such a good catch," added Bab, decidedly relishing the prospect. "If he does not come by tea-time, we will go and look after him. It seems to me I have heard something about Sam's troubling him before, haven't I?" asked Miss Celia, ready to defend her protege against all unfair persecution. "Yes,'m, Sam and Mose are always plaguing Ben. They are big boys, and we can't make them stop. I won't let the girls do it, and the little boys don't dare to, since Teacher spoke to them." answered Bab. "Why does not Teacher speak to the big ones? "Ben won't tell of them, or let us. He says he'll fight his own battles, and hates tell-tales. I guess he won't like to have us tell you, but I don't care, for it is too bad!" and Betty looked ready to cry over her friend's tribulations. "I'm glad you did, for I will attend to it, and stop this sort of thing," said Miss Celia, after the children had told some of the tormenting speeches which had tried poor Ben. Just then Thorny appeared, looking much amused, and the little girls both called out in a breath, "Did you see Ben and get him down?" "He got himself down in the neatest way you can imagine;" and Thorny laughed at the recollection. "Where is Sam?" asked Bab. "Staring up at the sky to see where Ben has flown to." "Oh, tell about it!" begged Betty. "Well, I came along and found Ben treed, and Sam stoning him. I stopped that at once, and told the 'fat boy' to be off. He said he wouldn't till Ben begged his pardon; and Ben said he wouldn't do it, if he stayed up for a week. I was just preparing to give that rascal a scientific thrashing, when a load of hay came along, and Ben dropped on to it so quietly that Sam, who was trying to bully me, never saw him go. It tickled me so, I told Sam I guessed I'd let him off that time, and walked away, leaving him to hunt for Ben, and wonder where the dickens he had vanished to." The idea of Sam's bewilderment amused the others as much as Thorny, and they all had a good laugh over it before Miss Celia asked,-- "Where has Ben gone now?" "Oh, he'll take a little ride, and then slip down and race home full of the fun of it. But I've got to settle Sam. I won't have our Ben hectored by any one--" "But yourself," put in his sister, with a sly smile, for Thorny was rather domineering at times. "He doesn't mind my poking him up now and then, it's good for him; and I always take his part against other people. Sam is a bully, and so is Mose; and I'll thrash them both if they don't stop." Anxious to curb her brother's pugnacious propensities, Miss Celia proposed milder measures, promising to speak to the boys herself if there was any more trouble. "I have been thinking that we should have some sort of merry-making for Ben on his birthday. My plan was a very simple one; but I will enlarge it, and have all the young folks come, and Ben shall be king of the fun. he needs encouragement in well-doing, for he does try; and now the first hard part is nearly over, I am sure he will get on bravely. If we treat him with respect, and show our regard for him, others will follow our example; and that will be better than fighting about it." "So it will! What shall we do to make our party tip-top?" asked Thorny, falling into the trap at once; for he dearly loved to get up theatricals, and had not had any for a long time. "We will plan something splendid, a 'grand combination,' as you used to call your droll mixtures of tragedy, comedy, melodrama and farce," answered his sister, with her head already full of lively plots. "We'll startle the natives. I don't believe they ever saw a play in all their lives, hey, Bab?" "I've seen a circus." "We dress up and do 'Babes in the Wood,'" added Betty, with dignity. "Pho! that's nothing. I'll show you acting that will make your hair stand on end, and you shall act too. Bab will be capital for the naughty girls," began Thorny, excited by the prospect of producing a sensation on the boards, and always ready to tease the girls. Before Betty could protest that she did not want her hair to stand up, or Bab could indignantly decline the role offered her, a shrill whistle was heard, and Miss Celia whispered, with a warning look,-- "Hush! Ben is coming, and he must not know any thing about this yet." The next day was Wednesday, and in the afternoon Miss Celia went to hear the children "speak pieces," though it was very seldom that any of the busy matrons and elder sisters found time or inclination for these displays of youthful oratory. Miss Celia and Mrs. Moss were all the audience on this occasion, but Teacher was both pleased and proud to see them, and a general rustle went through the school as they came in, all the girls turning from the visitors to nod at Bab and Betty, who smiled all over their round faces to see "Ma" sitting up "'side of Teacher," and the boys grinned at Ben, whose heart began to beat fast at the thought of his dear mistress coming so far to hear him say his piece. Thorny had recommended Marco Bozzaris, but Ben preferred John Gilpin, and ran the famous race with much spirit, making excellent time in some parts and having to be spurred a little in others, but came out all right, though quite breathless at the end, sitting down amid great applause, some of which, curiously enough, seemed to come from outside; which in fact it did, for Thorny was bound to hear but would not come in, lest his presence should abash one orator at least. Other pieces followed, all more or less patriotic and warlike, among the boys; sentimental among the girls. Sam broke down in his attempt to give one of Webster's great speeches, Little Cy Fay boldly attacked "Again to the battle, Achaians!" and shrieked his way through it in a shrill, small voice, bound to do honor to the older brother who had trained him even if he broke a vessel in the attempt. Billy chose a well-worn piece, but gave it a new interest by his style of delivery; for his gestures were so spasmodic he looked as if going into a fit, and he did such astonishing things with his voice that one never knew whether a howl or a growl would come next. When "The woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;" Billy's arms went round like the sails of a windmill; the "hymns of lofty cheer" not only "shook the depths of the desert gloom," but the small children on their little benches, and the school-house literally rang "to the anthems of the free!" When "the ocean eagle soared," Billy appeared to be going bodily up, and the "pines of the forest roared" as if they had taken lessons of Van Amburgh's biggest lion. "Woman's fearless eye" was expressed by a wild glare; "manhood's brow, severely high," by a sudden clutch at the reddish locks falling over the orator's hot forehead, and a sounding thump on his blue checked bosom told where "the fiery heart of youth" was located. "What sought they thus far?" he asked, in such a natural and inquiring tone, with his eye fixed on Mamie Peters, that the startled innocent replied, "Dunno," which caused the speaker to close in haste, devoutly pointing a stubby finger upward at the last line. This was considered the gem of the collection, and Billy took his seat proudly conscious that his native town boasted an orator who, in time, would utterly eclipse Edward Everett and Wendell Phillips. Sally Folsom led off with "The Coral Grove," chosen for the express purpose of making her friend Almira Mullet start and blush, when she recited the second line of that pleasing poem, "Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove." One of the older girls gave Wordsworth's "Lost Love" in a pensive tone, clasping her hands and bringing out the "O" as if a sudden twinge of toothache seized her when she ended. "But she is in her grave, and O, the difference to me!" Bab always chose a funny piece, and on this afternoon set them all laughing by the spirit with which she spoke the droll poem, "Pussy's Class," which some of my young readers may have read. The "meou" and the "sptzz" were capital, and when the "fond mamma rubbed her nose," the children shouted, for Miss Bab made a paw of her hand and ended with an impromptu purr, which was considered the best imitation ever presented to an appreciative public. Betty bashfully murmurred "Little White Lily," swaying to and fro as regularly as if in no other way could the rhymes be ground out of her memory. "That is all, I believe. If either of the ladies would like to say a few words to the children, I should be pleased to have them," said Teacher, politely, pausing before she dismissed school with a song. "Please, 'm. I'd like to speak my piece," answered Miss Celia, obeying a sudden impulse; and, stepping forward with her hat in her hand, she made a pretty courtesy before she recited Mary Howitt's sweet little ballad, "Mabel on Midsummer Day." She looked so young and merry, and used such simple but expressive gestures, and spoke in such a clear, soft voice that the children sat as if spell-bound, learning several lessons from this new teacher, whose performance charmed them from beginning to end, and left a moral which all could understand and carry away in that last verse,-- "'Tis good to make all duty sweet, To be alert and kind; 'Tis good, like Littie Mabel, To have a willing mind." Of course there was an enthusiastic clapping when Miss Celia sat down, but even while hands applauded, consciences pricked, and undone tasks, complaining words and sour faces seemed to rise up reproachfully before many of the children, as well as their own faults of elocution. "Now we will sing," said Teacher, and a great clearing of throats ensued, but before a note could be uttered, the half-open door swung wide, and Sancho, with Ben's hat on, walked in upon his hind-legs, and stood with his paws meekly folded, while a voice from the entry sang rapidly,-- "Benny had a little dog, His fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Benny went, The dog was sure to go. He went into the School one day, which was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play To see a dog--" Mischievous Thorny got no further, for a general explosion of laughter drowned the last words, and Ben's command "Out, you rascal!" sent Sanch to the right-about in double-quick time. Miss Celia tried to apologize for her bad brother, and Teacher tried to assure her that it didn't matter in the least, as this was always a merry time, and Mrs. Moss vainly shook her finger at her naughty daughters; they as well as the others would have their laugh out, and only partially sobered down when the Bell rang for "Attention." They thought they were to be dismissed, and repressed their giggles as well as they could in order to get a good start for a vociferous roar when they got out. But, to their great surprise, the pretty lady stood up again and said, in her friendly way,-- "I just want to thank you for this pleasant little exhibition, and ask leave to come again. I also wish to invite you all to my boy's birthday party on Saturday week. The archery meeting is to be in the afternoon, and both clubs will be there, I believe. In the evening we are going to have some fun, when we can laugh as much as we please without breaking any of the rules. In Ben's name I invite you, and hope you will all come, for we mean to make this the happiest birthday he ever had." There were twenty pupils in the room, but the eighty hands and feet made such a racket at this announcement that an outsider would have thought a hundred children, at least, must have been at it. Miss Celia was a general favorite because she nodded to all the girls, called the boys by their last names, even addressing some of the largest as "Mr." which won their hearts at once, so that if she had invited them all to come and be whipped they would have gone sure that it was some delightful joke. With what eagerness they accepted the present invitation one can easily imagine, though they never guessed why she gave it in that way, and Ben's face was a sight to see, he was so pleased and proud at the honor done him that he did not know where to look, and was glad to rush out with the other boys and vent his emotions in whoops of delight. He knew that some little plot was being concocted for his birthday, but never dreamed of any thing so grand as asking the whole school, Teacher and all. The effect of the invitation was seen with comical rapidity, for the boys became overpowering in their friendly attentions to Ben. Even Sam, fearing he might be left out, promptly offered the peaceful olive-branch in the shape of a big apple, warm from his pocket, and Mose proposed a trade of jack-knives which would be greatly to Ben's advantage. But Thorny made the noblest sacrifice of all, for he said to his sister, as they walked home together,-- "I'm not going to try for the prize at all. I shoot so much better than the rest, having had more practice, you know, that it is hardly fair. Ben and Billy are next best, and about even, for Ben's strong wrist makes up for Billy's true eye, and both want to win. If I am out of the way Ben stands a good chance, for the other fellows don't amount to much." "Bab does; she shoots nearly as well as Ben, and wants to win even more than he or Billy. She must have her chance at any rate." "So she may, but she won't do any thing; girls can't, though it 's good exercise and pleases them to try." "If I had full use of both my arms I'd show you that girls can do a great deal when they like. Don't be too lofty, young man, for you may have to come down," laughed Miss Celia, amused by his airs. "No fear," and Thorny calmly departed to set his targets for Ben's practice. "We shall see," and from that moment Miss Celia made Bab her especial pupil, feeling that a little lesson would be good for Mr. Thorny, who rather lorded it over the other young people. There was a spice of mischief in it, for Miss Celia was very young at heart, in spite of her twenty-four years, and she was bound to see that her side had a fair chance, believing that girls can do whatever they are willing to strive patiently and wisely for. So she kept Bab at work early and late, giving her all the hints and help she could with only one efficient hand, and Bab was delighted to think she did well enough to shoot with the club. Her arms ached and her fingers grew hard with twanging the bow, but she was indefatigable, and being a strong, tall child of her age, with a great love of all athletic sports, she got on fast and well, soon learning to send arrow after arrow with ever increasing accuracy nearer and nearer to the bull's-eye. The boys took very little notice of her, being much absorbed in their own affairs, but Betty did for Bab what Sancho did for Ben, and trotted after arrows till her short legs were sadly tired, though her patience never gave out. She was so sure Bab would win that she cared nothing about her own success, practising little and seldom hitting any thing when she tried. CHAPTER XX BEN'S BIRTHDAY A superb display of flags flapped gayly in the breeze on the September morning when Ben proudly entered his teens. An irruption of bunting seemed to have broken out all over the old house, for banners of every shape and size, color and design, flew from chimney-top to gable, porch and gate-way, making the quiet place look as lively as a circus tent, which was just what Ben most desired and delighted in. The boys had been up very early to prepare the show, and when it was ready enjoyed it hugely, for the fresh wind made the pennons cut strange capers. The winged lion of Venice looked as if trying to fly away home; the Chinese dragon appeared to brandish his forked tail as he clawed at the Burmese peacock; the double-headed eagle of Russia pecked at the Turkish crescent with one beak, while the other seemed to be screaming to the English royal beast, "Come on and lend a paw." In the hurry of hoisting the Siamese elephant got turned upside down, and now danced gayly on his head, with the stars and stripes waving proudly over him. A green flag with a yellow harp and sprig of shamrock hung in sight of the kitchen window, and Katy, the cook, got breakfast to the tune of "St. Patrick's day in the morning." Sancho's kennel was half hidden under a rustling paper imitation of the gorgeous Spanish banner, and the scarlet sun-and-moon flag of Arabia snapped and flaunted from the pole over the coach-house, as a delicate compliment to Lita, Arabian horses being considered the finest in the world. The little girls came out to see, and declared it was the loveliest sight they ever beheld, while Thorny played "Hail Columbia" on his fife, and Ben, mounting the gate-post, crowed long and loud like a happy cockerel who had just reached his majority. He had been surprised and delighted with the gifts he found in his room on awaking and guessed why Miss Celia and Thorny gave him such pretty things, for among them was a match-box made like a mouse-trap. The doggy buttons and the horsey whip were treasures, indeed, for Miss Celia had not given them when they first planned to do so, because Sancho's return seemed to be joy and reward enough for that occasion. But he did not forget to thank Mrs. Moss for the cake she sent him, nor the girls for the red mittens which they had secretly and painfully knit. Bab's was long and thin, with a very pointed thumb, Betty's short and wide, with a stubby thumb, and all their mother's pulling and pressing could not make them look alike, to the great affliction of the little knitters. Ben, however, assured them that he rather preferred odd ones, as then he could always tell which was right and which left. He put them on immediately and went about cracking the new whip with an expression of content which was droll to see, while the children followed after, full of admiration for the hero of the day. They were very busy all the morning preparing for the festivities to come, and as soon as dinner was over every one scrambled into his or her best clothes as fast as possible, because, although invited to come at two, impatient boys and girls were seen hovering about the avenue as early as one. The first to arrive, however, was an uninvited guest, for just as Bab and Betty sat down on the porch steps, in their stiff pink calico frocks and white ruffled aprons, to repose a moment before the party came in, a rustling was heard among the lilacs, and out stepped Alfred Tennyson Barlow, looking like a small Robin Hood, in a green blouse with a silver buckle on his broad belt, a feather in his little cap and a bow in his hand. "I have come to shoot. I heard about it. My papa told me what arching meant. Will there be any little cakes? I like them." With these opening remarks the poet took a seat and calmly awaited a response. The young ladies, I regret to say, giggled, then remembering their manners, hastened to inform him that there would be heaps of cakes, also that Miss Celia would not mind his coming without an invitation, they were quite sure. "She asked me to come that day. I have been very busy. I had measles. Do you have them here?" asked the guest, as if anxious to compare notes on the sad subject. "We had ours ever so long ago. What have you been doing besides having measles?" said Betty, showing a polite interest. "I had a fight with a bumble-bee." "Who beat?" demanded Bab. "I did. I ran away and he couldn't catch me." "Can you shoot nicely?" "I hit a cow. She did not mind at all. I guess she thought it was a fly." "Did your mother know you were coming?" asked Bab, feeling an interest in runaways. "No; she is gone to drive, so I could not ask her." "It is very wrong to disobey. My Sunday-school book says that children who are naughty that way never go to heaven," observed virtuous Betty, in a warning tone. "I do not wish to go," was the startling reply. "Why not?" asked Betty, severely. "They don't have any dirt there. My mamma says so. I am fond of dirt. I shall stay here where there is plenty of it," and the candid youth began to grub in the mould with the satisfaction of a genuine boy. "I am afraid you're a very bad child." "Oh yes, I am. My papa often says so and he knows all about it," replied Alfred with an involuntary wriggle suggestive of painful memories. Then, as if anxious to change the conversation from its somewhat personal channel, he asked, pointing to a row of grinning heads above the wall, "Do you shoot at those?" Bab and Betty looked up quickly and recognized the familiar faces of their friends peering down at them, like a choice collection of trophies or targets. "I should think you'd be ashamed to peek before the party was ready!" cried Bab, frowning darkly upon the merry young ladies. "Miss Celia told us to come before two, and be ready to receive folks, if she wasn't down," added Betty, importantly. "It is striking two now. Come along, girls;" and over scrambled Sally Folsom, followed by three or four kindred spirits, just as their hostess appeared. "You look like Amazons storming a fort," she said, as the girls cattle up, each carrying her bow and arrows, while green ribbons flew in every direction. "How do you do, sir? I have been hoping you would call again," added Miss Celia, shaking hands with the pretty boy, who regarded with benign interest the giver of little cakes. Here a rush of boys took place, and further remarks were cut short, for every one was in a hurry to begin. So the procession was formed at once, Miss Celia taking the lead, escorted by Ben in the post of honor, while the boys and girls paired off behind, arm in arm, bow on Shoulder, in martial array. Thorny and Billy were the band, and marched before, fifing and drumming "Yankee Doodle" with a vigor which kept feet moving briskly, made eyes sparkle, and young hearts dance under the gay gowns and summer jackets. The interesting stranger was elected to bear the prize, laid out on a red pin-cushion; and did so with great dignity, as he went beside the standard bearer, Cy Fay, who bore Ben's choicest flag, snow-white, with a green wreath surrounding a painted bow and arrow, and with the letters W. T. C. done in red below. Such a merry march all about the place, out at the Lodge gate, up and down the avenue, along the winding paths, till they halted in the orchard, where the target stood, and seats were placed for the archers while they waited for their turns. Various rules and regulations were discussed, and then the fun began. Miss Celia had insisted that the girls should be invited to shoot with the boys; and the lads consented without much concern, whispering to one another with condescending shrugs, "Let 'em try, if they like; they can't do any thing." There were various trials of skill before the great match came off, and in these trials the young gentlemen discovered that two at least of the girls could do something; for Bab and Sally shot better than many of the boys, and were well rewarded for their exertions by, the change which took place in the faces and conversation of their mates. "Why, Bab, you do as well as if I'd taught you myself," said Thorny, much surprised and not altogether pleased at the little girl's skill. "A lady taught me; and I mean to beat every one of you," answered Bab, saucily, while her sparkling eyes turned to Miss Celia with a mischievous twinkle in them. "Not a bit of it," declared Thorny, stoutly; but he went to Ben and whispered, "Do your best, old fellow, for sister has taught Bab all the scientific points, and the little rascal is ahead of Billy." "She won't get ahead of me," said Ben, picking out his best arrow, and trying the string of his bow with a confident air which re-assured Thorny, who found it impossible to believe that a girl ever could, would, or should excel a boy in any thing he cared to try. It really did look as if Bab would beat when the match for the prize came off; and the children got more and more excited as the six who were to try for it took turns at the bull's-eye. Thorny was umpire, and kept account of each shot, for the arrow which went nearest the middle would win. Each had three shots; and very soon the lookers-on saw that Ben and Bab were the best marksmen, and one of them would surely get the silver arrow. Sam, who was too lazy to practise, soon gave up the contest, saying, as Thorny did, "It wouldn't be fair for such a big fellow to try with the little chaps," which made a laugh, as his want of skill was painfully evident. But Mose went at it gallantly; and, if his eye had been as true as his arms were strong, the "little chaps" would have trembled. But his shots were none of them as near as Billy's; and he retired after the third failure, declaring that it was impossible to shoot against the wind, though scarcely a breath was stirring. Sally Folsom was bound to beat Bab, and twanged away in great style; all in vain, however, as with tall Maria Newcomb, the third girl who attempted the trial. Being a little near-sighted, she had borrowed her sister's eye-glasses, and thereby lessened her chance of success; for the pinch on her nose distracted her attention, and not one of her arrows went beyond the second ring to her great disappointment. Billy did very well, but got nervous when his last shot came, and just missed the bull's-eye by being in a hurry. Bab and Ben each had one turn more; and, as they were about even, that last arrow would decide the victory. Both had sent a shot into the bull's-eye, but neither was exactly in the middle; so there was room to do better, even, and the children crowded round, crying eagerly, "Now, Ben!" "Now, Bab!" "Hit her up, Ben!" "Beat him, Bab!" while Thorny looked as anxious as if the fate of the country depended on the success of his man. Bab's turn came first; and, as Miss Celia examined her bow to see that all was right, the little girl said, With her eyes on her rival's excited face,-- "I want to beat, but Ben will feel so bad, I 'most hope I sha'n't." "Losing a prize sometimes makes one happier than gaining it. You have proved that you could do better than most of them; so, if you do not beat, you may still feet proud," answered Miss Celia, giving back the bow with a smile that said more than her words. It seemed to give Bab a new idea, for in a minute all sorts of recollections, wishes, and plans rushed through her lively little mind, and she followed a sudden generous impulse as blindly as she often did a wilful one. "I guess he'll beat," she said, softly, with a quick sparkle of the eyes, as she stepped to her place and fired without taking her usual careful aim. Her shot struck almost as near the centre on the right as her last one had hit on the left; and there was a shout of delight from the girls as Thorny announced it before he hurried back to Ben, whispering anxiously,-- "Steady, old Man, steady; you must beat that, or we shall never hear the last of it." Ben did not say, "She won't get ahead of me," as he had said at the first; he set his teeth, threw off his hat, and, knitting his brows with a resolute expression, prepared to take steady aim, though his heart beat fast and his thumb trembled as he pressed it on the bowstring. "I hope you'll beat, I truly do," said Bab, at his elbow; and, as if the breath that framed the generous wish helped it on its way, the arrow flew straight to the bull's-eye, hitting, apparently, the very spot where Bab's best shot had left a hole. "A tie! a tie!" cried the girls, as a general rush took place toward the target. "No, Ben's is nearest. Ben's beat!" Hooray shouted the boys, throwing up their hats. There was only a hair's-breadth difference, and Bab could honestly have disputed the decision; but she did not, though for an instant she could not help wishing that the cry had been "Bab's beat! Hurrah!" it sounded so pleasant. Then she saw Ben's beaming face, Thorny's intense relief, and caught the look Miss Celia sent her over the heads of the boys, and decided, with a sudden warm glow all over her little face, that losing a prize did sometimes make one happier than winning it. Up went her best hat, and she burst out in a shrill, "Rah, rah, rah!" that sounded very funny coming all alone after the general clamor had subsided. "Good for you, Bab! you are an honor to the club, and I'm proud of you", said Prince Thorny, with a hearty handshake; for, as his man had won, he could afford to praise the rival who had put him on his mettle, though she was a girl. Bab was much uplifted by the royal commendation, but a few minutes later felt pleased as well as proud when Ben, having received the prize, came to her, as she stood behind a tree sucking her blistered thumb, while Betty braided up her dishevelled locks. "I think it would be fairer to call it a tie, Bab, for it really was, and I want you to wear this. I wanted the fun of beating, but I don't care a bit for this girl's thing and I'd rather see it on you." As he spoke, Ben offered the rosette of green ribbon which held the silver arrow, and Bab's eyes brightened as they fell upon the pretty ornament, for to her "the girl's thing" was almost as good as the victory. "Oh no; you must wear it to show who won. Miss Celia wouldn't like it. I don't mind not getting it; I did better than all the rest, and I guess I shouldn't like to beat you," answered Bab, unconsciously putting into childish words the sweet generosity which makes so many sisters glad to see their brothers carry off the prizes of life, while they are content to know that they have earned them and can do without the praise. But if Bab was generous, Ben was just; and though he could not explain the feeling, would not consent to take all the glory without giving his little friend a share. "You must wear it; I shall feel real mean if you don't. You worked harder than I did, and it was only luck my getting this. Do, Bab, to please me," he persisted, awkwardly trying to fasten the ornament in the middle of Bab's' white apron. "Then I will. Now do you forgive me for losing Sancho?" asked Bab, with a wistful look which made Ben say, heartily,-- "I did that when he came home." "And you don't think I'm horrid?" "Not a bit of it; you are first-rate, and I'll stand by you like a man, for you are 'most as good as a boy!" cried Ben, anxious to deal handsomely with his feminine rival, whose skill had raised her immensely in his opinion. Feeling that he could not improve that last compliment, Bab was fully satisfied, and let him leave the prize upon her breast, conscious that she had some claim to it. "That is where it should be, and Ben is a true knight, winning the prize that he may give it to his lady, while he is content with the victory," said Miss Celia, laughingly, to Teacher, as the children ran off to join in the riotous games which soon made the orchard ring. "He learned that at the circus 'tunnyments,' as he calls them. He is a nice boy, and I am much interested in him; for he has the two things that do most toward making a man, patience and courage," answered Teacher, also as she watched the young knight play and the honored lady tearing about in a game of tag. "Bab is a nice child, too," said Miss Celia; "she is as quick as a flash to catch an idea and carry it out, though very often the ideas are wild ones. She could have won just now, I fancy, if she had tried, but took the notion into her head that it was nobler to let Ben win, and so atone for the trouble she gave him in losing the dog. I saw a very sweet look on her face just now, and am sure that Ben will never know why he beat." "She does such things at school sometimes, and I can't bear to spoil her little atonements, though they are not always needed or very wise," answered Teacher. "Not long ago I found that she had been giving her lunch day after day to a poor child who seldom had any, and when I asked her why, she said, with tears, 'I used to laugh at Abby, because she had only crusty, dry bread, and so she wouldn't bring any. I ought to give her mine and be hungry, it was so mean to make fun of her poorness." "Did you stop the sacrifice?" "No; I let Bab 'go halves,' and added an extra bit to my own lunch, so I could make my contribution likewise." "Come and tell me about Abby. I want to make friends with our poor people, for soon I shall have a right to help them;" and, putting her arm in Teacher's, Miss Celia led her away for a quiet chat in the porch, making her guest's visit a happy holiday by confiding several plans and asking advice in the friendliest way. CHAPTER XXI CUPID'S LAST APPEARANCE A picnic supper on the grass followed the games, and then, as twilight began to fall, the young people were marshalled to the coach-house, now transformed into a rustic theatre. One big door was open, and seats, arranged lengthwise, faced the red table-cloths which formed the curtain. A row of lamps made very good foot-lights, and an invisible band performed a Wagner-like overture on combs, tin trumpets, drums, and pipes, with an accompaniment of suppressed laughter. Many of the children had never seen any thing like it, and sat staring about them in mute admiration and expectancy; but the older ones criticised freely, and indulged in wild speculations as to the meaning of various convulsions of nature going on behind the curtain. While Teacher was dressing the actresses for the tragedy, Miss Celia and Thorny, who were old hands at this sort of amusement, gave a "Potato" pantomime as a side show. Across an empty stall a green cloth was fastened, so high that the heads of the operators were not seen. A little curtain flew up, disclosing the front of a Chinese pagoda painted on pasteboard, with a door and window which opened quite naturally. This stood on one side, several green trees with paper lanterns hanging from the boughs were on the other side, and the words "Tea Garden," printed over the top, showed the nature of this charming spot. Few of the children had ever seen the immortal Punch and Judy, so this was a most agreeable novelty, and before they could make out what it meant, a voice began to sing, so distinctly that every word was heard,-- "In China there lived a little man, His name was Chingery Wangery Chan." Here the hero "took the stage" with great dignity, clad in a loose yellow jacket over a blue skirt, which concealed the hand that made his body. A pointed hat adorned his head, and on removing this to bow he disclosed a bald pate with a black queue in the middle, and a Chinese face nicely painted on the potato, the lower part of which was hollowed out to fit Thorny's first finger, while his thumb and second finger were in the sleeves of the yellow jacket, making a lively pair of arms. While he saluted, the song went on,-- "His legs were short, his feet were small, And this little man could not walk at all." Which assertion was proved to be false by the agility with which the "little man" danced a jig in time to the rollicking chorus,-- "Chingery changery ri co day, Ekel tekel happy man; Uron odesko canty oh, oh, Gallopy wallopy China go." At the close of the dance and chorus, Chan retired into the tea garden, and drank so many cups of the national beverage, with such comic gestures, that the spectators were almost sorry when the opening of the opposite window drew all eyes in that direction. At the lattice appeared a lovely being; for this potato had been pared, and on the white surface were painted pretty pink checks, red lips, black eyes, and oblique brows; through the tuft of dark silk on the head were stuck several glittering pins, and a pink jacket shrouded the plump figure of this capital little Chinese lady. After peeping coyly out, so that all could see and admire, she fell to counting the money from a purse, so large her small hands could hardly hold it on the window seat. While she did this, the song went on to explain,-- "Miss Ki Hi was short and squat, She had money and he had not So off to her he resolved to go, And play her a tune on his little banjo." During the chorus to this verse Chan was seen tuning his instrument in the garden, and at the end sallied gallantly forth to sing the following tender strain,-- "Whang fun li, Tang hua ki, Hong Kong do ra me! Ah sin lo, Pan to fo, Tsing up chin leute!" Carried away by his passion, Chan dropped his banjo, fell upon his knees, and, clasping his hands, bowed his forehead in the dust before his idol. But, alas!-- "Miss Ki Hi heard his notes of love, And held her wash-bowl up above It fell upon the little man, And this was the end of Chingery Chan," Indeed it was; for, as the doll's basin of real water was cast forth by the cruel charmer, poor Chan expired in such strong convulsions that his head rolled down among the audience. Miss Ki Hi peeped to see what had become of her victim, and the shutter decapitated her likewise, to the great delight of the children, who passed around the heads, pronouncing a "Potato" pantomime "first-rate fun." Then they settled themselves for the show, having been assured by Manager Thorny that they were about to behold the most elegant and varied combination ever produced on any stage. And when one reads the following very inadequate description of the somewhat mixed entertainment, it is impossible to deny that the promise made was nobly kept. After some delay and several crashes behind the curtain, which mightily amused the audience, the performance began with the well-known tragedy of "Bluebeard;" for Bab had set her heart upon it, and the young folks had acted it so often in their plays that it was very easy to get up, with a few extra touches to scenery and costumes. Thorny was superb as the tyrant with a beard of bright blue worsted, a slouched hat and long feather, fur cloak, red hose, rubber boots, and a real sword which clanked tragically as he walked. He spoke in such a deep voice, knit his corked eye-brows, and glared so frightfully, that it was no wonder poor Fatima quaked before him as he gave into her keeping an immense bunch of keys with one particularly big, bright one, among them. Bab was fine to see, with Miss Celia's blue dress sweeping behind her, a white plume in her flowing hair, and a real necklace with a pearl locket about her neck. She did her part capitally, especially the shriek she gave when she looked into the fatal closet, the energy with which she scrubbed the tell-tale key, and her distracted tone when she called out: "Sister Anne, O, sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?" while her enraged husband was roaring: "Will you come down, madam, or shall I come and fetch you?" Betty made a captivating Anne,--all in white muslin, and a hat full of such lovely pink roses that she could not help putting up one hand to feel them as she stood on the steps looking out at the little window for the approaching brothers who made such a din that it sounded like a dozen horsemen instead if two. Ben and Billy were got up regardless of expense in the way of arms; for their belts were perfect arsenals, and their wooden swords were big enough to strike terror into any soul, though they struck no sparks out of Bluebeard's blade in the awful combat which preceded the villain's downfall and death. The boys enjoyed this part intensely, and cries of "Go it, Ben!" "Hit him again, Billy!" "Two against one isn't fair!" "Thorny's a match for 'em." "Now he's down, hurray!" cheered on the combatants, till, after a terrific struggle, the tyrant fell, and with convulsive twitchings of the scarlet legs, slowly expired while the ladies sociably fainted in each other's arms, and the brothers waved their swords and shook hands over the corpse of their enemy. This piece was rapturously applauded, and all the performers had to appear and bow their thanks, led by the defunct Bluebeard, who mildly warned the excited audience that if they "didn't look out the seats would break down, and then there'd be a nice mess." Calmed by this fear they composed themselves, and waited with ardor for the next play, which promised to be a lively one, judging from the shrieks of laughter which came from behind the curtain. "Sanch 's going to be in it, I know; for I heard Ben say, 'Hold him still; he won't bite,'" whispered Sam, longing to "jounce up and down, so great was his satisfaction at the prospect, for the dog was considered the star of the company. "I hope Bab will do something else, she is so funny. Wasn't her dress elegant?" said Sally Folsum, burning to wear a long silk gown and a feather in her hair. "I like Betty best, she's so cunning, and she peeked out of the window just as if she really saw somebody coming," answered Liddy Peckham, privately resolving to tease mother for some pink roses before another Sunday came. Up went the curtain at last, and a voice announced "A Tragedy in Three Tableaux." "There's Betty!" was the general exclamation, as the audience recognized a familiar face under the little red hood worn by the child who stood receiving a basket from Teacher, who made a nice mother with her finger up, as if telling the small messenger not to loiter by the way. "I know what that is!" cried Sally; "it's 'Mabel on Midsummer Day.' The piece Miss Celia spoke; don't you know?" "There isn't any sick baby, and Mabel had a 'kerchief pinned about her head.' I say it's Red Riding Hood," answered Liddy, who had begun to learn Mary Howitt's pretty poem for her next piece, and knew all about it. The question was settled by the appearance of the wolf in the second scene, and such a wolf! On few amateur stages do we find so natural an actor for that part, or so good a costume, for Sanch was irresistibly droll in the gray wolf-skin which usually lay beside Miss Celia's bed, now fitted over his back and fastened neatly down underneath, with his own face peeping out at one end, and the handsome tail bobbing gayly at the other. What a comfort that tail was to Sancho, none but a bereaved bow-wow could ever tell. It reconciled him to his distasteful part at once, it made rehearsals a joy, and even before the public he could not resist turning to catch a glimpse of the noble appendage, while his own brief member wagged with the proud consciousness that though the tail did not match the head, it was long enough to be seen of all men and dogs. That was a pretty picture, for the little maid came walking in with the basket on her arm, and such an innocent face inside the bright hood that it was quite natural the gray wolf should trot up to her with deceitful friendliness, that she should pat and talk to him confidingly about the butter for grandma, and then that they should walk away together, he politely carrying her basket, she with her hand on his head, little dreaming what evil plans were taking shape inside. The children encored that, but there was no time to repeat it, so they listened to more stifled merriment behind the red table-cloths, and wondered whether the next scene would be the wolf popping his head out of the window as Red Riding Hood knocks, or the tragic end of that sweet child. It was neither, for a nice bed had been made, and in it reposed the false grandmother, with a ruffled nightcap on, a white gown, and spectacles. Betty lay beside the wolf, staring at him as if just about to say, "Why, grandma, what great teeth you've got!" for Sancho's mouth was half open and a red tongue hung out, as he panted with the exertion of keeping still. This tableau was so very good, and yet so funny, that the children clapped and shouted frantically; this excited the dog, who gave a bounce and would have leaped off the bed to bark at the rioters, if Betty had not caught him by the legs, and Thorny dropped the curtain just at the moment when the wicked wolf was apparently in the act of devouring the poor little girl, with most effective growls. They had to come out then, and did so, both much dishevelled by the late tussle, for Sancho's cap was all over one eye, and Betty's hood was anywhere but on her head. She made her courtesy prettily, however; her fellow-actor bowed with as much dignity as a short night-gown permitted, and they retired to their well-earned repose. Then Thorny, looking much excited, appeared to make the following request: "As one of the actors in the next piece is new to the business, the company must all keep as still as mice, and not stir till I give the word. It's perfectly splendid! so don't you spoil it by making a row." "What do you suppose it is?" asked every one, and listened with all their might to get a hint, if possible. But what they heard only whetted their curiosity and mystified them more and more. Bab's voice cried in a loud whisper, "Isn't Ben beautiful?" Then there was a thumping noise, and Miss Celia said, in an anxious tone, "Oh, do be careful," while Ben laughed out as if he was too happy to care who heard him, and Thorny bawled "Whoa!" in a way which would have attracted attention if Lita's head had not popped out of her box, more than once, to survey the invaders of her abode, with a much astonished expression. "Sounds kind of circusy, don't it?" said Sam to Billy, who had come out to receive the compliments of the company and enjoy the tableau at a safe distance. "You just wait till you see what's coming. It beats any circus I ever saw," answered Billy, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who had seen many instead of but one. "Ready! Be quick and get out of the way when she goes off!" whispered Ben, but they heard him and prepared for pistols, rockets or combustibles of some sort, as ships were impossible under the circumstances, and no other "She" occurred to them. A unanimous "O-o-o-o!" was heard when the curtain rose, but a stern "Hush!" from Thorny kept them mutely staring with all their eyes at the grand spectacle of the evening. There stood Lita with a wide flat saddle on her back, a white head-stall and reins, blue rosettes in her ears, and the look of a much-bewildered beast in her bright eyes. But who the gauzy, spangled, winged creature was, with a gilt crown on its head, a little bow in its hand, and one white slipper in the air, while the other seemed merely to touch the saddle, no one could tell for a minute, so strange and splendid did the apparition appear. No wonder Ben was not recognized in this brilliant disguise, which was more natural to him than Billy's blue flannel or Thorny's respectable garments. He had so begged to be allowed to show himself "just once," as he used to be in the days when "father" tossed him up on the bare-backed old General, for hundreds to see and admire, that Miss Celia had consented, much against her will, and hastily arranged some bits of spangled tarlatan over the white cotton suit which was to simulate the regulation tights. Her old dancing slippers fitted, and gold paper did the rest, while Ben, sure of his power over Lita, promised not to break his bones, and lived for days on the thought of the moment when he could show the boys that he had not boasted vainly of past splendors. Before the delighted children could get their breath, Lita gave signs of her dislike to the foot-lights, and, gathering up the reins that lay on her neck, Ben gave the old cry, "Houp-la!" and let her go, as he had often done before, straight out of the coach-house for a gallop round the orchard. "Just turn about and you can see perfectly well, but stay where you are till he comes back," commanded Thorny, as signs of commotion appeared in the excited audience. Round went the twenty children as if turned by one crank, and sitting there they looked out into the moonlight where the shining figure flashed to and fro, now so near they could see the smiling face under the crown, now so far away that it glittered like a fire-fly among the dusky green. Lita enjoyed that race as heartily as she had done several others of late, and caracoled about as if anxious to make up for her lack of skill by speed and obedience. How much Ben liked it there is no need to tell, yet it was a proof of the good which three months of a quiet, useful life had done him, that even as he pranced gayly under the boughs thick with the red and yellow apples almost ready to be gathered, he found this riding in the fresh air with only his mates for an audience pleasanter than the crowded tent, the tired horses, profane men, and painted women, friendly as some of them had been to him. After the first burst was over, he felt rather glad, on the whole, that he was going back to plain clothes, helpful school, and kindly people, who cared more to have him a good boy than the most famous Cupid that ever stood on one leg with a fast horse under him. "You may make as much noise as you like, now; Lita's had her run and will be as quiet as a lamb after it. Pull up, Ben, and come in; sister says you'll get cold," shouted Thorny, as the rider came cantering round after a leap over the lodge gate and back again. So Ben pulled up, and the admiring boys and girls were allowed to gather about him, loud in their praises as they examined the pretty mare and the mythological character who lay easily on her back. He looked very little like the god of love now; for he had lost one slipper and splashed his white legs with dew and dust, the crown had slipped down upon his neck, and the paper wings hung in an apple-tree where he had left them as he went by. No trouble in recognizing Ben, now; but somehow he didn't want to be seen, and, instead of staying to be praised, he soon slipped away, making Lita his excuse to vanish behind the curtain while the rest went into the house to have a finishing-off game of blindman's-buff in the big kitchen. "Well, Ben, are you satisfied?" asked Miss Celia, as she stayed a moment to unpin the remains of his gauzy scarf and tunic. "Yes, 'm, thank you, it was tip-top." "But you look rather sober. Are you tired, or is it because you don't want to take these trappings off and be plain Ben again?" she said, looking down into his face as he lifted it for her to free him from his gilded collar. "I want to take 'em off; for somehow I don't feel respectable," and he kicked away the crown he had helped to make so carefully, adding with a glance that said more than his words: "I'd rather be 'plain Ben' than any one else, for you like to have me." "Indeed I do; and I'm so glad to hear you say that, because I was afraid you'd long to be off to the old ways, and all I've tried to do would be undone. Would you like to go back, Ben?" and Miss Celia held his chin an instant, to watch the brown face that looked so honestly back at her. "No, I wouldn't--unless--he was there and wanted me." The chin quivered just a bit, but the black eyes were as bright as ever, and the boy's voice so earnest, she knew he spoke the truth, and laid her white hand softly on his head, as she answered in the tone he loved so much, because no one else had ever used it to him,-- "Father is not there; but I know he wants you, dear, and I am sure he would rather see you in a home like this than in the place you came from. Now go and dress; but, tell me first, has it been a happy birthday?" "Oh, Miss Celia! I didn't know they could be so beautiful, and this is the beautifulest part of it; I don't know how to thank you, but I'm going to try--" and, finding words wouldn't come fast enough, Ben just put his two arms round her, quite speechless with gratitude; then, as if ashamed of his little outburst, he knelt down in a great hurry to untie his one shoe. But Miss Celia liked his answer better than the finest speech ever made her, and went away through the moonlight, saying to herself,-- "If I can bring one lost lamb into the fold, I shall be the fitter for a shepherd's wife, by-and-by." CHAPTER XXII A BOY'S BARGAIN It was some days before the children were tired of talking over Ben's birthday party; for it was a great event in their small world; but, gradually, newer pleasures came to occupy their minds, and they began to plan the nutting frolics which always followed the early frosts. While waiting for Jack to open the chestnut burrs, they varied the monotony of school life by a lively scrimmage long known as "the wood-pile fight." The girls liked to play in the half-empty shed, and the boys, merely for the fun of teasing, declared that they should not, so blocked up the doorway as fast as the girls cleared it. Seeing that the squabble was a merry one, and the exercise better for all than lounging in the sun or reading in school during recess, Teacher did not interfere, and the barrier rose and fell almost as regularly as the tide. It would be difficult to say which side worked the harder; for the boys went before school began to build up the barricade, and the girls stayed after lessons were over to pull down the last one made in afternoon recess. They had their play-time first; and, while the boys waited inside, they heard the shouts of the girls, the banging of the wood, and the final crash, as the well-packed pile went down. Then, as the lassies came in, rosy, breathless, and triumphant, the lads rushed out to man the breach, and labor gallantly till all was as tight as hard blows could make it. So the battle raged, and bruised knuckles, splinters in fingers, torn clothes, and rubbed shoes, were the only wounds received, while a great deal of fun was had out of the maltreated logs, and a lasting peace secured between two of the boys. When the party was safely over, Sam began to fall into his old way of tormenting Ben by calling names, as it cost no exertion to invent trying speeches, and slyly utter them when most likely to annoy. Ben bore it as well as he could; but fortune favored him at last, as it usually does the patient, and he was able to make his own terms with his tormentor. When the girls demolished the wood-pile, they performed a jubilee chorus on combs, and tin kettles, played like tambourines; the boys celebrated their victories with shrill whistles, and a drum accompaniment with fists on the shed walls. Billy brought his drum, and this was such an addition that Sam hunted up an old one of his little brother's, in order that he might join the drum corps. He had no sticks, however, and, casting about in his mind for a good substitute for the genuine thing, bethought him of bulrushes. "Those will do first-rate, and there are lots in the ma'sh, if I can only get 'em," he said to himself, and turned off from the road on his way home to get a supply. Now, this marsh was a treacherous spot, and the tragic story was told of a cow who got in there and sank till nothing was visible but a pair of horns above the mud, which suffocated the unwary beast. For this reason it was called "Cowslip Marsh," the wags said, though it was generally believed to be so named for the yellow flowers which grew there in great profusion in the spring. Sam had seen Ben hop nimbly from one tuft of grass to another when he went to gather cowslips for Betty, and the stout boy thought he could do the same. Two or three heavy jumps landed him, not among the bulrushes, as he had hoped, but in a pool of muddy water, where he sank up to his middle with alarming rapidity. Much scared, he tried to wade out, but could only flounder to a tussock of grass, and cling there, while he endeavored to kick his legs free. He got them out, but struggled in vain to coil them up or to hoist his heavy body upon the very small island in this sea of mud. Down they splashed again; and Sam gave a dismal groan as he thought of the leeches and water-snakes which might be lying in wait below. Visions of the lost cow also flashed across his agitated mind, and he gave a despairing shout very like a distracted "Moo!" Few people passed along the lane, and the sun was setting, so the prospect of a night in the marsh nerved Sam to make a frantic plunge toward the bulrush island, which was nearer than the mainland, and looked firmer than any tussock round him. But he failed to reach this haven of rest, and was forced to stop at an old stump which stuck up, looking very like the moss-grown horns of the "dear departed." Roosting here, Sam began to shout for aid in every key possible to the human voice. Such hoots and howls, whistles and roars, never woke the echoes of the lonely marsh before, or scared the portly frog who resided there in calm seclusion. He hardly expected any reply but the astonished "Caw!" of the crow, who sat upon a fence watching him with gloomy interest; and when a cheerful "Hullo, there!" sounded from the lane, he was so grateful that tears of joy rolled down his fat cheeks. "Come on! I'm in the ma'sh. Lend a hand and get me out!" bawled Sam, anxiously waiting for his deliverer to appear, for he could only see a hat bobbing along behind the hazel-bushes that fringed the lane. Steps crashed through the bushes, and then over the wall came an active figure, at the sight of which Sam was almost ready to dive out of sight, for, of all possible boys, who should it be but Ben, the last person in the world whom he would like to have see him in his present pitiful plight. "Is it you, Sam? Well, you are in a nice fix!" and Ben's eyes began to twinkle with mischievous merriment, as well they might, for Sam certainly was a spectacle to convulse the soberest person. Perched unsteadily on the gnarled stump, with his muddy legs drawn up, his dismal face splashed with mud, and the whole lower half of his body as black as if he had been dipped in an inkstand, he presented such a comically doleful object that Ben danced about, laughing like a naughty will-o'-the-wisp who, having led a traveller astray then fell to jeering at him. "Stop that, or I'll knock your head off!" roared Sam, in a rage. "Come on and do it; I give you leave," answered Ben, sparring away derisively as the other tottered on his perch, and was forced to hold tight lest he should tumble off. "Don't laugh, there 's a good chap, but fish me out somehow, or I shall get my death sitting here all wet and cold," whined Sam, changing his tune, and feeling bitterly that Ben had the upper hand now. Ben felt it also; and, though a very good-natured boy, could not resist the temptation to enjoy this advantage for a moment at least. "I won't laugh if I can help it; only you do look so like a fat, speckled frog, I may not be able to hold in. I'll pull you out pretty soon; but first I'm going to talk to you, Sam," said Ben, sobering down as he took a seat on the little point of land nearest the stranded Samuel. "Hurry up, then; I'm as stiff as a board now, and it's no fun sitting here on this knotty old thing," growled Sam, with a discontented squirm. "Dare say not, but 'it is good for you,' as you say when you rap me over the head. Look here, I've got you in a tight place, and I don't mean to help you a bit till you promise to let me alone. Now then!" and Ben's face grew stern with his remembered wrongs as he grimly eyed his discomfited foe. "I'll promise fast enough if you won't tell anyone about this," answered Sam, surveying himself and his surroundings with great disgust. "I shall do as I like about that." "Then I won't promise a thing! I'm not going to have the whole school laughing at me," protested Sam, who hated to be ridiculed even more than Ben did. "Very well; good-night!" and Ben walked off with his hands in his pockets as coolly as if the bog was Sam's favorite retreat. "Hold on, don't be in such a hurry!" shouted Sam, seeing little hope of rescue if he let this chance go. "All right!" and back came Ben, ready for further negotiations. "I'll promise not to plague you, if you'll promise not to tell on me. Is that what you want?" "Now I come to think of it, there is one thing more. I like to make a good bargain when I begin," said Ben, with a shrewd air. "You must promise to keep Mose quiet, too. He follows your lead, and if you tell him to stop it he will. If I was big enough, I'd make you hold your tongues. I ain't, so we'll try this way." "Yes, Yes, I'll see to Mose. Now, bring on a rail, there's a good fellow. I've got a horrid cramp in my legs," began Sam, thinking he had bought help dearly, yet admiring Ben's cleverness in making the most of his chance. Ben brought the rail, but, just as he was about to lay it from the main-land to the nearest tussock, he stopped, saying, with the naughty twinkle in his black eyes again, "One more little thing must be settled first, and then I'll get you ashore. Promise you won't plague the girls either, 'specially Bab and Betty. You pull their hair, and they don't like it." "Don't neither! Wouldn't touch that Bab for a dollar; she scratches and bites like a mad cat," was Sam's sulky reply. "Glad of it; she can take care of herself. Betty can't; and if you touch one of her pig-tails I'll up and tell right out how I found you snivelling in the ma'sh like a great baby. So now!" and Ben emphasized his threat with a blow of the suspended rail which splashed the water over poor Sam, quenching his last spark of resistance. "Stop! I will!--I will!" "True as you live and breathe!" demanded Ben, sternly binding him by the most solemn oath he knew. "True as I live and breathe," echoed Sam, dolefully relinquishing his favorite pastime of pulling Betty's braids and asking if she was at home. "I'll come over there and crook fingers on the bargain," said Ben, settling the rail and running over it to the tuft, then bridging another pool and crossing again till he came to the stump. "I never thought of that way," said Sam, watching him with much inward chagrin at his own failure. "I should think you'd written 'Look before you leap,' in your copy-book often enough to get the idea into your stupid head. Come, crook," commanded Ben, leaning forward with extended little finger. Sam obediently performed the ceremony, and then Ben sat astride one of the horns of the stump while the muddy Crusoe went slowly across the rail from point to point till he landed safely on the shore, when he turned about and asked with an ungrateful jeer,-- "Now what's going to become of you, old Look-before-you-leap?" "Mud turtles can only sit on a stump and bawl till they are taken off, but frogs have legs worth something, and are not afraid of a little water," answered Ben, hopping away in an opposite direction, since the pools between him and Sam were too wide for even his lively legs. Sam waddled off to the brook in the lane to rinse the mud from his nether man before facing his mother, and was just wringing himself out when Ben came up, breathless but good natured, for he felt that he had made an excellent bargain for himself and friends. "Better wash your face; it's as speckled as a tiger-lily. Here's my handkerchief if yours is wet," he said, pulling out a dingy article which had evidently already done service as a towel. "Don't want it," muttered Sam, gruffly, as he poured the water out of his muddy shoes. "I was taught to say 'Thanky' when folks got me out of scrapes. But you never had much bringing up, though you do 'live in a house with a gambrel roof,'" retorted Ben, sarcastically quoting Sam's frequent boast; then he walked off, much disgusted with the ingratitude of man. Sam forgot his manners, but he remembered his promise, and kept it so well that all the school wondered. No one could guess the secret of Ben's power over him, though it was evident that he had gained it in some sudden way, for at the least sign of Sam's former tricks Ben would crook his little finger and wag it warningly, or call out "Bulrushes!" and Sam subsided with reluctant submission, to the great amazement of his mates. When asked what it meant, Sa, turned sulky; but Ben had much fun out of it, assuring the other boys that those were the signs and password of a secret society to which he and Sam belonged, and promised to tell them all about it if Sam would give him leave, which, of course, he would not. This mystery, and the vain endeavors to find it out caused a lull in the war of the wood-pile, and before any new game was invented something happened which gave the children plenty to talk about for a time. A week after the secret alliance was formed, Ben ran in one evening with a letter for Miss Celia. He found her enjoying the cheery blaze of the pine-cones the little girls had picked up for her, and Bab and Betty sat in the small chairs rocking luxuriously as they took turns to throw on the pretty fuel. Miss Celia turned quickly to receive the expected letter, glanced at the writing, post-mark and stamp, with an air of delighted surprise, then clasped it close in both hands, saying, as she hurried out of the room,-- "He has come! he has come! Now you may tell them, Thorny." "Tell its what? asked Bab, pricking up her cars at once. "Oh, it's only that George has come, and I suppose we shall go and get married right away," answered Thorny, rubbing his hands as if he enjoyed the prospect. "Are you going to be married? asked Betty, so soberly that the boys shouted, and Thorny, with difficulty composed himself sufficiently to explain. "No, child, not just yet; but sister is, and I must go and see that all is done up ship-shape, and bring you home some wedding-cake. Ben will take care of you while I'm gone." "When shall you go?" asked Bab, beginning to long for her share of cake. "To-morrow, I guess. Celia has been packed and ready for a week. We agreed to meet George in New York, and be married as soon as he got his best clothes unpacked. We are men of our word, and off we go. Won't it be fun?" "But when will you come back again?" questioned Betty, looking anxious. "Don't know. Sister wants to come soon, but I'd rather have our honeymoon somewhere else,--Niagara, Newfoundland, West Point, or the Rocky Mountains," said Thorny, mentioning a few of the places he most desired to see. "Do you like him?" asked Ben, very naturally wondering if the new master would approve of the young man-of-all-work. "Don't I? George is regularly jolly; though now he's a minister, perhaps he'll stiffen up and turn sober. Won't it be a shame if he does?" and Thorny looked alarmed at the thought of losing his congenial friend. "Tell about him; Miss Celia said you might", put in Bab, whose experience of "jolly" ministers had been small. "Oh, there isn't much about it. We met in Switzerland going up Mount St. Bernard in a storm, and--" "Where the good dogs live?" inquired Betty, hoping they would come into the story. "Yes; we spent the night up there, and George gave us his room; the house was so full, and he wouldn't let me go down a steep place where I wanted to, and Celia thought he'd saved my life, and was very good to him. Then we kept meeting, and the first thing I knew she went and was engaged to him. I didn't care, only she would come home so he might go on studying hard and get through quick. That was a year ago, and last winter we were in New York at uncle's; and then, in the spring, I was sick, and we came here, and that's all." "Shall you live here always when you come back? asked Bab, as Thorny paused for breath. "Celia wants to. I shall go to college, so I don't mind. George is going to help the old minister here and see how he likes it. I'm to study with him, and if he is as pleasant as he used to be we shall have capital times,--see if we don't." "I wonder if he will want me round," said Ben, feeling no desire to be a tramp again. "I do, so you needn't fret about that, my hearty," answered Thorny, with a resounding slap on the shoulder which reassured Ben more than any promises. "I'd like to see a live wedding, then we could play it with our dolls. I've got a nice piece of mosquito netting for a veil, and Belinda's white dress is clean. Do you s'pose Miss Celia will ask us to hers?" said Betty to Bab, as the boys began to discuss St. Bernard dogs with Spirit. "I wish I could, dears," answered a voice behind them; and there was Miss Celia, looking so happy that the little girls wondered what the letter could have said to give her such bright eyes and smiling lips. "I shall not be gone long, or be a bit changed when I come back, to live among you years I hope, for I am fond of the old place now, and mean it shall be home," she added, caressing the yellow heads as if they were dear to her. "Oh, goody!" cried Bab, while Betty whispered with both arms round Miss Celia,-- "I don't think we could bear to have anybody else come here to live." "It is very pleasant to hear you say that, and I mean to make others feel so, if I can. I have been trying a little this summer, but when I come back I shall go to work in earnest to be a good minister's wife, and you must help me." "We will," promised both children, ready for any thing except preaching in the high pulpit. Then Miss Celia turned to Ben, saying, in the respectful way that always made him feel at least twenty-five,-- "We shall be off to-morrow, and I leave you in charge. Go on just as if we were here, and be sure nothing will be changed as far as you are concerned when we come back." Ben's face beamed at that; but the only way he could express his relief was by making such a blaze in honor of the occasion that he nearly roasted the company. Next morning, the brother and sister slipped quietly away, and the children hurried to school, eager to tell the great news that "Miss Celia and Thorny had gone to be married, and were coming back to live here for ever and ever." CHAPTER XXIII SOMEBODY COMES Bab and Betty had been playing in the avenue all the afternoon several weeks later, but as the shadows began to lengthen both agreed to sit upon the gate and rest while waiting for Ben, who had gone nutting with a party of boys. When they played house Bab was always the father, and went hunting or fishing with great energy and success, bringing home all sorts of game, from elephants and crocodiles to humming-birds and minnows. Betty was the mother, and a most notable little housewife, always mixing up imaginary delicacies with sand and dirt in old pans and broken china, which she baked in an oven of her own construction. Both had worked hard that day, and were glad to retire to their favorite lounging-place, where Bab was happy trying to walk across the wide top bar without falling off, and Betty enjoyed slow, luxurious swings while her sister was recovering from her tumbles. On this occasion, having indulged their respective tastes, they paused for a brief interval of conversation, sitting side by side on the gate like a pair of plump gray chickens gone to roost. "Don't you hope Ben will get his bag full? We shall have such fun eating nuts evenings observed Bab, wrapping her arms in her apron, for it was October now, and the air was growing keen. "Yes, and Ma says we may boil some in our little kettles. Ben promised we should have half," answered Betty, still intent on her cookery. "I shall save some of mine for Thorny." "I shall keep lots of mine for Miss Celia." "Doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she went away?" "I wonder what she'll bring us." Before Bab could conjecture, the sound of a step and a familiar whistle made both look expectantly toward the turn in the road, all ready to cry out in one voice, "How many have you got?" Neither spoke a word, however, for the figure which presently appeared was not Ben, but a stranger,--a man who stopped whistling, and came slowly on dusting his shoes in the way-side grass, and brushing the sleeves of his shabby velveteen coat as if anxious to freshen himself up a bit. "It's a tramp, let's run away," whispered Betty, after a hasty look. "I ain't afraid," and Bab was about to assume her boldest look when a sneeze spoilt it, and made her clutch the gate to hold on. At that unexpected sound the man looked up, showing a thin, dark face, with a pair of sharp, black eyes, which surveyed the little girls so steadily that Betty quaked, and Bab began to wish she had at least jumped down inside the gate. "How are you?" said the man with a goodnatured nod and smile, as if to re-assure the round-eyed children staring at him. "Pretty well, thank you, sir," responded Bab, politely nodding back at him. "Folks at home?" asked the man, looking over their heads toward the house. "Only Ma; all the rest have gone to be married." "That sounds lively. At the other place all the folks had gone to a funeral," and the man laughed as he glanced at the big house on the hill. "Why, do you know the Squire?" exclaimed Bab, much surprised and re-assured. "Come on purpose to see him. Just strolling round till he gets back," with an impatient sort of sigh. "Betty thought you was a tramp, but I wasn't afraid. I like tramps ever since Ben came," explained Bab, with her usual candor. "Who 's Ben!" and the man came nearer so quickly that Betty nearly fell backward. "Don't you be scared, Sissy. I like little girls, so you set easy and tell me about Ben," he added, in a persuasive tone, as he leaned on the gate so near that both could see what a friendly face he had in spite of its eager, anxious look. "Ben is Miss Celia's boy. We found him most starved in the coach-house, and he's been here ever since," answered Bab, comprehensively. "Tell me about it. I like tramps, too," and the man looked as if he did very much, as Bab told the little story in a few childish words that were better than a much more elegant account. "You were very good to the little feller," was all the man said when she ended her somewhat confused tale, in which she had jumbled the old coach and Miss Celia, dinner-pails and nutting, Sancho and circuses. "'Course we were! He's a nice boy and we are fond of him, and he likes us," said Bab, heartily. "'Specially me," put in Betty, quite at ease now, for the black eyes had softened wonderfully, and the brown face was smiling all over. "Don't wonder a mite. You are the nicest pair of little girls I've seen this long time," and the man put a hand on either side of them, as if he wanted to hug the chubby children. But he didn't do it; he merely smiled and stood there asking questions till the two chatterboxes had told him every thing there was to tell in the most confiding manner, for he very soon ceased to seem like a stranger, and looked so familiar that Bab, growing inquisitive in her turn, suddenly said,-- "Haven't you ever been here before? It seems as if I'd seen you." "Never in my life. Guess you've seen somebody that looks like me," and the black eyes twinkled for a minute as they looked into the puzzled little faces before him, then he said, soberly,-- "I'm looking round for a likely boy; don't you think this Ben would suite me? I want just such a lively sort of chap." "Are you a circus man?" asked Bab, quickly. "Well, no, not now. I'm in better business." "I'm glad of it--we don't approve of 'em; but I do think they're splendid!" Bab began by gravely quoting Miss Celia, and ended with an irrepressible burst of admiration which contrasted drolly with her first remark. Betty added, anxiously: "We can't let Ben go any way. I know he wouldn't want to, and Miss Celia would feel bad. Please don't ask him." "He can do as he likes, I suppose. He hasn't got any folks of his own, has he?" "No, his father died in California, and Ben felt so bad he cried, and we were real sorry, and gave him a piece of Ma, 'cause he was so lonesome," answered Betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look which made the man stroke her smooth check and say, quite softly,-- "Bless your heart for that! I won't take him away, child, or do a thing to trouble anybody that's been good to him." "He 's coming now. I hear Sanch barking at the squirrels!" cried Bab, standing up to get a good look down the road. The man turned quickly, and Betty saw that he breathed fast as he watched the spot where the low sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at the corner. Into this glow came unconscious Ben, whistling "Rory O'Moore," loud and Clear, as he trudged along with a heavy bag of nuts over his shoulder and the light full on his contented face. Sancho trotted before and saw the stranger first, for the sun in Ben's eyes dazzled him. Since his sad loss Sancho cherished a strong dislike to tramps, and now he paused to growl and show his teeth, evidently intending to warn this one off the premises. "He won't hurt you--" began Bab, encouragingly; but before she could add a chiding word to the dog, Sanch gave an excited howl, and flew at the man's throat as if about to throttle him. Betty screamed, and Bab was about to go to the rescue when both perceived that the dog was licking the stranger's face in an ecstasy of joy, and heard the man say as he hugged the curly beast,-- "Good old Sanch! I knew he wouldn't forget master, and he doesn't." "What's the matter?" called Ben, coming up briskly, with a strong grip of his stout stick. There was no need of any answer, for, as he came into the shadow, he saw the man, and stood looking at him as if he were a ghost. "It's father, Benny; don't you know me?" asked the man, with an odd sort of choke in his voice, as he thrust the dog away, and held out both hands to the boy. Down dropped the nuts, and crying, "Oh, Daddy, Daddy!" Ben cast himself into the arms of the shabby velveteen coat, while poor Sanch tore round them in distracted circles, barking wildly, as if that was the only way in which he could vent his rapture. What happened next Bab and Betty never stopped to see, but, dropping from their roost, they went flying home like startled Chicken Littles with the astounding news that "Ben's father has come alive, and Sancho knew him right away!" Mrs. Moss had just got her cleaning done up, and was resting a minute before setting the table, but she flew out of her old rocking-chair when the excited children told the wonderful tale, exclaiming as they ended,-- "Where is he? Go bring him here. I declare it fairly takes my breath away!" Before Bab could obey, or her mother compose herself, Sancho bounced in and spun round like an insane top, trying to stand on his head, walk upright, waltz and bark all at once, for the good old fellow had so lost his head that he forgot the loss of his tail. "They are coming! they are coming! See, Ma, what a nice man he is," said Bab, hopping about on one foot as she watched the slowly approaching pair. "My patience, don't they look alike! I should know he was Ben's Pa anywhere!" said Mrs. Moss, running to the door in a hurry. They certainly did resemble one another, and it was almost comical to see the same curve in the legs, the same wide-awake style of wearing the hat, the same sparkle of the eye, good-natured smile and agile motion of every limb. Old Ben carried the bag in one hand while young Ben held the other fast, looking a little shame-faced at his own emotion now, for there were marks of tears on his cheeks, but too glad to repress the delight he felt that he had really found Daddy this side heaven. Mrs. Moss unconsciously made a pretty little picture of herself as she stood at the door with her honest face shining and both hands ont, saying in a hearty tone, which was a welcome in itself, "I'm real glad to see you safe and well, Mr. Brown! Come right in and make yourself to home. I guess there isn't a happier boy living than Ben is to-night." "And I know there isn't a gratefuler man living than I am for your kindness to my poor forsaken little feller," answered Mr. Brown, dropping both his burdens to give the comely woman's hands a hard shake. "Now don't say a word about it, but sit down and rest, and we'll have tea in less'n no time. Ben must be tired and hungry, though he's so happy I don't believe he knows it," laughed Mrs. Moss, bustling away to hide the tears in her eyes, anxious to make things sociable and easy all round. With this end in view she set forth her best china, and covered the table with food enough for a dozen, thanking her stars that it was baking day, and every thing had turned out well. Ben and his father sat talking by the window till they were bidden to "draw up and help themselves" with such hospitable warmth that every thing had an extra relish to the hungry pair. Ben paused occasionally to stroke the rusty coat-sleeve with bread-and-buttery fingers to convince himself that "Daddy" had really come, and his father disposed of various inconvenient emotions by eating as if food was unknown in California. Mrs. Moss beamed on every one from behind the big tea-pot like a mild full moon, while Bab and Betty kept interrupting one another in their eagerness to tell something new about Ben and how Sanch lost his tail. "Now you let Mr. Brown talk a little; we all want to hear how he 'came alive,' as you call it," said Mrs. Moss, as they drew round the fire in the "settin'-room," leaving the tea-things to take care of themselves. It was not a long story, but a very interesting one to this circle of listeners; all about the wild life on the plains trading for mustangs, the terrible kick from a vicious horse that nearly killed Ben, sen., the long months of unconsciousness in the California hospital, the slow recovery, the journey back, Mr. Smithers's tale of the boy's disappearance, and then the anxious trip to find out from Squire Allen where he now was. "I asked the hospital folks to write and tell you as soon as I knew whether I was on my head or my heels, and they promised; but they didn't; so I came off the minute I could, and worked my way back, expecting to find you at the old place. I was afraid you'd have worn out your welcome here and gone off again, for you are as fond of travelling as your father." "I wanted to sometimes, but the folks here were so dreadful good to me I couldn't," confessed Ben, secretly surprised to find that the prospect of going off with Daddy even cost him a pang of regret, for the boy had taken root in the friendly soil, and was no longer a wandering thistle-down, tossed about by every wind that blew. "I know what I owe 'em, and you and I will work out that debt before we die, or our name isn't B.B.," said Mr. Brown, with an emphatic slap on his knee, which Ben imitated half unconsciously as he exclaimed heartily,-- "That's so!" adding, more quietly, "What are you going to do now? Go back to Smithers and the old business?" "Not likely, after the way he treated you, Sonny. I've had it out with him, and he won't want to see me again in a hurry," answered Mr. Brown, with a sudden kindling of the eye that reminded Bab of Ben's face when he shook her after losing Sancho. "There's more circuses than his in the world; but I'll have to limber out ever so much before I'm good for much in that line," said the boy, stretching his stout arms and legs with a curious mixture of satisfaction and regret. "You've been living in clover and got fat, you rascal," and his father gave him a poke here and there, as Mr. Squeers did the plump Wackford, when displaying him as a specimen of the fine diet at Do-the-boys Hall. "Don't believe I could put you up now if I tried, for I haven't got my strength back yet, and we are both out of practice. It's just as well, for I've about made up my mind to quit the business and settle down somewhere for a spell, if I can get any thing to do," continued the rider, folding his arms and gazing thoughtfully into the fire. "I shouldn't wonder a mite if you could right here, for Mr. Towne has a great boarding-stable over yonder, and he's always wanting men." Said Mrs. Moss, eagerly, for she dreaded to have Ben go, and no one could forbid it if his father chose to take him away. "That sounds likely. Thanky, ma'am. I'll look up the concern and try my chance. Would you call it too great a come-down to have father an 'ostler after being first rider in the 'Great Golden Menagerie, Circus, and Colossem,' hey, Ben?" asked Mr. Brown, quoting the well-remembered show-bill with a laugh. "No, I shouldn't; it's real jolly up there when the big barn is full and eighty horses have to be taken care of. I love to go and see 'em. Mr. Towne asked me to come and be stable-boy when I rode the kicking gray the rest were afraid of. I hankered to go, but Miss Celia had just got my new books, and I knew she'd feel bad if I gave up going to school. Now I'm glad I didn't, for I get on first rate and like it." "You done right, boy, and I'm pleased with you. Don't you ever be ungrateful to them that befriended you, if you want to prosper. I'll tackle the stable business a Monday and see what's to be done. Now I ought to be walking, but I'll be round in the morning ma'am, if you can spare Ben for a spell to-morrow. We'd like to have a good Sunday tramp and talk; wouldn't we, Sonny?" and Mr. Brown rose to go with his hand on Ben's shoulder, as if loth to leave him even for the night. Mrs. Moss saw the longing in his face, and forgetting that he was an utter stranger, spoke right out of her hospitable heart. "It's a long piece to the tavern, and my little back bedroom is always ready. It won't make a mite of trouble if you don't mind a plain place, and you are heartily welcome." Mr. Brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept any further favor from the good soul who had already done so much for him and his. Ben gave him no time to speak, however, for running to a door he flung it open and beckoned, saying, eagerly,-- "Do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you. This is a tip-top room; I slept here the night I came, and that bed was just splendid after bare ground for a fortnight." "I'll stop, and as I'm pretty well done up, I guess we may as well turn in now," answered the new guest; then, as if the memory of that homeless little lad so kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of him, Mr. Brown paused at the door to say hastily, with a hand on Bab and Betty's heads, as if his promise was a very earnest one,-- "I don't forget, ma'am, these children shall never want a friend while Ben Brown's alive;" then he shut the door so quickly that the other Ben's prompt "Hear, hear!" was cut short in the middle. "I s'pose he means that we shall have a piece of Ben's father, because we gave Ben a piece of our mother," said Betty, softly. "Of course he does, and it's all fair," answered Bab, decidedly. "Isn't he a nice man, Ma? "Go to bed, children," was all the answer she got; but when they were gone, Mrs. Moss, as she washed up her dishes, more than once glanced at a certain nail where a man's hat had not hung for five years, and thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting air that slouched felt had. If one wedding were not quite enough for a child's story, we might here hint what no one dreamed of then, that before the year came round again Ben had found a mother, Bab and Betty a father, and Mr. Brown's hat was quite at home behind the kitchen door. But, on the whole, it is best not to say a word about it. CHAPTER XXIV THE GREAT GATE IS OPENED The Browns were up and out so early next morning that Bab and Betty were sure they had run away in the night. But on looking for them, they were discovered in the coach-house criticising Lita, both with their hands in their pockets, both chewing straws, and looking as much alike as a big elephant and a small one. "That's as pretty a little span as I've seen for a long time," said the elder Ben, as the children came trotting down the path hand in hand, with the four blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly up and down. "The nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is the best goer, though she's dreadfully hard bitted," answered Ben the younger, with such a comical assumption of a jockey's important air that his father laughed as he said in an undertone,-- "Come, boy, we must drop the old slang since we've given up the old business. These good folks are making a gentleman of you, and I won't be the one to spoil their work. Hold on, my dears, and I'll show you how they say good-morning in California," he added, beckoning to the little girls, who now came up rosy and smiling. "Breakfast is ready, sir," said Betty, looking much relieved to find them. "We thought you'd run away from us," explained Bab, as both put out their hands to shake those extended to them. "That would be a mean trick. But I'm going to run away with you," and Mr. Brown whisked a little girl to either shoulder before they knew what had happened, while Ben, remembering the day, with difficulty restrained himself from turning a series of triumphant somersaults before them all the way to the door, where Mrs. Moss stood waiting for them. After breakfast Ben disappeared for a short time, and returned in his Sunday suit, looking so neat and fresh that his father surveyed him with surprise and pride as he came in full of boyish satisfaction in his trim array. "Here's a smart young chap! Did you take all that trouble just to go to walk with old Daddy?" asked Mr. Brown, stroking the smooth head, for they were alone just then, Mrs. Moss and the children being up stairs preparing for church. "I thought may be you'd like to go to meeting first," answered Ben, looking up at him with such a happy face that it was hard to refuse any thing. "I'm too shabby, Sonny, else I'd go in a minute to please you." "Miss Celia said God didn't mind poor clothes, and she took me when I looked worse than you do. I always go in the morning; she likes to have me," said Ben, turning his hat about as if not quite sure what he ought to do. "Do you want to go?" asked his father in a tone of surprise. "I want to please her, if you don't mind. We could have our tramp this afternoon." "I haven't been to meeting since mother died, and it don't seem to come easy, though I know I ought to, seeing I'm alive and here," and Mr. Brown looked soberly out at the lovely autumn world as if glad to be in it after his late danger and pain. "Miss Celia said church was a good place to take our troubles, and to be thankful in. I went when I thought you were dead, and now I'd love to go when I've got my Daddy safe again." No one saw him, so Ben could not resist giving his father a sudden hug, which was warmly returned as the man said earnestly,-- "I'll go, and thank the Lord hearty for giving me back my boy better'n I left him!" For a minute nothing was heard but the loud tick of the old clock and a mournful whine front Sancho, shut up in the shed lest he should go to church without an invitation. Then, as steps were heard on the stairs, Mr. Brown caught up his hat, saying hastily,-- "I ain't fit to go with them, you tell 'm, and I'll slip into a back seat after folks are in. I know the way." And, before Ben could reply, he was gone. Nothing was seen of him along the way, but he saw the little party, and rejoiced again over his boy, changed in so many ways for the better; for Ben was the one thing which had kept his heart soft through all the trials and temptations of a rough life. "I promised Mary I'd do my best for the poor baby she had to leave, and I tried; but I guess a better friend than I am has been raised up for him when he needed her most. It won't hurt me to follow him in this road," thought Mr. Brown, as he came out into the highway from his stroll "across-lots," feeling that it would be good for him to stay in this quiet place, for his own as well as his son's sake. The Bell had done ringing when he reached the green, but a single boy sat on the steps and rail to meet him, saying, with a reproachful look,-- "I wasn't going to let you be alone, and have folks think I was ashamed of my father. Come, Daddy, we'll sit together." So Ben led his father straight to the Squire's pew, and sat beside him with a face so full of innocent pride and joy, that people would have suspected the truth if he had not already told many of them. Mr. Brown, painfully conscious of his shabby coat, was rather "taken aback," as he expressed it; but the Squire's shake of the hand, and Mrs. Allen's gracious nod enabled him to face the eyes of the interested congregation, the younger portion of which stared steadily at him all sermon time, in spite of paternal frowns and maternal tweakings in the rear. But the crowning glory of the day came after church, when the Squire said to Ben, and Sam heard him,-- "I've got a letter for you from Miss Celia. Come home with me, and bring your father. I want to talk to him." The boy proudly escorted his parent to the old carry-all, and, tucking himself in behind with Mrs. Allen, had the satisfaction of seeing the slouched felt hat side by side with the Squire's Sunday beaver in front, as they drove off at such an unusually smart pace, it was evident that Duke knew there was a critical eye upon him. The interest taken in the father was owing to the son at first; but, by the time the story was told, old Ben had won friends for himself not only because of the misfortunes which he had evidently borne in a manly way, but because of his delight in the boy's improvement, and the desire he felt to turn his hand to any honest work, that he might keep Ben happy and contented in this good home. "I'll give you a line to Towne. Smithers spoke well of you, and your own ability will be the best recommendation," said the Squire, as he parted from them at his door, having given Ben the letter. Miss Celia had been gone a fortnight, and every one was longing to have her back. The first week brought Ben a newspaper, with a crinkly line drawn round the marriages to attract attention to that spot, and one was marked by a black frame with a large hand pointing at it from the margin. Thorny sent that; but the next week came a parcel for Mrs. Moss, and in it was discovered a box of wedding cake for every member of the family, including Sancho, who ate his at one gulp, and chewed up the lace paper which covered it. This was the third week; and, as if there could not be happiness enough crowded into it for Ben, the letter he read on his way home told him that his dear mistress was coming back on the following Saturday. One passage particularly pleased him,-- "I want the great gate opened, so that the new master may go in that way. Will you see that it is done, and all made neat afterward? Randa will give you the key, and you may have out all your flags if you like, for the old place cannot look too gay for this home-coming." Sunday though it was, Ben could not help waving the letter over his head as he ran in to tell Mrs. Moss the glad news, and begin at once to plan the welcome they would give Miss Celia, for he never called her any thing else. During their afternoon stroll in the mellow sunshine, Ben continued to talk of her, never tired of telling about his happy summer under her roof. And Mr. Brown was never weary of hearing, for every hour showed him more plainly what a lovely miracle her gentle words had wrought, and every hour increased his gratitude, his desire to return the kindness in some humble way. He had his wish, and did his part handsomely when he least expected to have a chance. On Monday he saw Mr. Towne, and, thanks to the Squire's good word, was engaged for a month on trial, making himself so useful that it was soon evident he was the right man in the right place. He lived on the hill, but managed to get down to the little brown house in the evening for a word with Ben, who just now was as full of business as if the President and his Cabinet were coming. Every thing was put in apple-pie order in and about the old house; the great gate, with much creaking of rusty hinges and some clearing away of rubbish, was set wide open, and the first creature who entered it was Sancho, solemnly dragging the dead mullein which long ago had grown above the keyhole. October frosts seemed to have spared some of the brightest leaves for this especial occasion; and on Saturday the arched gate-way was hung with gay wreaths, red and yellow sprays strewed the flags, and the porch was a blaze of color with the red woodbine, that was in its glory when the honeysuckle was leafless. Fortunately it was a half-holiday, so the children could trim and chatter to their heart's content, and the little girls ran about sticking funny decorations where no one would ever think of looking for them. Ben was absorbed in his flags, which were sprinkled all down the avenue with a lavish display, suggesting several Fourth of Julys rolled into one. Mr. Brown had come to lend a hand, and did so most energetically, for the break-neck things he did with his son during the decoration fever would have terrified Mrs. Moss out of her wits, if she had not been in the house giving last touches to every room, while Randa and Katy set forth a sumptuous tea. All was going well, and the train would be due in an hour, when luckless Bab nearly turned the rejoicing into mourning, the feast into ashes. She heard her mother say to Randa, "There ought to be a fire in every room, it looks so cheerful, and the air is chilly spite of the sunshine;" and, never waiting to hear the reply that some of the long-unused chimneys were not safe till cleaned, off went Bab with an apron full of old shingles, and made a roaring blaze in the front room fire-place, which was of all others the one to be let alone, as the flue was out of order. Charmed with the brilliant light and the crackle of the tindery fuel, Miss Bab refilled her apron, and fed the fire till the chimney began to rumble ominously, sparks to fly out at the top, and soot and swallows' nests to come tumbling down upon the hearth. Then, scared at what she had done, the little mischief-maker hastily buried her fire, swept up the rubbish, and ran off, thinking no one would discover her prank if she never told. Everybody was very busy, and the big chimney blazed and rumbled unnoticed till the cloud of smoke caught Ben's eye as he festooned his last effort in the flag line, part of an old sheet with the words "Father has come!" in red cambric letters half a foot long sewed upon it. "Hullo! I do believe they've got up a bonfire, without asking my leave. Miss Celia never would let us, because the sheds and roofs are so old and dry; I must see about it. Catch me, Daddy, I'm coming down!" cried Ben, dropping out of the elm with no more thought of where he might light than a squirrel swinging from bough to bough. His father caught him, and followed in haste as his nimble-footed son raced up the avenue, to stop in the gate-way, frightened at the prospect before him, for falling sparks had already kindled the roof here and there, and the chimney smoked and roared like a small volcano, while Katy's wails and Randa's cries for water came from within. "Up there with wet blankets, while I get out the hose!" cried Mr. Brown, as he saw at a glance what the danger was. Ben vanished; and, before his father got the garden hose rigged, he was on the roof with a dripping blanket over the worst spot. Mrs. Moss had her wits about her in a minute, and ran to put in the fireboard, and stop the draught. Then, stationing Randa to watch that the falling cinders did no harm inside, she hurried off to help Mr. Brown, who might not know where things were. But he had roughed it so long, that he was the man for emergencies, and seemed to lay his hand on whatever was needed, by a sort of instinct. Finding that the hose was too short to reach the upper part of the roof, he was on the roof in a jiffy with two pails of water, and quenched the most dangerous spots before much harm was done. This he kept up till the chimney burned itself out, while Ben dodged about among the gables with a watering pot, lest some stray sparks should be over-looked, and break out afresh. While they worked there, Betty ran to and fro with a dipper of water, trying to help; and Sancho barked violently, as if he objected to this sort of illumination. But where was Bab, who revelled in flurries? No one missed her till the fire was out, and the tired, sooty people met to talk over the danger just escaped. "Poor Miss Celia wouldn't have had a roof over her head, if it hadn't been for you, Mr. Brown," said Mrs. Moss, sinking into a kitchen chair, pale with the excitement. "It would have burnt lively, but I guess it's all right now. Keep an eye on the roof, Ben, and I'll step up garret and see if all's safe there. Didn't you know that chimney was foul, ma'am?" asked the man, as he wiped the perspiration off his grimy face. "Randa said it was, and I 'in surprised she made a fire there," began Mrs. Moss, looking at the maid, who just then came in with a pan full of soot. "Bless you, ma'am, I never thought of such a thing, nor Katy neither. That naughty Bab must have done it, and so don't dar'st to show herself," answered the irate Randa, whose nice room was in a mess. "Where is the child?" asked her mother; and a hunt was immediately instituted by Betty and Sancho, while the elders cleared up. Anxious Betty searched high and low, called and cried, but all in vain; and was about to sit down in despair, when Sancho made a bolt into his new kennel and brought out a shoe with a foot in it while a doleful squeal came from the straw within. "Oh, Bab, how could you do it? Ma was frightened dreadfully," said Betty, gently tugging at the striped leg, as Sancho poked his head in for another shoe. "Is it all burnt up?" demanded a smothered voice from the recesses of the kennel. "Only pieces of the roof. Ben and his father put it out, and I helped," answered Betty, cheering up a little as she recalled her noble exertions. "What do they do to folks who set houses afire?" asked the voice again. "I don't know; but you needn't be afraid, there isn't much harm done, I guess, and Miss Celia will forgive you, she's so good." "Thorny won't; he calls me a 'botheration,' and I guess I am," mourned the unseen culprit, with sincere contrition. "I'll ask him; he is always good to me. They will be here pretty soon, so you'd better come out and be made tidy," suggested the comforter. "I never can come out, for every one will hate me," sobbed Bab among the straw, as she pulled in her foot, as if retiring for ever from an outraged world. "Ma won't, she's too busy cleaning up; so it's a good time to come. Let's run home, wash our hands, and be all nice when they see us. I'll love you, no matter what anybody else does," said Betty, consoling the poor little sinner, and proposing the sort of repentance most likely to find favor in the eyes of the agitated elders. "P'raps I'd better go home, for Sanch will want his bed," and Bab gladly availed herself of that excuse to back out of her refuge, a very crumpled, dusty young lady, with a dejected face and much straw sticking in her hair. Betty led her sadly away, for she still protested that she never should dare to meet the offended public again; but in fifteen minutes both appeared in fine order and good spirits, and naughty Bab escaped a lecture for the time being, as the train would soon be due. At the first sound of the car whistle every one turned good-natured as if by magic, and flew to the gate smiling as if all mishaps were forgiven and forgotten. Mrs. Moss, however, slipped quietly away, and was the first to greet Mrs. Celia as the carriage stopped at the entrance of the avenue, so that the luggage might go in by way of the lodge. "We will walk up and you shall tell us the news as we go, for I see you have some," said the young lady, in her friendly manner, when Mrs. Moss had given her welcome and paid her respects to the gentleman who shook hands in a way that convinced her he was indeed what Thorny called him, "regularly jolly," though he was a minister. That being exactly what she came for, the good woman told her tidings as rapidly as possible, and the new-comers were so glad to hear of Ben's happiness they made very light of Bab's bonfire, though it had nearly burnt their house down. "We won't say a word about it, for every one must be happy to-day," said Mr. George, so kindly that Mrs. Moss felt a load taken off her heart at once. "Bab was always teasing me for fireworks, but I guess she has had enough for the present," laughed Thorny, who was gallantly escorting Bab's mother up the avenue. "Every one is so kind! Teacher was out with the children to cheer us as we passed, and here you all are making things pretty for me," said Mrs. Celia, smiling with tears in her eyes, as they drew near the great gate, which certainly did present an animated if not an imposing appearance. Randa and Katy stood on one side, all in their best, bobbing delighted courtesies; Mr. Brown, half hidden behind the gate on the other side, was keeping Sancho erect, so that he might present arms promptly when the bride appeared. As flowers were scarce, on either post stood a rosy little girl clapping her hands, while out from the thicket of red and yellow boughs, which made a grand bouquet in the lantern frame, came Ben's head and shoulders, as he waved his grandest flag with its gold paper "Welcome Home!" on a blue ground. "Isn't it beautiful!" cried Mrs. Celia, throwing kisses to the children, shaking hands with her maids, and glancing brightly at the stranger who was keeping Sanch quiet. "Most people adorn their gate-posts with stone balls, vases, or griffins; your living images are a great improvement, love, especially the happy boy in the middle," said Mr. George, eying Ben with interest, as he nearly tumbled overboard, top-heavy with his banner. "You must finish what I have only begun," answered Celia, adding gayly as Sancho broke loose and came to offer both his paw and his congratulations. "Sanch, introduce your master, that I may thank him for coming back in time to save my old house." "If I'd saved a dozen it wouldn't have half paid for all you've done for my boy, ma'am," answered Mr. Brown, bursting out from behind the gate quite red with gratitude and pleasure. "I loved to do it, so please remember that this is still his home till you make one for him. Thank God, he is no longer fatherless!" and her sweet face said even more than her words as the white hand cordially shook the brown one with a burn across the back. "Come on, sister. I see the tea-table all ready, and I'm awfully hungry," interrupted Thorny, who had not a ray of sentiment about him, though very glad Ben had got his father back again. "Come over, by-and-by, little friends, and let me thank you for your pretty welcome,--it certainly is a warm one;" and Mrs. Celia glanced merrily from the three bright faces above her to the old chimney, which still smoked sullenly. "Oh, don't!" cried Bab, hiding her face. "She didn't mean to," added Betty, pleadingly. "Three cheers for the bride!" roared Ben, dipping his flag, as leaning on her husband's arm his dear mistress passed under the gay arch, along the leaf-strewn walk, over the threshold of the house which was to be her happy home for many years. The closed gate where the lonely little wanderer once lay was always to stand open now, and the path where children played before was free to all comers, for a hospitable welcome henceforth awaited rich and poor, young and old, sad and gay, Under the Lilacs. 
41721	----	Mystery Stories for Boys THE CRIMSON FLASH by ROY J. SNELL The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago Printed in the United States of America Copyright, 1922 by The Reilly & Lee Co. All Rights Reserved CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Johnny Loses a Fight 9 II Boxing the Bunco-Steerer 24 III The Feasters See a Haunt 45 IV "Pale Face Bonds" 55 V Strange Doings in the Night 74 VI Johnny Boxes the Bear 85 VII No Box-a Da Bear 100 VIII The Girl and the Tiger 112 IX The Tiger Springs 124 X Gwen Meets a "Hay Maker" 134 XI The Black Beast 144 XII Johnny Wins Double Pay 160 XIII Pant's Story of the Black Cat 173 XIV In Tom Stick's House 184 XV Bursting Balloons 198 XVI The Wreck of the Circus 206 XVII "Get That Black Cat" 217 XVIII How Johnny Got the Ring 232 THE CRIMSON FLASH CHAPTER I JOHNNY LOSES A FIGHT In the center of the "big top," which sheltered the mammoth three-ring circus, brass horns blared to the rhythmic beat of a huge bass drum. Eight trained elephants, giant actors of the sawdust ring, patiently stood in line, awaiting the command to make way for the tumblers, trapeze performers, bareback riders and the queen of the circus. The twins, Marjory and Margaret MacDonald, just past ten years of age, and attending their first circus, stood pressed against the rope not an arm's length from the foremost elephant. Suddenly the gigantic creature reached out a beseeching trunk for a possible peanut. Sensing danger, Johnny Thompson, the one-time lightweight boxing champion, who, besides their maid, stood guard over the millionaire twins, sprang forward. Quick as he was, his movement was far too slow. Marjory jumped back; there was an almost inaudible snap. The elephant stretched his trunk to full length--then in apparent anger uttered a hollow snort. A broad bar of sunlight shooting over the top of the canvas wall was cut by a sudden flash. The flash described a circle, then blinked out at the feet of three waiting young women performers. With a cry of consternation on his lips, Johnny Thompson sprang over the ropes. Bowling over an elephant trainer in his haste, he bolted toward the three girl acrobats at whose feet the miniature meteor had vanished. Again his agile movement was far too slow. Six pairs of rough hands tried to seize him. Johnny's right shot out. With a little gurgle, an attendant in uniform staggered backward to crumple in the sawdust. A ring-master, leaping like a panther, landed on Johnny's back. Dropping abruptly, Johnny executed a somersault, shook himself free and rose only to butt his head into the stomach of a fat clown. And then what promised to be a beautiful scrap ended miserably. A razor-back, or tent roustabout, struck Johnny on the head with a tent stake. Johnny dropped like an empty meal sack. At once four attendants dragged him beneath the tent wall into a shady corner. There, after tying his hands and feet, they waited for his return to consciousness. Little by little Johnny came to himself, and began to fumble at his fetters. "Wow! What hit me?" he grumbled, as he attempted to rub his bruised head. "You fell and struck your head on a tent pole," grinned a razor-back. "Some scrapper, eh?" a second man commented. "Dope or moonshine?" asked a third. "Neither," exclaimed Johnny. "It was--darn it! No. That's none of your business. But I'll get it back if I have to follow this one-horse show from Boston to Texas." "You won't follow nothin' just at present," scowled the razor-back, eying his shackles with satisfaction. "That guy you hit had to go to the show's surgeon." "Wow!" ejaculated his companion. "And I bet this little feller doesn't weigh a hundred and ten stripped! How'd he do it?" "Let me loose and I'll give you a free exhibition," grinned Johnny, as he settled back, resolved to take what was coming to him with a smile. He was not a quarrelsome fellow, this Johnny Thompson. He had studied the science of boxing and wrestling because it interested him, and because he wished to be able to take care of himself in every emergency. He never struck a man unless forced to do so. The emergency of the past hour had spurred him to unusual activity. In a way he regretted it now, but on reflection decided that were the same set of conditions to confront him again, his actions would probably be the same. His one regret was that he had been unable to attain his end. His only problem now was to recover lost ground and to reach the desired goal. Late that night, with stiffened joints and aching muscles, he made his way to the desolate spot where but a few hours before a hilarious throng had laughed at the antics of clowns and thrilled at the daring dance of the tight-rope walker. In his hand Johnny held a small flashlight. This he flicked about here and there for some time. "That's it," he exclaimed at last. "This is the very spot." Dropping on hands and knees he began clawing over the sawdust. Running it through his fingers, he gathered it in little piles here and there until presently the place resembled a miniature mountain range. He had been at this for a half hour when he straightened up with a sigh. "Not a chance," he murmured, "not a solitary chance! One of those circus dames got it; the trapeze performer, or maybe the tight-rope walker. Which one? That's what I've got to find out." Suddenly he leaped to his feet. A long-drawn-out whistle sounded through the darkness. "The circus train! I've just time to jump it. I'll stow away on her. How's that? A circus stowaway!" Johnny dashed across the open space and, just as the train began to move, caught at the iron bars of a gondola car loaded with tent equipment. Climbing aboard, he groped about until he found a soft spot among some piles of canvas, and, sinking down there, was soon fast asleep. He had had no supper, but that mattered little. He would eat a double portion of ham and eggs in the morning. It was enough that he was on his way. Where to? He did not exactly know. When Johnny leaped over the rope in the circus tent the previous afternoon, in his rush toward the lady performers, he had dodged behind the trained elephants. This took him out of the view of the twins, Marjory and Margaret. So interested were they in the elephants that they did not miss him, and not having noted the sparkle in the sunlight which sent Johnny on his mad chase, they remained fully occupied in watching the regular events of the circus. The elephants had lumbered into the side tent, the tight-rope walker had danced her airy way across the arena, the brown bear had taken his daily bicycle ride, and the human statuary was on display, when Marjory suddenly turned to Margaret and said: "Why, Johnny's gone!" "So he is," said the other twin. "Perhaps he didn't like it. He'll be back, I'm sure." The maid was quite accustomed to looking after the millionaire twins, so when Johnny failed to put in an appearance at the end of the performance, they passed out with the throng, the maid hailed a taxi and they were soon on their way home. It was then that Marjory, looking down, noticed that the fine gold chain about her neck hung with two loose ends. Catching her breath, she uttered a startled whisper: "Oo! Look! Margaret! It's gone!" Margaret looked once, then clasped her hands in horror. "And father said you mustn't take it!" "But it was our first, our very first circus!" "I know," sighed Margaret. "And wasn't it just grand! But now," she sighed, "now, you'll have to tell father." "Yes, I will--right away." Marjory did tell. They had not been in the house a minute before she told of their loss. "Where's Johnny Thompson?" their father asked. "We--we don't know." "Don't know?" "We haven't seen him for two hours." "Well, that settles it. I might have known when I hired an adventurer to look after my thoroughbreds and guard my children that I'd be sorry. But he was a splendid man with the horses; seemed to think of 'em as his own; and as for boxing, I never saw a fellow like him." "Yes, and Daddy, we liked him," chimed in Marjory. "We liked him a lot." "Well," the father said thoughtfully, "guess I ought to put a man on his trail and bring him back. Probably went off with the circus. But I won't. He's been a soldier, and a good one, I'm told. That excuses a lot. And then if you go dangling a few thousand dollars on a bit of gold chain, what can you expect? Better go get your supper and then run on to bed." That night, before they crept into their twin beds, Marjory and Margaret talked long and earnestly over something very important. "Yes," said Marjory at last, "we'll find some real circus clothes somewhere. Then we'll have Prince and Blackie saddled and bridled. Then we'll ride off to find that old circus and bring Johnny Thompson back. We can't get along without him; besides, he didn't take it. I just know he didn't." "And if he did, he didn't mean to," supplemented Margaret. A moment later they were both sound asleep. As Johnny Thompson bumped along in his rail gondola, with the click-click of the wheels keeping time to the distant pant of the engine, he dreamed a madly fantastic dream. In it he felt the nerve-benumbing shudder which comes with the shock of a train wreck. He felt himself lifted high in air to fall among rolls of canvas and piles of tent poles, heard the crash of breaking timbers, the scream of grinding ironwork, and above it all the roar of frightened animals--tigers, lions, panthers, tossed, still in their cages, to be buried beneath the wreckage, or hurled free to tumble down the embankment. In this dream Johnny crawled from beneath the canvas to find himself staring into the red and gleaming eye of some great cat that was stalking him as its prey. He struggled to draw his clasp knife from his pocket, and in that mad struggle awoke. With every nerve alert he caught the click-click of wheels, the distant pant of the engine. It had been nothing more than a dream. He was still traveling steadily forward with the circus. Yet, as he settled back, he gave an involuntary shudder and, propping himself on one elbow, stared through the darkness toward the spot where, in his dream, the great cat had crouched. To his horror, he caught the red gleam of a single burning eye. Instantly there flashed through his mind the row of great caged cats he had seen that day. Pacing the floor of their dens, pausing now and again for a leap, a growl, a snarl, they had fascinated him then. Now his blood ran cold at the thought of the creature which, having escaped from its cage, had crept along the swinging cars, leaping lightly from one to the other until the scent of a man had arrested its course. Was it the Senegal lion? Johnny doubted that. Perhaps the tawny yellow Bengal tiger, or the more magnificent one from Siberia. All this time, while his mind had worked with the speed of a wireless, Johnny's hand was struggling to free his clasp knife. Once more his eye sought the ball of fire. Suddenly as it had come, so suddenly it had vanished. He started in astonishment. Yet he was not to be deceived. The creature had turned its head. It was moving. Perhaps at this very moment it was crouching for a spring. A huge pile of canvas loomed above Johnny. A leap from this vantage, the tearing of claws, the sinking of fangs, and this circus train would have witnessed a tragedy. He strained his ears for a sound, but heard none. He strove to make out a bulk in the dark, but saw nothing. Could it be a tiger or mountain lion, jaguar or spotted leopard? Or was it the black leopard from Asia? A fresh chill ran down Johnny's spine at thought of this creature. Other great cats had paced their cages, growled, snarled; the black leopard, smaller than any, but muscular, sharp clawed, keen fanged, with glowering eyes, had lurked in the corner of his cage and gloomed at those who passed. It was this animal that Johnny feared the most. If he but had a light! At once he thought of his small electric torch. Grasping it in his left hand, he leveled it at the spot where the burning eye had been, and gripping the clasp knife in his right, threw on the button. As the shaft of light flashed across the canvas, he stared for a second, then his hand trembled with surprise and excitement. "Panther Eye, as I live!" he exclaimed. "You old rascal! What are you doing here?" The former companion, for it was not a great cat, but a man, and none other than Panther Eye, fellow free-lance in many a previous adventure, stared at him through large smoked glasses, a smile playing over his lips. "Johnny Thompson, I'll be bound! Some luck to you. What are you doing here?" "Looking for something." "Same here, Johnny." "And I'll stay with this circus until I find it," said Johnny. "Same here, Johnny. Shake on it." Pant crawled over the swaying car and extended a hand. Johnny shook it solemnly. "Slept any?" asked Pant. "A little." "Better sleep some more, hadn't we?" "I'm willing." "It's a go." Pant crept back to his hole in the canvas; Johnny sank back into his. He was not to sleep at once, however. His mind was working on many problems. Not the least of these was the question of Panther Eye's presence on the circus train. This strange fellow, who appeared to be endowed with a capacity for seeing in the dark, was always delving in dark corners, searching out hidden mysteries. What mystery could there be about a circus? What, indeed? Was not Johnny on the trail of a puzzling mystery himself? Having reasoned thus far he was about to fall asleep, when a single red flash lighted up the peak of the canvas pile, then faded. He thought of the red ball of fire he had taken for a cat's eye. He remembered the yellow glow he had seen when with Pant on other occasions. His mind attacked the problem weakly. He was half asleep. In another second the click-click of the car wheels was heard only in his dreams. CHAPTER II BOXING THE BUNCO-STEERER From time to time during the night, Johnny awoke to listen for a moment to the click-click of the wheels. Once he thought he caught again the play of that crimson flash upon the canvas. Once he remained awake long enough to do a little wondering and planning. How had Pant, his friend of other days, come aboard this circus train? What was he seeking? True, Johnny had received a letter from this strange fellow some time before, in which he spoke in mysterious terms of a three-ring circus and the Secret Service, but Johnny had taken this very much as a joke. What possible connection could there be between circus and Secret Service? Finding the problem impossible of solution, he turned his attention to his own plight. He had started upon a strange journey of which he knew not even the destination. In his pocket was a five-dollar bill and some loose change. He must stick to this circus until he had regained a certain precious bit of jewelry. How was he to do that? One of the three lady circus performers had it, he felt sure, but how was he to find out which one? Should he be so fortunate as to discover this, how was he to regain possession of it? Hedged about as the life of the circus woman is, by those of her own kind, the task seemed impossible, yet somehow it must be done. It had been the utmost folly for Marjory to wear her mother's engagement ring, set with an immense solitaire, dangling on a chain, when they attended the circus, yet she had done it, and Johnny had promised to watch it. He had kept a sharp lookout, but had been caught unawares when the thief had proved to be an elephant, who doubtless had taken it for something to eat, and, having scratched his trunk upon it, had tossed it to his lady friends of the human species, to see what they thought of it. "Rotten luck!" Johnny grumbled, as he turned over once more to fall asleep. By a succession of sudden stops and starts, by the bumping of cars, and the grinding of brakes, Johnny realized that at last they had come to a stopping place. When the starting and stopping had continued for some time, he knew the city they were entering was a large one. Opening his eyes sleepily, he propped himself up on one elbow and tried to peer about him. It was still dark. A stone wall rose a short distance above the cars on either side. Above and beyond the wall to the left great buildings loomed. From one of these, towering far above the rest, lights gleamed here and there. The others were totally dark. "Big one's a hotel, rest office buildings," was Johnny's mental comment. "But say, where have I seen this before?" Lifting himself to his knees, he looked down the track in the direction they had just come. A tower pointing skyward appeared to have closed in on their wake. Turning, he looked in the opposite direction. A dull gray bulk loomed out of the dark. "Chicago," he muttered in surprise. "Of all places! We've come all the way from that jerk-water city of Amaraza to put on a show in good old Chi. Can't be a bit of doubt of it, for yonder's the Auditorium hotel, back there's the Illinois Central depot, and ahead the Art Institute. Grant Park's our destination. The situation improves. We'll have some real excitement. Pant will be tickled pink. "Pant! Oh, Pant!" he whispered hoarsely. "Pant!" He spoke the name aloud. Receiving no answer, he climbed over the canvas piles to the spot where Pant had been. "Gone," he muttered. "Didn't think he'd shake me like that!" He dropped into gloomy reflections. What was his next move? He had counted on Pant's assistance. Now he must go it alone. "Oh, well," he sighed at last, "I'll just hang around and let things happen. They generally do." Before darkness came again things had happened--several things, in which the fortunes of Johnny Thompson rose and fell to rise again like bits of cork on a storm-tossed sea. Before putting his hand on the iron rod to lower himself to the cinder strewn track, he gave himself over to a moment of recollection. He was thinking of this strange fellow, Pant. Again he groped his way in the dark cave in Siberia, with Pant's all-seeing eye to guide him. Again he fought the Japs in Vladivostok. Again--but I will not recount all his vivid recollections here, for you have doubtless read them in the book called "Panther Eye." It is enough to say that the incidents of this story proved beyond a doubt that Pant could see in the dark, but as to how and why he was so strangely gifted, that had remained a mystery to the end; and to Johnny Thompson it was to this time as great a mystery as in the beginning. * * * * * * * * Pant had left the circus train at Twenty-second Street. He had drawn his cap down to his dark goggles, and hurrying over to State Street, boarded a north-bound surface car. A half hour later he climbed the last of six flights of stairs, and turning a key in a dusty door, let himself into a room that overlooked the river at Wells Street. This room had been Johnny Thompson's retreat in those stirring days told of in "Triple Spies." Johnny had turned the key over to Pant before he left Russia. Pant had renewed the lease, and had, from time to time, as his strangely mysterious travels led through Chicago, climbed the stairs to sit by the window and reflect, or to throw himself upon the bed and give himself over to many hours of sleep. At present he was not in need of sleep. Swinging the blinds back without the slightest sound, he drew a chair to the window and, dropping his chin in his cupped hands, fell into deep reflection. His inscrutable, mask-like face seemed a blank. Only twice during two hours did the muscles relax. Each time it was into a cat-like smile. Just before these moments of amusement there had appeared upon the river, far below, a broad patch of crimson light. * * * * * * * * Morning before the circus performance is like the wash of a receding tide. Dull gray fog still lingers in the air. In front of the ropes that exclude visitors a few curiosity seekers wander up and down, but it is behind these lines, on behind the kitchen, mess, and horse tents that the real denizens of the fog are to be found. Here a host of attaches of the circus, and those not definitely attached, wander about like beasts in their cages, or engage in occupations of doubtful character. Here are to be found in great numbers the colored razor-backs, mingled with the white men of that profession. Stake drivers, rope pullers, venders of peanuts and pop, mingle with the motley crowd of sharp-witted gentry who, like vultures following a victorious army, live in the wake of a prosperous circus. Later, all these would sleep, but for the moment, like owls and bats, they cling to the last bit of morning fog. It was down this much trodden "gold coast" at the back door of the circus that Johnny Thompson found himself walking. He had taken his coffee and fried eggs at a restaurant that backed "Boul Mich." He was now in search of Pant, also hoping for things to turn up, which, presently, they did. So Johnny sauntered slowly along the broad walk bordering the Lake Front park. Here and there he paused to study the faces of men who sat munching their breakfast. Faces always interested him, and besides, he knew full well that some of the sharpest as well as the lowest criminals follow a circus. His course was soon arrested by the hoarse half whisper of a man to the right of him. About this man--a white man--was gathered a knot of other men. "Five, if you pick the black card. Try your luck! Try it, brother. Five dollars, if you pick the lucky card." These were the words the man whispered. Johnny edged his way to the center of the group. In shady places at the back of great country picnics, or in secluded sheds at county fairs, he had seen this game played many a time, but to find it in a Chicago park seemed unbelievable. Yet, here it was. A broad shouldered man, with an irregular mouth and a ragged ear, evidently badly mauled in some fight, stood with a newspaper held flat before him. On the paper, face down, were three ordinary playing cards. The slim, tapering fingers of the man played over the cards, as a pianist's fingers play over the keys. Now he gathered them all up to toss them one by one, face up, on the paper. "See, gents; two reds and a black! Watch it! There it is! There it is! Now, there! Five dollars, if you pick the lucky card! Five to me if you lose." He shot an inquiring glance toward Johnny. Johnny remained silent. A short, stout man thrust a five dollar bill into the conman's hand. His trembling fingers turned a card. It was red. With an oath he struggled out of the ring. "Can't hit it always, brother," a smirky smile overspread the conman's face. "Well, now, I'll make it easy. There it is! Leave it there. Who will try? Who will try?" A young man wearing a green tie passed over a ten dollar bill. "Make it all or nothing. All or nothing," chuckled the operator. The youth grinned. His confident finger picked the card. It was black. "You win, brother, you win. I told you. Now, who'll win next?" Again he shot a glance at Johnny. Again Johnny was silent. Twice more the game was played. Each time the conman lost. "Everybody wins this morning." The conman's fingers played with the cards, and in playing bent the corner of the black card ever so slightly upward. Johnny's keen eyes saw it. When the card was turned, he had picked it right. Five times in imaginary plays the conman tossed the cards down and gathered them up. Each time Johnny's eye, following the bent card, told him he was right. Six times he picked the black card correctly. Was the conman drunk? He thought not. His keen eyes studied the circle of faces. Then he laughed. "Where do you think it is?" The conman bantered. Johnny pointed a finger at the bent card. "Why don't you bet?" Johnny laughed again. "I bate." A Swede standing near Johnny thrust out a five dollar bill. He won. "See?" jeered the conman. "You're no sport. You're a coward." He leered at Johnny. Johnny's cheek turned a shade redder, but he only smiled. Again the Swede bet and won. Again the conman had the word "coward" on his lips. He did not say it. Johnny was speaking. There was a cold smile on his lips. "I can tell you one thing, stranger," Johnny squared his shoulders, "I'm not in the habit of allowing men to call me a coward. I'll tell you why I don't play your rotten game, then I'll tell you something else. That man, and that one, and that one and this Swede are your cappers. You had twenty-five dollars between you when I came. You got five from that stranger who left. When one of your cappers won, he passed the money from hand to hand until it came back to you. If they lost it's the same. A stranger has about as much chance with a bunch like you as a day-old chick has in the middle of the Atlantic. But say, stranger, you called me a coward. I'll tell you what I'll do. You've got me topped by seventy-five pounds, and you think you know how to handle your dukes. I'll box you three rounds, and if you touch my face in any round, I'll give you a five-case note, the last one I have. Not bet, see! Just give! You can't lose; you may win. What say?" The conman's lips parted, but no sound came. The eyes of his pals and cappers were upon him. "You wouldn't let the little runt bluff y'," suggested the young capper of the green tie. "Oh--all, all right, brother." The conman's voice stuck in his throat. "All right. Somebody fetch the gloves." A boxing match, or even a free-for-all, is not so uncommon on the back lines of a circus, but it never fails to draw a crowd. It was upon this inevitable crowd that Johnny counted for his backing, should the three rounds turn into a rough and tumble, with no mercy and no quarter. Once his gloves were on, he explained to the rapidly growing circle the terms of the match. "There's no referee, so all of you are it," he smiled. "Right-O. We're wid ye," a genial Irishman shouted. "Go to it, kid," a sturdy stake driver echoed. "Are you ready?" Johnny moved his gloves to a position not ten inches from his body. With fists well extended, the conman leaped across the ring. The blow he aimed at Johnny's head would have felled an ox, had it landed. It did not land. Johnny had sprung to one side. The next instant he tapped the conman on his ragged ear. This appeared to infuriate his antagonist. Perhaps it served to bring back memories of another battle in which he had been worsted. His rage did him neither service nor credit. Time and again he bounded at the elusive Johnny, to find himself fanning air. Time and again Johnny tapped that ragged ear. The conman landed not a single blow. When, after three minutes, a man called time, and the two paused to take a breath, the plaudits were all for Johnny. As he rested, the beady eyes of the conman narrowed to slits. He was thinking, planning. He had not scored on the first bout, the second would see him a winner. Instantly upon re-entering the ring he rushed Johnny for a clinch. Taken by surprise, the boy could not avoid it. Yet, even here, he was more than a match for his heavier opponent. Gripping hard with his left, he rained blows on the other's back, just above the kidney. That, in time, made a break welcome. The conman's game was to clinch, then to force his opponent back to a position where he could land his right on Johnny's chin. This would win his point. More than that, it would enable him to break Johnny's neck, if he chose, and he might so decide. Three times he clinched. Three times he received trip-hammer blows on his back, and three times he gave way before his plucky opponent. When, at last, time was called, he fairly reeled to his corner. There was a dangerous light in his eye as he stepped up for the third round. "Watch him, kid. He'll do you dirt," muttered the Irishman. "Keep your guard," echoed another. Johnny, still smiling, moved forward. His face was well guarded. He was confident of victory. Twice the conman feinted with his right, struck out with his left, then retired. The third time he rushed straight on. Johnny easily dodged his blows, but the next second doubled up in a knot. Groaning and panting for breath he fell to the earth. Eagerly the conman leaped forward. His glove had barely touched Johnny's cheek when a grip of iron pulled him back. "There's no referee. Then I'm one. An Irishman for a square scrap." It was Johnny's ardent backer. Panting, the conman stood at bay. In time, Johnny, having regained his breath, sat up dizzily and looked about. "Where's the five?" demanded the conman. Johnny held up his right glove. "I leave it to the crowd if he gets it fair." "He fouled you wid his knee! He jammed it into yer stummick! A rotten trick as ever was played!" yelled the Irishman. "Right-O! Sure! Sure! Kill him! Eat him alive!" came from every corner. Johnny rose. "We'll finish the round," he said quietly. "Keep your money," grumbled the conman. "No! No! No!" came from a hundred throats, for by this time a dense mob was packed about the improvised ring. Chairs, benches and barrels had been dragged up. On these men stood looking over the shoulders of those in front. Like an enraged bull the conman stood at bay. "All right," he laughed savagely. "We'll finish it quick." He leaped squarely at Johnny. Johnny's whole body seemed to stiffen, then to rise. Springing full ten inches from the ground and ten inches forward, he shot out his glove. There came the thudding impact of a master-blow. The conman rose slightly in the air, then reeled backward into the mob. The point of his chin had come in contact with Johnny's fist. With characteristic speed, Johnny threw off the gloves, seized his coat and lost himself in the crowd. He was not ashamed of his part in the affair, far from that. He knew he had given the crook only that which he richly deserved. He was not, however, at that moment looking for publicity, and escape was the only way to avoid it. In eluding the crowd he was singularly successful. By dodging about the horse tent, and rounding the mess tent, he was able to make his way directly to the shore of the lake. Here he walked rapidly south until he found himself alone. Throwing himself upon the ground, for ten minutes he watched the small breakers coil and recoil upon the shore. Rising, he lifted his laughing blue eyes to the sunshine. Then, scooping up hands-full of the clear lake water, he bathed his face, his chest, his arms. "Boy! Boy!" he breathed, as he beat his chest dry. "It's sure good to be alive!" A moment later his face clouded. "But how about that diamond ring? Oh, you sparkler, come to your daddy!" With this, he repaired to the show site. On returning to the rear of the circus tents, he was surprised to be accosted at once by a smooth-shaven, sturdy man with a clean, clear look in his eye. "You're the boy that's so handy with his mitts?" Johnny had a mind to run for it, but one look into those clear eyes told him this would be folly. "That's what they say," he smiled. "Shake! I like you for that." The stranger extended his hand. Johnny gripped it warmly. "The way you handled that conman wasn't bad; not half-bad. You're a sport; a regular one! The circus boys like a good sport; the real chaps do. How'd you like a job?" "A--a job?" Johnny stammered. "What kind?" "Circus job." "What kind?" Johnny repeated. "What can you do?" "I--I--" suddenly Johnny had an inspiration. "Why, I'm the best little groom there is in three states. I could shine up those fat bareback horses of yours till you'd take them for real plate glass." "Could you? I believe you could, and you're going to have a chance. Millie Gonzales' three mounts have been neglected of late." Millie Gonzales! Johnny caught his breath. He had gone fishing and caught a whale the first cast. Millie Gonzales was one of the three circus girls at whose feet the diamond ring had dropped. Perhaps she was the one who had picked it up; who held it among her possessions now. He would know. "When can I go to work?" he asked unsteadily. "Right now. I'll take you over to the stables. Stable boss'll give you a suit and some unionalls. You shape up the three and have 'em ready for Millie by two o'clock, in time for the grand parade." "Of all the luck!" Johnny whispered into the ear of a sleek, broad backed gray a half hour later. "To think that I should have fallen into this at the very start! Perhaps Millie has it. Perhaps she's wearing it on one of those tapering fingers of hers at this very moment. Is she, old boy? Is she?" The horse looked at him with eyes that said nothing. "You won't tell," Johnny bantered. "Well, then, I'll have to find out for myself. Come on, you two o'clock!" CHAPTER III THE FEASTERS SEE A HAUNT Pant did not return to the neighborhood of the circus grounds until darkness had fallen. Then it was only to go skulking along the beach, and to perch himself at last, owl-like, on a huge pile of sand which overlooked a particular stretch of the beach on which a huge fire of driftwood had been built. The fire had died down now to a great, glowing bed of coals. About the fire eight negroes were seated. "Razor-backs from the circus," was Pant's mental comment. "Something doing!" So filled with their own thoughts were the minds of the colored gentlemen that they had failed to note Pant's arrival. Seated there in the darkness, motionless as an owl watching for the move of a mouse, his mask-like face expressionless, his slim, tapering fingers still, Pant appeared but a part of the dull drab scenery. "Hey, Brother Mose; time to carb de turkey-buzzard," chuckled one of the darkies. "Brother Mose" turned half about, stretched out a fat hand and drew toward him a thin object wrapped in a newspaper. "Sambo," he commanded, "leave me have dat cleavah!" Sambo handed over a butcher's cleaver. The next instant the package was unwrapped, revealing a clean, white strip of meat, which had at one time been half the broad back of a porker. "Po'k chops!" murmured Mose. "Um! Um! Um!" came in a chorus. "Ya-as, sir. Now you-all jes' stir up dem coals, an' put dem sweet 'taters roastin', while I does the slicin' an' de cleavin'." Mose drew a butcher knife from his hip pocket. From a second bulging package on the beach, two of his comrades drew shining yellow tubers, while others stirred up the coals, and raked some out to a circular hole in the sand, which had previously been lined with ashes. Having tossed the coals in, they covered them lightly with ashes, at the same time calling: "Le's hab dem 'taters!" All this time with no observer save the unsuspected Pant, Mose was operating skillfully on that pork loin. With a slab of drift wood as chopping block, he sliced away with the skill of a hotel butcher. In a twinkle, the chops lay neatly piled in heaps on the slab. Then, while no one was looking, he caused a liberal handful of the chops to disappear into the huge pocket at the back of his coat. Pant's lips curved in a smile. "Holding out," he whispered. "Dere dey is," exulted Mose, like a rooster calling his brood to a meal. "Dere dem po'k chops is, all carved an' cleaned an' ready fo' de roastin'." "Um, um, um," chanted his companions in gurgling approval. Whence had come these pork chops? This question did not trouble Pant. They might have been bought at a butcher shop; then again, they might have been stolen. It was enough for Pant that they were there. He was glad. Not that he hoped to "horn in" on the feast; he had eaten bountifully but an hour before. Nevertheless, he was glad to be here. This little festal occasion suited his purpose beautifully. He had hoped something like this might be going on down here. The pork chops stowed away in Mose's pocket amused him. As he thought of them his former plan changed slightly, his lips twisted in a smile. "It's all plain enough," he thought to himself. "Moses and old Lankyshanks, his buddie, have a half hour longer to loaf than the rest of them; that gives them time for a little extra feast. The supplies belong to them all alike, but Mose and Lankyshanks get double portions if--" Here he smiled again. The preparation for the feast went on. Each man twisted out of tangled wire a rude but serviceable broiler. They joked and laughed as they worked, their dark faces shining like ebony. "Po'k chops, po'k chops, po'k chops! Um! Um! Um!" they chanted now and then. In time word was passed around the circle, and then eight right hands shot out and eight broilers hung out over the coals. Snapping and sputtering, flaring up with a sudden burning of grease, whirled now this way, now that, the pork chops rapidly turned a delicious brown. The odor which rose in air would have made a chronic dyspeptic's mouth water. "Po'k chops, po'k chops, po'k chops! Um! Um! Um!" Twice Pant lifted his eyes toward the stars. Twice he brought them down again. "Haven't got the heart to do it," he whispered to himself; "I'll take a chance and wait." The sweet potatoes had been dug from the roasting pit; the feasters had sunk their teeth deep in juicy fat, when Pant was suddenly startled by a groan close at hand. Without moving, he turned his head to see a colored boy sitting near him. Recognizing the round, close-cropped bullet head as one belonging not to the circus, but to South Water Street, he leaned over and whispered: "'Lo, Snowball, what y' doin' here?" "Same's you, I reckon." The boy showed all his teeth in a grin. "Jes' sittin' an' a-wishin', dat's all." "Pork chops, huh?" "Ain't it so, Mister? Ain't dem the grandes' you ain't most never smelt?" "Sh, not so loud," cautioned Pant. "Maybe there'll be some for you yet. Sort of reserve rations." "Think so, mebby?" Pant nodded. Then together they sat in silence while the feast went on; sat till the last bone and potato skin had been thrown upon the fast dulling coals. "Huh!" sighed Snowball. "Hain't no mo'." He half rose to go, but Pant pulled him back to his seat. Six of the colored gentlemen were wiping their hands on greasy bandanas, and were preparing to depart. "Reckon me and Lanky'll jes' res' here for a while," grunted Mose. "Eh-heh," assented Lankyshanks. The six had hardly disappeared over the hill when Lankyshanks' eyes popped wide open. "'Mergency rations," he whispered. With a grunt of satisfaction, Mose handed three pork chops to Lankyshanks, wired his own three to his broiler, stirred up the fire, then began slowly revolving the sputtering chops over the sparkling embers. For fully five minutes Pant and Snowball, on the sand pile, watched in silence--a silence broken only by an occasional, half audible sigh from Snowball. The chops were done to a brown finish when Pant suddenly fixed his gaze intently upon the big dipper which hung high in the heavens. At that precise instant, Mose, uttering a groan not unlike that of a dying man, threw his broiler high in air, rolled over backward, turned two somersaults, then stumbling to his feet, ran wildly down the beach. Having dropped his chops on the coals, Lanky followed close behind. The expression of utter terror written on their faces was something to see and marvel at. Pant still gazed skyward. Snowball gripped his arm, and whispered tensely: "Lawdy, Mister! Look'a dere!" Pant removed his gaze from the heavens and looked where Snowball pointed, at the bed of dying embers. "What was it, Snowball?" he drawled. "Why! Where are our friends?" "Dey done lef'," whispered Snowball, still gripping his arm. "An' so 'ud you. It's a ha'nt, er a sign, er sumthin'. Blood. It was red, lak blood. All red. Dem fellers was red, an' dem po'k chops, an' dat sand, all red lak blood." "Pork chops," said Pant slowly. "Yes, sir, po'k chops an' everything. I done heard dat Mose say it were a sign. Dey's be a circus wreck, er sumthin'. Train wreck of dat dere circus." "Pork chops," said Pant again thoughtfully. "Where did the pork chops go? Why! There is one broiler full on the wood pile. They must have left it there for you." "No, sir! Dat Mose done throwed it dere. Dat's how scared he was." "They won't be back, I guess; so you'd better just warm them up a bit and sit up to the table." Terror still lurked in Snowball's eyes, but in his nostrils still lingered the savory smell of pork chops. The pork chops won out and he was soon feasting royally. "Snowball," said Pant when the feast was finished, "would you like to earn a little money?" "Would I? Jes' try me, Mister!" "All right. I want five Liberty Bonds, the fifty-dollar kind. A lot of those circus fellows have them, and some of them will sell them, maybe cheap. Don't pay more than forty-five for any. Get them for thirty-nine, if you can. The cheap ones are the kind I want. Here's the money. Don't bet it, don't lose it, and don't let any of those crooks touch you for it. It will take you a little time to find the bonds. I'll meet you right here in two hours." Snowball rolled his eyes. "Boss, I sho' am grateful fo' th' compliment, but I is plum scared at all dat money." "Nobody'll hurt you or take it from you. You're honest. If you do lose it, I'll forgive you. Good-by." Pant strode rapidly down the beach, leaving Snowball to make his way back to the circus grounds in quest of thirty-nine dollar Liberty Bonds, an article which, if he had but known it, has never existed in legitimate channels of business. CHAPTER IV "PALE FACE BONDS" After leaving Pant, Snowball divided the money he had been given for the purpose of purchasing Liberty Bonds into five little rolls. These he deposited in five different pockets about his ragged trousers and coat. "Dere now," he muttered; "dey won't nobody snatch it all from me at oncet." He first wandered down the back ropes, accosting here and there a colored gentleman who looked as if he might be the proud possessor of a bond. Some laughed at this bullet-headed youngster, who claimed to be in possession of enough money to purchase a "sho' nuff" Liberty Bond. Others, with prying eyes, leered at his pockets. These he gave a wide berth. An hour of this sort of thing netted him two bonds at forty-two dollars each. "Huh," he grunted at last, "these here colored circus folks sho' am plum short on Liberty Bonds. Reckon I'se gwine try some white mans." Making his way boldly out to the front of the circus, where a thin crowd filtered in and out, here and there, some few drifting into the side shows, he made straight for a man in uniform who guarded the entrance to the big tent. "Say, Mister, you all got any Liberty Bonds to sell?" "Liberty Bonds?" The man started and stared. "Who wants 'em?" "Me. I do, Mister." "Say!" The man bent low and whispered. "You see that man selling tickets in front of the big side show, by the picture of the fat lady?" "Uh-huh." "He's got some. Bought them this morning, cheap. Mebbe he'll sell them to you." "Thank ye, Mister." Snowball was away like a flash. "Liberty Bonds?" said the ticket hawker of the black mustache. "How many?" "I might buy one, if it's cheap, mebbe." "How cheap?" "How much you all want?" "Forty dollars." Snowball shook his head, "Thirty-nine. That's all I'm payin' jes' now." His hand was in his right trousers pocket. "Let's see yer money." Snowball stepped back a discreet distance, then displayed two twenty-dollar bills. "All right, let's have 'em." "Let's see dat Liberty Bond." "All right." The man dug into his inner vest pocket, produced a flat envelope from which he extracted a square of paper. "Here it is." Snowball inspected it closely. "Dat's all right, Mister. I git a dollar back." The ticket seller peeled a one-dollar bill from a bulky roll and the deal was closed. "Say, Mister," said Snowball, rolling his eyes, "I might buy another one, same price." "Why didn't you say so?" Snowball grinned. Again the deal was closed. Snowball put his hand into his left hip pocket and repeated his declaration: "Say, Mister, I might buy jes' one more." For a second time the man's eyes rested on him with suspicion lurking in their depths. "Say, boy, who you buying these for?" "Fo' me, mysef." "All right, Mr. First National Bank, here you are." The deal was quickly closed and Snowball hastened away, happy in the realization that he had accomplished the task set for him. Making his way to the beach, he found Pant sprawled out on the sand, half asleep. "Did you get them?" the white man asked drowsily. "Ya-as, sir. Here dey is." Snowball held out the five bonds. "An' here's de change." Pant sat up, suddenly all alert. "You got three for thirty-nine?" "Ya-as, sir." "Let's have a look." Pant's slender fingers trembled as he spread the five squares of paper out upon the sand. "Good!" he muttered. "You got them all right. Now look at them all. Snowball. See any difference in 'em?" He held a lighted match above the bonds. Snowball studied them as intently as his roving eyes would allow. "No, no, sir, I don't." "These two. Look different, don't they?" "No, no, sir; I can't say dat." "You're blind," grunted Pant. "Two of them are paler than the others; ink is not so dark. See? Not quite." "Oh, yas, ya-as, sir." "Now those two pale face bonds were folded up with one other. Remember where you got them?" Pant's eyes flashed through his thick glasses. "No, no, Oh, ya-as, ya-as, sir, I do. It were dat 'ere white man; sellin' tickets, he was." "Good! Now here's a dollar. That's for you. You'll get another when you come back. You take these two pale face bonds to the ticket seller and ask him where he got them." "Ya-as, sir." Full of wonder at the strange doings of this odd fellow with the black glasses, Snowball hurried back to the ticket seller. "Say, Mister," he demanded, "whar'd y' git these pale face bonds?" "What?" The man stared at him. "Whar y' git 'em?" Snowball held them up for inspection. "Let's see." The man made a grab for them. "Nem' min'." The boy darted away. "Who wants to know?" the man demanded gruffly. "Me, myself." "I can't tell exactly. I bought two from Tom Stick, the midget clown, three from Andy McQueen, the steam kettle cook, and two more from a bunco-steerer--feller with a bite taken out of his ear. I don't know which ones those are. "Say, boy!" The expression on his face suddenly changed. "You let me have them bonds." "No-o, sir!" Snowball dashed away in sudden fright. With the ticket seller close on his heels, he dodged around a fat woman, nearly collided with a baby carriage, leaped the tent ropes. Like a jack rabbit, he scooted beneath the ponderous wagons on which rested the electric light plant of the circus, and, at last, dodging through the mess tent, succeeded in eluding his pursuer. He was still breathing hard when he reached the place of rendezvous on the beach. "What did he say?" demanded Pant. "He said he bought some from dat midget clown, an' some from a steam kettle cook, an' some from a bunco-man wid a chewed ear. Say, Mister, do I get dat oder dollar?" Pant held it out to him. "What you puffing about?" "Dat ticket man chased me." "What for?" "Don't know, boss." For a moment they were silent. "Say, Boss," Snowball whispered after a time, "what you s'pose made dat ere red splotch on the groun'?" "What red spot?" There was a suspicion of a smile lurking about the corner of Pant's mouth. "Man! Don' you know? 'Roun' dat fiah?" "Oh, yes; I wasn't looking just then." "Say, Boss!" The boy was whispering again. "I ain't afraid of almost nuthin'--nuthin' but signs and ghosts. You s'pose dat were a sign?" "It might have been." "An' say, Boss, what's dem colored fellers sayin' 'bout a wreck? Don' mean that ere circus train's gwine wreck? Man, that'd be some kind of a wreck! Tigers fightin' b'ars, lions eatin' elephants, snakes a-crawlin' loose, wild cats a-clawin', an monkeys screamin'! Man! Oh, man!" For a full minute Snowball sat silent, wild-eyed and staring at the mental picture he had conjured up. Then a sudden thought struck him. "Say, Boss, dis am circus day ain't it? An' I got two dollars I jes' earned and ain't spent, ain't I? Boss, I'se gone right now!" And he was. For a long time Pant sat there in contemplative silence. Finally, with one hand he smoothed out the sand before him. On this, with his finger, he spelled out the name: BLACKIE McCREE. Then, with a quick glance about him, as if afraid it had been seen, he erased the letters. * * * * * * * * When Johnny Thompson had been introduced to the stable boss and had been given his assignment, he lost no time in getting on a suit of unionalls and was soon at work sleeking down his three broad backed dapple grays. It was a long task, painstakingly done, for Johnny loved horses and these three were among the finest in the circus. His mind, however, was not always on his brush and cloth. In the grand parade, which, in Chicago did not leave the tent, but circled about in the mammoth enclosure, while the vast crowds cheered, Millie Gonzales rode standing on these three fat chargers, that, with tossing manes and champing bits, seemed at every moment ready to break her control and go rushing down the arena. Johnny was to take the horses to the entrance of the big tent. That much he had been told. Would he there turn them over to Millie? And would she be wearing the missing ring? The answers to these questions he could only guess. It was with a wildly beating heart that he at last led his three horses down the narrow canvas enclosure which led to the great tent. Already the procession was forming. Here a group of clowns waited in silence. Here a great gilded chariot rumbled forward, and here a trained elephant was being fitted with his rider's canopied seat. By this director, then that one, Johnny was guided to the spot from which his three dapple grays would start. He had hardly reached the position than a high-pitched, melodious, but slightly scornful, voice said: "Why! Who are you? Where's Peter?" "Who's Peter?" asked Johnny, doffing his cap respectfully, but studying the girl's hands the meanwhile. "Why, he's my groom." "Begging your pardon, he's not; I am." "You?" She stood back and surveyed him with unveiled scorn. "You? A little shrimp like you?" Johnny was angry. Hot words rushed to his lips but remained unspoken. He was playing a big game. For the time he must repress his pride. "I--I--" Millie stormed on, "I like a big groom, a strong one. I shall see about this." "Oh!" smiled Johnny, "if it's strength you want, I guess you'll find me there. And for horses, I know how to groom them." Millie cast an appraising eye over the grays. "Did you do that?" "Yes, please." "They're wonderful!" Lifting a dainty foot, she waited for Johnny's palm. Once it rested securely there, she gave a little spring and would have landed neatly on the first gray's back, had not Johnny suddenly shot his arm upward. As it was, she rose straight in the air three feet above the horses to land squarely on the middle one of the three. She landed fairly on her feet. A whip sang through the air. She had aimed a vicious blow at Johnny's cheek. There was a wild flare of anger in her eye. Dodging out of her reach, Johnny stood trembling for fear he had foolishly wasted his grand chance. Presently the girl's lips curved in a half disdainful smile. "You are an impudent fellow, and I should have some one thrash you. "You are strong, though," she went on, "and because of that, I'll forgive you. In the future, however, remember that I am Millie Gonzales and you are my groom." Johnny nodded gravely. The procession moved forward. Millie passed from his view. After calmly reviewing the situation, one fact stood out in bold relief in Johnny's mind: If it were Millie Gonzales who had the ring, his task was to be a difficult one, for she was a keen, crafty, high-tempered, unscrupulous Spaniard, who would stop at nothing to gain her end. "Well, anyway," he decided, "if she has it, she is not wearing it. It's not on her hand. Here's hoping it's one of the other two." He moved to a position where he could watch the parade. For a full three minutes his eyes swept it from end to end. Out of it all--the troop of elephants, the brass band, the clowns, the performers, the many strange carts and chariots--one figure stood supreme: A girl who rode high on a throne, mounted upon a great chariot, escorted by six footmen, and drawn by six prancing chargers. "The queen of the circus!" he thought. "I wonder who she is." Johnny had hardly spoken the words when, for a second, the girl's smiling face was turned his way. He caught his breath sharply. "She's one of the three," he gasped. "If it is she who has the ring--" He did not finish, for just then the van of the procession entered the wing, and he slipped away behind the canvas to await Millie Gonzales and the three grays. "Say pard," he whispered to a circus hand standing beside him, "who's this queen of the circus?" "Don't you know?" the other asked in surprise. "That's Gwen Maysfield, the tight-rope dancer. A regular sport she is, too; can box like a man. Packs a wallop, too. I've seen her knock this fellow who boxes the bear clean over the ropes." "Boxes the bear?" "Sure. Don't you know the act? Feller's got a bear; rides bicycles, and all that. One of his stunts is to put on the gloves with the big silver-gray. Of course it's a frost. Bear could knock him a mile, if he wanted to." Johnny said no more, but soon began piecing together his bits of information. Gwen was the queen of the circus. She was also one of the three at whose feet the diamond ring had dropped. She liked boxing. If only he could manage to get a few rounds with her, that might break down the social barrier that stood between them. Then he could ask her about the ring. But she was the queen, and he only a groom. How was he to manage it? She boxed with the performer who boxed the bear. Perhaps he could make the acquaintance of this bear boxer. The time was approaching when Millie and her three grays were to go on. He hastened away to his work. That night in the animal tent, while the exhibition was in full swing, while thousands were crowding before the long line of cages, there occurred a strange and startling incident; a cage plainly marked BLACK LEOPARD had appeared, in the uncertain light of night, entirely empty. "Guess that's a fake," a spectator grumbled. "What is it?" asked a child. "Says 'Black Pussy,'" smiled the father, "but I guess there isn't any." "Oh, Papa, I want to see the black pussy!" wailed the child, clinging to the ropes, and refusing to move along. The father was striving to quiet the child when, of a sudden, a flash of crimson light brought out the dark corners of the cage in bold relief. It was gone in a twinkling, but in that time a raging fury of black fur, flashing claws and gleaming eyes leaped against the bars. The child screamed, the father swore softly. There was a succession of exclamations from the crowd. A colored attendant, who chanced to be passing with a bundle of straw, dropped his burden to stare, open mouthed, at the cage. When he again put his trembling fingers to the bundle of straw, it was to mutter: "Tain't no safe place fer a 'spectable colored man to wuck. 'T'ain' safe. All dem raid flashes ever'whar. Can't fry po'k chops fer 'em. Can't wuck, can't do nuttin'." That night, after the grand performance was concluded, after the surging crowd had passed out, after the arc lights had fluttered, blinked, and then left the place in darkness, Johnny went out for a breath of fresh air before turning into the bunk assigned to him. He was walking around the end of the big top when a sudden flash of crimson appeared against the canvas. It was a flash only, remaining not one second, but Johnny paused to listen. In another moment there came a whispered, "Hello, Johnny," and Pant appeared. "You work for this circus?" Johnny asked. "No. You?" "Yes, got a job to-day." "What?" "Horses." "Good. That puts you inside. You can help me, Johnny--help me a lot, and believe me, kid, it's big--the biggest thing we ever worked on." Pant's words came quick and tense. "What is it?" "Can't tell you now, but you can help. Here, take these three Liberty Bonds. They're good ones. You take 'em over town and sell 'em. Here's a hundred iron men. You buy me five more bonds from these circus men, see? Any of 'em. You're inside, see? You can do it. Buy five. They've got 'em. They'll sell 'em, too." "I call that light business, dealing in Liberty Bonds on a small margin," grumbled Johnny. "What shall I pay?" "Thirty-nine." "Nobody but a crazy man would sell 'em for that." "Mebbe not, Johnny, but they'll sell 'em. Pay more, if you have to. The game's a big one, I tell you. So long." Pant vanished into the night. CHAPTER V STRANGE DOINGS IN THE NIGHT The following day Johnny carried out Pant's wish in the matter of selling the three Liberty Bonds. When it came to picking up other bonds at Pant's excessively low price, he experienced greater difficulty than had Snowball. Indeed, in all his time off duty he secured only one bond. "Guess I haven't struck the right spot yet," was his mental comment. "I'll try again to-morrow." It was just as he was about to return to his dapple grays that he received a sudden shock. He had been idly glancing over the "Daily News" when a headline caught his eye: "Offers $1,000 Reward for Return of Lost Gem." Quickly he read down the column, then his face fell. "Guess he thinks I stole it," he muttered. It certainly looked that way, for Major MacDonald had publicly offered a reward of a thousand dollars for the return of the ring, and had made it plain that no questions would be asked. "They won't be asked, either." Johnny set his teeth hard. "I'll let him know that he can keep his reward. I'll get that ring back, and I'll send it to him with no return address." Even as he spoke, he started. A new thought had struck him. What if the girl who had the ring should read of the reward and return the jewelry? Where would he be then? "He'd think I had stolen it and given it to a circus girl," Johnny groaned. "Then what would he think of me?" But the next moment he was resolute again. "I'll get next to that boxing bear fellow right away, and I'll cultivate the acquaintance of Millie, if she cuts my face open with that whip of hers. I'll win yet! Watch my smoke!" He hastened away, resolved upon getting better acquainted with Millie Gonzales at once. That night, however, offered no further opportunity for making acquaintances. Indeed, he was made more and more conscious of the fact that in the circus there existed an almost unbreakable line of caste. There were the performers and the attendants. The attendants were kept in their places. They did not mingle with the performers; they were distinctly considered beneath them. "Oh, well," Johnny said to himself, "if that's that, why I'll have to get to be a performer, that's all." But when he came to think it over soberly, he could imagine no means by which this end could be attained. If he had but known it, the opportunity was to present itself in a not far distant time, and in a manner as startling as it was sudden. In one thing that night he was extremely fortunate--he succeeded in securing a position where he could get a clear view of the performance of two very interesting persons, Gwen, the Queen, and Allegretti, the man who boxed the bear. The contrast of the two stood out in his thoughts long after the performers had moved out of the ring. Gwen was wonderful. Johnny was sure he had never seen anyone to equal her in all his life. Light as a feather, waving her delicate silk parasol here and there, she tripped across the invisible wire. Yet, fairy-like as she was, every move spoke of strength, of well developed and perfectly trained muscles. She wore the accustomed grease paint of the ring, but Johnny did not need to be told that beneath this there lay the glow of a healthy skin. "She's all right," he decided. "I'll wager she's an American. Only an American girl could be like that." Through the quarter of an hour during which Gwen was the center of attention of the vast throng, he watched her. The breathless leaps in air, the light, tripping dance from post to post, the bow, the smile--he saw it all and breathed hard as she at last danced out of the ring. "If she has the ring, it's going to be hard to get it," he decided. "If another could be bought, and I had the money, I'd rather buy it and let her keep the old one, but there's only one in all the world, and if she has it I must get it from her. Gwen, big, wonderful American girl, I'm for you, but I'm also a hard hearted detective, and I'm on your trail." The antics of the swarthy foreigner who boxed the bear were as ludicrous and grotesque as Gwen's act had been exquisite. "Clumsy lobster!" Johnny exclaimed, after watching him for five minutes. "What he doesn't know about boxing would fill an encyclopedia, and if he didn't have a good natured bear, he'd get his head knocked off. All he's good for is to dance with a bear on the street and hold out a tin cup for nickels. Nevertheless, Allegretti, old boy, I've got to scrape up an acquaintance with you someway, for that's on the road to the heart of Gwen, though how she can stand the garlic and the look of your ugly mug long enough to box a round with you is more than I can understand." * * * * * * * * While Johnny Thompson was watching the performance, two little girls, sitting bolt upright in their beds in the big house of Major MacDonald in far-away Amaraza, were planning wild things for the future. Through the aid of their maid they had succeeded in securing for themselves suits that would do with the circus--pink tights, exceedingly short blue skirts, red slippers and green caps. All that bright afternoon they had spent in the back yard practicing on their ponies. Standing up on the back of one of them had been easy after the first few attempts, but when Marjory had tried standing with one foot on each pony she had slipped down between them and had come near to being crushed. "We'll do that, too, some day," she had exclaimed resolutely. And now, before they went to sleep, they were planning. "Yes, sir," Marjory was saying, "that old circus will come back here some time; I just know it will! Maybe next week." "And Johnny Thompson will be with it," broke in Margaret. "I just know he will, and we'll get on our ponies when the parade is started. We'll ride right in the parade, and Johnny will see us and say, 'There are my friends, Marjory and Margaret.' Won't he be proud of us!" "Won't he, though!" The other twin clapped her hands in high glee. They went to sleep finally, still thinking of Johnny and the circus, but little dreaming of the remarkable and thrilling adventures in store for them. * * * * * * * * That same night, after the circus tents had been darkened, two strange things happened. The first was never made public; the second was the talk of the circus people the next morning. Scarcely had the last straggling sight-seer wandered from the grounds, than two figures emerged from the side entrance to a small tent. They were followed at a distance by a third. Darting directly for the wall that lined the railway tracks, which at this point run some twelve feet below the surface, but open to the air, they scaled the wall, and, by the aid of a rope, let themselves down to the track. The third person, having followed them to the wall and noted the direction they had taken, contented himself with following along the wall. Coming presently to some stairs, he crept silently down, then having listened for a moment, possibly for the sound of footsteps, he peered down the track. For an instant a pale crimson light flashed down the track. It might easily have been mistaken for the glow of a switch lantern. Then he pushed on after the pair. The two men left the tracks at Randolph street and, taking a zigzag course, headed for the river. Into a long, low-lying building facing the stream they went. Not five minutes later the individual who had followed them was braced against a wall, peering in through a crack in a broken window pane. What he saw within was a low-ceilinged, dimly lighted room, furnished only with a small table, four chairs and a dilapidated chest of drawers. Four men were bent over the table. The lines of their faces drawn in eagerness, they were staring at some flat object on the table. Soon one of them, with the tips of his thumb and forefinger lifted the corner of a sheet of paper. He had lifted it half off from the flat object, to which it appeared to cling, when a startling thing happened--the room was suddenly illuminated with a brilliant blood red light. This lasted only a fraction of a second. The room was then left in darkness, black as ink; for even the candle had been overturned and snuffed out. From the darkness there came the sound of overturned chairs, as the four men made good their escape. By the time they reached the open air their tracker had vanished utterly. He was, at that very moment, flattened against the corner of a dark wall, and was quite as unhappy over the turn of events as they were. At the very instant when he was about to discover a secret of vast importance, his foot had slipped, his face bumped against the glass, and the unexpected happened. The second occurrence, the one which caused much talk among the circus people, happened a short time later. As the attendants reported it, it would seem that their attention was first attracted to the strange phenomenon by the growl of a lion, whose cage was in the corner of the tent. To their surprise, the cage, the lion, and even the straw upon which he lay had turned blood red. Hardly had they finished staring at this than the snarl of a Siberian tiger at the opposite corner had called them to note that the red light, for light it must have been, had shifted to the tiger's cage. The red glare had continued to play hide and seek with the distracted animals for fully five minutes and, during all that time, not one of the attendants could detect its source. At times it appeared to stream down from the canvas top, then to shoot from a corner, or to leap up from the floor. One notable fact was reported: In every instance save one, the animals whose cages were illuminated with crimson light cowered in a corner in snarling fear. The single instance in which this was not true was that of the black leopard. That beast leaped, clawing and snarling, at the bars of its cage, as if it would tear the originator of the crimson flash limb from limb. As the report spread, the negroes of the troupe were panic stricken. They quit in numbers. The owners and managers were hard pressed to keep enough men to do the menial work about the tents, and sent the employment agent to search the city for recruits. One of these recruits chanced to be Snowball, the bullet-headed friend of the strange hanger-on, Pant. CHAPTER VI JOHNNY BOXES THE BEAR Johnny Thompson paced the beach up which the waves of Lake Michigan were rolling. There had been a storm, the aftermath of which was even now coming in. Johnny's mind was in a turmoil. He had been with the circus five days now. Two more days they would remain in Chicago. He was still groom for Millie Gonzales' three grays. Millie was as impossible as ever. Three times she had struck at him with her whip, when he had appeared to overstep his rights as her menial. "If she has the ring, fine chance I've got unless I steal it from her," he grumbled. Allegretti, the Italian boxer, was quite as impossible as Millie. Once Johnny had bantered him for a boxing match, but the fellow had showed all his white teeth in a snarl as he said: "No box-a da bum." He had meant Johnny. Johnny's blood had boiled, but he had made no response. Only when he was out of hearing, he had declared, "Never mind, old boy, I'll get you yet." But thus far he had not "got" him. The way into the good graces of Gwen, queen of the circus, seemed effectually blocked. He had not tried approaching her, for he felt that would be folly. In spite of the sharply drawn lines of caste which prevailed in the circus, life within the tented walls when the performers were off duty was astonishingly simple. Grease paint came off at the end of the last act. About the dressing tent and the assembly yard the women stars appeared plain and simple-minded people. There was nothing of the bravado that Johnny had expected to find. The three girls who held the center of his attention, because of the ring, were wonderfully well-developed physically. Millie was slender and quick as a cat. Mitzi von Neutin, the trapeze performer, was also slender and strong. She was French; Johnny knew that from the many "Mais, oui" and her "Mais, non," with which she answered the questions of the other performers. With her abundance of yellow hair she was like a kitten, as she curled up on a rug in the corner of the tent reading a French novel. But Gwen--Gwen was perfection itself. Not too stout, not too thin; strong, yet not masculine, she was indeed a queen. About the tent, when off duty, she wore a short blue skirt and a blue middy blouse open at the neck and tied with a dark red ribbon. Twice Johnny had seen her boxing with the Italian. Each time the blood had rushed to his temples. To think of such a queen taking her exercise with so coarse a creature filled him with inward rage. "Oh, well, he's of the caste," Johnny had grumbled. "No matter; so shall I be in time. I don't know just how, but I will." Pant, too, had puzzled him greatly. He had not forgotten his friend's uncanny power of seeing in the dark. He had heard of the strange appearance and disappearance of the crimson flash in the animal tent and elsewhere, and suspected that Pant was at the bottom of it, but just what his game was, or what strange secret of the power of light Pant possessed, he could not guess. Johnny had at last succeeded in buying the five bonds which Pant had wanted. He had obtained two of them for $39 each. These he had bought from a fat, red faced man who was a guard at the entrance to the big top. He was even now waiting to deliver them to Pant. Presently that individual came shuffling by, and, motioning Johnny to follow him, continued down the beach until they had found a secluded spot in a turn of a breakwater. "Got 'em?" Pant whispered. "Sure." "Good! Let's see!" "Good! Fine!" he exclaimed, after he had glanced over the bonds. "Now can you tell me who sold you these two together?" "I don't know his name; a fat, red faced fellow at the entrance of the big top." "Good! That's one of them. They're the right kind, I'll wager. Let's see!" Pant spread the bonds out on a broad plank. "No, only one!" he mused. "Getting careful, I'd say, Johnny." He turned suddenly. "Would you risk much for an old friend?" "I'd do a lot for you, Pant." "Thanks!" Pant gripped his hand warmly. "Take these two bonds you got from that fat fellow and sell them to-morrow to some dealer in bonds on La Salle street. You bought them for $39, did you not?" "Yes." "You should get $45. Good little gain, eh?" Johnny grinned. He knew Pant too well to think for a moment that he would engage in a small business of trading in bonds two or three at a time. What his real game was, he was unable to guess. "All right, old man. See you to-morrow," he said, rising and tucking the bonds away in his inner pocket. "I'll hurry back now. I think I'm going to box the fellow who boxes the bear, though how I am to arrange it, I can't quite tell." Johnny wandered back to the big top. It was late morning. Many of the circus people would be in the big tent going through their stunts. His hope of finding the boxer of the bear in one of the rings was not in vain. He was, at the moment of Johnny's entrance, in the act of putting the bear through his mock heroic battle. With an air of apparent indifference, Johnny leaned against a center tent pole and watched him. Allegretti hated being watched, Johnny knew. That was why he lingered. The Italian stood his scrutiny for three minutes, then with an angry glare in his eye, he cried: "Go 'way, you bum!" Johnny's only reply was a grin. "Go 'way! No can box-a da bear when you all time loafin' here." The Italian was dancing with rage. "You can't box anyway, so what's the difference?" Johnny grinned again. "No can box?" The Italian stormed, "No can box? You wan'na see?" "Sure, show me," Johnny grinned. An extra pair of gloves lay near by. Allegretti kicked them toward him. "Putta dem on. 'No can box,' he says. Allegretti show dat bum!" He squared away in such an awkward manner that Johnny found it hard to suppress a smile. "Now where do you want me to hit you first?" Johnny asked politely. The answer was a volley of quick blows, which all fell upon Johnny's well managed gloves. When the Italian paused for breath, Johnny tapped him lightly on the nose. Enraged at being so easily scored upon, the fiery foreigner fairly went wild in his efforts to reach Johnny with a blow that would send him to the surgeon. To avoid these wild swings was child's play for Johnny. Time and again the Italian left him a wide opening, but Johnny only further enraged his opponent by tapping him lightly. This farce lasted for five minutes. Johnny was puzzled to know what to do. He knew that the impostor, who called himself a boxer, was completely within his power. By a single jab of his powerful right, he could send him to dreamland. This, however, was farthest from his thought. To needlessly injure a man was never part of Johnny's program. A large, low, paper-topped barrel, used in the trained dog act, stood within ten feet of them. Suddenly Johnny resolved what he would do; he would humiliate his opponent. Perhaps that would bring him to terms. Slowly he forced Allegretti back until he was within five feet of the barrel when, with a quick right to the chest, he lifted him off the ground and landed him square in the center of the top of the tub. There followed a ripping sound, the paper burst, and Allegretti dropped from sight. With a smile Johnny stood waiting the Italian's reappearance, when, to his utter astonishment, he was struck a sledge hammer blow in the middle of the back. The blow sent him sprawling. In a flash he was on his feet, and faced about to meet this new and powerful foe. Imagine his amazement when he found himself facing, not a man but a bear. With gloved forepaws, with broad mouth grinning, the bear stood ready for his share of the match. What had happened was evident. The Italian had neglected to remove the bear's gloves. The bear had now entered the ring. Johnny had a choice of facing him or running. It was a novel experience, but he was not well acquainted with flight, so he held his ground. The bear advanced with none of the skill of an experienced fighter. His training had been superficial. He had been taught to swing his arms in a certain way when his opponent swung his as a signal. The bear, however, was six times as heavy as Johnny. One fair smash in the face with that giant paw would send Johnny to the happy hunting grounds. As Johnny squared back, with his guard high, the bear hesitated, a quizzical, almost human grin overspreading his face. Then, seeming to get a signal to rush in, he came plowing forward, striking straight out as he advanced. Johnny sidestepped, and, leaping off his toes, tapped him on the ear. It was a stinging blow. Bruin's ears were sensitive. That blow came near proving the undoing of Johnny, for instantly flying into a rage, the bear forgot his training. Dropping on all fours, he rushed at Johnny with the fierceness of his forest ancestors. Dodging this way and that, Johnny sought to get in a felling blow, but in vain. Again the bear reared upon his hind legs. So quickly was this accomplished Johnny did not escape the grappling swing which, open handed, the bear let fly. The animal's stubby claws raked his face, leaving three livid lines of red. The matter was growing serious. Something must be done quickly. Johnny did it. Watching for an opening, he at last leaped high and forward. His arm went up in one of his short, lightning master blows. There was the sound as of a steel trap sprung. The bear whirled in a circle, then crumpled to earth. "There's your bear," panted Johnny, wiping his face. "No box-a da bear," groaned the grief stricken Italian. "I should say not," said Johnny. "He doesn't box fair. He scratches." "You kill-a da bear. I get-a your goat." "Oh! The bear'll be all right," grinned Johnny. "Just give him a lump of sugar and a sniff of smelling salts. He's a bit dizzy, that's all." "But say!" he said after a moment. "You can't get my goat. I ain't got any. But I have a notion that I've got yours right now." He had, but the Italian wasn't to know it until some hours later. As he turned to walk away, Johnny noticed a well built, wholesome looking girl in short skirt and middy standing a short distance off. She was looking his way and smiling. It was Gwen, the queen. He wanted to go over and speak to her. He was sure she had seen all that had happened. "Can't afford to rush things too fast," he whispered to himself and, turning toward the bunk tent, he hastened away. As an hour and a half remained before he must go on duty, Johnny slicked up a bit and went over to La Salle street to sell the bonds which Pant had entrusted to his care. The first two dealers he approached refused to buy; they did not purchase bonds in such small lots. The third looked Johnny over carefully, then examined the bonds. After that, he wet the tip of his right forefinger on a sponge and proceeded to count out a handful of bills. These, with some small change, he shoved beneath the lattice to Johnny. "Fine day," he smiled, as he turned away. "You bet," Johnny agreed, as he pocketed the money. Out on the shore of the lake he found Pant. The latter stared at him for a moment in silence. He was looking at the three red lines drawn on Johnny's face by the bear. "Say," he whispered at last, "give me those bonds!" "I, I," Johnny stared, "I haven't got them!" "Haven't got them? Where are they?" "Sold 'em as you said to do." "Sold them? When?" "Half an hour ago." "With that on your face?" "Sure." With a low whistle, Pant sank down upon the sand. "Why, what's wrong?" demanded Johnny. "Oh! Nothing much. One of those bonds was a counterfeit, that's all." "Counterfeit?" "I said it." "And you sent me to sell it?" "I suppose I should have told you. You'd have done it just the same. Anyway, you would have, had I told you everything. But if I had told you, that would have made you nervous and spoiled everything. I'm a marked man. I couldn't go myself. How was I to know that you'd go and get branded in that fashion? "Ho, well," he continued after a moment's reflection, "it's all right, I'm sure. The bond was perfect except for one trifling detail. It was a shade lighter print than those made by Uncle Sam, and, after all, that's really nothing. Who knows but the Government printer failed to ink his rollers well some morning? I know it was a counterfeit, though." He bent over and wrote a name in the sand, then quickly erased it. Johnny had read it. "Who's Black McCree?" he asked promptly. "He," Pant whispered, "is the slickest forger that ever lived, and the worst crook. We're going to get him, you and I, Johnny. And he's with the circus." "Did--did you ever see him?" Johnny demanded. "I can't be sure. Perhaps. But we will, Johnny, we will!" For a moment they sat there in silence; then Johnny arose and without a word, walked away. CHAPTER VII NO BOX-A DA BEAR There was one particular part of the show that afternoon which Johnny was anxious to see. So anxious was he, indeed, that even the danger and mystery connected with the sale of the counterfeit Liberty Bonds were crowded from his mind. So intent was he upon seeing it, that he half neglected his duties, and received for the first time, directly upon his cheek, a sharp cut from Millie's whip. Even that failed to make him angry. Once Millie's act was over, and he had rushed the dapple grays to their stable, he dashed out of the horse tent, through the assembly grounds, under the canvas wall of the big top and found himself at last beneath the bleachers in a very good position to see what was going on in the ring to the south of the center. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction, as he saw the swarthy Italian bear boxer, dressed in his green suit, come marching pompously down the sawdust trail toward the ring. The lumbering silver tip bear was at his heels. The first part of their performance, the ball rolling, the stilt walking and bicycle riding, went off very well. The expectant smile on Johnny's genial face was beginning to fade when finally boxing gloves were produced, and thrust upon the fore paws of the waiting bear. Johnny's smile broadened. A wild look in the bear's eyes told him that something was about to happen. It did happen, and that with lightninglike rapidity. No sooner had the bear felt the gloves upon his paws than, without waiting for signals, he let drive a tremendous right swing at the trainer's head. He missed by but a fraction of an inch. "Zowie! What a wallop," whispered Johnny. "He hasn't forgotten. I thought he wouldn't." Indeed, the bear had not forgotten the punishment he had received earlier in the day and, whether or not he had the intelligence to know that Allegretti was no match for him, he had at least resolved to demolish him as speedily as possible, for hardly had the Italian recovered from his surprise when a second blow aimed at his chest sent him sprawling. Leaping to his feet, the trainer waved his arms in frantic signals. It was of no avail. The bear had known the taste of victory. He was not to be signaled. Straight at his trainer he rushed. The Italian uttered a shout of terror, then, closely followed by the bear, bolted from the ring. The spectators, thinking this was a part of the play, howled and screamed as they rocked with laughter. To the Italian it was tragedy. Had not the bear grown fat in idleness, and so impaired his running power, the affair might have ended unfortunately for Allegretti. As it was, having pursued his trainer halfway down the length of the tent, the bear paused, rose on his haunches, tore a glove from his paw and aimed it with such force and accuracy at the trainer's back that it sent him clawing in the dust. With one more yell, Allegretti rose and continued his flight. The second glove missed its mark. With mouth open, seemingly in a broad grin, the bear's gaze swept the circle of delighted spectators, then, appearing to forget all about the incident, he dropped on all fours, and allowed an attendant to lead him quietly away. Johnny ducked for the assembly enclosure. There he found the Italian waving his arms before the manager. "No box-a da bear! No box-a da bear!" shouted Allegretti. "No, I'd say you didn't," smiled the manager. "But you did better than that. You put on a scream; you made 'em laugh their heads off. Do that every day and I'll double your pay!" "What!" demanded the outraged trainer. "Do dat again! Not for five time, not for ten time my pay. He want-a keel me, dat-a bear. No box-a da bear. No more box-a dat-a bear." No amount of argument could make Allegretti change his mind. He was scared white. Johnny and the bear had got his goat. He was through. He would never box the bear again. "Well," said the manager, turning to Johnny, at last, "I guess it's up to you!" "Up to me? How?" gasped Johnny. "You crabbed the Italian's act by boxing the bear. Now you'll have to become a professional bear boxer, and box him yourself. See?" "No, I don't see," said Johnny stoutly. "Why, I don't even know the signals." "Make up some of your own. Pete Treco, the tumbler, used to be a bear boxer. He can help you. We'll be out of Chicago in three days. I'll give you till then to get in form. What say?" "I--I'll try," said Johnny. "That's all anybody can do. And say, if you can get him to pull that stunt, chasing you, throwing the glove and all that, the double pay offer stands." Johnny caught his breath. His opportunity had come. There had come a shake-up. In three days there would be another, and he would be "shaken up" to the position of a full-fledged performer, or he would be shaken down out of the circus altogether. Could he make it? Closing his fists tight, he gritted between his teeth: "By all that's good, I will!" Fiery and high tempered Millie lost her groom that very day. As far as the circus people were concerned, Johnny Thompson vanished. In a small tented enclosure, eight hours out of every twenty-four were spent in strenuous attempts to teach that bear to do his bidding. It was a difficult task. More times than one he barely dodged a sudden swing of that powerful paw, which if it had landed would have increased the demand for cut flowers and slow music. Pant alone saw him, and that after the shadows had fallen. It was at such times that they talked long of those other days in Arctic Siberia. "Pant," Johnny shot at his friend one night, "what are you here for?" "Same back to you," smiled Pant. "What are you here for? You're not a circus man. What interest can you have in learning to box a bear?" "It's deeper than that," smiled Johnny. "It's a matter of honor. There are three girls in that circus I must get on speaking terms with. The only way to do that is to become a performer." "Oh! It's a skirt!" "Not exactly--only a diamond ring." "A ring?" "Yes, listen," and Johnny proceeded to tell his story. "That's interesting," said Pant, "and I think I can help you. In fact, I think I am safe in promising to tell you in time which of the three girls has the ring." "You tell me? How?" "Leave that to me. I have ways of finding things out. It can't be done here, though; on the road, perhaps, or at a one-night stand. Wait and see. "And now," continued Pant, "I want you to promise to help me with my own mystery. It is a much deeper and far more important affair. You know the type of people that follow the circus?" Johnny nodded. "Well, mixed with these little crooks is a big one--a forger, a master counterfeiter. His work is so good, as you know yourself, that it can be passed on La Salle street, and that's going some. I have several samples of his work. I know they are counterfeits, yet there is not a defect except the slight lack of color. They are technically perfect. One would almost say they were photographs of the real thing. These bonds are being secretly passed out even here in Chicago. When we get out into the safer small cities, I have no doubt the state will be flooded with them. It's an easy game. You know how they work it: Circus employee has a bond he has been saving, money all gone, must sell at a sacrifice. Greedy rubes snatch them up. And the worst of it is, they are so perfect that only in cases where two of the same number chance to come together will they be detected. With the vast number of genuine bonds in the country, this is likely never to happen. So there you are. Why, I doubt if even the Treasury Department itself could detect them. And this Black McCree is at the bottom of it all." "How do you know that?" Johnny bent forward eagerly. Pant smiled. "He has a foolish habit of scrawling his name about. He made the mistake of scribbling it on one of the bonds which later came into my hands. He's known to the police the country over, not so much as counterfeiter, however, as a 'Red'--a dynamiter of the worst type. He has more than once left his scribbled name above a ghastly piece of work. That is all they know of him. He has never been identified. Just why he has decided to take up the life of a sane crook and enter the forging game, I can't tell unless--by George! I believe I have it! Yes, sir! It's a financial plot!" "How's that?" Johnny asked. "Can't you see? Our country is deeply in debt. Every town and city is flooded with national credit slips in the form of Liberty Bonds. A nation's credit is its life. Now, if some slick fellow can fill the safety boxes of the land with bogus bonds, what is to become of the country's credit? In time government bonds cannot be sold at any price, for the would-be purchaser cannot tell whether he is buying a genuine bond or a counterfeit." "I see," breathed Johnny. "And yet," mused Pant, "it may not be a plot, after all. Perhaps this Black McCree thinks he has discovered a way to get rich quick, and has dropped his radical notions. They mostly drop them when they fall heir to a piece of money. But, anyway," he straightened up with a jerk, "we've got to get him." "What's he like?" asked Johnny. "That's what no one knows. He's never been seen. He may be large or small. He may be, for instance, a certain husky conman with a ragged ear." "The very chap," exclaimed Johnny. "He's a crook, all right. I caught him in a crooked deal the other day. We had a little boxing match." "You can't be sure he's the man," smiled Pant. "Small crooks seldom do big jobs, and big crooks don't operate con games. Yet he'll bear watching. He may be doing that as a blind. "There's another fellow, though," Pant went on, "a midget clown--Tom Stick, a queer little chap. He's the prize of the circus. Dresses like a mosquito, and drives a huge elephant around the ring. Strange part about him is, he insists on living all by himself in a little house built on wheels. Far as I know, no one has ever been allowed inside that house of his. You see the chance, don't you? He could have all kinds of an outfit in there, and no one would be the wiser. Of course, he wouldn't sell many bonds himself; he'd pass 'em out through others. "There's a third fellow, a cook, the steam kettle cook, Andy McQueen. Don't know so much about him. What I want you to do is to get acquainted with these men and see what you can find out. You're on the inside, so you can do it. There's another fellow, he's--" At that juncture the conversation was ended by the appearance of a party rounding a sand pile, and Johnny hastened back to the tented grounds. "I'm crazy to get in my first performance," he told himself. "If it's successful, it'll put me on even ground with Gwen, the Queen. Then we'll see what we shall see. She looks mighty interesting, to say the least." CHAPTER VIII THE GIRL AND THE TIGER Late that night Johnny Thompson was reminded for the hundredth time of his position as a serf among the knights and ladies of the circus. He was just passing into the now almost deserted big top when he came face to face with Millie Gonzales. In sudden embarrassment he was about to speak to her and doff his cap when, with chin in air, she swept past him. Setting his teeth hard, Johnny hastened on. Only when he was at a safe distance did he give vent to his feelings. "If it wasn't for the ring, I wouldn't stand for it," he raged in a whisper, "I, I'd, well, I'd make her bite her own sharp tongue. Maybe," he reflected, "maybe some time I will." The incident was soon forgotten, and it was not so long after that Johnny was made to realize that not all the ladies of the circus were like Millie, not even those who ranked above her. In a dark corner of the tent, Johnny threw himself on a pile of netting to think. Life had grown strangely complicated for him since he had joined the show. Problems great and small lay before him for solving. It was like a lesson in algebra. There was the problem of boxing the bear. His ability to solve that problem would be tested all too soon, on the day after to-morrow. In some small city he would have his try-out. Depending upon the successful solving of this problem was the other and more important one, that of the ring. Who had it? Millie, the bareback rider, Mitzi, the trapeze performer, or Gwen, the dancing queen of the tight wire? Thus far he had not the slightest clue. If one of them had it, she never had worn it while Johnny was in sight. Could it be that the one in possession of it suspected him of seeking it? That did not seem probable. "And yet," he reflected, "stranger things have happened. She may have seen me make that foolhardy dash for it when the elephant flicked it from the chain." But at once his mind swept on to the third and most important problem of all--Pant's problem, the problem of the counterfeit bonds. Pant had named three men who might be responsible, the conman of the ragged ear, the midget clown, the steam kettle cook. Johnny Thompson was one of the kind of fellows who, when they recognize a great and important problem, set themselves to solving it, leaving all minor difficulties to take care of themselves. As he lay there now, he realized that Pant's problem had already become his; that for the time being, the ring might be all but forgotten. And yet he hoped that, as the more important and difficult problem was being solved, this one of lesser importance would work itself out. "Well, anyway," he mumbled, half rising, "my success at boxing the bear comes first, for unless I put that stunt across, I will have precious little chance to discover the whereabouts of the ring, or to help Pant run down the counterfeiter. To-morrow's my last day of training. Me for my bunk." But just as he was about to get upon his feet he checked himself and sank back in his place. A vision had struck his eye--a vision of lithe wonder and beauty. It was dancing along a silver wire. It was Gwen, Queen of the circus. The great tent was totally dark, save for the corner where she practiced. She had arranged a spot light in such a manner that its brilliant rays struck squarely across the tightly drawn wire, and there in that light, which was flashed back by her brilliant costume and her tossing umbrella, she was performing all unconscious that anyone was watching her. Johnny Thompson thought he was the only onlooker, and perhaps at first he was. If so, it was not for long. Had he but known the nature of that other spectator, he might have leaped to his feet and rushed to warn the queen of her danger. Not knowing, he sat entranced by the wonderful apparition who seemed more a being of another world, or perhaps some tropical bird, as she flitted from end to end of that silver wire. Now she rose straight in air and, seeming to soar aloft, swept down to the wire again. And now she dropped upon her hands to bend and twist in a blinding whirl, while her gleaming parasol spun above her. "Um," Johnny breathed; then again, "Um!" But what was that? He thought he detected a stealthy movement to the right of him. It might have been but the swaying of a tent pole shaken by the wind, but he kept his eyes upon the spot for some time. He had concluded it was nothing, and was about to turn his attention to the girl again, when the movement came again, this time closer at hand. At the same time he heard a sound that in a place less quiet to an untrained ear would be nothing at all. To Johnny it spoke of danger--perhaps danger to himself, perhaps to the girl. He thought of the counterfeiters. Did they know he had joined Pant in the task of hunting them down, and realizing his importance as an inside man, had they decided to do away with him at once? Or was this some enemy of the beautiful dancer? Danger, Johnny had learned, loses much of its terror when squarely faced. He now threw himself upon the sawdust and began creeping, knife in hand, toward the spot from which the sound had come. Ten feet he crawled, then paused to listen. In the stillness he heard the occasional creak of the wire, the spatter of the spot light. Then again he caught that gliding sound. It was retreating from him, moving closer to the girl. This time he crept twenty feet or more before he paused. Again the same sounds greeted his strained ears. Again the gliding sound. The creature, whether beast or human, traveling faster than he, must be not more than thirty feet from the swinging, swaying girl. And now, like a flash, his eyes, for a moment relieved from the dancer's dazzling light, saw the creature--a gaunt tawny beast it was, a tiger stalking human prey. For a second Johnny shivered and shrank back. How had this creature escaped? This he could not know. Its purpose was all too evident. Attracted by the gleam of the fairylike figure dancing on the wire, it was thinking only of breaking her bones with its yellow fangs. Johnny paused for half a minute, then resumed his forward movement. Poorly armed as he was, he would not allow the beast to have its way unopposed. Yet, after covering another yard or two, he paused. The girl was ten feet in air. Did the tiger have the power to leap that high? For a tiger of the jungle this would be no feat at all, but for this one of the cage, Johnny was in doubt. And Gwen? Did she have the iron nerve to keep on dancing down the wire with a great yellow beast leaping madly for her feet? It was a tense moment. Every muscle in his body quivered. The hand that gripped his knife almost crushed the hilt. The questions that surged through his brain were not long in being answered, for now, in the dim half light about her, the girl saw the beast. For one brief second her eyes were dilated with fear. The parasol, trembling, wavering, almost slipped from her grasp. Johnny rose on one knee. "If she falls? If she falls?" he breathed silently. But she did not fall. Seeming to summon all her nerve and strength, she held her parasol high and once more danced gracefully down the wire. * * * * * * * * Two hours before this moment in our story, Pant had left the circus grounds, and, crossing a viaduct over the tracks, had made his way down the avenue toward the river. As he cut across the roadway and lost himself down a dark alley near the river, he might have been heard saying to himself: "The bear, driven from his lair, returns; the rabbit circles back to his brush pile; sometimes crooks return to their rendezvous. I wonder if they will this time? Well, we shall see what we shall see." He was by this time nearing a long, low-lying building that flanked the river. Before a door which was reached by three downward steps, he paused. All was dark, silent, mysterious. For a moment he listened intently, then after a hasty glance up and down the deserted alley, he darted to a low, narrow window. His efforts to lift the sash were fruitless. Quickly drawing a thin-bladed knife from his pocket, he inserted the blade beneath the catch. There was a click. The next instant Pant had lifted the sash, dived through and closed the window after him. The room was utterly dark, yet he appeared to have no difficulty in finding his way about the place. Whether he had a previous knowledge of the building, was endowed with an instinctive sense of location of things, or could see in the dark, would have been a question too difficult for a casual thinker to answer. An observer, had there been one, might have said that the room had a strange way of flashing crimson for a fraction of a second, then becoming inky black again. After moving about for a time, Pant doubled himself up and, creeping into the broad lower part of a dilapidated cupboard, closed the door behind him. Ten minutes elapsed. A rat scurried over the uneven floor. Another creeping through a hole in the base of the cupboard, began rattling a loose bit of board about. Pant kicked at it. Then all was silent again. Five minutes more passed. Three rats had ventured out upon the floor when, of a sudden, there sounded the rattle of a key in the outer door. The rats scurried away. Pant caught a quick breath, as he whispered: "They return!" A match was struck. A broad, fat face appeared at the door. The man's small, beady eyes peered about the place for a moment, then he whispered back over his shoulder: "All right. C'm'on." "Safe?" "Sure!" Two other men followed him. One was slim, the other broad shouldered. Pant almost let fall an exclamation, as he saw that the broad-shouldered one had a ragged ear. "Perhaps Johnny's right," was his mental comment. Through a hole left by what had once been a lock on the cupboard door, he could catch every move of the mysterious three. Gathering around the table they proceeded at once to what appeared to be the task of the night. A flat tin affair was placed on the table. A tin cup from which the handle of a brush protruded was set down close to the pan. A roll of paper was produced. It was while this was being rolled backward and then drawn across the smooth edge of the table to make it straight that Pant felt something touch his hand. Barely checking a start, he held himself rigidly motionless. In an instant he realized that it was only a hungry rat. But in a minute he knew that this was quite bad enough, for the rat began to gnaw at his finger. In the meantime, in the room the man of the ragged ear had taken the broad brush and moved it several times over the pan. He dipped the brush each time in the cup, as if applying a liquid. The fat man held a sheet of paper as if ready to spread it out upon the pan. The rat persevered. He had gnawed his way through the tough outer skin of Pant's finger, and had touched tender flesh when, with a sudden quick movement, Pant's thumb closed down. He was not quick enough. The rat, whirling about, was caught only by the tail. With a piercing, almost human scream the rat struggled for freedom. Instantly the room went dark. In that same instant, a hand groped for the door, behind which Pant was concealed. Pant had hoped to strangle the rat without a sound. In this he had failed. Just what he was in for now, he could not even guess. CHAPTER IX THE TIGER SPRINGS In the dim half light, as Johnny crouched in the sawdust ring, knife in hand, he saw the tiger lash his tail as he prepared for a spring. He saw the girl dancing on the wire, twirling her parasol as she danced. His mind whirled. Was this all a dream? Was it but a moving picture flashed upon the screen? He shook himself. No, there were the colors in the girl's costume, the red that came and went in her cheek, and there were the wonderful colors in the coat of that giant cat. It was real, and the cat was preparing for a spring. Should he cry out? Attract the beast's attention, then stand for battle? To do so meant sudden death. No man armed with a knife could hope to defeat a tiger. On the other hand, what if he waited? Could the tiger leap ten feet in air? If he could, what then? The girl had nerve; Johnny could see that. There was a strong chance that the tiger could not reach her. He would wait. Suddenly into that brilliant circle of light there shot upward a tawny, gleaming body. The tiger had leaped square at the girl. Johnny's heart stood still. There came an audible gasp from the girl. The cruel fangs of the beast flashed in the light. Up, up he rose, five feet, six, seven, eight. Now his great paws flashed at the girl's feet. An instant of suspense ended with a gasp of relief. The tiger had missed. For a fraction of a second the girl teetered on the wire. She seemed about to lose her balance and fall, but she at once regained her composure, and, with a smile upon her lips, such as she threw to admiring spectators, she tripped again along the wire. "Bravo!" Johnny's lips formed the word, but he did not say it. Again the tiger crouched for a spring. The girl was gaining self-control. Estimating the position of the tiger, she tripped away from him. Angered, the tiger roared savagely, gave two short jumps, then leaped straight and high. With a little cry, half of fear, half of defiance, the girl sprang in air. The next instant the tiger's paw touched the wire. One breathless second the girl appeared to hover in air, then she dropped. Her toe touched the vibrating wire. She slipped. She uttered a low moan. Just at that moment the spot light blinked suddenly out, leaving the great tent in utter darkness. * * * * * * * * For a few moments after the candle was extinguished in the mysterious room down by the river Pant remained motionless. Then, as a groping hand found the door to his hiding place, he leaped into spring-steel-like action. The cupboard door banged open. A sudden flash of red light was followed by the dull thud of a body striking the floor. A second flash produced the same result. A chair clattered to the floor. The street door swung suddenly open, then banged shut again. A fugitive figure sought cover in the shadows of a dark corner of the building. "Are you shot?" came a gruff voice from within. "Thought I was, but guess I ain't." "So did I." "There wasn't any report." "A red flame, and a biff that floored!" There followed sounds of movement. A match was struck. For a moment a light flickered in the room, then three heads appeared at the door. Mounting to the third step, the leader glanced quickly up and down the street. Then, followed by his two companions, he darted away. "Some rotten luck," grumbled Pant, for it was he who lurked in the corner. Without a light, he again entered the room. When he came out a short time later, he was straightening out a bit of crumpled paper. * * * * * * * * For Johnny, after the spot light in the circus tent blinked out, an agony of suspense followed. The girl--had she dropped? The tiger--was he now about to spring? Without a light Johnny could do nothing. A sudden wave of remorse overcame him. He blamed himself for not entering the struggle when the light was on. But what was this? Could it be that his straining ear caught the sing of the wire, as the girl's foot touched it in her wild dance? He listened. There could be no mistake about it. Even in the darkness she had regained her footing, was dancing down the wire. But the tiger could see in the dark. She could not see his leaps. And he would leap again, Johnny was sure of that. In this he was not mistaken, for, with sinking sensation, he heard the cat leave the ground. There followed no sound. Breathlessly he waited till he felt the slight shock of the cat as he dropped. Or was it Gwen? At this time of uncertainty a weird thing happened. Seeming to come from a spot in mid air, a streak of crimson light flashed down at an angle toward the floor. For an instant, it turned the costume, the parasol, the face of the girl crimson; the next, it swept the crouching tiger with a flood of blood red light. With a growl of fear the beast shrank back. The light followed him. He rose and leaped away. He paused. The light was again upon him. With a wild snarl, he sprang away toward the far end of the tent. As he lay there staring open-mouthed, Johnny heard the sputter of arc lights. In a moment the tent was ablaze with white lights. The dynamo had been started, the light turned on. Johnny sprang to his feet, then facing about, looked for the girl. The next instant he sprang toward the spot over which the wire was strung. He was there in time to break her fall. She had tottered from the wire. She had not fainted, but it was in vain that she attempted to rise; her limbs would not support her. "I, I guess I lost my nerve," she apologized, as she sank down upon the sawdust. "If you did, you lost a lot," exclaimed Johnny in undisguised enthusiasm. "You were great!" For the moment he forgot the caste of the circus, forgot he was only an ex-groom and she the queen of performers. "Just sit right here," he counseled. "I'll run and get you a glass of water; you'll be all right in a jiffy. The tiger's safe enough; keepers have got him." By the time he returned, the world had righted itself again, and he was only a slave. "I, I'll be running along," he stammered, "that is, if you're all right?" "But I'm not all right," protested Gwen. "Besides, I need some one to talk to. Why should you go?" "You know," Johnny faltered, "I'm not a performer; at least, not yet." "Fiddle!" she puckered up her lips. "What diff does that make; you're a brave boy. You were right near that awful tiger when I saw you, and you weren't running away. I believe you were there all the time." "I was," admitted Johnny. "I was watching you dance when he came up." "Oh!" She gave him a queer look. "And what did you think you could do?" "If he had reached you, I could have put up a good scrap." She looked at him again. "I believe you could," she smiled. "I saw you give that bear the knockout the other day. That was good, awful good! Say! You can box, can't you?" "A little." "Will you give me some lessons?" Johnny's heart leaped. Would he? "Su--sure," he stammered, "any--any time." "All right; to-morrow morning at nine. What say?" "That suits me." "It's a go," she said, holding out her hand. Johnny gripped it warmly, and as he did so, he realized that there was nothing soft or flabby about that hand. "You see," she half apologized, "I have to keep in trim for my stunts, and nothing will do it quite like boxing." "Uh-huh!" Johnny scarcely heard her. Her hand had made him think of the diamond ring. Should he ask her about it now? It seemed what his old professor would call the psychological moment. Yet he did not want to ask her. He was already enjoying her friendship, knew he would enjoy it more and more and did not wish to risk losing it. Then he thought of Pant and his problem. Perhaps she could aid them in solving that. "Say," she whispered suddenly, "what was that blood red light?" "I, I don't know," Johnny replied. "Wasn't it spooky? Came from nowhere!" "I don't know how it was done," said Johnny, "but someone was behind it--someone who evidently wanted to help you." The girl glanced at him sharply. "No," he smiled, "I didn't do it. I'm not that much of a magician. But I'm not sure but that I know the person who did it." "Oh!" she gasped. "Will you find out and let me know?" "If I can," said Johnny, smiling once more. "Oh!" she gasped again. "I owe that person a lot. The tiger would have got me for sure. I'd do a lot for him." "Would you?" asked Johnny. "Of course I would." "You may have a chance some time." "How strangely you talk!" "That's all I can tell you now." He arose and, assisting her to her feet, walked with her to the flap of the ladies' dressing tent; then bade her good-night. "She's a real sport!" he told himself. "Now I've got to make good at boxing the bear, even if it is a rotten job." CHAPTER X GWEN MEETS A "HAY MAKER" Johnny Thompson did not relish giving boxing lessons. Like all true artists, he was more interested in doing things than in teaching others how to do them. Especially did he dislike giving lessons to women. Johnny had his particular ideas about the possible skill of lady boxers and his estimate was not flattering. However, he was willing to teach Gwen because he liked her, thought of her as a good sport, and hoped to profit by his acquaintance with her. He was destined to find her rather a surprise as a boxer. Exactly at nine o'clock next morning he was on hand in the small sawdust circle at a remote corner of the "big top." Gwen was only three minutes late and Johnny put that down as being much to her credit. "Most girls would have been fifteen minutes or half an hour behind time," was his mental comment. After a formal "Good morning," Johnny helped Gwen on with her gloves. This gave him an opportunity to look her over. Naturally her hands received his first attention. He looked for rings; found none, and then laughed at himself for believing that any person would come for a boxing lesson with rings on her fingers. Looking her up and down from head to toe, he found her good to the eye--even better than in her professional costume. She was all of a girl now. In her short skirt, blue middie and silk stockings and with her mass of hair drawn tightly into form beneath a strong net, she made a picture worth looking at. Johnny found himself catching his breath sharply as he drew on her gloves and laced them snugly about her wrists. "You won't strike hard--not at first, anyway--will you?" she breathed. "Not at all," Johnny smiled, "but you'll have to be careful about one thing; practice calls for boxing that is as near the real thing as possible. I mean that I'll seem to be going to deal you a real knock-out blow, but I'll 'pull the blow,' as they say, just before it lands, so it will be a mere tap. The thing you'll have to be a little careful about is running into those 'hay makers,' otherwise they may prove to be the real thing in spite of all I can do to avoid it." "I'll try," Gwen smiled back. "Are you ready?" She tapped him playfully on the nose. "Ready!" Johnny squared away. From the start, Gwen's boxing was a baffling mystery to the boy. She seemed to fairly dance on air. Her foot movements were marvelous. Now she was here; now there; now in another corner of the ring. Johnny had been called the fastest boy of the ring, but Gwen was faster. For some time he did not reach her even with a light tap. But time taught him new tricks and brought back to his mind many half-forgotten old ones. He began to realize that, although her face protection was perfect, she was exposing her chest. "That's where her lesson begins," he told himself, and at once began tapping her over the heart with ever increasing force until she threw down her hands with a sharp, "Oh-wee!" "Time's up," laughed Johnny, throwing himself down upon the mat and inviting her to do the same. "You see," he explained, when they had caught their breath, "you box the way you do your tight rope work. It's great stuff. I never saw a lady boxer your equal." Gwen gave him a happy smile. "But," he went on, "you've got your weak points, just as the rest of us have. You play your defense too high. That leaves your chest unguarded. If you were in a real fight your opponent would deal you a knock-out blow over the heart. You'll have to practice playing closer to the sawdust with both your hands and your feet. It's that tight rope stuff that does it. You box as if you were tiptoeing along the rope and holding up that Japanese parasol to balance you." Gwen thanked him for his advice, then, as all good friends occasionally do, they lapsed into silence. "Second round," said Johnny, two minutes later as he pocketed his watch. To Johnny this tight rope dancer seemed an amazingly alert pupil. It was no time at all before he found her guard lowered and her hands traveling so fast that only now and again was he able to score a point. To his great surprise, he found himself thoroughly enjoying the third round. Not only was he teaching her something about guarding and self-control, but she was giving him pointers in speed and foot work. "You're great!" he breathed at the end of the third round. "You really are." Flushed, highly excited, filled with a girlish enthusiasm, she beamed back at him. The affair was a huge success; there could be no doubt of that. Johnny saw himself safely possessed of an entirely agreeable pal, one of the very elect, of the inner circle of star performers, too. He saw himself frolicking with this wonderful pal day after day. A fine day-dream! And just there something happened, as often is the case when one's cup of happiness is about to overflow. In the fourth round Gwen, excited by Johnny's praise, strove to out-do herself. Before she had not been half so airy nor so nimble and skillful in eluding her opponent's blows. Thus challenged, Johnny brought into play his every tactic. Maneuvers which had lain dormant in his brain leaped to the forefront. It was as if he were again in a real battle in a real ring. Like live things, his gloves flashed. He leaped to the right, then to the left, then backward. He darted suddenly forward. He ducked. He leaped high. But ever the elusive Gwen escaped him. At last, in one mad rush he found himself facing her. Her round chin was exposed. What an opportunity! He lifted himself clean off the floor; his right hand struck out and up. It would have brushed her chin--an admirably "pulled" blow--had she not at this instant leaped suddenly at him. Whether she thought she saw an opening and had herself resolved to score, or had, in the mad rush, completely lost her head, Johnny could not tell. He only knew that there came a sickening sound of impact, followed by a dull thud and Gwen lay crumpled, unconscious at his feet. His blow had found its mark. The full force of it had been expended on the girl's chin! Heartsick, he struggled to regain his scattered senses. The next instant he was rushing away for water. From a bucket he dipped it ice cold, and applied it to her forehead. Then with a towel he began to fan her. All the time reflections were rushing through his troubled brain: "What a fool! Just when things were going right! All off now! Mighty funny how it happened! All my fault! Mebby hers, too! But a girl--what a wallop to give a girl! Who'd forgive it? Boss'd fire me if he knew it. What a muss! Go back to the bear if I get a chance. Bear's about my class. What a nut a fellow can make of himself! I--why dum it anyway--" His dismal reflections were arrested by the opening of Gwen's eyes. She sat up dizzily and gazed about her as if looking upon a world unknown. "Where am I?" she faltered. "Oh!" she moaned, and held her head. Johnny's thoughts touched the bottom of despair. But the next moment she was looking at him and actually smiling. "I suppo-pose," she said uncertainly, "that you'd call--call that a 'hay--hay maker'?" Johnny grinned in spite of himself. "It was," he agreed. "And I--I ran into your 'hay maker.'" "Something like that," Johnny agreed, sitting down beside her. "I hope you feel better." She did not answer, but sat staring at the sawdust. They remained in just that position until Johnny's watch had ticked off a hundred and twenty seconds. He knew it was a hundred and twenty for he counted them all. "I suppose," he said, when he could endure the silence no longer, "that that's the end of it?" "I suppose so," she agreed. Again they were silent. There seemed nothing more to say. "And I thought we would have some grand times together," said Johnny, at last. "I might have known though--" "Oh! But aren't we?" There was a puzzled look on her face. "Why! You--you said that was the end of it!" "I suppose so for today. I'm really too shaky to box any more to-day. But how about to-morrow?" With a wild shout of joy, Johnny leaped to his feet. "Then--then--," he stammered. "Why, you're a brick!" He extended his hand and helped her to her feet. "Why? What's so wonderful?" she smiled at him. "I ran into you and got bumped. I don't hold that against you. Why should I? Would another boy hate you for it?" "No. He might not, but a girl--" "Fiddle! Girls are just like boys, if you let them be. Shall I see you to-morrow?" "You sure will!" For a moment Johnny hesitated before taking her hand for a farewell; the question of the diamond ring had flashed through his mind. Was this the time to ask? He hesitated; then gave it up. A moment before he had felt that he had lost her. He would risk nothing more this day. "Good-bye and good luck," he murmured, as she turned to go her way. CHAPTER XI THE BLACK BEAST "Pant," said Johnny the next evening, as they sat upon the beach in the moonlight, with the tom, tom, tom of the circus drum sounding from the distance, "there's one thing that puzzles me about this crimson flash." "Let's hear." There was a smile lurking about the corners of Pant's mouth. "That big yellow cat last night was scared stiff, just frozen in his tracks by the crimson flash," said Johnny. "They tell me that all the big cats act that way, except one." "Uh!" grunted Pant. "The black panther." "He leaps right at it, wants to eat someone up every time it's flashed on his cage. How's that?" asked Johnny. Pant smiled, as he drank in a deep breath of cool, night air. "That, Johnny, is a rather long story, a story I've never told. But, because you've been a good pal, because, though I've doubtless seemed mighty queer at times, you've never asked a leading question, I've a strong notion to tell it to you." Johnny waited in silence. The tom tom of the drum ceased. By that he knew that Gwen, Queen of the circus, was just entering the ring for her part. He had intended to see that act again, but if Pant spoke-- "I think I will," mused Pant. "You see," he went on, "ever since I was a small child I have had a great interest in cats. Even before I could walk, so they tell me, I would turn up missing, and they'd find me at last creeping through the grass in the meadows, following an old tomato colored cat that was hunting for moles. "As I grew older I came to know that a cat could see in the dark, and that he did most of his hunting at night. These things interested me. Night after night I would slip from my bed, steal out into the night and follow the cats in their nightly wanderings. I guess I learned things about cats that no one else knows; some of their secrets, I mean. I've never told them, and I'm not going to tell them to you. Knowledge is of very little use to people unless they go to the places where it can be applied, and very few are willing to go all that way. "When I was thrown out into the world to shift for myself I still wanted to know more about cats. Little by little I came to know that house cats were but the pygmies among cats; that there were large, fierce, dangerous cats--wild cats, mountain lions, tigers, and the like. It was just when my curiosity about these big cats was at its height that I happened to wander into a zoo. There I found tigers, panthers, leopards and mountain lions. I was wild with joy. I watched these big cats for hours. I asked so many questions of the attendant that he threatened to throw me out. When night came he did force me to go away. For a week I did nothing but haunt that zoo. "At last it came to me suddenly one day that I could learn nothing really worth while about these wonderful cats unless I could watch them, as I had watched house cats, in their native haunts, as they rested, fed, played and wandered about or stalked their prey. I asked the keeper where their native homes were. He showed me on a map. I was astonished. They were from all over the world, India, Africa, South America, everywhere. "There were two cats that had caught my eye, the great tawny beast, the Bengal tiger, and the smaller black cat with the shifting eye, the black leopard. "When I was told that both these came from the jungles of India I was overjoyed. I would go there and follow them day after day, until I knew all their secrets. "When I told the attendant of my resolve, he laughed at me; said I'd be killed and eaten before I had been in the jungle a day. "I took to thinking about that; then I tried to study out some way to make the great cats of the jungle afraid of me. I returned again to the zoo and studied the great animals. When the keeper was not looking I tried many things. At last I found one thing that would make them afraid--all but one, the black cat with the shifting eyes; he was not afraid. He leaped at his bars snarling, but I said to myself, 'He is only one, all other black leopards will be afraid.'" "Of the crimson flash?" whispered Johnny. Pant gave him a look of warning, then glanced away at the lake. "I was only a boy and not very far in my teens at that, but I went to the jungles of India. I don't remember much how I went. I was a stowaway on a big steamer, then in a smaller one. I helped pole long, heavy barges up an endless river where mosses and grape vines hung thick along the banks, and where great slimy beasts rose from the water to glare at us. I caught the fever and lay for weeks in a bed of a hospital provided for Dutch missionaries. "After I got well, I poled more boats up the river until, at last, I was in the heart of India, where there were few white men, where there were many naked natives, where it was all jungle, and where in the night I could hear the call of the wild things, my friends, the great cats. Ah, my boy! Then I was happy. I would study. I would learn secrets. I would know things that no other man knew." Pant paused and, rising, began to pace restlessly back and forth, and Johnny, watching, was reminded of the great Bengal tiger pacing the length of his cage. "There was a mission station," Pant went on, still pacing to and fro; "a little mission, with a tiny hospital and a doctor. It was in a native village at the edge of a great jungle. The natives swarmed to it from many miles around. When I asked the gray haired doctor why they didn't have a large hospital, he shook his head and answered: "'No money.'" "I had a little money; I gave him that, and he let me stay there with them. There were just his wife and one nurse and the servants. I did little things for them about the place the time I was not sleeping during the day. At night I went out into the jungle alone. That first night, when they saw me starting out, they called me back; told me there were great cats lurking in the jungle that would kill and eat me; begged me not to go, but I said to them: "'I have a charmed life. Nothing can harm me. Besides, all cats are my friends.' "You see," Pant sat down upon the sand, "you see, I didn't want to tell my secret. Never tell your secrets, Johnny, at least not all of them. You'll mean more to your friends and trouble your enemies more if you keep them. I kept mine; but I went out into the jungle alone. "I found them, Johnny; I found the great tawny cats with the dark stripes, the tigers. They were not hard to find, for I knew the secrets of cats, and all cats are alike. "First I found the old tiger, then his mate. They were hunting in the tall grass. Right away, when they saw me, they wanted to hunt me and take me home to their cubs. But there I had them. There was my great secret. When I showed them what I could do, they were afraid. They walked round and round me until, in the morning, the grass was all trampled round in a circle. "The next night I found their cubs playing near the roots of a fallen tree. They were three months old--big as dogs. The father had broken the forelegs of a deer, and had brought it home for them to kill. "When they saw me, the old ones wanted to get me more than ever. How they snarled! How they circled and lashed their tails! They couldn't get me; I had them. They were afraid. Ten men on elephants, with rifles, they would have attacked with a rush, but not me. They were afraid. "But, Johnny, they were wonderful cats. Their coats! You have seen tigers in cages. Bah! They are nothing to the great, free cats of the jungle. The yellow! You have seen the sky at sunset sometimes when it was painted with golden fire? It was like that, only grander. And the dark stripes! They were like midnight. The gleam of their teeth, the burning red of their eyes, as they prowled in the night. Ah! Johnny! I had found true happiness. I only wanted one thing to make me perfectly happy, and that was to have them play with me, as they played with their cubs; as the house cats played with me when I was in rompers. That, too, would have come, but--" Sighing, Pant rose and began pacing the beach again. "A change came over me. I began to see things and to wonder. At times I thought how sick I had been down there in the little Dutch mission hospital, and how the short, fat Dutch nurses had pattered about in their wooden shoes to help make me well. Then I saw the hundreds and hundreds of poor natives who came limping into our little station, or who were carried in on bamboo stretchers. It all set me thinking. Up to that time, I had thought that nothing mattered but cats. I wanted to know all about cats. I wanted, yes, I do believe I wanted to be like a cat. Some folks believe we were all animals once before we were born as humans. An old native of the jungle told me that. If that is true, then I was once a cat. "But I got to thinking that perhaps humans counted more than the great cats in the jungle. I didn't want to think that, not at first, but I couldn't shake it off. When I went into the jungle to watch the cats I saw in my mind those sick people coming, coming, coming. I didn't like it; didn't want to see them. There was yet the great black cat. I must find him somewhere in the jungle. I must see him. "One day I talked to the doctor about my thoughts, and he told me that people counted for much more than big cats. He said he needed medicine, supplies, new houses, everything, and since I could go to the jungle and come back alive, perhaps I could help him. "'How?' I asked. "It was a terrible thing he said: 'Go into the jungle and get me tiger cubs. Traders will pay big money for them.' "It was terrible. I could do it. There were three cubs. I could get them, but-- "'But,' I said to the doctor, 'the big cats, the father and mother, must first be killed.' "'Yes,' he smiled. And that was all he said. "I went into the jungle again that night and, as I watched the splendor of the great cats, I said, 'No, I will never do it! Never! Never!' And yet I was going to do that very thing. I was going to take a rifle with me, and lie there in that wonderful moonlight to wait for them to come back; sooner than I thought, too. "It was that night, for the first time, that the old tiger left his mate and the three cubs while I watched them and went away to hunt by himself. Then I was glad, for I always had wished to watch him as he hunted down the blue deer, the buffalo, wild goat or wild pig. So I followed. Creeping after him through the moonlight I lost him many times, for his yellow stripes were like the moonbeams, and the dark ones like wavering shadows. But I always found him again, as he rose to leap along some path or across an open spot in the forest. "At last I knew that we were nearing the village. 'Ah!' I said to myself, 'so that is your game. You will pick a calf or a fat young pig for your dinner. Perhaps you may not fare as well as that,' for I decided that I must use my charm to drive him from the village if he went to rob there. "But, before I had expected it, he began to circle. By that I knew he had scented some prey. Narrower and narrower his circle grew. Greater and greater became my curiosity, for I wondered what kind of prey he could find so near the village and yet not safe in its pen. "Finally I climbed upon the trunk of a dead tree, and then I saw. My blood ran cold. Out of the village had wandered a child, a little girl of four or five years. She had crept from her bed while others were asleep, and there she was, the pale moonlight glistening from her body, and the tiger not four springs away. Then it was that I saw, saw clear as midday how it was; that all big cats were men's enemies, and were but to be killed. "Yet, I could not kill. I had not as much as a knife. I could do but one thing. I had my charm. I must stand between the beast and the child. "Three leaps brought me in his path. Then I turned and faced him. It was a great and terrible moment. My charm; would it work? He was terribly angry. Lashing his tail, he leaped to one side. But that was no good. I had him. I was now beside the child, who was not one bit afraid. "That time the tiger almost dared. He leaped once. Two more leaps remained. He leaped again. I could see the round, black pupils of his eyes; count his teeth; hear him breathe. Three times they relaxed. He did not dare. My charm; it worked. I had him. He did not dare. "At last he slunk away through the tall grass. Then, because the child was not afraid, because I knew it would be the last time I should ever watch the cats and their cubs, I took the child and followed the tiger back to the lair, where all night long, beneath the moon, the tiger and his mate with their cubs beat a hard, round path about me and the little girl. "Just before sunrise I heard the distant beat of the tom tom, the bellowing of bull buffaloes. Then it was that I knew that the natives were driving the herd of buffaloes to the jungle that they might frighten the tigers from their lair, and secure the remains of the child. And all the time I had the child safe in my arms." Pant paused and looked away over the glimmering water. The tom, tom, tom of the circus drum was sounding. The indistinct noises wafted on the breeze might be the lowing buffaloes. Johnny, for the second, fancied himself in the heart of the jungle with Pant, the child, and the tigers. "The next night," Pant's voice had grown suddenly husky, "I went to the jungle again, and that morning I brought in the pelts of the tiger and his mate. The kittens were chained to a tree. The natives brought them in later. The hospital was bigger and better after that. And I, I was a hero, a hero to them all, but not to myself." "But the black cat, the panther?" suggested Johnny after a moment of silence. "Oh, yes, that was later. We have not time for it now. We move to-night. We must hurry. Already the people are leaving." "One thing more before we go," said Johnny eagerly. "Light, Pant, does light travel in straight lines?" He was thinking of the crimson flash that had leaped apparently from mid-air in the tent the previous evening. "I am surprised that you ask it," Pant smiled. "You have been in Alaska?" "Yes." "Then, at Cape Prince of Wales you must have seen the midnight sun?" "Yes, in June." "If the sun's rays shone straight, you must have had then as many hours of continuous darkness in December as you had of continuous daylight in June. Did you?" "No," said Johnny. "We had three or four hours of sun every day, even in December." "Then," said Pant, smiling, "the sun's rays must have been bent that they might reach you. In fact, the rays of light never travel straight. So long! I'll leave you now to think that over. See you at our next stand. Hope I can tell you then who has your diamond ring." He vanished into the night, leaving Johnny to stare after him in wonder and admiration. "Some day," Johnny said to himself, "I'll hear the story of the black leopard." CHAPTER XII JOHNNY WINS DOUBLE PAY Johnny had scarcely reached the cluster of tents that loomed large in the darkness, when he was startled by a sudden wild burst of activity. Men and boys rushed silently here and there; lanterns and searchlights flashed from place to place. For a second he stood there paralyzed. What was it, a fire or an approaching cyclone? Then he laughed. "We move to-night. Down go the tents." They did go down. Before his astonished eyes they disappeared as if by magic. In all his life he had never seen anything that came near equaling the team work displayed in the dropping of the big top and the loading of the circus. In a marvelously short time they were on their way. Johnny, because of his prospects of becoming a regular performer, had been assigned a berth in a sleeping car. Pant, being merely a hanger-on, slept as he had on many another night, beneath the stars, with only a bale of canvas for covering. Johnny spent a half hour in thought before the even click, click of the wheels lulled him to sleep. They were on their way, and he was glad. To-morrow he would have his try-out. To-morrow, too, he would give Gwen her second lesson in boxing. Should he ask her about the ring? To-morrow they would be in one of those small cities in which Pant had said the counterfeiters would reap their richest harvest. When would Pant find his man? Would he, Johnny, have a part in it? He must not fail to fulfill his promise to Pant; to get acquainted with the steam kettle cook and the midget clown. The next morning Johnny kept his boxing appointment with Gwen. It was after a half hour of strenuous work, while they were resting on a mat, that she turned to him suddenly and said, in a low voice: "A strange thing happened last night." "What was that?" "I was awakened from my sleep. I had been dreaming of a fire, and I would have sworn that it was a flash of red light that awakened me." "That's strange." Johnny's tone told nothing. "What is stranger still, two other girls were awakened in the same manner." "You had upper berths?" "Yes." "There were glass ventilator windows above you?" "Yes." "Probably the light from a switch tower shining in." "It was too bright for that. It was so bright it was crimson. It was like--it was like the crimson flash that fell on the tiger that other night!" "That _was_ strange," Johnny smiled, but his smile told nothing. He was not surprised when, as he met Pant a half hour later, the strange fellow said to him in a matter-of-fact tone: "It's the slim girl, the one that rides bareback, Millie, what is it they call her?" "Millie Gonzales." "She's the one. She's got your ring." "I thought you might know," Johnny said quietly. Pant shot him a quick glance. "Somebody been talking?" "Not so you'd need be alarmed. But, say, now I know she's got it, how am I to get it from her?" "That's up to you," retorted Pant. "It's strange," said Johnny a little later; "last night I dreamed that the circus train was wrecked, all shot to smithereens! And the animals--they were having the time of their lives, fighting each other and eating folks up." "If that ever happens," Pant gripped his arm hard, "if it ever does, you get that big black cat! Get the black cat! See? He's a bad one; a man-eater. Got a record. A bad one. See?" Johnny nodded, and thought again of the story Pant was to tell him of that same black cat and the jungles of India. But there was no time for it now; the show would soon begin, and then would come the great event, his try-out. It came. All too soon he found himself marching down the sawdust trail. Dressed in his tightly fitting green suit, and closely followed by the bear, he felt foolish enough. He was a trifle awed by the immense throng, too. He had been in many a boxing match, but never one like this. In those other matches he had had men for opponents, and mostly men as spectators. Here it was far different. Anxious questions forced their way into his consciousness. How was the boxing bout going? Would he be able to manage the bear, or would the animal, goaded on by the shouts of the crowd, repeat the performance of that other day, when he had run the Italian out of the tent? Cold perspiration stood out on Johnny's forehead, yet he did not falter. Bracing himself for his ordeal, he bowed low to the audience, then turned to put the bear through his preliminary antics. All went well; still, through it all, Johnny's eyes strayed now and then to the boxing gloves. So real was his fear of the outcome of the match, that at times it seemed to him the gloves were alive and ready to leap from the floor into his face. Yet, when the time came, the thing seemed as simple as child's play. The bear performed his part perfectly. Johnny even risked a little extra exhibition by entering into a clinch with the bear and cleverly extricating himself. The great test came, however, when the bear, appearing to grow angry, leaped squarely at him. Three times the great beast did this, then with a sudden cry of seeming terror, Johnny darted from the ring and, closely followed by the bear, raced away before the packed throng of amazed and delighted spectators. When the bear paused, threw his gloves and turned to leer at the audience, Johnny knew that he had not only made good, but made good _big_. He had won his double pay. He was just rounding the outer entrance, with the applause of the crowd dying away, when a small, shrill voice squeaked up to him: "You did fine. You're all right." Glancing down, Johnny had no difficulty in recognizing Tom Stick, the midget clown. He cut a comical figure as he stood there. A mere child in size, he was dressed in an African hunting suit and carried a shiny air rifle. Not far away, a gigantic elephant stood complacently stuffing hay into his mouth. Johnny looked first at the midget, then at the elephant. "We go on next," squeaked the little fellow, "Jo-Jo, that's the elephant, and myself. I play I'm hunting wild elephants. See? Shoot him. See? Shoot him with the air gun all around the tent. Real bullets, too! He doesn't mind. Hide's tough. We always get a laugh; Jo-Jo and I do. Want to know how we came to be friends, Jo-Jo and me?" Johnny nodded. "Well, you see, Jo-Jo was a French elephant. They didn't need him during the war, so they sent him over to America, and sold him here. Well, Jo-Jo knew French all right, but he didn't understand a word of English. He was supposed to be one of the smartest elephants in the world over in France, but over here he was so stupid they actually had to push him off the cars when they unloaded him. Just plumb stupid. See? Got so they wished they didn't have him at all. "Well, you know, I used to show in France once myself, so I knew a little French, and one day, just for fun, I said to Jo-Jo: "'Bon jour, Jo-Jo. Comment alle vous!'" "Well, sir, that elephant nearly wiggled his old palm leaf ears off out of pure joy. I knew right away what made it; it was hearin' someone speak in his own language, so I just went right on spielin' French to him, and he kept on gettin' happier and happier until at last I had to stop for fear he'd break a blood vessel laughin'. "When the Boss knew about it, he gave Jo-Jo to me, and we've been mates ever since. "We've got to be movin' up. Good-by, Mr. Bear Boxer. See you some other time." Johnny watched the dwarf, as he walked behind the elephant and, turning a corner, disappeared from sight. "So that's one of the fellows Pant suspects of being the forger, Black McCree? Not the man, I'd say," he muttered. "And yet, you never can tell." It was the next morning, while he was preparing for his daily bout with Gwen, that Johnny received a shock of surprise which he did not soon forget. A unique plan for creating a new laugh had occurred to him. He was telling it to Gwen. "They don't have the clown assist you in your turn, do they?" He smiled, as he laced her right glove. "No. How could they? I never saw a clown walk the tight wire." "Wouldn't need to; just pretend to." He stooped to pick up her left glove. "How?" "Well, you see, they might have two or three small balloons just large enough to lift him off the ground. They could have small ropes attached to each of these. The attendants--the--the--" Johnny's eyes had seen something which made him stutter. On the plump third finger of Gwen's left hand reposed _the_ ring, the diamond ring, which had been the means of making him a circus performer. "I--I'll take it off for you." He drew the ring from her finger. "Thanks," she smiled at him. "Awfully stupid of me to wear it. There's a handkerchief in the right hand pocket of my blouse. Just wrap it in that, and put it in my pocket, please." For one brief second Johnny hesitated. Was this the moment of moments? The ring which would clear his good name was within his grasp. Should he say, "Gwen, this belongs to a friend of mine, not to you; I must take it to her"? For an instant he looked into Gwen's frank blue eyes, then, without a word, he drew the handkerchief from her pocket, wrapped the ring carefully up, then thrust it deep down in the pocket of her blouse. "As I was about to say," he continued with forced composure, "they could hold the balloons steady, while the clown tripped lightly along the wire. Perhaps he might even attempt a clog. When he was in the midst of the clog, the attendants could suddenly lose control of the balloons, letting the clown go up to the top of the tent. He could then climb to earth head first by doing a hand-over-hand on a rope fastened to a peg in the ground. Don't you think that would bring a laugh?" Gwen's brow was wrinkled in thought for a moment. "Yes, I think it would," she said suddenly. "I think it would be a berry! How'd you like to be the clown?" "I wasn't in aviation in the Army," smiled Johnny. "No, but really, would you?" "Why! Why! Yes, I might. It might be better than boxing the bear, and since I've got to stick around, I might as well be a clown as anything." "Stick around?" she asked. "Why do you have to stick around?" For an instant the words were on the tip of Johnny's tongue which would have told her the whole truth. But his lips would not frame the sentence. "Why, I--I," he stammered; "just my nature, I guess. Always did like the circus." Johnny was not a great success as a boxer that morning. He was thinking of the diamond ring, and wondering why he had not demanded the right to keep it, once he had it in his grasp; wondering, too, how it happened that Millie had it one day, and Gwen another. "Queer mixup," was his mental comment. Late that night, after the show was over, when the lights were dim, Johnny wandered into the animal tent. He was just passing the cage of the black leopard when a low hiss halted him. Then he felt a grip on his arm. It was Pant. "Sit down here in the dark, Johnny," he whispered. "I'll tell you the story of that black beast. I can tell it better with his wicked red eyes burning holes at me through the dark, just as they did once before, and him a free black cat!" Johnny started as he stared at the cage where, on a narrow wooden shelf, the leopard must be reposing. All he could see was a pair of red balls of fire, and it seemed to him that in all his life he had never seen anything so full of hate as was the red gleam that seemed fairly to shoot out from them. CHAPTER XIII PANT'S STORY OF THE BLACK CAT "Life's like this," Pant gripped Johnny's arm, as the two red balls in the back of the dark cage shifted from side to side; "life's just like this: When once you've done a thing, you want to do it again. That's why we have to watch our habits, if we want our lives to count for something. Lots of fellows don't watch them. I told you about killing the old tiger and his mate, and bringing in the cubs to the doctor, so he could sell them to the traders and buy supplies for his hospital. Well, once I had done that, I wanted to do it again. I guess there was something of my old desire to study cats in me yet, for I was overjoyed when I heard wild stories about a giant black leopard that haunted the trail far up the river. You see, the mountain streams were drying up, and the big cats were being driven out of the mountain forests to the river jungles. "The stories they told about that big black cat made a fellow's blood run cold. He was big as a tiger. He was a fierce man-eater. His fangs were twice the size of a tiger's, and each one like a knife blade. He had been seen to seize a full grown man, and before the man's companions could fire upon him, to leap to the bough of a tree, ten feet from the ground, the man in his jaws, too. The others had fled in terror. They never knew what terrible fate had overtaken their companion until a few days later a second party passing that way had found his bones strewn beneath that tree. "Of course I laughed at their stories. A black cat do a thing like that? Why, the one in the zoo back home was not three times the size of a house cat, and he, the keeper had told me, was eight years old. "I did not believe their stories, but the natives believed them, and would not stir up the river road; and none would come down it, either; so those who were sick could not come to the hospital I had helped to make better. This made me angry. "'I will go and kill that black cat,' I said to the doctor. 'I will have his skin for a foot mat!' "He smiled in a friendly way, and bade me not be rash. The black leopard, he told me, was much more to be feared than the tiger. Unlike the tiger, he killed for the fun of killing. He climbed trees, and there on the dark trunk, seeming but a part of the tree itself, he waited for his prey. In the gloom of the forest, he dropped without a sound, and his attack was most terrible. He was truly large, too, six feet in length from tip of nose to base of tail. "I did not believe the doctor. Had I not seen a full grown black leopard in the zoo? Was he not an insignificant fellow? And yet, I was a little afraid, for I remembered that the black cat in the zoo had not been afraid, when all the other great cats cringed in dark corners of their cages. I was a little afraid, but I would not admit it. "'Just because you have told me he is terrible,' I said, 'I will take along a strong cage. I will bring him to you alive. We will sell him to the traders, and buy more beds for our hospital.' "Then the doctor begged me not to be foolhardy. But I would not listen. With four natives to carry the cage, with a rifle in my hand, and a big knife at my belt, I went--went far up the river trail. When the natives would go no farther, I called them dirty cowards, and putting my rifle inside the cage, dragged the cage after me until I had come to a place where, in a deep forest, at the bend of the river, the black cat was said to make his stand. "I was frightened a little, Johnny, when I saw the bleached bones of a man lying beneath a great tree where mosses and vines hung thick, but I reassured myself by saying the man had died there alone, and the jackals had picked his bones. "'That's the origin of the wild story,' I told myself. 'Like as not there is no black cat at all, and I shall go home disappointed.' "But I didn't, Johnny, I didn't." Johnny could feel Pant's hand grip his arm hard, as the black creature in the cage stirred and gave forth a sort of hissing yawn. "You were never in the jungle at night?" Pant's tense, vibrant whisper told more plainly than words that he was living over again those hours in the jungle alone. "No," breathed Johnny. "It's wonderful, and terrible. The sun sinks from sight. Darkness comes and then out shines the moon. And the moonlight! Nowhere else is it like it is in the jungle. It creeps down among the masses of leaves, transforming swinging, swaying limbs into gigantic, twisting serpents, ready at any moment to swing down upon you. It turns every shadow-dotted tree trunk into a beast ready to leap at your throat. It's weird, fascinating, terrible. Down at the river some beast plunges into the water. You hear the splash, then the swish, swish of his strokes. He is coming to your bank, you are sure. You are afraid. Who would not be? "But me, I sat by my cage, with the rifle over one knee and watched. One hour, two hours, three hours I watched, until at last all the twisting branches, the spotted tree trunks were familiar to me. "And then, then he came; the black beast, the great black cat, he came." Pant paused. There came a hiss from the cage, as if the black cat, too, was living those hours over again. "I saw him, Johnny, I saw him. I caught the wicked gleam of his two red eyes." Pant gripped Johnny's arm until it hurt. "He was not thirty feet from me. Flattened against a broad tree trunk, he was glaring at me out of the dark. How he came so close without my seeing him, I cannot tell. He was a devil. Perhaps he had been there all that time. Who knows? "Anyway, there he was. I cast my charm upon him. And I had him, Johnny, I had him. With my rifle I could have shot him on the instant. But he had me, too. He was so wonderful. I have told you about the wonder of the tiger's coat. It is nothing to the coat of a black leopard in the jungle. You have seen him. You know how immense he is; seven feet from tip of nose to base of tail. You have seen him in his cage, but will never see him as I saw him that night, a free beast in his own wilderness, and I a stranger, an intruder. "But I thought I had him. I wanted to study him: to learn his secrets. I planned how I would follow him day after day, and learn all his secrets. I was mad, stark mad." Pant paused again as if for breath. The black beast moved nearer on his shelf within the cage. The thrashing of his tail was like the dull beat of a drum. "Just when I was thinking all this," Pant rose upon his knees in his excitement, "just when I thought I had him, he gave one piercing scream and leaped. My man, what a leap! He struck me all unprepared; struck me with fangs and claws tearing at my flesh. Yet my right hand was free. It was a tense, agonizing second. In some way I got out my knife and slashed away with it. The next instant I lost consciousness." Pant paused again. Once more the leopard moved his length along the cage. "But, Johnny, here's the strangest part of all. I cannot explain it; only know it's true. They say that sometimes, in moments of great shock, men lose their personality and become another person; that when they come back to themselves they have done things they know nothing of, yet others have seen them do. It may have been like that with me. And then, a great teacher in the heart of India once told me that there was a great spirit of the forest who looked after brave hunters, and did things for them in time of great danger which they could not do for themselves. It may have been that, too. Whatever way it may have been, it was strange; so strange that you would not believe me were I not your friend who always told you the truth. "Listen, Johnny! When I came to myself I was weak, terribly weak from loss of blood; but the cat, the big black cat, he was raging in the cage, and the door was fastened tight." Pant paused. The animal tent was still. Suddenly a crimson flash gleamed. For an instant it turned the black cat blood red. The next moment, with a wild snarl, the beast flattened himself against the bars of his cage. A keeper sprang out of the darkness. "What's that?" he demanded. "What's what?" drawled Pant. "I thought I saw a flash." "He evidently thought something of the sort," Pant replied, poking his thumb at the black cat. "Well, you guys better move on. This ain't no place for spinnin' yarns." "That's all right," drawled Pant, "but let me tell you, friend; if anything ever happens to this circus, a fire, a cyclone, a train wreck, or anything like that, you get that cat. Get that black cat!" "What d'you know about him?" "Plenty that I don't tell to strangers." Pant lifted the wall of the tent and stepped out into the moonlight, followed by Johnny. "You didn't finish," suggested Johnny. "There's not much more to tell. You have to hand it to that doctor, though. When I didn't come back in the morning, he tried to organize a party to search for me. No one would go. They were scared cold by the black cat. So he came alone. He found me there, too weak to move, and he carried me all the way back and put me in a bed I'd helped him to buy. "The natives went for the black cat and brought him back to the village in triumph. "When I was better a trader came to me and offered me the price of a tiger's cub for the black cat. I laughed in his face, and told him I'd take the cat to the States myself. That's what I did. I got five thousand dollars for him, and sent it all back to the doctor so he could buy beds, and absorbent cotton, and medicine for his hospital." "That was good of you," said Johnny. "Who's good?" demanded Pant. "Didn't he teach me sense when I didn't know anything but cats? Didn't he carry me out of the jungle on his back when no one else dared to go in?" For a time they were silent. Then, gripping Johnny's arm, Pant whispered: "But, Johnny, we're after worse cats than the black one. We're after human tigers. Tigers that destroy man's faith in man; that make life little worth the living. And, Johnny, we're on their trail, close on their trail. Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps the day after, you shall see--well, you shall see what you shall see." CHAPTER XIV IN TOM STICK'S HOUSE That same night, by the dull glow of a half burned out camp fire on the bank of a river, Pant told Johnny of his plans as a Secret Service man on a big case, and how they had worked out thus far. "You remember the crimson flash in the animal tent, and how it frightened a lot of the colored boys into jumping their jobs?" he chuckled. "Well, that helped me, helped me a lot; for you see some of the boys that quit were working for this bunch of counterfeiters that has Black McCree as its head. Some of the boys that were hired were already getting pay from Uncle Sam for helping me. Some of them now are getting triple pay, once from the circus, once from me and once from the counterfeiters. See how it works?" Pant chuckled again. "These boys with the three pay checks have helped me a lot, but not enough. They can't get back far enough. They know only the men who pass the bonds on to them, and those men are just helpers like themselves. They pass the goods on, but the real man is still back in the shadows; too far back for me to see him. He's the man I want; the man and his outfit; and let me tell you, Johnny, that's some outfit. There's never been anything like it before. It's a danger. Where and when they operate is more than I know. They could hardly do it in one of the tents. They might do it in one of the cars, and it might be Tom, the midget clown, doing it in his house on wheels." "I've talked with him," said Johnny quickly. "I don't believe he's in on it." "Don't be too sure. Take no chances. If he's especially friendly, that may mean that he is onto the fact that you're working with me and that I'm after them. A bunch like that would stab you in the back in a second." For a few minutes there was silence, then Pant continued: "We are making some progress. We know about how much of the 'queer' they are peddling in these towns, and take my word, it's a plenty. They are planting it thick. We've got to get 'em, and get 'em quick. Have you talked with Andy McQueen, the steam kettle cook, yet?" "No, not yet." "Do it to-morrow. He may be important. And Johnny," Pant leaned forward with an impressive gesture, "Johnny, watch your step. You're in danger every moment. They may know you're with me; probably do, and if they do, they'll get you if they can. That's all. Goodnight." Rising, he stretched himself like a cat, then went slouching away into the darkness. For a long time Johnny lay there on the sand dreamily gazing into the fire. It was, indeed, a tangled web of mystery the unraveling of which he had let himself in for, and one which, as Pant had suggested, might at any moment suddenly break and let him down with an awful fall. There was the ring. Gwen had it that morning; Millie had it two days before; perhaps Mitzi had it at this very moment. He was still surprised at himself because of his action of that morning. Well, he must have that ring. This, if for no other reason, must hold him to his surprising circus career. He wondered if Gwen were serious about the clown stunt and, if so, whether she would soon have it arranged. He thought again of Pant's problem, and wondered for the hundredth time if he should have any part in its solving. But the greatest mystery of all was the crimson flash. He had seen it leap down from the air and turn the tiger, loose in the big tent, blood red. He had seen it do the same thing in the animal tent. In his suggestion regarding the direction of the sun's rays in the Arctic, Pant had intimated that rays of light could be made to follow crooked paths. If this could be done, if Pant held within his fertile brain the secret of this terrible power, what a wonderful fellow he was! How it would transform modern life, modern warfare! Trenches would be utterly useless once a light might be thrown upon them from any angle. Many things that were dark, secret and hidden in every day life would be clear as the light of day. What dark corner, what secret rendezvous, would be safe from the glare of those crooked rays of gleaming light? Johnny pondered until his head whirled, then, rising and shaking himself, he made his way to the sleeping car in which he now bunked. The circus would soon be on its way to the next small city. That next small city, if Johnny had but known it, was only ten miles from the home of the grandparents of the millionaire twins. They had ridden cross country for a visit to their grandparents. Along the roads they had seen glaring posters announcing the coming of the circus. They had decided at once that now was the time to join that circus. Their circus riding clothes were in the trunk, which had been sent on by express. Even as Johnny rose from beside the fire, the twins, in their beds at their grandfather's rambling, old house, were planning how, on the morrow, they would slip on their circus garb underneath their dresses, and ride away to discover their old friend, Johnny, and join the parade. Morning broke bright and clear on the old fair grounds of Rokford, which was the place of the great circus' next one day stand. When Johnny had eaten breakfast, he strolled past the cooking tent and, having paused to admire the row of shining copper steam kettles, he thought of his promise to get in touch with the manager of these kettles. The cook was not in sight at that moment, so Johnny paused to study these great vats, which resembled nothing so much as giant kettle drums. "Just a twist of the valve and the steam does the rest," he murmured to himself. "Great, ain't they?" a voice said at his elbow. "Sure are." Johnny turned about. It was the cook. A tall, slender man, well past middle age, with a drooping mustache, and a wrinkled smile, he studied Johnny from head to toe. "You're a boxer," he said, getting his smile into operation. "Saw you box a conman once. Been wonderin' ever since how such a small fellow could pack such a wallop." "I don't mind tellin' you," said Johnny. "It's absurdly simple. Instead of just getting the force of your arm muscles into the blow, or the push of your shoulder, you leap as you strike, and that puts the whole of your body back of your mitt. That's easy, isn't it?" "I suppose it is, after you been doin' it a few thousand times; easy as fryin' flapjacks." "How long have you been cooking with steam kettles?" asked Johnny. "Only five or six years. But I've been cookin' all my life. I was cook for a surveying outfit when the Union Pacific was built. Boy! Those were the days of real sport. Used to run out of fuel and everything." A humorous twinkle lurked about the man's eyes, as he lighted his pipe and sat down on an upturned bucket. "I mind one time," he mused, "when we was plumb out of wood, and nothin' but grass; prairie all 'round us. Just enough fire to make coffee; not enough to fry flapjacks, and the nearest supply station thirty miles away." "What did you do?" asked Johnny. "Well, sir," the cook removed his pipe and spat on the ground, "I said, 'Boys, there'll be flapjacks for breakfast just the same.' I mixed 'em up as usual in a big tin bucket. I gave the bucket to one of the boys, and a hunk of bacon rind to another, and told 'em all to follow me. I struck a match and set the prairie grass on fire; then I held my fryin' pan over it until it was hot. I baked the first flapjack and tossed it out of the pan over my shoulder. Some fellow caught and ate it. I did another and another the same way, and kept that up until every fellow in the bunch was satisfied." Johnny smiled. The cook smiled, spat on the ground, then concluded his story. "When we got through breakfast we were ten miles from camp. Prairie fire travels. So did we." Johnny laughed; then he thought and laughed again. After a time he rose and went on his way. "That's another fellow," he told himself, "that I'd never suspect of being a crook, but what's that about people who 'smile and smile and are a villain still'? A fellow has to watch out." He was just thinking of this when a shrill voice piped: "Hello, Johnny! Want to see my house?" It was Tom Stick, the midget clown. He was offering Johnny a rare privilege; inviting him to view the inside of his house on wheels. Pant had told Johnny that such a boon had been granted to no one. Yet, because it was so rare, and because of Pant's warning, "They'll stab you in the back," he was tempted for a second to decline. Courage and curiosity overcame his fears, and smiling he said: "Sure! Lead the way." The clown's house was little more than a box on wheels, but once Johnny had crowded himself through the narrow door and seated himself, much humped up, on a miniature chair, he was surprised at the completeness of its furnishings. He could easily imagine himself in a hunter's lodge in the depths of the forest. An open fireplace, with a real wood fire burning, a roughly hewn table, benches beside the fireplace, a cluster of fox skins hanging in the corner, a bear skin on the floor, rifles hanging on one wall; all these, with the unmistakable odor of fresh pine wood, went far toward taking him back to the forests. "You see," squeaked Tom Stick, rubbing his hands in delight at Johnny's astonishment, "I was born and brought up in the Maine woods. I loved the wild out-of-doors, and when the circus people offered me big money to join them, I told them no. But my mother needed the money, so, at last, I told them if they'd build me this house, and never disturb me in it, I'd come. You see they did. I've never had any of the other circus people in here. Didn't think they'd understand. They've always lived in a tent. They'd laugh at a fellow who wanted a home with four board walls, a ceiling, and a smell of the pine woods in it. But I knew you wouldn't. You've had a home, and you know the woods. Tell that by the color in your cheeks, and the way you swing your arms when you walk." For a moment the dwarf was silent, then suddenly he shot a question at his visitor. "Johnny, what do you live for?" "Why, why, I don't know," Johnny stammered. "Just live because it's fun to live, I suppose." The midget wrinkled his small brow in thought. "Not so bad," he murmured. "Not so bad. But Johnny; did you ever wonder what a little fellow like me lives for?" "No, I didn't," Johnny admitted. "Well, there's a lot of things we can't do that big folks can; but there's one thing, Johnny, one thing," Tom's tone died to a whisper; "a short man can have a tall bank account. He can, can't he, Johnny?" The little fellow twisted his face into a knowing smile. "I guess he can," grinned Johnny, "and it's a fine thing that he can." Johnny had stepped over and was examining an ancient squirrel rifle, which Tom explained had belonged to his grandfather, when he noticed the way the walls of the house were fastened. The walls were made of fresh pine slabs. They were wired tight to something behind them. "Iron bars," was his mental comment. "When they made this they just built it inside a wild animal cage. I wonder what would happen if a fellow were to get locked in here?" He was speculating on this, when he heard a voice outside calling. "Johnny, Johnny Thompson!" It was Gwen. He answered the call and, turning to his little host, said: "Guess I better go. Some work, I suppose. Great little house, you've got. Much obliged for letting me see it." He backed out of the door and hurried away to join Gwen, but even as he did so, he thought of the midget clown's reference to a tall bank account, and of his house built inside a cage. What if this little fellow was a miser? What if his greed for gold had led him into counterfeiting? What if he were Black McCree? What safer place could be found for hiding a counterfeiter's den than a house built inside a cage on wheels? All these speculations were cut short by the appearance of the smiling face of his lady boxing partner, Gwen. "It's the clown stunt," she exclaimed excitedly. "The big chief fell for it right away. He hurried a messenger off to Chicago for the balloons. They're already here, and they've tried them out with a dummy and they worked beautifully. They want you to try it right away." "This dummy," smiled Johnny, "he didn't fall and break his neck, did he?" "No, of course not, Silly!" "Well, here's hoping I don't, but it's a powerful long distance from the top of the center tent pole down to the sawdust." CHAPTER XV BURSTING BALLOONS The big top had never been more crowded than it was the night of Johnny's first performance as a clown. And never, in the memory of the oldest circus man, had there been a jollier throng. Never had there been an act more thoroughly appreciated than that of Gwen, the Queen, and Johnny, the fat clown. Johnny had been dressed in inflated rubber clothing until he appeared as fat as a butcher. When, by the aid of the balloons, he rose to the tight wire, when he tripped lightly along it, and returned cakewalking, the spectators howled their approval. But when in apparent consternation, he lost his step and instead of plunging downward, leaped upward with the sudden lift of the balloons, they rose to their feet and roared their delight. Silently, calmly, he rose toward the tent top. There was nothing calm about the feelings that surged in Johnny's breast, however. He had never been in aviation, and never would be. Going up in the air made him feel sick. Had it not been for Gwen, he would have refused to attempt this stunt. "Oh, well!" he sighed, "here's the top; now I can grab the rope and come down. Rope's more certain than these balloons." Hardly had the thought passed through his brain than there came a loud report. So close it was that it hurt his ear drums. It was followed almost instantly by a second explosion. "The balloons," Johnny groaned. "They're bursting!" For a second his head whirled. To drop from those dizzy heights meant death. Then his mind cleared. The rope was to his right. Already he was beginning to shoot downward. Could he reach it? With one wild leap in mid-air, he thrust out a hand. He grasped the rope with his left, then lost his hold. With his right, he secured a firmer grip. At that same instant the last balloon burst. For one sickening moment, he clung there, swinging backward and forward, madly groping for the rope with his free hand. At last, he found it, and, with a sigh of relief, began sliding down the rope. The crowd was standing up cheering. The band was playing. Even the performers thought it part of the act. For a minute or two after he had reached the ground, Johnny rested on a mat. As he rose to go he noticed something lying in the sawdust. Carelessly he picked it up, examined it, then gave a low whistle. It was an arrow-like affair. The shaft was of steel wire, the head of wood. The head had been discolored, part yellow and part dark brown. "Sulphur!" he murmured. "Dipped in burning sulphur, then shot at my balloons! No wonder they exploded. Now, who played that dirty trick?" He examined the thing carefully. "Couldn't have been shot from a bow, no groove for the bow string. Now I wonder. An air rifle, that's what it was." Quickly there flashed before his mind a picture of a midget clown chasing a huge elephant around the ring. The clown was dressed in equatorial hunting garb and carried an air rifle. "Tom Stick!" Johnny murmured. "Tom Stick and his air rifle! I wouldn't have thought he'd do it." Slowly he walked back through the alleyway that led to the dressing room. He had discarded his clown suit and had walked out into the open air, when a shrill young voice called his name: "Johnny, Johnny Thompson." Whirling about, he found himself facing the millionaire twins. They were riding astride their ponies, and were dressed as if ready for their turn in the ring. "Wha--where'd you come from, and who let you in?" he gasped. "We came from our grandfather's to join the circus," piped Marjory. "Yes, and to think," Margaret fairly wailed, "we got here too late for the parade!" Johnny looked at them for a moment, then laughed a good natured laugh. "Got let down, didn't you?" he smiled. "Well, so did I a minute ago, mighty sudden, too. But perhaps we can get you into a part yet, since this is positively your first and last appearance." "Oh, no, Johnny," exclaimed Marjory, "not the last! We've come to stay as long as you do." "Then I don't stay long," laughed Johnny. "Circus is no place for millionaire twins. You wait right here. I'll be back." By dint of much persuading, Johnny succeeded in getting the twins a place on the program. At the end of the races came a pony race. The ponies were ridden by monkeys. It was arranged that the two little girls, on their own ponies, were to race the monkeys on their circus mounts. It was a wilder and more genuine race than is usually pulled off in the circus, for the twins were dead in earnest about winning it, and so were the monkeys. The monkeys and their ponies had played at racing so long, however, they were not able to get seriously down to business. When the twins were riding neck and neck, three lengths ahead of their nearest rivals, they delighted the throng by leaping upon their feet and riding in this manner around the last sweeping circle and out of sight. "That's fine," exclaimed the manager, rubbing his hands. "Who are they, friends of yours? Can we book 'em for the rest of the season?" He was speaking to Johnny. "Can't book them for another show," groaned Johnny. "And I'll get skinned alive for letting them in on this one. They're the daughters of Major MacDonald, the steel magnate. Ran away from their grandfather's, and they go back to-night." The manager whistled. "Too bad to spoil perfectly good circus girls to make society belles," he smiled. "But seein' that's who they are, I guess it can't be helped." "Oow-wee! That was grand!" exclaimed Marjory, who now came up with her sister. "Did we make good. Can we stay?" "You made good, but you can't stay," smiled Johnny. "What do you suppose your grandparents are thinking of about now?" "Oh, they won't know about it at all. We are supposed to be over here with friends who live down on Pine street. That's how they let us come at all. These friends are real old folks and don't go to circuses. When we got here, we called them up as if we were at home and told them we couldn't come; so you see it's all right. And, Johnny, if we can't stay and be circus folks, we can stay just one night, can't we, and have a real ride in a circus train?" Johnny looked at the manager. "Sure," grinned the good natured boss of the circus. "We'll put you in the care of Ma Kelly, the circus girls' matron, and you'll be safe as a bean in a bowl of soup." "How far do we move?" asked Johnny, a bit anxiously. "Only forty miles, and that leaves us less than thirty miles from their grandfather's place. They can make it back all right." "I'll borrow one of the rough riders' ponies, and hoof it back with them," said Johnny. "But remember," he turned to the twins, "remember, this is the last. To-morrow morning you turn your faces toward home. And by thunder! I wish I could go along to stay!" "Why? Why can't you?" cried Marjory. "We want you to. Indeed, we do." "I can't tell you now. Maybe some time. You stay right here. I'll send Ma Kelly around. Then I've got to go box the bear." Johnny rushed away, and that was the last they saw of him for some time. CHAPTER XVI THE WRECK OF THE CIRCUS That night, as Johnny listened to the chant of the negroes as they went about their tasks of breaking camp and loading, he fancied that there was a weird and restless tone to it, foretelling some catastrophe brooding over all. The night was dark, with black, rainless clouds hurrying across the sky. Johnny shivered as he walked toward his sleeping car. His hand was on the rail when someone touched his arm. It was Pant. "Johnny," he whispered, "how'd you like to ride with me in the gondola to-night?" "Oh, all right," Johnny answered, a note of impatience in his voice. "If it's going to be a bother, don't come." "I'll come along." "Thought you might like to be in on something big." "I've been in on something big twice to-day. The first came near to being my funeral, and the second will be, if I don't get those twins back to their grandfather's pretty quick." Johnny told Pant of the day's experiences, as they made their way back to a tent car. "Oh, you'll come out all right with the twins," said Pant. "I only hope we don't get into things that'll muss us up to-night, but we'll go careful." "Of course," he whispered, as they settled down among the piles of canvas, "it's that Liberty bond business. I've been scouting 'round in the towns we've been in, and the way they've been spreading the 'queer' about is nothing short of a super-crime. "I've been running up a blind trail for a long time. Thought I had something on that conman with the ragged ear and two of his pals. I followed them down to the river in Chicago twice, and the second time came near catching them; would have, too, if it hadn't been for a rat that tried to eat my hand off. I got 'em the other night--outfit and everything, and it turned out to be only a mimeograph kit for making fake telegrams, announcing results of races, baseball games, and the like. I was sore when I found it was nothing; might have been a blind, at that. But I had to start all over again, and last night when we were on the way, I made a mighty important discovery. There was a light in the rear end of one of the horse cars most of the night. That's as far as I got. It was moonlight. They might see me if I came spying around. Besides, I wanted someone else along; someone with a strong arm. Didn't want to get pitched off the train just when I had my hand on the trick. Of course, it may be just an all night crap game, but I don't think so. Anyway, we'll see. We'll let them get under way, then when we're clipping it up at a lively rate, and the moon's under, we'll have a look." Pant fell silent, apparently lost in his intricate problem. Johnny yawned. A quarter of an hour later Johnny was just dropping off into a doze, when Pant gripped his arm and whispered: "C'mon. Let's go!" Having climbed over two gondolas and the top of a one-time express car, they dropped cat-like from the roof of the express car to the platform of a second express car. Here they stood silent, listening for fully two minutes. At first everything appeared dark, but presently Johnny caught a faint gleam of light that apparently came through a crack in a lower panel of the express car door. "What'll we do if they come out at us. It's a rotten place," he whispered. Just then the car gave a lurch which almost threw him from the narrow platform. "Duck and jump." "Mighty risky." "Only chance. Too many of 'em. Probably guns and everything." "All right. Get busy." Pant dropped on his knee and, bracing himself to avoid being thrown against the door by a sudden lurch, peered through the crack. What he saw drew forth a whispered exclamation: "It's the real gang!" For some time all was silent. Johnny's heart was doing time and a half. What if they were forced to stand and fight or jump? He shivered as he tried to make out the embankment through the darkness. They were racing down grade. "We've got 'em! It's the gang!" Pant whispered again. "Look!" He rose and stepped aside. With muscles set for action, Johnny dropped on his knees, and, shutting one eye, peered through the narrow opening. What he saw astonished him. In a brilliantly lighted room, the width of the car, and some ten feet deep, four men were working rapidly, and apparently with great skill. What surprised him most of all was that all four men wore heavily smoked glasses, such as Pant himself wore. He saw at a glance that neither the steam kettle cook nor the midget clown was with them. He was glad the cook was not there. His feeling regarding the midget, after the events of the previous day, was not unmixed. The things the men were doing interested him immensely. Two of them appeared to be putting little squares of paper through a wash, such as a photographer uses. A third was drying them before a motor-driven, superheated electric fan. The fourth was stamping them in a small press. Each time he stamped one, he appeared to change the type. Presently, the two who were handling the baths appeared to come to the end of their tasks. Hardly had they spoken a word to their companions than each man stepped to a corner, and, turning his back from the center of the room, stood there motionless. "Wha--" Johnny's lips formed the word. There was not time to finish. The next instant he dropped limply back upon the platform, as if he had been shot. "What is it, Johnny?" Pant whispered in alarm. Johnny's hands covered his face. "The flash! My eyes! They're blind!" Pant pushed him roughly to one side. "Let's see." Johnny slid back to the other car platform. Still dazed by the sudden flood of light that had struck his eye, but fast recovering, he watched Pant with interest, not unmingled with awe. By the sudden spurts of light that shot through the crack, he knew that the flashes were being continued, yet Pant did not remove his eye. He still crouched there before the crack. Gazing intently within, he uttered now and then a stifled "Ah!" and "Oh!" at the marvels which he was viewing. Finally he dropped back to a seat beside Johnny. "Eyes all right now?" he asked. "Sure. What was it?" queried Johnny, forgetting his aching eyes. "Color photography." "Color photography?" "Sure. One of the great inventions of the age, and they are using it for making counterfeit bonds!" Johnny was silent. "You see," whispered Pant, "great inventors have been experimenting with color photography for years. They got so they could do color work on negatives--that is, the photographic plate--very well. They have used these for the purpose of photographing the stages of certain diseases, and a few things like that; but when it came to getting the color on the positive--the picture itself--that could not be done. These fellows _can do it_, and are doing it. The bonds are printed in brown and black. They catch these colors perfectly, only in a little paler hue. Their paper is nearly perfect, but whatever defects it has are counteracted by this color photography which reproduces the very tints of the paper." For some time they sat there in silence. "Now that we know their game," whispered Pant at last, "how are we going to get them? One of the fellows is a ticket seller. He sold Snowball some bonds when we were in Chicago. I might have known he was in it. Another is a guard at the entrance of the big top." "Sold me some bonds once." "That's right. The other two I don't know. Let's have another look." Pant had just put his eyes to the crack; Johnny was standing behind him, when there ran through the train a sickening shiver. The next instant there followed a deafening crash, as car jammed upon car, and, leaping high upon one another, left the track. It was a wreck--such a wreck as is seldom witnessed--the wreck of a circus train; a head-end collision with a bob-tailed freight running like mad. At the moment previous to the first shock of the wreck, Gwen might have been seen sitting in her own compartment talking earnestly with the millionaire twins. None of the three had yet undressed for retiring. The things the twins were telling Gwen had much to do with Johnny Thompson, and appeared to interest her very much, for now and then there came an amused, and again a surprised, twinkle in her eye. At one time, a close observer might have seen her slip a ring from her finger, a ring that had been covered by the folds of her dress. The ring she crowded deep into the pocket of her blouse beneath her handkerchief. When the wreck occurred, the car they were in, a staunch steel affair, leaped high in air, then wholly uninjured, left the track to topple over on one side and lay there quite still. Gwen had been shaken from her seat and jammed beneath the one before her. The twins, gripping the sides, held on as if riding a fractious broncho, and were not shaken loose. "Oh!" cried Marjory, as the car settled to rest, "Johnny Thompson and our ponies! We must find them. They may be killed." The pair of them, sliding from their seats, had crawled through a window, and were away before Gwen could sufficiently recover her breath to call them back. She wrung her hands in real distress. "They'll be killed!" she cried frantically. "Half the lions and tigers in the circus must be loose!" Then she scrambled out of the car to find Johnny Thompson. He would know what to do! CHAPTER XVII "GET THAT BLACK CAT" At the first shock of the wreck, Johnny Thompson and Pant were thrown with such violence against the express car door that the lock was sprung, and they were pitched head foremost among the surprised and panic-stricken counterfeiters. Pant was the first to regain his wits. The car, like many others, had careened to one side and lay there motionless. The instruments in the room had been tossed about. Everyone was splashed with a stinging fluid which came from the vats. The peculiar instrument which had occupied the center of the room, and was undoubtedly the color-photo camera, an instrument of priceless value, had apparently sustained little injury. Pant seized upon this and was about to dash through the door with it, when the large man with the black moustache wrenched it from his grasp, and, poising it for an instant in his right hand, hurled it at Pant's head. Leaping to one side, Pant barely escaped the blow. There was a crash, followed by the tinkle of glass and metal instruments. The next moment the big man shot suddenly upward and fell back with a groan. Johnny's good right hand had got him under the chin. Two of the men leaped from the door and fled. The one remaining sprang at Pant, but was at once borne down by Johnny. "Tear some of those wires from the wall," panted Johnny. "We'll tie them and drag them out." The fat man, who was completely within their power, was soon tied, then carried out of the car to the embankment. "Now for the other," puffed Johnny. They dodged back into the car. To their astonishment, they found that the other man had escaped. "Gone!" muttered Pant. "Faked unconsciousness." "And he was the prize bird of them all." "Too bad!" Suddenly Pant appeared to remember something. "Johnny," he whispered in a tense whisper, "Johnny, get that black cat!" Catching his breath, Johnny sprang from the car. "Wait," whispered Pant. From his pocket he had drawn a tiny vial. "That," he whispered, "may help you. It's what they call cat-lick in India. An old Hindu gave it to me after I had captured the big black cat. He said it was like catnip to the cat. When a tiger or leopard smelled it, if he could get near the spot where a drop had been spilled he forgot his savageness, and laid down to roll in it. I'm not sure. It sounds queer. Try it if you must." "You got some?" "Sure." "I'll go up track; you go down." "Right! And Johnny," Pant repeated, "get the black cat!" Johnny had scarcely turned from the car when he almost ran into somebody. "Gwen!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What you doing out here? Don't you know half the beasts are loose? Listen to that?" The long drawn out roar of a lion sounded above the wail of darkies, the neighing of ponies, and the trumpeting of bull elephants. "I know, Johnny, but Johnny, nothing half so terrible could ever have been dreamed of!" "The wreck? I know. Some people are almost sure to have been killed." "But the twins?" "Where are they?" "I don't know. They were in the car with me when the shock came. They were telling me about--all about you. They got away while I was freeing myself from the seats. Went to find you and their ponies. Oh, Johnny, we must find them quick!" "Yes," Johnny answered, "but watch out for the black cat, the leopard. He's a man-eater from the jungle." "Oh!" she exclaimed. "And I saw him not a minute ago. He's loose from his cage. He was crouching in the corner of the wreck. I caught the gleam of his eyes." "Where?" "Back there." Johnny started forward. "Johnny, you won't go?" "I must." "You'll be killed." "I've got to get him first." He drew an automatic from his pocket. Then he walked steadily forward, his keen eyes studying every dark corner of the wreck. Down the train lengths lights were flashing. The keepers were searching out the cages, striving to retain those animals which had not yet escaped, and to locate those that were free. The wooden cars of an ancient design which carried the animals had been torn and crushed, piled upon one another, until the wreck at this point resembled a kindling pile. Here one heard the splintering of boards, as some beast attempted to free himself, and here the crash of torn-up planks told that some loyal elephant strove to free his mate. The whole scene was one of wild confusion. Wildest, most terrifying of all, came the occasional challenge of a great cat of the jungle, now free to do the bidding of his own wild will. * * * * * * * * Hardly had Gwen turned, after Johnny had hurried away, than she uttered a cry of dismay. Creeping toward her, his wild eyes gleaming, was a gaunt, yellow tiger. For a second she was paralyzed with fear. And in that second the cat made progress--now he was ten yards away, now eight, now five. What should she do? To turn, to attempt to flee seemed futile. A tiger could run much faster than she. He might leap as she turned. Her heart stood still. Cold perspiration came out upon her brow. Just when hope seemed gone a strange thing happened; a thing which had happened once before under very different circumstances; a crimson flash leaped out from the darkness and played upon the tawny coat of the tiger. Blinded, terrified, the beast shrank back, yet the light still played full upon him. Leaping and flaring like the light of a fire, it held the animal at bay until the keepers came with chains and led him away. * * * * * * * * When the twins jumped out of the car window to go in search of Johnny Thompson and their ponies, they stumbled down the embankment to climb laboriously up again, and make their way tripping and falling around wrecked cars, from which came weird, wild sounds of animals fighting for freedom. Suddenly from beneath Marjory's feet there sounded a queer chatter. Then something clawed at her legs. With a wild scream, she shook it from her. It was a monkey that had escaped from his broken cage. Others could be heard chattering to the right of them. Leaping forward they were startled by a great bulk that loomed unexpectedly before them in the dark. "An elephant!" screamed Margaret. For a minute they hesitated; the next, they leaped to one side and, having passed the elephant, continued on down the track. Always to the left of them there loomed the overturned cars. All at once, from beneath the wheels of one of these there came a piercing scream. At the same instant they caught the gleam of two red balls of fire glaring at them out of the blackness. Some fierce, wild creature was lurking there. And he moved. Stealthily he made his way toward them. Now he was away from the cars. A black spot, he glided forward, his glaring eyes seeming to grow larger and larger as he advanced. Seized with a sudden paralysis of fear, the twins stood rooted in their tracks. * * * * * * * * With a little gasp Gwen sank upon the ground. She looked in vain for the crimson flash. It was gone. And now, for the first time she realized that she did not know the direction whence it had come. After leaving Gwen, Johnny Thompson made his way cautiously along the uneven embankment. Now his eye caught a gleam that appeared to come from the great cat's eyes. It proved but the reflection of some polished object. Again he heard a rattle among splintered boards, only to find a colored roustabout climbing from the pile of broken lumber under which he had been buried. Johnny was just beginning to believe that he had missed both the black beast and the twins when something leaped at him out of the darkness. It took him but a second to realize that this was not a wild beast, but a man; the king of the counterfeiters. Taken by surprise, he went down with the man upon his back. At the same instant he caught the gleam of a knife in the outlaw's hand. There could be not one shadow of doubt that he meant murder. A terrible struggle followed. The man, fully fifty pounds heavier than Johnny, was at the same time agile and strong. Now the knife was poised in air, only to be dashed to the ground. Now Johnny secured a half-nelson. Now his hold was broken. And now Johnny was thrown to earth with such force as to render him half unconscious. Struggling against a terrible dizziness, he fought but feebly. The end seemed to have come. But, at that moment, there came a shrill voice: "I'm here, Johnny Thompson! I'm here!" One moment the knife poised above his chest; the next a diminutive figure attached itself to the arm that held the knife and sent it whirling to one side. "Tom Stick, the midget clown!" gasped Johnny, renewing his struggle for freedom. Dimly in the half light, he saw what followed. Turning all his attention to this new enemy, the counterfeiter appeared to seize the dwarf by the heels and dash him with terrible force against the ground. Then, almost instantly, a great, brown bulk lumbered in out of the blackness, and at that instant, with a gurgling cry, the counterfeiter appeared to rise in air to be sent crashing again and again against the side of the embankment. "Jo-Jo, the French elephant, Tom Stick's friend!" cried Johnny, leaping to his feet to bend over the prostrate form of his little defender. Two attendants came hurrying up. "It's Tom Stick," explained Johnny. "That other fellow's dead. The big bull elephant killed him. And right it was. He deserved it. Look after Tom. I've got to find the twins and the black cat." Once more, after recovering his automatic, which had been thrown from him in the first assault of the counterfeiter, he leaped away into the dark. He was not a moment too soon, for as he dropped down from a pile of tumbled bales of canvas he came face to face with the twins. They were standing wild-eyed, transfixed. Not ten yards away and within leaping distance, his tail lashing, his white fangs gleaming, was the great black cat. With uncommon coolness Johnny grasped his automatic and, taking careful aim at the spot between the creature's fiery eyes, grasped the handle tight. There came a metallic click, but no report. The gun had jammed--was utterly useless. With a cry of consternation, Johnny dropped the gun and reached for his clasp knife. Thus poorly armed, he was about to rush at the man-eater, when there came the sudden glare of red light as it played upon the great cat. "The crimson flash! Thank God!" he murmured. But the next instant he remembered the words of Pant, when he had told of his jungle experience: "He did not fear my charm; he leaped!" What now would be the outcome? It was a time of terrible suspense. Johnny's breath came in little gasps. One of the twins had dropped to the ground. There was not long to wait. Whirling, the cat leaped away to the right. Then, for the first time, Johnny saw that the crimson flash came directly from a dark bulk, a clump of bushes close to the track. There had been no time for tricks, Pant had flashed it direct, and he was there now. The great cat would be upon him in another minute. Even as he sprang after the cat, Johnny thought for the first time of the magic perfume, the cat-lick Pant had given him. Drawing this from his pocket, he uncorked it as he ran. He was not a second too soon. Already the beast's fangs were at Pant's throat. With mad hope beating at his heart, Johnny dashed a few drops of the precious perfume at the beast's head. Prepared as he was for miracles, he was astounded at the result. The wild beast became at once a mere house kitten rolling upon the ground. Over and over he tumbled, while Pant, limping painfully, crept away. Throwing a glance about him, Johnny saw Tom Stick's house to the right of him, and remembered how it had been built around a cage. "Door's still on the hinges and open," he muttered. "If I only can!" Six steps he took, and with each step, spilled a drop of the precious fluid. Then, with a breathless leap, he was inside the dwarf's house. Dashing the vial against the wall, he caught his breath at the thought that the cat might trap him here; then with a wilder leap than before, he cleared the door and breathed the outer air. He was not a second too soon. Hot on the trail of that burst of perfume, the cat flashed past him and into the house that was a cage. Johnny banged the door shut and barred it, then sank down upon the ground for a quiet breath. Soon he rose and, making his way to the bushes, examined the spot where the black cat had pinned Pant to the ground. As he flashed a light about, he uttered a low exclamation, and stooping, picked up the bent and lenseless ruins of Pant's glasses. He dropped these a second later to gather up a mass of fine wires and strangely tangled tubes and peculiar instruments. These he crammed into his jacket pocket, and, having cast one more glance about him, hastened away to find the twins. CHAPTER XVIII HOW JOHNNY GOT THE RING The first red streaks of dawn were appearing as Johnny sat down on the beam of a railroad bridge a quarter of a mile from the wreck. It had been a strange, wild night. Many startling things had happened; many mysteries had been solved. Now that these mysteries were uncovered he had come down here to think. Tom Stick was not one of the counterfeiters; he knew that now. Neither was the steam kettle cook, nor the conman with the ragged ear. The real culprits had attempted to cast the guilt upon them, that was all. The arch criminal, Black McCree, was dead. Jo-Jo, the elephant, had thrashed the life out of him when McCree had attempted to murder his master, the midget clown. The fat accomplice of Black McCree had confessed that his partner was that notorious criminal. He had denied having any knowledge of the working of that strange color-photo camera. Black McCree had chosen to take that secret with him to the other world. Pant had turned the whole matter over to two of his assistants and had disappeared. That the remains of the camera could be pieced together was doubtful. In the struggle with Black McCree, Tom Stick had been beaten into unconsciousness, and had suffered severe bruises, but would be back at his work in two or three weeks. The twins had been taken to a near-by farm house, where they were safe for the night. Fortunately, their ponies had come out of the wreck uninjured. In an hour or two Johnny would accompany them to their grandparents' home. Should he return to the circus? He doubted it. The mystery of the whereabouts of the diamond ring was yet unsolved. Gwen had had it. So had Millie. He half blamed himself for not demanding the right to keep it when it was in his own hand. But Gwen was such a good sport. He had hoped a more appropriate time might come. Now he believed he would go to his former employer and make the best of an unbelievable story. He made a wry face at thought of it. But Pant? He had disappeared again. Johnny had not seen him after the fight with the black cat. Mother Kelly had dressed his wounds, which were slight, and he had vanished. At thought of Pant, Johnny dug into his pocket and drew forth the mass of wires, tubes and instruments which he had picked up on the spot where the cat had attacked Pant. He toyed with this mass musingly. He thought it had dropped from Pant's pocket. "Some part of the counterfeiters' equipment," was his mental comment. Twisting the wires about, he turned a thumb-screw here, pushed a tiny lever there, pressed a bulb--when, of a sudden, his eyes were struck by a blinding flash of blood red light. His unnerved fingers released the mass of wires, tubes and instruments, and the next instant his startled eyes saw it disappear beneath the muddy waters of the river. "The crimson flash!" he moaned. "And I had the secret of it here within my grasp!" For a time he considered the possibilities of recovering it, then dismissed the thought as futile. Then for a while he sat there speculating on the strange phenomenon of the crimson flash. How had Pant achieved these wonders? Where had he worn this mass of delicate instruments? There were times when the flash had come and gone with the speed of the blink of an eye. Perhaps the switch had been attached to Pant's eyelid. Such things had been done. Yet, all this was speculation. Johnny shook his mind free from it. Speculation is always futile. He was about to rise and return to the wreck, which was even now assuming the appearance of a train again, when he heard footsteps approaching. It was Gwen. Johnny rose to meet her as she came toward him. "Sit down, Mr. Clown," she smiled. "I want to talk." "You're a good old clown," she smiled again, as they seated themselves, "even if you did come near breaking your neck." "Somebody fired the balloons with arrows shot from an air rifle." "What!" "Sure. I thought it was Tom Stick, but it wasn't. He saved my life last night. Guess someone must have stolen his air rifle to pull the trick." "As I was about to say," continued Gwen, "you're a good old clown, and just for that I want to give you something. So, 'open your mouth and shut your eyes, and I'll give you something to make you wise.'" "Steady there," warned Johnny, as he cupped his hands solidly together. "If it's of any value don't drop it. I've lost one secret in the river already." "It's valuable, all right." Johnny felt something touch his hand. The instant his fingers closed upon it, he knew what it was. "The ring!" he exclaimed. "Yes; that's it," she laughed. "The twins told me all about it last night. Of course we didn't know it was yours, or we wouldn't have kept it. When we first found it, we three girls thought it was glass. When we discovered it was a real diamond, we were already in Chicago and didn't know what to do, so we just kept it, and took turns wearing it. But Johnny, when you had it in your hands that day, why didn't you keep it?" "That's what I don't know," smiled Johnny. "I guess you were such a good sport I hated to lose you as a friend, and I hoped a better time would come." "It has come, Johnny; but something tells me I am the one to lose a pal. You'll leave the circus?" "Yes," Johnny admitted reluctantly. "I guess I'm going to do that." "It's always the way with a person who is used to living in a house," sighed Gwen. "The circus is for circus people. Anyway, I can wish you good luck!" They rose. She put out her hand. He gripped it heartily. "And Johnny, if ever the big top calls to you, just remember the outfit I'm with, and there'll be a job waiting for you. I'll want you for my clown." She turned and walked rapidly away. Johnny watched her for a moment, then, crossing the bridge, made his way toward the farm house where the twins were awaiting him. He would escort them back to a safe dwelling place; the ring should be returned to them, and if possible, he was resolved that the circus career of the millionaire twins should be a secret shared only by those to whom it was already known. * * * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text--this e-text is in the public domain in the country of publication. --Typographical errors were corrected without comment. 
45108	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 45108-h.htm or 45108-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45108/45108-h/45108-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45108/45108-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/ptbarnumsmenager00barn [Illustration: P. T. BARNUM'S MENAGERIE] The Publishers take pleasure in acknowledging the courtesy and aid extended them by the Strobridge Lithographing Co. P.T. BARNUM'S MENAGERIE Text and Illustrations Arranged for Little People by P· T· BARNUM and SARAH J· BURKE [Illustration] New York & London White & Allen Copyright, 1888, by White & Allen. Lith. By G. H. Buek & Co. N. Y. [Illustration] WITH THE ANIMALS. My dear children, unless you have been fortunate enough to be taken to the menagerie by some grown-up friend, somebody who would patiently answer all your questions, and tell you all about the bewitchingly horrible animals in the cages, and into whose arms you might run when they growled and looked fierce, I do not think you can know the joy of Tom, Trixie and Gay as they entered the menagerie with Mr. Barnum. Trixie hugged his right arm tight, as usual, Gay kept fast hold of his left hand, while Tom was so anxious to miss no part of the show that he did not know that he was walking so clumsily as to put Mr. Barnum's toes in danger; and, notwithstanding they were such old chums, I fancy he was more than once tempted to say to the boy, "Tom, you are as awkward as a grizzly bear!" [Illustration] At the sight of the zebra, Gay laughed aloud. "He is knitted all in stripes--he is made of garters!" she said; and she thought the gnu looked like a wild bull "in front," but when he turned round she said he was a horse. And oh! you should have heard the buffalo snort at Gay! "He wants to make a meal of baby," said Tom, but the truth was a man had been teasing him with a cane, and when a buffalo is angry, he is not a very pleasant play-fellow. "I mean to hunt the buffalo, out West, when I am a man," said Tom. "Then you must hurry and grow up," said Mr. Barnum, "for the animal, in our own country, is being rapidly exterminated." "What is the meaning of exterminated?" asked Tom. [Illustration] "Killed off," said Mr. Barnum; and Tom thought that a much better way of saying it. "Does a buffalo grow up out of a buffalo bug?" asked Gay. Then they all laughed at her till she pouted, and Trixie thought, "I must remember to tell that to mama." The reindeer, the antelope, and the moose were all somewhat alike--"cousins," the children called them; and Gay had a very pretty name for two reindeer that she thought especially beautiful--she said they were "Santa Claus's ponies;" and I am sure that even Santa Claus would have been delighted to drive them. Elephants! Just what Tom had been longing for, and it was strange to see how frisky the great clumsy creatures could be. They stood on one another's backs, they tried to waltz, and then two of them, after much floundering and capering, jumped over a bar; but not even Mr. Barnum himself could say they did it gracefully. "See those two play see-saw!" cried Trixie, laughing till her little sides shook, "and that little fellow is grinding a hand-organ!" [Illustration] [Illustration] Others, dressed like clowns, were as full of tricks as so many monkeys. The very largest elephant thrust his trunk forward, and Tom whispered to a boy who stood near, "You pull his front tail, and hear him roar!" But the elephant rolled his eyes toward Tom as if to say, "Better try it yourself, young man," and Tom moved back. [Illustration] [Illustration] "Mr. Barnum and I remember Jumbo," said he. "Who was Jumbo?" asked Trixie. "Oh, a tremendous elephant, as big as six of these rolled into one! He went to Canada, and there a locomotive smashed into his brain, and he turned over and died. But first he wrapped his trunk around the baby elephant and flung him safe off the track." "Good Jumbo!" said Gay with a smile; but there were tears in Trixie's eyes. "Yes, baby; and that's the way we would jump for you in any danger," added Tom. Gay smiled sweetly again, but Trixie squeezed her old friend's hand so hard that he bent down and kissed her, saying, "But there _is_ no danger, Toodles!" [Illustration] The children were now quite ready to leave the elephants to look at the ostriches and the storks. I think that Trixie expected to see the ostriches wholly covered with long, dangling feathers, such as those she wore on her hat; and she was a little disappointed. The storks were old friends of hers, because mama had a screen at home, upon which storks were embroidered; and some of these birds, like those on the screen, were resting upon one foot. Tom was very much interested in the sea birds,--the albatross, the penguin, and the auk, but there was such a crowd around their cage that he came away grumbling. "Never mind, Tom," said Mr. Barnum: "come and see the fisherman that carries his basket under his chin!" Tom did not understand this joke at first, but Mr. Barnum explained that he meant the pelican, which has a pouch under its beak in which it carries home the fish to feed its young. [Illustration] "Look out, Trixie!" cried Tom, when they saw the whale. "He swallowed a man once." "Did this _very whale_ swallow a man?" asked Trixie, solemnly; "and did you _know_ the man?" "Well, no--not exactly; but I knew _of_ him." "What was his name?" "Jonah." "O, Tom Van Tassel! That was as much as fifty years ago, and Jonah was a bible man. The whale looks kind and I'm not afraid of him," and Trixie went up very close. "But what makes him so floppy? I should think the whalebones in him would stiffen him." And then Mr. Barnum explained that what we call whalebone is something that grows in the mouth of a whale, and is used as a strainer, to separate the water from the food. They thought the shark a mean-looking creature, and they were surprised to learn that it turns on its back to bite. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] "I'm tired of fish--let us find something furious!" said Tom; so they started toward the lion's cage. The great, grand king of them all was taking his afternoon rest, and he opened his eyes and looked at them once, as if to say, "Behold and admire! I am the King of Beasts, and you are only little human Yankees! I had these bars put up to keep off the crowd. Kings must be neither pushed nor hustled." Then he waved his paw with a flourish which meant, "Begone!" and Mr. Barnum, seeing the roar coming, said, "Come on, Toodles." [Illustration] But Tom staid, and he was glad that he did so. The keeper of the lions entered the cage, and the excitement began. The poor beasts were all hungry, but the lioness and the little cubs were fed first; and when King Lion seemed ready to tear the bars down in his fury, the keeper fired off a pistol, and the angry creature leaped into the air. I think even his own little baby cubs were afraid of him. When he grew quieter, he, too, was fed, and Tom ran to tell Trixie all about it. "I am glad I did not stay," she said, "and I have had a very good time, myself. I have been looking at the giraffes in harness, and I do think they make such funny looking horses. They look very much like ostriches--_in the neck_," she added, and Mr. Barnum laughed. The giraffe is so tall that it can take its food from high trees, and it very seldom stoops to eat. But when a piece of sugar was put on the ground, the temptation was so great that it bent its head down between its fore feet, placed near together, and gobbled with a half-glide. Oh, how the people laughed at its awkwardness. [Illustration] "What would mama say if we ate like that, Trixie?" said Tom. "You could'nt do it," said the boy who had refused to pull the elephants "front tail." Far off, in one corner, the children saw something which they thought, at first, was a dog, but as they came closer, it sat up like a monkey. "That is a baboon," said Mr. Barnum. "It is so cross that I don't believe it has a friend in the world; while the bright-looking baby ourang-outang there, is always sure of a petting. That gray old grandfather ourang-outang, however, can be very ugly; but we must always be patient with old people," said he, smiling. The Happy Family, they all declared, was less exciting, but quite as interesting, as the lions' cage. They had enjoyed seeing the monkeys alone, but a monkey isn't half a monkey until you see him with other animals. Two solemn, old owls sat perched in one corner, and, when a monkey flung an orange into the face of one of them, the other wouldn't even wink. A funny old gray fellow put his paw through the bars and pulled off Tom's cap, and it was only by the offer of a handful of nuts that the owner got it back. Another took a guinea-pig in her lap, and rocked it as if it were her baby; but the sly chance of pulling a rabbit's ear was too much for mother monkey, so she was off again, tossing a nut at a squirrel as she passed. White mice, little and pink-eyed, nibbled and squeaked, while the friendly cats lapped their milk close by; and even the parrots seemed to love the monkeys--a thing never heard of before. [Illustration] [Illustration] But how could they all fail to be happy together, living as they did, in a menagerie! Oh! how the boys and girls envied them, feeling that they would almost be willing to give up quarreling with their dear brothers and sisters to enjoy such a life! [Illustration] "Trixie," cried Tom, when they had wandered away from the Happy Family, "come and see this queer big pin-cushion!" "What is it?" she asked, starting back. "A porcupine," said Tom, laughing loudly. He had startled the strange animal, which, fearing some danger near, had rolled itself into a ball, and thrust out the quills with which it protects itself. "Would you like to pet and smooth it, Gay?" asked Mr. Barnum. [Illustration] "No, no! I'd rather smooth that little animal," said she, pointing to the chinchilla. "It looks like a sister of my little muff." "O, Gay! you are a funny baby," said Trixie, laughing, and speaking as though she, herself, were quite an elderly person. "Do you want to see the kangaroo do the high running jump?" Tom asked. But the kangaroo refused to jump for them. Mr. Barnum then told them how, like the opossum, the mother carries her babies snugly tucked in her pocket. "We haven't seen any bears yet," said Trixie. "No, but you _shall_ see them, Toodles," said Mr. Barnum. "Who ever heard of a menagerie without its bears? And here they are!" Up on their hind legs they stood, waiting a minute till the music began, and then, at the first note of the fiddle, off they went--slowly at first, then faster and faster, until really they were almost graceful! Even the baby bears danced! But a grey old grizzly sat gossiping with a polar bear in a corner, while they too watched the dancing, like old ladies at a ball. Afterward, at a sign from the master, the same old grizzly took the fiddle himself, and played for the young people's dancing. Then the bears marched up and down, singly and in pairs, "cooling off," Tom said. Trixie heard a lady say to her friend, "The _camels_ are coming!" and then they both laughed, but Trixie could not see why. Sure enough, the camels _were_ coming, and racing camels are even more awkward than dancing bears. "Their backs are all broken," said Gay. "No," said Tom, "they were born all humps and bumps--they are camels." "Oh, yes!" said Gay. "I know--mama has got a shawl made out of one." "And," added Tom, "he can drink enough at one time to last him a hundred years." "Don't stretch it, sir," said Mr. Barnum, shaking his head at the boy; but Tom went on--"and he will carry you across the desert quicker than lightning!" The snakes, and especially the boa-constrictor, made Gay shiver, and she refused to look at them after the first glance. But the others enjoyed seeing them. "Nothing that is quiet frightens me," said Trixie, "and I love to see the snakes twist and wriggle." "I like the big green frogs," said Gay--"Ker-chong! ker-chong!" She had learned the whole frog language in an instant! Then she straggled away with Tom, to listen to wonderful stories about the beaver, and how he builds his curious log hut; "But," added Tom, "his roof always leaks." "Gay, here is an animal with a name longer than you are yourself!" said Mr. Barnum. "What is it?" she asked, as they paused before a creature with a tremendous mouth. "The Hippopotamus." "Hip-po-pot-a-mus!" baby tried to say after him, adding, "he is not pretty, and I do not like him." [Illustration] Tom was still less polite, and called the animal "beastly ugly;" though he seemed to admire the one-horned rhinoceros, which Gay thought still more frightful. "But how wallopy his skin is!" said Tom. [Illustration] "Yes," said Mr. Barnum, "but he has a thinner skin under his heavy hide, which is only what Trixie would call his 'upper skirt'--eh, Toodles?" and the little girl laughed to think that he should know anything about such drapery. When she saw the alligator she wished for his scaly skin, that she might have it made into slippers for papa. [Illustration] But what had become of Gay? She had left the others, and they found her trying to stroke a downy little yellow chicken, which was just beyond her reach. "Why this is like being in the country!" cried the delighted Trixie, looking around at the horses and the cattle, the pigs and the chickens. "Where's Tom?" But a barn-yard scene was quite too tame for that young gentleman, who was chattering away to a funny little squat Esquimau, who did not understand a word he said. Near him were a fat seal and a walrus with two great tusks which seemed to say, "The better to eat you, my dear!" The Esquimau and his pets had come from a faraway, cold country, where there were very few people, and I do not think they liked the crowd and the noise. [Illustration] "Where are the tigers?" Tom asked, suddenly remembering that he had set his heart on being half-scared to death by the glance from a tiger's eye. "They certainly would never forgive us if we forgot to present ourselves," said Mr. Barnum, bowing low before a cage, against the bars of which the Royal Bengal Tiger was rubbing his glossy sides, as he marched angrily backward and forward. "Come away!" cried Trixie, trying to clasp her three friends in her tiny arms. "You go, Toodles, if you are afraid," said Mr. Barnum. "No, no!" she cried, "I will not go without you!" and she became still more frightened when she saw a beautiful, fierce-eyed leopard, and a hyena whose horrible grin showed three rows of teeth. "The little goose!" said Tom. "See! Gay enjoys it all." And so she did, afterward going with him to look at the wolves, the wildcats, and the dainty little red foxes, while Mr. Barnum took his pet to see the brilliant birds which had been brought from their own homes in the hot countries to our town of the little brown sparrow. [Illustration] Great green parrots, gold and silver pheasants, white cockatoos, and the flaming red flamingo! Trixie was wild with joy, but, oh! she could not half enjoy them without Gay and Tom; so she scampered off after them, not noticing in her joy that she passed once again very near the tiger's cage. [Illustration] The little Bird of Paradise, with its long train of plumage which showed all the colors of the rainbow, was more beautiful than anything they had ever imagined. "Let us stay here all the rest of the day!" Gay said. [Illustration] "All the rest of the day, darling!" repeated Mr. Barnum, looking at his watch, "Why it is almost time for my own birds to be in their nest." [Illustration] Yes, the sun was fast sinking in the west, and the time had come for tired little feet to turn toward home. Mama was watching for them at the parlor window, and she lifted baby in her arms as she opened the door. "O, mama! I want my supper, and I want to go to bed!" [Illustration] But in the middle of the night she awoke with a laugh, crying--"Oh, how funny! I dreamed that the little Chinese dwarf was waltzing with the giraffe!" "Hush, darling!" said Trixie, softly, sitting up in her little crib. "You'll wake mama, baby!" * * * * * Transcriber's note: One missing closing quotation mark was added to the text after: "He swallowed a man once." 
45239	----	provided by the Internet Archive LITTLE ORPHAN ANNIE and BILLY MILLERS CIRCUS-SHOW By James Whitcomb Riley Illustrated by Ethel Franklin Betts [Illustration: 001] {001} [Illustration: 007] {007} [Illustration: 010] {010} [Illustration: 011] {011} 1892 LITTLE ORPHAN ANNIE [Illustration: 013] INSCRIBED{013}--WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION-- To _all_ the little children:--The happy ones; and sad ones; The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones; The good ones, yes the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones. [Illustration: 014] {014} [Illustration: 015] LITTLE {015}ORPHANT ANNIE she knows riddles, rhymes and things! Knows 'bout the Witches 'at rides brooms, an' Imps 'at flies with w'n The same as bats er lightnin'-bugs!--An' knows 'bout Ring-mo-rees 'At thist can take an' turn theirselves in anything they please! "An' childerns all, both great an' small," she says, an' rolls her eyes When we're a-listnun', all so still, "you needen' be surprise' Ef right this livin' minut'--'fore ye know they's one about-- 'At the GOBBLE-UNS 'll git ye-- Ef you Don't Watch out!" [Illustration: 016] {016} [Illustration: 017] Little {017}Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An all us other childern, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out! [Illustration: 018] Onc't {018}they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-- So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants and roundabout:-- An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! [Illustration: 019] {019} [Illustration: 021] An' {021}one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about An' the Gobble-uns 'il git you Ef you Don't Watch Out [Illustration: 022] An' {022}little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes _woo-oo!_ An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! [Illustration: 023] BILLY MILLERS CIRCUS-SHOW At Billy {023}Miller's Circus-Show-- In their old stable where it's at-- The boys pays twenty pins to go, An' gits their money's-worth at that!-- 'Cause Billy he can climb an' chalk His stockin'-feet an' purt'-nigh walk A tight-rope--yes, an' ef he fall He'll ketch, an' "skin a cat"--'at's all! [Illustration: 024] He {024}ain't afeard to swing an' hang 1st by his legs!--an' mayby stop An' yell "look out!" an' nen--k-spang He'll let loose, upside-down, an' drop Wite on his hands! An' nen he'll do "Contortion-acts"--ist limber through As "Injarubber Mens" 'at goes With shore-fer-certain circus-shows! [Illustration: 025] {025} [Illustration: 027] He's {027}got a circus-ring--an' they's A dressin'-room,--so's he can go An' dress an' paint up when he plays He's somepin' else;--'cause sometimes he's "Ringmaster"--bossin' like he please-- An' sometimes "Ephalunt"--er "Bare- Back Rider," prancin out o' there! [Illustration: 028] An' {028}sometimes--an' the best of all!-- He's "The Old Clown," an' got on clo'es All stripud,--an' white hat, all tall An' peakud--like in shore-'nuff shows,-- An' got three-cornered red-marks, too, On his white cheeks--ist like they do!-- An' you'd ist die, the way he sings An' dances an' says funny things! 
46793	----	[Illustration: This book belongs to] Clown the Circus Dog [Illustration: Clown the Circus Dog] CLOWN The Circus Dog Story and Illustrations By A. Vimar Author of "The Curly-Haired Hen" Translated by Nora K. Hills [Illustration: Clown the Circus Dog] The Reilly & Britton Company Chicago Copyright, 1917 by The Reilly & Britton Co. _Clown, the Circus Dog_ _To My Little Daughter Genevieve Vimar_ [Illustration: Child with cat and dog] Table Clown's Puppy Days 15 The Capture of Clown 43 Clown Escapes 54 Clown at the Circus 64 The Return Home 101 [Illustration: Dog on book] Clown, the Circus Dog 1 CLOWN'S PUPPY DAYS Summer was here at last. The winter had not been very cold, but it had stayed long after spring should have come. Now it seemed almost too warm, perhaps because only a few days before it had been so cold. [Illustration: Desk with books, paper, quill, laurel wreaths] It was the end of the school-year, the time for examinations and the giving of prizes, and these last few days were hard on both teachers and children. [Illustration: Girl with dogs] Already a holiday breeze was blowing over the budding and blossoming country, and the hum of insects and the singing of birds made one think of the fun that would come with vacation. Among the scholars bending over their desks was Bertha, a little dark-haired girl, her black eyes fringed with long lashes. She was twelve years old and was working for her first certificate. Morning and afternoon she came to the school, sometimes brought by the maid, but more often by her mother. As a child she had always been petted and spoiled by her parents, who gave her all the candies and toys she wanted. Her little room was crowded with dolls and playthings of all sorts, each of which had its name. There were fair dolls, dark dolls, white dolls, black dolls, big dolls--some even were life-size--fat dolls, thin dolls, little dolls, tiny dolls; there were jointed dolls, who opened and shut their eyes; there were dolls who could talk, and dolls who kept silent. I believe myself that Bertha loved the silent ones best; they could not answer back, you see. Uncle Jean, the brother of Bertha's father, had made a point of giving Bertha her first toy. He brought her, one fine morning, a lovely white poodle, which had pink silk ribbons on it and little tinkly bells. There was a spring inside, and when Bertha pressed this gently with her fingers, the dog barked. It was altogether so well made that you would have thought it was alive. When he gave it to her, before the whole family, Uncle Jean made her the following speech: [Illustration: Desk with toys...and dog puppet] "My dear niece, I give you this dog rather than a doll, because the dog is the friend of man, but a doll--" here he mumbled into his big moustache a lot of long words which got so mixed up with the barking of the dog that nobody could catch them. Perhaps it was just as well. [Illustration: Woman with child, man with dog] Uncle Jean was always saying funny clever things to make people laugh but really he was very wise and thoughtful. Everybody liked him and he was invited places all the time. So Bertha's first plaything was this dog, who was then and there given the name of "Clown." Why they hit upon this name I really cannot say. After the dog there came, one by one, all the dolls I just told you about, but Bertha loved Clown best. You see, he was the only dog she had, but there were many dolls to share her love. [Illustration: Bertha and dog puppet] Every night he was put to bed at the feet of his little mistress, who, each morning as she woke up, took him into her arms and hugged him tight. Later on, as Bertha grew older, she would talk to him for hours, Clown answering with long barks, really made by Bertha's fingers pressing on the spring. They were then, as I was just now telling you, on the eve of the examinations. Bertha was working her hardest. For several days she had been very, very quiet, and just a little worried; her parents were quite anxious and petted her even more than usual. [Illustration: Bertha and her mother] At last one morning, when her mother asked her what was the matter, Bertha decided to tell her all about it. After a long sigh she said: "Mother, if I pass my examination, will you give me what I have been wanting for a long, long time?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on: "I want a dog, a little dog, but--a real live one. It will be quite easy to get one if you will only let me. Miss Lewis, our principal at school, is going to have some. Don't laugh, Mother, it is quite true. She told me so herself, and she promised to give me one if you and father would let me have it. Oh, you will ask father, won't you? Everything depends on him," she murmured, snuggling up to her mother and hugging her, "for I know you will let me, won't you, sweetest? Oh, I am so happy, so proud to think of having a dog of my very own." She was so excited, she clapped her hands and danced for joy. Bertha passed her examinations with honors and, true to his promise, her father said that she might have her dog. After that nobody could think of anything but the doggie, so eagerly expected. What would he be like? What color would he be? She imagined him now black, now white, now black and white, now sandy. She asked all sorts of questions of everybody she met. She dreamed of him, she thought of him all day long, of nothing but him. [Illustration: Marie with a letter for Bertha] Her father told her not to get too excited, as he was afraid she might be disappointed. Bertha listened at last to his good advice, but even then she could not resist stopping to look in at the windows of the leather goods stores, where muzzles, collars, chains, leashes, whips, boots for the mud, coats and blankets--in short, all the things a dog could need--were displayed. Dreamily she gazed at the poodles and pet-dogs which passed her, led by fine ladies. But, what was this? Marie with a letter for the little girl? Bertha recognized the handwriting. Miss Lewis had written to tell her the great news--the puppies had arrived. Five of them. Five little puppies, each with different markings, and Miss Lewis graciously invited her pupil to come and choose. [Illustration: Mrs. Lewis' dog with five puppies] Bertha was breathless, wild with joy. "Mother, Mother, let's go quick! My doggie is waiting." Dressing hastily, mother and daughter went straight to Miss Lewis's house, where they found her beside a beautiful black poodle, who, jealously ready to protect her babies, looked at her visitors as though she didn't quite trust them. [Illustration: Little black puppy] After much hesitation Bertha at last decided upon a sturdy little black puppy, with a white lock set exactly in the middle of his forehead, like a pennant, which made him look very quaint and cunning. Perhaps it was the white lock that decided Bertha, anyhow, directly she saw him, the darling, she cried: "That's the one I want! I choose him." She couldn't have told you herself why she chose that one. She thought his brothers and sisters all very pretty, but he was the one she wanted. Love is often like that. Bertha, who already loved the puppy she had chosen, wanted to take him home with her at once, but her mother and even Miss Lewis insisted that he was too young yet. Just think, he was only just born. It would not be wise to bring him up on the bottle--such a bother--and then the risk of sickness and all that might cause his little mistress all sorts of worry. [Illustration: Puppy with mother] Bertha saw that they were right, but she begged Miss Lewis to let her come every day to see him, to which her teacher willingly agreed. After that Bertha did not let a day go by without a visit to her little friend. The mother-dog soon grew used to seeing the girl; she was a trifle greedy, I must confess, and her affection was quite won by the cakes and dainties which Bertha brought her. [Illustration: Clown as puppy] For more than a month the puppy stayed with his mother. He had to be entirely weaned before his mistress could have him. In the meantime Bertha was busier than ever, busier than she would have been if she had had the doggie at home. She was making all sorts of preparations for him. She bought a regular outfit for her baby, as she called him, and she even wanted to get him nightcaps and pajamas. These her mother did not think necessary. However, to make up for not getting them, she had to get all kinds of other things: curtains for his bed, cushions, ribbons, a collar, a leash, even a tiny muzzle. Her doggie must be well provided for. [Illustration: Dog on book] After hesitating a long time over the name to be given to the newcomer, Bertha decided to call him "Clown," after her first dog, Uncle Jean's toy. Besides, the name suited him exactly; he was very active, and had a happy look and clumsy ways which made you laugh. He would spend hours chasing his tail, but as it was rather short and his body very chubby, he never quite caught it. The look of disgust which came over his face when he finally gave up was so funny that Bertha laughed till the tears came to her eyes. [Illustration: Clown] Meantime all his brothers and sisters had been given away. This did not worry Clown a bit; he certainly did not lose his appetite over it; on the contrary, he stuffed himself nearly sick. He drank so hard that sometimes the milk would run out of his nose. Eating like that, he soon became a big fat doggie, strong and active, barking at everything, and snapping at flies. When Clown was at last old enough to be taken away, Bertha, with her faithful maid, Marie, went to get the little fellow and bring him to his new home. They had a regular christening party to which all Bertha's little friends and their brothers were invited. There was a fine lunch with lots of candy; they even drank fruit-juice punch. The party was talked of long after by the guests, who enjoyed themselves immensely. [Illustration] But, alas, a month afterward, a cloud dimmed Bertha's happiness. Uncle Jean did not like the looks of Clown. It is true that although his coat was well brushed and curled and perfumed, the dog did look more like a little bear than a poodle. Uncle Jean was very particular about the training of dogs. He had horses and dogs of his own (he even had a monkey) and he insisted that his grooms keep all his animals, of whom he was very fond, slick and clean. No poodle of his would have remained unshaven, with tail uncut, when all proper poodles are shaven and have their tails trimmed off. He said so much about it that at last it was decided that the dog should be sent to the veterinary surgeon, who in a minute had cut off Clown's tail and shaved him like a lion, leaving just a rim of hair around his hind-quarters as an ornament, and a bushy tuft at the end of his trimmed-off tail. Poor little Clown was terribly upset. He was brought home looking like a martyr and horribly ashamed; for more than a week he was feverish and had fits of trembling. Bertha cried and cried. I need not tell you what care she took of him. You can guess that for yourself. [Illustration: Clown was terribly upset] Cured at last, he soon forgot about having his hair cut, and became a proud, fine-looking dog. Only he could not bear the sound of shears, and when he heard the dog-clippers go past he would fall into a rage, wanting to run out and bite them, barking furiously in chorus with the other dogs who felt as he did about it. Bertha ceased to be angry with her uncle. When as she led Clown on the leash she noticed people turn round and go into raptures over the looks of her dog, it made her feel very proud. [Illustration: Dog training] The dog grew so fast you could almost see him getting bigger. His training was undertaken carefully, Uncle Jean looking after it himself. Clown learned quickly and easily; he was naturally intelligent and had a truly wonderful memory. Uncle Jean found that Clown learned tricks easily--he seemed to like to show off--but in other ways he was not so easily managed. He was rather fond of having his own way, and his young mistress got more than one scolding for spoiling him. He insisted on being fed from her own hand, and he would sleep nowhere but in Bertha's room. [Illustration: Clown learned tricks easily] Men are conceited things and think themselves much wiser than the animals, but I don't believe they know so very much more after all. It's a question whether the animal's instinct isn't of as much use to him as intelligence is to man. Anyhow, animals can understand one another, even animals of different kinds. I rather think they understand one _=another=_ better than we understand them. However that may be, Clown was a wonder. You had only to say what you wanted him to do and he would do it like an old hand. He would jump through a hoop, give his right or left hand as he was asked, leap backward or forward, walk on his hands or feet--all this was child's play to him. [Illustration: Clown's tricks] He dearly loved games--such as he could play, of course. He would toss a ball, hunt the thimble, and without ever making a mistake bring back the handkerchief to its owner, grinning with delight. With a policeman's helmet on his head, and a piece of sugar on his nose, looking like a soldier on parade, he would carry arms for hours at a time. What surprising things he could do! You would scarcely believe it, but he had learned to recognize certain letters of the alphabet and to put together the word, B-E-R-T-H-A. He never made a mistake in spelling the name of his little mistress, although that was, however, the first and last word that they succeeded in teaching him. Alas, with all his good qualities Clown had his failings. Nobody, sad to say, is faultless. He was given to stealing. A sugar bowl left within his reach had a very bad time of it; he ate all the sugar, to the very last piece, and it was a lucky thing if he didn't break the bowl as well. Clown was greedy, there was no denying. [Illustration: Clown eats sugar from the sugar bowl] After a while, sadly spoiled, unfortunately, he began to put on airs of independence. His leash made him impatient, and when he met a dog friend running free about the streets he would behave badly, forcing Bertha to drag him along like a toy without wheels, or he would wallow in the dust, both of which made his mistress very angry. One day, when he had gone marketing with Marie, he managed to slip his head out of his collar and set off with a rush to join a group of very ill-kept tramp dogs. Poor Marie called and called, but in vain. Then she ran after him. Not only could she not overtake him but, worse still, at a turning in the road she lost sight of him altogether. In vain she searched the neighborhood, questioning everyone she met, but no one had seen poor Clown. [Illustration: Marie and Clown] [Illustration: Clown running away from Marie] The excited woman began to cry, not daring to return home without the dog. Anxiously she walked up and down in front of the house. After about half an hour she heard a noise and soon saw a band of children appear, yelling and running after a poor wretched, muddy little dog, to whose tail was tied an old tin can which knocked against the pavement with every jump he took. Marie could not believe her eyes. [Illustration: Clown in Marie's arms] You would _=never=_ have known it was poor Clown, so terrified, his eyes almost bursting from his head, his tongue hanging. As soon as he caught sight of Marie, he hurled himself into her arms, covering her with both kisses and mud. Marie was so sorry for him that she hadn't the heart to scold the poor animal. She took him in her apron and after untying the horrible tin can he had been dragging after him, she carried him up to her room and there bathed him from head to foot. He needed it, I can tell you. [Illustration] "If this will only be a lesson to him," she said to herself; but she did not dare to tell anybody about his running away. [Illustration: Clown playing with ball] After this adventure Clown behaved very much better and was quiet and obedient for several weeks. When his mistress took him out he followed her quietly on the leash, without making any objection. Thus his life flowed on, calm and happy. He had everything a dog could wish, except, perhaps, a little more freedom. In the house, in the garden, in the country, he could run about as he pleased, but in the streets Bertha always kept him on the leash. The leash was held by a hand very gentle, very easy and discreet, but in spite of that he always resented it. He had tried everything he could to get rid of it. When he could get at it, he would hide it or chew it up so that it was not fit to use. Bertha just bought another one at once. Then, to show his hatred of it, Clown invented all sorts of tricks, winding himself round the feet of passers-by, getting himself caught behind a tree, planting his feet and refusing to move. That was his revenge. [Illustration: One of Clown's tricks] In this way, two years passed without anything happening worth telling you about. Our doggie, cared for as he was, had grown into a very handsome creature. [Illustration: Clown with tin can] 2 THE CAPTURE OF CLOWN Generally Clown slept late and did not leave Bertha's room, where he had his bed, until he was ready for the public eye--that is to say, until he was combed and brushed, beribboned and perfumed. [Illustration: Clown goes out of the door] One morning, I don't exactly know why, the maid entered Bertha's room long before getting-up time, and going out again she forgot to shut the door. Clown, once awakened, did not go to sleep again. What he was thinking about I can't tell you. Anyhow he yawned, stretched himself slowly, then crept slyly toward the half-open door, pushed it softly with his nose, and there he was in the hall. It was not far to the kitchen and the pantry door which opened onto the back steps leading into the street was not shut either. [Illustration: Clown] "'Tis opportunity makes the thief," so they say. After a moment's hesitation, after looking carefully at the steps to be sure no one would see and stop him, Clown thought that it would be rather pleasant to take a morning stroll through the streets; he felt proud for once not to be held in leash, and was delighted at the thought of being able to rout at his own sweet will amongst the heaps of garbage, the one thing of all others strictly forbidden him. [Illustration: Dogs following man with parcel] Nobody saw him, nobody stopped him. He reached the door; a glance, a sniff here and there, and he was free. Once outside he walked quietly for a hundred yards or so, nose in air. [Illustration: Man with parcel catches Clown] Soon, however, he was ready to come back and was just thinking of going in again when he saw at the corner of the street five or six other dogs following a man who was carrying a parcel. This made him curious; there was a queer smell, too, which attracted him. In a trice he had joined the group. "After all," he said to himself pretty soon, "though the smell is appetizing enough, I have better than that at home. Good-bye, my friends, and good luck. I am going home to breakfast." Whereupon, giving up the chase, he turned to go home. Alas! it was too late. The man had just thrown a lasso, which caught Clown around the neck. He tried to get away, to cry out, to struggle, to bite; the knot tightened, choking him. He was muzzled, and forced by kicks--the first he ever received in his life--to go, willy-nilly, with the dog-thief. For that was what the man was, and one of the very worst of his kind, too. [Illustration: Man with parcel carries away Clown] [Illustration: Clown in the kennel] It was a fine day, and Paris began to awaken. In the streets there were more and more passers-by, and the man walked faster and faster; Clown, full of sad thoughts, let himself be dragged along. With hanging head he was thinking of his little mistress, how probably at this very minute she had discovered his flight. He saw her despair, and big tears rolled from his eyes; he trembled from head to foot. Perhaps he would never see her again! At this, heart-rending sobs burst from his poor little throat. Sometimes he tried to drive away these sad thoughts by imagining he would soon have a chance to escape from his torturer. If only they did not take him too far from Paris, his native town, he could find his way home again easily enough with his eyes shut. After a long and painful walk through streets and avenues, the man stopped at last in front of a wretched hut. At the end of a yard, in a corner, there was a horrible kennel, with no cover, surrounded by a strong wooden fence. Clown, although worn out in mind and body, pulled back with disgust from the door of this evil-smelling hole. The man pushed him in brutally with his foot, and with another well-directed kick shut the door to behind him. Then Clown gave himself up to despair. He felt utterly lost. He would never see his dear ones again. How foolish he had been! How miserable he was! Attracted by his cries and tears, three beautiful setters, who had been stolen the day before, came out of the back of the kennel and grouped themselves around the newcomer. They did their best to comfort and console him. [Illustration: Clown and three setters] After telling one another their sad stories, they talked over ways of escape. The very idea of getting away cheered them up a lot. It was clear that they were all to be sold. [Illustration: Dogs at the dog market] Next morning they were all tightly chained to one another and the man, whip in hand, led them to the dog-market. This market was held in a large square, slightly shaded by big elm trees. Ragged old women, squatting on their heels, or crouching on old chairs or baskets, held little dogs on their knees, petting them, cleaning them, offering them for sale to anyone who stopped to look. Some people had dogs on leashes. Suspicious-looking men walked dogs to and fro. [Illustration: Women selling dogs at the dog market] In front there was a long line of hunting dogs of every kind and breed; farther on, a line of pet-dogs; then a group of poodles--newly shaved and beribboned. Here and there were cats, monkeys, parrots, birds of all kinds, and, lastly, guinea-pigs and white rats. All these creatures barked, whined, mewed, chattered, screamed. The din was beyond description. Clown, confused, a white poodle on either side of him, was silent. With hanging head he pretended that he had quite given up the thought of escape, but just the same, when no one was looking, he turned his eyes quickly from side to side, ready to seize the first chance to get away. [Illustration: Clown at the dog market] [Illustration: Clown escapes] 3 CLOWN ESCAPES It was not long before Clown's absence was noticed in his old home. The whole household was alarmed. They searched the house from top to bottom, whistling, calling to him, weeping. The servants ran to and fro; nobody could understand how the dog had got away. Huddled in an arm-chair, Bertha sobbed, with hardly the heart or strength to move. In vain they searched all Paris. The police were informed, the pound visited, the description and photograph of Clown scattered broadcast. A large reward was offered to anyone finding him or giving information about him. In spite of all this, the day and night passed without news of the dog. [Illustration: Clown at the dog market] On the advice of the Chief of Police, Bertha went next morning to the dog-market, accompanied by Marie and the footman. No sooner was she there than Clown, without seeing her, even, sniffed her from afar. He pulled so hard on his chain that he nearly broke it. Alas, where he was, Bertha could not see him. The thief understood at once that something was the matter. He seized the unhappy dog before he knew what was happening, flung him into a box near at hand and banged down the lid. [Illustration: Clown is sold] 'Twas thus that poor Clown, at the moment when his rescue seemed certain, learned to his cost that there are times in this life when it is wise to hide one's feelings. Anyhow, his young mistress was looking for him everywhere. This was enough to make him feel much more cheerful. [Illustration: Clown leaves Paris] That day Clown was sold. When he saw the money counted out, he understood and was at first quite delighted, but his joy did not last long. He soon discovered from the gestures of the two men that his new owner did not live in Paris and that he was leaving that very night, for his home far, far away in the south. Then Clown felt desperate. He shook with rage and fear lest he should be lost forever. He was so upset by his bad luck that he hardly heard the thief offer to take him to the station that evening in time for the train, and his new owner accept the offer. He lost all hope on hearing that, for his last chance of escape would be gone the minute he was taken away from Paris. [Illustration: Clown shut up in the dog kennel] On the way to the station Clown was held so tightly that he saw it would be no use to struggle. When he reached there at nightfall, he was shut up in the hated dog-kennel until the time came for the train to start. [Illustration: Clown released from the dog kennel] When the noisy whistles blew, as they always do when the great expresses are about to draw out, and the train started with that horrid grating sound they always make, Clown began to sob wildly and to howl in a most dismal fashion. To make it all the worse he saw through the iron bars of his cage the shadows of the last houses of his native city. For a moment he thought he should go mad. Little by little the cool evening air revived him, calmed his fever. Snuggling down in a corner of his box, he determined to wait for the chance of escape which must come some time or other. He would cross the whole of France, if necessary, to find his beloved mistress. Death alone could deprive him of his one great hope. At last, after passing through Burgundy, the express stopped. It was morning and already quite light. Clown saw his new master approach his prison and open the padlock so that he could come out and stretch his legs on the platform. The prisoner did not hesitate. No sooner was he free than he was off like a shot, tearing along the platform, then back along the railway track, taking no notice of the calls of his master or of the laughter of the travelers, to whom the whole thing was a joke. Quite happy now, forgetting all his past troubles and full of hope again, he thought that, thanks to his hurried flight, he could not be so very far from Paris. [Illustration: Clown - running] All morning Clown walked bravely along the dusty road, but at last he began to feel hungry and tired. After going miles and miles, towards midday he was lucky enough to meet in the fields a large flock of sheep, guarded by sheep-dogs. These dogs, when Clown told them his tragic story, were very kind to him and even asked him to share their dinner with them. But they could give no real help as to how to get to Paris. [Illustration: Clown and two sheep dogs] "All that we know is, that it is several days' walk from here, down that way," they told him, pointing with their paws. After comforting himself with cheese, milk, and brown bread, Clown left them, thanking them politely for their kindness. All the same, as he set off, he felt very sad, for he saw that the good dogs he had just visited did not think that his plan seemed a very good one, and he began to be afraid he never should get back home after all. [Illustration: Clown fleeing] To make him still more uneasy, toward four o'clock the wind began to blow and big clouds darkened the sky. Clown fled along as fast as his legs would carry him, trying to get ahead of the awful storm which hung above his head. But the clouds went faster than he did; the lightning and thunder grew nearer and nearer, louder and louder. With the storm had come darkness. Now torrents of rain hurled themselves madly from the sky. The poor dog was terribly frightened. He didn't know where to go, what road to take, valley, forest, or hill. [Illustration: Clown runs wildly] Wet to the skin, muddy, blinded by the rain, deafened by the thunder, he saw no sign of shelter. He just ran on wildly, battered by rain and wind, faster and faster, following his nose. 4 CLOWN AT THE CIRCUS However, as he reached the edge of the wood, the rain grew less violent. Night was coming on but among the trees he could see bright lights shining. Drawing nearer, Clown made out some kind of a big camp; carriages and closed wagons and tents stood out against the background of the forest. At last he saw people and animals coming and going in all directions. [Illustration: Clown with Marie in front of a mirror] When he was quite close to this busy scene, Clown stopped, breathless and anxious, sniffing the air, listening keenly to the slightest sound. He was not quite satisfied, and in his doubt he thought of going farther on the chance of finding other shelter. But he was more tired than he was afraid. Plucking up his courage, poor Clown crept slowly toward the larger of the two lighted vans that stood on the edge of the woods. [Illustration: Clown finds a big camp] Just at this moment the curtain that closed the rear of one of these vans opened and a young girl came out and stood on the doorstep. She wore a gleaming costume of spangles, with a very short, fluffy skirt, covered with shiny stones, and she had little satin slippers on her feet, and the daintiest of pink stockings. A plaid shawl hung from her shoulders. [Illustration: Clown in front of a doorstep] Clown was dumbfounded. Never had he seen his dear mistress in such a dress. While he was gazing in astonishment at her, the girl stretched out her hand to see if it was still raining. As she looked down she caught sight of our poor little doggie, who, squatting in front of her, wet through and muddy, raised imploring eyes, waiting till she should take pity on him. "What's this? A lost dog?" and, bending toward him, she coaxed him nearer, saying: "Poor doggie, poor little thing." Clown went forward at once, trembling, anxious to please but still half afraid. He let this strange girl pet him, and made himself so agreeable, so eager and so interesting, that ten minutes later she had him all cleaned, combed and brushed. [Illustration: Clown on a pile of blankets] Having won the favor of this kind-hearted girl, Clown became once more his old handsome self. On a soft pile of blankets he passed an excellent night. Now and again strange noises troubled his ears, but completely worn out, and drowsy from so much fresh air, he fell asleep again and dreamed golden dreams. The next morning the sky was clear again and the air was fresh and balmy. [Illustration: Clown visits the animals of the circus] Clown was awakened at dawn by the sound of people rushing about, packing up, just as though they were moving house. Without leaving his bed, his eyes still half-closed, he listened closely, and finally understood with what kind of people he had to deal. Then were explained the low growls which had so puzzled and frightened him during the night. The carriages, the cages, were the dwelling places of strange and terrifying animals, such as he remembered having seen at the fair of Neuilly, whither his dear mistress, Bertha, had taken him one evening when he was still a baby. [Illustration: Clown watches boxes] He had, then, fallen in with an immense traveling circus which, constantly on the move, gave performances in the principal cities of the world. Just now it was headed, by gentle stages, for the center of France. Clown was quite comforted and happy at the thought of one day or another reaching Paris. Then--then--then he would manage somehow to see her again, her for whom he yearned, her whom he loved with all his faithful little heart. Traveling this way was much nicer than running along the highroad. He was a sturdy fellow, but, all the same, that one day of walking under such conditions had made him somewhat thin. In short, he had had enough of it, especially when he remembered that he hadn't the least idea how to get to Paris. [Illustration: Clown at the lions' cages] Slipping cautiously under the tents which sheltered the cages, Clown took a good look around the place. The stables, huge affairs, contained no less than one hundred and fifty horses of all kinds and colors. He saw, too, three monstrous elephants, dromedaries, giraffes, zebras, donkeys, and even pigs. [Illustration: A polar bear] Then came the turn of the menagerie--a fine collection of lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, foxes, hyenas, boars. What didn't he see? Boxes full of snakes, crocodiles, monkeys in cages--a chimpanzee who was walking about all alone gave him a terrible fright. Parrots of every hue swayed on swinging perches, uttering, for no reason that Clown could see, harsh discordant cries. [Illustration: Elephants] Thus he passed slowly through the whole menagerie, seeing all the animals. He even grew bold enough to lap freely at a large lake of milk, put there, he thought, for the snakes and monkeys, who are very fond of it. After this light breakfast he felt stronger and more light-hearted. He spent some time visiting and making much of his new mistress, and then went on to finish his visit with the animals so happily begun. Passing close to the elephants, he noticed their small intelligent eyes, contrasting so queerly with their huge size. While he was wondering about them, Clown, who was by nature very curious, drew nearer, wanting to sniff more closely at those long noses which swayed so slowly and calmly from side to side. He succeeded in getting close enough to touch them, but at the slightest movement of the trunk he leaped back, his tail between his legs, although he just had to return. Suddenly, without being in the least hurt, he felt himself lifted like a feather, and cleverly drawn into the elephant-house. Now it was the elephants' turn to sniff at him. One blew upon his nose until he could scarcely breathe, while another gently pinched his hind-quarters, and they all laughed at the figure he cut. I can tell you, Clown did not enjoy all this one bit. He did not even dare to show his teeth, he was so afraid of being torn to pieces if he made the slightest movement. Those five minutes in the air seemed to him very long and terrible. [Illustration: Clown 'in the air'] At last he was gently put upon his feet again. He made one bound for liberty, a bound which brought him close to the giraffes. Here again he felt a keen pang of fear, for one of them, suddenly stretching his long neck over the top of the box, touched him quite unexpectedly with his long black tongue. [Illustration: Clown and the giraffe] After this Clown was much more watchful and did not come too close to the animals in the boxes. Even the sound of a fly buzzing put him on his guard, and this was a good thing for him, for he was in the midst of a horde not always pleasant and sometimes quite dangerous, where all sorts of accidents might have happened to him. Fortunately he had escaped harm, and these lessons made him very careful afterwards. [Illustration: Ape ringing a bell] A bell rang. Immediately commotion arose; people moved about in all directions; the feeling of unrest showed more and more in the cages; the inmates turned and twisted. Clown wondered what could be the matter. The wild beasts roared, the horses whinnied; all the animals clamored at once. There was a medley of sounds that was simply deafening. It was feeding time. Barrows full of fresh meat, loaves of bread and bundles of forage, were passed around freely. Each animal was served in turn according to his taste. After the first bite or two calm gradually returned, in the cages anyhow. Clown was served apart and lunched with excellent appetite. His new mistress fairly stuffed him with dainties, feeding him out of her own hand. Her kindness made Clown love her more and more. When the animals were all fed and the men had finished their own meals, the whole circus got ready to move. By noon everything was ready, and at a given signal, the entire troupe set off. [Illustration: Clown - eating] As the country was flat, and they were to march until evening before reaching their next stopping place, orders were given to leave the shutters of the cages open and to lead as many of the animals as possible so that they might breathe in the fresh air and stretch their legs a bit. You can guess that the passing of such animals on the road frightened more than one good peasant as they went along, although everyone along the road was warned in time by the tamer and his helpers, who rode at the head of the procession so as to avoid accidents. [Illustration: The circus on its way] [Illustration: Elephants doing tricks] It was in an elegant carriage, with good springs, drawn by two fine young horses, that Clown made the journey, seated beside his new mistress. The longing to go quickly, made him hang his tongue out of his mouth so that his white teeth showed under his black moustache, and his eyes, turning from his mistress to the splendid horses and back again, spoke his impatience but at the same time his delight at the progress they were making. [Illustration: The lion's trick] They went on and on, over miles of road bordered by poplars, on into the golden dust, into the purple sunset. A few miles more, and there lay Dijon. A week before, the town had been prepared, by bright-colored posters, for the coming of the great, the marvelous circus. The walls and fences were simply covered with pictures of the wonderful performance. [Illustration: Circus riding] Performing horses, looking huge as elephants, clowns at their most amusing tricks, gymnasts doing their most thrilling feats, all were pictured. The tamer was there too, life-size, his head in the mouth of Sultan, the big black Persian lion, while Mademoiselle Reine, his charming daughter, Clown's new mistress, beneath a cloudless sky drove four white does, scattering flowers as she went. At last the travelers came to the first country houses, the vineyards and finally the spires, the tower of St. John the Fearless and the other buildings of the capital of Burgundy standing out against the evening gloom. [Illustration: Setting up everything at a new town] Before they entered the town, a halt was called. Order was restored, the cages were shut, a moment's rest was taken; then the troupe set out again, to encamp at last on a large piece of open ground near the gates of the city. While the tents were being set up and the cages placed--in short, the whole circus installed--a huge procession bearing torches was organized, which rode through Dijon, led by a band of music. Knights in shining armor, mounted on magnificent horses, handed out bills telling of a big performance for the next evening and giving the program. [Illustration: Circus parade] The whole town was abroad to see and admire this strange sight. Men, women, children, all came out to meet them. It was a grand spectacle. Everybody wanted a program. Just imagine a procession of elephants, decked with gold and silver, a hundred and fifty horses, some ridden and some driven but all with magnificent harnesses, dromedaries, parade chariots shimmering with gold and gleaming with precious stones, and all these lighted up by flaring torches. Clown had been dressed up for the occasion with yellow ribbons, a color which suited his black coat to perfection. Seated beside his new mistress he was radiant upon a canopied chair of gold borne by four zebras. [Illustration: Zebras with palanquin] After going through the principal streets the troupe at last came back to camp to rest for the night, still followed by a vast crowd who did not think of sleep until long after the circus fires were all out. The night was calm, but at daybreak, as on the preceding day, the noise in the camp started again, perhaps even a little louder this morning on account of the rehearsal which was to take place in preparation for the evening's performance. [Illustration: Clown learning new trick] Clown, always very curious, was present at all the rehearsals and enjoyed them thoroughly--so much, indeed, that he suddenly joined in and showed how well he could skip. Then he wanted to jump over and through everything. At last he got so excited that Reine made him take a nice hot sugar-drink with a little orange flower in it to calm him. After this, Clown was considered one of the troupe. [Illustration: Clown and an ape] Always on the watch, our doggie learned at breakfast that three days hence they were to go to Fontainebleau, where they were to give two performances, and after that they were to set off for Paris, so as to arrive in time for the opening of the big festival at Neuilly. This made him so happy that for the moment he quite forgot to eat. Then, hope in his soul and joy in his heart, he made up his mind to do his very best at the next performance. He wanted to make all the people admire him, to do something that would repay Reine and her father for their kindness. Perhaps, too, he hoped that by acting in this way he might get talked about and get his name into the papers. Man is vain and even a dog has his pride. His fame might perhaps reach Bertha, his dear, tender, much-regretted mistress. All this made him very serious when at last the time for the performance arrived. [Illustration: Clown thinks about Bertha] Beneath an immense tent, brilliantly lighted, decorated with garlands of foliage and flowers, the orchestra struck up a joyous march. Immediately the doors were flung open, and to the sound of the music a great crowd poured into the huge tent and took seats. [Illustration: The menagerie] For about an hour and a half the menagerie held the floor. Then the animals were put back into their cages. The wild beasts were obedient and rebellious in turn; whips sounded continuously. The noise of squibs, firecrackers, and growls almost drowned the orchestra. [Illustration: Clown is being prepared for his performance] Three times did the tamer put his head into Sultan's great mouth. The excitement of the audience was tremendous. They really thought he was done for. "Enough, enough," was heard on all sides, and amid a thunder of applause, the first part of the performance came to an end. Then came an interval of ten minutes. [Illustration: Clown performing together with a clown] Soon the second part was announced by a cheerful burst of music and the mad entrance of the clowns. Our Clown only waited for this moment to show off his talents, those already known and those nobody had ever seen before. He entered barking, in a series of wild leaps exactly like those of his companions. It was then that an artist in the troupe, astonished and enthusiastic, took off his clown's collar, and then and there put it round the neck of the poodle, naming him the "Dog-Clown." [Illustration: Clown the dog-clown] So, for the second time, although until then they had not known what to call him, he received the name of Clown--"Dog-Clown." During the first number, Clown set to work to copy all the fun-making tricks of the other clowns, and succeeded wonderfully well. Jumping through hoops and over barrels, he gave himself up to the pleasure of the thing; pleasing everyone so well that they clapped and clapped until he came back several times. [Illustration: Horse performance] When the second number was called, there appeared on the scene a very handsome horse led by a groom dressed in the latest fashion. No sooner had they entered than they were followed by Clown, who, as he had seen done at the rehearsal, leaped with one bound into the saddle. They had great difficulty in coaxing him down. He could not see that this was not the place for him. Reine, beautifully dressed in a blue spangled gown, was placed with her father, in the saddle and set off at a gallop, to the sound of music and the gay cracking of the whip. [Illustration: Clown's horse performance] [Illustration: Clown with pipe] A clown joined the groom and Dog-Clown, who in spite of everything had remained on the scene, began to limp along behind them, to the great amusement of the spectators. He was the success of the evening. He even, it is said, caused some jealousy among the artists of the troupe. Thus from the very beginning Clown felt the thrill of stage life and became a privileged actor. Petted and adored by the public, he became so important that he hardly ever appeared on the scene until the end of the first and second numbers, a place reserved always for the stars of the troupe. [Illustration: Clown is balancing on a big ball] As was fitting, Dog-Clown had the place of honor on the circus posters. Sometimes he was a groom, sometimes a clown, but he did not stop there. He succeeded in showing that he was a mimic, and in a little play written for him by the manager, he made a huge success. Reine, who introduced Clown, shared the applause with her favorite. [Illustration: One of Clown's tricks] Between whiles--and this was what astonished the company most--the dog invented unexpected and novel entrances. He gradually became a part of the circus life, and always watching what was going on around him, he was cute enough to make a place for himself in every number, and the tricks he played were so funny that everyone howled with laughter. [Illustration: Clown and his dressmaker] When the circus left Dijon, the people of that town were heart-broken. The mayor himself even begged that the manager give a few more performances. In vain. The manager was sorry, but time pressed; he had made arrangements for a certain date at Fountainebleau. When Dog-Clown appeared for the first time in public in this town, even before he began he received such a welcome that he was moved to tears. The people had heard all about him and were wild to see him. In a moment the stage was covered with a mass of good things, thrown to him from all parts of the house, from the nearest seats to the farthest. Some threw sugar, some cakes; the clown even picked up cigars and oranges. Dog-Clown, by way of thanks, gave such a performance as even he had never given before. His success was almost unbelievable. At last so great did his fame become that the Paris papers took it up, giving long accounts of this wonderful dog. Clown was glad to be on the road again, for each move brought him that much closer to Paris. Besides, now that he was an important member of the company he always rode in state beside Reine, with velvet cushions to nap on if he chose. It was late in the afternoon when they reached Fountainebleau, so no performance was given till next day, and the animals had a needed rest. Clown spent his time in thinking up new tricks with which to surprise the people who came to see him. [Illustration: Clown is trying new tricks] I must tell you that, as soon as Clown had shown what an artist he was, and how wonderfully he could adorn a collarette, the management had attached to his person a dressmaker who made for him all sorts of quaint costumes. Soon he had a rich and thoroughly equipped wardrobe, from a frock-coat to a bull's skin and horns, a costume which he wore to act the bull in a mock bullfight in which young dwarfs figured as matadors and teased him. [Illustration: Clown in a bull costume] [Illustration: Clown talks with apes] 5 THE RETURN HOME Meantime Clown was growing tired of his popularity. The fame, the applause of the friendly public, the pleasure he felt in knowing that Reine and her father were doing a fine business, the liberty he enjoyed, the honors paid him daily, all these worldly vanities flattered his pride, but neither success nor his pleasant relations with the members of the troupe could make him happy. [Illustration: Members of the menagerie become ill] He was always longing for his dear mistress Bertha. Often in the night, overtaken by a horrible nightmare, he would wake with a start, not knowing where he was. Like many other artists, comic on the stage, he was silent and gloomy away from it. After three big performances, given one after the other, without counting rehearsals, some of the most important members of the menagerie became ill, owing to the heat and their hard work. It was the animals who suffered most. For two days Sultan, whose appetite was usually hard to satisfy, had refused his food--a thing hitherto unheard-of. One of the white bears complained of terrible colic; the llamas sneezed continually; Hercules, the giant elephant, with trunk rolled up like a snail, could hardly stand upright; a giraffe trumpeted; the hippopotamus, "Poivro," stung by mosquitoes, scratched himself till his cage shook. From the hyena-cage came forth dismal howls; two of the poor creatures, down with toothache, were rolling about in agony. Several horses, a zebra, and a rooster all felt very far from well. The truth was the whole troupe was worn out. The manager, too, felt that a rest was absolutely necessary for all of them. Everybody agreed that the director should announce to the public, giving any reason he chose, that for the next forty-eight hours there would be no performances. [Illustration: Zebras are ill and spitting] No one was allowed even to visit the menagerie. It was only after much delay and because he begged so hard that one stranger was admitted. This was a reporter from one of the important Paris newspapers, who, having heard by the many-tongued mouth of rumor of the queer tricks of Dog-Clown, was most anxious to see the dog for himself, and if possible to learn all about him, for he wanted his paper to be the first to tell the people of Paris the true story of this wonderful dog. [Illustration: Clown is also ill] At the time Clown was resting on a pile of blankets; although he seemed to be asleep he was listening to the conversation, for like a policeman, he always slept with one eye open. As soon as he realized what it was all about, he got up on his hind legs and went straight to the reporter, understanding probably how much what the newspaper said might help Bertha to find him. He was polite as he could be to this reporter and took great pains to show off before him, and--this was really a flash of genius--succeeded three different times, using as his letters the print on a rolled placard lying near him, in putting together the word "B-E-R-T-H-A," by placing his foot on the letters in the right order. [Illustration: Clown and a reporter] Greatly puzzled as to what it could mean the reporter wrote down on his tablet the word Clown had spelled. He could not help being surprised by this strange sign of intelligence. He bowed respectfully to this strangest of all subjects for interview, and as he left him he said gravely: "Delighted to have met you, my dear sir." Clown returned his bow, no less politely. He felt a trifle proud, perhaps, but he was charmed to have made himself understood by a human being. I leave you to imagine, dear friends, what a stir was caused by this article which appeared on the front page of the paper. It was headed: DOG-CLOWN, OR THE DOG WITH A BRAIN [Illustration: Clown returns the bow of the reporter] It gave details of Clown's wonderful tricks--it described them as simply beyond belief--and ended by calling upon men of science to come and see for themselves this curious, this strangely gifted dog. That day Bertha, who since the moment of Clown's disappearance had not ceased to mourn for him and to seek him everywhere, was even sadder than usual, having at last given up hope of ever seeing him again, now that all her attempts had ended in failure. [Illustration: Bertha is crying] At noon her father came home to lunch as he generally did. She ran to meet him and was struck by his jovial manner. She guessed something pleasant was in the air. "You have good news, father dear?" she said. "Well, I think so, but don't make too sure yet. I really do think though that we have found your dog." [Illustration: Bertha reads the newspaper with her father] Bertha turned pale and nearly fainted for joy. Her father read her the article and when he came to the part where the journalist told how the dog had spelled, without a doubt, the name "Bertha," she cried: "There's no doubt about it! It is--it is my dog. Let's go--let's go at once and get him!" Two hours later the express train going at its fastest to Fontainebleau, bore Bertha and her father and mother. There was a matinee that day. When Bertha and her family took places beside the ring the performance had already begun. The wild animals had been shown and the second part of the performance announced the appearance of Dog-Clown. This clever individual kept them waiting a moment or two to enhance the importance of his entry. The audience began to grow impatient, cries of "Dog-Clown, Dog-Clown!" were heard repeatedly. It was a critical moment. The father, the mother, the daughter sat motionless, wide-open eyes glued to the door through which he would come. Like a ball which, vigorously hurled, bounces on the pavement, Dog-Clown in a succession of wild leaps went rapidly round the arena. It was impossible to see his face, especially as he was all dressed up and powdered. [Illustration: At the matinee] Having finished his first act, he went to the center of the stage, and there standing on his hind legs made his bow to the audience. One sniff and he had recognized his owners. [Illustration: Clown doing a trick] It was like a flash of lightning. Next instant he had hurled off his clown's hat and leaped at them like a mad thing. He bounded over benches and fell, eyes full of tears, whimpering softly, into the arms of Bertha, who held him trembling and sobbing. [Illustration: Clown ran to Bertha] For a long time they clung to one another. This performance amazed the public; the circus people thought at first that this was just one of Clown's mad tricks--to which they were growing accustomed--but soon the truth was known when Reine, surprised and anxious, came forward and asked for an explanation. "Mademoiselle," said Bertha's father, "I am extremely sorry to interrupt the performance, but, as you see, the dog is ours. He was stolen from us. There is no doubt at all that he is our dog, and I demand that the manager give him back to us at once." His decided tone convinced the young girl. [Illustration: Clown and Bertha] "As we are honest people," she said in her turn, "and so that you may not think that we stole him, as you seem to suggest, I will tell you how, three weeks ago, he became one of us." Thus begun, the conversation was continued in a friendly way. True, a policeman was called, but only to inform the audience, at the manager's request, of the adventures of Dog-Clown who had delighted them all. [Illustration: Leaving the circus] Reine wept for the handsome poodle who would now no longer be with her on her travels, and there was weeping and wailing in the menagerie, when his comrades heard the news, for all the animals loved Clown. This last scene was so affecting that the audience itself, moved to tears, made no complaint. It's a sad thing but true, alas, that what brings happiness to one brings sorrow to others. Bertha was too happy and this time too anxious, to leave Clown any longer, even in the midst of these kind circus people. She thanked them warmly for the good care they had taken of her dog, Mademoiselle Reine especially, whom she kissed very sweetly. She promised, too, to take Clown to see her as soon as they reached Neuilly, and giving her address, begged the young girl to come to visit her in Paris. [Illustration: Weeping animals] After this Bertha departed in haste, hardly giving Clown time to say good-bye to his best friends and comrades, all of whom wept at the parting. [Illustration: Bertha and Clown leave Reine and the circus] That evening four joyful travelers took the train for Paris. During the trip, Clown, seated on the cushion between Bertha and her mother, his head against the shoulder of his dear mistress, gazed at her with moist, affectionate eyes. Licking her hands, wagging his pompom of a tail, and uttering plaintive little cries, he tried to tell her about all his past sufferings and his present happiness. Who could describe Clown's joy when he reached home after his long journey, when he saw his own part of town, his own house, his own room, where once again he would have lovely naps and dream golden dreams? [Illustration: Clown and Bertha in the train] When he caught sight of Marie, he jumped into her arms like a child. Marie burst into tears and could not utter a word of reproach. He leaped all over the footman, and did not forget even the cook. Then, smiling to himself, he went off to see what they were to have for dinner--and seemed well satisfied. In a word, he took up once more his happy family life, full of delightful things: pleasant strolls with Marie, delightful wanderings with Bertha, caresses lovingly given and returned. From this memorable day, Clown, who had learned his lesson, and grown wise by experience, was the first to bring his leash when it was time to go out. [Illustration: Clown and Marie] He would carry it triumphantly in his mouth as if to say, "Don't let's forget it!" For nothing in the world could you get him to venture alone upon the streets. At the present time Clown is perfectly happy. His adventures are all in the past. [Illustration: Clown in the kitchen] Now that he no longer has anything to worry him he is getting fatter and lazier, but he is always ready for a frolic with his beloved mistress, Bertha. I am sure that very few people who meet the contented dog and his devoted mistress have any idea that this is the famous Clown. [Illustration: Clown as a gentleman] As to the moral of this story, you have understood it, I am sure; but don't forget it, dear little readers. If you don't take the wise advice of your parents you are likely to suffer. Just because he didn't obey his little mistress, Clown, in spite of all his intelligence and wit, was very nearly lost forever. [Illustration: Clown with his leash] _Imagination is at the bottom of all the World's Advancement_ [Illustration] Develop your child's imagination with the wonders of a Fairyland that has a message to grown-ups as well. No living writer of children's tales today talks to a larger or more enthusiastic audience than does L. Frank Baum "_=The Wizard of Oz Man=_" Perhaps your boy or girl has already had one of the Oz Books. Then you don't need to be told the intense pleasure children find in these delightful tales. Go to your bookseller when next you have a present to select, and ask to see the Oz Books. They will make you wish you were a youngster again yourself. Read one of them at the bedtime hour--you will enjoy it as much as the kiddies do. _The Famous Oz Books_ The Land of Oz Ozma of Oz Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz The Road to Oz The Emerald City of Oz The Patchwork Girl of Oz Tik-Tok of Oz The Scarecrow of Oz Rinkitink in Oz The Lost Princess of Oz [Illustration] Big books, 7�9-1/4 inches, each with 100 or more illustrations, 12 or more in full color. Each volume with some distinctive bookmaking feature. Gay picture jackets. The Christmas Stocking Series Six beautifully made books designed for little children, with a charming introduction written especially for the series By L. Frank Baum [Illustration] The Titles are: * The Story of Peter Rabbit Little Black Sambo The Night Before Christmas Cinderella and the Sleeping Beauty Fairy Tales from Grimm Fairy Tales from Andersen The cover of each book has an appropriate panel, painted by Emile A. Nelson, set in a beautiful gold design of holly-leaves and berries on a scarlet background. Every volume contains from fifteen to twenty-seven full-page pictures in colors, besides from twenty to forty black-and-white illustrations. Large, clear type, fine paper; fancy end sheets and specially drawn pictorial title page in colors. 18mo. 128 pages. Fancy scarlet and gold binding, with multi-colored inlay. Price 25 cents per volume TWO VOLUME SETS BOXED AS FOLLOWS Set { The Story of Peter Rabbit Set { The Night Before Christmas I { Little Black Sambo II { Cinderella and the Sleeping Beauty Set { Fairy Tales from Andersen III { Fairy Tales from Grimm Put up in fancy boxes =Price 50 cents per set= Six Volumes in Display Box Price $1.50 per set Transcriber's note: 'gesperrt' text marked as _= ... =_ 
52138	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NO. 27 AUG. 28, 1909 FIVE CENTS MOTOR MATT'S ENGAGEMENT OR ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW _STREET & SMITH PUBLISHERS NEW YORK_ [Illustration: _Motor Matt, as he coaxed the last ounce of speed from the motor, shouted encouragingly to the terrified girl on the trapeze._] MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION _Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._ No. 27. NEW YORK, August 28, 1909. Price Five Cents. Motor Matt's Engagement; OR, ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW. By the author of "MOTOR MATT." CONTENTS CHAPTER I. "ON THE BANKS OF THE WABASH." CHAPTER II. IN THE CALLIOPE TENT. CHAPTER III. AN EAVESDROPPER. CHAPTER IV. QUEER PROCEEDINGS. CHAPTER V. MOTOR MATT PROTESTS. CHAPTER VI. ABLAZE IN THE AIR. CHAPTER VII. WAS IT TREACHERY? CHAPTER VIII. A CALL FOR HELP. CHAPTER IX. BLACK MAGIC. CHAPTER X. THE MAHOUT'S FLIGHT. CHAPTER XI. THE PAPER TRAIL. CHAPTER XII. CARL TURNS A TRICK. CHAPTER XIII. THE LACQUERED BOX. CHAPTER XIV. THE HYPNOTIST'S VICTIM. CHAPTER XV. "FOR THE SAKE OF HAIDEE!" CHAPTER XVI. THE RAJAH'S NIECE. SAVED BY A FALLING TREE. How They Captured the Python. ON THE ROAD TO MANDALAY. CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY. =Motor Matt King.= =Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive. =Ping=, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable. =Carl Pretzel=, an old chum who flags Motor Matt and more trouble than he can manage, at about the same time. In the rôle of detective, he makes many blunders, wise and otherwise, finding success only to wonder how he did it. =Ben Ali=, an elephant driver; a Hindoo gifted in the arts for which his country is famous and infamous. The uncle of Margaret Manners, he revenges himself upon his brother, the rajah, in a way that proves his own undoing. =Aurung Zeeb=, another elephant driver, and a friend of Ben Ali, assisting in his scoundrelly work. =Haidee=, whose real name is Margaret Manners, a girl from India, who becomes the hypnotic subject of Ben Ali, and is saved from him by Motor Matt and Carl. =Boss Burton=, manager and proprietor of the Big Consolidated Shows. A man who tries to be "square," in his own remarkable way. CHAPTER I. "ON THE BANKS OF THE WABASH." Strange, how a few harmless ingredients, thrown together and mixed, will set the trouble pot a-boiling. Saltpeter is an innocent and useful product, and so is charcoal and sulphur; but seventy-five per cent. of the first, fifteen per cent. of the second, and ten per cent. of the third, when properly mixed, will make gunpowder--an explosive that has slain millions, made kingdoms over into republics, and changed the map of the world again and again. So, on this beautiful morning, with the banks of the Wabash River for a setting, fate was juggling with a few trifling elements for the purpose of combining them and manufacturing trouble. The Big Consolidated Shows were pitching their tents near that part of the river, and two of the ingredients that helped form the dangerous mixture were connected with the "tented aggregation." One was the big elephant, Rajah, who had a tremendous thirst and was wabbling along toward the river for a drink; the other was a Chinese boy, dipping a couple of pails of water from the stream for the steam calliope. The third element--the one having no connection with the show--was a German youth with a weakness for bursting into song. The elephant, dryer than the desert of Sahara, was making big and rapid tracks for the brightly gleaming water, the Chinaman was leisurely filling his pails, and the German was strolling along the bank, dusty from a long tramp and with a stick over his shoulder from which swung a bundle bound up in a knotted handkerchief. If the German had known how to sing he would not have attracted the attention of the Chinaman; and if the Chinaman had not looked and grunted his disgust, the German would not have become hostile; and if Rajah, the elephant, had not possessed such a playful disposition, the German and the Chinaman would probably have separated with no more than a few mongrel words of personal opinion. But fate was working overtime that day, and had an eye for weird combinations. "Ach, der moon vas shining pright upon der Vabash, From der fieldts dere comes some shmells oof new-mown hay, Droo der candlelight der sycamores vas gleaming, On der panks oof der Vabash, righdt avay!" This was the German's song, and it sounded as though it had been played on a fish horn. The Chinaman could be seen to shiver as he deposited a pailful of water on the bank, straightened erect, and looked at the singer. There was that in his slant eyes which brought the German to a halt. "Don'd you like der song, shink?" demanded the Dutchman, pushing out his chin in an irritating way. "Woosh!" snorted the Chinaman, "you makee sing all same like poodle dog makee howl." "Py shiminy," cried the Dutchman, "I fight pedder as I sing. I don'd let no monkey mit a pigdail make some foolishness mit me." "Dutchy boy clazy," declared the Celestial. "I nefer liked der shinks anyways," went on the other, dropping his stick and his bundle. "Dey vas sheap skates, you bet you, und vas alvays taking avay goot shobs from American fellers. I vill tie you oop in some bowknots mit your pigdail und trop you py der rifer. Yah, so." "Dutchy boy makee spell 'able,'" and the Chinaman, with supreme contempt, picked up his empty pail. "You peen afraidt mit yourseluf!" shouted the Dutchman. "My plenty busy; makee cally water fo' calliope. No gottee time to fight. Come 'lound after palade, China boy makee Dutchy boy suppa' fo' lion." "Dot's me," breathed the Dutchman, picking up his stick and bundle. "I'll be aroundt after dot barade, you bed my life, und I don'd make some subber for der lion, neider." He started on slowly. Unnoticed by either of the boys, the mahout on Rajah's neck had kept the elephant close to the river bank. The mahout was dozing, and Rajah was filling the piece of hose, more generally known as his trunk, with Wabash water and squirting it into his open mouth. Now, Rajah was an eccentric elephant. There were times when he was full of mischief and playful, and other times when the wild jungle blood got the upper hand of him and he became dangerous. On two or three occasions, when Old Ben, the African lion, had tried to mix things with the royal Bengal tiger, Rajah had been called in to separate the fighters with a well-directed stream, hurled with catapult force from his trunk. Rajah's cunning little eyes had been taking in the quarrel between the Dutchman and the Chinaman. Something prompted him to elevate his trunk and throw a stream after the retreating Dutch boy. The lad was knocked off his feet, his stick going one way and his bundle the other. He jumped to his feet, spluttering, and whirled around. Rajah was innocently squirting a dozen or more gallons of the river into his capacious throat, but the Chinaman, the empty pail still in his hand, was laughing so that he almost fell off the bank. It was the most natural thing in the world for the Dutch boy, in the excitement of the moment, to lay the whole blame on the Chinese boy's shoulders. The Dutchman had not seen Rajah use his trunk, and the Chinaman had. It was very laughable, and the Chinaman's cackling mirth was unrestrained. The Dutchman saw only the empty bucket in the Chinaman's hand, and it seemed certain the deluge of water had come from the bucket. "I gif you fits for dot, py shiminy!" whooped the Teuton. "No can do!" declared the Celestial. The Dutchman came on with a bound, his dripping clothes sprinkling everything in his vicinity. The Chinaman threw the bucket. The other dodged. The bucket sailed on through the air and struck Delhi, Rajah's mate, a sharp rap on her big, fanning ear. Delhi trumpeted loudly and started furiously after the boys. Both the Chinaman and the Dutchman, their faculties completely wrapped up in their quarrel, gave no attention to the elephants. Coming together like a thousand of brick, they clinched and wrestled back and forth on the bank. Delhi, wild with anger, gave no heed to the fierce prodding of her mahout, but rushed onward, her trunk stretched eagerly ahead of her and twitching and curving in its desire to lay hold of the struggling youngsters. For a second the prospect was very dark for the Teuton and the Celestial. What would have happened to them is problematical if Delhi had had her way. But the big brute was not allowed to work her will. Rajah interfered; not out of any desire to be of help to the boys, but rather to assist his mate in securing vengeance. Quickly Rajah aimed his trunk and hurled a stream of water. The jet struck the two boys, lifted them from their feet, and hurled them into the river. The lads were tossed from the bank in just the nick of time. Hardly were they clear of the spot where they had been wrestling when Delhi's disappointed trunk swept over it. Rajah's mahout, of course, had aroused himself, and he and the other man got busy bringing the elephants into subjection. The Dutchman and the Chinaman had fallen into deep water. It was necessary to disentangle themselves from each other in order to swim and keep from being drowned. As Delhi backed away from the water's edge, under the blows of her mahout's sharp, steel prod, she flung the Dutchman's bundle and stick at the thrashing forms in the water, and followed these with the buckets. "I can do oop a shink mit vone hand," gurgled the Dutchman, as his dripping head appeared above the surface of the river; "aber ven a goople oof elephants iss rung indo der game, den I don'd---- Wow!" The handkerchief bundle, hurled with terrific force, struck him on the head and sent him under. "Dutchy boy no good!" spluttered the Chinaman. "Him velly fine false alarm---- Woosh!" One of the buckets hit the Celestial in the small of the back and he vanished in a flurry of bubbles. When he and the Dutchman again reappeared, Delhi and Rajah were under control and no further danger threatened. "What's the matter with you two kids?" cried Delhi's mahout, excited and angry. "Der shink drew some vater on me," answered the Dutchman, "und made more monkey-doodle pitzness dan I vould shtand for." "Him no savvy," declared the Chinese. "El'fant makee thlow water." Rajah's mahout was a Hindoo. In a queer jargon of broken English, he described the way Rajah had hosed down the Dutchman as the latter was walking off. The other mahout lost his wrath in a flood of merriment. "It's all a mistake!" he called. "Come out o' the wet and stop your foolishness. If ye try to do any more fightin', I'll set Delhi onto you ag'in." The Dutchman labored ashore with his stick and his bundle, and the Chinaman followed with his buckets. "What do you s'pose Motor Matt would think of this, Ping?" went on the mahout. "If he----" But what the mahout was intending to say was lost in a roar of amazement and delight from the Dutchman. "Vat's dot? Modor Matt? Vere he iss, anyvay? Say, I vas his bard, und I peen looking for him efery blace, longer as I can dell. Shpeak, vonce! Vere iss Modor Matt?" "China boy Motol Matt's pard," spoke up the dripping Ping. "My workee fo' Motol Matt; Dutchy boy no workee." "Py shiminy, I dell you some more dot I peen Carl Pretzel," shouted the Dutchman, "und dot I vas looking for der show, und ditn't know I vould findt Modor Matt at der same dime. Vere iss he, misder?" and Carl appealed anxiously to the mahout. "He's travelin' with the show, youngster," answered the mahout, "an' doin' a flyin'-machine stunt twice a day. If ye want to find him, hike for the show grounds." Without paying any further attention to Ping or the elephants, Carl gathered in his cap--which lay at the water's edge, and was the only thing belonging to him that was not dripping wet--and laid a rapid course for the top of the bank. Ping, filling the pails, started after Carl, worrying not a little over this new pard of Motor Matt's who had appeared so unexpectedly on the scene. CHAPTER II. IN THE CALLIOPE TENT. "I don't like it, pard, and you can bet your moccasins on that," said Joe McGlory. "There are a whole lot of things about this business I don't fancy," returned Motor Matt; "but we're under contract, Joe, and Boss Burton says he'll give us an extra fifty a week if we do the trick." "But the girl! What's her notion about it? Hanging to a trapeze under the aëroplane isn't a stunt to be sneezed at." "She's anxious to do the trick. She'll get fifty dollars a week for it, and the money looks good to her." "There's the danger, pard. Her neck's worth more than fifty plunks a week." "She's a little brick, that Haidee--pure grit. I'll see that she's not placed in much danger." "You'll have your hands full looking after yourself and the aëroplane. Sufferin' whirligigs! You know how hard it is to manage the _Comet_ when there's a weight suspended beneath." "I can do it," declared Matt. "Of course you can do, old socks--you can do anything when you set your mind to it. But, tell me this, what has that old elephant driver, Ben Ali, got to do with Haidee? Ben Ali's a Hindoo, and Haidee is almost as white as an American girl." "Ben Ali's her uncle, Joe. Haidee's mother was Ben Ali's sister, and Haidee's father was an English officer living in Bombay. The girl told me all this yesterday at the time she begged me to do what Boss Burton wanted and let her trail the _Comet_ aloft on the trapeze." "Funny combination," muttered Joe. McGlory was in his overclothes, and had just finished getting the aëroplane ready for the parade. The "animal top"--that is, the menagerie tent--had been hoisted, and the small canvas lean-to that housed the steam calliope had been put in place alongside. The calliope was not in the lean-to, but was out on the grounds, being put in shape for the parade. Matt and Joe usually came to the calliope tent to make themselves ready for the street procession. They, together with Ping, had been three weeks with the Big Consolidated, Matt making ascensions in the aëroplane twice daily, following the parade and just before the evening performance--wind and weather permitting. So proficient had Matt become in handling the flying machine that nothing short of a stiff gale or a hard rain kept him from carrying out his engagements for a double exhibition each day. The aëroplane had caught the popular fancy, and had proved the biggest kind of a card for Boss Burton, proprietor of the show. Under its own motive power, the machine formed a star feature of the parade, traveling slowly on the bicycle wheels which were necessary in giving it a start when flights were made. From tip to tip, the wings of the aëroplane measured more than thirty feet. Of course it could not travel in the parade with such a stretch of surface across the streets, so Matt had arranged the bicycle wheels in such a manner that the _Comet_ moved sideways in the procession, the king of the motor boys, his cowboy pard, and his Chinese comrade occupying positions in the seats on the lower wing. When Matt and his friends first joined the outfit, Boss Burton had supplied them with bespangled apparel, which, if they had worn it, would, according to McGlory, have made them "a holy show." Matt and McGlory balked at the glittering costumes, but Ping had hung to his beadwork and gilt trimmings with a fierce determination there was no shaking. McGlory compromised with Burton by getting into a swell cowboy rig, but for Matt there was no such thing as compromise. This engagement with the show was purely a business proposition, and he refused to make a spectacle out of himself. He looked well, too, in his unostentatious blue cap and clothes, and was given many a cheer as the aëroplane pitched and shivered along in the procession. Boss Burton was a shrewd manager, and it was said that he lay awake nights while section two of the show train was making its jumps between stands, thinking up new acts that would thrill the patrons of the Big Consolidated. His last idea was to hitch a trapeze to the bottom of the aëroplane, and have Haidee, Ben Ali's pretty niece, perform on the flying bar while Matt was manoeuvring the _Comet_ over the show grounds. It was this new wrinkle that had drawn objections from McGlory when he and Matt had retired to the calliope tent to make ready for the parade. About all Matt had to do to get ready was to wash and brush himself. McGlory, on the other hand, had to get into a blue shirt, corduroy trousers, "chaps," tight, high-heeled boots, and a broad-brimmed sombrero. "What's become of Ping?" asked Matt, stepping to the tent flap and looking off over the busy grounds. It would be an hour before the parade could start, and the bright sun glowed over a scene of feverish activity. The side-show tents, the stable tents, and cook tent were already up. A small army of men was working on the circus "top," and the rhythmical thump of mauls on tent stakes could be heard on every hand. Horses in two, four, six, and eight-horse teams were moving about; band wagons, cages, and chariots were being dusted and cleaned; the painted banners in front of the side-show were being laced to their guys; the candy "butchers" were getting their places in readiness, and throughout the various occupations of the men ran an orderly disorder, everywhere noticeable. But Matt could see nothing of Ping, and he turned away to where McGlory, his foot on an overturned bucket, was buckling a big-roweled Mexican spur to his heel. "Ping is always promptness itself in getting into his tinsel frills and furbelows," remarked Matt, "and I can't understand what's keeping the boy so late this morning." "He's been put on the steam calliope, pard," laughed McGlory, dropping his foot from the bucket and stamping until the rowel jingled. "Little Squinch-eye seems to have fallen in love with that bunch of steam whistles. He tried to play 'Yankee Doodle' on the pipes, in Indianapolis, and had almost stampeded the elephants before the calliope man could choke him off. Sufferin' jangles, pard, you never heard such a sound." Before Matt could make any response, a soft voice called from outside: "Motor Matt! Can I come in a minute?" "Sure," replied Matt heartily. A lithe, graceful form, in velvet and spangles, leaped lightly through the opening. "Haidee!" exclaimed Matt, staring. The girl bowed laughingly and threw a kiss, just as she was in the habit of doing after her trapeze work in the "big top." "Yes, friends," she answered; "Haidee, the Flying Marvel, who is to do a turn on Motor Matt's flying machine just before the doors open. I am also to ride on the top wing of the _Comet_ during the parade. Will I do?" Lifting her arms, she pirouetted around for the observation of the boys, then paused and smiled bewitchingly. "Do?" cried McGlory. "Why, sis, you'll be the hit of the piece. All I hope"--and McGlory's face went rather long--"is that you and Matt come through your trip in the air without any trouble." "I'm not afraid!" declared Haidee. "No more you're not, sis. If you were riding on the lower wing with Matt the whole game would be different; but you're to hang under the machine, and there'll be more pitching and plunging than if you were aboard a bucking bronk. Hang on, that's all, and don't try to hang by your heels." "I'll get an extra fifty dollars a week!" cried the girl. It was plain to be seen that she placed great store on that "fifty dollars a week." "What does your uncle, Ben Ali, think of it, Haidee?" asked Matt. A barely perceptible frown crossed the girl's face. What was passing in her mind? Whatever her thoughts were, they found no echo in her answer. "Uncle Ben is glad to have me do it," and Haidee retreated toward the door. "Have you seen Ping, Haidee?" inquired Matt. "When I saw him last," was the response, "he was walking toward the river with a couple of buckets. I'll be going, now. I'll see you again when the parade starts. That trapeze act on the aëroplane will make a great hit, don't you think?" "It ought to," said Matt. The girl vanished. "I'll walk over to the steam music box," remarked McGlory, "and see if I can spot our pigtail friend." "All right," returned Matt, dropping down on an overturned bucket and pulling a pencil and memorandum book from his pocket. Before he could begin to figure, he heard a voice addressing McGlory at the tent door--and it was a voice that brought him up rigidly erect and staring. "Say, misder, iss dis der shteam cantalope tent?" McGlory laughed. "Well, yes, Dutchy, you've made a bull's-eye first clatter. Here's where they keep the 'cantalope.' What's the matter with you? Look like you'd gone in swimming and forgotten to take off your clothes." "I tropped in der rifer mit meinseluf, und id vas vetter as I t'ought. Say, vonce, iss Modor Matt aroundt der blace?" "He's inside, and---- Sufferin' whirlwinds, but you're in a hurry!" A bedraggled form, with a dripping bundle in one hand and a stick in the other, hurled itself through the opening with a yell. "Matt! Mein olt pard, Matt!" The next instant Carl Pretzel had rushed forward and twined his water-soaked arms about the king of the motor boys. The Dutchman's delight was of the frantic kind, and he gurgled and whooped, and blubbered, and wrestled with Matt in a life-and-death grip. McGlory, in amazement, watched from the entrance. "Carl!" exclaimed Matt. "By all that's good, if it isn't Carl! Great spark plugs, old chap, where did you drop from?" "Ach, from novere und eferyvere. Vat a habbiness! I peen so dickled mit meinseluf I feel like I vas going to pust! My olt raggie, Matt, vat I ain'd seen alreddy for a t'ousant years!" Just then there was a rush behind McGlory, and some one nearly knocked him over getting into the tent. "My workee fo' Motol Matt!" shrilled a high, angry voice. "Dutchy boy no workee!" Ping was terribly hostile, but McGlory caught and held him. Carl tore himself loose from Matt and would have rushed at Ping had he not been restrained. "Looks like they'd both been in the river," remarked McGlory. "What's the trouble here, boys?" asked Matt. CHAPTER III. AN EAVESDROPPER. Both Carl and Ping tried to explain matters at the same time. Each talked loud, in the hope of drowning out the other, and the jargon was terrific. Finally McGlory got a hand over the Chinaman's mouth, and Carl was able to give his side of the question. After that, Ping had his say. "There's been no cause whatever for this flare-up," said Matt. "Everybody knows that Carl can't sing, but everybody who's acquainted with him, too, knows that he's got more pluck to the square inch than any fellow of his size. Carl's all right, Ping. He went around South America with Dick Ferral and me on that submarine, and we parted company in San Francisco just before I met up with Joe. Shake hands," and Matt pushed Carl toward the Chinaman. "My workee fo' Motol Matt," whispered Ping, who had likewise been given a push by the cowboy; "Dutchy boy no workee, huh?" "You're both pards of mine," said Matt, "and you've got to be friends. Now, shake hands." The shaking was done--rather hesitatingly, it is true, but nevertheless it was done. "Now," went on Matt, "you get into your regalia, Ping. Carl, you can get out of your wet clothes and put on Joe's working suit. While you're about it, tell me how you happen to be here. You stay and listen, Joe," the young motorist added. "I want you to like Carl as well as I do." "That's me, pard," laughed McGlory, taking a seat on one of the buckets. "There's plenty of ginger in the Dutchman, and that's what cuts the ice with me." Ping, covertly watching and listening, moved over to his bag of clothes and began rigging himself out in his gorgeous raiment. Carl, talking as he worked, removed his water-logged costume. "I vas a tedectif, Matt," said he gravely. "What's that?" demanded McGlory. "Detective," smiled the king of the motor boys. "My Dutch pard has been making a sleuth out of himself." "Yah, so," pursued Carl. "Tick Verral vent off mit his uncle, in Tenver, und I run avay to San Francisco looking for Matt. He don'd vas dere some more, und I can't find oudt nodding aboudt vere he vas gone. I haf to do somet'ing vile vaiting for him to turn oop, und so I go indo der tedectif pitzness. Dot's great vork, I bed you. You findt somet'ing for somepody, und dey gif you all kindts oof money. Fine!" "How much have you made at the business, Carl?" queried Matt. "Vell, nodding, so far as I haf gone, Matt. Aber I don'd haf no luck mit it. I vas schust learning der ropes. A feller hat his money took avay in 'Frisco. I ged oudt oof dot mit a proken headt, und don'd findt der money. Vell, next a olt laty in Salt Lake City loses her parrot, und say she gif ten tollar vould I findt him. I ketch der parrot off a push schust ven anodder feller lays holt oof him. Ve fight for der pird, der pird iss kilt, und some more I don'd ged nodding, only a plack eye und some fierce talk from der olt laty. Aber I don'd ged tiscouraged, nod at all. I vork on mit meinseluf. "Pympy, I peen in Chicago--der blace vere ve vas, Matt, mit der air ship. Dot's a great town for der tedectif pitzness, I bed you. I try to hire oudt by a prifate tedectif achency, aber dey don'd vant me. I keep afder dose fellers, und afder I was t'rown from der office a gouple oof times I valked in on dem by der fire escape. Den dey gif me some chobs." "What sort of a job did they give you, Carl?" By that time the Dutch boy had stripped and put on McGlory's clothes. Reaching for his water-logged bundle, he untied it, and fished a folded newspaper from an assortment of rubber collars, socks, and red cotton handkerchiefs. The newspaper was very damp, and had to be handled with care. "Dis iss some English papers, Matt," explained Carl. "Id vas brinted in Lonton, und dose tedectif fellers had him py deir office. How mooch iss a t'ousant pounds in Unidet Shtates money, hey?" "Five thousand dollars." "Veil, dot's der chob--making dot fife t'ousant. I bet you I get rich vone oof dose tays." "You have to do something, don't you, before you get the money?" queried McGlory, with a wink at Matt. "Ach, dot's nodding," answered Carl, in a large, offhand manner. "Readt dot, Matt." Matt took the wet newspaper and read a marked paragraph, which ran as follows: "£1,000 Reward! This sum will be paid for any information concerning one Margaret Manners, last known to be in Calcutta, India. Miss Manners is about eighteen years of age, and is the only daughter of the late Captain Lionel Manners, of the English Army, stationed at Bombay. Miss Manners disappeared from her home, under mysterious circumstances, and it is possible she went to America and engaged in the circus business. Any one with knowledge concerning the missing person, and desirous of obtaining the reward, will please communicate with Arthur Hoppleson, Solicitor, 10 Kent's Road, London, W. C. Further information, which cannot be publicly printed, will be cheerfully furnished." Motor Matt, after reading the paragraph to himself, read it aloud. "Why," grinned McGlory, "that outfit of detectives was working your German friend, Matt. They gave him that and sent him on a wild-goose chase, just to get rid of him." "Dot's a misdake," declared Carl. "Dose fellers saw I meant pitzness, py shinks, und dey gif me der hardest case dey hat. Yah, so. Since den I haf peen looking for shows. Eferyvere I hear aboudt some shows I hike avay. Aber I don'd findt Miss Manners. She don'd vas in der mooseums, oder in der Vild Vest shows, or in Rinklings; und oof she vasn't in der Pig Gonsolidated, den I vas oop some shtumps. My money has blayed oudt, und I hat to rite in a pox car to Lafayette, Intiana. Here I vas shdrolling along tovard der show groundts ven I see dot shink mit der puckets, und hat sooch a scrap. Afder der scrap vas ofer, a man on a elephant shpeak about Motor Matt. Den I don'd t'ink oof nodding more. I come, so kevick as bossiple, to findt my olt raggie. Und here ve vas, togedder like ve used to be." A broad smile covered Carl's face. "Now I don'd care for nodding. Oof you t'ink you could help me findt Miss Manners, den I vill be opliged, und gif you part oof der revard--a gouple oof pounds oof id, anyvay." "It looks to me, Carl," said Matt, handing back the paper, "as though the men in that detective office were trying to have some fun with you. Have you written to London to secure further information?" Carl looked startled. "Vell," he admitted, "I ditn't t'ink oof dat." "You're a fine detective, you are," said Matt. "You might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as to hunt for this English girl. Can't you see? You've got a pretty wide field to cover, and it is only _supposed_ that she came to America and engaged in the circus business." Carl ran his fingers through his carroty hair. "Meppy dot's right," he mused. "Oof dose fellers in Chicago vas making some monkey-doodle pitzness mit me, you bed you I vould like to fool dem. Meppy I findt der girl. Den vat? V'y, dose tedectif fellers feel like t'irty cent. You vas vorking for der show, Matt?" "We've an engagement with the manager for making flights in our aëroplane." "Vat's dose?" "What's an aëroplane? Why, Carl, it's a heavier-than-air flying machine." "So? Und you go oop in id?" "Yes." Carl sat on a bucket and ruminated for a space. "You know pooty near efery vone dot vorks for der show, hey?" he asked. "Yes, I know every one." "Iss dere a girl mit der name oof Markaret Manners?" "No. But she'd have a different name if she was with a show, Carl. Performers hardly ever use their real names." "Dot's righdt, too." Once more Carl ran his fingers through his mop of hair. "Iss der any vone connected mit der show vat has a shtrawperry mark on der arm?" he asked, brightening. "Strawberry mark on the arm?" repeated Matt. "Why, Carl, that advertisement doesn't say anything about such a thing." "I know dot, aber efery young laty you read aboudt vat's lost has der shtrawperry mark on der----" McGlory let off a roar of laughter. Carl straightened up with a pained look on his fat face. "Carl," cried McGlory, "you're a great sleuth, and no mistake! You jump at too many conclusions." "Dere don'd vas anyt'ing else to chump ad," returned Carl. "Dis vas a dark case, you bed you, und dere has to be some guessings. Dot's vat I make now, der guessings." "Pretty woolly guessing, at that, and----" McGlory broke off abruptly to follow a sudden movement on Matt's part. The canvas forming the side of the menagerie tent had shaken, as though there was some one on the other side of it. Matt, seeing the shiver of the canvas, leaped for the wall. The next moment he had lifted the canvas and was looking into the other tent. A tall, brown-faced man, wearing a turban and an embroidered jacket, was just vanishing through the tent entrance. Matt dropped the canvas and turned away, a thoughtful look taking the place of the smile with which he had listened to Carl's talk. "What was it, pard?" asked McGlory. "An eavesdropper," replied Matt. "Speak to me about that!" exclaimed McGlory. "If some one thought the Dutchman's yarn worth listening to, then perhaps there's something in it." "Perhaps." Motor Matt's brow wrinkled perplexedly. "Who was the fellow? Could you recognize him?" "It was Ben Ali." McGlory bounded up, excited, and his own face reflecting some of the perplexity that shone in his friend's. Before the conversation could be continued, however, a man thrust his head into the calliope tent. "They're waiting for you fellows," he announced. "Hustle!" CHAPTER IV. QUEER PROCEEDINGS. The place occupied by the aëroplane in the procession was almost at the end, and just behind the herd of four elephants. Rajah, owing to his freakish disposition, was always the fourth elephant of the string, Delhi his mate, immediately preceding him. With peaceable brutes ahead, Rajah might usually be depended upon not to cut any capers. It will be seen from this that the _Comet_ followed on the heels of Rajah. The parade was almost in readiness for the start when Matt, McGlory, and Ping reached the aëroplane. Hostlers were running about placing plumes in the head-stalls of the horses, drivers were climbing to their seats, the wild animal trainer was getting into the open cage, and the members of the band were tinkering with their instruments. Haidee was standing by the aëroplane when Matt, McGlory, and Ping reached the machine. "All ready, Haidee?" asked Matt. The girl turned and looked at him blankly. Her face was unusually white, and there was a vacant stare in her eyes. "What's to pay, sis?" asked McGlory, with a surprised look at Matt. "Don't you feel well?" "I am well." The words came in an unnatural voice and with parrot-like precision. Boss Burton came hustling down the line in his runabout. "Hurry up, Matt," he called. "Help Haidee to a place on the upper wing of the _Comet_." Matt stepped over to the runabout. "What's the matter with the girl?" he asked, in a low tone. "Matter?" echoed Burton, fixing a keen look on the girl. "By Jupiter, she's got one of her spells again! She hasn't had one of those for a month, now, and I thought they'd about left her for good." "Is she subject to spells of that kind?" "She used to be. There's something queer about them, but they don't last long." "We shouldn't put her on the upper wing, then. There's no seat there, and nothing to hold on to." The sharp, impatient notes of a trumpet came from the head of the line. "Well, put her somewhere," said Burton impatiently, and whirled his horse. "Get on the top plane, Ping," said Matt, hurrying back to the _Comet_. "Haidee is going to ride on the lower wing with us." "Awri'," chirped Ping, and McGlory gave him a leg up. Haidee, moving like an automaton, made no objection to this arrangement. She took her place obediently on the lower wing of the machine, between Matt and McGlory, and the engine was started. When the elephants began to move, Matt switched the power into the bicycle wheels, and the aëroplane lurched over the uneven ground. Reaching the road, the _Comet_ went more steadily; and when the procession wound into the paved thoroughfares, the movement was comparatively easy. Ben Ali, from the neck of Rajah, kept turning around and looking back at the three on the lower plane of the _Comet_. Matt, McGlory, and Haidee, on account of the wings of the aëroplane being turned lengthwise of the street, rode facing the sidewalk on the left. In order to see them, Ben Ali was obliged to keep Rajah somewhat out of the line. "What's the matter with Ben Ali?" asked McGlory, leaning forward and talking in front of Haidee. "He's showing a heap more interest in the _Comet_ than he ever did before." Matt shook his head, and met steadily the piercing eyes of the Hindoo until they were turned forward again. "What is your uncle looking this way for, Haidee?" he asked. "I don't know." The girl expressed herself in the same mechanical way she had done before. "Haidee isn't herself," said Matt, "and I guess her uncle is worried. Change seats with her, Joe." Matt wanted to talk with his cowboy chum and did not want to be under the necessity of passing his words around the girl. "Move over, sis," requested McGlory, standing up and balancing himself on the foot-rest. The girl quietly slipped along the plane. Cheer after cheer greeted the aëroplane and the king of the motor boys as soon as the crowded thoroughfares were reached. Ping, on the upper wing, and clad in all his barbaric finery, was as proud as a peacock. Haidee, on the other hand, paid absolutely no attention to the crowds. She sat rigidly in her place, like a girl carved from stone, keeping her unblinking eyes straight ahead of her. "I'm plumb beat, and no mistake," breathed McGlory, in Matt's ear. "I never saw Haidee like this before. She acts to me like she was locoed." "Boss Burton told me, just before we started," answered Matt, in a low tone, "that she was subject to 'spells.' This is the first one she has had in a month, Burton says." "Can you savvy it?" "No." "Ben Ali seems worried out of his wits. Watch how he keeps Rajah zigzagging back and forth across the trail, so he can get a look at the girl every now and then. I wonder if Haidee knows what she's about?" "She must. If she didn't she wouldn't be riding in the aëroplane." The bands played, the crowds waved hands and handkerchiefs and cheered, the clowns carried out all their funny stunts, and the procession moved on through the city of Lafayette. Students from Purdue University followed the paraders and blew long blasts through tin horns. Rajah showed signs of becoming restless, and Ben Ali's attention had to be given entirely to the big brute. Matt, with one hand on the steering lever, kept the unwieldy machine moving in a straight track. "What do you suppose Ben Ali was listening to Carl's talk for, there on the inside of the menagerie tent?" inquired the cowboy, his voice so low it could not possibly reach Haidee. "I had a notion that----" "Sh-h-h!" Matt interrupted. "I had the same notion, Joe, but it was only a wild guess, at the most. He's a prying chap, that Ben Ali, and he might have had only a casual interest in what Carl was saying." "I'll bet a ten-dollar bill against a chink wash ticket that there was something more to it than that." "Well, if there was, it's bound to come out, sooner or later. Say nothing, but keep your eyes open." "I've always felt that there was a mystery about the girl and Ben Ali, and that----" McGlory broke off suddenly. Haidee, with the quickness of lightning, had leaned over behind him and jerked one of the levers at Matt's side. The next instant the big aëroplane took a wild jump forward. The king of the motor boys was alive to the danger in an instant. "Hold the girl!" he cried, and instantly flung the lever back. The front ends of the two great wings had hurled themselves against Rajah. The huge animal trumpeted wildly and swung about on his hind legs with trunk uplifted. It seemed as though he would surely charge the _Comet_, wreck the machine, and kill or maim the four who were riding in it. McGlory, with Haidee in his arms, leaped from the foot-rest into the road. Ping rolled off the opposite side of the upper plane. Had Matt deserted his post, the _Comet_ would certainly have been seriously damaged, if not totally wrecked. But, in spite of the danger that threatened him, he kept his seat. Quick as a flash, he threw in the reverse. The bulky machine began wabbling away on the back track, the clown in the donkey cart behind, and the acrobatic "haymakers" in their trick wagon, driving frantically out of the way. Ben Ali was using his sharp prod with apparent frenzy, but the jabbing point had not the least effect. Rajah started for Matt and the _Comet_. Then, had not Delhi's mahout been self-possessed and quick, the worst would have happened. People in the street jumped for the walk, and those on the walk pushing into the open doors of shops. Shrieks and cries went up from the women, and men yelled in consternation. Across Rajah's path, with a rush, charged Delhi, coming to a halt and blocking the way. Rajah tried to go around, but Delhi backed and continued to cut off his retreat. By that time Boss Burton had whirled to the scene in the runabout, and half a dozen men, from the forward wagons, were all around Rajah, belaboring the brute with cudgels, whips, and whatever they could get their hands on. Rajah's incipient rage was soon quelled by this heroic treatment. "What happened?" demanded Burton, drawing up beside the aëroplane. "The machine made a jump," answered Matt, not wishing to put the blame on the girl. "Rajah was too close. Tell Ben Ali to pay more attention to the elephant and less to us, and to keep in the centre of the road." Burton was angry. The fault seemed to lie with Matt, but Ben Ali caught the brunt of the showman's ire. Ping, his yellow face like a piece of old cheese, got back on the upper wing, and McGlory led Haidee to the _Comet_ and helped her to her seat. "Speak to me about that!" gulped the cowboy. "I'm a Piegan if I didn't think you and the old _Comet_ were done for. What possessed the girl?" "Give it up," answered Matt grimly. "As you said a while ago, pard, these are queer proceedings. Just watch Haidee every minute." "She didn't know what she was doing, and you can gamble a blue stack on that." "Of course she didn't. That's why I didn't tell Burton the real cause of the trouble. Keep it to yourself, Joe." CHAPTER V. MOTOR MATT PROTESTS. The parade was finished without further incident worthy of note, a huge crowd following it back to the show grounds to see the aëroplane flight. As soon as the grounds were reached, Ben Ali came for Haidee. There was a burning light in his black eyes, and he was shaking like a man with the ague. "Just a minute, Ben Ali," said Matt, catching the Hindoo by the sleeve of his embroidered coat and leading him apart. "What's the matter with your niece?" "Salaam, sahib," chattered Ben Ali. "Haidee all right soon." "She can't make an ascension with me, Ben Ali. She was the cause of that trouble, and it would be sheer madness to take her aloft on that trapeze." "Yis, sahib, _such baht_" (that is true). Ben Ali drew a quivering hand over his forehead. "But she be well like ever soon, sahib." Ben Ali whirled away, took Haidee by the hand, and vanished among the wagons. Boss Burton strode to the scene. "What ails that brown rascal?" he asked, staring after Ben Ali. "He's in as bad a taking as the girl. What did he say about her? I've never been able to get him to tell me anything about her spells." "He tells me that she will be all right in a little while," answered Matt. "Then we'll delay the flight. It will be half an hour yet before all the people get here." Matt peered at the showman as though he thought him out of his senses. "You don't mean to say that you want the girl to ride a trapeze under the _Comet_?" he demanded. "Why not?" Burton answered. "You said you'd take her, and she's willing to go--she wants to go." "When I said I'd take her," returned Matt, "I didn't know anything about her spells. Suppose she were to have one while we're in the air? Why, Burton, she might throw herself from the trapeze." "No," declared the other, "she wouldn't do that. After she has one spell, I understand she doesn't have another for days, or weeks. It's been a month since she had the last. Why, in St. Paul, she had one ten minutes before she went to the ring for her trapeze work--and she never did better. If Ben Ali says she'll be all right in a little while he ought to know." "I protest against allowing her to go up in the aëroplane," said Matt firmly. "When the machine is off the ground it has to have my whole attention. I won't be able to look after Haidee without endangering both our lives." A hard look came into Burton's face. "I'm paying you five hundred a week for the stunt you pull off with the flying machine, ain't I?" he demanded harshly. "You are," was the young motorist's calm response. "And I'm giving the fifty on top of that for taking the girl up with you?" "That was your proposition." "And you agreed to it?" "That was before I knew Haidee was afflicted in this way, Burton." "Bosh!" scoffed the showman. "The thing has got on your nerves." "So it has," acknowledged Matt. "I'm not going to place Haidee in any danger, if I can help it." "And that shot goes as it lays, Burton," spoke up McGlory, who had been taking a deep interest in the talk. "If you think Motor Matt is going to risk the girl's neck, or his own, for a little fifty a week, you've got another guess coming." Boss Burton had set his heart on that trapeze act. It was a decided novelty, and he could not cut it out of his calculations. "Am I to understand," he went on, taking a look at the gathering crowds, "that you'll break your contract rather than take Haidee up with you?" "That's what you're to understand!" snapped McGlory. "We'll not hem, and haw, and side-step, not for a holy minute." "It's this way, Burton," continued Matt. "Haidee can't go up on the trapeze--we have to take a running start, you know, and it would be impossible. She'll have to ride up on the lower plane; then, after we are well clear of the ground, she'll have to drop from the footboard with the trapeze in her hands. If she's not entirely herself, the drop from the footboard to the end of the trapeze ropes will be too much for her. She'll fall." "But I told you that after she comes out of these things she's as fit as ever," cried Burton. "It's a still day--the best we've had for flying since you joined the show. I don't want to give up the idea." "And you don't want to see Haidee killed before your eyes, do you?" asked Matt coldly. "Oh, splash! There'll be nothing of that kind. Ah, look! Here she comes, and she's just as well as ever." Matt and McGlory turned. Haidee, ready for the ascent, was hurrying toward the machine from the direction of the tent. She moved swiftly and gracefully, and there was nothing mechanical in her actions--as there had been during the parade. The pallor had left her cheeks and the vacant look was gone from her eyes. Matt and McGlory were astounded at the sudden change in her. "Are you all ready for me, Motor Matt?" she asked eagerly. The trapeze was ready. That had been attached to the under plane of the _Comet_ and the bar lashed to the foot-rest before the parade. But Matt was not ready. "How are you feeling, Haidee?" asked Matt kindly. "Fine!" she declared. "Do you remember what happened during the parade?" A puzzled look crossed her face. "I can't remember a thing about that," she declared. "In fact, everything has been a blank almost from the time I left the calliope tent, where I was talking with you, until I came to myself in the menagerie tent with Uncle Ben." Matt bowed his head thoughtfully. "What's the matter?" asked the girl, in a quivering voice. "Aren't you going to take me up with the _Comet_?" "He's afraid you'll have a spell while you're in the air, Haidee, and drop off the bar," jeered Burton. The girl stepped forward and caught Matt's sleeve. "Oh, it can't be true!" she exclaimed tearfully. "Motor Matt, you're not going to keep me from making that extra money? I need it! I must have it!" The girl's earnestness made Matt waver. "It won't do," spoke up McGlory decidedly. "Joe!" and Haidee turned on him. "Why can't you understand that I'm just as able as ever to do my trapeze work? I'll not have another of those queer spells for a long time." "That's what you think, sis," answered McGlory, "but if anything happened to you my pard would remember it as long as he lived. He has just protested to Burton against taking you up. And he had a bean on the right number when he said what he did." "_I'm_ taking the chances," said Haidee, "and nothing will happen." The aëroplane was at rest on the hard roadway running across the show grounds. For a distance of twenty feet on each side of the road strong ropes were stretched to keep back the crowd. The throng was now pressing against the ropes, clamoring for the aëroplane to make its flight. "If this performance don't come off," said Boss Burton, "it will be a tough blow for the Big Consolidated. I advertised this trapeze stunt on the flying machine in the morning papers, wiring it ahead from Indianapolis. It's _got_ to be done, that's all. Every promise made in our bills is always carried out. That's what has given this show a hold with the people. I don't say one thing and then do another." "Circumstances alter cases," returned Matt. "If you don't want to take Haidee, will you take Archie le Bon?" Archie le Bon was one of the Le Bon Brothers, iron-nerved men who performed wonderful flying feats on the trapeze. "Certainly I'll take Archie le Bon," replied Matt, glad to find such a way out of the disagreement. "Bring him here while I'm getting the machine ready." Haidee began to cry, but Burton took her by the arm and led her away, talking earnestly and in a low voice. A trick was worked on the king of the motor boys that morning, and it was something for which he never forgave Boss Burton. And it was a trick carried to a successful conclusion almost under the very eyes of McGlory and Ping. Matt, being busy with the aëroplane and the motor, did not discover it until too late. Matt went over the machinery of the _Comet_ with the same care he exercised before every flight. A loose bolt or screw might spell death for him if it escaped his attention. When he was through with his examination, and had taken his seat ready for the flight. Le Bon appeared. He was in his shirt sleeves, not having had time to exchange his everyday clothes for ring costume. "I'll run with the machine," said Le Bon, "and climb over the lower plane from behind when it gets to running too fast for me." "That will do," answered Matt. Amid the breathless silence of the crowd, Matt set the motor to working. "Ready!" he called. The machine started along the road, gaining in speed with every foot of its progress. At the end of fifty feet it was going faster than a man could run; and at a hundred feet it was darting along at thirty miles an hour. This was the gait that enabled the wing to pick the machine off the ground. As the _Comet_ slid upward along its airy path, the astounded McGlory saw Le Bon far back toward the point from which the machine had started. Thinking that, through some mistake, Le Bon had been left behind, McGlory turned toward the mounting aëroplane. Then the trick dawned upon him. Haidee was climbing over the lower plane toward Motor Matt, now and again turning to wave her hand at the cheering crowd! And McGlory saw something else--something that had a fearful significance in the light of later events. CHAPTER VI. ABLAZE IN THE AIR. When the king of the motor boys was in the air with the _Comet_, every power of mind and body was trained to the work of looking after the machine. Flying in an aëroplane is vastly more difficult than sailing in a balloon. In the case of a gas bag, an aëronaut has only to throw out ballast, take his ease, and trust to luck; but, with a heavier-than-air machine, the aviator must rely upon the quickness of his wits and his dexterity. Aëroplane flying, in a large measure, is a knack, and must be acquired. The air pressure never touches the machine in exactly the same point for two consecutive seconds, and, because of this, the centre of gravity is constantly changing. Centre of gravity and centre of air pressure must coincide at all times if the machine is to be kept in the air, and the success or failure to do this proves the competency or the incompetency of the operator. The Traquair aëroplane--upon which model Matt's machine had been built--preserved its equilibrium while aloft by an elongation, or contraction, of the wing tips. A lever regulated this; and, whenever Matt was flying, the lever was moving continuously, the ends of the wings darting out and in with lightning-like rapidity, one side presenting greater wing area to the pressure while the other presented less, and vice versa. Motor Matt's engagement with Boss Burton did not cover long flights. Usually, if the weather was propitious, he made it a point to remain aloft about fifteen minutes, circling about the show grounds, turning sharp corners and cutting airy "figure eights," in order to show the capabilities of the aëroplane. "Get your trapeze over, Le Bon!" he called, while they were steadily mounting. A laugh was his answer--a silvery ripple of a laugh that had a familiar ring in his ears and now filled him with consternation. He dared not look around. "Haidee!" he exclaimed. "Are you mad at me, Motor Matt?" came the voice of the girl. She cautiously slipped into the seat beside him, her heightened color and sparkling eyes showing her excitement. "This was a trick," went on Matt calmly, attending to his work with an indifference more apparent than real, "which you and Le Bon and Burton played on me?" "It was Burton's idea, and he told it to me while we were going after Archie le Bon. Archie was to pretend to run with the machine, and I was to be with him. When the machine got to going too fast for us, Archie was to drop to one side and I was to spring to the lower wing. Your back would be in my direction, and you couldn't see me." "That wasn't like you, Haidee," said Matt. "Are you mad?" "What's the use of being put out with you? I'll have something to say to Burton and Le Bon when I get back to the grounds." "You thought you were doing something to help me--I know that--but you didn't understand I was perfectly able to carry out my part of the programme. As it is now, I came along and you couldn't help yourself. Are you going to try and keep me from dropping under the machine with the trapeze?" "No," was the grim reply, "now that you are here you can go on with your work. Hold to the hand grip on the edge of the plane while you unlash the bar." Perfectly cool, and in complete command of her nerves, Haidee knelt on the foot-rest, clinging to the plane with one hand while she unlashed the trapeze bar with the other. "I'm ready, Motor Matt," said Haidee. She was sitting on the edge of the seat, holding the bar in both hands. Matt had brought the _Comet_ to an even keel, some fifty feet over the show grounds. They were traveling about thirty miles an hour--a snail's pace for the _Comet_--and Matt was about to make a turn over the river and traverse the length of the grounds going the other way. "Now, listen," said he to the girl. "I'm going to tilt the _Comet_ sharply upward and ascend for about fifty feet, then I'm going to reverse the position and descend for fifty feet in the same sharp angle. When we turn for the descent, Haidee, drop from the foot-rest when I give the word. The pull of your body, when it falls, will drag on the machine, but never mind that--hang on and don't get scared. As soon as I can I will bring the machine to a level. Understand?" "Yes." "And another thing. While you're moving on the bar, just remember to do it quietly and easily. You've seen the two Japs at work in the show, I know. When the big fellow balances the pole on his shoulder, and the little fellow goes up, every move is made as though there would be a smash if they were not careful." "I understand," said the girl. The machine had been brought around and was heading toward the grounds. Matt twisted the small forward planes, which laid the course for ascending or descending. At the same time he speeded up the motor. The _Comet_ pointed upward; then, at the top of her course, was as quickly turned and aimed toward the earth. Matt caught a glimpse of a sea of upturned faces. The machine was rushing downward at a frightful pace. "_Now!_" shouted Matt. He saw the girl poise birdlike on the foot-rest, then sink from it with the trapeze. So great was the slant of the aëroplane that she seemed to fall forward. There was a jar as the bar reached the end of the ropes, and, with the girl's weight, was caught and held. The _Comet_ made an erratic wabble and lurched sideways like a great bird, wounded on the wing. Haidee withstood the jolt admirably, and Matt twirled the lever operating the steering planes. Sounds from the earth always reach aëronauts with startling distinctness. The shouts of consternation which came from the throats of the spectators could be heard, and also the murmur of relief as the _Comet_ righted herself, and the trapeze and the girl swung back under the machine. Controlling the aëroplane was always more difficult when there was a weight suspended beneath, but Matt had counted upon this, and he forced the _Comet_ back and forth over the show grounds, holding the machine fairly steady. Three times he and Haidee circled over the "tops" with their gay streamers, cheer upon cheer following them from below. Matt had been in the air more than fifteen minutes, and he was just manoeuvring toward the starting and stopping point, when the cheers were suddenly turned to cries of fear and alarm. He could see the people below waving their arms and pointing upward. For an instant the young motorist's heart sank. He felt sure that something had gone wrong with the girl. This conviction had hardly formed before it was dissipated. A smell of smoke came to his nostrils, and to his ears a crackle of flames. Matt turned his head. The left wing of the aëroplane was on fire! A thrill of horror shot through him. In the air, he and Haidee, with a blazing flying machine alone between them and death! The very thought was enough to wrench the stoutest nerves. "Haidee!" yelled Matt. "Yes," came the stifled response, from underneath the _Comet_. "Are you all right?" "Yes." "Hang to the bar--don't lose your nerve!" Matt's mind was grappling with the complex situation. To get safely to the ground in the shortest possible time was the problem that confronted him. How the wing had caught fire he did not know, and had not the time even to guess. It sufficed that the plane was ablaze, and that the longer it blazed and ate into the fabric the less resistance the plane made to the atmosphere. And it was this resistance that spelled life for the king of the motor boys and the girl! To drop the blazing aëroplane into that sea of heads below meant injury to some of the spectators. Matt must avoid this and reach the earth in the roped-off lane from which the ascent had been made. He put the clamps on his nerves, and, with brain perfectly clear, drove the aëroplane about at a sharp angle. Then, if ever, the machine was true to its name, for as it darted onward, the smoke and flame that streamed out behind must have given it the look of a comet. Could he drop to earth, the young motorist was asking himself, before the fire struck either of the gasoline tanks? Motor Matt, as he coaxed the last ounce of speed from the motor, shouted encouragingly to the terrified girl on the trapeze. Suddenly, below him opened the narrow lane roped off along the road. A buzz of excited voices echoed in his ears. With steady hand he shut off the power and glided downward. "Drop from the bar and run, Haidee," he shouted, "as soon as we come close to the ground." There was a response from the girl, but the clamor of the crowd prevented him from hearing what it was. The next moment the blazing aëroplane settled into the road and glided along on the bicycle wheels. McGlory, Carl, and Ping were on hand, the cowboy in charge of a detachment of canvasmen with buckets. A hiss of steam, as water struck the flames, rose in the air. "Careful!" cried Matt, restraining the impetuous assault of the fire fighters. "Don't climb over the machine and damage it! Keep them back, Joe! Here, some of you, drench the wings on the right side and keep the fire from spreading." Ably directed by Matt and McGlory, the fire was extinguished. Leaving the damaged aëroplane in charge of Carl and Ping, Matt limped off toward the calliope tent, accompanied by his cowboy chum. CHAPTER VII. WAS IT TREACHERY? "Where's Haidee?" asked Matt. "Oh, bother the girl!" cried McGlory savagely. Matt turned on him with a surprised look. "What's the matter with you, pard?" he asked. "Well, it's apples to ashes that I was never so badly shaken up in my life before as I am this minute. Sufferin' Judas! Say, I'd never have believed it." The crowd was dense. Some of the people were moving off toward the city, some were making for the side-show, and others were trying to get close to the king of the motor boys. Matt, having just finished a sensational flight, was an object of curiosity and admiration. Neither he nor McGlory paid any attention to the demonstration around them, but moved briskly onward toward the calliope tent. "I can't rise to you, Joe," said the puzzled Matt. "What's on your mind?" "Something more'n my hat, and you can bet your moccasins on that." "Where did Haidee go?" "That leather-faced tinhorn uncle of hers grabbed her and took her away the minute she dropped from the trapeze." "She wasn't hurt, was she?" "I didn't take any trouble to find out. She walked off spry enough." McGlory was gruff to the point of incivility. It was evident to Matt that he had been mightily stirred. "What's the matter with you?" demanded Matt. "Wait till we get into the calliope tent, and out of this crowd and the dust--then I'll tell you." "Didn't you discover the trick Boss Burton played on me with the help of Haidee and Le Bon, Joe?" "Oh, speak to me about that!" snarled the cowboy. "Nary, I didn't, pard, until it was too everlastin'ly late to stop the run of the cards. Burton! We've got a bone to pick with him; and, after it's picked, I feel like cramming it down his throat. He was bound to have the girl go up, and he worked it in his sneaking, underhand way! I don't like this layout, Matt. You've had the closest call that's ever come your way since you took to flying. Sufferin' cats! Say, my heart was in my throat all the while I was looking on. I was expecting that any minute the fire would reach the gasoline, that both tanks would let go, and that you, and the girl, and the _Comet_ would all be wiped out in a big noise and a splotch of flame." By this time they had reached the calliope tent, and were able to duck inside and get away from the crowd. The calliope was there, and filling the larger part of the interior. The big steam organ was shrouded in a canvas cover, and only the lower rims of the wagon wheels on which it was mounted were to be seen. Matt dropped down on a heap of straw and leaned back wearily against a side pole. McGlory threw himself down beside him, his face thoughtful and angry. "I hadn't any notion Burton was running in a rhinecaboo," said the cowboy presently, "until the _Comet_ had jumped into the air and I had looked back and seen Le Bon near the place from which the machine had started. When I turned and looked at you and the _Comet_, there was the Haidee girl perched on the lower wing, throwin' kisses to the crowd. I knew then that Burton had turned his trick, and I lammed loose a yell; but there was too much noise for you to hear it. I kept my eyes on the aëroplane and the girl and--and I saw something then that made my hair curl later when the fire broke out." "What was it?" asked Matt. "Haidee, pushing something out on the left-hand wing and jabbing it down there with a hatpin, so it would stay." "We must have been three or four hundred feet away from you, Joe," returned Matt, "and how could you see it was a hatpin?" McGlory sat up, opened the front of his coat, and drew a blistered hatpin out of the lining. "I hunted around under the machine, while we were fighting the fire," he explained, "and picked up that. So, you see, I know it was a hatpin." A frown crossed Matt's face. "What do you make out of that move of Haidee's?" he asked. "She pinned a ball of something soaked in oil to the wing and touched it off," averred McGlory. "It smouldered for a while and then blazed up and set fire to the canvas." "Joe," returned Matt incredulously, "you must be mistaken. I've always been a friend of Haidee's. Why should she want to destroy the _Comet_, or me? When you come to that, why should she want to take her own life? That's virtually what it would have amounted to if the fire had reached the gasoline tanks." "Who could have started the fire, if it wasn't the girl?" demanded McGlory. "She was the one." Matt was nonplused. His cowboy chum seemed to have drawn a correct inference, but the supposition was so preposterous the king of the motor boys could take no stock in it. "We've got to use a little common sense, Joe," insisted Matt. "The girl wouldn't have the least motive in the world for trying to do such a thing as set fire to the _Comet_!" "We've got to bank on what we see," answered McGlory, "no matter whether we want to believe our eyes or not. Look at it! Haidee comes to the aëroplane for the parade like a wooden figure of a girl, moving like a puppet worked by strings. Suddenly she flashes out of her locoed condition and pulls a lever that slams the _Comet_ against Rajah's heels. Well, we protected the girl from that because we believed she was having one of her 'spells.' She came out of the spell all of a sudden and lopes down to where the aëroplane stands ready for the start. She seems as well as ever, and begs to go up on the trapeze. A trick is played on us, and she _does_ go up. Then, once more, she gets the _Comet_ into trouble. I can't savvy the blooming layout, but I'm keen to know that some one is starting in to do us up. And Haidee is one of our enemies." Just then Boss Burton pushed into the tent. He was nervous and cast furtive glances at Motor Matt. "Great business!" he exclaimed. "Le Bon got juggled out of the ascension, after all, and Haidee, the sly minx! did her stunt on the trapeze, just as she had planned. How in the world did the machine take fire? Crossed wires, or something?" "You need not try to dodge responsibility, Burton," said Matt sharply. "You put up the trick that was played on me." "On my honor, King----" "Don't talk that way," interrupted Matt. "Come out flat-footed and admit it." "Well," grinned Burton, a little sheepishly, "if you put it that way, I'll have to acknowledge the corn. But the girl was clear-headed, wasn't she? She didn't fall off the trapeze, and she pulled off some hair-raising tricks on that flying bar that set the crowd gasping. It was the biggest novelty in the way of an act that any show ever put up. Results will show at the ticket wagon this afternoon. Too confoundedly bad, though, that the thing should have been marred by that fire. How long will it take you to fix up the machine? Can you do it in time for an ascent to-night? I've planned to have Haidee shoot off skyrockets from the trapeze, and Roman candles, and all that." "You'll have to cut out the fireworks, Burton," said Matt dryly. "It will take a full day to repair the _Comet_." Burton "went up in the air" on the instant. "Think of the loss!" he exclaimed. "You've got to repair the machine in time for the ascent this evening. If it's a matter of men, King, I'll give you a dozen to help." "It's not a matter of men," said Matt. "Joe and I are the only ones who can work on the _Comet_. And listen to this--I mean it, and if you don't like it we'll break our contract right here--Haidee has gone up with me for the last time. I'll take Archie le Bon, or any one else you want to send, but not Haidee." "Is this what you call treating me square?" fumed Burton. "Sufferin' Ananias!" grunted McGlory. "You're a nice lame duck to talk about being treated square! You've got a treacherous outfit, Burton, and Pard Matt and I are not beginning to like it any too well." Matt, thinking McGlory might tell what Haidee had done, gave him a restraining look. "You're responsible for the trouble that overtook the _Comet_, Burton," proceeded Matt. "Me?" echoed the showman, aghast. "Well, I'd like to know how you figure it." "Through your schemes, and over my protest, Haidee made the ascent with me." "I'll admit that." "If she hadn't made the ascent, there'd have been no fire." "Do you mean to say----" "Now, don't jump at any conclusions. I know what I'm talking about when I tell you that there'd have been no fire if Haidee hadn't made the ascent with me. That isn't saying, mark you, that the girl is to blame for what happened. Would she want to burn the aëroplane and drop herself and me plump into the show grounds? If----" Just then a weird thing happened. The calliope gave a sharp clatter of high notes. All present in the tent gave astounded attention to the canvas-covered music box. "Spooks!" grinned Joe. "There was enough steam left in the calliope to play a few notes," suggested Burton. "But the notes couldn't play themselves," said Matt, and made a rush for the calliope. The keyboard was in one end of the calliope wagon, and the canvas was draped over the chair occupied by the operator when the steam wagon was in use. With a pull, Matt jerked aside the canvas that covered the rear of the calliope, and there, crouching in a chair, was Ben Ali! CHAPTER VIII. A CALL FOR HELP. "Well, sizzlin' thunderbolts!" gasped the amazed Burton. At first, Ben Ali sat blinking at those before him, apparently too dazed to move. "He's an eavesdropper!" cried McGlory, "and this ain't the first time we've caught him at it, either. Grab him, Matt! Wring that thin neck of his!" Ben Ali regained his wits, then, and very suddenly. With a panther-like spring, he cleared the wagon on the side opposite that where Motor Matt was standing, dodged McGlory, who tried to head him off, shook a glittering knife in Boss Burton's face, and vanished under the wall of the menagerie tent. It was all so neatly done that the three in the calliope lean-to were left staring at each other in helpless astonishment. McGlory rushed furiously at the menagerie tent wall, lifted the canvas, then dropped it and rushed back. "Not for me!" he breathed. "Rajah is right there, teetering back and forth from side to side, and winding his trunk around everything in sight." "Where was Ben Ali?" demanded Burton, a glitter rising in his eyes. "Getting out under the cages on the other side of the tent," replied McGlory. "I'll see if I can't head him off." With that the cowboy shot out of the lean-to. Matt didn't think the effort to catch Ben Ali worth while, and once more dropped down on the pile of straw. For a few moments Boss Burton walked back and forth in front of him, hands behind his back, head bowed in thought, and a black frown on his face. Abruptly he halted in front of Matt. "The infernal Hindoo drew a knife on me!" he scowled. Matt nodded. The fact had been too plain to call for comment. "I'd pull the pin on Ben Ali in half a minute," continued Boss Burton, "if it wasn't for Haidee." "Where did you pick up Ben Ali and Haidee?" inquired Matt. "In Wisconsin," was the answer, "just as the show was starting out of its winter quarters. Rajah had run amuck, wounded a horse, smashed a wagon, and come within an ace of killing his keeper. Ben Ali applied for the job of looking after him, and I let him have it. He's been the only one, so far, who could take care of Rajah." "Where did the girl come in?" "She came in with her uncle, of course. Ben Ali said his niece was good on the flying bar, and he brought her to see me. When she came she was in one of her spells, and looked and acted like a puppet, with some one pulling the wires. I wasn't much impressed with her, but gave her a try-out. She recovered from the spell and acted just as she did to-day, when she went up with the _Comet_--perfectly natural. She gave a good performance--mighty good--and I made a deal with her uncle. That's the way I got tangled up with the pair. Why?" The showman transfixed Matt with a curious glance. "Oh, nothing," said Matt carelessly. "The Hindoo and the girl have always been something of a mystery to me, and I wanted to find out what you knew about them. Where did they come from?" "Give it up. I never look into the past of people who hire out to me. If they're capable, and do their work, that's enough. From what McGlory said, and from what I've seen, Ben Ali appears to have been sneaking around here, listening to what you and your friends were saying. If he hadn't inadvertently touched the keyboard of the calliope we shouldn't have known he was under the cover. Have you any notion what he means by that sort of work?" "No." "Well, it's deuced queer, and that's all I can say. Do you think he ought to be bounced?" "Yes, but I wouldn't do it." "On Haidee's account?" "Partly that; partly, too, because, if you keep him on the pay roll, we may be able to learn something about him and the girl. I'm a bit curious about them, Burton." "It's a bad habit--this of getting too curious. It's dollars and cents for me to have the two with the show. What's more," and his remarks took a more personal turn, "it's money in my pocket to have the _Comet_ go up this afternoon with Haidee shooting Roman candles from the trapeze. When are you going to get busy with the repairs?" "After I eat something." "Well, rush the work, Matt. Do the best you can." "It won't be Haidee who rides the trapeze next time the _Comet_ takes to the air," said the king of the motor boys firmly. "Well, Archie le Bon, then," returned Burton, with much disappointment. As he went out, McGlory came in, passing him in the entrance. "Nothing doing," reported the cowboy. "Where the Hindoo went is a conundrum. I couldn't find anybody about the grounds who had even seen him since he walked Haidee away from the burning aëroplane." While McGlory, disgusted with his ill success and the turn events were taking, there on the banks of the Wabash, slumped down on a bucket and mopped his perspiring face, Motor Matt dropped into a brown study. "These Hindoos are crafty fellows, Joe," he remarked, after a while. "They're clever at a great many things we Americans don't understand anything about. I knew one of them once. He was the servant of a man who happened to be the uncle of one of the finest young fellows that ever stepped--brave Dick Ferral. This particular Hindoo I was able to study at close range." "What are you leading up to by this sort of talk?" asked McGlory, cocking his head on one side and squinting his eyes. He had this habit when anything puzzled him. "I'm leading up to the element of mystery that hangs over the events of to-day. India is a land of mystery. The people are a dreamy set, and now and then one of them will go off into the woods, or the desert, and spend several years as a devotee. When he comes back to civilization again he's able to do wonderful things. I've heard that these fakirs can throw a rope into the air and that it will hang there; and that they can make a boy climb the rope, up, and up, until he disappears. Then rope, boy, and all but the fakir will vanish." "Fakes," grunted Joe. "Such things ain't in reason, pard. You know what a fakir is in this country, and I reckon he's not much better in India." "Of course it's a fake," said Matt, "but it's a pretty smooth piece of magic. The Hindoo devotees could give Hermann and all the other magicians cards and spades and then beat them out." "I'm blamed if I can see yet where all this talk of yours leads to." "I'm only, what you might call, thinking out loud," laughed Matt. "Haidee's actions puzzle me. Her uncle is a Hindoo, and he may be an adept in magic. If he is, just how much has the girl's queer actions to do with Ben Ali? It's something to think about. I'm glad Burton isn't going to cut loose from the Hindoo and the girl. The more I see of them, the more curious I'm becoming." "Ben Ali, pard," grinned McGlory, "is a little bit curious about us, I reckon, from the way he's pryin' around. How do you account for that?" Matt shook his head. "I can't account for it, Joe, but perhaps we'll be able to do so later." He got up. "How about something to eat?" he asked. "We'll have to have dinner, then take something to the boys, and get busy patching up the aëroplane." "Did you ever know me to shy at a meal?" asked McGlory, promptly getting up. "We'll hit the chuck layout, and then----" It was nearly time for the doors to open, and inside and out the two big "tops" there was a bustle of preparation. The "spielers" in the ticket stands at the side-show were yelling, people were crowding about the ticket wagon, where they were to buy pasteboards admitting them to the "big show," and a band was playing in the road beyond the grounds. Above all these various sounds there came a call, wild and frantic. It reached the ears of the two boys in the calliope tent with strange distinctness, and cut McGlory short while he was talking. "Helup! Helup, somepody, or I vas a goner!" The cowboy gave a jump for the door, only a foot or two behind Matt. "Was that your Dutch pard?" cried McGlory. "It was his voice, plain enough," answered Matt, looking around sharply. "What could have gone wrong with him?" "I can't imagine--here, in broad daylight, with the grounds full of people." "It's trouble of the worst kind if we're to take the words as they sounded." Matt believed this fully. Carl Pretzel was not the lad to give a false alarm, and he had clearly put his whole heart into the words Matt and McGlory had heard. "Where did the call come from?" went on McGlory, mystified. "It seemed to come from everywhere, and from nowhere," replied Matt. "Look into the menagerie tent, Joe." While McGlory was lifting the canvas and taking a look through the animal show, Matt rounded the outside of the lean-to, searching every place with keen eyes. Carl was nowhere to be found. As Matt drifted back toward the door of the calliope tent, McGlory emerged and joined him. "He's not mixed up with the animals," reported the cowboy. "And I can't get any trace of him out here," said Matt. "Let's walk over to the aëroplane. Carl and Ping were to watch the machine, and I'm pretty sure neither of them would leave it without orders unless something pretty serious had gone wrong." Vaguely alarmed, the two chums pushed their way through the crowd toward the place where the _Comet_ had been left. CHAPTER IX. BLACK MAGIC. While the parade was passing through town, Carl had been "sleuthing." The fact that he was wearing McGlory's working clothes gave him an idea. He didn't look like himself, so why not be some one else? All the detective books he had ever read had a good deal to say about disguises. Carl was already disguised, so he made up his mind that he would be a dago laborer. After watching the parade file out of the show grounds, he slouched over to the side-show tent. A man was just finishing lacing the picture of a wild man to the guy ropes. Carl shuffled up to him. "I peen der Idaliano man," he remarked, in a wonderful combination of Dutch and Italian dialect, "und I, peen make-a der look for a leedl-a gal mit der name oof Manners. Haf-a you seen-a der girl aroundt loose some-a-veres?" The canvasman looked Carl over, and then, being of a grouchy disposition, and thinking Carl was trying to make fun of him, he gave him a push that landed him against a banner containing a painted portrait of the elastic-skin man. The banner was even more elastic than the image it bore on its surface, for Carl rebounded and struck one of the "barkers," who happened to be passing with his hands full of ice-cream cones for the bearded lady and the Zulu chief. Disaster happened. The "barker" fell, with the Dutch "tedectif" on top of him--and the ice-cream cones in between. The "barker" indulged in violent language, and began using his hands. Carl was pretty good at that himself, and retaliated. Two canvasmen pulled the two apart. Carl had the contents of a cone in his hair, and the "barker" had the contents of another down the back of his neck. "Where'd that ijut come from?" yelled the "barker," dancing up and down among the broken cones. "Who left der cage toor oben?" cried Carl, digging at his hair. "Der papoon vas esgaped." "You put up your lightning rod," growled the "barker," "or you'll git hit with a large wad of electricity." "Come on mit it!" whooped Carl, fanning the air with his fists. "No vone can make some ice-gream freezers oudt oof me mitoudt hafing drouples!" "That'll do you," snorted the canvasman who had hold of Carl, and thereupon raced him for twenty feet and gave him a shove that turned him head over heels across a guy rope. "Dot's der vay," mourned Carl, picking himself up and gathering in his hat. "Der tedectif pitzness comes by hardt knocks, und nodding else. Vere can I do some more?" His head felt cold and uncomfortable, even after he had mopped it dry with a red cotton handkerchief. He went over to the horse tent. The tent was nearly empty, all the live stock except a trick mule being in the parade. The mule would not have been there, but he was too tricky to trust in the procession. A man with a red shirt, and his sleeves rolled up, sat on a bale of hay close to the mule. The man was smoking. "Hello, vonce," flagged Carl. "Hello yourself," answered the man. "I peen some Idaliano mans," remarked Carl, "und I vas make-a der look for Markaret Manners, yes. Haf-a you seen-a der gal?" "Take a sneak," said the man. "She iss-a leedle-a gal aboudt so high, yes," and Carl put out his hand. "I peen-a der poor Idaliano man, aber I gif-a you fife tollars, py shiminy, oof-a you tell-a me where-a der gal iss." "You can't josh me," went on the man earnestly. "Hike, before I knock off your block." Carl continued to stand his ground and ask questions; then, the next thing he knew, the hostler had jumped up and rushed for him. Carl sprang back to get out of the way, unfortunately pushing against the hind heels of the mule. The mule knew what to do, in the circumstances, and did it with vigor. Carl was kicked against the man with the pipe, and that worthy turned a back somersault as neatly as any "kinker" belonging to the show. The Dutch boy limped hastily around the end of the horse tent and crawled into an empty canvas wagon. The mule's heels had struck him with the force of a battering-ram, and he felt weak up and down the small of the back. Besides, the wagon was a good place in which to hide from the hostler. Cautiously he watched over the wagon's side. The hostler came around the side of the tent, looked in all directions, and then retired, muttering, in the direction of the bale of hay. Carl chuckled as he dropped down on a roll of extra canvas, but the chuckle died in a whimper as he became conscious of his sore spots. "I vonder how Cherlock Holmes efer lifed to do vat he dit," he murmured, curling up on the canvas. "Der tedectif pitzness iss hit und miss from vone end to der odder, und den I don'd get some revards. Meppy I vill shleep und forged id." When Carl woke up, he looked over the side of the wagon and saw a burning flying machine in the air, and he heard the wild yells of the crowd. Probably it was the yelling that awoke him. "Py shinks," he cried, "dot's my bard, Modor Matt! He iss purnin' oop mit himseluf. Fire! Fire! Helup!" and Carl rolled out of the wagon and raced toward the spot where the machine seemed to be coming down. McGlory, white-faced but determined, was marshaling a lot of men with buckets of water. Carl dropped in. When the machine landed, he set to with the rest and helped extinguish the flames. Then, after he had congratulated Matt, Carl and Ping were placed on guard. In spite of the fact that Carl had shaken hands with Ping, he continued to have very little use for the Chinaman. And Ping, to judge from appearances, had no more use for the Dutchman. They did not speak. One sat down on one side of the machine and the other sat down on the other. Then a brown man, wearing an embroidered coat and a turban, drove up on a small cage wagon drawn by one horse. He got off the wagon and stepped up to Carl. "How-do, sahib?" said the man. Carl remembered him. He was the fellow who had been dozing on Rajah's back at the river. Also he was the man who had taken charge of the girl who had dropped off the trapeze when the burning aëroplane came down. Carl had a startling thought--it flashed over him like an inspiration. "How you vas?" answered the Dutch boy genially. "You come 'long with Ben Ali," said the man. "Nod on your dindype," replied Carl. "I vas vatching der machine for Modor Matt." "_You come!_" hissed Ben Ali. Then Carl noted something very remarkable. The Hindoo's eyes began to blaze, and dance, and show wonderful lights in their depths. "Shtop mit it!" said Carl. "You peen a mesmerizer, und I don'd like dot." Carl knew he couldn't be hypnotized against his will, but the Hindoo's eyes were working havoc with his nerves. "_You come!_" The words of Ben Ali were imperative. Carl, seemingly unable to remove his own eyes from the Hindoo's, followed as Ben Ali retreated toward the wagon. At the end of the wagon Ben Ali made some passes with his hands in front of Carl's face, then opened the door. "You get in, sahib!" Carl climbed into the wagon mechanically. Slam went the door and click went a key in the padlock. The _Comet_ had come down from its disastrous flight at a considerable distance from the tents. There were no people in the immediate vicinity save Ping. The little Chinaman, on hands and knees under the lower wing of the aëroplane, was watching covertly all that took place. After locking the door of the cage wagon, Ben Ali took a cautious look around him. He saw no one. Climbing up on one of the forward wheels, he took a slouch hat and a long linen duster from the seat, removed his embroidered coat and his turban, got into the hat and duster, climbed to the seat, picked up the reins, and drove off. Ping had seen it all, but had made no attempt to interfere. And he made no attempt now. He did not like the "Dutchy boy." He was afraid Carl would take away from him his job with Motor Matt. It was with secret rejoicing, therefore, that the Chinaman saw Carl locked in the wagon and hauled away. "Hoop-a-la!" chattered Ping, as he returned to his place and once more went on watch. The wagon used by Ben Ali, on this momentous occasion, was technically known as the monkey wagon. Two of the monkeys had eaten something which did not agree with them, and had died in Indianapolis. The three that remained had been taken out and put in another cage, with a collection known as "The Happy Family." This, of course, left the monkey wagon empty. Burton was figuring on using it for one of the ant-eaters, but there were some repairs to be made before the wagon could be put to that use. The repairs dragged, and so Ben Ali found his opportunity to use the cage. Straight across the show grounds drove the disguised Hindoo. None of the employees who saw him recognized him or questioned his right to use the monkey wagon. Different gangs had different duties, and no one knew but that this strange driver was off to town on some important mission. Ben Ali drove within a hundred feet of the calliope tent. When he was well beyond it, a yell came from inside the wagon. "Helup! Helup, somepody, or I vas a goner!" A shiver ran through Ben Ali. He made ready to leap from the wagon, but thought better of it when he saw that the call had attracted no attention and was not repeated. "Sahib keep still!" he called, kicking the end of the wagon with his heels. And thus, with not a sound coming from the interior of the monkey wagon, the artful Hindoo adept drove into the road and headed the horse away from the town and into the country. CHAPTER X. THE MAHOUT'S FLIGHT. When Matt and McGlory, hurrying to the aëroplane to make inquiries concerning Carl, came within sight of Ping, they saw him calmly occupied twirling a set of jackstones. "Ping!" called Matt. "Awri'!" answered Ping, slipping the jackstones into a pocket of his blouse and immediately getting up. "Where's Carl?" "Dutchy boy no good. Him lun away." "Run away?" echoed McGlory. "Here's a slam! When and how, Ping?" "Ben Ali dlive 'lound in wagon. Him say to Dutchy boy, 'You come.' Dutchy boy makee come chop-chop. Ben Ali shuttee do', put on Melican coat, Melican hat, makee dlive off. Woosh! Dutchy boy no good." This offhand description of what had happened to Carl was received with startled wonder by Matt and McGlory. "When was this?" demanded Matt. "Plaps fi' minit, plaps ten minit. No gottee clock, Motol Matt; no savvy time." "You say Ben Ali drove up in a wagon?" "Dlive up in monkey wagon. Put Dutchy boy in monkey wagon." "And then he locked Carl inside?" "Allee same." "And took off his turban and embroidered coat and replaced them with another hat and coat?" "Melican hat, plenty long coat." "Wouldn't that rattle your spurs, pard?" murmured McGlory. "What did Ben Ali do?" went on Matt, resolved to get at the bottom of the matter, if possible. "Him makee funny look with eye," replied Ping. "By Klismus! him blame' funny look. One piecee devil shine in eye." "Hypnotized!" grunted McGlory. "You can't easily hypnotize a person against his will," averred Matt. "It's not hard to guess that Carl was a good way from being willing to go with Ben Ali." "What the dickens did Ben Ali want to run off Carl for?" queried McGlory. "This business gets more and more mysterious, Joe," returned Matt, "the farther we go into it." "And that yell we heard!" "That certainly came from Carl. Ben Ali must have driven past the calliope tent while we were talking inside. The fact that Carl gave a yell for help proves that he wasn't wholly hypnotized." "He may have come out from under the influence just long enough to give a whoop," suggested the cowboy. "Let's go back and hunt up Burton," said Matt. "He'll want his monkey wagon, and, of course, we've got to get hold of Carl." "It's news to discover that Ben Ali is a hypnotist," observed McGlory, as he and Matt whirled and started to retrace the ground over which they had just passed. "I told you these Hindoos were a crafty set," answered Matt. The doors were open and the crowd was vanishing inside the big tents. The grounds were not so congested with people as they had been, and it was easier to get about and hunt for Burton. As it chanced, they ran plump into the manager just as they were rounding the dressing tent at the end of the circus "top." Burton was red and perspiring, and there was wrath in his face. "I've been looking all around for you fellows," he cried. "You can run one of these here buzz-wagons, can't you, Matt?" "Yes," replied Matt, "but----" "Come along," interrupted Burton, grabbing Matt by the arm, "we haven't any time to spare." "Wait!" protested Matt, drawing back. "Have you seen----" "Can't wait," fumed Burton. "I've hired a chug-car; and there's a race on. Haidee has skipped. Aurung Zeeb, one of the other Hindoo mahouts, has helped her get away. They've taken my runabout. Confound such blooming luck, anyhow!" Here was news, and no mistake. Ben Ali running off with Carl, and Aurung Zeeb taking to the open with the showman's Kentucky cob and rubber-tired buggy! "Do you know where Aurung Zeeb and Haidee went?" asked Matt. "I haven't the least notion," was the wrathful answer, "but we've got to find them. I don't care a straw about Zeeb, or the girl, but that runabout rig is worth six hundred dollars, just as it stands." "Well, if you don't know which way the rig went," argued Matt, "it's foolish to go chasing them and depending on luck to point the way." "We've got to do something!" declared Burton. "Where's Ben Ali?" "Oh, hang Ben Ali! I haven't seen him since he flashed that knife in my face." "We've just discovered," proceeded Matt, "that he has skipped out, too, and taken your monkey wagon along." "Sure of that?" "Ping just told us. Not only that, Burton, but he took my Dutch pard--the lad that came this morning--with him. Carl was locked in the cage." "Worse and worse," ground out Burton. "How'd Ben Ali ever manage to do that?" "On the face of it, I should say that Ben Ali had hypnotized Carl." "Nonsense! What does an elephant driver know about hypnotism? Still, this begins to look like a comprehensive plan to steal a monkey wagon and a runabout and leave me in the lurch. What do you think of that Haidee girl to do a thing like this? She seemed mighty anxious to earn money, yet here she skips out with about a hundred in cash to her credit." "It's hard to understand the turn events have taken," said Matt. "But I wouldn't blame Haidee too much until you know more about her--and about Ben Ali." "I want my horses and my rolling stock," fretted Burton. "The rest of the outfit can go hang, if I get back the plunder." "You said something about an automobile," said Matt. "There's a car here, and the man that owns it is seeing the show. He said I could have the use of the car all afternoon for fifty dollars. He thought I was an easy mark, and I let him think so. He's got the money and I've got the car. After he'd gone inside, I happened to remember that I couldn't run the thing, so I chased off looking for you. Here we are," and the three, who had been walking in the direction of the road, came to the side of a large automobile. It was a good machine, with all of six cylinders under the hood. "If you're a mind reader, and can tell where we ought to go, Burton," said Motor Matt, "I'll get you there. I feel right at home when I'm in the driver's seat of a motor car." "Wait till I ask somebody," and Burton whirled and flew away. "Gone to have some fortune teller read his palm," laughed McGlory. "Oh, but he's wild when he gets started." "I don't blame him for worrying," said Matt. "He was offered four hundred, spot cash, for that Kentucky cob, in Indianapolis. Shouldn't wonder if he stood to lose a thousand dollars if the runaways can't be overhauled. And he hasn't much time to overhaul them, either, Joe. The three sections of the show train have got to be on the move toward South Bend by three in the morning. I'm worried some myself, on Carl's account. What has that crafty mahout got at the back of his head? I wish I knew. You and I are going to stay right here in Lafayette until we can find out something about Carl." "Sure we are," agreed the cowboy heartily. "But here comes Burton, and he looks as though he'd found out something." "One of the canvasmen," announced Burton breathlessly, as he came up with the boys, "says that he saw the monkey wagon heading south into the country. Can't find out which way the runabout headed, but we'll take after the other outfit. Get in and drive the machine for all you're worth." Matt passed around in front, and was pleased with the business-like manner in which the motor took up its cycle. "Here's where we throw in the high-speed clutch and scoot," said Matt, settling into the driver's seat with a glad feeling tingling along his nerves. It had suddenly occurred to him that he would rather motor in a high-powered car than do anything else that had so far claimed his attention. In such a machine, "miles were his minions and distance his slave." "Here we go," he finished, and away bounded the car. Matt took time to wonder at the nature of a plutocrat who, for fifty dollars, would trust such a beautiful piece of mechanism in the hands of a showman. But the fact was accomplished, and guesses at the reason were futile. They came to a hill--a steepish kind of a hill, too--and they went over it without a change of gear. Motor Matt laughed exultantly. "Took it on the high speed!" he cried. "A car that can do that is a corker." On the opposite side of the hill, as they were scorching down with the speedometer needle playing around the fifty-eight mark, a team and wagon containing a farmer and his family were almost backed off the road. Matt tampered with the brakes, but the car was going too fast to feel the bind of the brake grip. "Never mind!" cried Burton, from his place at Matt's side. "That outfit is going to the show to-night. If I see 'em, I'll pass 'em all in with fifty-cent chairs. Now, boy, hit 'er up. I've got to recover my property before night sets in, and this may be a long chase." "Long chase!" yelped McGlory derisively from the tonneau. "How can it be a long chase when we're going like this? Hang on to your hair, Burton! Mile-a-minute Matt's at the steering wheel." CHAPTER XI. THE PAPER TRAIL. The coils hummed merrily to the six-cylinder accompaniment. The wind whistled and sang in the ears of the three who were plunging along at a speed which was bound to get them somewhere in short order. Then, as might be expected, something happened. It was no accident to the car. The road spread apart in two equally well-traveled branches, and Matt shut off and came to a stop at the forks. "The canvasman, of course," said the young motorist, looking around at Burton, "couldn't tell you which fork the monkey wagon would take." "Here's a go!" muttered Burton. "If we take one fork, we may be hustling off on the wrong scent. At a guess, I should say take the right-hand branch." "Let's not do any guessing until we have to," Matt returned. "My cowboy chum here is a good hand at picking up trails. Show us how they do it in Arizona, Joe." McGlory was out of the car in a flash and giving his attention to the surface of the road. "You might as well try to hunt for the print of a rabbit's foot in the trail of a herd of stampeded steers," said McGlory, after five precious minutes spent in fruitless examination. "What sort of a cowboy are you, anyhow?" scoffed Burton. "Well, look," answered McGlory. "The ground is all cut up with people coming to the show, and it's none too soft. I couldn't pick out the tread of a traction thrashing machine in all this jumble of prints." "Any one coming on either road?" queried Burton, standing up and looking. "If there is, we could inquire as to whether they'd passed the monkey wagon." "See any one?" asked Matt. "Not a soul," and the showman plumped disappointedly down in his seat. "Just a minute, Joe," interposed Matt, as the cowboy was about to climb back into the tonneau. "What's that white object in the road?" Matt pointed as he spoke. "There's one, just over the left-hand fork, and another beyond it." "If you stop to bother with paper scraps," cried Burton, "we'll never get anywhere." McGlory, however, turned back and picked up the object to which Matt had called his attention. It was a scrap of paper, just as Burton had said. The scrap was a ragged square, as though it had been roughly torn, and measured about two inches across. The cowboy examined it casually at first, then his face changed, and he gave it closer attention. "My handwriting," he declared, looking up at Matt. "How can that be?" scoffed Burton. "I don't know how it can be," replied McGlory, "but it's a fact, all the same. I had a memorandum book, and have jotted down various things in it." "Where'd you leave the memorandum book?" jested the showman impatiently; "in the monkey wagon?" "Nary, I didn't. I left it in the hip pocket of my working clothes." "And Carl had on the clothes!" exclaimed Matt, with a jubilant ring in his voice. "Carl must have scattered that trail for our benefit." He stood up in the automobile and looked back over the road they had traveled. "Why," he went on, "we haven't been as observing as we should have been. There's a paper trail, and Carl must have started it pretty soon after the monkey wagon left the show grounds." "Well, well!" muttered Burton. "Say, Matt, that Dutch chum of yours is quite a lad, after all. The idea of his thinking of that." "Carl always has his head with him," declared Matt. "Climb in, Joe. The left fork for ours." McGlory pulled the crank, before he got in, for the stop had killed the engine. "It's a cinch," said McGlory, as he resumed his place in the tonneau, "that Carl wasn't hypnotized when he dropped those scraps. How _could_ he drop 'em? That's what beats me. Why, he was locked in, so Ping said." "There was a hole in the floor," explained Burton. "Not a very big one, but big enough for an ant-eater to get a foot through. I was going to repair the cage, but haven't had time to attend to it." "Why didn't Carl yell again?" went on McGlory. "If he had yelled long enough, and loud enough, some one would have been bound to hear him and stop Ben Ali." "This is another case where Carl's using his head," put in Matt. "He's playing some dodge or other." "He's showing up a whole lot stronger than I ever imagined he could," said the cowboy. "I had sized him up for a two-spot at any sort of headwork. Got my opinion, I reckon, from the way those Chicago detectives fooled him." "He's not so slow as you imagine, Joe," said Matt. "Now keep an eye out for scraps!" "We can't get into a scrap with those Hindoos any too quick to suit me," laughed McGlory, hanging out over the side of the motor car. Once more the whirling, headlong rush of the car was resumed. No sooner had Burton, or McGlory, discovered a bit of white in the roadway ahead than it was lost to sight behind. Then, after four or five miles of this, the three in the car raised an object, drawn up at the roadside, which brought the car to a halt. The object was the monkey wagon, horse gone from the shafts, rear door swinging open, and not a soul in the vicinity. "Here's another queer twist," grumbled Burton, as all three got out to make a close survey of the wagon. "What do you think of it, Matt?" Matt and McGlory thrust their heads in at the door. "Phew!" gurgled the cowboy, drawing back. "There's a mineral well, in Lafayette, that's a dead ringer for the smell inside that cage wagon." "I haven't had it swabbed out yet," apologized Burton. "Here's the hole where Carl dropped out the paper scraps," Matt called, from inside the wagon. "And here's something else, pard!" yelled McGlory. Matt came out of the wagon and found his cowboy chum calling Burton's attention to marks in the road. "What do you make of it, Joe?" asked Matt, coming closer. "Well," answered McGlory, reading the "signs," "a one-horse buggy with rubber tires stopped here, alongside the monkey wagon. Look how the road's tramped up, ahead there. The horse was restive during the halt, and did some pawing." "Great guns!" murmured Burton. "My runabout!" "I think it's pretty clear now," observed Matt. "Aurung Zeeb and Haidee didn't get away at the same time Ben Ali and Carl did, or else they took a different course. Anyhow, they came up with the wagon. The runabout's faster, so the whole party went on with it." "They might get three people into the runabout, by crowding," said Burton, "but they never could get four people into it." "That's why the horse was taken from the monkey wagon," went on Matt. "Aurung Zeeb or Ben Ali must have ridden the animal." "By Jove, King, I wish I had your head for getting at things! That was the way of it--it _must_ have been the way of it. Let's pile back into the machine and hustle on." They all felt that the chase was drawing to a close. The runabout was a faster vehicle than the monkey wagon, but there was not the ghost of a show for the Kentucky horse getting away from the automobile. From that point on, the paper trail was not in evidence. "Carl wasn't able to drop any more scraps," said Matt. "When he was inside the monkey wagon he was out of sight and could do about as he pleased; crowded into the runabout with Ben Ali and Haidee, and with Aurung Zeeb riding behind, he couldn't possibly drop a clue to guide us." "The Dutchman seems to have taken it for granted that he'd be followed," hazarded Burton. "He knows very well," returned Matt, "that I wouldn't stand around and let him worry through this run of hard luck alone. Look out for the runabout. The way I figure it, the rig can't be more than ten or fifteen minutes ahead of us." "How do you figure it, Matt?" asked Burton. "Well, from the time Joe and I heard Carl call for help. I don't believe it was more than half an hour from that time until we were hitting the high places with this automobile. Eh, Joe?" "No more than that, pard," answered McGlory. "I should think we'd have gained more than fifteen or twenty minutes on the Hindoos, the rate we've been coming," remarked Burton. "Possibly we have. If that's so, then the runabout can't be even ten minutes ahead of us. Now----" "Runabout!" yelled McGlory. He was standing up in the tonneau and peering ahead. The road, at this point, was bordered with heavy timber on both sides, but in half a minute Matt and Burton could each see the vehicle to which the cowboy had called their attention. It wasn't a runabout, as it proved, but a two-seated "democrat" wagon, drawn by a team, and conveying another party townward--presumably for the evening performance of the Big Consolidated. McGlory's disappointment was keen. And his feelings, for that matter, were matched by those of Motor Matt and Burton. Matt halted the automobile and, when the wagon came alongside, asked the driver if he had been passed by a runabout farther along the road. The party had come five miles on that road and, according to the driver, hadn't been passed by anything on wheels going the other way. For a space those in the automobile were in a quandary. "What's amiss?" fumed Burton. "Are we on the wrong track, after all, in spite of your Dutch friend and his paper trail, and McGlory's reading the signs at the monkey wagon?" Matt suddenly threw in the reverse and began to turn. "Only one thing could have happened," he averred. "What's that?" "Why, the people in the runabout must have heard us coming and turned from the road into the woods." "Let her out on the back track, then!" cried Burton. "If the Hindoos think they've dodged us, they've probably pulled out into the road and started the other way." This seemed to have been the case, for three minutes speeding over the return trail brought those in the automobile in sight of the runabout. This time it _was_ the runabout, and no mistake, and the Kentucky cob was stretching out like a race horse under the frantic plying of a whip. Burton reached behind him, under his coat, and brought a revolver into view. "We'll find out about this business before we're many minutes older!" he exclaimed grimly. CHAPTER XII. CARL TURNS A TRICK. Something has been said about Carl Pretzel having an idea that was almost an inspiration, at the time he was approached by the Hindoo at the aëroplane. This it was that led him into the monkey wagon. The slam of the door and the grate of the key in the padlock struck a sudden tremor to the Dutch boy's heart. Was he making a fool of himself or not? Would a trained detective have proceeded in that manner? His heart failed him, and he gave the wild yell for help. He had hardly given the cry before he repented of it. What would Motor Matt think of his nerve if he could know the game he had embarked upon, and how he had been stampeded in playing it? No; if that call had done no harm, Carl would not repeat it. He would see the business through and try and match wits with the Hindoo. In spite of the noise on the show grounds, Carl heard Ben Ali's heels bang against the end of the wagon, and also the stern voice commanding him to keep silent. Carl kept silent. He was almost smothered by the closeness of his prison chamber, and the terrific odor that assailed him, but he comforted himself with the thought that detectives don't always have things their own way when they're tracking down a criminal. Anyhow, even his present discomfort was better than the hard knocks his "sleuthing" had so far given him. He was not long in discovering the hole in the floor of the wagon. The memorandum book he had discovered soon after getting into the borrowed clothes. Of course he knew that Motor Matt would follow him! That was the kind of fellow the king of the motor boys was; never had he turned his back on a pard in distress. Carl, too, was morally certain that Ping had seen him get into the monkey wagon. Motor Matt would discover this from the Chinaman, and then would come the pursuit. The thing for Carl to do was to point the way by which he had been carried off. The hole in the floor, and the memorandum book in his pocket, were not long in giving him the right tip. Sitting down on the bottom of the cage, Carl occupied himself in tearing the leaves of the book into scraps and poking the scraps through the opening. How far Ben Ali drove Carl did not know, but it seemed as though the Hindoo had been hours on the road. There was a pain in Carl's back, where the mule had left its token of remembrance, and the jolt of the wagon was far from pleasant. Presently there came the rapid beat of a horse's hoofs, a whir of wheels, and a sudden stop of the monkey wagon. The other sounds ceased at the same moment. For a second or two Carl imagined that Matt had overhauled Ben Ali, but this fancy was dispelled by the strange words that passed between Ben Ali and some one else. The mahout could be heard climbing swiftly down from his perch and moving around to the rear of the wagon. Carl slipped the book into his pocket and drew away from the hole in the floor. Once more the key grated in the padlock. The door was drawn open and Ben Ali was revealed, looming large in the rush of sunlight, a bared knife in his hand. "You come, sahib," said Ben Ali. Carl got up and moved toward the door. There Ben Ali caught his eyes for a space and held them with the same weird looks indulged in near the aëroplane on the show grounds. The Dutchman instantly grew automatic in his movements, keeping his eyes straight ahead and following Ben Ali's every gesture. Carl had seen persons hypnotized, and knew how they acted. "You come," repeated Ben Ali sternly, and Carl jumped down from the wagon. They were in a country road. There was a smart-looking horse and buggy beside the monkey wagon, and Haidee was on the seat. If appearances were to be believed, she was in another of her spells. "Sahib get in de buggy," ordered Ben Ali. Carl climbed over the wheel obediently and sat down beside the girl. She paid not the least attention to him, nor he to her. Ben Ali climbed in beside them, squeezed into the seat, and took the reins from Haidee's hands. Meanwhile, Carl had been looking at another brown man in a turban who was unhitching the horse from the monkey wagon. Ben Ali waited until the horse was out of the shafts and the second Hindoo on its back, then he started the Kentucky cob off along the road. His companion trotted along behind. Dropping any more paper scraps was out of the question. Carl was too tightly wedged in between Ben Ali and Haidee to use his hands; besides, he could not have made a move that would not instantly have been seen. Presently the Hindoo on the horse called out something in his unknown jargon. Ben Ali answered, and the runabout was turned from the road and into the woods. Possibly they proceeded a hundred feet into the timber. At the end of that distance their progress was halted by a creek with steep banks. Ben Ali got out. While standing on the ground facing Carl, he made sinuous movements with his slim brown hands--passes, most probably, designed to keep Carl in a hypnotic state. The girl shuddered, suddenly, and drew a hand across her eyes. "Uncle Ben!" she exclaimed, with a sharp cry, "where am I?" "You are safe," said Ben Ali. "You are not to work with de trapeze any more, not be with de show any more. We are quit with de show. _Kabultah, meetoowah?_" "Yes, yes," breathed the girl, "I understand. But where are we going? I don't want to be in a trance any more. I want to know what I say, what I do--all the time." The man's face hardened. "You come, Haidee," he said, gently but none the less firmly. The girl got up and climbed down from the wagon. "Sahib!" he cried sharply. "You come, too." Carl likewise climbed to the ground. "You are asleep," went on Ben Ali, coming up to Carl and bringing his face close. "You know not anything what you do. Sit!" Carl sank down on the bank of the creek. The other Hindoo had dismounted. Stepping away from his horse, he turned the runabout rig the other way, so that the cob faced the road. Then he tied the animal. Meanwhile, Ben Ali, seating himself cross-legged on the ground, had drawn a small black box from his breast. It was a lacquered box and shone like ebony in the gleam of sun that drifted down through the trees. Haidee uttered an exclamation and stretched out her hands. "It is mine, Uncle Ben! It belongs to me." "Yis, _meetoowah_," agreed Ben Ali, "it belong to you, but I keep it. That is safer, better." He put down the box and listened, hissing to attract the attention of the other Hindoo. "Aurung Zeeb!" The other turned, and Ben Ali motioned toward the road. The sound of an approaching motor car broke the stillness. It grew rapidly in volume, passed a point abreast of those in the woods, and went on, dying away in the distance. Excitement shone in the faces of the Hindoos, and there was alarm in the face of the girl. "What is it?" she cried. "Uncle Ben----" "Silence, _meetooowah_!" commanded the Hindoo. Taking the lacquered box in his hand, Ben Ali leaped erect and chattered wildly with Aurung Zeeb. After that, he came to Carl, his face full of anxiety and alarm, and made more passes. "You come," he ordered, "get back in de buggy." Carl followed as Ben Ali backed away in the direction of the runabout. The Hindoo stood close to the wheel until Carl was in the seat. At that moment a smothered scream came from Haidee. Aurung Zeeb jumped toward her, letting go the bridle of his horse as he did so. Ben Ali muttered something under his breath, put the lacquered box on the runabout seat beside Carl, and started toward Aurung Zeeb and the girl. "You must tell me what you are doing," panted the girl, facing the Hindoos with flashing eyes. "That is Boss Burton's horse and buggy. Why have you got the rig here? What are we doing here? Tell me, Uncle Ben! I must know." Ben Ali tried to quiet her. Carl was in a quiver. The lines were twined about the whip on the dashboard of the runabout, and both Hindoos were fully fifteen feet away. It looked like a propitious moment for escape. Carl had not accomplished much, but he was patting himself on the back because of the way he had fooled Ben Ali. Now, if he could get away, and take the runabout with him---- Carl never thought very long over any proposition. Nor did he give much time to this. Swooping down on the dashboard, he grabbed up the lines and the whip. "Gid ap mit yourself!" he yelled, and struck the horse. With a snort the animal bounded forward, breaking the strap that secured him to the tree and almost throwing Carl from the seat. The other horse took fright and bounded away, while Carl went lurching and plunging in a wild dash for the road. How he ever reached the road without coming to grief against the many trees he grazed in his dash was something which would have puzzled a wiser head than his. He paid not the least attention to the Hindoos, nor to Haidee. He was thinking of Carl, and trying to guess how much money he would get for bringing back the stolen horse and runabout. For once, he thought exultantly, he was making the detective business _pay_. Whirling into the road, he headed the horse back toward town, plying the whip and hustling the best he knew how. It was a marvel that the runabout held together. But it did. Suddenly a firearm spoke sharply from somewhere in the rear. Carl did not look behind. He had but one thought, and that was that the Hindoos must be phenomenal runners, and that they were chasing him on foot and firing as they came. He bent forward over the dashboard and urged the cob to a wilder pace. Then, while he was using the whip, an angry voice roared from alongside the runabout: "Stop lashing that horse! Stop, I tell you!" Carl became faintly aware that there was an automobile dashing along the road side by side with the runabout. "Carl!" shouted a familiar voice. "Stop your running! Don't you know who we are?" Then the excited Dutchman became aware of the situation and pulled back on the lines. He chuckled delightedly as he jerked and sawed on the bit. He, Carl Pretzel, had been running away from his old pard! What a joke! And there, in the automobile with Matt, was the manager of the show. It wouldn't be long, now, before Carl found out how much he was to get for recovering the stolen horse and runabout. CHAPTER XIII. THE LACQUERED BOX. Probably that Kentucky horse of Burton's had never been treated in his life as he was that afternoon. He was muddy with sweat and dust, and his high-strung spirits, by that time thoroughly aroused, rebelled against the curb. In order to help Carl out, Motor Matt drove the car past the horse and partly across the road. This served to bring the animal to a halt. "By Jove!" stormed Burton, "I wouldn't have had this happen for a hundred dollars! It's a wonder if the horse isn't ruined!" He flopped out of the automobile and approached the horse's head. "Whoa, Colonel!" he murmured soothingly. "Whoa, old boy!" Then, getting one hand on the bit, he held the animal while he petted and wheedled and patted the lathered neck. "Der rig vas shtole py der Hindoo," said Carl, "und I haf recofered it und prought it pack. Dot comes oof being a goot tedectif, py shinks! How mooch iss id vort'?" "Worth?" scowled Burton. "If the animal is injured I'll charge you up for it. Don't you know how to take care of a horse?" "Don'd you vas going to pay me someding?" gasped Carl. "Pay?" snorted Burton, in no mood to consider a reward after seeing his favorite horse mistreated. "Why, I feel like I wanted to use the whip on you! What did you run away from us for?" "I t'ought you vas der Hindoos," explained Carl feebly. "Say, Matt," he added, turning to his chum, "der feller don't vas going to gif me someding! Vat a miserliness! Und me going droo all vat I dit!" "Where did you get the runabout, Carl?" asked Matt. He thought Boss Burton was a little unreasonable, but was not disposed to make any comments. Burton's ways were sometimes far from meeting Matt's approval--and they had never been farther from it than during the events of that exciting day. "I shteal him from der Hindoos," said Carl, "und make some gedavays by der shkin oof my teet', you bed you! I hat to run der horse, Matt, oder I vouldn't have made der esgape. Vone oof der Hindoos had a knife, und dey vas bot' det safage I can't dell. Der odder horse vat pulled der cage vagon iss somevere aheadt. He got avay und vent like some shdreaks." "You climb down," snapped Burton, coming back to the side of the runabout. "I'll take the rig back to the grounds and send one of the teamsters for the monkey wagon. You'll bring along the automobile, Matt?" he added, getting into the runabout as Carl got out. "Yes," answered Matt. "Ain't you going on with us to look up the Hindoos and Haidee?" asked McGlory. "Going to hang back before we run out the trail, Burton?" "I don't care anything about them," was the reply, "so long as I've recovered my own property. What's this?" and the showman picked up the lacquered box. Carl stared at it. Evidently he had forgotten all about it, up to that moment. "Py chimineddy!" he muttered. "Dot's der Hindoo's! He tropped id on der seat pefore I run avay mit der rig." "Then I'll take it with me," said Burton. "Perhaps it's of enough value so that the rascal will come after it. If he does, I can read the riot act to him." "I guess you'd better leave that with Carl, Burton," spoke up Matt. "You don't care to bother with the Hindoos, and we may think it's worth while." "Oh, well, if that's the way you feel about it," and the showman tossed the box to Carl. "Mind," he added, as he started off, "you're not to get into any trouble with that automobile." Burton was soon out of sight. "He's the limit, that fellow!" growled McGlory. "He might have tipped Carl a five-case note, but he wouldn't. He's a skinner." "Nodding doing in der tedectif pitzness," said Carl resignedly, getting into the automobile beside Matt. "Same like alvays I ged der vorst oof id. Vile vorking on der Manners gase, I haf peen in a row mit Ping, in a row mit a canvasman und a 'parker' for der site-show, in some more rows mit a shtable feller, got kicked in der pack mit a mu-el, und carried avay in some vagons vat shmelled like a glue factory. Und vat I ged? Dot Purton feller he say he vould like to pound me mit der vip. Ach, vell, ve can't pecome greadt tedectifs mitoudt a leedle hardt luck at her shtart." "Tell us what happened to you, Carl," said Matt, "and be quick about it." Carl sketched his adventures, with now and then an urging toward brevity from Matt. "Ven I see dot Hindoo coming, at der time he made some brisoners oof me," expounded Carl, on reaching that part of his recital, "I remempered der girl vat come down in der flying machine, und vat he valked avay mit, und I got der t'ought, like lightning, dot meppy der feller know someding aboudt Markaret Manners, vat iss atverdised for in der Lonton baper. Abner nit, it don'd vas der case. I schust let meinseluf pertend dot I vas mesmerized so dot I could go along by der Hindoo und meppy findt oudt someding. I don't findt oudt anyt'ing." Carl's disgust was great, and he brought his story to a quick conclusion. "We'll go look for the Hindoos and Haidee," said Matt. "As I jog along, Carl, you keep watch for the place where you turned from the road. Meanwhile, Joe," Matt added, "you take the lacquered box and open it. We'll see what's inside. The contents may shed a little light on this mystery of the girl." "Der Hindoos und der girl von't be vere dey vas," remarked Carl, handing the box to McGlory. "They can't possibly be far away," answered Matt. "They have to travel on foot, now, and will be compelled to go slow." "This box is locked, pard," called McGlory. "Force the lid, then," said Matt. "It's necessary, according to my notion, that we try and find out something about Haidee. And for the girl's good." McGlory opened his pocketknife and inserted the blade between the box and the lid. The lock splintered out under pressure. "She's open, pard," announced the cowboy. "What's inside?" "A bundle of letters tied with a piece of twine." "Ah!" "They have English stamps," went on McGlory, "and are postmarked at London." "Better and better! And they're addressed to----" "Miss Margaret Manners, Calcutta, India." Carl nearly fell off the seat. "Ach, du lieber!" he sputtered, "I vas ketching my breat'. A clue, py shinks! Dot Haidee knows vere der fife-t'ousant-tollar girl iss, I bed you!" "Knows where the girl is?" echoed Matt. "Sure t'ing. How vouldt Haidee haf Markaret Manners' ledders oof she ditn't know somet'ing aboudt der English girl? A few more knocks, py shiminy, und I vill make der fife t'ousant tollars!" "Carl," said Matt, "you've got a wooden head when it comes to sleuthing. Why, Haidee is Margaret Manners herself. I've had a hunch to that effect for two or three hours." Once more Carl had to hold on with both hands to keep from going by the board. He could only breathe hard and think of what he would do with all the money that was coming to him. "What else is there in the box, Joe?" asked Matt. "Anything but the letters?" "Just one thing, pard," replied McGlory. "It looks like a decoration of some kind." McGlory held the object over Matt's shoulder, so he could see it. It was a bronze Maltese cross, with a royal crown in the centre surmounted by a lion, and the words "For Valour" stamped on the cross under the crown. The cross hung from a V-shaped piece attached to a bar, and the bar was attached to a faded red ribbon. Across the bar was engraved the name "Lionel Manners." "I feel like taking off my hat in the presence of that, pards," said Matt. "Why?" demanded Joe. "It's a Victoria Cross," returned Matt, "and is only given to persons for a deed of gallantry and daring. When the ribbon is red, it shows that the winner of the cross belonged to the army; when blue, to the navy. Captain Lionel Manners must have been a brave man, and it's a pity his daughter should be treated as she has been. Carl, you've blundered onto a big thing--and you couldn't have blundered so successfully once in a thousand times. Put the letters and the cross back in the box, Joe. We'll keep them safe for the girl. If----" "Dere's der blace," interrupted Carl, pointing to the roadside. Motor Matt brought the automobile to a stop. CHAPTER XIV. THE HYPNOTIST'S VICTIM. "You and I will go and look for the Hindoos, Joe," said Matt, getting out of the car. "Carl will stay here and take care of the automobile." "Vat oof der Hindoos ged avay from you und come ad me?" queried Carl, in a panic. "I bed you dey vas sore ofer vat I dit." "If they should happen to attack you," answered Matt, "run away from them. You used to know something about driving a car, Carl." "All righdt," said Carl, with deep satisfaction. "I'll run avay from some drouples oof any come in my tirection. Look oudt for Ben Ali. He has a knife." Matt and McGlory, after securing a few further directions from Carl, started into the woods on their way to the creek. They moved warily in single file, Matt taking the lead. As they made their way onward, they saw evidences of Carl's wild dash for the road in the runabout, broken bushes and trees blazed at about the height of a buggy axle. "It's a wonder that runabout wasn't strung all the way from the creek to the road," murmured McGlory. "The Dutchman's luck has landed on him all in a bunch." "Carl has a knack for blundering in the right direction," said Matt. "But he has as much grit as you'll find in any lad of his size. Think how he fooled that Ben Ali! Made the Hindoo believe he was hypnotized." "And Carl had only the faintest notion what he was doing it for!" chuckled McGlory. "Say, pard, I'd like to have seen those Hindoos when Carl woke up and used the whip on that horse of Burton's." "Hist!" warned Matt, "we're close to the creek." There were evidences in plenty that the bank of the creek had been recently occupied--broken bushes and an imprint of human feet in the damp soil. As Matt and McGlory had supposed, however, there was no sign of Haidee or the Hindoos in the vicinity. "Here's where we're up a stump, pard," said McGlory. "I wonder if I could pick up the trail and find which way the outfit went?" "Try it," said Matt. McGlory skirmished around for ten minutes. "I reckon I've got it," he announced, at the end of that time. "Unless I'm far wide of my trail, Matt, they went down the creek." "Then that's the direction for us. Step off, Joe, and be lively." Although the boys believed the Hindoos and Haidee must be far in advance of them, yet they moved forward cautiously, being exceedingly careful not to rustle the bushes as they passed or to step on any twigs that would crackle under their feet. As a matter of fact, they had not been five minutes on their way down the creek before the cowboy whirled abruptly with a finger on his lips; then, motioning to Matt, he dropped to his knees. Matt followed suit and crept alongside McGlory. "We're in luck, too," whispered the cowboy. "They're right ahead of us, all three of them. Listen, and you can hear them talking." Matt raised his head and listened intently. A faint sound of voices was borne to his ears. "Let's creep up on them, Joe," he suggested. "They're two against us, you know, and they'll make a pretty big handful, if they're armed." "We know Ben Ali has a knife, but that is probably all the weapons they've got. If they had guns, then Carl would never have made his getaway." Redoubling their caution, the boys crawled forward, screening their advance by keeping bunches of undergrowth in front of them as much as they could. The voices grew steadily louder, until it became manifest that the brown men were jabbering in Hindustani. Finally the boys arrived as close as they deemed it best to go, for they had Ben Ali, Aurung Zeeb, and Haidee in plain view. The three were in a little oak opening on the creek bank. Haidee was sitting on a log, and the other two were standing and talking rapidly. A moment after the boys were able to see them and note what was going on, the Hindoos stopping their talking. Aurung Zeeb drew off to one side, and Ben Ali stepped in front of the girl. "Haidee, _meetoowah_!" he called. The girl lifted her head. "You must go into de trance, _meetoowah_," said Ben Ali. With a heart-breaking cry the girl flung herself on her knees in front of him. "No, no, Uncle Ben!" she wailed, "don't make me do things I can't remember--things I don't want to do! What happened during the parade this morning? And what happened while I was in the air with Motor Matt? You will not tell me and I do not know! Oh, Uncle Ben----" "Haidee!" The voice was clear and keen cut. There was something in the tones of it that lifted the girl erect and uncomplaining, and held her as by a magnet with her eyes on the snaky, dancing orbs of Ben Ali. The power of the Hindoo over the girl must have been tremendous. The boys, shivering with horror, watched the Hindoo as he waved his arms gracefully and made his sinuous passes. He was no more than a minute or two in effecting his work. By swift degrees Haidee's face lost its expression and became as though graven from stone; her eyes grew dull and her whole manner listless. "Haidee, you sleep," came monotonously from Ben Ali, as his hands dropped. "You hear me, _meetoowah_? You understand?" "Yes," answered the girl, in the clacking, parrot-like voice with which the boys were somewhat familiar. "You are never to remember, _meetoowah_, what you do in de parade, or what you do on de flying machine," continued Ben Ali. "When you wake, you forget all that, and how I tell you to pull the lever when de parade reach de min'ral well, or pin de fireball as it smoulder to de wing of de machine. You forget all that, huh?" "Yes." "You are bright, lively girl, _meetoowah_" went on the Hindoo. "You are gay, happy, but you are under de power, yes, all de time. You go back to de show, and you tell them that Ben Ali and Aurung Zeeb ver' bad mans and run away with Haidee, that you make de escape. Then you get from Boss Burton the money he owe and come to Linton Hotel in Lafayette sometime this night. You understand, _meetoowah_?" "Yes." "And you not let anybody know you come to Linton Hotel, _meetoowah_." "No." "And at all time when you wake you forget you was Margaret Manners, and you remember all time when you wake that you only Haidee." "Yes." "Also, you try get back de box that b'long to you, de little lacquered box. Remember that, Haidee. Get de box if you can and bring it with de money to Uncle Ben Ali at de Linton Hotel in Lafayette." "Yes." "And you all time forget when you wake dat you Margaret Manners, and----" Something happened to the hypnotist, right then and there. Unable to endure longer the scene transpiring under their eyes, the boys had crept forward until they were close to Ben Ali and Aurung Zeeb. Matt, behind Ben Ali, arose suddenly and caught the Hindoo by the shoulders, flinging him down on his back and holding him there with both hands about his throat. McGlory, it had been planned, should make a simultaneous attack, in the same manner, upon Aurung Zeeb; but that individual was keener-eyed than his companion. He saw McGlory just as the cowboy was about to spring. With a loud cry of warning, Aurung Zeeb broke away in a panic and fled into the timber. McGlory did not follow him. Ben Ali, choking and wriggling under the tense fingers of the king of the motor boys, had made a desperate effort and drawn his knife. The cowboy had glimpsed the blade, shimmering in a gleam of sun, and had leaped forward and caught the Hindoo's hand. "We've got the scoundrel!" exulted McGlory. "I reckon this is the last stunt of this sort he'll ever lay hand to." Ben Ali tried to speak. Matt saw the attempt and removed his rigid fingers from the prisoner's throat, slipping his hands down and gripping one of the man's arms. "Hold his other arm, Joe," panted Matt. "I want to talk with him. I've got to talk with him. A great wrong has been done Haidee, and if it is righted Ben Ali is the only one to do it." McGlory was puzzled, but yielded immediate obedience. "Look at the girl," he whispered, as he laid both hands on the prisoner's other arm. There was a look of sharp pain in Haidee's face. Her hands were clutching her throat, and she was swaying where she stood. "Haidee feel what you do to me," gurgled Ben Ali. "You hurt me, you hurt her. You do not understand de power." "He's talkin' with two tongues!" declared McGlory. "No," said Matt, "he tells the truth. As I told you, Joe, we've got to make use of the scoundrel for Haidee's benefit. Don't mind Haidee--she'll be all right by the time we are through with Ben Ali." CHAPTER XV. "FOR THE SAKE OF HAIDEE!" Motor Matt knew something about hypnotism, having acquired the knowledge in the casual way most boys learn about such occult and, at times, fascinating subjects. The young motorist knew, for instance, that if it was suggested to Margaret Manners often enough in a hypnotic state that she was only Haidee, the girl would come to forget her own personality. Even when out of the trance she would be confused and bewildered in trying to recall her real name and her past life. It was to undo some of this evil that Matt was eager for a talk with the Hindoo. "Ben Ali," said Matt sternly, "we have the box of letters and Captain Manners' Victoria Cross. In order to make you suffer terribly for what you have done, we have only to turn you over to the authorities and let them cable to London. There is a thousand pounds sterling offered as a reward for the recovery of Margaret Manners; and for you there would be a long term in prison. You understand that, don't you?" There was a crafty look on the Hindoo's face as he answered. "Yes, sahib. But you not do anything with me. De girl is in de trance. I have her in my power." "And we have you in our power," said Matt, appreciating to the full the strong hold Ben Ali had on them, as well as on the girl. "But, by and by, when we have finished de talk, de young sahib will let me go." Matt was deeply thoughtful for a few moments. "Yes," he answered deliberately, "if you will answer my questions, and do what I tell you to do, we will let you go." "Pard!" remonstrated Joe. "I know what I am doing, Joe," returned Matt. "De young sahib is wise," put in the smiling Ben Ali, his eyes beginning to gleam and dance in an attempt to get the king of the motor boys under their influence. "Pah!" murmured Matt disgustedly. "You can hold his arm with one hand, Joe. Place the other hand over his eyes." "He's a fiend," growled McGlory, as his palm dropped over the upper part of Ben Ali's face. The Hindoo laughed noiselessly. "Will you talk with me frankly and answer my questions, Ben Ali," proceeded Matt, "providing we promise to let you go?" "Yes, sahib." "Then, first, who are you?" "De brother of a great rajah in my own land, and de brother of de great rajah's sister. That sister married de Captain Manners, Margaret's father." "I see," breathed Matt, his eyes wandering to the girl. Haidee had grown quiet, her face expressionless and her eyes staring and vacant, as before. "I, with my rich rajah brother," continued Ben Ali, with bitterness, "was only de driver of his elephants. No more. I work. He live in luxury and do not anything. Captain Manners die. Then his wife, she die, too. _Suttee._ She burn on de funeral pyre, as our custom is in my land. De husband die, then de widow die. Margaret she live. My brother, de rajah, give me money, send me to Calcutta after Margaret. I go. I get de girl and we take ship to America. Hah! On de way I tell Margaret it is her uncle, de rajah's wish, that she go to de Vassar school in America, that I follow order when I take her there. She believe what I say. On de steamer I begin de trances. She not like them, but she agree at first. By and by she not able to help herself. I tell her she not remember who she is when she wake, that she only Haidee. She b'leeve." The scoundrel laughed. "I have de so great power with the eyes and the hands, sahib." "Why did you join a show and take the girl with you?" demanded Matt, a feeling of horror and repulsion for Ben Ali growing in his heart. "I have to live, sahib. My money give out. I know how to drive de elephant, so I hear of de show and go there. Boss Burton hire me. I speak of Haidee. He hire her, too." "Did she know how to perform on the trapeze--she, the niece of a powerful rajah and daughter of an English gentleman?" "She know not anything about that. I put her in de trance and tell her she know. Then she perform on de trapeze better than any." "Why did you want her to go up on the flying machine?" "Cut it short," growled McGlory huskily. "I feel like using the knife on the villain, pard. He ain't fit to live." "You listened to me while I was talking with my friends in the calliope tent this morning," continued Matt. "Why was that?" "I was afraid of de Dutch boy," answered Ben Ali, "and I was more afraid when I hear what he tell. After that, I be afraid of all of you. You understan'? I thought you take Haidee away from me." "You hypnotized her before the parade and told her to do something to make me trouble?" "Yes, sahib," was the prompt response. "I wanted you out of de way. I was afraid." "Scoundrel!" muttered Matt. "Why, you placed Haidee herself in danger." "I was Rajah's mahout. I could have kept de elephant from hurting Haidee." "Was she hypnotized when she came to the aëroplane and played that trick to go up in the machine with me?" "She was, yes, sahib." "And you gave her something to be used in setting the aëroplane afire?" "Yes, sahib. It was de smouldering fire ball, with de coal in its heart. When de machine go up, and de win' fan it, den by and by it break into flame and set fire to de machine." Ben Ali was frank, brutally frank. But he had Motor Matt's promise that he should go free, and he seemed to gloat over his evil deeds and to wish that not a detail be left out. "She did not act, when she was in the aëroplane, as she did when she was in the parade," said Matt. "I make her act different, sahib. I tell her how she was to be. I have de so great power I do that. Other fakirs not so great as Ben Ali." "We've heard enough," said Matt. "Now, as yet, you have only partly earned your freedom, Ben Ali. You have still to do what I shall tell you." "What is that, sahib?" "You will, by the aid of hypnotism, undo all the evil you have done, as much as possible. For instance, you will impress on Haidee, as she stands there, the truth that she is Margaret Manners, and that she will remember it, and all her past, when she wakes. After that, you are to waken her and take yourself off." "Yes," answered the Hindoo. "My freedom is dear to me. Perhaps"--and he smiled--"I have something yet to do with Motor Matt." "If you cross my path again, Ben Ali," returned the king of the motor boys, "there will be no promise binding me to let you go free. If you are wise, you will stay away from me and my friends, and from Haidee." "I take my chance, if that is it. To awaken Haidee I must be on my feet." "You will lie as you are!" declared Matt sharply. "You can do your work as well this way as in any other." "I will try," said the Hindoo, after a moment's pause. Then, in a loud voice, he called: "Haidee!" The girl turned her eyes upon him. "Yes," she answered. "When you wake, _meetoowah_, you will remember that you are Margaret Manners." "Yes." "You will remember all, everything--Calcutta, your father, Captain Manners, your mother, your mother's brother, de rajah. But you forget Ben Ali, and you think no more of him. You understand?" "Yes." This, in a little different language, Ben Ali repeated several times. "Now, young sahib," said he, "let me up till I wake Haidee." "Hold to him on that side, Joe," cautioned Matt, "but give him the use of his hands. When Haidee wakes, release him." "Sufferin' fairy tales!" grumbled McGlory. "I hate to do it, pard, and that's honest, but I reckon, from what I've heard, that you know what you're about. It's a hard way to bring right and justice to the girl by letting this scoundrel escape the law, but there don't seem to be anything else for it." Slowly the boys got up and permitted Ben Ali to struggle to his feet. When he was erect, both still gripped him by the waist in order to prevent him from committing any treachery. Ben Ali leaned forward and waved his hands. "Awake, _meetoowah_!" he called sharply. "You are yourself again, Margaret Manners! Awake!" The girl started, and lifted both hands to her temples. It was enough, and Motor Matt was satisfied. "Let him go, Joe," said Matt, "but keep his knife." The boys, at the same moment, withdrew their hands and stepped back. Ben Ali, with a wild, snarling laugh, sprang into the woods and vanished. "What is it?" asked Margaret Manners, in a puzzled voice. "Where am I? Ah, is that you, Motor Matt? And Joe!" "Yes, sis," returned the cowboy, his voice full of gentleness, "it's your friend McGlory, and the best friend you ever had if you did but know it--Motor Matt." "Come," said Matt briskly, "we must hustle back to the automobile. Carl will have a fit wondering what has become of us." CHAPTER XVI. THE RAJAH'S NIECE. The events of that wonderful day all seemed like a dream to Motor Matt when he came to look back on them. The coming of Carl, loaded with a joke sprung upon him by the detectives in Chicago--a joke, by the way, that proved a boomerang--and the dangers and perils that trailed after the Dutch boy and finally ended in most marvelous success--all these seemed but the figments of disordered fancy. But the damaged aëroplane remained to tell of the dangers, and Carl was there in the flesh, and Margaret Manners was present, freed of the evil shadow that had blighted her young life. The afternoon performance had been over for some time when Matt, Joe, Carl, and Margaret--for now she must be Margaret and not Haidee--returned to the show grounds. The owner of the motor car was walking up and down in fretful mood, thinking, perhaps, that he had done a most unwise thing in letting his machine get out of his hands. Burton was with him and seeking to pacify his fears. But the sight of the motor car alone did that. "Well," exclaimed Burton, "you've got one of 'em, Matt. She is the most valuable of the lot, to me. Where are the other two?" "They escaped," answered Matt shortly. "And Haidee, Mr. Burton, is no longer an employee of the Big Consolidated." "What!" cried Burton. "Do you mean to say she isn't going up on the aëroplane any more, and that she'll not touch off Roman candles or----" "I told you she'd never do that, some time ago," said Matt keenly. Burton seemed to have a way of forgetting the things he did not want to hear. "Well, anyhow," went on the showman, as soon as they had all alighted, and the owner of the car had got into it and tooted joyfully away, "come to the mess tent and tell me what happened." "Haven't time, Burton," said Matt. "Miss Manners is going to the best hotel in town, and I've got some telegrams to send." "Telegrams?" Burton pricked up his ears and showed signs of excitement. "There isn't another show trying to hire you away from me, is there? Don't forget your written contract, Matt!" "I'm not forgetting that," returned Matt, inclined to laugh. "The telegram I am going to send is to the British ambassador at Washington, and the cablegram I am going to get on the wires is to an attorney in London, England." "Jupiter!" exclaimed Burton. "It looks to me as though you wouldn't get through in time to go on with section two of the show train." "We won't," continued Matt, "and that's what I'm going to tell you about. We'll be a couple of days making repairs on the aëroplane, and we'll make them here. After the work is done, we'll join the Big Consolidated at the town where it happens to be at that time." "Your contract, sir!" fumed Burton. "You are----" "No repairs on the aëroplane would have been necessary," interrupted Motor Matt, "if you had not played that trick on me and substituted Haidee for Le Bon. Just remember that. I shall expect you to pay the bills for the repairs, too." Burton received these remarks in silence. "When I and my friends are ready to join you," went on the king of the motor boys, "we'll go by air line in the _Comet_, and if you have any good paper, we'll scatter it all along the route. It will be the biggest kind of an advertisement for you, Burton." This was a master stroke, if Burton yearned for one thing more than another, it was to make his name a household word. "Great!" he cried. "But you won't be more than two days here, will you, Matt?" "We'll try not to be." "And you'll scatter the paper?" "Certainly." "Fine! I'll have it for you. Where'll I send it?" "To the Bramble House." "It will be there. Make the bill for repairs as light as possible, and draw on me for the amount. That's fair, ain't it?" "Just about." "Ask anybody and they'll tell you Boss Burton is the soul of honesty, and that every promise he makes in his paper is carried out to the letter. What will you do with the aëroplane?" "McGlory and Ping will look after it to-night. Tomorrow they will have it removed to some place where we can work on it comfortably." "All right--have it your way. I'm the easiest fellow to get along with that you ever saw, when I see a chap is going to treat me square. Good luck to you--to all of you." The party separated. McGlory went over into the show grounds to join Ping at the aëroplane, and Matt and Carl escorted Miss Manners to the Bramble House. Carl went to the show, when the tents were being pulled down that night, and got Miss Manners' trunk and his own clothes from the calliope tent. Carl, it will be recalled, was wearing McGlory's work clothes, and McGlory was going to need them. Most of the luggage belonging to Matt and his friend went on by train with the show impedimenta, to be reclaimed at some town farther along the route. Matt sent his telegram and his cablegram, and in neither did he conceal the fact that all the glory of the achievement belonged to Carl Pretzel. The Dutch boy was terribly set up over his success. Until far into the night he kept Matt up, trying to find out what he should do with his five thousand dollars. Carl was about evenly divided, in his opinions, as to whether he should buy an aëroplane of his own, or a circus. Matt discouraged him on both points. Next morning the _Comet_, under its own power, dragged its battered pinions to a big blacksmith shop, and there the motor boys got actively to work on the repairs. The damage was confined almost entirely to the canvas covering the left wing. None of the supports were injured. In two days' time the aëroplane was as good as new. At the close of the second day, when Matt and McGlory reached the hotel with their work finished, so far as the _Comet_ was concerned, they found an English gentleman who represented the British embassy. This gentleman had come, personally, to assume charge of Miss Manners; and, by this very act, the boys understood that the young woman was something of a personage. The Englishman said nothing about the reward, and Carl began to worry. Finally he broached the subject himself, only to learn that the five thousand dollars must come from India, and that it would be a month, possibly two months, before it could be turned over. Carl was disgusted. He had expected to have the money all spent before two months had passed. "Dot's der vay mit der tedectif pitzness," he remarked gloomily. "Even ven you vin you don't get nodding." "But you're bound to get it, Carl," laughed McGlory, "sooner or later." "Meppy so mooch lader dot I vill be olt und gray-heated und not know nodding aboudt how to shpend him. How vas I going to lif in der meandime, huh? Tell me dose." "Come along with us," said Matt, "and stay with the Big Consolidated until your money comes." "I don'd like dot Purton feller," growled Carl. "He iss der vorst case oof stingy vat I efer see. Shdill, id iss vort' someding to be mit Modor Matt. Yah, so helup me, I vill go." Ping was not in love with this arrangement, but had to bow to it. The gentleman from Washington took the next train back to the capital, arranging to have Miss Manners left in the care of an estimable lady in Lafayette until word should come from India. THE END. THE NEXT NUMBER (28) WILL CONTAIN Motor Matt's "Short Circuit" OR, THE MAHOUT'S VOW. The Serpent Charmer--A Bad Elephant--Burton's Luck--Motor Matt's Courage--Dhondaram's Excuse--Robbery--Between the Wagons--A Peg to Hang Suspicions On--A Waiting Game--A Trick at the Start--In the Air With a Cobra--A Scientific Fact--Ping On the Wrong Track--Facing a Traitor--Meeting the Hindoo--A Bit of a Backset MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NEW YORK, August 28, 1909. TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS. (_Postage Free._) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each. 3 months 65c. 4 months 85c. 6 months $1.25 One year 2.50 2 copies one year 4.00 1 copy two years 4.00 =How to Send Money=--By post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter. =Receipts=--Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. ORMOND G. SMITH, } GEORGE C. SMITH, } _Proprietors_. STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City. SAVED BY A FALLING TREE. Winter still reigned, and Louis and Allen Wright were snowshoeing back to the lumber camp where they worked. It was a small camp upon the Tobago River, near the Ottawa, close to the border between the Provinces of Ontario and Quebec, and the pine had for the most part been cut long ago. There was a little pine left, however, with a good deal of pulp wood and mixed timber to be got out, and the foreman had sent the boys to look over a patch of spruce about twelve miles from the shanty. They were returning with their axes upon the frozen Tobago River, which formed a convenient roadway through the tangled and snowy Canadian forest. The boys were not professional "lumber jacks," but they were both deeply desirous of acquiring a couple of hundred dollars to cover the expenses of a course in mining engineering, and that winter high wages were being offered for even inexperienced men in the lumber camps. As they were country-bred youths, they took to the work naturally, and Allen, although he had not yet come to his full strength, speedily developed a surprising dexterity with the axe. He could "lay" a tree within a few inches of where he desired it to fall, and had been the instrument of victory several times in lumbering matches with rival camps. It was late in February and still bitterly cold, but the deep snow was packing and softening. In a few weeks the ice might break up, and mountains of logs were piled upon the river in readiness for the drive. About three miles before it reached the shanty the river broke into rapids for about thirty rods before it fell tumultuously over a low ridge of rocks. It was necessary to make a detour round this obstacle, and Allen went ashore at a cautious distance from the water. Louis, however, remained upon the ice, walking almost to the verge, and looking over into the inky stream. "Be careful, Lou! That ice is getting rotten!" Allen shouted from the bank. "It's as strong as rock. Look!" answered Louis, jumping in his rackets with a heavy thud upon the snow. He proved the reverse of what he intended. There was a dull cracking under the snow and a startled shout from the reckless snowshoer. A great cake of ice broke off, drifting away, with Louis standing on it. He balanced unsteadily for a moment, staggered, and plunged off with a terrified yell, going clean out of sight under the icy water. The cake of ice drifted over the rapids and broke up. Allen had scarcely time to move before his brother reappeared, struggling feebly, and evidently almost paralyzed by the cold immersion. By good luck he managed to catch the top of a projecting rock at the head of the fall, and there he clung, driven against the rock by the force of the current. "Hold on a minute, Lou! I'll get you out!" screamed Allen frantically. Louis turned a blue face toward him, without answering. Allen tore and kicked off his snowshoes, and was on the point of plunging into the water; but common sense returned to him in time. Louis was in the middle of the stream, thirty feet away. Allen could never reach him through that swift, deep current, and if he could, he would be so chilled as to be incapable of giving any sort of help. But the boy certainly could not hold on long in his present position, and should he let go he would be swept over the rapids and under the ice at the foot. His life hung on seconds. Allen could think of no plan. He shouted encouraging words without knowing what he said, while his eyes roved desperately up and down the snowy shores in search of some inspiration. If he had only a rope, or anything to make a bridge--and then his eye fell upon a tall, dead pine "stub," barkless and almost branchless, standing a few feet back from the stream. It was long enough to reach to the imperiled youth, if it could be felled so accurately as to lie close beside him. But a foot or two above or below him would make it useless, and to aim too closely would be to run a deadly risk of crushing the boy under the falling trunk. By a queer vagary of his excited brain he remembered William Tell and the apple. He would have to perform a somewhat similar feat of marksmanship; but it was the only chance that he could think of. He plunged through the snow for his axe, wallowed back to the dead stub, and began to chop. In the need for action his nerves grew suddenly cool. The feat was a more delicate one than he had ever attempted, and his brother's life hung upon his steadiness of nerve and muscle. But he cut quietly and without haste. The great yellow chips flew, and a wide notch grew in the trunk. In a few moments he shifted to the other side, cut another notch, and sighted for the probable direction of the fall of the stub. He could not tell how the roots held. He would have to leave that important factor to chance, but he cut, now delicately, now strongly, till the tremor through the axe handle told that the trunk was growing unsteady. It was a critical moment. He sighted again most carefully, and cut out a few small chips here and there. The stub tottered. It was standing poised upon a thin edge of uncut wood, and he stood behind it and pushed, cautiously, and then heavily. The tall trunk wavered, and the fibres snapped loudly. It hesitated, bowed, and Allen leaped away from the butt. Down came the pine, roaring through the air. It crashed into the water with a mighty wave and splash that hid boy and rock. Allen had a moment of horrified belief that his brother had been crushed under it. A moment later he saw that Louis was unhurt. But the tree had actually grazed the rock. It had fallen within eight inches of the boy's body. It made a perfect bridge as it lay, but in his nervous reaction Allen was almost too shaky to walk the trunk and pull his brother out. He did it, although how he got him to land he never quite knew. Louis was almost unconscious, and his wet clothes froze instantly into a mass of ice. He would certainly have lapsed into sleep and died, but Allen piled the pine chips about the stump and had a fire blazing in a few seconds. The dry stump burned like pitch, producing a furnace-like heat; and Allen partly undressed his brother and rubbed him hard with snow. Under this heroic treatment Louis came back to painful consciousness, and the fierce heat from the pine did the rest. But it was several hours before he was able to resume the tramp, and it was dark when they reached the shanty. How They Captured the Python. Hamburg, as many know, is the great headquarters of the trade in wild animals for menageries and "zoos." To Hamburg are shipped lions, elephants, and giraffes, captured in South and East Africa, tigers from India, jaguars and tapirs from South America, gorillas from the Congo, orang-outangs from Borneo, and, in fact, about every kind of beast, bird, and reptile from all quarters of the globe. The warehouses of the two principal firms engaged in this business are interesting places to visit after the arrival of a "beast ship," with news of unusually large specimens of animal life. The narrator made such a visit some months ago on the arrival of a remarkably large, brilliantly marked python, shipped from Padang, Sumatra. This colubrine giant is more than thirty feet in length, and was bespoken by the Austrian government for a zoo at Budapest. But the story of its capture is even more interesting than the huge creature itself, for this python had fallen a victim to its fondness for the notes of a violin. There is a telegraph line extending across Sumatra, from Padang, connecting that port, by means of submarine cables, with Batavia, and Singapore. Along this line of land wire are a number of interior stations. One of these, called Pali-lo-pom, has been in charge of an operator named Carlos Gambrino, a mestizo from Batavia, Java, educated at the industrial school there. The station is on a hillock in the valley of the River Kampar, and is adjacent to dense forest, jungle, and a long morass. It is a solitary little place, consisting merely of four or five thatched huts, elevated on posts to a height of six feet from the ground, to be more secure from noxious insects, reptiles, and wild beasts. As a general rule Gambrino has little enough to do, except listen to the monotonous ticking of the instrument. For solace and company, therefore, he frequently had recourse to his violin. Thatched houses on posts in Sumatra are not commonly supplied with glass windows; but Gambrino had afforded himself the luxury of a two-pane sash, set to slide in an aperture in the side wall of his hut, and some five or six months ago, during the wet season, he was sitting at this window one afternoon, as he played his violin, when he saw the head of a large serpent rise out of the high grass, at a distance of seventy or eighty yards. His first impulse was to get his carbine and try to shoot the monster, for he saw that it was a very large python, and not a desirable neighbor. But something in the attitude of the reptile led him to surmise that it had raised itself to hear the violin, and he passed at once to a lively air. As long as he continued playing the python remained there, apparently motionless; but when he ceased it drew its head down, and he saw nothing more of it that day, although he went out with his gun to look for it. Nearly a fortnight passed, and the incident had gone from his mind--for large snakes are not uncommon in Sumatra--when one night, as he was playing the violin to some native acquaintances who had come to the hut, they heard the sounds made by a large snake sliding across the bamboo platform or floor of the little veranda. On looking out with a light, one of the party saw a huge mottled python gliding away. But it was not until the reptile appeared a third time, raising its head near his window, that the telegrapher became certain that it was really his violin which attracted it. In the meantime the operator at Padang, with whom Gambrino held daily conversations by wire, had told him that the German agent of a Hamburg house at that port would pay ten pounds, English money, for such a python as he described. Gambrino began scheming to capture the reptile. In one of the huts at the station there was stored a quantity of fibre rope, such as is used in Sumatra for bridging small rivers and ravines. Gambrino contrived three large nooses from this rope, which he elevated horizontally, on bamboo poles, to the height of his window, and carried the drawing ends of the nooses inside the hut. This was done after the operator had ascertained that at times the snake would come about the house and raise its head as if it heard the violin. Some time later the python was beguiled by the music into raising its head inside one of the nooses, which a native, who was on the watch while Gambrino played, instantly jerked tight. What followed was exciting. The reptile resented the trick with vigor, and showed itself possessed of far more strength than they had expected. The rope had been made fast to a beam inside, and the snake nearly pulled the entire structure down, making it rock and creak in a way that caused Gambrino and his native ally to leap to the ground in haste from a back entrance. The reptile coiled its body about the posts and pulled desperately to break away. Altogether, it was a wild night at this little remote telegraph station. The next morning a crowd of natives collected; and as the python had by this time exhausted itself, they contrived to hoist its head as high as the roof of the hut and to secure its tail. It was then lowered into a molasses hogshead, which was covered over and trussed up securely with ropes. In this condition the python was drawn to Padang on a bullock cart. It is said to weigh more than four hundred pounds. ON THE ROAD TO MANDALAY. All of us who were singing "On the Road to Mandalay" a few years ago--and there were mighty few of us who let it alone vocally--will be a bit surprised to be informed that Rangoon, where the dawn comes up like thunder and other interesting things happen, looks to the approaching tourist like an up-to-date American business centre. In fact, according to a writer, the capital of Burma has many American towns beat a mile in the civic improvement line. "Its electric-lighted highways, all broad, neatly paved and well drained; its brilliantly illuminated boulevards, with rows of graceful, well-trimmed trees bordering both sides; its blocks of buildings, all laid out after a carefully considered plan, showing little of architectural beauty but much of austere regularity, astonish the stranger. "When you take into consideration the fact that Rangoon has a system of parks and parkways with beautiful shade trees, choice flowers, and crystal lakes, artificial and natural, dotted about them, and that it provides breathing spaces for people living in congested districts, you cannot but form a good idea of the aliveness of the municipal corporation. A good horse-carriage service, now being rapidly superseded by the trolley, makes transportation easy and cheap. The city has provided splendid schools and playgrounds. Yet sixty years ago Rangoon was a mere fishing village." One item from Mr. Kipling's picture of Rangoon referred to the elephants hauling teakwood in "the slushy, squdgy creek." Well, they are still at it, working with wonderful precision and an apparent sense of responsibility. They don't try to soldier, never get in one another's way or mixed up with the machinery, no matter how cramped they may be for room. Some of them take the teak logs which have been floated down the river and tow them ashore. Then they drag them to the sawmills, either rolling them with one foot while they walk on three, pushing them with their tusks, or pulling them with a chain attached to a breast strap. Inside the mill an elephant selects a log, picks it out with his tusks, kicks it up to the saw with his toes, then tying his trunk in a kind of knot around the log, holds it against the teeth of the saw while it is made into boards, pushing aside the outside slabs as they are cut off and adjusting the log to make boards of the proper thickness. Then he piles the boards up neatly, standing off to examine the effect, and if he finds a board out of line carefully adjusting it. Sometimes a pair of elephants working together exchange peculiar grunts, as if they were giving and receiving directions. They are used in Burma for various purposes. The young calves are ridden like horses, with a soft pad and stirrups. They are found especially valuable in bad country, and may be ridden fifty or sixty miles a day. A tap on the side of the head, a slight pressure of the knee, or a word whispered in the ear is all that is required to guide them. It is not at all a difficult matter for an elephant in prime condition to outrun a fast horse, but they cannot jump. A deep ditch only six or seven feet wide is impassable to them. Working elephants are in their prime when they are twenty-five years old. They are expensive to feed, it being declared in Rangoon that an elephant eats a quarter of his weight in feed every day. An average day's food for one is certainly eight hundred pounds. Socially Burma is unlike other Oriental countries. Men and women--even young men and women--walk together in the streets and mingle in social gatherings. Courtship always precedes the marriage. The Burmans are ardent lovers, and when a young man and woman find that their parents do not approve of the match they usually repair to the woods and return after a day or two as man and wife, sure of parental forgiveness. Marriage among Burmans is an extremely simple affair. The only ceremony performed is the eating together out of the same bowl of rice. Usually a feast is given to the relatives and friends of the families concerned. No sacrifices are offered, no services are performed. The Burman wears a smile on his countenance, laughs and looks upon life through rose-colored spectacles. Both the women and the men wear rich-hued silken clothes. But while there is gayety there is no indecorum or impropriety. For women Burma is a little heaven on earth, if we are to believe enthusiastic writers. Mrs. Burman is ubiquitous. Jewelry stores containing untold wealth in pearls, rubies, and other gems are in charge of women. Markets and fruit stalls are run by women. At the railroad station a woman sells you the tickets and another one is ready to take dictation and to do your type-writing. Not long ago a woman stockbroker died leaving a fortune which she had made herself. But the Burmese woman does not let business interfere with motherhood. She runs the shop with one hand and the children with the other. When she marries the woman retains her own name, and any property she may have inherited or acquired. When divorced she is expected to support her children, but this is no hardship for her, since she cared for them when she lived with her husband. The Burmese child rarely sees the father, but is brought up to look to its mother for guidance and support. The Burmese woman takes a great interest in public affairs, and the portals of the University of Rangoon have been open to her for a number of years. Her intelligence, her beauty, her freedom from racial caste prejudice, all make her an acceptable bride in the eyes of foreigners who go to Burma. Marriage with a foreigner means as a rule that she can live in plenty and comfort without working. Naturally she looks upon such a marriage with favor. The Burmans are of Mongolian origin, and consequently the Chinese and Burmese marriage produces a virile race. With this exception the intermixture of races in Burma has not proved desirable. This is especially so in case of marriages between Europeans and Burmans. The offspring of such marriages are termed Eurasians, who unfortunately seem to be looked down upon both by full-blooded Europeans and Burmans. Almost as difficult a problem as that of the Eurasian is the tobacco problem in Burma. Men, women, and children smoke. The cheroot at which they almost incessantly puff is eighteen inches long and about a quarter of an inch in diameter. It is wrapped in a banana leaf, and its mouthpiece consists of bamboo. The Burman tobacco is so strong that only one-fourth of the filling of the cheroot consists of tobacco. The balance is a mixture of innocuous herbs. If possible the Burman exceeds other Asiatics in hospitality. He is par excellence the host of Asia. Any stranger may stroll into a Burman dwelling and demand hospitality for at least three days. No remuneration is expected. Opposite a Burmese house one usually finds earthen pots of water placed for the use of the traveler, under a roof especially made to shelter the water from the hot rays of the tropical sun. These pots are tightly covered with earthen lids, which protect the water from dirt and dust. The social life of the Burmans is interesting in the extreme. They indulge in boxing matches, pony, bullock, and boat races, cock fighting, splitting cocoanuts, snake charming, and juggling. Chess and dominoes are the favorite games. Theatres are in great vogue. The plot of the play is usually somewhat monotonous, for almost invariably the hero is a prince of the blood royal, the heroine is a princess, and the rustics from the villages figure as clowns and jesters. The dancing, though different from what it is in the Occident, is not without interest to a Westerner. The motions of the dancers are graceful and spry. Burman amusements last days and nights. The best known secular festival is the pwe. The entertainment is melodramatic. Comedy and tragedy are introduced, music and dancing are included. The plot of the play is flimsy. The performance includes tricks of clowns who are masters of their art and intensely amusing. The musical instruments in the orchestra consist of a circle of drums, gongs, trumpets, and wooden clappers, and the music out-Wagners Wagner in its deafening noise. Many religious festivals are celebrated. Probably the occasion when presents are distributed to the priests is the most interesting. The people bring their presents and pile them up outside an alley made of bamboo latticework. One brings candles, another matches, another brass vessels, etc., as though some previous arrangement had been made as to just what each one shall give. For the most part the donors are women, and all of them are dressed in their best. The monks, attended by a boy carrying a large basket, pass down the bamboo alley in single file, and each basket is filled with presents. A trio of masqueraders with faces blackened, dancing to comic music, follows the procession. Anything that has not been distributed to the priests is gathered up by them. LATEST ISSUES BUFFALO BILL STORIES The most original stories of Western adventure. The only weekly containing the adventures of the famous Buffalo Bill. =High art colored covers.= =Thirty-two big pages.= =Price, 5 cents.= 425--Buffalo Bill's Balloon Escape; or, Out of the Grip of the Great Swamp. 426--Buffalo Bill and the Guerrillas; or, The Flower Girl of San Felipe. 427--Buffalo Bill's Border War; or, The Mexican Vendetta. 428--Buffalo Bill's Mexican Mix-up; or, The Bullfighter's Defiance. 429--Buffalo Bill and the Gamecock; or, The Red Trail on the Canadian. 430--Buffalo Bill and the Cheyenne Raiders; or, The Spurs of the Gamecock. 431--Buffalo Bill's Whirlwind Finish; or, The Gamecock Wins. 432--Buffalo Bill's Santa Fe Secret; or, The Brave of Taos. 433--Buffalo Bill and the Taos Terror; or, The Rites of the Red Estufa. 434--Buffalo Bill's Bracelet of Gold; or, The Hidden Death. 435--Buffalo Bill and the Border Baron; or, The Cattle King of No Man's Land. BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY All kinds of stories that boys like. The biggest and best nickel's worth ever offered. =High art colored covers.= =Thirty-two big pages.= =Price, 5 cents.= 338--Working His Way Upward; or, From Footlights to Riches. By Fred Thorpe. 339--The Fourteenth Boy; or, How Vin Lovell Won Out. By Weldon J. Cobb. 340--Among the Nomads; or, Life in the Open. By the author of "Through Air to Fame." 341--Bob, the Acrobat; or, Hustle and Win Out. By Harrie Irving Hancock. 342--Through the Earth; or, Jack Nelson's Invention. By Fred Thorpe. 343--The Boy Chief; or, Comrades of Camp and Trail. By John De Morgan. 344--Smart Alec; or, Bound to Get There. By Weldon J. Cobb. 345--Climbing Up; or, The Meanest Boy Alive. By Harrie Irving Hancock. 346--Comrades Three; or, With Gordon Keith in the South Seas. By Lawrence White, Jr. 347--A Young Snake-charmer; or, The Fortunes of Dick Erway. By Fred Thorpe. 348--Checked Through to Mars; or, Adventures in Other Worlds. By Weldon J. 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See for yourself. =High art colored covers.= =Thirty-two big pages.= =Price, 5 cents.= 16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters. 17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos. 18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon. 19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn. 20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys. 21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need. 22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right. 23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck That Wins. 24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune. 25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game. 26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship. 27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show. 28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow. 29--Motor Matt's Make-up; or, Playing a New Rôle. _For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt of price, 5 cents per copy, in money or postage stamps, by_ STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York =IF YOU WANT ANY BACK NUMBERS= of our Weeklies and cannot procure them from your newsdealer, they can be obtained from this office direct. Fill out the following Order Blank and send it to us with the price of the Weeklies you want and we will send them to you by return mail. =POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN THE SAME AS MONEY.= ________________________ _190_ _STREET & SMITH, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City._ _Dear Sirs: Enclosed please find_ ___________________________ _cents for which send me_: TIP TOP WEEKLY, Nos. ________________________________ NICK CARTER WEEKLY, " ________________________________ DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________ BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________ BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________ MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________ _Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________ _City_ ________________ _State_ ________________ A GREAT SUCCESS!! MOTOR STORIES Every boy who reads one of the splendid adventures of Motor Matt, which are making their appearance in this weekly, is at once surprised and delighted. Surprised at the generous quantity of reading matter that we are giving for five cents; delighted with the fascinating interest of the stories, second only to those published in the Tip Top Weekly. Matt has positive mechanical genius, and while his adventures are unusual, they are, however, drawn so true to life that the reader can clearly see how it is possible for the ordinary boy to experience them. _HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY AND THOSE TO BE PUBLISHED_: 1--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel. 2--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends. 3--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier. 4--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet." 5--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot. 6--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear. 7--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto. 8--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward. 9--Motor Matt's Air Ship; or, The Rival Inventors. 10--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot. 11--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady. 12--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas. 13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest. 14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the "Hawk." 15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the "Grampus." 16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters. 17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos. 18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon. 19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn. 20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys. 21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need. 22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right. 23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck that Wins. 24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune. To be Published on August 9th. 25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game. To be Published on August 16th. 26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship. To be Published on August 23d. 27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show. To be Published on August 30th. 28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow. PRICE, FIVE CENTS At all newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, by the publishers upon receipt of the price. STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=. Converted oe ligatures to "oe" for this text version; ligatures retained in HTML edition. Page 3, changed "an an" to "as an" in "white as an American." Page 10, changed "me" to "we" in "we were going after Archie" Page 18, corrected typo "MsGlory" in "McGlory was out of the car." Page 22, changed "of" to "off" in "as he started off." Page 27, corrected typo "metoowah" in "Awake, _meetoowah_!" 
52397	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NO. 28 SEPT. 4, 1909 FIVE CENTS MOTOR MATT'S "SHORT CIRCUIT" OR THE MAHOUT'S VOW _BY THE AUTHOR OF "MOTOR MATT"_ _STREET & SMITH PUBLISHERS NEW YORK_ [Illustration: _The huge beast towered above Motor Matt like a mountain, but the king of the motor boys held his ground._] MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION _Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._ No. 28. NEW YORK, September 4, 1909. Price Five Cents. Motor Matt's "Short=circuit" OR, THE MAHOUT'S VOW. By the author of "MOTOR MATT." CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE SERPENT CHARMER. CHAPTER II. A BAD ELEPHANT. CHAPTER III. BURTON'S LUCK. CHAPTER IV. MOTOR MATT'S COURAGE. CHAPTER V. DHONDARAM'S EXCUSE. CHAPTER VI. ROBBERY. CHAPTER VII. BETWEEN THE WAGONS. CHAPTER VIII. A PEG TO HANG SUSPICIONS ON. CHAPTER IX. A WAITING GAME. CHAPTER X. A TRICK AT THE START. CHAPTER XI. IN THE AIR WITH A COBRA. CHAPTER XII. A SCIENTIFIC FACT. CHAPTER XIII. PING ON THE WRONG TRACK. CHAPTER XIV. FACING A TRAITOR. CHAPTER XV. MEETING THE HINDOO. CHAPTER XVI. A BIT OF A BACKSET. ON THE BAHAMA REEFS. THE STORY OF A WILD GOOSE. CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY. =Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt. =Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive. =Ping=, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable. =Carl Pretzel=, an old chum who flags Motor Matt and more trouble than he can manage, at about the same time. In the rôle of detective, he makes many blunders, wise and otherwise, finding success only to wonder how he did it. =Dhondaram=, a Hindoo snake charmer and elephant trainer, who is under an obligation to Ben Ali and gets into trouble while trying to discharge it. =Andy Carter=, ticket-man for Burton's Big Consolidated Shows; a traitor to his employer, and who emerges from his evil plots with less punishment than he deserves. =Boss Burton=, manager and proprietor of the "Big Consolidated," who, in his usual manner, forms hasty conclusions, discovers his errors, and shows no sign of repentance. =Archie Le Bon=, a trapeze performer who swings on a flying bar under Motor Matt's aëroplane--and has a bad attack of nerves. =Ben Ali=, an old Hindoo acquaintance who figures but briefly in the story. His vow, and the manner in which he sought its fulfillment, brings danger to the king of the motor boys. CHAPTER I. THE SERPENT CHARMER. A brown man in a white turban sat by the river. It was night, and a little fire of sticks sent strange gleams sparkling across the water, and touched the form of the brown man with splashes of golden light. The man was playing on a gourd flute. The music--if such it could be called--was in a high key, but stifled and subdued. Under the man, to keep his crouching body from the earth, had been spread a piece of scarlet cloth. In front of him was a round wicker basket, perhaps a foot in diameter by six inches high. As the man played, the notes of the flute coming faster and faster, the lid of the basket began to tremble as by some pent-up force. Finally the lid slid open, and a hooded cobra lifted its flat, ugly head. With eyes on those of the serpent charmer, the cobra began weaving back and forth in time to the music. Now and then the snake would hiss and dart its head at the man. The latter would dodge to avoid the striking fangs, meanwhile keeping up his flute-playing. It was an odd scene, truly, to be going forward in a country like ours--cut bodily from the mysteries of India and dropped down on the banks of the Wabash, there, near the intensely American city of Lafayette. While the brown man was playing and the cobra swayed, and danced, and struck its lightning-like but ineffectual blows, another came into the ring of firelight, stepping as noiselessly as a slinking panther. He, like the other, wore a turban, and there was gold in his ears and necklaces about his throat. The first man continued his flute-playing. The other, with a soft laugh, went to the player's side, sank down, and riveted his own snakelike orbs upon the diamond eyes of the cobra. Once the serpent struck at him, but he drew back and continued to look. With one hand the newcomer took the flute from the player's lips and laid it on the ground; then, in a silence broken only by the crackling fires, the eyes of the man snapped and gleamed and held those of the cobra. The effect was marvelous. Slowly the cobra ceased its rhythmical movements and dropped down and down until it retreated once more into the basket; then, with a quick hand, the lid of the receptacle was replaced and secured with a wooden pin. "Yadaba!" exclaimed the first man. "Not here must you call me that, Dhondaram," said the second. "I am known as Ben Ali." Dhondaram spat contemptuously. "'Tis a name of the Turks," he grunted; "a dog's name." "It answers as well as any other." These men were Hindoos, and their talk was in Hindustani. "You sent for me at Chicago," proceeded Dhondaram; "you asked me to come to this place on the river, and to bring with me my most venomous cobra. See! I am here; and the cobra, you have discovered that the flute has no power to quiet its hostility. Your eyes did that, Yada--your pardon; I should have said Ben Ali. Great is the power of your eyes. They have lost none of their charms since last we met." Ben Ali received this statement moodily. Picking up a small pebble, he cast it angrily into the fire. "Why have you brought me here?" inquired Dhondaram, rolling a cigarette with materials taken from the breast of his flowing robe. "Because," answered Ben Ali, "I have made a vow." "By Krishna," and Dhondaram threw himself forward to light his cigarette at the fire, "vows are evil things. They bring trouble--nothing less." "This one," hissed Ben Ali, "will bring trouble to an enemy of mine." "And to yourself, it may be," added Dhondaram, resuming his squatting attitude on the scarlet cloth and whiffing a thin line of vapor into the air. "The goddess Kali protects me," averred Ben Ali. "It is written in my forehead." "What else is written in your forehead?" asked Dhondaram after a space. "What was it that caused you to send for me, and to ask me to leave my profitable work in the museum, come here, and bring the worst of my hooded pets?" Ben Ali, in the silence that followed, picked up more pebbles and cast them into the fire. "During the feast of Nag-Panchmi," he observed at last, "years since, Dhondaram, a mad elephant crushed a boat on the Ganges. You were in the boat, and I snatched you from certain death." Dhondaram's face underwent a swift change. "That, also," he said in a subdued tone, "is written in my forehead. I remembered it when your letter came to me. I owe you obedience until the debt is paid. I am here, Ben Ali. Command me." "_Such baht!_ You, with the cobra, Dhondaram, will go against my enemy and fulfill my vow. That will repay the debt." A look of fear crossed Dhondaram's face. It passed quickly, but had not escaped the keen eyes of Ben Ali. "You are afraid!" and he sneered as he spoke. "And if I am?" protested the other. "I am bound to obey, and lose my life, if I must, in paying for the saving of it during the feast of Nag-Panchmi. Who is your enemy, Aurung Zeeb?" Ben Ali struck the ground with his clinched fist. "Aurung Zeeb is a coward!" he exclaimed. "He fled and left me to work out my vengeance alone. _Hurkutjee!_ Let us speak no more of him. You knew of my brother, the rajah? How our sister married the _feringhi_, Captain Lionel Manners, of the English army? How he died, and his wife perished in the _ghats_, by _suttee_? Of the daughter they left, Margaret Manners? How, out of hatred to the rajah, I brought the girl to this country and destroyed her will by the power of the eyes? How we traveled with the show of Burton Sahib?" Dhondaram nodded gravely. "I know," he replied. "But you do not know of the _feringhi_ boy, the one who flies in the bird machine, and who is called Motor Matt. Because of him I have lost the girl, and she was making much money for me. I was _mahout_ in the show for Burton Sahib's worst elephant, Rajah. No other could drive him, or take care of him. You are a _sapwallah_, a charmer of serpents, but you are also a charmer of elephants. You can drive them, Dhondaram, as well as I. You can take care of this Rajah beast as well as I." "I learned to work with the elephants from my brother, the _muni_," observed Dhondaram. "You have lost the niece you called Haidee?" "She is under the care of the British ambassador, but she is staying in this town. Perhaps I may get her back--that I do not know. But my vow, Dhondaram, against this _feringhi_ boy, Motor Matt. That is for you to carry out. He has wrecked my plans. I will wreck his. He has put me in danger of my life. Through me, he shall be in danger of his own." "What am I to do?" queried Dhondaram. "The show of Burton Sahib is some distance from here, but I will tell you how to find it. The cobra will help you join it, for Burton Sahib is always watching for performers. You must learn to do better with this cobra. By performing with the serpent before Burton Sahib, you will please him. He must have some one to take care of the elephant, Rajah. You will apply for the place. Ha! Do you follow me?" Dhondaram nodded. "When you have applied for the place I will tell you what to do. The air machine must be wrecked. Rajah will do that. The _feringhi_ boy must be put where he will not interfere with my plans for my niece--the cobra _must do that_." Dhondaram stirred restlessly. "The law of this country," he murmured, "has a long arm and a heavy fist." "If you do as I say," went on Ben Ali, "you will not be reached by the arm nor caught by the fist. You will be safe, and so will I; and the vow of Ben Ali will have been carried out." "You cannot do this yourself?" "I should be seized if I showed my face again in the show of Burra Burton! I should be thrown into the strong house of the _feringhis_ if I appeared among the tents. Motor Matt has said this, and he has the power to carry out his threat." "Had Motor Matt the power to do this when he saved Haidee?" "He had." "And he held his hand! Why?" "Because Haidee was under the spell of my eyes. In order to free her, he had to bargain with me. The bargain was that I should go free, but never to trouble Motor Matt or the girl any more. With the girl in my hands, I could secure many rupees from my brother, the rajah, for her. And I hate that brother. He is rich, but he made me the keeper of his elephants! He lived in luxury, but I herded with the coolies." Again Ben Ali struck his clinched fist on the earth. "It may be," said Dhondaram, "that Burton Sahib has secured another keeper for the bad elephant, Rajah? In that case, he would not want me." "It is not likely," returned Ben Ali. "All the other keepers are afraid of Rajah. Aurung Zeeb was the only Hindoo who could have managed Rajah, and he dare not return to the show any more than I. Burton Sahib will want some one, and he will take you. You will go to him, perform with the cobra, win his favor. Then, and not till then, you will ask for the post of elephant keeper. Burton Sahib, my word for it, will give you Rajah to look after. Then, my friend, you can carry out the terms of my vow. You will pay your debt, and we shall be quits. I shall have no further claim on you." "And I shall escape the arm of the _feringhi_ law?" "Even so." "Tell me what I am to do, and how." Then, as the little tongues of flame threw their weird play of lights and shadows over the dusky plotters, the talk went on. CHAPTER II. A BAD ELEPHANT. "Great spark-plugs!" Motor Matt was passing the canvas walls of the menagerie tent of the "Big Consolidated" when a human form ricocheted over the top of it and landed directly in front of him on a pile of hay. The dropping of the man on the hay was accompanied by a wild sound which the king of the motor boys recognized as the trumpeting of an angry elephant. Following this came the noise of quick movements on the other side of the wall, and hoarse voices giving sharp commands. Matt ran to the man who had fallen on the hay. He was sitting up and staring about him blankly. "Well, if it isn't Archie Le Bon!" exclaimed Matt. "What sort of way is that to come out of a tent, Le Bon?" "Couldn't help myself, Matt," was the answer. "A couple of tons of mad elephant gave me a starter. Gee! No more of that in mine. I'm glad this hay happened to be here." Le Bon got up. Evidently his brain was dizzy, for he supported himself against a guy rope. "Was it Rajah?" asked Matt. "Yes." "Don't you know any better than to fool with that big lump of iniquity?" "I do now. Burton has offered twenty-five dollars to any one connected with the show who'll take Rajah out in the parade. Thought I'd try it, and I began by doing my best to make friends with the brute. Rajah was about two seconds wrapping his trunk around me and heaving me over the wall. I'm in luck at that, I suppose. The big fellow might have slammed me on the ground and danced a hornpipe on me." "You don't mean to say that Burton is going to have Rajah in the parade!" exclaimed Matt. "Says he is," answered Le Bon, "but I'll bet money he won't get any one to ride the elephant. You'd better trot along inside. Your Dutch pard, Carl, had a row with me. We both wanted to try and manage Rajah and annex the twenty-five, and the only way we could settle the question was by drawing straws. For all I know, Carl may be trying to make friends with Rajah now. Head him off, Matt, or there'll be a dead Dutchman on the grounds." "Carl must be crazy!" exclaimed Matt, whirling around and darting under the canvas. Archie Le Bon was an acrobat, and one of several brothers who had a hair-raising act in the circus ring; and if Archie couldn't manage Rajah, it was a foregone conclusion that Carl wouldn't be able to. Still, it was like Carl to be willing to try something of the sort, and the young motorist was eager to call a halt in proceedings before it was too late. Inside the "animal top" a crowd of men was belaboring Rajah with clubs and sharp prods. The elephant, chained to stakes firmly planted in the ground, was backing away as far as the chains would permit, head up and trunk in the air. Boss Burton, proprietor and manager of the show, was directing operations. Matt's Dutch pard was very much in evidence. Armed with a piece of sharpened iron, he was hopping around like a pea on a hot griddle, taking a hack at Rajah every time he saw an opening. Joe McGlory was hopping around, too, trying to grab the excited Dutchman and snake him out of harm's way. Suddenly Rajah lowered his head and executed a wide sweep with his trunk, in a half circle. Carl and a _mahout_ who had charge of the other elephants had their feet knocked from under them. The _mahout_ was thrown flat and quickly dragged to safety, while Carl was stood on his head in a bucket--a bucket that happened to be filled with water. McGlory caught Carl by the heels and dragged him out into the centre of the tent, the Dutchman thrashing his arms and sputtering as he slid over the ground. "Confound the brute!" roared Boss Burton; "I'll either take the kinks out of him and have him in the parade, or I'll shoot him. Leave him alone for half an hour, and then we'll maul him some more. How's Le Bon?" "Not a scratch," Archie Le Bon answered for himself, coming in under the canvas. "But I might have had a broken head." "You've had enough?" queried Burton. "A great plenty, thank you. I'm no elephant trainer, Burton, and while I'd like to make a little extra money I guess I'll look for something that's more congenial." "Dot's me, too," said Carl to Matt and McGlory. "I don'd vas some elephant trainers, I bed you. Vat a ugliness old Racha has! Dot trunk oof his hit me like a railroadt train." "You were going to try and ride the elephant in the parade, Carl?" demanded Matt. "I vas t'inking oof id vonce, aber never any more. He iss vorse as I t'ought." "I heard what he was up to, Matt," put in McGlory, "and hit the high places for here. Arrived just in time to see Le Bon go out between the edge of the wall and the edge of the tent top. Sufferin' skyrockets, but it was quick! Everybody rushed at Rajah, and Carl was right in the thick of it. I thought he'd be smashed into a cocked hat before I could get hold of him." "Who vas der feller vat left dot pucket oof vater in der vay?" grumbled Carl, mopping his tow hair with a red cotton handkerchief. "Id vas righdt under me ven I come down. I don'd like dot. Id vas pad enough mitoudt any fancy drimmings in der vay oof a pail oof vater." "Well, it's a lesson for you to leave Rajah alone." "T'anks, I know dot. Oof he vas der only elephant vat dere iss, I vouldn't haf nodding to do mit him. Vile I'm vaiding for dot fordune to come from India I haf got to lif, but I vill shdarve pefore I dry to make a lifing taking care oof Racha. Br-r-r, you old sgoundrel!" and Carl turned and shook his fist at Rajah. Just at this moment Boss Burton stepped up to Matt and his friends. "Here's a hard-luck proposition!" he glowered. "My biggest elephant raises Cain in a way he never did while Ben Ali had charge of him. Ben Ali was a villain, but he knew how to manage elephants. But Rajah goes in the parade, you can bet your pile on _that_." "You don't mean it, Burton!" cried Motor Matt. "Oh, don't I?" and there was a resolute gleam in the showman's eyes as he faced Matt. "You watch and see," he added. "You're taking a lot of chances if you stick to that notion," grunted McGlory. "The brute's liable to smash a few cages and let loose a lion or two. By the time you foot the bill, Burton, you'll find you're riding a mighty expensive hobby." "Rajah goes in the parade," shouted the angry showman, "or I put a bullet into him. I've got my mad up now." "Who'll take him?" queried Matt. "If I can't find any one to put him through his paces, by gorry I'll do it myself!" "Then the Big Consolidated," said McGlory, "might as well look for another boss." "See here, Burton," went on Matt, "you've been having the aëroplane tag your string of four elephants during the parade, and Rajah's been at the end of the string and right in front of the flying machine. You've got to give the machine another place. I'll not take chances with it, if Rajah's in the march. You ought to remember what a close call the brute gave us in Lafayette." "Nobody's going to change places in the parade!" declared Burton. He was a man of mercurial temperament, and could only be managed by firmness. "Either Rajah stays out of the procession," exclaimed Motor Matt calmly, "or the _Comet_ does." "And you can paste that in your hat, Burton," added McGlory. "What Pard Matt says goes." "Oh, hang it," growled Burton, coming to his senses; "if you fellows bear down on me like that, of course you win out; but I hate to have a measly elephant butt into my plans and make me change 'em. Now----" "Say, Mr. Burton," spoke up a canvasman, stepping to the showman's side and touching his arm, "there's a dark-skinned mutt in a turban what wants ter see ye in the calliope tent." Burton whirled on the canvasman. "Dark skinned man in a turban?" he repeated. "Does he look like a Hindoo?" "Dead ringer for one." "Maybe it's Ben Ali----" "No, he ain't. I know Ben Ali, and this ain't him." "That tin horn won't show up among these tents in a hurry, Burton," said McGlory. "He knows he'll get what's coming, if he does." "Then," continued Burton, "it's dollars to dimes it's Aurung Zeeb." "Not him, neither," averred the canvasman. "This bloke wears a red tablecloth and carries a basket. Looks ter me like he had somethin' he wanted ter sell." "I'll go and talk with him. Come on, Matt, you and McGlory." Matt, McGlory, and Carl followed the showman under the canvas and into the calliope "lean-to." Here there was a chocolate-colored individual answering the canvasman's description. But he was not wearing the red tablecloth. Instead, he had spread it on the ground and was sitting on it. In front of him was a round, flat-topped basket, and in his hands was a queer-looking musical instrument. "You want to see me?" demanded the showman, as he and the boys came to a halt in front of the Hindoo. The latter swept his eyes over the little group. "You Burton Sahib?" he inquired, bringing his gaze to a rest on the showman. "Yes," was the answer. "You look, see what I can do?" queried the Hindoo. "If you've got something you want to sell----" "The honorable sahib makes the mistake. _Dekke!_" Then, with this native word, which signifies "look," the Hindoo dropped his eyes to the round, flat basket and brought the end of the musical instrument to his lips. CHAPTER III. BURTON'S LUCK. While the notes of the gourd flute echoed through the tent, the cover of the round basket began to quiver and shake. Finally it slipped back, and there were startled exclamations and a brisk, recoiling movement on the part of the spectators as the head of a venomous cobra showed itself. "A snake charmer!" muttered Burton, disappointment in his voice. "They're as common as Albinos--and about as much of a drawing card." "That's a cobra di capello he's working with," remarked Matt, staring at the snake with a good deal of interest. "I saw one in a museum once, and heard a lecturer talk about it. The lecturer said that the bite of a cobra is almost always fatal, and that there is no known antidote for the poison; that the virus works so quickly it is even impossible to amputate the bitten limb before the victim dies." "Shnakes iss pad meticine," muttered Carl, "und I don'd like dem a leedle pit." "Sufferin' rattlers!" exclaimed McGlory. "I've been up against scorpions, Gila monsters, and tarantulas, but blamed if I ever saw a snake in a sunbonnet before--like that one." The cobra's hood, which was fully extended, gave it the ridiculous appearance of wearing a bonnet, and there was something grewsome in the way the reptile's head swayed in unison with the flute notes. Suddenly the head darted sideways. Motor Matt's quickness alone kept him from being bitten. He leaped backward, just in the nick of time to avoid the darting fangs. McGlory, wild with anger, picked up an iron rod that was used about the calliope and made a threatening gesture toward the snake. "Speak to me about that!" he breathed. "What kind of a snake tamer are you, anyhow? If you think we're going to stand around and let that flat-necked poison thrower get in its work on us, you----" The cowboy made ready to use the rod, but Matt caught his arm. "Hold up, Joe," said Matt. "No harm has been done, and this is a mighty interesting performance." "Aber der sharmer don'd vas aple to put der shnake to shleep mit itseluf," demurred Carl. "Der copra don'd seem to like der moosic any more as me." "Probably the snake's fangs have been pulled," put in Burton. "I know the tricks of these snake fakirs." "He got very good fangs, sahib," declared the Hindoo, dropping the flute and getting up. "He pretty bad snake, hard to handle. Now, watch." Leaning forward, the Hindoo made a quick grab and caught the snake about the neck with one hand. After whirling it three times around his head, he let it fall on the earth in front of him. To the surprise of the boys and Burton, the cobra lay at full length, rigid and stiff, and straight as a yardstick. The serpent charmer then walked around the cobra, singing a verse of Hindustani song. "La li ta la, ta perisi, La na comalay ah sahm-re, Madna, ca-rahm Ram li ta, co-co-la lir jhi! La li ta la, vanga-la ta perisi." "Jupiter!" exclaimed Burton. "I've heard the Bengal girls chant that song when they went to the well, of an evening, with their water pitchers on their heads. That's the time I was in India after tigers." "_Dekke!_" cried the Hindoo; "I have killed my snake, my beautiful little snake! But I have a good cane to walk with." Then, taking the rigid reptile up by the tail, he pretended to walk with it. "How you like to buy my cane, sahib?" he asked, swinging the cobra up so that its head was close to the young motorist's breast. Matt shook his head and stepped quickly back. "Take the blasted thing away!" snarled McGlory. "Don't get so careless with it." "The snake's hypnotized," explained Burton. "When he swung it around his head he put it to sleep." The Hindoo smiled; then, thrusting the head of the rigid snake under his turban, he pushed it up and up until all but the tip of the tail had disappeared under the headdress. After that, with a quick move, he snatched off the turban. The venomous cobra was found in a glittering coil on his head. With both hands the Hindoo lifted the drowsy cobra from his head, dropped it into the basket, closed the lid, and pushed the peg into place. "That's a pretty good show," remarked Burton, "but it's old as the hills. Where did you come from?" "Chicago," replied the snake charmer. "I want a job with Burton Sahib." "What's your name?" "Dhondaram." "There's not a thing I can give you to do in the big show," said Burton, "but maybe the side show could find a place for you. Snake charmers are side-show attractions, anyhow." Dhondaram was giving most of his attention to Matt, although speaking with Burton. "He acts as though he knew you, pard," observed McGlory. Dhondaram must have caught the words, for instantly he shifted his gaze from Matt to the showman. "Burra Burton can't give me a job in the big show?" he went on. "No," was Burton's decisive reply. "You're a Hindoo. Tell me, do you know a countryman of yours named Ben Ali?" Dhondaram shook his head. "Or Aurung Zeeb?" Another shake of the head. Dhondaram, seemingly in much disappointment, gathered up his scarlet robe and his basket and started out. "Know of any one who can handle an elephant?" Burton called after him. Dhondaram whirled around, his eyes sparkling. "I handle elephants, sahib," he declared. "You can?" returned the showman jubilantly. "Well, this is a stroke of luck, and no mistake. Are you good at the job?" "Good as you find," was the complacent response. "This elephant's a killer," remarked the showman cautiously. "He can't kill Dhondaram, sahib," said the Hindoo, with a confident smile. "He has just been in a tantrum, and threw one man through the tent." "The elephant, when he is mad, must be looked after with knowledge, sahib." "Well, you come on, Dhondaram, and we'll see how much knowledge you've got." Dhondaram dropped in behind Burton, and Matt and his friends fell in behind Dhondaram. Together they repaired to the animal tent. "Don't like the brown man's looks, hanged if I do, pard," muttered McGlory. "Me, neider," added Carl. "He iss like der shnake, I bed you--ready to shtrike ven you don't exbect dot. Aber meppy he iss a goot hand mit der elephant. Ve shall see aboudt dot." When they were back in the animal tent, Burton and the boys found Rajah still in vicious mood. Straining at his chains, the big brute was swaying from side to side, reaching out with his trunk in every direction and trying to lay hold of something. "_Himmelblitzen_, vat a ugly feller!" murmured Carl, standing and staring. "He vouldt schust as soon kill somepody as eat a wad oof hay. You bed my life I vas gladt I gave oop trying to manach him." "There's the elephant, Dhondaram," spoke up Burton, pointing. "He's a killer, I tell you, and I'll not be responsible for damages." "I myself will be responsible, sahib," answered the Hindoo. "Hold my basket, sahib?" he asked, extending the receptacle toward Carl. Carl yelled and jumped back as though from a lighted bomb. "Nod for a millyon tollars!" he declared. "Take id avay." Dhondaram smiled and placed the basket on the ground; then over it he threw the red robe. "_Dekke_, sahibs," he remarked, taking a sharp-pointed knife from a sash about his waist. "Look, and you will see how I manage the elephant in my own country." Fearlessly he stepped forth and posted himself in front of Rajah. It may be that the angry brute recognized something familiar in the Hindoo's clothes, for he stopped lurching back and forth and watched the brown man. "You got to be brave, sahibs," remarked the Hindoo, keeping his eyes on the elephant's. "If you have the fear, don't let the elephant see. The elephant is always a big coward, and he make trouble only when he think he got cowards to deal with. Watch!" With that, Dhondaram stepped directly up to the big head of Rajah. Up went the head, the trunk elevated and curved as though for a blow. Matt and his friends held their breath, for it seemed certain the brown man would be crushed to death under their very eyes. But he was not. Rajah's trunk did not descend. In a sharp, authoritative voice Dhondaram began talking in his native tongue. Every word was accompanied by a sharp thrust of the knife. The huge bulk of the elephant began to shiver and to recoil slowly, releasing the pull on the chains. Presently the big head lowered and the trunk came down harmlessly. Then, at a word from the Hindoo, the elephant knelt lumberingly on his forward knees, stretching out his trunk rigidly. Dhondaram stepped on the trunk and was lifted, gently and safely, to the broad neck. At another word of command, Rajah rose, and Dhondaram, from his elevated place, smiled and saluted. "It is easy, sahibs," said he. "This elephant is not a bad one." Burton clapped his hands. "Do you want a job as Rajah's _mahout_?" he asked. "Yes," was the answer. The showman turned to Matt. "Are you willing to take the _Comet_ in the parade with Rajah," he inquired, "now that we have a better driver than even Ben Ali to look after the brute?" "Dhondaram is a marvel!" exclaimed Matt. "Yes, Burton, we'll be in the parade with the aëroplane." "Good! Hustle around and get ready. There's not much time. Come down, Dhondaram, and get the blankets on Rajah. The parade will start in half an hour." The boys hurried out of the tent and into the calliope "lean-to." The _Comet_ had to be put in readiness, and McGlory and Ping, the Chinese boy, had costumes to put on. CHAPTER IV. MOTOR MATT'S COURAGE. During the exhibition at Lafayette, Indiana, the _Comet_ had caught fire while in the air and the king of the motor boys had made a dangerous descent in safety. The machine had been damaged, however, and, when the show left the town, Matt and his friends had remained behind to make repairs. These repairs had occupied two days. When they were finished, Matt and McGlory had rejoined the show, flying from Lafayette in the aëroplane and scattering Burton's handbills over the country as they came. Carl Pretzel and Ping, the Chinaman, had caught up with the show by train, there being no place for them on the _Comet_. The flight through the air had been made in the face of a tolerably stiff breeze, and Matt and McGlory had found it necessary to lie over almost the entire night on account of a high wind. The flying machine, however, had caught up with the show that very morning. The Big Consolidated had pitched its tents in the outskirts of Jackson, Michigan, just across the railroad tracks on the road to Wolf Lake. Matt's work, for which he and his friends were receiving five hundred and fifty dollars a week, was to drive the aëroplane, under its own power, in the parade, and to give two flights daily on the grounds--one immediately after the parade and the other before the evening performance--wind and weather permitting. During these flights Archie Le Bon was carried up on a trapeze under the flying machine. When the boys reached the place where the aëroplane had been left in charge of Ping, they began at once replenishing the gasoline and oil tanks and seeing that everything was shipshape for the journey on the bicycle wheels. Ping, while primarily one of the _Comet's_ attendants, had also shown a decided regard for the steam calliope. The calliope operator was teaching him to play a tune on the steam sirens, in return for which attention the Chinaman always provided the musical instrument with the water necessary to make the steam that operated the whistles. Knowing that he would have to look after the aëroplane, Ping had performed his calliope duties early in the day. The arrival of Carl with Matt and McGlory was a distinct disappointment to Ping. He and the Dutch boy had had a set-to at the time of their first meeting, and, although Matt had made them shake hands, yet there still rankled in their bosoms a feeling of hostility toward each other. Nevertheless, they kept this animosity in the background whenever Matt or McGlory was near them. During the trip from Lafayette to Jackson on the train the two had ridden in different cars. They were not on speaking terms when away from Matt King and his cowboy pard. Carl was just beginning his engagement with the Big Consolidated. He was traveling with the show while waiting for some money to reach him from India. There was nothing for him to do about the _Comet_, so he secured a job playing the banjo in the side show while a so-called Zulu chief performed a war dance on broken glass in his bare feet. When the flying machine was in readiness the wagons and riders were already forming for the parade. "You'll have to hustle to get into your clothes, Joe," said Matt, "you and Ping. Get a move on, now. While you're away I'll watch the _Comet_." McGlory and Ping started at once for the calliope tent, which they used as general rendezvous and dressing room. They rode on the machine in costume--McGlory in swell cowboy regalia and Ping in a barbaric get-up that made him look as though he had tumbled off a last year's Christmas tree. Carl had nothing to do until after the aëroplane flight, and so he remained with Matt until the procession started. "Here comes dot pad elephant, Racha," murmured Carl, pointing to the string of four elephants lumbering in their direction from the animal tent. "Der Hintoo iss pooty goot ad bossing der elephant, aber I don'd like his looks." "He's all right, Carl," laughed Matt easily. "It's Rajah's looks you don't like." "Vell, I dell you somet'ing, bard. Oof der elephant geds his madt oop, all you got to do is to turn some veels und sail indo der air mit der _Gomet_." "We couldn't do that. When the _Comet_ takes to the air she has to have a running start. There's no chance for such a start while we're in the parade." "So? Vell, keep your eyes shkinned bot' vays und look oudt for yourseluf. I got some hunches alretty dot you vill haf drouples." "We'll not have any trouble," returned Matt confidently. A few minutes after the elephants had dropped into line in front of the aëroplane, McGlory, his big spurs clinking at his heels, and Ping, rattling with tin ornaments and spangles, ran toward the _Comet_. Ping was helped to the upper wing, and Matt and McGlory took their places in the seats on the lower plane. Carl drew off and cast a gloomy look at Ping, sitting cross-legged on the overhead plane and languidly beating the air with a fan. "You look like nodding vat I efer see!" whooped Carl, envious to a degree that brought out the sarcastic words in spite of himself. "My see plenty things likee Dutchy boy when my no gottee gun," chattered Ping. "Py shinks," rumbled Carl, beside himself, "I vill make you eat dose topacco tags vat you haf on!" "Makee tlacks," answered Ping, with a maddening wave of the fan; "makee tlacks to side show and plingee-plunk for Zulu man! My makee lide in procesh." The Chinaman's lordly way worked havoc with Carl's nerves. He howled angrily and rushed forward. At just that moment the parade got under way, and the aëroplane lurched and swayed across the ground toward the road. "Carl," cried Matt sternly, "keep away!" The Dutch boy had to content himself with drawing back, shaking his fist at the glittering form on the upper wing of the aëroplane, and saying things to himself. The parade was but a wearying repetition of the many Matt, McGlory, and Ping had already figured in. The glitter of tinsel, the shimmer of mirrors, the prancing steeds and their mediæval riders, the funny clowns, the camels and elephants, and the blare of the bands had long since lost their glamour. For Matt and his friends the romance had died out, and they were going about their work on a business basis. The motor boys and their gasoline air ship always commanded attention and were loudly cheered. The fame of Motor Matt's exploits had been told in handbills and dodgers by the clever showman, and, too, Burton had seen to it that the young motorist secured ample space in the newspapers. This, naturally, aroused a great deal of interest, and it had long ago been conceded that Burton's greatest attractions were Matt and his aëroplane. Rajah was a very good elephant during the entire parade. As usual, his mate, Delhi, marched ahead of him, and always had a pacifying effect. Dhondaram, perched on Rajah's neck, kept the huge brute lumbering in a straight line. But it seemed strange to Matt and McGlory that Rajah, after his fit of madness, could be so suddenly brought into subjection. "I'll bet my spurs," remarked McGlory, early in the parade, "that Rajah will cut up a caper yet." "If he does," answered Matt, "I hope the _Comet_ will be out of his way. But this Dhondaram, Joe, seems to be an A One _Mahout_, and I believe he can hold Rajah down." It was about half-past eleven when the dusty paraders began filing back into the show grounds, the cages pulling into the menagerie tent, the riders taking their horses to the stable annex, and Matt driving the aëroplane to the spot from which the first exhibition flight of the day was to be made. "You and Ping go and peel off your show togs," said Matt to McGlory, as soon as the _Comet_ had been brought to a halt and he and his friends had dropped off the machine, "and then come back and take charge of the start. I've got to fix that electric wiring, or I'll get short-circuited while I'm up with Le Bon." He pulled off his coat while he was speaking, and dropped coat and hat on the ground; then, as McGlory and Ping made their way toward the calliope tent through a gathering throng of sightseers, the young motorist opened a tool box and stepped around toward the rear of the aëroplane to get at the battery and adjust the connections. A sharp tent stake, carelessly dropped by one of the show's employees, lay in the way and Matt kicked it aside. He gave a look around, and saw that Dhondaram was having some trouble getting Rajah into the menagerie tent. Thinking nothing of this, Matt proceeded to the rear of the planes and threw himself across the lower wing, close to the motor and the battery. While he was busily at work he heard a series of startled yells, apparently coming from the crowd that was massing to witness the flight of the _Comet_. Withdrawing hastily from his place on the lower plane of the machine, Matt dropped to the ground and ran around the ends of the right-hand wings. What he saw was enough to play havoc with the strongest nerves. Right and left the crowd was scattering in a veritable panic, and through the lane thus made came Rajah, hurling himself along in a direct line for the _Comet_. There was no one on the animal's back, and the gay trappings which covered him were fluttering and snapping in the wind of his flight. Rajah had always had a dislike for the aëroplane. Its ungainly form seemed to annoy him. In the present instance this was no doubt a fortunate thing. Had the brute not kept his attention on the air ship, he might have turned on the frightened throng and either killed or injured a dozen people. Motor Matt knew Rajah was charging the _Comet_, and the lad's first impulse was to get out of the way; then, reflecting that he and his friends stood to lose the aëroplane unless he made a decided stand of some sort, he caught up the tent stake, which lay near at hand, and jumped fearlessly in front of the flying machine. This move was not all recklessness on Matt's part. He recalled what Dhondaram had said to the effect that an elephant was a coward, and brave only when he had cowardly human beings to deal with. Well behind Rajah came a detachment of canvasmen, carrying ropes and iron bars, and one armed with a rifle. The king of the motor boys had seen these men, and he knew that if he could keep Rajah from his work of destruction until the men had had time to come up the _Comet_ would be saved. Cries of consternation went up from the spectators as they saw the elephant plunge toward Matt. The lad gave a fierce shout as the brute drew close, and waved the tent stake. "Get out of the way, King! Out of the way, or you'll be killed!" This was Burton's voice ringing in Matt's ears, and coming from he knew not where. But the command had no effect on the daring young motorist. He did not move from his position. Rajah wavered. Although he slackened his headlong rush, he still continued to come on. When he was close, and Matt could look into his vicious little eyes, he halted, crouched back, and lifted his trunk. The lad jumped forward and began to use the pointed end of the stake vigorously. Rajah's head was up, and his sinuous trunk twined in the air. The huge beast towered above Motor Matt like a mountain, but the king of the motor boys held his ground. CHAPTER V. DHONDARAM'S EXCUSE. What might have happened to Matt had not the canvasmen arrived while he was pluckily facing and prodding Rajah, it is hard to say. Certainly the young motorist's brave stand held the elephant at bay and saved the aëroplane. Before Rajah could make up his mind to strike Matt down and trample over him to the _Comet_, the frenzied brute was assailed on all sides and, under the angry direction of Boss Burton, was beaten into a state of sullen obedience. "Where's that confounded Hindoo?" roared Burton, as two of the other elephants hauled Rajah off toward the animal tent. McGlory, in his shirt sleeves, pushed through the crowd and up to the aëroplane in time to hear the question. "Dhondaram is up there in the calliope tent," said the cowboy; "leastways he was a while ago. When Ping and I dropped into the lean-to to change our togs, the Hindoo was stretched on the floor, groaning like a man who was having a fit. He didn't seem to be so terribly bad off, in spite of the way he was taking on, and I didn't have much time to strip off my puncher clothes and get back here. Just as I got into my regular make-up, and before I could take another look at Dhondaram, a fellow ran by and yelled that Rajah was runnin' wild again and headin' for the _Comet_. That was enough for me, and I hustled hot foot for here. I saw you, pard," and here the cowboy turned to Matt, "standing off that big brute with a tent stake. Speak to me about that! Say, I'm a Piegan if I ever thought you'd get out of that mix with your scalp." "It was a fool thing you did, King," growled Burton, very much worked up over the way events had fallen out. "You had about one chance in a hundred of getting out alive. What did you do it for?" "There wasn't any other chance of saving the _Comet_," answered Matt, a bit shaken himself now that it was all over and he realized how close a call he had had. "Your life, I suppose, isn't worth anything in comparison with the value of this aëroplane," scoffed Burton. "That sort of talk is foolish, Burton," said Matt. "I remembered what Dhondaram had said about not being a coward around Rajah, so I jumped in and got between the elephant and the machine. But there's no use talking now. The aëroplane has been saved, and there's nothing much the matter with me." "There _is_ some use of talking," snapped Burton. "Here comes Dhondaram, with Ping. Now we can find out how Rajah got away. Dhondaram has starred himself--I don't think. If that's the best he can do, on his first try-out, I might as well give him the sack right here." The Hindoo and the Chinese boy were coming through the excited crowd toward the aëroplane. Dhondaram staggered as he walked, and there was a wild look in his face. "What's the matter with you, Dhondaram?" demanded Burton sharply, as the eyes of the little group near the _Comet_ turned curiously on the Hindoo. "I was sick, sahib," mumbled the brown man, laying both hands on the pit of his stomach and rolling his eyes upward. "Sick?" echoed Burton incredulously. "It must have come on you mighty sudden." "It did, sahib. I came in from the parade, then all at once I could not see and grew weak--_jee_, yes, so weak I could not stay on Rajah's back, but fell to the ground and lay there for a moment, not knowing one thing. When I came to myself I was in a tent, and the _feringhi_ sahib,"--he pointed to McGlory--"and the Chinaman sahib were getting clear of their clothes. When I get enough strength, I come here. _Such bhat_, sahib. What I say is true." "You had Rajah properly tamed," went on Burton; "I never saw him act better in the parade than he did this morning. What caused him to make such a dead set at this flying machine the moment you dropped off his back?" "Who can say, sahib?" asked Dhondaram humbly. "He not like the machine, it may be. Has he a cause to dislike the bird-wagon? The elephant, Burton Sahib, never forgets. A hundred years is to him as a day when it comes to remembering." One of the canvasmen stepped up and asserted that he had seen Dhondaram drop off Rajah's back and then get up and reel away. Thereupon the canvasman, expecting trouble, called for some of the other animal trainers, and they picked up the first things they could lay hands on and started after the charging elephant. This was corroborative of the Hindoo's story, as was also the statement made by McGlory. "Are you subject to attacks like that?" queried Burton, with a distrustful look at the new _mahout_. "Not at all, sahib," replied the Hindoo glibly. "It was the first stroke of the kind I have ever suffered. By Krishna, I hope and believe it will be the last." "Well," remarked Burton grimly, "if you ever have another, you'll be cut out of this aggregation of the world's wonders. Now hike for the menagerie and do your best to curry Rajah down again." Without a word Dhondaram wheeled and vanished into the crowd. McGlory turned, caught Matt's arm, and pulled him off to one side. "What's your notion about this, pard?" he asked. "I haven't any," said Matt. "It's something to think over, Joe, and not form any snap judgments." The cowboy scowled. "These Hindoos are all of the same breed, I reckon," he muttered, "and you know what sort of fellows Ben Ali and Aurung Zeeb turned out to be." Matt nodded thoughtfully. "I don't believe one of the turban-tops is to be depended on," proceeded McGlory. "They're all underhand and sly, and not one of 'em, as I size it up, but would stand up a stage or snake a game of faro if he got the chance." "There you go with your snap judgment," laughed Matt. "It's right off the reel, anyhow," continued McGlory earnestly. "That Rajah critter was as meek as pie all through the parade. It don't seem reasonable that he'd take such a dead set at the _Comet_ all at once. And, as for Dhondaram getting an attack of cramps, he stood about as much chance of that as of bein' struck by lightning." Matt was silent. "Blamed queer," continued McGlory, "that Ben Ali and Aurung Zeeb should drop out, and then, two days after, this other Hindoo should show up. For a happenchance, pard, it's too far-fetched. There's something rotten about it." "What had Dhondaram got against the _Comet_?" asked Matt. "I pass that." "You're hinting, in a pretty broad way, Joe, that the new _mahout_ deliberately set Rajah on to smash the aëroplane." "Then I won't hint, pard, but will come out flat-footed. That's just what I think he did." "Why?" "You've got to have a reason for everything? Well, I haven't any reason for that, but I think it, all the same." "Ping!" called Matt. The Chinese boy was standing by the front of the aëroplane, patting the forward rudders affectionately, looking at the machine with a fond eye, and apparently exulting over the fact that it had been saved from destruction. At Matt's call, the boy whirled around and ran toward his two friends. "Whatee want, Motol Matt?" he asked. "You came here with the Hindoo," said Matt. "How was that?" "My follow Hindoo flom tent. Him no gettee sick. My savvy. When McGloly makee lun flom tent, Hindoo jump to feet chop-chop, feel plenty fine. Him makee play 'possum. Whoosh! When him come, my come, too." "Talk about that!" exclaimed McGlory. "Worse, and more of it. There's a hen on of some kind, pard." "Ping," proceeded Matt, "I've got a job for you." "Bully!" cried the Chinaman delightedly. "What I want you to do," said Matt, "is to watch Dhondaram. Don't let him see you at it, mind, but just dodge around, keep tab on him, and don't let him suspect what you're doing." "Hoop-ala!" said Ping, delighted at having such a piece of work come his way. "Think you can attend to that?" "Can do! You bettee. My heap smarter than Hindoo. You watchee, find um out." "All right, then. Away with you." Ping darted off toward the animal tent. At that moment Burton hurried up. "Better get busy and make your ascent, Matt," said Burton. "The crowd's all worked up about that elephant business, and the quickest way to get the people's minds off it is by giving them something else to watch and talk about." "I'll start at once," replied Matt, taking his seat in his accustomed place on the lower plane. "Let her flicker, Joe." The king of the motor boys "turned over" the engine, switched the power into the bicycle wheels, and the _Comet_, pushed by McGlory and half a dozen canvasmen, raced along the hard ground for a running start. CHAPTER VI. ROBBERY. Motor Matt made as graceful an ascent and as pretty a flight in the aëroplane as any he had ever attempted. Archie Le Bon, swinging below the machine on a trapeze, put the finishing touch to the performance by doing some of the most hair-raising stunts. Loud and prolonged were the cheers that floated up to the two with the _Comet_, and there was not the least doubt but that the aëroplane had successfully diverted the minds of the spectators from the recent trouble with Rajah. After the _Comet_ had fluttered back to earth, and the crowd had drifted away toward the side show, Matt and McGlory left a canvasman in charge of the machine and dropped in at the cook tent for a hurried meal. There was now nothing for the two chums to do until the next flight of the day, which was billed to take place at half-past six. "Did you ever have a feeling, pard," said the cowboy, as he and Matt were leaving the mess tent and walking across the grounds toward the calliope "lean-to," "that there was a heap of trouble on the pike, and all of it headed your way?" "I've had the feeling, Joe," laughed Matt. "Got it now?" "No." "Well, I have." McGlory halted and looked skyward, simultaneously lifting his handkerchief to test the strength and direction of the wind. Watching the weather had become almost a second nature with the cowboy since he and Matt had been with the Big Consolidated. Aëroplane flights are, to a greater or less extent, at the mercy of the weather, and the more wind during an ascension then the greater the peril for Motor Matt. "Think the weather is shaping up for a gale this afternoon, Joe?" queried Matt. "Nary, pard. There's not a cloud in the sky, and it's as calm a day as any that ever dropped into the almanac." "Not exactly the day to worry, eh?" "Well, no; but I'm worrying, all the same. What are you going to do now?" "Catch forty winks of sleep in the calliope tent. We didn't get our full share of rest last night, and I'm feeling the need of it." When they got to the "lean-to" Matt laid a horse blanket on the ground, close to the wheels of the canvas-covered calliope, and stretched himself out on it. A band was playing somewhere about the grounds, and the sound lulled him into slumber. The cowboy was not sleepy, and he was too restless to stay in the "lean-to." Matt was hardly asleep before McGlory had left on some random excursion across the grounds. A man entered the calliope tent. He came softly, and halted as soon as his eyes rested on the sprawled-out form of Motor Matt. The man was Dhondaram. A burning light arose in the dusky eyes as they continued to rest on the form of the sleeper. For some time the doors leading into the "big show" had been open. Crowds were entering the menagerie tent, and passing from there into the "circus top." The noise was steady and continuous, so that it was impossible for Matt, who was usually a light sleeper, to hear the entrance of the Hindoo. Dhondaram lingered for several minutes. He had not his flat-topped basket with him, and he whirled abruptly and hurried out of the "lean-to." From the look that flamed in the face of the Hindoo as he left, it seemed as though he was intending to return again--and to bring the cobra with him. He had not been gone many minutes, however, when Boss Burton entered the calliope tent. This was where he usually met the man from the ticket wagon, as soon as the receipts had been counted and put up in bags, received the money, and carried it to the bank. This part of the work had to be accomplished before three o'clock in the afternoon, as the banks closed at that hour. The money from the evening performance always accompanied Burton in the sleeping car on the second section of the show train, and was deposited in the next town on the show's schedule. Burton did not see Matt lying on the ground, close up to the calliope, and seated himself on an overturned bucket and lighted a cigar. The weed was no more than well started, when Dhondaram, carrying his basket, appeared softly in the entrance. At sight of Burton, the Hindoo stifled an exclamation and came to a startled halt. "What's wrong with you?" demanded the showman. "Nothing at all, sahib," answered Dhondaram, recovering himself. "Feeling all right now?" "Yes, sahib." "Good!" Without lingering for further talk, Dhondaram faced about and glided away. The conversation between the showman and the Hindoo had awakened Matt. The young motorist sat up blinking and looked at Burton. He knew how the proprietor of the Big Consolidated always met the ticket man in the calliope tent, about that time in the afternoon, and checked up and received the proceeds for deposit in the local bank. "Much of a crowd, Burton?" called Matt. "Oh, ho!" he exclaimed. "You've been taking a snooze, eh?" "A short one. Trying to make up for a little sleep I lost last night. What time is it, Burton?" "About half-past two. Say," and it was evident from Burton's manner that the thought flashing through his brain had come to him suddenly, "I want to talk with you a little about that Dutch pard of yours." "Go ahead," said Matt, leaning back against one of the calliope wheels; "what about Carl?" "Is he square?" continued Burton. "Square?" repeated Matt. "Why, he's as honest a chap as you'll find anywhere. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be training with McGlory and me. You ought to know that, Burton." "You ain't infallible, I guess. Eh, Matt? You're liable to make mistakes, now and then, just like anybody else." "I suppose so, but I know Carl too well to make any mistake about _him_. What gave you the idea he was crooked?" "I never had the idea," protested Burton. "I just asked for information, that's all. He came to the show on your recommendation, and I've taken him in, but I like to have a line on the people I get about me." "There's more to it than that," said Matt, studying Burton's face keenly. "Out with it, Burton." "Well, then, I don't like the Dutchman's looks," acknowledged Burton. "Ping told me----" "Oh, that's it!" muttered Matt. "Ping told you--what?" "Why, that he caught the Dutchman going through his pockets last night. If that's the kind of fellow Carl is, I----" "Take my word for it, Burton," interrupted Matt earnestly, "my Dutch pard is on the level. He makes a blunder, now and then, but he's one of the best fellows that ever lived." "What did Ping talk to me like that for?" "He and Carl don't hitch. There's a little petty rivalry between them, and they're a bit grouchy." "Is Ping so grouchy that he's trying to make people believe Carl's a thief?" "Ping is a Chinaman, and he has his own ideas about what's right and wrong. I'll talk to him about this, though." "You'd better. Certainly you don't want one of your pards circulating false reports about another." Burton looked at his watch impatiently. "I wonder where Andy is?" he muttered, "He's behindhand, now, and if he delays much longer, I'll not be able to get to the bank before closing time." "He may have had such a big afternoon's business," suggested Matt, "that it's taking him a little longer to get the money counted, and into the bags." "The business was only fair--nothing unusual. Andy has had plenty of time to sack up the money and get here with it." Andy Carter was the ticket man. He was middle-aged, an expert accountant, and was usually punctual to the minute in fulfilling his duties to his employer. "Have you seen anything of Dhondaram lately?" Matt inquired casually. "He blew in here with his little basket just before you woke up. Didn't you see him?" "I heard you talking," answered Matt, "and that's what wakened me, but I didn't see who you were talking with. Did he get Rajah under control again, Burton?" A puzzled look crossed the showman's face. "He can manage that big elephant as easily as I can manage a tame poodle, and he wasn't two minutes with the brute before he had him as meek as Moses. What I can't understand is how Rajah ever broke away and went on the rampage like he did." "There are others on this ground who deserve your suspicions a whole lot more than my Dutch pard," observed Matt. "You mean that I'd better be watching Dhondaram?" "Not at all," was the reply. Matt was already having the Hindoo watched, so it was hardly necessary for Burton to attend to the matter. "The Hindoo's actions are queer." "Hindoos are a queer lot, anyhow. But they're good elephant trainers, and that's the point that gets me, just now." "Where did Dhondaram say he----" Motor Matt got no further with his question. Just at that moment a man reeled through the entrance. His hat was gone, his coat was torn, and there was a bleeding cut on the side of his face. With a gasp, he tumbled to his knees in front of Burton. "Great Jupiter!" exclaimed Burton, leaping to his feet. "Andy! What's happened to you?" "Robbed!" breathed the ticket man, swaying and holding both hands to his throat; "knocked down and robbed of two bags of money that I was bringing here. I--I----" By then the startled Matt was also on his feet. "Who did it?" shouted the exasperated Burton. "Did you see who did it? Speak, man!" But Carter was unable to speak. Overcome by what he had passed through, he crumpled down at full length and lay silent and still at the showman's feet. CHAPTER VII. BETWEEN THE WAGONS. Excitement, and a certain reaction which follows all such shocks as the ticket man had been subjected to, had brought on a fainting spell. A little water soon revived Carter, and he was laid on the blanket from which Matt had gotten up a little while before. "Now tell me about the robbery," said Burton, "and be quick. While we're wasting time here, the thieves are getting away. I can't afford to let 'em beat me out of the proceeds of the afternoon's show. Who did it, Carter?" "I don't know, Burton," was the answer. "Don't know?" repeated the showman blankly. "Can't tell who knocked you down and lifted the two bags, when it was done in broad day! What are you givin' us?" he added roughly. "It's a fact, Burton," persisted Carter. "I was hit from behind and could not see the man who struck me." "You've got a cut on your face. How do you account for that if, as you say, you were struck from behind?" "The blow I received threw me forward against a wagon wheel. The tire cut my cheek. I dropped flat, and didn't know a thing. When I came to myself, of course, the money was gone." "Here's a pretty kettle of fish, and no mistake!" fumed Burton. "How much money did you have, Andy?" "A little over eighteen hundred dollars." "Eighteen hundred gone to pot! By Jupiter, I won't stand for that. Can't you think of _some_ clue, Andy? Pull your wits together. It isn't possible that a hold-up like that could take place in broad day without leaving some clue behind. Think, man!" "Maybe that new Dutch boy could give you a clue," replied Carter. "He's a friend of Motor Matt's, isn't he?" "He's a pard of Matt's," said Burton, casting a significant look at the king of the motor boys. "What makes you think he might give us a clue? Don't hang fire, Andy! Every minute we delay here is only that much time lost. Go on--and speak quick." "I had just left the ticket wagon," pursued Carter, trying to talk hurriedly, "when the Dutchman stepped up to me. He wanted a word in private, as he said, and I told him he'd have to wait until some other time. He said he couldn't wait, and that what he had to tell me was important. I couldn't get away from him, and I agreed to listen to what he had to say providing he didn't delay me more than two or three minutes. With that, he led me around back of the "circus top" and in between two canvas wagons. That's when I got struck from behind." Motor Matt listened to this in blank amazement. Boss Burton swore under his breath. "It's a cinch the Dutchman had a hand in the robbery," the showman declared. "He lured Andy in between the wagons, and it was there that some of the Dutchman's confederates knocked Andy down and lifted the bags. If we can lay hands on this Carl, we'll have one of the thieves." "Don't be too sure of that," interposed Matt. "Carl Pretzel never did a dishonest thing in his life, and I'm sure he can explain this." "Don't let your regard for the Dutchman blind you to what's happened, Matt," warned the showman. "The only thing he asked Andy to go in between the wagons for was so that the dastardly work would be screened from the eyes of people around the grounds." He turned away, adding: "We'll have to hunt for Carl--and it will be a hunt, I'll be bound. Unless I miss my guess, he and his confederates are a good ways from here with that eighteen hundred dollars." Burton ran toward the tent door, followed by Matt. Before either of them could pass out, Carl and McGlory stepped through and stood facing them. Carl had a red cotton handkerchief tied round the back of his head. "Here he is, by thunder!" cried the surprised Burton. "So, you see," spoke up Matt, "he didn't run away, after all." "It's some kind of a bluff he's working," went on Burton doggedly. "I want you," he added, and dropped a heavy hand on Carl's shoulder. "For vy iss dot?" inquired Carl. "What do you want the boy for?" said McGlory. "He helped steal eighteen hundred dollars the ticket man was bringing over here for me to take to the bank," said Burton; "that's what I want him for." "Iss he grazy?" gasped Carl, falling weakly against McGlory. "Vat dit I do mit der money oof I took it, hey? Und ven dit I take it, und vere it vas? By shinks," and Carl rubbed a hand over his bandaged head, "I'm doing t'ings vat I don'd know nodding aboudt. Somepody blease tell me vat I peen oop to." "Don't you get gay," growled Burton. "It won't help your case any." "Give me the straight o' this," demanded McGlory. Burton stepped back and waved a hand in the direction of Andy Carter. "Look at Andy!" he exclaimed. "He's been beaten up and robbed of two bags of money that he was bringing here. The Dutchman lured him in between a couple of canvas wagons, and that's where the job was pulled off." "Speak to me about this!" murmured the dazed McGlory. "What about it, Matt?" he added. Matt did not answer, but stepped over to Carl. "Why did you ask Carter to step in between the wagons, Carl?" the young motorist asked. "Pecause I vanted to shpeak mit him alone by himseluf," answered Carl. "Vat's der odds aboudt der tifference, anyvay?" "What did you want to speak with him about?" "Vell, I don'd like blaying der pancho for dot Zulu feller. I dit id vonce, und den fired meinseluf. Vat I vant iss somet'ing light und conshenial--hantling money vould aboudt suit me, I bed you. Dot's vat I vanted to see der ticket feller aboudt. I vanted to ask him vould he blease gif me some chob in der ticket wagon, und I took him off vere ve could haf some gonversations alone. Dot's all aboudt it, und oof I shtole some money, vere it iss, und vy don'd I got it? Tell me dot!" "That's a raw bluff you're putting up," scowled Burton. "You're nobody's fool, even if you do try to make people think so." "I ain't your fool, neider," cried Carl, warming up. "You can't make some monkey-doodle pitzness oudt oof me. You may own der show und be a pig feller, aber I got some money meinseluf oof it efer geds here from Inchia, so for vy should I vant to svipe your money, hey?" "What happened between the wagons, Carl?" went on Matt. "Just keep your ideas to yourself, Burton," he added, "and don't accuse Carl until he has a chance to give his side of the story. Did you see the man who knocked Carter down?" "I don'd see nodding," said Carl. "Do you mean to say," asked Carter, rising up on the blanket, "that I wasn't knocked down?" "I don'd know vedder or nod you vas knocked down. How could I tell dot?" "You were there with Carter--there between the wagons," cried Burton angrily. "Why shouldn't you have seen what happened?" "Look here vonce." Carl pulled off his cap and bent his head. "Feel dere," he went on, touching the back of his head. "Be careful mit your feelings, oof you blease, und tell me vat you findt." "A lump," said Matt. "Ouch!" whimpered Carl. "It vas so sore as I can't tell. My headt feels like a parrel, und hurts all ofer. Dot's der reason I ditn't see vat habbened. I vas knocked down meinseluf, und it must haf peen aboudt der same time der dicket feller keeled ofer." "There you have it, Burton," said Matt, facing the showman. "Carl wanted a job in the ticket wagon, and thought he might get it by talking with Andy Carter. When they got in between the wagons they were both knocked down." "Rot!" ground out Burton. "Why didn't Carter see the Dutchman when he came to? Or why didn't the Dutchman see Carter, if he got back his wits first?" "Carl was looking for Carter when I met up with him," put in McGlory. "The Dutchman wasn't near the wagons when I recovered my senses," came from the ticket man. "Und I don'd know vedder you vas dere or nod, Carter," explained Carl. "Ven I got to know vere I vas at, I foundt meinseluf vanderin' around mit a sore headt. But I tell you somet'ing, Burton. I peen a tedectif, und a fine vone. How mooch you gif me oof I findt der t'ieves und recofer der money? Huh?" "I believe you know where that money is, all right," declared the showman, "and if you think I'm going to pay you something for giving it back, you're wrong. If you want to save yourself trouble, you'll hand over the funds." "You talk like you vas pug-house!" said Carl. "I ain't got der money." "Who helped you steal it?" "Nopody! I ditn't know it vos shtole ondil you shpeak aboudt it." "Stop that line of talk, Burton," put in Matt. "Carl's story is straight, and it satisfies me." "How much money did the Dutchman have when he came here this morning?" asked Burton. "T'irty cents," replied Carl. "Modor Matt paid my railroadt fare from Lafayette to Chackson." "Search him, McGlory," ordered Burton. "Let's see if he has anything about his clothes that will prove his guilt." Carl began to laugh. "What's the joke?" snorted Burton. "Vy," was the answer, "to t'ink I haf eighdeen huntert tollars aboudt me und don't know dot. Go on mit der search, McGlory." Carl lifted his hands above his head, and the cowboy began pushing his hands into Carl's pockets. In the second pocket he examined he found something which he pulled out and held up for the observation of all. It was a canvas sack, lettered in black, "Burton's Big Consolidated Shows." "One of the bags that held the money!" exclaimed Carter. "I told you so!" whooped Burton. Matt and McGlory were astounded. And so was Carl--so dumfounded that he was speechless. CHAPTER VIII. A PEG TO HANG SUSPICIONS ON. "Vell, oof dot don'd grab der banner!" mumbled Carl, when he was finally able to speak. "I hat dot in my bocket und don'd know nodding aboudt it! Somepody must haf put him dere for a choke." "That's a nice way to explain it!" growled Burton. "It cooks your goose, all right. Anything in the bag, McGlory?" "Nary a thing," answered the bewildered cowboy, turning the bag inside out. "Go on with the search," ordered Burton. Mechanically the cowboy finished looking through the Dutch boy's clothes, and all the money he found consisted of two ten-cent pieces and a couple of nickels. "Where did you hide that money?" demanded Burton sternly, stepping in front of Carl. "I don'd hite it no blace," cried Carl. "You make me madt as some vet hens ven you talk like dot. Ged avay from me or I vill hit you vonce." "Carter," went on Burton in a voice of suppressed rage, "call a policeman." The ticket man had scrambled to his feet, and he now made a move in the direction of the tent door. "Hold up, Carter!" called Matt; then, turning to Burton, he went on: "You're not going to arrest Carl, Burton, unless you want this outfit of aviators to quit you cold." The red ran into Burton's face. "Are you trying to bulldoze me?" he demanded. "I've got eighteen hundred dollars at stake, and I'm not going to let it slip through my fingers just because you fellows threaten to leave the show and take the aëroplane with you. I tell you frankly, King, I don't like the way you're talking and acting in this matter. We've got good circumstantial evidence against your Dutch friend, and he ought to be locked up." "I admit that there's some evidence," returned Matt, "but you don't know Carl as well as I do. It isn't possible that he would steal a nickel from any one. If there was ten times as much evidence against him, no one could make me believe that." "You're allowing your friendship to run away with your better judgment. What am I to do? Just drop this business, right here?" "Of course not. All I want you to do is to leave Carl alone and let the motor boys find the thief." "I want that money," said Burton, with a black frown, "and I'm satisfied this Dutchman knows where it is." "And I'm satisfied he doesn't know a thing about it," said Matt warmly. "How did that bag get into his pocket?" "If you come to that, why isn't there some of the stolen money in the bag? Do you think for a minute, Burton, that Carl would be clever enough to plan such a robbery, and then be foolish enough to carry around with him the bare evidence of it? You don't give him credit for having much sense. Why should he keep the bag, and then come in here with it in his pocket?" Burton remained silent. "Furthermore," proceeded Matt, "if Carl is one of the thieves, or the only thief, why did he come in here at all? Why didn't he make a run of it as soon as he got his hands on the money?" "Every crook makes a mistake, now and then," muttered Burton. "If they didn't, the law would have a hard time running them down." "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Matt. "Leave Carl alone. If I can't prove his innocence to your satisfaction, I'll agree to stay four weeks with your show for nothing. You'll be making more than two thousand dollars, and you've only lost eighteen hundred by this robbery." Burton's feelings underwent a change on the instant. "Oh, well, if you put it that way," he said, "I'm willing to let the Dutchman off. I only want to do the right thing, anyhow." "You vas a skinner," averred Carl contemptuously. "I knowed dot from der fairst time vat ve met." "Sing small, that's your cue," retorted Burton. "Remember," and he whirled on Motor Matt, "if you don't prove the Dutchman's innocence, you're to work for me for four weeks without pay. I'm willing to let it rest in that way." With that Burton took himself off. His show was doing well and he was not pressed for funds. As for the rest of it, he had shifted everything connected with the robbery to the shoulders of Motor Matt. McGlory was a bit dubious. He had not known Carl as long as Matt had, and had not the same amount of confidence in him. "Matt," remarked the Dutch boy with feeling, "you vas der pest friendt vat I efer hat, und you bed my life you don'd vas making some misdakes ven you pelieve dot I ditn't shdeal der money. I don'd know nodding aboudt der pag, nor how it got in my bocket. Dot's der trut'." "I know that without your telling me, pard," said Matt. "The thing for us to do now is to find out who the real thieves are." "There must have been only one," said McGlory. "There must have been two, Joe." "How do you figure it?" "Why, because both Carl and Carter were knocked down at the same time. Neither saw what had happened to the other. Two men must have done that." "Vat a headt it iss!" murmured Carl. "Modor Matt vould make a fine tedectif, I tell you dose." "You've got a bean on the right number, pard, and no mistake," exulted McGlory. "Did you see any one near the wagons when you led the ticket man in between them?" asked Matt, turning to look at the place where he had last seen the ticket man standing. But Carter had left. Presumably, he had followed after Burton. "I don'd see nopody aroundt der vagons," answered Carl. "Der t'ieves vas hiding, dot's a skinch. Day vas hid avay mit demselufs in blaces vere dey couldt handt Carter und me a gouple oof goot vones. Ouch again!" and Carl rubbed a gentle hand over the red cotton handkerchief. "Take us to the place where you and Carter were knocked down, Carl," said Matt. "We'll look the ground over and see if we can find anything." The Dutch boy conducted his two friends toward the rear of the circus tent. Here there were two big, high-sided canvas wagons drawn up in a position that was somewhat isolated so far as the tents of the show were concerned. The wagons had been left in the form of a "V," and Carl walked through the wide opening. "Dis iss der vay vat ve come in," said he, "I in der lead oof der dicket man. Ven I ged py der front veels oof der vagon, I turn around, und den--_biff_, down I go like some brick puildings had drowed demselufs on dop oof me. Shiminy grickeds, vat a knock! I don'd know vere Carter vas shtanding, pecause I ditn't see him, I vas hit so kevick." Matt surveyed the ground. The turf had retained no marks of the violent work. He examined the rear tires of the wagons. The rims, for the whole of their circumference that was off the ground, were covered with a coating of dried mud; and this caking of mud was not broken at any place. "Carter must have stood here, in this position," observed Matt, placing himself between the two rear wheels. "He says that he fell against one of the wheels and cut his cheek on the tire. I can't find any trace of the spot where Carter came into such rough contact with either of the tires." "Don't you think he was telling the truth, pard?" asked McGlory in some excitement. "Is it possible he was using the double tongue, just to----" "Easy, there," interrupted Matt. "Carter was dazed when he fell, and could hardly have known whether he struck against the tire or against something else. He may have dropped on a stone----" "No stones here," objected McGlory, with a quiet look over the surface of the ground. "Well, then it was something else that caused the injury to his cheek. He----" "Here's something," and McGlory made a dive for the ground and lifted himself erect with an object in his hand. "I reckon it don't amount to anything, though." "Let's see it," said Matt. McGlory handed the object to the young motorist. It was a peg, perhaps half an inch thick by three inches long, and had a knob at one end as big as a marble. "Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed the king of the motor boys, staring from the peg to McGlory and Carl. "What's to pay?" queried McGlory. "You act as though we'd found something worth while." "We have," declared Matt, "and everything seems to be helping us on toward a streak of luck in this robbery matter." "How vas dot?" queried Carl. "This peg belongs to the Hindoo," said Matt. "It's the contrivance he used for fastening down the lid of that flat basket in which he carries the cobra." McGlory went into the air with a jubilant whoop. "He's the thief!" he cried. "I've had a feelin' all along that he was a tinhorn. This proves it! Sufferin' blackguards, Matt, but you've got a head!" "Vere iss der shnake?" came from Carl, as he looked around in visible trepidation. "Oof der pasket iss oben, den der copra is loose on der grounds. Vat a carelessness!" "And remember," said Matt, addressing the cowboy, "that I had set Ping to watch the Hindoo before the robbery took place. If Dhondaram is the robber, then Ping was on his trail at the time and must know something about it." "Speak to me about that!" exulted the cowboy. "Our friend the Hindoo has been putting in some good licks since he joined the Big Consolidated! He hasn't let any grass grow under his feet." Motor Matt whirled around and walked out from between the wagons. "Let's find Ping," he called back, "and get a report from him. That ought to settle everything." McGlory and Carl, feeling that something important was about to be accomplished, hurried after Matt as he moved off across the show grounds. CHAPTER IX. A WAITING GAME. The Chinese boy was not in evidence anywhere about the camp. After a search in all directions, Matt, McGlory, and Carl, reasoning that Ping's trail had led him to other places outside the show grounds, returned to the calliope tent. There, to their overwhelming surprise, they came upon Dhondaram, sitting nonchalantly on his square of scarlet cloth and smoking a cigarette. The Hindoo's face lighted up genially at sight of the three boys. "_Salaam_, sahibs!" said he in a friendly tone. "I come here to rest. It is permitted? I thought so. Rajah takes work to manage--_jee_, yes, much work. It tires me. Do you use the little smokes? Take one, sahibs." Dhondaram offered his little red box of rolled paper poison, only to have his courtesy declined. Matt was looking around. He was hoping to see the basket, but it was not in sight. McGlory had something at the end of his tongue, and Carl was all agog with a desire to talk, but Matt silenced each of them with a look. "Where's the cobra, Dhondaram?" asked Matt. "I'd like to see you juggle with the snake again." The Hindoo smiled and showed his white teeth. "_Maskee!_" he exclaimed, "that is my sorrow. My little snake is gone. Now that I am taking care of elephants, sahib, I have not the time to charm serpents. I sold the cobra an hour ago." "Sufferin' tarantulas!" murmured McGlory. "What fool would want to buy a thing like that?" "The cobra, sahib," said the Hindoo, turning to the cowboy, "is a curiosity. Many _feringhis_ like curiosities and pay for them. 'Tis well. I like the elephants better than the serpents." "What did you do with the snake basket?" asked Matt. "That must be sold with the cobra, sahib. What would the new owner do with the serpent unless he had the place to keep him? _Dekke!_ He take the snake, also he take the basket. I throw in the basket, as you call--give it as boot." With eyes narrowly watching Dhondaram's face, Matt produced the peg and tossed it on the red cloth. "What did the new owner do," the king of the motor boys inquired, "without the peg to keep the basket shut?" Not a tremor crossed the Hindoo's face. "Ah, ha!" said he. "I lose the peg and Motor Matt Sahib find it. But it is nothing. There are many things that can be used as pegs--a splinter, a bit of wood, almost anything. Where you pick it up, sahib?" "Oh, out on the grounds," answered Matt indefinitely. "Sahib recognize the peg when he find him? You have much observation, Mattrao Sahib." The suffix "rao" is added to a name as a sign of great respect. Probably Dhondaram felt that he was paying Matt a high compliment, although, naturally, Matt knew nothing about that. Dhondaram got up slowly and lifted the red cloth from the ground. "I will now go," said he, "and find how my bad Rajah is conducting himself. He must be watched carefully, and spoken to." With a courteous nod the Hindoo left the tent. As soon as he was gone Matt rolled over and lifted one side of the canvas wall. The Hindoo, with never a look behind, walked in his easy way around the calliope "lean-to" and into the "animal top," by the front entrance. "Nerve!" sputtered McGlory, "he's got a square mile of it. Never turned a hair. Even the sight of that peg didn't phase him." Matt was still peering from under the canvas. "There's something here I can't understand," said he, a few moments later, and he dropped the canvas and faced his friends. "Vat it iss?" asked Carl. "Why, we set Ping to watching Dhondaram, and by all the rules of the game the Chinaman ought to be on the fellow's track. But he isn't, so far as I can see. What's become of Ping, McGlory?" "Dhondaram has shaken him," hazarded the cowboy. "The chink wasn't sharp enough for the turban boy." "That may be," mused Matt, "although I doubt it. Ping is about as smart a Chinaman as you'll find in a month's travel. It's mysterious." "Then again," went on McGlory, "maybe Ping is on Dhondaram's trail and you don't know it. He's either too wise for us, or else not wise enough for the Hindoo. Pick out whichever conclusion you want." But Matt shook his head, puzzled. "He don'd vas mooch goot, dot chink feller," spoke up Carl gloomily. "Vone oof dose days you will findt him oudt." "Don't try any slams on Ping," said McGlory. "He's the clear quill, he is, even though he's a rat-eater and a heathen. Ping has turned some pretty fine tricks for Matt and me, and like as not he's busy coming across with another. You've got too much of a grouch at the slant-eyed brother, Carl." "I say vat I t'ink, und dot's all," replied Carl. "I can lick him mit vone handt tied aroundt my pack." "Cut it out, Carl," said Matt. "Ping's a good fellow, and has always stood by me. I don't want any hostile feelings between two of my pards." "Py shinks," cried Carl, "he iss more hosdyle at me as I am at him. Aber he's a shink, und he hides vat he t'inks pedder as I can do. Somedime you findt it oudt, den you know." "Go and look for Ping, Carl," said Matt. "Find him, if you can, and bring him where I can talk with him. It's more than likely that your innocence of that hold-up will have to be proven by the Chinaman, so it will stand you in hand to be friendly with him." "Honest," fumed Carl, getting up, "I hat radder go to chail mit meinseluf as to led der shink prove dot I ditn't took der money." "Well, you go and find him. You and Ping must be friends if you're both to stay with me." Carl was far from being in love with the task assigned to him, but nevertheless he went off to do what he could toward performing it. "Those two boys don't mix worth a cent," remarked Matt, when Carl had left. "They're like oil and water." "They mix too much," grinned McGlory. "When they got acquainted with each other it was a 'knock-down' in more than one sense of the word. They've been hungry to mix it up with each other ever since." Matt had no answer for this. He was well acquainted with the dispositions of both boys. "When I first got acquainted with Carl," said Matt reminiscently, "he was having trouble with a Chinese laundryman. That was 'way off in Arizona." For a time there was silence between the friends, broken at last by the cowboy. "What can we do now, pard?" "It's a waiting game for us, and if Ping doesn't know something that will help Carl out of the hole he is in, we'll have to hunt for some other clues." "Dhondaram is a smooth article, and no mistake. If he really stole the money, who helped him? And why is he staying with the show?" "I don't know, pard," returned Matt. "We'll have to let the thing work itself out, somehow." "You don't intend presenting Burton with our wages for a month, do you?" "That's the very last thing I'd ever do!" declared Matt. "Then, if that's the case, we can't keep up this waiting game too long." The afternoon performance was over, and the crowd of people began filing out of the tents. Only the "grand concert" remained, and that would soon be at an end, and the time would arrive for another ascension with the aëroplane. "I wish," remarked Matt thoughtfully, "that we could work out this robbery business before we leave Jackson. Some town crook may be mixed up in it with Dhondaram, and when the show leaves the place we may all be leaving the money behind." "Burton isn't worrying," said McGlory. "He's positive Carl is guilty, and that you can't prove anything else. In other words, Boss Burton is planning to have us work four weeks for nothing." "He'll be disappointed," said Matt. "Let's go and get supper, Joe. It won't be long before the evening crowd begins to arrive, and I want to put the _Comet_ in shape." While they were eating at the long table in the mess tent Carl came in. "I don'd find nodding," said he, dropping wearily into a chair. "Der shink is harter to find as a hayshtack mit some neetles in it. Meppy he iss over in der town, or else gone oop in a palloon, or else"--and here Carl leaned closer to Matt and spoke in a whisper--"meppy he took der money himseluf und has gone pack py Shina." "That will do, Carl," said Matt sternly. "Ping is as honest as you are." "Anyhow," spoke up McGlory sarcastically, "he didn't ask Carter to go between the wagons, and we didn't find a bag in his pocket." "Dot's righdt, rup id in," glowered Carl. "Oof I could ged dot money from Inchia I vould fly der coop und I vouldn't come pack any more. All der tedectif vat iss in me say der shink is gone mit der show money. I say vat I t'ink." "Well," said Matt, "don't say it to anybody else." When he and McGlory left the mess tent and moved off toward the aëroplane, Carl was still eating. Matt was counting upon having as successful a flight that afternoon as he had made in the morning. The repaired aëroplane was in better trim for flying than it had been when new, and there was not even the small breeze which had accompanied the first flight of the day. But, if Matt could have known it, he was destined to meet with one of the most desperate and hair-raising exploits of his aëroplane career during that second flight from the Jackson show grounds. CHAPTER X. A TRICK AT THE START. The guard who had been in charge of the aëroplane since the parade had returned to the show grounds was relieved by Matt and McGlory. As soon as he had left, Matt, in accordance with his usual custom, made a careful examination of the machine. He knew very well what might happen if he found, after being launched into the air, that some of the many parts of the aëroplane were loose, or the machinery not working properly. Long ropes, stretched on each side of the road on which the flying machine got its start, served to keep the people back and to give Matt and his corps of assistants plenty of room. So far as the young motorist could see--and his investigation was always thorough--the aëroplane was in as serviceable a condition as it had been for the morning's flight. It was a most ungainly looking machine when resting on the ground, but was transformed into a thing of grace the moment it spurned the earth and mounted skyward. "She looks as fit as a fiddle," remarked McGlory, his face shining with pride. "She'll do her work easy as falling off a log," said Matt. "The repairs we made on her, in Lafayette, seem to have been an improvement." "We don't want to make any more improvements of that sort," remarked McGlory, thinking of the accident which had made the repairs necessary. "Ah," cried Matt, "here comes Le Bon. And look who's with him," he added in a lower tone. The cowboy turned his head and swept his gaze over the throng that pressed the guard rope to the north of the road. Le Bon, in his trapeze costume, was crawling through the press, and close behind him came Dhondaram. McGlory scowled. "What's the Hindoo coming for?" he muttered. "I'm getting so I hate the looks of that fellow." Le Bon came close, walking with the springy tread of the trained athlete. "It looks as though we were going to have as nice a time aloft as we had this morning, Matt," he observed, coming to a halt and taking a look at the sky. "What's the Hindoo trailing you for?" queried McGlory. "He wanted to come along and see the flight at close quarters. He's a pretty good fellow, McGlory, and I told him to push along with me. What's the harm?" "No harm at all," interposed Matt hastily. McGlory spun around on his heel and would not remain near to talk with Dhondaram. The Hindoo, as he halted in front of Matt, was smiling in his most ingratiating manner. "I have come to look, sahib," said he, "at your most wonderful performance. It is read of everywhere, and in Chicago most of all. It will be a pleasure. It is permitted?" "You can stay here," answered Matt, "providing you keep out of the way." "I will see to that, Mattrao Sahib," and the Hindoo walked around the aëroplane, giving it his respectful attention. The wonder was growing upon Matt as to the whereabouts of Ping. The Chinese boy was always on hand when the flights were made, for the _Comet_ was the apple of his eye and he took it as a personal responsibility to make sure that the "get-away" was always safely accomplished. He did not appear to be trailing the Hindoo. If he had been, why was he not somewhere in the crowds that were pressing against the guard ropes. "Watch the brown tinhorn, Le Bon," muttered McGlory, in the kinker's ear, "and see that he don't tinker with anything." "Why," exclaimed Le Bon, "he wouldn't do anything like that!" "He might," was the sharp response. "I haven't any faith in these fellows who wear a twisted tablecloth for a hat. If anything should go wrong, up in the air, it'll spell your finish as well as my pard's. I'm going to have a word with Matt." The band had come from the mess tent. Instruments in hand, the members had climbed into the band wagon, which was hauled up near the point from which the _Comet_ would start, and a rattling melody was going up from the horns, the drums, and the cymbals. The aëroplane flight was Motor Matt's own particular part of the show. It was an instructive part, too, for aside from the thrill of seeing a human being piloting a big mechanical bird through the air the observers were given the last word in aërial navigation. "What's on your mind, pard?" asked McGlory, halting at Matt's side. "You're as thoughtful as a cold game gent who's looking into the open end of a gun." "Have you seen anything of Ping, Joe?" said Matt. "Chink 'signs' haven't been at all plentiful since our squinch-eyed brother tried to run out the Hindoo's trail." "I'd like to know where the boy is, that's all." "Don't fret about him. I'd like to have a picture of Ping in a corner he couldn't get out of. You take it from me, Johnny Hardluck hasn't got such a corner in his whole bag of tricks." At that moment Burton rode up to the aëroplane on his favorite saddler. "Innocent or guilty?" he asked, leaning down from his saddle and accompanying the words with a significant wink. "Innocent, of course," answered the king of the motor boys. "Can you prove it to me?" "Not yet." "And you never will. Better let me have the Dutchman locked up. That'll scare him so he'll tell all he knows, and maybe it isn't yet too late to get the money back." "Keep hands off my Dutch pard, Burton," said Matt. "We've made an agreement about that." "Exactly." Boss Burton straightened. "I guess you'd better get a-going, Matt," he added. "The whole town seems to be outside the guard ropes, and I don't think we could get any more spectators if we waited all night." Burton backed his horse away from the starting line and lifted one hand. Instantly a breathless silence fell over the vast throng, while every individual member of it craned his or her neck to get a better view of what was going on. The aëroplane, as has already been stated, had to make a running start on bicycle wheels in order to develop the speed necessary for the wings to take hold of the air and lift the machine. The wheels were low, and Le Bon had to sit on the lower plane beside Matt and hold the trapeze on his lap until the _Comet_ was high enough for him to drop from the footboard. The _Comet's_ motor was equipped with a magneto, but, at the beginning and while the machine was on the ground, the spark was secured with a make-and-break circuit. When the motor was properly going the magneto took hold and an automatic switch brought it into commission. McGlory superintended the ground work during the start. Some half a dozen men, under his direction, ranged behind the planes, started the machine, and ran with it. The power in the bicycle wheels soon carried the aëroplane away from them. At twenty-eight miles an hour the great wings felt the tug of the air, the wheels lifted from solid ground, and a sharp pull at a lever started the big propeller. Matt had made so many ascensions that he handled every part of his work with automatic precision, and the aëroplane, amid the wild cheers of the crowd, darted skyward. McGlory, standing perhaps a distance of fifty feet back from the point where the machine left the earth, saw a bag hanging to the under plane, close to an opening that led up through the plane to the motor and the driver's seat. What was the bag? the cowboy asked himself, and how did it chance to be swinging there? McGlory had only a few moments to make his observations, for the _Comet_ was climbing swiftly upward and the bag was growing rapidly smaller to the eye. He ran forward, stumbling and looking, and Burton, evidently with his eyes on the same object, galloped past him with glance upturned. Suddenly a black object appeared over the top of the bag, grew longer, wriggled queerly, and could be seen disappearing into the space between the two planes. The cowboy halted his stumbling feet and reeled, his brain on fire and his breath coming quick and hard. That black, wriggling thing must have been the cobra! The cobra, which the Hindoo had said he had sold to some one on the show grounds! McGlory's mind was a hopeless chaos of fears, doubts, and wild speculations. While he stood there, Burton, a wild look on his face, came galloping back. "That bag!" he gasped, drawing rein with a quick, nervous hand at the cowboy's side. "Did you see it, McGlory?" "Yes," answered the other. "It was one of the bags that had stolen money in it!" declared Burton; "I saw the black lettering on the side! Is it the one you got from the Dutchman?" McGlory shook his head, still dazed. "I've got that--in my grip--at the calliope tent," he managed to gasp. "Where did that one come from?" Then McGlory came to his senses. "I don't care a whoop about the bag, or where it came from," he shouted. "Did you see that snake come out of it and crawl up onto the lower plane? Did you see that?" "Yes, but----" "Don't talk to me! Find that Hindoo--he was here before the start and he put that bag there. Find him!" yelled McGlory. Then, at the top of his lungs, the cowboy shouted frantically to Matt, in the hope of letting him know his danger and putting him on his guard. But it was a fruitless effort. The tremendous cheering drowned McGlory's voice, and it was impossible for him to make his voice heard. CHAPTER XI. IN THE AIR WITH A COBRA. Both Motor Matt and Le Bon were delighted with the start of the aëroplane. "She gets better and better," averred Le Bon. "I guess I'll take to flying myself." While in the air Matt's every faculty of mind and quickness of body were called into action. He had to _feel_ the motion of the air on the huge wings, as communicated to the framework under him, and shift the wing extensions back and forth to meet the varying resistance of air pressure and make it coincide with the centre of gravity. To withdraw his attention for an instant from the work of managing the machine might result in a disaster that would bring destruction to himself and Le Bon. But he had schooled himself to talk while keeping busy with his work. "Better not try it, Archie," Matt answered. "It's too much of a strain on a fellow's nerves. Are you ready to drop with the trapeze?" "Whenever you are," was the response. There was always a jolt when Le Bon's weight reached the ends of the trapeze ropes, and extra care was required in taking care of the _Comet_. Matt brought the air craft around in a sweeping circle and headed the other way to cover the north and south extent of the grounds. He, likewise, the moment the turn was made, turned the aëroplane upward. "What's the matter with McGlory?" asked Le Bon, peering down. "He's looking up and waving his arms." "He wouldn't do that," said Matt, "unless something is wrong. When you get on the trapeze, Archie, look over the under part of the machine and see if you can find anything out of whack. I can't imagine what's gone crosswise, for the aëroplane never behaved better." Reaching the top of the airy slope, some two hundred feet above ground, Matt pointed the machine earthward. "Now's your time, Archie," he said to Le Bon. The athlete stood erect, firmly clutching the trapeze bar, and dived out into space. Swiftly Matt brought the craft to an even keel, just as the whole fabric fluttered under the jolt. In a twinkling the _Comet_ righted herself, and Le Bon was left swinging on his frail bar, a hundred and fifty feet above the show grounds. His position under the machine was such that Matt could not see him. "All right, Archie?" shouted Matt, keeping his eyes ahead and manipulating his levers incessantly. "Right as a trivet," came up from below. "McGlory is still throwing himself around down there." "Do you see anything wrong with the machine?" "Not a thing. What's that bag hanging under the wing for?" "Is there a bag there?" "Yes, a canvas bag. There are letters on it. Wait, and I'll read them." There followed a silence during which, supposedly, Le Bon was spelling out the letters. "'Burton's Big Consolidated Shows'," went on Le Bon. "That's what's printed on the bag, Matt." "Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "Anything in the bag, Archie?" "It's as limp as a rag and looks to be empty. How did it get there?" "Give it up. If it's empty, I don't see how it can do any harm. I don't like the thoughts of the thing, though, and we're not going to remain up as long as usual. Get busy with your work." Renewed cheering greeted the daring feats performed on the trapeze by Le Bon. In the midst of it the motor missed fire and died altogether. The slowing rotations of the propeller caused the _Comet_ to glide earthward. A terrified yell broke from Le Bon. "What's the matter, up there?" "Keep your nerve," flung back the king of the motor boys; "something's wrong with the motor--but we'll be all right." Yes, Matt knew that the aëroplane would glide earthward and land him and Le Bon without injury; but, if it could not be guided, it was as likely to land on the heads of that dense crowd as anywhere. That would mean serious, if not fatal, injury to many men--perhaps to women and children. Motor Matt's face went white, and his heart pounded in his throat. Nevertheless he kept a cool head and a steady hand. He figured out the exact point where they would come down. It was in the very thickest part of the crowd, and the people were trying frantically to get out of the way. Then, just as it seemed as though nothing could prevent a terrible accident, the motor again took up its cycle and the slowly whirling propeller increased its speed. A long breath of relief escaped Matt's tense lips as he drove the aëroplane upward and the direction of the roped-off road. "What ails the blooming motor?" came from Le Bon in a distraught voice. "We came within one of killing a lot of people. I'm all in a sweat." "I don't know what's the matter with the motor," answered Matt, "but I'm going to find out just as soon as I turn to go back on the course." "Better descend. This is more than I can stand." "We can't descend until we reach the right place." Matt made a wide turn, the engine working perfectly. "Hold on tight, below there," he called. "I've got to take my attention from running the motor for a moment, and if we give a wild pitch or two don't be afraid. I'll be able to keep the machine right side up." "I'm pretty near all in," came from Le Bon in a subdued voice, "but it would take an axe to chop me off this trapeze." Matt gave a quick look behind him. What he saw nearly froze him with horror. A cobra--undoubtedly the very snake he had seen in the calliope tent--was twined about two of the electric wires. The wires, as originally strung, were an inch and a half apart, and insulated. The coils of the six-foot cobra encircled both. As the coils contracted the wires were forced together, and two points of the copper, where the insulating material was worn off, were brought in contact. Thus a short circuit was formed and a bad leak made for the electricity. At the moment Matt looked the coils of the cobra had loosened, causing the tightly strung wires to spring a little apart, thus restoring the spark to the cylinders. But at any moment the coils might tighten again and cause another short circuit. As though to crown the terrors of the moment, the cobra's head was lifted from the wires by a third of the anterior length of its body--a favorite position assumed by the cobra in gliding along the earth--and the diamond-like eyes were fastened upon Matt with deadly animosity. Motor Matt's one thought was this: If he were bitten by the snake before he had manipulated a safe landing, the swift working of the virus in his veins would keep him from doing his duty in preventing injury to the spectators below. With white face and gleaming eyes, he turned from the cobra and manoeuvred to place the aëroplane lengthwise of the roped-off space on the ground. Before he could place the machine in proper position the motor again commenced to miss fire, and then died all over again. A groan was wrenched from Matt's lips as the machine fluttered downward toward the massed human heads underneath. The groan was echoed by Le Bon. "We're dropping toward them again!" yelled the man below. Matt turned in his seat, letting the aëroplane take care of itself. Throwing himself back, he caught at the hooded brown head with his hand. There was a dart, quick as lightning, and Matt's wrist was touched as though by a hot coal. With a loud cry he flung his arm forward, dragging the full length of the cobra from the wires. For the fraction of an instant the snake hung in midair, then yielded to the impetus of the arm to which it held and coiled sinuously outward and downward into space. The motor had again resumed its work, but the _Comet_ hung at a frightful angle and was dropping like so much lead, the atmosphere striking the planes almost on their edges. Matt was calm, now, and cool as ever. He went to work at the levers, righted the machine within fifteen feet of the bobbing heads, and sent it upward into the air. He was alone, for Le Bon, when so close to the ground, had dropped. In fact, owing to the length of the trapeze ropes, Le Bon's feet had almost swept the heads of the terrified spectators. Steadily upward climbed the machine. Every moment was precious to the king of the motor boys, for if he was to receive medical aid to counteract the bite of the reptile, it could not be long deferred. But what was the use of indulging in hope? He had been bitten by the cobra, and the lecturer in the museum had declared that a person so injured could not hope. Vaguely Matt wondered why the poison in his veins had not already rushed to his brain and paralyzed him into inaction. He was feeling as strong as ever, and as able to effect a safe landing without danger to the people on the show grounds. That was the thing he had set out to accomplish, and it was the thing he would do. Freed of Le Bon's weight, the _Comet_ was more manageable. With steady hand and cool, unshaken judgment, he laid the _Comet_ parallel with the road, glided downward with a rush, shut off the power, and touched the hard ground squarely between the guard ropes. The jar of the landing was hardly perceptible, and Matt stepped out of the car, to be grabbed by McGlory and to see Burton, dismounted and anxious, at his side. "The cobra----" began Matt. "Killed," struck in Burton. "Did it bite any one in the crowd?" "No; every one was out of the way, and the fall itself nearly did the business for the reptile." "Then get a doctor for me," said Matt, showing a trickle of blood on his wrist. "That's the cobra's mark." CHAPTER XII. A SCIENTIFIC FACT. For an instant, following Motor Matt's tragic announcement, McGlory and Burton were stricken dumb with horror. The cowboy was first to recover his wits, and he leaped to the back of Burton's horse. "Doctor!" he shouted, galloping madly along the road between the ropes that separated the crowd; "we want a doctor! Where's a doctor?" In a crowd like that it was natural that there should be many doctors, and no less than three forced themselves through the throng, dived under the ropes, and hurried to Motor Matt. Among these three physicians was Doctor Horton, an old man of no particular school, but widely read and eminent in his profession. "He'll die," said one of the medical men. "If that snake was a genuine cobra, and if its fangs were not removed, Motor Matt might as well make his will--and be quick about it." "My opinion exactly," said the other physician. "Bosh!" answered Doctor Horton derisively. The other two turned on him. "What do you mean, Horton?" they demanded. "Just what I say," was the response. "This brave lad, who endangered his own life to save innocent spectators, is as sound as a dollar this minute." "Then the snake was not a cobra," averred one of the others. "It _was_ a cobra," snapped Doctor Horton; "I saw it." "Then its fangs had been pulled." "They had not been pulled--I saw them, too." "It is not possible, in that case, that the young man was bitten." "Not bitten?" cried Doctor Horton ironically, lifting Matt's wrist, which he was holding. "Certainly he was bitten, and by one of the most poisonous snakes of which we have any knowledge. There's the mark, gentlemen, and it's as plain as the nose on your face. We were looking up at him, weren't we, when he was fighting the cobra and fighting, at the same time, to keep the flying machine from dropping into the crowd? And didn't we see him fling out his arm with the snake hanging to his wrist? The force in the throw of the arm--and there's some strength there, gentlemen, believe me," interjected the doctor, patting the biceps--"flung the reptile off. It fell, and so close to me that I had the pleasure of putting my heel on its head. Do you suppose for a minute that the cobra could hang to Motor Matt's arm without biting? I am surprised at you." "What's the answer?" inquired one of the other two. "The venom of the cobra," proceeded Doctor Horton, "acts swiftly on the human system. Yet we see here none of the symptoms attending such poisoning. By now, you understand, they should be well advanced. You ask me the reason our brave young friend is in a normal condition? A scientific fact has come to his rescue. It is well known," and the doctor accented the "well" and gave his medical confrères a humorous glance, "that the cobra can bite, but cannot release its poison _unless the fangs come together in the wound_. In this case, the fangs did not meet, consequently the bite was as harmless as that of the ordinary garter snake." Dr. Horton slipped his fingers along Matt's wrist and gripped his hand. "You are to be congratulated; my lad," he went on. "It was your quickness in seizing the snake, I infer, and in hurling it from the aëroplane, that prevented it from laying firm hold of you. Tell us what happened. We have learned a little from the acrobat who was on the trapeze, and who dropped off when near the ground, but we were all too much excited, at the time, to pay much attention to him. Besides, he was under the aëroplane, and in no position to know just what went on in your vicinity. Give us the facts." Matt, relieved beyond expression, told of the cause of the short circuit, and of his attempts to get the machine in the right position for alighting; and finished with a terse account of the way he had grabbed the cobra and flung it from him. The exciting chronicle was set forth in few words and with the utmost diffidence. The recital, however, struck an undernote of courage and self-sacrifice in the line of duty that caught Doctor Horton's admiration. "Once more," said the physician, taking Matt's hand. "What you accomplished, my lad, was nobly done. How many could have kept their wits in such a situation? Not many--hardly one out of a thousand. You're the manager of this show, are you?" he added, turning to Burton. "I am, yes, sir," replied Boss Burton. "Then you owe Motor Matt a lot. A fearful accident has been averted, and you might have been swamped with damage suits." The crowd surged around the _Comet_, and stout canvasmen had to be summoned to force the people back. Burton, mounted on his saddle horse, saw a chance to say a few words. "Good people," he shouted, "every act down on my bills is faithfully given exactly as represented. I tolerate no misstatements in any of my paper. The gallant young motorist, who has exhibited his aëroplane to you this afternoon in an act more thrilling than even the most imaginative showman could advertise, is but one of many artists of world-wide reputation whom I have secured, at fabulous expense, to amuse you behind yonder tented walls. This is the only show now on the road to give, absolutely free, such a grand outdoor flying machine exhibition. Other acts, equally thrilling and instructive, will soon be performed in the two large rings and on the elevated stage under the main canvas. The doors are now open." With that Boss Burton, having secured probably the greatest advertisement his show had ever received, rode off in the direction of the tents. While the crowd followed, and Matt and McGlory found themselves, for the first time, able to have a little heart-to-heart talk, they drew off to one side and began making the most of their opportunity. "Say, pard," said the cowboy glumly, "I'm about ready to quit this aëroplane business." "Why?" asked Matt. "There's not money enough in the country to pay me for going through what I did when I saw you swinging aloft with the cobra." "You saw it?" queried Matt. "That's what I did, and I yelled and tried to let you know about it, but the crowd was making so much noise you couldn't hear." Dusk was beginning to fall, and the gasoline torches about the show grounds leaped out like dazzling fireflies. McGlory stared at them thoughtfully for a space, then passed a handkerchief across his damp forehead. "It don't pay," he muttered. "You take all the risk, Matt, and Ping and I just slop around and kick you off when you make your jump skyward. I'd rather, enough sight, have been up in the machine with you than standing down here on the ground, watching and worrying." Matt did not dismiss his cowboy pard's words with the careless laugh he usually had for such sage remarks. "It's all nonsense, of course," said he, "your talking about me taking all the risk and doing all the work. I fly the machine because I'm the only one who can do it, but you help me in other ways that are just as important. I'm in the air for perhaps thirty minutes each day, while you're on the ground, old pard, and watching things during every hour of the twenty-four." "Watching things!" exploded McGlory. "Speak to me about that! How well do I watch things? Did I see the Hindoo when he hitched that bag with the snake to the aëroplane? It was my business to get onto that, and I didn't know until you had left the road and were too far up to hear me. That's what I'm kicking about. I fell down--and I'm to blame for the whole bloomin' mishap." "You're not," said Matt sharply, "and I won't have you say so. It's useless to harp on such things, anyhow, Joe, so let's discuss something of more importance." "The way you fooled the cobra? Why, that's----" "Not that, either. The bag tied to the aëroplane has the name of the show lettered on it, so----" "Burton and I both discovered that," interrupted McGlory. "Carter had two bags containing the show money. We already had one, and that bag's the other. Wait, and I'll get it." McGlory dived under the lower wing of the machine and groped about until he found the bag. "There was nothing in it but the snake," said he, as he rejoined Matt. "It was a bagful of trouble, all right, at that. Fine two-tongue performance the Hindoo gave when he said he had sold the snake. Sufferin' Ananias! I suspected him of putting the bag there the minute I saw the cobra crawling up onto the lower wing, behind you and Le Bon." "Did you hunt for the fellow?" asked Matt. "_Did_ we! Why, Burton had every man that could be spared from the show chasing all over the grounds. What's more, he sent word to the police, and they're on the hunt. Here's what that Hindoo tinhorn has done: He tried to make Rajah wreck the aëroplane, and he tried his best to get you and the cobra mixed up while in the air. Why? What's his reason for actin' like that?" "Give it up, Joe. Not only has Dhondaram done all that, but he has lifted Burton's ticket-wagon money. There's something back of it all, and I'd give a farm to know just what it is. If I----" McGlory was interrupted by a cracked voice, down the road, lifted in what purported to be song: "Hi le, hi lo, hi le, hi lo, Bei uns gets immer je länger je schlimmer, Hi le, hi lo, hi le, hi lo, Bei uns gets immer ja so!" "Carl!" exclaimed Matt. "I could tell that voice of his among a thousand." "But what the nation is he coming with?" cried McGlory, peering along the road into the gloom. "Looks like he had a rig of some kind." The "rig," when it drew closer, proved to be one of the donkey carts driven by the clowns in the parade. The Dutch boy was walking ahead and leading the donkey. "Hooray for der greadt tedectif!" whooped Carl, bringing the donkey outfit to a halt. "Modor Matt, I haf dit vat you say." "What have you done, Carl?" returned Matt curiously. "Come aroundt by der cart und take a look!" Thereupon Carl caught Matt's arm and led him to the cart. The cart was small and mounted on low wheels, and Matt and McGlory had no difficulty in looking down into it. Ping, his hands and feet tied together, was roped to the seat. Suddenly he set up a wail. "My velly bad China boy!" he whimpered, "velly bad China boy. Motol Matt, you no like Ping ally mo'." "Dot's vat I dit," observed Carl, puffing out his chest, folding his arms, and striking an attitude. "I ketch der shink, like vat you say, und he shpeak oudt himseluf dot he don'd vas any goot. Vat I tell you ven ve vas at subber, hey? I vas der greadest tedectif vat efer habbened, I bed you." CHAPTER XIII. PING ON THE WRONG TRACK. To say that Motor Matt and Joe McGlory were surprised at the odd situation confronting them would paint their feelings in too faint a color. "How did this happen?" demanded Matt. "Me," said Carl, "I made it habben. Venefer I go afder some fellers I ged him. Yah, so!" "What's Ping tied up for?" "To make sure mit meinseluf dot he vould come." "Where did you find him?" "In vone oof dose ganvas wagons bedween vich der money vas took. He vas ashleep. I ged me some ropes und vile he shleep, py shiminy, I ged der rope on his hants. Den I porrow der mu-el und der leedle vagon. I see der flying mashine in der air, und I hear der people yell like plazes, aber I don'd haf time for nodding but der shink. You say to pring him, und I dit. Dere he vas. Ven Modor Matt tell Carl Pretzel to do somet'ing, id vas as goot as dit." Another wail came from Ping, but it was not accompanied by any words that could be understood. "Take the ropes off him, Carl," ordered Matt. "You should not have tied him like that." "Den for vy he shleep in der ganvas wagon ven you tell him to drail der Hintoo?" "Ping will explain about that." "My velly bad China boy," gurgled the prisoner. "Motol Matt no likee ally mo'. Givee China boy bounce." Carl, with an air of great importance, proceeded to take the cords off Ping's hands. The moment the ropes were all removed Ping leaped at Carl over the side of the cart, grabbed him savagely, and they both went down and rolled over and over in the road. The mixture of pidgin English and Dutch dialect that accompanied the scrimmage was appalling. Quickly as they could, Matt and McGlory separated the boys and held them apart. "I told you somet'ing," yelled Carl, "und dot iss der shinks is der vorst peoples vat I know." "Dutchy boy no good!" piped Ping. "No lettee China boy savee face. Woosh!" "Here, now," spoke up Matt sternly. "Tell us all about this, Ping. Did you follow the Hindoo, as I told you?" "Allee same," answered the Chinese boy. "Why did you leave the trail? Did you lose it?" "My velly bad China boy," insisted Ping, with the usual wail. "You didn't lose the trail?" "No losee, just makee stop." "You quit following the Hindoo?" "Allee same," sniffed Ping. "What was the reason?" "My velly----" "Yes, yes, I know all that, but tell me why you quit following Dhondaram." "Him makee tlacks fo' ticket wagon, makee pidgin with tlicket man, makee go to canvas wagon, makee hide. Bymby, 'long come Dutchy boy, blingee tlicket man. Tlicket man him cally two bag. Hindoo makee jump, hittee Dutchy boy, knockee down." Ping chuckled as though he considered the matter a good joke. "Tlicket man and Hindoo man takee money bags, empty allee same in hat, takee snake flom basket, puttee snake in one bag, puttee othel bag in Dutchy boy's pocket. My savvy. Hindoo man and tlicket man stealee money, makee think Dutchy boy stealee. My thinkee one piecee fine business. Stopee follow tlail. Dutchy boy findee heap tlouble. My no ketchee Motol Matt, for' Motol Matt makee China boy tellee 'bout Dutchy boy. Woosh! Ping him velly bad China boy. No likee Dutchy boy. Heap likee him get in tlouble." Here was a lot of information tied up in a small and ragged bundle of pidgin. In order to develop all the different parts of it, Matt undertook a line of patient cross-examination. When the talk was finished the fact that stood out prominently was this, that Ping had allowed his feeling against Carl to beguile him into a most reprehensible course of conduct. He saw the thieves at work, and guessed that they were trying to involve Carl in the robbery. Ping was glad to have Carl involved, so he stopped following the Hindoo and hid himself away in order that Matt might not find him and learn the truth. It was sad but true that the China boy had let his hostility to Carl lure him away on the wrong track. "Ping," said Matt sternly, "you acted like a heathen. Carl is a friend of mine, and entitled to your consideration. Instead of helping him out of his trouble, you held back in the hope that he would get into deep water. You can't work for me if you act like that." "My makee mistake, velly bad mistake," moaned Ping. "No makee ally mo'." "You have been telling yarns about Carl, too," went on Matt. "You told Boss Burton that you had found Carl going through your clothes and taking----" "Py shiminy Grismus!" whooped Carl. "Take your handts avay, McGlory, und led me ged at dot yellow feller. Schust vonce, only vonce! He has peen telling aroundt dot I vas a ropper! _Ach, du lieber!_ I vas so madt I feel like I bust oop." "Hold your bronks, Carl," growled McGlory. "You're not going to get away." "Allee same, Motol Matt, my speakee like that," acknowledged Ping. "Dutchy boy say China boy no good. My no likee." "You told things that were not true," proceeded Matt, "and they helped to get Carl into trouble." "My savvy." "Are you sorry you did it?" "Heap solly, you bettee." "Py shinks," fussed Carl, "I'll make him sorrier as dot, vone oof dose days." "I guess, Joe," remarked Matt, "that we'll have to cut loose from both Carl and Ping. What's the use of trying to do anything with them? They act like young hoodlums, and I'm ashamed to own them for pards." "Pull the pin on the pair of them, Matt," counseled McGlory. "They make us more trouble than they're worth." A howl of protest went up from Carl. "For vy you cut loose from me, hey?" he demanded. "I dit vat you say. I pring in der shink." "You don't do what I say, Carl," answered Matt. "I have tried to get you two boys to bury the hatchet, but you won't. This bickering of yours has resulted in a lot of trouble for all hands, and pretty serious trouble, at that. We can't work together unless we're all on friendly terms." "My makee fliendly terms," said Ping eagerly. "Givee China boy anothel chance, Motol Matt. Plenty soon my go top-side, you no givee chance." "Schust gif me some more shances, too, bard," begged Carl. "I don'd vant to haf you cut me adrift like vat you say." "Well," returned Matt thoughtfully, "I'll give you just one more opportunity. Take the mule and wagon, both of you, and return them to the place where Carl found them. Remember this, though, that you can't travel with McGlory and me unless you show a little more friendship toward each other." Carl and Ping stepped forward in the gloom. There was a moment's hesitation, and then Carl took the mule by the halter and moved off. Ping trailed along behind. "Don't say a word to any one about what Ping discovered," Matt called after the boys, and both shouted back their assurances that they would not. "Well, tell me about that!" gasped McGlory, his voice between a growl and a chuckle. "Ping saw the robbery, and was keeping quiet about it just to let Carl get into a hard row of stumps. He's a heathen, and no mistake." "But the point that interests me a lot," said Matt, "is the fact that Carter himself is mixed up in the robbery! He planned it with this rascally Hindoo, who joined the show this morning and has been doing his villainous work all day. Carter was trying to get the benefit of the robbery and, at the same time, shirk the responsibility and stay with the show." "How's that for a double deal?" muttered McGlory, amazed at the audacity of the ticket seller as Matt put the case in cold words. "But then," he added, "Ping may not be telling the truth." "I've lost a good deal of confidence in Ping," returned Matt, "but I believe he's giving the matter to us straight. One of the money bags, as Ping says, was put in Carl's pocket while he was lying dazed and unconscious from the blow dealt him by Dhondaram; and Ping also says that the snake was put in the other bag. That has all been proved to be the case." "And Carter must have slashed himself on the cheek just to make it look to Burton as though he'd had a rough time during the robbery!" "Exactly." "All this fails to explain, though, why Dhondaram tried to destroy the aëroplane, and then fastened the bag with the snake to the lower wing of the machine." "We're on the right track to discover all that. Let's hunt up Burton, and then we can all three of us have a talk with Andy Carter." "That's the talk!" agreed McGlory. "You stay here, pard, and I'll hunt up some one to watch the _Comet_ while we're gone. After what's happened to-day, I hate to leave the machine alone for a minute." McGlory was not long in coming with a man to look after the aëroplane, and he and Matt left immediately to find Boss Burton. CHAPTER XIV. FACING A TRAITOR. Inquiry developed the fact that Boss Burton was in the ticket wagon with Carter, checking over the evening's receipts and making them ready to be carried to the train and safely stowed until the next town on the show's schedule was reached. "We'll catch Carter right in the strong wagon," laughed McGlory, as he and Matt hurried to the place. The door of the wagon was always kept locked. Matt knocked, and the voice of Burton demanded to know what was wanted. "It's Motor Matt," replied the young motorist. "Let us in for a few minutes, Burton." "I'll come out and talk with you. There's not much room in here." "I'd rather talk in there," said Matt. "It's important. McGlory is with me." A bolt was shoved and the door of the wagon pulled open. "What's all the hurry?" asked Burton, as the boys crowded in. "You'll know in a few moments," answered Matt, closing the door behind him and forcing the bolt into its socket. Carter sat at a small table on which a shaded oil lamp was burning. He and Burton, it seemed, had finished their work, and there were two canvas bags, lettered like those with which Matt was already familiar, near the lamp. The bags were bulging with silver and bills. Convenient to Carter's hand lay a six-shooter. Matt's eye was on the weapon. There was no telling what Carter would do when he learned why the boys had paid their call on him and Burton. "What's up?" asked Burton. "Something I've got to talk over with you and Carter," replied Matt. Casually he picked up the revolver. "A S. and W., eh?" he murmured, giving the weapon a brief examination. Then, still holding the weapon, he transfixed the ticket man with a steely look. "Where's the money that was stolen this afternoon, Carter?" he asked. Carter started up. "What do you mean?" he flung back, his face flushing and then becoming deadly pale. "That's what I'd like to know," blustered Burton. "You act as though you thought Andy knew where that money was." "He does know," said Matt decisively. "The whole plot has come out. There were two robbers, Dhondaram and Carter." "I'll not stand for this!" cried Carter wrathfully. "Burton," and he leveled a quick gaze at the showman, "are you going to let this upstart come in here and insult me?" There was an odd glimmer in the showman's eyes. "Be careful, Matt," he cautioned. "You're making mighty grave charges." "Are they any graver," asked Matt, "than the charges you made against Carl?" "You haven't the same foundation for them that I had--and have now, for that matter." "You're on a wrong tack, Burton," proceeded Matt. "The theft of that money was the result of a plot between the Hindoo and Carter here----" "And I struck myself in the head and cut my face, eh?" sneered Carter. "A likely yarn." "Whether you were knocked down or not is open to question. But there isn't any doubt about your cutting your face. You say you fell against one of the wagon wheels. There's not a particle of evidence to bear out the story. You wanted to make it appear as though you were robbed. Dhondaram hid himself in one of the wagons----" "Oh, he did!" returned Carter ironically. "He knew your Dutch pard was going to ask me to go there, I suppose. If that's the case, why wasn't your Dutch pard in the plot, too?" That was the one weak place in Matt's theory. According to Ping, Dhondaram had gone into hiding at the wagons. Matt supposed that Ping was a little at sea, or that the Hindoo had not made for the wagons until he had seen that Carl and Carter were going there. "Dhondaram knew what was going to happen," continued Matt, "and he placed himself where he could be of most aid in carrying out the plot. He knocked Carl down, and while the lad lay senseless you and Dhondaram emptied the money bags into your hats. One of the bags was placed in Carl's pocket, and the Hindoo took the snake from the basket and placed it in the other bag. You two wanted the basket for the money, and you wanted the empty bag in Carl's pocket in order to throw suspicion on him. We all know how the other bag was used. Dhondaram said----" Carter gave a startled jump, and a muttered oath fell from his lips. "Did that infernal scoundrel tell you all this?" rasped out the ticket man. "I'm not saying a word about----" "I know he did!" ground out Carter, going all to pieces on the mere suspicion. "He told it all, and you----" With a sharp cry of rage, Carter flung himself at Motor Matt and made a desperate effort to secure the revolver. Matt hung to the weapon, and Burton caught Carter and pushed him down in his chair. "Here's a fine how-d'ye-do," grunted Burton. "Andy, you've worked for me two years, and I never thought you'd turn against me like this!" "It was Ben Ali roped me into it," was Carter's angry reply. "If I had that gun in my hands, I'd show you a trick or two. Well," and he threw a look at Burton, chagrined but defiant, "what are you going to do about it?" The showman sat down on the edge of the table. "You admit the whole business, eh, Andy?" he asked. "Dhondaram seems to have given his side of the story, and I might as well give mine," answered the ticket man. Matt flashed a look at McGlory. The king of the motor boys had not intended to convey the impression that the Hindoo had been captured and had confessed, but Carter, out of his guilty conscience, had jumped to that conclusion. "You might as well tell it all, Andy, and be perfectly frank with me," said Burton. "What had Ben Ali to do with the affair?" "He figured it out while he was with the show," went on Carter. "So----" He broke off suddenly. "But what good is it going to do me to tell you all this?" he asked. "It may do you a lot of good, Andy, and it may not do you any. You'll have to take your chances on that." Carter was thoughtful for a few moments, and then gave vent to a bitter laugh. "Well," said he recklessly, "here goes, neck or nothing. I'll see to it, though, that this Dhondaram has his share of the responsibility," and a glitter crept into the ticket man's eyes. "As I say, Ben Ali figured out how the game could be worked. We were going to try it long before we reached Lafayette, but circumstances didn't just shape themselves so we could pull it off. I thought about the deal for some time before I agreed to go into it. The habit you have, Burton, of making me tote the money bags to the calliope tent after the ticket office closes for the afternoon show first gave Ben Ali the idea. But Ben Ali, as you all know, made things too hot to hold him, in the show, and had to pull out. I was glad of it, for I thought the temptation had been taken away from me entirely, but this morning along comes Dhondaram, direct from Ben Ali----" "From Ben Ali?" echoed Motor Matt. "Speak to me about that!" grunted McGlory. "Surprise to you, eh, Motor Matt?" observed Carter, with an evil grin. "Ben Ali is a bad man to get down on you, and I guess he's got as big a grouch against Motor Matt as he could have against any fellow on earth. Ben Ali, since he left the show, has been framing up a scheme to put the king of the motor boys out of business. In order to carry out his plan, he sent to Chicago for Dhondaram--and, between you and me, that's where Ben Ali made a mistake. The two Hindoos met near the town of Lafayette somewhere, and Ben Ali told Dhondaram what he wanted. Dhondaram was to hire out as a keeper for Rajah, and the elephant was to do the business for the aëroplane. The cobra was to make things warm for Motor Matt. It was all cut and dried between the two Hindoos. But I was rung into it when Ben Ali told Dhondaram to work the hold-up here in Jackson. Dhondaram came to me at the ticket wagon and I had a short talk with him. He said he'd bowl me over and get the money, and then take chances on getting away and playing even with Motor Matt later. I didn't know how the Hindoo was to work it; and I wouldn't have gone into the game at all if I had known all that was to happen. "Dhondaram heard me talking with the Dutchman when he flagged me and wanted to talk. He must also have heard the Dutchman mention the canvas wagons, for he was there when we reached them. The first thing I knew the Dutchman was down, lying like a log on the ground. There was nothing for me to do then but to mar myself up and make it look as though there had been a fracas. We put the money in the basket, and hid the basket under a pile of old canvas in one of the wagons. It was arranged that I should meet Dhondaram to-night, bring the basket, and then we'd divide the loot. "But I was suspicious of Dhondaram. He was a stranger to me, and I wasn't going to trust him. During the afternoon, while the aëroplane flight was on, I took the basket out of the wagon and stowed it in another place. By doing that I made it impossible for the Hindoo to pick it up and slope without meeting me. That's all." "Where's the money?" inquired Burton. He had had abundant faith in Andy Carter, and there was something almost sad in the showman's face as he listened to the tale of treachery. Carter leaned forward. "I'll tell you that, Burton," he answered, "just as soon as you promise to let me off and not make any move against me on account of the robbery." The brazenness of the proposition struck Burton, and struck him hard. But it was the logical thing for Carter to do, in the circumstances. It was a trump card, and he was cunning enough to know how to play it. "I'm getting a good many surprises to-night," muttered Burton, "but I guess I deserve it for trusting a whelp like you. I agree, of course. You know very well I can't do anything else." "You'll not take any legal action against me?" asked Carter eagerly. "No." "Of course I can't work for the show any longer?" "Well, I should say not! What do you take me for?" "I thought as much, but I wanted to make sure." "Just a moment," put in Matt. "Where were you to meet Dhondaram, and at what time?" "Didn't he tell you that? It was to be sometime before the show was over, at the edge of the grounds on the south side. I was to come that way with the basket, and whistle. Where did you nab the Hindoo? I suppose it was that infernal snake business that got you after him." "He hasn't been nabbed," returned Matt. "You took that for granted, Carter." Carter sank back in his chair and stared. Then he swore under his breath. "I'm a fool of the first water, and no mistake," said he, "but that Hindoo will kill me if he's left at large. You can capture him if you go where I told you and do what I said. I'm playing in tough luck, Burton," he added dejectedly. "You're playing in more luck than you ought to have, at that," snarled Burton. "Put on your hat and coat, and we'll go for the money." "No," put in Matt, "let me take his hat and coat." Burton stared, then gave a short laugh as Matt's plan drifted over him. "Right you are, Matt," said he. "Put on the hat and coat. I guess Carter won't take any harm going out in his shirt sleeves and without his hat. But give me the gun. That will be of use in case Andy forgets his agreement." A few minutes later they all left the ticket wagon, locking the door behind them. The wagon was constructed of boiler iron, and the money in the bags would be safe where it was until the time came for loading the show and getting ready to move to the next town. CHAPTER XV. MEETING THE HINDOO. Andy Carter, as it turned out, was playing his part in good faith. Perhaps he reasoned that he had been sufficiently treacherous, and that the very least he could do was to wind up a bad business on the square. The basket, removed by him from the canvas wagon to prevent the Hindoo from making off with it, had been carried to a clump of bushes not far from the railroad tracks, on the north side of the show grounds, and covered with a pile of broken sticks and other refuse. Men were already pulling down some of the auxiliary tents and loading them into wagons and driving the wagons to the waiting train. The elephants and nearly all the animal cages had been loaded, while the band wagons and the "chariots" had been stowed in their cars late in the afternoon. "I suppose you're through with me, now?" inquired Carter, after Burton had secured the basket. "I will be," said Burton, "as soon as I make sure that all the money is here." "You'll be too late to catch the Hindoo," demurred Carter, "if you insist on going back to the wagon and counting over all that stuff." "Then we'll lay the Hindoo by the heels before we count it. You can go with us, Carter. It'll do you good to see the fellow caught." "He'll kill me!" declared Carter, drawing back. "I guess he won't. There are too many of us for him to cut up very rough." "If he sees all of us coming across the grounds, he'll suspect something and sheer off." "There's sense in that, all right," remarked Burton. "On the whole, I believe I'll change my plans." Burton stopped one of the wagons that was moving toward the train. "Where's Harris?" he asked of the driver of the wagon. "He's comin' right behind me," was the answer. Harris was Burton's brother-in-law, and had always been in the showman's confidence. He was riding on a pile of tent poles, holding a couple of trunks on the load. "Harris," called Burton, "I want you to take this basket down to the train for me. Don't let it get out of your hands." "Another snake in it, Burton?" queried Harris, as he reached down for the basket. "Well," answered Burton, "I wouldn't look into it to find out. Mind what I say and don't let the basket get away from you." Having been reassured on this point by Harris, Burton, Matt, McGlory, and Carter moved on. Picking up two men at the dismantled animal tent, Burton turned Carter over to them. "Andy has resigned," the showman explained dryly to the men, "and he wants to go to the train after his trunk. You men go with him, and keep hold of him all the time. Understand? See that he don't take anything but what belongs to him." Carter was none too well liked among the show people, and the two men agreed cheerfully to look after him. "Now," said Burton, as he walked off with Matt and McGlory, "we're in shape to meet the Hindoo. I don't know what I can do with the scoundrel after I get my hands on him. If he is put in jail here, I'll have to come back myself, or send somebody else, to make out a case against him. That wouldn't do--it would only cause extra expense and a loss of time. I guess we'll tie him up and take him along with us on section two of the train." "Dhondaram ought to be made pay for what he has done," said Matt. "I think you ought to go to a little inconvenience, Burton, in the interests of law and order." "The inconveniences may be more than you think, Matt. Suppose you would have to come back here to testify against the Hindoo? That would mean no aëroplane work for two or three days. I couldn't stand for that." By that time, the three were close to the south side of the grounds. There were scattered clumps of bushes, here, and a few trees. "We'd better hang back, Matt," whispered Burton, "while you go on and do the whistling. We'll be near enough to help you when Dhondaram shows himself. If he's too ugly, I'll use the revolver." "He's got a bowie, Matt," cautioned McGlory. "Don't let him get a hack at you with it. He could help out Ben Ali's scheme of vengeance a good deal handier with the knife than with the cobra." Matt stepped on ahead of Burton and McGlory, and began to whistle softly. He had not gone twenty feet before the whistle was answered and a dark figure stepped shadowily from behind some bushes. "Carter Sahib!" came a low call. "Dhondaram?" returned Matt. "Here!" came the eager answer. "Have you brought the basket, sahib?" "You know why I was to meet you," replied Matt, ignoring the question. He disguised his voice as well as he could, and the low tone in which he spoke served still further to hide his identity. The Hindoo could see that Matt was not carrying anything, and evidently his distrust was aroused. "The sahib is fooling me!" he exclaimed. "You have not brought with you the basket. Part of the money is mine." Matt had supposed that the Hindoo would run, as soon as he detected the trick. But he did not. On the contrary, he bounded straight at Matt and caught him by the shoulders. "I want you, Dhondaram!" cried Matt, dropping his attempts at concealment. "You're a prisoner!" Matt was strong, but the Hindoo was as slippery as an eel. With his arms about him, Matt tried to hold the villain, and in a measure succeeded. Dhondaram, however, heard the running feet and the voices of Burton and McGlory and redoubled his desperate efforts to escape. He broke from Matt's arms, but Matt caught his left wrist and clung to it like a leech. With his right hand the Hindoo jerked his knife from his sash and made a vicious lunge with it. Matt avoided the lunge, and before the attack could be repeated the showman and the cowboy had reached the scene. Then, even with all three of them against him, Dhondaram made a desperate resistance. But numbers prevailed, and the rascally scoundrel's hands were bound at his back by means of his turban, which was opened out and twisted into a makeshift rope. "He's a fighter, and no mistake," panted Burton, as he held the prisoner by one arm while McGlory took the other. "No more nonsense, Dhondaram," the showman threatened, flashing the weapon in front of his eyes. "You see what I've got? Well, look out that I don't use it." The six-shooter, dimly visible in the gloom, had a quieting effect on the Hindoo. "Don't shoot, sahib," he begged. "I go where you want." "That's better," said Burton. "Trot along, and we'll soon be where we're going." Their destination was the train, and they presently had Dhondaram in the sleeping car attached to section two. Very few of the show people had arrived, as yet, and an attempt was made to get a little information out of the prisoner. But the Hindoo would not talk. In response to every question put to him, he shook his head and held his tongue. "He'll talk with us in the morning," said Burton confidently. "Just tie his feet, boys, and leave him here. I've got to go back to the ticket wagon." Matt and McGlory made the prisoner's feet secure, and a tap on the window called Matt's attention. Thinking it might be Burton, wishing to give him a private message, Matt left the car. It was not Burton, but Carter and the two men set to watch him. Carter wanted his hat and coat. While Matt was returning the borrowed garments, Carl and Ping came along, talking amiably with each other. Matt sent them into the car to look after the Hindoo, and also to tell McGlory to come out and help prepare the aëroplane for loading. "I don't know, pard," said McGlory, as he and Matt made their way hastily to the place where the _Comet_ had been left, "but I reckon the motor boys have got a little the best of this ruction that Dhondaram kicked up. Burton has recovered the stolen money, Carter has been fired, and Dhondaram is a prisoner. Luck's on our side after all, eh?" "That's the way it looks," answered Matt. CHAPTER XVI. A BIT OF A BACKSET. The preparing of the aëroplane for loading was not a difficult matter. The small front planes were removed, and lashed between the two larger planes. This narrowed the machine sufficiently so that it could be loaded into the car especially prepared for it. After the machine had been safely stowed, the two tired lads went to their section in the sleeper. Burton was there, sitting under a lamp and hastily running over the contents of the basket. "I guess it's all here," said he, dumping the silver and bills into the receptacle and closing the lid. "Anyhow, I'm too much fagged to bother any more with the stuff to-night. It's about time we all turned in, don't you think?" "I'm Ready's whole family, when it comes to that," yawned McGlory. "Talk about your strenuous days! I think this has been a harder one than that other day we put in at Lafayette, Indiana. What do you say, Matt?" "We seem to have worked harder than we did then, and to have less to show for it," said Matt. "Less to show for it!" repeated Burton. "I don't know what you mean by that, son. It isn't every day you save your flying machine from a mad elephant and wrestle with a cobra on the _Comet_, in midair!" "And it's not every day the Big Consolidated is held up, thieves captured, and _dinero_ recovered, all before we leave town," supplemented McGlory. "It was exciting enough," said Matt, "but it all seems so useless." "The hand of Ben Ali was behind it all," remarked Burton, pulling off his shoes. "That villain ought to be run down and put behind the bars for ninety-nine years. You'll not be safe a minute, Matt, until he's locked up." "I guess," ventured the king of the motor boys, "that Ben Ali, after this lesson, will keep away from me." "I wish I could think so," said Burton. "What'll you do with Dhondaram?" inquired McGlory. "You can't send him to jail in any other town for an offense he committed in Jackson." "Sending him to jail is the last thing I'm thinking of," was Burton's response. "What I want is to induce him to talk. He may give us a line on Ben Ali that will enable Matt to keep away from the wily old villain." "Don't hang onto Dhondaram on my account," said Matt. "I've told Ben Ali what to expect if he ever comes near me again." "That's you!" exulted McGlory. "All your scare-talk, Burton, goes clean over Matt's head." The showman pulled off his coat and leaned back in his seat reflectively. He did not seem to have heard McGlory's observation. "I've got a notion," began Burton, "that----" He paused. "What's the notion?" urged the cowboy. "It ain't like you to hang fire, Burton." "Well," pursued Burton, "it's this way: I've got an elephant on my hands that can't be handled by any white trainer in the show. Dhondaram can handle the brute to the queen's taste. What's the answer?" "You don't mean to say," expostulated Matt, "that you're going to keep Dhondaram with the show just to take charge of Rajah?" "It's either that or sell the elephant," declared Burton. "Then, sufferin' cats!" cried McGlory, "sell the brute. You're more kinds of a bungler, Burton, than I know how to lay tongue to. Keep Dhondaram with the show, and he'll do something, before you're through with him, that will hurt." "I'll sleep on it," muttered Burton. "I've only got four elephants, and I need Rajah." "Schust a minid, oof you blease," came the voice of Matt's Dutch pard from the aisle of the car. Matt, McGlory, and Burton turned around and saw not only Carl, but Ping as well. "What is it, Carl?" asked Matt. "I vant to know somet'ing," Carl went on, "und dot iss, was I innocend or guildy? Vat you say, Misder Purton?" "Oh, splash!" exclaimed Burton, "that was settled a long time ago. Andy Carter, the ticket man, admitted that he and the Hindoo were the thieves." "Den Modor Matt don'd haf to vork four veeks for nodding, schust for me?" "Of course not." "Dot's all I vanted to know, oxcept somet'ing else." "Well, what?" "Der Hintoo brisoner iss in der blace vere Ping shleeps. Ping vants to go to ped, und I am to haf der ubber bert'. Vat iss to be dit mit der Hintoo?" "Roll him into the aisle and let him lie there," replied Burton. "Put a blanket under him, if you want to, and give him a pillow." "T'anks," said Carl, and the boys started away. "Wait, Carl," called Matt. "There's a little something I want to know. How are you and Ping getting along together?" "Finer as silk," grinned Carl. "He likes me pedder der more vat he knows me, und it's der same mit me. Shinks iss hardt to ondershtand, but I'm schust gedding ondo Ping's curves. He made a misdake in me, und now he feels pedder aboudt it. How iss dot, bard?" finished Carl, turning to the Chinaman. "Awri'," answered Ping, although not very enthusiastically. "That's the talk!" cried Matt heartily. Two hours later, the second section of the show train was loaded and speeding on its way. All was quiet in the sleeping car, save for the snores of the tired men who occupied the bunks. Perhaps it was two o'clock in the morning when an uproar filled the sleeper. There were yells, a revolver shot, the slamming of a door, and then a measure of quiet. Matt thrust his head out of his berth and saw McGlory, equally curious and excited, looking out from the berth overhead. All up and down each side of the car were other heads. "What's the matter?" asked Matt. Boss Burton, in his underclothes, was standing in the aisle, a smoking revolver in his hand. "Confound the luck!" he sputtered. "The Hindoo has made a getaway. I happened to wake up and to think about him, and took a look along the aisle from my berth, just to make sure he was safe. I thought I was dreaming, or had the blind staggers, or something, when I saw him sitting up. His hands were free and he was taking the rope off his feet. I grabbed my revolver from under my pillow and rolled into the aisle. Dhondaram had started for the door. I blazed away, did nothing but smash a window, and the Hindoo jumped from the train." "Are you going to stop and put back after him?" inquired Archie Le Bon. "I guess I won't, although losing the fellow is a bit of a backset," observed Burton regretfully. "The show can stand all the backsets of that kind that come its way, Burton," said Harris. "What will we do for somebody to manage Rajah?" "Oh, hang Rajah!" said another of the Le Bon brothers. "I hope the first section runs into the ditch and smashes the brute. He came within one of killin' Archie, back there in Jackson." It was the general opinion, as the occupants of the various berths drew sleepily back into their beds, that it was a good thing Dhondaram escaped. "Wonder just how much that bit of a backset means for us, pard?" McGlory inquired of the king of the motor boys before dropping back on his pillow. "Nothing, I hope," was the response. "We'll know for sure, I reckon, before we're many days older," muttered the cowboy as he straightened out in his bed and returned to his dreams of cobras and charging elephants. THE END. THE NEXT NUMBER (29) WILL CONTAIN Motor Matt's Make-up; OR, PLAYING A NEW RÔLE. High Jinks in the Side Show--The "Barker" Shows His Teeth--The Man from Washington--A Clue in Hindustanee--Something Wrong--A Blunder in the Right Direction--The House with the Green Shutters--The Pile of Soot--Matt Meets an Old Acquaintance--Rescue!--Bill Wily Repents--Matt Lays His Plans--Motor Car and Aëroplane--The Oak Opening Aëroplane Wins--Conclusion. MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NEW YORK, September 4, 1909. TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS. (_Postage Free._) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each. 3 months 65c. 4 months 85c. 6 months $1.25 One year 2.50 2 copies one year 4.00 1 copy two years 4.00 =How to Send Money=--By post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter. =Receipts=--Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. ORMOND G. SMITH, } GEORGE C. SMITH, } _Proprietors_. STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City. ON THE BAHAMA REEFS. "And so your sister's going to spend the winter at Nassau, for her health, eh? Well, she might do worse, for it's very pleasant there, with its lovely climate, and pineapples, shells, sponges, and curiosities. Yes, I've been to the Bahama Islands. Didn't start for there, and didn't make any entry at the custom house, but I got there, all the same. It was a lively adventure, and no mistake." It was Captain Joe who made this speech, one day, as we sat on a wooden pier, angling for fish, which, I may add, we didn't catch. The captain, now that his active sea days were over, lived with his brother near-by, and was never so happy as when fishing with us boys, or spinning yarns to while away the time whenever the inconsiderate fish refused to bite. "I reckon I may as well tell you about it," he went on, "since that steamboat has stirred up the mud till no fish can see the bait. "I was eighteen years old then, and the doctors gave me just twelve months to live, for I was very delicate, and so, when we started, one raw November day, from Boston, for a voyage to Rio and back, I was as blue as an indigo bag. "The wind was fierce and cold, and the sea was lumpy, and we tumbled and rolled about like the mischief for five or six days, when we struck finer weather, and I at once began to feel better. "But a few days later the weather grew bad rapidly, so that by midnight it was blowing half a gale, with a tremendous sea on that made the good brig _Polly Ann_ tumble about as lively as a Scotchman dancing the Highland fling. "It was a fearful storm, indeed, almost a regular hurricane, and lasted for two days before it gave any signs of blowing itself out. "And then, when at last it began to subside, we found that we had sustained considerable damage, both our topmasts being gone, the mainmast sprung, and the rudder so twisted as to be of little service. "We had taken no observation for sixty hours, and were rather uncertain as to our location, which did not add to our comfort by any means. "It was well past midnight, and I had dropped off into a doze, when I was awakened by a tremendous shock that made everything tremble. "As I sat upright in my berth, there was a second shock, lighter than the first, and then the brig began to pound and thump, with a grinding, crushing sound. "In another moment the mate came running down into the cabin after something, with a scared look on his face, and cried out: "'We're on the reefs, and the brig's going to pieces!' and then he rushed on deck again. "I got up and tried to climb the ladder, but a dash of water came through the open hatch and washed me back. "Somebody jammed the hatch shut, and I was a prisoner below. "The next moment a big wave lifted the brig up and sent her higher up on the reefs, and she rested quietly with no more pounding or thumping. "The captain came down after a while, and said we were ashore on the Bahama reefs, and as the ship was easy now, and there was no immediate danger, we could do nothing but wait for daylight. "As dawn broke, I was on deck with the rest, the excitement of the occasion, or something else, having put new life into me, and I cared nothing for the sheets of spray and foam that, flying over the rails, drenched us all to the skin every minute. "Before us, half a mile distant, was a low, white coast, covered with sand hills, and a few cocoa palms, their long, slender leaves thrashing about in the wind like a lot of enormous feather dusters. "The sea about us was churned into a mass of foam as the incoming waves were broken in pieces on the coral reefs, whose sharp, jagged tops of honeycomb rock rose here and there above the surface like the brown teeth of some marine monster. "Between the coral reefs and the shore there was a stretch of smoother water, in marked contrast with the tumbling sea outside. "It was a perfect caldron of foaming water close about us, in which no boat could live a second, and so we waited as patiently as we could for the going down of the adjacent sea. "Half an hour thereafter, to our great relief, we beheld a stanch little schooner rounding a point well inside the reefs, and making for us; and as she drew nearer we saw that her decks were full of men, white and black, clad in such a variety of costumes, with such diversity of loud colors, as at once suggested a piratical band of the seventeenth century. "But appearances were deceptive, for instead of freebooters bent on plunder, the strangers were good Samaritans coming to our rescue--a lot of Bahamian wreckers--men ever ready to save life and property for a consideration. "The captain of the little craft, which rejoiced in the highly appropriate name of the _Fearless_, a sturdy, square-built man of fifty, with light hair and bluish eyes, and a salty air about him, balancing himself with the skill of an acrobat on the port rail, and making a trumpet of his hands, began a shouting conversation with us, in which he informed us that he wouldn't give a penny for our lives if we weren't ashore mighty soon, as the wind, backing to the northwest, would blow great guns again in a few hours, when our brig would probably go to pieces. "As the result of this confab, the wreckers began to make preparations to get us off the brig, which they accomplished in a skillful and courageous manner, running a line from the _Fearless_ to our vessel, over which we were hauled in turn, though we were sorely battered and drenched by the angry sea that leaped up furiously, as if loath to lose its prey. "It was well they worked so rapidly, for we were scarcely ashore, and the schooner anchored behind a point, when the storm began to rage again with great fury, burying the old brig in mountains of foaming water. "When at last the storm abated, it was found that the brig had broken in two, the stern part sinking in deep water, and the cargo being scattered for miles along the coast, some of it being picked up, but in a useless condition, so that the wreckers realized substantially nothing in the way of salvage. "In a few days our company went in the _Fearless_ to Green Turtle Cay village, where they eventually secured a passage home. "As for myself, I refused to accompany them, having discovered a decided improvement in my health, which I naturally attributed to the climate, which was perfection itself, with a clear, bright sky, soft, genial breezes, and a pure, dry atmosphere that seemed to put new life into me with every breath. "So I remained to complete the cure so auspiciously begun, lodging with a planter named Bethel, whom, to pay my board, I helped with the lighter work in his pineapple fields by day, giving his children a bit of schooling by night, to the mutual satisfaction, I am certain, of all concerned. "The half of the hulk of the _Polly Ann_ still clung to the great reefs where she had struck, at low tide being nearly out of water; and every day I looked at it, for it was in plain view from our veranda, with feelings of mingled pity and friendship--for it somehow always suggested to my mind my far-away home and the dear ones there. "Ever since the wreck, the weather had been perfect--such charming days and nights as can be found only in the Bahamas following each other uninterruptedly, until, as Christmas approached, I conceived the idea that it would be nice to have our holiday luncheon on the deck of the hulk, and in this scheme all acquiesced, thinking it would be novel and delightful. "But the twenty-third of December ushered in a gale that swept with fury along the coast. "For twenty-four hours the elements held high carnival, and then, on Christmas Eve, there came a great lull, and the fierce storm, veering to the southward, died away as suddenly as it had arisen, giving us hope that our original plan might yet be carried out. "We were up early on Christmas morning, and looking seaward, were astonished beyond measure at what we saw. "The hulk of the _Polly Ann_ had been loosened from the clutch of the coral reef and carried bodily over the ledge by the great waves--had been hurled upon the low inside beach, a huge broken mass, with its stern buried deep in the wet sand, its heavy timbers splintered to pieces, and its rusty iron bolts twisted like corkscrews. "We rushed to the beach--now as hard and smooth as a floor--and saw, scattered about near the nose of the _Polly Ann_, some circular pieces, which we at first took to be brownish-colored shells, but which we soon discovered were nothing of the kind. "I picked up a piece and found it to be nearly two inches broad, perfectly flat and smooth, the edge worn almost sharp, with some inscription on one side and figures on the other, which we could scarcely trace, so black and discolored was the entire surface. "I ran to a bit of honeycomb rock and rubbed the piece briskly over it, until presently the tarnish began to come off, and I shouted to Bethel that it was a piece of silver. "'My stars!' he cried out, in great excitement, 'if it's not an old Spanish dollar.' "And then he danced about like mad for a minute. "Next we fell to work picking up all we could find till both our hats were nearly full of the pieces. "'Where in the world did they come from?' asked Bethel, after we had gathered in the last coin. 'I didn't suppose your old brig carried such a cargo, did you?' "'I never thought so, surely,' said I; 'nor do I believe she did.' "'Where else could these coins have come from?' asked Bethel. "'I don't know,' said I. 'But as the _Polly Ann_ is only ten years old, and these coins are near two hundred, if they are a day, why, it doesn't stand to reason they were in the brig. However, we will soon see. If they came out of her, there's more inside. Come, we will look.' "We crept inside the old hull and examined carefully among her shattered timbers and twisted bolts, and spent two hours in prying up the planks inside the bow and along the bottom, but at last, tired and breathless, gave it up as a bad job, and came out as empty-handed as we went in. "'I told you so,' said I. 'They never sailed the sea in the _Polly Ann_.' "We spent the afternoon in counting our coins, finding we had between three and four hundred of them, and we grew quite hilarious over our Christmas gift, as we styled it, and speculated in vain as to where the coins could have come from. "The next morning Bethel said to me: "'I've been thinking half the night about those coins, and I remember my father used to tell of a Spanish vessel that went ashore somewhere along here when he was a boy, and was gradually washed to pieces; and, do you know, I've an idea these pieces have been cast up by the sea from the old wreck. It's curious, however, that we never found any of them till this brig came plowing up the beach with her nose.' "While we were talking, two of the children came in with several of the pieces, which they had found at the water's edge, exactly like those we had picked up the day before. "'I tell you, sir,' cried Bethel excitedly, 'my guess was right. I believe that old Spaniard lies buried in the sand right where the _Polly Ann_ has stuck her bow in the beach. Man alive, there may be millions down there!' "We rushed to the beach, and with shovels began to dig up the sand vigorously all about the wreck. "Every now and then we came across another coin, which encouraged us tremendously, and we worked until we had dug a hole big enough to hold an ox cart. "But no more coins appeared, and we were getting discouraged, when Bethel struck a heavy timber that ran under the forefoot of the brig, and which did not belong to the _Polly Ann_. "We cleared away the sand alongside this timber, and there lay a box, made of teak wood, split open from end to end, and jammed hard and fast between the decaying timber and the forefoot of the brig. "The splinters from the box were fresh and clean, showing that it had been crushed to pieces by the stem of the brig when she was driven into the beach by the storm. "And then we dug out the sand from under the debris of the teak box, and down came a shower of black silver pieces, exactly similar to the others, which we carefully and eagerly secured and piled up on the dry beach near by. "There was no longer any mystery as to where the coins came from, for we found the rotten timbers of the old Spanish ship underlying the sand in every direction, none being less than ten feet from the surface. "For days we pursued our hunt for treasure, tunneling all about, but except those in the teak box not another piece did we find, and at last we desisted, satisfied that we had exhausted the deposit. "We kept the thing a secret, lest the authorities, taking advantage of some old and unjust law, might claim a portion of our treasure trove; and as there were no near neighbors, and as a brisk gale, which blew later on, filled up our excavations in the sand, this was an easy thing to do. "We divided our find, and my portion was nearly five thousand dollars, which I brought with me to the United States late in the ensuing summer, and disposed of it to a broker in Boston, who was very curious to learn where I got it. "But he will never know, unless he learns it from this story. "My Christmas gift was most acceptable, as you can readily believe; out what I valued far more was the fact that my eight months' residence in the lovely climate of the Bahamas made me a well man, and my lungs ever since have been as stout as a blacksmith's bellows. "It's all right, my boy. Tell your sister she'll have a nice time at Nassau, and if she doesn't come back in the spring as good as new, then Captain Joe'll never prophesy again as long as he lives. "She'll not find any Spanish dollars, maybe, but there's things worth more--and one is good health." THE STORY OF A WILD GOOSE. Two years ago, one evening, while I was returning home from an unsuccessful shooting excursion along the Atlantic shore, I observed a flock of wild geese coming toward me, but sailing high. I stood perfectly still, and when the flock was directly overhead I aimed and fired. In the twilight I could see the flock scattering at the report, and a bird wheeling downward with one wing limp and useless. He landed on a patch of plowed ground with a thud and lay half stunned. In a moment I had secured my prize. It was a large gander in prime condition, with a full, deep body, and healthy, lustrous feathers, and I determined to spare his life. I quickly tied his legs and fastened the uninjured wing. Then, carefully lifting the bird and getting the broken limb into as comfortable a position as possible, I carried him home. Most sportsmen have a crude knowledge of surgery, and I soon had the broken member bandaged with splints and strips of cotton and my captive resting comfortably, unbound, in a warm outhouse. In the morning, when I went out to feed him, he was walking around lively enough, and, although, of course, very shy and timid, he ate a hearty breakfast of corn as soon as he thought himself unobserved. In a few days he grew tame enough to allow me to stroke him with a bit of stick. It was long before he would suffer himself to be touched by the human hand. After some months the bird would answer to his name, Michael, would eat out of my hand, and when I let him out into the yard, after clipping his wings, would follow me around like a dog. He invariably fled at the approach of a stranger, but he never "hissed" like a domestic goose. Strange to say, although a flock of domestic geese was kept by a neighbor, he never paid the slightest attention to their cries and calls. After a time I allowed him to roam the fields at will. At night he returned without fail to his pen. I became much attached to the bird, so much so that goose shooting became distasteful to me and I discontinued the practice. Last spring I received a letter from a particular friend requesting me to secure a wild goose for him. For various reasons I could not well refuse, so I at once made arrangements for a shooting excursion. In the midst of my preparations it occurred to me that I might employ Michael as a decoy to lure the geese within gunshot. Sometimes a domestic goose is used for this purpose, but seldom with complete success. The wild goose is an intelligent bird, and rarely places implicit confidence in his domesticated relative. In a secluded bight some miles down the coast I moored a small raft near shore and tethered Michael to it by a stout string fastened to his leg. His wings by this time had grown to the length they possessed before being clipped, and the injured limb was as strong as ever. Michael seemed well pleased with his situation, stretched his wings a few times as if the salt breath of the ocean stirred half-buried memories, but on finding himself secured settled down comfortably on the raft and calmly preened his gray feathers. I carefully screened myself behind a clump of scrub spruce and placed some spare cartridges conveniently near. I thought that if a passing flock should approach fairly near I might be able to fire a successful second shot if the first proved a miss. After a wait of perhaps an hour I heard in the distance a faint "honk" that quickened the heartbeats. Michael also heard it, and ceasing to arrange his feathers, raised his head to listen eagerly. I watched him closely. His neck was proudly arched and his eyes glistened with excitement as he stepped as near the edge of the raft as his tether would allow. Presently another "honk" dropped from the distant blue, and away to the south I could descry a large V-shaped flock flying fairly low, but altogether too much to the left of my position to render possible a successful shot. It was now time for Michael to make himself heard, and I was beginning to grow somewhat uneasy at his silence, when all at once--"honk! honk!"--his joyous invitation sped up to the ears of the watchful leader of the air travelers. "Honk?" queried that wary veteran suspiciously, but at once he slackened his pace somewhat. "Honk! honk!" called Michael reassuringly; "honk! honk!" he repeated coaxingly. For a moment the old leader seemed to hesitate, then slowly he turned in my direction, and presently the flock was sailing directly toward me. My rifle was ready and in position. I was well screened by the bushes. The light was admirable. Everything was favorable to a good shot. In five minutes the flock was within range. Michael had uttered several invitations during this time in reply to short interrogations from the leader, but he had suddenly relapsed into silence. He could see the approaching birds and was gazing at them with intense eagerness. My finger was on the trigger, when all at once, to my amazement, Michael pealed out a strange cry, loud and shrill, utterly unlike any sound that I had ever heard him utter. It was the note of danger, the alarm signal of the wild goose. The effect on the approaching flock was electrical. The leader instantly turned and sped away with arrow-like swiftness, closely followed by his feathered retinue, leaving me motionless with surprise. When my captive first heard the calls of his comrades he instinctively answered with notes of invitation. The excitement of hearing and seeing his own kindred made him forget the danger that he was leading them into, but as they approached he seemed all at once to realize the situation. He knew that red death lurked behind the seemingly innocent shrubbery close at hand. Perhaps the memory of his own sharp wound sprang into his mind. At all events, although he knew that to utter the warning cry would debar himself from the companionship of his kind, he unhesitatingly gave that warning with no uncertain sound. I laid down my rifle and pulled the raft in to the shore. Michael was standing at the limit of his tether, gazing after his retreating friends. As the raft moved he sprang into the air, only to be jerked back by the restraining cord. I untied the string from the raft and drew the bird toward me. He submitted to my caresses, but I guessed how earnestly he longed to soar away after his kindred. He had saved some of them from death or captivity; they were free to roam the clear air of heaven while he---- I quickly untied the string from Michael's leg and gently pushed the bird from me. Instantly he spread his wings and sprang upward. With eager neck outstretched he swept rapidly after the vanishing flock, uttering hearty "honks" of jubilation. I felt that he was worthy of liberty. LATEST ISSUES BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY All kinds of stories that boys like. =The biggest and best nickel's worth ever offered. High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.= 338--Working His Way Upward; or, From Footlights to Riches. By Fred Thorpe. 339--The Fourteenth Boy; or, How Vin Lovell Won Out. By Weldon J. Cobb. 340--Among the Nomads; or, Life in the Open. By the author of "Through Air to Fame." 341--Bob, the Acrobat; or, Hustle and Win Out. By Harrie Irving Hancock. 342--Through the Earth; or, Jack Nelson's Invention. By Fred Thorpe. 343--The Boy Chief; or, Comrades of Camp and Trail. By John De Morgan. 344--Smart Alec; or, Bound to Get There. By Weldon J. Cobb. 345--Climbing Up; or, The Meanest Boy Alive. By Harrie Irving Hancock. 346--Comrades Three; or, With Gordon Keith in the South Seas. By Lawrence White, Jr. 347--A Young Snake-charmer; or, The Fortunes of Dick Erway. By Fred Thorpe. 348--Checked Through to Mars; or, Adventures in Other Worlds. By Weldon J. Cobb. 349--Fighting the Cowards; or, Among the Georgia Moonshiners. By Harrie Irving Hancock. 350--The Mud River Boys; or, The Fight for Penlow's Mill. By John L. Douglas. 351--Grit and Wit; or, Two of a Kind. By Fred Thorpe. MOTOR STORIES The latest and best five-cent weekly. We won't say how interesting it is. See for yourself. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.= 16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters. 17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos. 18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon. 19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn. 20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys. 21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need. 22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right. 23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck That Wins. 24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune. 25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game. 26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship. 27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show. 28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow. 29--Motor Matt's Make-up; or, Playing a New Rôle. TIP TOP WEEKLY The most popular publication for boys. The adventures of Frank and Dick Merriwell can be had only in this weekly. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two pages. Price, 5 cents.= 687--Dick Merriwell's Colors; or, All For the Blue. 688--Dick Merriwell, Driver; or, The Race for the Daremore Cup. 689--Dick Merriwell on the Deep; or, The Cruise of the _Yale_. 690--Dick Merriwell in the North Woods; or, The Timber Thieves of the Floodwood. 691--Dick Merriwell's Dandies; or, A Surprise for the Cowboy Nine. 692--Dick Merriwell's "Skyscooter"; or, Professor Pagan and the "Princess." 693--Dick Merriwell in the Elk Mountains; or, The Search for "Dead Injun" Mine. 694--Dick Merriwell in Utah; or, The Road to "Promised Land." 695--Dick Merriwell's Bluff; or, The Boy Who Ran Away. 696--Dick Merriwell in the Saddle; or The Bunch from the Bar--Z. 697--Dick Merriwell's Ranch Friends; or, Sport on the Range. 698--Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake; or, The Mystery of the Mad Doctor. 699--Frank Merriwell's Hold-back; or, The Boys of Bristol. 700--Frank Merriwell's Lively Lads; or, The Rival Campers. _For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt of price, 5 cents per copy, in money or postage stamps, by_ STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York =IF YOU WANT ANY BACK NUMBERS= of our Weeklies and cannot procure them from your newsdealer, they can be obtained from this office direct. Fill out the following Order Blank and send it to us with the price of the Weeklies you want and we will send them to you by return mail. =POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN THE SAME AS MONEY.= ________________________ _190_ _STREET & SMITH, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City._ _Dear Sirs: Enclosed please find_ ___________________________ _cents for which send me_: TIP TOP WEEKLY, Nos. ________________________________ NICK CARTER WEEKLY, " ________________________________ DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________ BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________ BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________ MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________ _Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________ _City_ ________________ _State_ ________________ A GREAT SUCCESS!! MOTOR STORIES Every boy who reads one of the splendid adventures of Motor Matt, which are making their appearance in this weekly, is at once surprised and delighted. Surprised at the generous quantity of reading matter that we are giving for five cents; delighted with the fascinating interest of the stories, second only to those published in the Tip Top Weekly. Matt has positive mechanical genius, and while his adventures are unusual, they are, however, drawn so true to life that the reader can clearly see how it is possible for the ordinary boy to experience them. _HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY AND THOSE TO BE PUBLISHED_: 1--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel. 2--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends. 3--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier. 4--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet." 5--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot. 6--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear. 7--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto. 8--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward. 9--Motor Matt's Air Ship; or, The Rival Inventors. 10--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot. 11--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady. 12--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas. 13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest. 14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the "Hawk." 15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the "Grampus." 16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters. 17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos. 18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon. 19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn. 20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys. 21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need. 22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right. 23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck that Wins. 24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune. To be Published on August 9th. 25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game. To be Published on August 16th. 26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship. To be Published on August 23d. 27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show. To be Published on August 30th. 28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow. PRICE, FIVE CENTS At all newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, by the publishers upon receipt of the price. STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Inconsistent hyphenation ("getaway" vs. "get-away") retained from original. Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=. Page 3, corrected typo "CHAPER" in "CHAPTER II" heading. Page 4, added missing quote after "I'll go and talk with him. Come on, Matt, you and McGlory." Page 11, corrected "interposel" to "interposed" after "Don't be too sure of that." Page 15, corrected typo "aëoplane" in "repaired aëroplane." Page 16, corrected "fo" to "to" in "Burton rode up to." Page 17, changed ? to ! in "Don't talk to me!" Page 19, changed oe ligature to "oe" in "manoeuvred" (ligature retained in HTML version). Page 24, removed extra quote after "trick or two" and before "Well." Corrected "Burton" to "Carter" in "Carter was thoughtful for a few moments." Page 25, corrected single to double quote after "You took that for granted, Carter." Page 28, added missing accent to Aëroplane in contents of next issue (twice). 
52891	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION No. 29 SEPT. 11, 1909 FIVE CENTS MOTOR MATT'S MAKE UP OR PLAYING A NEW ROLE _BY THE AUTHOR OF "MOTOR MATT"_ _Street & Smith Publishers New York_ [Illustration: _"Maskee!" cried the astounded Hindoo as Motor Matt leaped at him_] MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION _Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._ =No. 29.= NEW YORK, September 11, 1909. =Price Five Cents.= MOTOR MATT'S MAKE-UP; OR, PLAYING A NEW RÔLE. By the author of "MOTOR MATT." CONTENTS CHAPTER I. HIGH JINKS IN THE SIDE SHOW. CHAPTER II. THE "BARKER" SHOWS HIS TEETH. CHAPTER III. THE MAN FROM WASHINGTON. CHAPTER IV. A CLUE IN HINDOOSTANEE. CHAPTER V. SOMETHING WRONG. CHAPTER VI. A BLUNDER IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS. CHAPTER VIII. THE PILE OF SOOT. CHAPTER IX. MATT MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. CHAPTER X. RESCUE! CHAPTER XI. BILL WILY REPENTS. CHAPTER XII. MATT LAYS HIS PLANS. CHAPTER XIII. MOTOR CAR AND AEROPLANE. CHAPTER XIV. THE OAK OPENING. CHAPTER XV. AEROPLANE WINS! CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION. A BRAVE DEED. A LOCOMOTIVE HERO. GEESE DROWN A SQUIRREL. CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY. =Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt. =Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive. =Carl Pretzel=, an old chum who flags Motor Matt and more trouble than he can manage, at about the same time. In the rôle of detective, he makes many blunders, wise and otherwise, finding success only to wonder how he did it. =Ping=, the Chinese boy. =Ben Ali=, the Hindoo hypnotist and elephant trainer, who executes a master-stroke in the matter of his niece, Margaret Manners, and finds that a letter in Hindoostanee can sometimes prove a boomerang. =Dhondaram and Aurung Zeeb=, two Hindoos who have appeared before as confederates of the crafty Ben Ali, and who now show themselves for the last time in their villainous part, and vanish--one into prison and the other into parts unknown. =Margaret Manners=, the niece of the rascally Ben Ali and a ward of the British nation temporarily. In her particular case, justice is slow in righting a grievous wrong--and would have been slower but for Motor Matt and his aëroplane. =Reginald Pierce Twomley=, who represents the British ambassador, wears a monocle, and who, in a passage at arms with Dhondaram, proves himself a man in McGlory's eyes and a near-pard. =Boss Burton=, manager and proprietor of the "Big Consolidated," who, in his usual manner, forms hasty conclusions, discovers his errors, and shows no sign of repentance. =The Bearded Lady, the Armless Wonder, the Elastic Skin Man, the Zulu chief and the Ossified Man=, all freaks in the side-show tent, who appear briefly but brilliantly in the light of a Roman candle. CHAPTER I. HIGH JINKS IN THE SIDE SHOW. "Hello, dere, Viskers!" grinned Carl Pretzel, reaching up to grab the hairy paw of the Zulu chief. "Howdy, Dutch!" answered the chief, with a nasal twang that suggested New England. "By Jocks, I ain't seen yeou in quite a spell. How's tricks, huh?" "Dricks iss fine, I bed you. Say, sheef, dis iss mein leedle shink bard, Ping Pong. He iss der pest efer--oxcept me. Shake hants, Ping, mit a Zulu sheef vat vas porn near Pangor, Maine." "Tickled tew death," said the chief effusively, taking the yellow palm of a small Chinaman who pushed himself closer to the platform. The scene was the side-show tent of the "Big Consolidated," Boss Burton's "Tented Aggregation of the World's Marvels." The show had raised its "tops" at Reid's Lake, near the city of Grand Rapids. A high wind had prevented Motor Matt from giving his outdoor exhibition of aëroplane flying, and the disappointed crowds were besieging the side show, eager to beguile the time until the doors for the big show were open. With the exception of Carl and Ping, no outsiders had yet entered the side-show tent. Carl, having once played the banjo for the Zulu chief while he was dancing on broken glass in his bare feet, was a privileged character. He had walked into the tent without so much as a "by your leave," and he had escorted Ping without any adverse comment by the man on the door. The freaks and wonders of the side show were all on their platforms and ready to be viewed. The Ossified Man had been dusted off for the last time, the Bearded Lady had just arranged her beard most becomingly, the Elastic Skin Man was giving a few warming-up snaps to his rubberoid epidermis, the Educated Pig was being put through a preliminary stunt by the gentlemanly exhibitor, and the Armless Wonder was sticking a copy of the Stars and Stripes in the base of a wooden pyramid--using his toes. The Armless Wonder occupied the same platform as the Zulu chief. His specialty was to stand on his head on the wooden pyramid, hold a Roman candle with one foot, light it with the other, and shoot vari-colored balls through a hole in the tent roof. In front of the Wonder, neatly piled on the little stage, were half a dozen long paper tubes containing the fire balls. "How you was, Dutch?" inquired the Wonder, doubling up in his chair and drawing a bandanna handkerchief over his perspiring face with his foot. "_Ganz goot_," laughed Carl, carelessly picking up one of the Roman candles. "I vill make you acguainted, oof you blease, mit mein leedle shink bard." "Shake!" cried the Wonder heartily, offering his right foot. "It does me proud to meet up with a friend of Pretzel's." "Allee same happy days," remarked Ping, releasing the foot and backing away. "Yeou tew kids aire chums, huh?" put in the Zulu chief, leaning down to arrange the row of photographs in front of him. "Surest t'ing vat you know," answered Carl. "Dutchy boy heap fine," declared Ping. "We both one-piecee pards." "That's the talk!" exclaimed the Armless Wonder. "Too much weather for the flyin' machine to-day, huh? Motor Matt was afeared to go up, I reckon, Dutch?" "Afraidt?" protested Carl. "Modor Matt vasn't afraidt oof anyt'ing. He couldn't haf shtaid ofer der show grounds, und dot's der reason he dit'nt go oop. Der vind vould haf plowed him galley-vest, und den some." "I see. These here aëroplanes are hard things to handle, and----Holy smoke! Drop it! Put it out!" Carl, as has already been stated, had picked up one of the Roman candles. While talking with the Armless Wonder, he leaned back against a tent pole and clasped his hands--the candle in one of them--behind him. Ping had stepped back. The Roman candle, held fuse end outward, looked most inviting. Digging a match out of his kimono, Ping scratched it on the pole and applied the flame unseen to the fuse. While the Armless Wonder was talking, Carl heard a long-drawn-out hiss, a smell of smoke came to his nostrils, and a Niagara of sparks floated around him. Naturally he was startled, and it flashed over him that something was wrong with the Roman candle. Bringing the candle around in front of him for examination, he had it leveled at the Wonder the very instant the first fire ball was due. The ball was not behind schedule. Rushing from the end of the tube, it caught the Wonder in the breast, and he turned a back somersault off the platform. Bewildered by the mysterious cause of the situation, Carl swerved the candle in order to get a look through the smoke and sparks at the place where the Wonder had been seated. A roar came from the Zulu chief. A ball of flaming red had slapped against his shoulder, and he jumped for the next platform on the right. Landing on the edge, his weight overturned the structure. There was a scream from the Bearded Lady and a whoop from the Elastic Skin Man, and the next moment they landed in a tangled heap on top of the Zulu chief. "Put it out!" the Armless Wonder continued to yell. "Point it up or down!" bellowed the gentlemanly trainer of the Educated Pig. "Ged some vater!" howled Carl, running back and forth and waving the candle; "ged a pucket oof vater und I vill drown der t'ing in it!" The Dutch boy didn't know what to do. If he dropped the candle he might get hit with some of the balls himself, and if he turned it straight upward he might set fire to the top of the tent. While he was running up and down, trying frantically to think of some way out of the trouble, of course the fire stick was continuing to unload. Whizz--slap! A wad of yellow fire hit the Pig, which squealed and bolted. The gentlemanly attendant tried to head off the Porcine Marvel, but it ran between his outspread feet and knocked him off the stand. A rain of lettered blocks followed. The frantic Pig bunted into Ping, tripped him, and hurled him against Carl. Both boys went down, and Carl rolled over and over, discharging red, white, and blue balls as he revolved. Up to that moment the Ossified Man had escaped. But now his turn had come. He was said to have been turning to stone for thirty years, and was supposed to be so brittle that he had to be handled with extreme care. The first ball that struck him, however, caused him to jump off his board slab with a yell. From the way he rushed to get out of the tent, it was pretty certain that he was as wiry and pliable as the average. The Educated Pig, to an accompaniment of yells, howls, and screams, and with the lurid glare of the popping balls lighting the smoky interior of the tent, ran on blindly, overturned the stage set aside for the Zulu chief and the Armless Wonder, showered broken glass over everybody, and then tore through the tent wall and out into the open. Naturally, this Bedlam, suddenly turned loose in the tent, had excited the wonder and curiosity of the ticket seller, the "barker," and the man at the door. As the man at the door looked in, the last of the balls struck him below the belt, and he collapsed in the arms of the "barker," who was crowding in behind him. The last of the balls! That hollow, pasteboard tube seemed to have been a perfect mine of shooting stars. It had disgorged itself of a dozen. Carl had not counted them--he was too busy with other matters--but it seemed to him as though the tube had been fully an hour getting rid of its contents. A madder assortment of freaks it would have been harder to find than wrangled and protested, there in the side-show tent, while they rubbed their bruises and shook the kinks out of themselves. "It was one of the Armless Wonder's Roman candles," came in sepulchral tones from the Ossified Man as he climbed back to his slab. "I'll quit the show, and give two weeks' notice this minute," piped the Bearded Lady as she picked her way through the scattered glass, "if they don't cut out these fireworks. My goodness! You might just as well be killed outright as scart to death. Wha'ju jump onto our stage for?" and she glared at the chief, who was gently massaging his burned spot. "By Jocks," answered the chief, "I didn't care where I jumped s'long's I got away from the fireworks." "It was the Dutchman done it," flared the Wonder. "He's a freak," rumbled the Ossified Man. "Kick him out." "I don'd peen a freak," said Carl angrily, throwing the burned-out tube at the O. M. "Oof I vas, den here iss vere I should shday." "Did you set that Roman candle to goin'?" demanded the "barker" fiercely. "I don'd set him to going, py chimineddy! I hat him in my handt, und he vent off mit himseluf. Dot's all aboudt it." "This ain't no place for them kind o' jokes," cried the Elastic Skin Man. "He's played hob with this outfit: Give him a h'ist!" The ticket seller, the "barker," and the man on the door all three fell upon Carl. Between them they had the Dutch boy turning cartwheels through the entrance. Ping, the cause of all the trouble, slipped away quietly under the canvas wall--but not until he had picked up something white from the earthen floor of the tent. The object lay close to where Carl had lain, and Ping conceived the idea that it belonged to the Dutch boy and that it was his duty to recover it and return it to the owner. CHAPTER II. THE "BARKER" SHOWS HIS TEETH. When Carl finally rounded up his wits he found himself sitting under the lee of the "animal top," leaning against one of the guy ropes. The wind was blowing half a gale, and the big tents swayed and tugged at their fastenings. There was only one idea just then in the Dutch boy's mind, and that was this: "How dit dot Roman gandle go off mit itseluf? I remember taking him in my handt und holting him pehindt me, und den--whizz, bang! Ach, how der shparks dit fly! Dere vas fordy-'lefen palls in der gandle, und I hit a freak mit efery pall. Donnervetter, vat a hot time!" At this point Ping came rounding the curved canvas wall, head to the wind, blouse and wide trousers flapping, and pulling himself along by means of the guy ropes. "Hello, Clal!" he called, mooring himself to a tent stake. "Hello yourseluf once!" answered Carl, drawing one powder-blackened hand up and down his trousers leg. "How you like der pooty firevorks?" "By Klismus!" grinned the Chinaman, "him velly fine. Fleaks no likee." "How dit der gandle go off mit itseluf? Tell me dose." Ping's grin faded from his yellow face, and he grew solemn and serious. "No savvy, Clal. Him devil joss stick, awri'. Whoosh!" A sudden suspicion darted through Carl's brain as he stared at Ping. The Chinese boy was altogether too serious. "Py shiminy grickets!" whooped Carl, "vas it you dot douched him off ven der gandle vas my pack pehindt und I don'd see? Dit you make all der drouples? Oof I vas sure oof dot, den I vould eat you oop like some ham santviches." Ping gave a yell of protest. "We allee same fliends, huh?" he demanded. "Why my makee tlouble fo' fliend?" "Vell, I don'd know for vy, aber such chokes iss nod vat I like. Oof I findt oudt dot you lit der gandle, den I vill ged efen for dot. You bed my life, I pay efery debt vat I owe." Ping looked serious. Then, glad that he was able to change the subject, he remarked: "You losee one piecee papel in tent, Clal?" "I don't got one piecee paper, shink. How could I lose somet'ing vat I don't got?" "My findee him same place you makee tumble. Look." Ping drew the folded sheet from his blouse. Carl stretched out his hand. "I vill take a look at dot," said he. When opened flat, the sheet contained writing, but it was not writing that Carl could read. "Vedder it iss a ledder or nod," mused Carl, "I don'd know. Vat I see on dis paper looks schust like hen dracks. It don'd vas English, und it don'd vas German. Iss it shink wriding, Ping?" Ping dropped to his knees and examined the sheet of paper upside down and sideways. "My no savvy," he answered. "Him not China writing. Some fleak lettee dlop--him fleak writing. Him no gottee sense." Carl wrinkled his brows ominously. "I tell you somet'ing," said he. "Dere iss more to dis alretty as we know, Ping. I peen a tedectif. Meppy you vill make a tedectif, too. Subbose we findt oudt vat der ledder iss aboudt?" "Plaps we no makee find out." "Dot's vere der tedectif part comes in." "Plaps we no gottee sense enough, Clal." "_Ach, du lieber!_" grunted Carl. "Ditn't I findt dot Margaret Manners vat vas draveling mit der show? Ditn't I get dot Ben Ali Hindoo feller on der run? Ditn't I vin fife tousant tollars?" "You no gettee fi' thousan' dol'." "I vill get dot. It has to come from Inchia, und Inchia iss more as ten tousant miles from vere I am. It takes time to get money from Inchia. I was a shmard feller to do all dot. Meppy I gif you some lessons und you vill be as shmard as vat I am." "Plaps." "You vant to choin in mit me, hey?" "Awri'. No savvy pidgin, Clal. What we do?" Before Carl could answer, the "barker" for the side show came running around the tent wall. Carl grabbed the letter out of Ping's hand and thrust it into his pocket. "What yuh got there?" demanded the "barker," coming to a halt and glaring at Carl. "You don'd got some pitzness to know," was the Dutch boy's calm reply. The "barker's" name was Bill Wily, but, on account of his shady character, he was generally known as Wily Bill. "I lost a letter durin' that shake-up in the tent," said Wily Bill, truculently, "an' it looked to me as though that sheet yuh just tucked away in your jeans was the one. Hand it over." "Don'd get gay mit yourseluf," warned Carl, rising to his feet. "Where'd yuh git that paper?" "Dot's for me to know. Oof you get pitzness any blace else, don'd let us keep you a minid. Moof on. I don'd like you none too vell, anyhow." "You'll give me that paper," declared Wily Bill angrily, "or I'll twist that Dutch neck o' yours." "Meppy you vill," answered Carl, "aber I don'd tink. Here it iss different as it vas in der show. You don'd got der freaks und der odders to helup." "I'll find Burton," fumed Wily Bill, "and I'll tell him yuh've stole that there paper off me." "Den you vill be telling Purton vat ain'd so." The "barker" took a step forward. "Yuh goin' to give me that?" he shouted. "Say," answered Carl, with a happy thought, "you tell me vat iss in der ledder, den oof it agrees mit vat iss dere you prove he belong mit you, und I gif him oop. Oddervise, nod. Hey?" "Oh, you fall off the earth!" growled Wily Bill. "I don't have to tell what's in the letter in order to prove it's mine, see? Fork over." Carl had thought he might get Wily Bill to translate the "hen tracks," but the "barker" either could not or would not. "You und me don'd agree on dot," said Carl stoutly. "You tell me vat iss in der ledder, oder you don'd get him. Dot's all aboudt it." "Look here," and Wily Bill made a threatening gesture with his clinched fist, "pass that over or I'll push yer face inter yer back hair. Now, then. Cough up or take the consequences." "I dradder fighdt as eat some meals!" whooped Carl. "Come on vonce, oof dot's der game. Hit me in der eye! Dot geds my madt oop kevicker as anyt'ing, und I fighdt pedder der madder vat I ged. Eider eye, it _machts nichts aus_. Blease!" With a savage exclamation, Wily Bill threw himself forward and lunged with the full force of his right. Carl ducked sideways. The fist missed him, and the impetus of the blow hurled Wily Bill over the guy rope. Boss Burton, the proprietor of the show, seeing the clash from a distance, was hurrying up to take a part in proceedings. He arrived just in time to collide with the tumbling form of the "barker." It was with difficulty that Burton retained his footing. The breath was knocked out of him, and as he tottered and gasped he glared at Wily Bill. "Dere iss Poss Purton," chuckled Carl. "Schust tell him vat you vant und see vat he say." "What're you roughing things up like this for, Wily?" demanded the showman. "You know very well I don't allow any fighting on the show grounds." "That Dutchman," answered the "barker," getting his temper a little in hand, "has got a letter belongin' to me. I want it, an' he won't give it up." "Is that so, Carl?" asked Burton, whirling on the Dutch boy. "I don'd know vedder or nod it iss so," replied Carl. "I got a ledder, und he say it pelongs by him. Aber he von't say vat iss in der ledder, so how could I know?" "Isn't the envelope addressed?" "Dere iss no enfellup." "Isn't there a name on the letter?" "Dere iss no name anyvere." "It's from a pal o' mine, Burton," explained Wily Bill, "and I dropped it out of my kick in the tent. This Dutch lobster and that chink turned on a row in the side show. The Dutchman got one of the Armless Wonder's Roman candles, and while he held it behind him the chink touched a match to it, and we had all kinds of fireworks for a----" "Donner und blitzen!" yelled Carl, facing Ping and shaking his fist. "Den it _vas_ you, hey? I von't be no tedectif mit you! You vas no bard to blay sooch a choke! I vill ged efen, yah, so hellup me! Oof you----" "That will do," cut in Boss Burton sternly. "We'll settle this letter business before we do anything else. Where did you get the thing, Carl?" "Dot false-alarm chink gif him by me," answered Carl, watching angrily while Ping allowed the wind to waft him out of sight around the side-show tent. "Where did he get it?" "He picked him oop from vere I lay on der groundt. Dot's vat he say, aber my confidences in him vas padly shook." "Give it to me." There was no dodging such an order from the proprietor of the show, and the folded sheet was handed over. Burton looked at the letter. While he was doing so, Wily Bill made a desperate grab for it. The showman was too quick for the "barker," and jerked the sheet out of reach. "That's your game, is it?" growled Burton. "Go back to your job, Wily. Come to me after the show, and we'll talk this over. I don't like the way you're acting in this matter, and if you know when you're well off, you'll put your foot on the soft pedal and keep it there. Not a word! Clear out!" With a black scowl, and a look at Carl that boded him no good, Wily Bill turned on his heel and made his way back to the side show. CHAPTER III. THE MAN FROM WASHINGTON. "Sufferin' hurricanes, what a blow!" remarked Joe McGlory. "What good's a flying machine, pard, when a spell of weather puts it down and out? The _Comet's_ a back number in a hatful of wind." "Hatful!" repeated Motor Matt. "If this breeze isn't doing fifty miles an hour I'm no hand at guessing." The two motor boys were in their old rendezvous, the calliope tent, sitting on a couple of overturned buckets and listening to the roar and boom of bellying canvas, the flutter and snap of banners, and the whistle of violently disturbed air around the tent poles. The big card played by Burton was the aëroplane flights, two of which were given every day, before the afternoon and the evening performance--wind and weather permitting. Since the motor boys' engagement with Burton, Matt had not failed to take the aëroplane aloft on an average of more than two days a week. This violent wind made the morning flight at Reid's Lake one of the "off" days. There was a chance, however, that the wind would go down with the sun, and that it would be possible to do a little flying before the evening show. It was Saturday, and the "Big Consolidated" was to remain at Reid's Lake over Sunday and give two performances Monday. On Monday, therefore, it was quite possible the _Comet_ would be able to carry out her part of the circus programme. "Up in North Dakota," observed Joe McGlory, "where it blows like sin when it _does_ blow, you've capered around in the sky in the face of a breeze every bit as strong as this, Matt." "There it was different," answered the young motorist. "I didn't have to manipulate the machine over the show grounds, and there were not thousands of people directly underneath to suffer if the aëroplane didn't come down in the place from which it started. I don't want any more accidents like the one we had at Jackson." "Where a snake short-circuited the engine, and you had all kinds of hair-raising experiences," breathed McGlory. "Speak to me about that! By gorry, I wouldn't even look on while you pulled off another such performance, pard, for a million in yellow boys!" Before the king of the motor boys could make any reply, Landers, the man who had charge of the calliope, showed himself in the tent door. Behind him trailed a smooth-faced man of forty, in a cap and gray tweeds. "That's Motor Matt," said Landers, pointing to the young motorist. "This gentleman wants a word with you, Matt," he added, "and I volunteered to show him where you could be found." Landers ducked away again, and the stranger pushed into the tent. "Fancy!" he exclaimed, staring at Matt, then at McGlory, and then letting his eyes wander around the tent. "So this is Motor Matt. Ah, by Jove!" McGlory picked up a bucket, emptied the water out of it, and turned it upside down. "Sit down, pilgrim," said the cowboy, "and make yourself comfortable." The other pulled up his trousers at the knees and deposited himself carefully on the bucket. He laughed a little, lifted a round piece of glass from his coat and tucked it into his right eye, and then took another look at Matt and McGlory. "Only fancy!" he murmured. "If you want to join the show," said McGlory, with a wink at Matt, "you'll have to see Burton." "Join the show?" returned the other. "Why, I don't want to join the blooming circus. I'm just looking for Motor Matt, don't you know." "You're not looking for him, neighbor, but at him. It's your move." "Deuced odd, that. My move. In other words, I'm to tell my business, eh? It's private, very. I want to talk with Motor Matt alone." McGlory started to get up, but Matt stopped him with a gesture. "This is my chum, Joe McGlory," said he. "I have no secrets from him. Fire away, sir." "Aw," drawled the other. "Well, if that's the way of it, then here goes." Drawing a morocco case from his pocket, the stranger extracted a card and handed it to Matt. "Reginald Pierce Twomley," ran the legend on the card; then, down in the lower left-hand corner were the words: "Attaché British Embassy, Washington." Matt passed the card to McGlory. "Glad to see you, Mr. Twomley," said Matt. "What can we do for you?" Reginald Pierce Twomley lighted a cigarette. It was a pretty cigarette, with a gilt monogram on one side. He offered the case to the boys, but they respectfully declined. "Aw, let us approach our business with method," said Mr. Twomley. "I have come from Washington--aw--on very important business. Allow me to prove my right to act as agent for his excellency the Ambassador by recapitulating a few facts with which you must be familiar. "At one time, my dear sir, there was with this circus a Hindoo mahout who called himself Ben Ali. That was not his real name, but it will serve. With Ben Ali was a young lady who was called Haidee. Ben Ali was a rotter--the worst case of thug that ever came out of the Bombay presidency--and he had a powerful rajah for a brother. Ben Ali took care of the rajah's elephant herd. The rajah's sister married one Lionel Manners. Manners died, his wife perished by the infernal practice of _suttee_--even now secretly practised in spite of the English government--and Ben Ali left India with Manners' only daughter, Margaret. The girl known as Haidee was in reality Margaret Manners. Am I correct?" Matt nodded. "Ben Ali was an adept in the hypnotic line," proceeded Twomley, looking thoughtfully into the smoke of his cigarette, "and Miss Manners was in this country and with the show against her will. Her uncle, the rascally Ben Ali, kept her under his evil influence, and was gradually causing her to forget even her own identity. The mahout bore a grudge against his powerful brother, the rajah, and he had stolen the girl in a spirit of revenge. Eventually, he hoped to force the rajah to pay many rupees for Miss Manners before Ben Ali released her. But this is beside the mark. I don't care a hap'orth about that part of it. The point that concerns the British Ambassador, Sir Roger Morse-Edwards, is this: "You and your friends, Motor Matt, discovered who Haidee really was. You rescued her from the evil spell of the mahout, and she was left in Lafayette, Indiana, in charge of a worthy English lady, pending advices from her uncle, the rajah, in India. We have received advices, not from the rajah, but direct from our foreign office. I was sent forthwith to Lafayette to get Miss Manners, take her to New York, and, with a suitable maid as companion, send her by first steamer to Liverpool, and so to London." "Good!" exclaimed Matt, with visible satisfaction. "Miss Manners is a very fine girl, and I suppose her future will make up for the many hardships she has undergone while in this country." "Exactly," answered Twomley, "if we could find her. But we can't. She has disappeared." "Disappeared?" gasped Matt. "That is the way of it. I went to this English lady in Lafayette, and she received me with astonishment. Several days before a man, professing to be from the ambassador, had called and taken Miss Manners away. We are done, done as brown as a kipper, and a telegram to Washington brought an answer requesting me to hunt up this show and have a talk with you." Motor Matt was astounded. And so was McGlory. "Have you any idea who the man was that called on the English woman in Lafayette and took Miss Manners away?" "No. The Lafayette police are looking for him." "Have you any idea that Ben Ali is mixed up in the affair?" "I have, Motor Matt, and a very clear idea. I was ten years in India, and learned the natives there, and their ways. It was for that, I fancy, that Sir Roger asked me to come for Miss Manners. While I was about taking the train at Lafayette, yesterday, I received another message from the ambassador. That message informed me that a telegram had been received from Ben Ali, informing Sir Roger that he again had the girl in his possession, and that she would be delivered to any agent Sir Roger might send after her on payment of ten thousand pounds." "Fifty thousand dollars!" exclaimed Matt. Then he whistled. "Old Ben Ali is out for the stuff," muttered McGlory grimly. "He's a crafty beggar!" commented Twomley. "I left all the telegrams with the police, and Sir Roger is taking the whole matter up with the United States state department. The Secret Service of the government will presently be at work on this case, for it is of international importance. Can you give any information, Motor Matt, that will help us find Ben Ali, or Miss Manners?" Matt shook his head. "Why doesn't the ambassador agree to send some one to meet Ben Ali? Then the rascal could be caught." "He's too clever to let himself be caught. He----" Just here Boss Burton strode into the tent, followed by Carl. "Shut up about that, Carl," the showman was growling. "You haven't any right to that letter, and I'm going to keep it." "I'm in der tedectif pitzness," returned Carl, "und I need dot ledder, py shinks, to helup unrafel der case. Modor Matt," and Carl appealed to his pard, "make Purton gif me der ledder." "What letter?" demanded Matt. "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Burton to Carl; "we'll leave the letter with Matt. If Wily can prove it's his, then Matt can turn the thing over to him." Burton handed a folded sheet to Matt. The latter, entirely in the dark, opened the sheet and laid it on his knee. "What sort of writing is this?" he asked. "That's too many for me. It isn't Chinese--Carl said Ping told him that--and it isn't Dutch. Of course, it's not English. And who it belongs to, or where it came from, or what's the good of it, is more than I know. But it appears to have caused a lot of bother." "It's Hindoostanee," spoke up Twomley, staring at the open sheet. "I can read the language. If you wish, I'll translate it." Then, for the first time, Burton and Carl turned on the Englishman and took his measure. CHAPTER IV. A CLUE IN HINDOOSTANEE. "Who are you, my friend?" inquired Burton bluntly. "A friend of Motor Matt," replied Twomley easily. "He'll vouch for me, I fancy." "Mr. Twomley, attaché of the British Legation at Washington, Burton," said Matt. "Mr. Burton," Matt added to the Englishman, "is the proprietor of the show. The other lad is Carl Pretzel, who is also a chum of mine. We can talk over this matter before them. Carl had everything to do with the finding of Margaret Manners, back there at Lafayette." "Aw," drawled Twomley, screwing his monocle in his eye, and regarding the Dutch boy, "he's the claimant for that thousand pounds reward, I dare say." Tremors of excitement ran galloping through Carl. "Haf you prought der money?" he fluttered. "Vas you looking for me to pay ofer dot rewart?" "I am sorry to say that I haven't brought the money. That matter is still in abeyance." "Vat iss dot?" asked the puzzled Carl. "I don'd _verstch_ dot vort apeyance." "He means the matter is still pending, Carl," put in Matt. "In other words, you haven't got the money yet." "I know dot, aber vill I ged it? Dot's vat gifs me some vorries." "The rajah's a regular topper," said Twomley. "He'd never miss a thousand pounds, and I fancy he'll do the right thing." "Mooch opliged," breathed Carl, in deep satisfaction. "It vas a habbiness to know dot I ged him some dime." "Now, if you wish," went on Twomley, stretching out his hand for the letter. "Just a moment, Mr. Twomley," said Matt. "We don't know much about this letter, and I'd like to find out where and how Carl got it, and what the dispute is about." The Dutch boy launched into an explanation, beginning with the Roman candle and ending at the place where Burton refused to turn the letter over to Wily Bill. Carl touched but lightly on the culpability of Ping in the matter of the Roman candle. In this he was wise. Motor Matt's orders were to the effect that there should be no bickering between the Dutch boy and the Chinese lad. They had been at swords' points for a long while and had only recently developed a friendly feeling for each other. "I always sized up that Wily Bill for a false alarm," remarked McGlory. "Can he read that Hindoostanee lingo? I'll bet my spurs he can't! If that's the case, what's he doing with the letter?" "He must have wanted it a whole lot," said Matt, "or he wouldn't have made such a fight to get it. Perhaps the letter itself will be a clue. Tell us what's in it, Mr. Twomley," and Matt passed the letter to the Englishman. The latter studied the sheet with absorbed attention. Finally he sprang up. "By Jove!" he exploded. "What's the matter?" inquired Matt. "This is luck! Just fancy such a clue coming into our hands at this very moment when it is most needed. Aw, it's--aw--incredible." "You might give us a chance to pass judgment on that, Mr. Twomley," returned Burton. "Maybe it's not so incredible as you seem to think." "It was written by Ben Ali," said the attaché. "_That_ tinhorn!" exclaimed McGlory. "I thought we'd cut him out of our herd altogether. Beats creation how he keeps bobbing up." "Who's it for?" spoke up Matt. "Has Bill Wily any right to it?" "The name of Wily doesn't appear anywhere in the writing," answered Twomley. "In fact, the letter's addressed to a fellow named Dhondaram." Here was another hot shot. Both McGlory and Matt were brought excitedly to their feet. "Dhondaram!" growled Burton, with an expressive glance at the king of the motor boys. "I thought we'd heard the last of that villain." "Who was he?" demanded Twomley. "A Hindoo----" "So I gather from the name." "He blew into the show grounds with a cobra and a home-made flute, when we were at Jackson, and I gave him Ben Ali's place as driver of our man-killin' elephant, Rajah. Oh, he did a lot of things, Dhondaram did. We captured him, but he got loose and dropped off the train between stations." "Aw, Ben Ali didn't know that," reflected Twomley. "Ben Ali must have thought he was still with the show, and sent this letter to him." "What does the letter say?" asked Matt, with some impatience. "It asked Dhondaram to finish his work as soon as possible and to join Ben Ali, with the money, in short order." A silence followed, and during the silence the motor boys exchanged wondering looks. "What was Dhondaram's work?" queried Twomley. "Nothing more or less than putting Pard Matt out of the running," replied McGlory. "Ben Ali's on the warpath against Matt, because of what he did in Lafayette, and Dhondaram tried hard to wipe my pard off the slate." "Ben Ali speaks of money," went on Twomley. "What does that mean?" Burton muttered wrathfully. "I'll bet a thousand," said he, "that refers to the proceeds of the afternoon performance in Jackson, which the ticket man and this Dhondaram tried to get away with. Ben Ali put up the job with Dhondaram, and the ticket man was helping them out." "Matters must have been lively all around in Jackson," observed Twomley. "Dhondaram didn't get the money?" "Not so you could notice," answered McGlory. "Pard Matt jumped in and plugged that little game." "Ben Ali," reasoned the king of the motor boys, "has probably been thinking of recapturing Miss Manners for some time. All he had Dhondaram try to do, in Jackson, was to help on his villainous schemes. But Dhondaram failed. Probably Ben Ali is needing some money pretty badly, about now. What is the date of that letter, Mr. Twomley?" "There is no date." "Then there's no telling how long Bill Wily has carried it in his pocket?" The attaché shook his head. "He must have got it after we left Jackson, pard," interposed McGlory. "If he had got it before, he'd have passed it on to Dhondaram." "How he got it at all is a mystery," mused the young motorist. "He has probably seen and talked with Ben Ali." "Before the show got to Jackson, then," continued the cowboy, who was doing a little sharp thinking. "If he had talked with Ben Ali after the doings in Jackson, he'd have told the old skinner how Dhondaram fell down." "There's a clue here, but it's not so promising as it might be," came disappointedly from the Englishman. Matt walked toward the tent door. "Our best clue," said he decisively, "is Bill Wily. We'd better go to the side show and have a talk with him." "Bring him here, Matt," suggested Burton. "We can talk with him in this place to better advantage than in the side-show tent. I'll go with you and make sure he comes. The rest of you wait," and the showman started from the calliope tent after Matt. Inquiry of the man on the door at the side show developed the fact that Bill Wily had started for town. He had been gone about five minutes, Matt and Burton were informed, and had left the show grounds for the street-car track. "He's making a getaway!" averred Burton. "That's the way it looks," agreed Matt. "We've got to stop him, if we can." Without loss of time the king of the motor boys and the showman hustled for the place where the street-car track made a loop, just beyond a big concert garden. They were hoping to catch Wily before he could board a car. But in this they were disappointed. A car was moving off in the direction of town, and all their frantic yells and gestures were powerless to secure the attention of the conductor. "It'll be fifteen minutes before there's another car," panted Burton, "and by that time the 'barker' will be--the deuce only knows where. It's a cinch, Matt, that he's scared, and is running away. If there was an automobile handy, we could overhaul the car." Burton looked in every direction. "But, of course," he added, "whenever you want a chug-wagon there's none in sight." A familiar humming drew Motor Matt's attention. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a motor-cycle spinning along the road from the direction of Grand Rapids. A young fellow of nineteen or twenty was in the saddle. "There's something that will do--if we can borrow it," said Matt, and jumped into the road and waved his hands. The motorcycle came to a stop. "Are you flagging me?" asked the driver of the machine. "Yes," said Matt hurriedly. "I want to overhaul the street car that just left here. There's a man aboard that we've got to catch. Will you let me take your motorcycle?" "Well, I guess not!" was the reply. "The last time I loaned this machine I was two days getting it back into shape again." "I'll give you twenty dollars for the use of it, young man," put in Burton eagerly. "No inducement," was the answer. "There's hard luck for you, Motor Matt," grunted Burton. The young fellow had been on the point of starting away, but he suddenly paused and turned to Matt. "Are you Matt King," he asked, "the fellow they call Motor Matt?" "Yes," was the reply. "Doing an aëroplane stunt with the show?" "Yes." "Well, take the machine. It won't cost you a cent, either. I work in a motor-car factory in the Rapids, and we've heard a good deal about you there. I'm tickled to death to be able to help you out. Bring the machine back here when you're done with it, and you'll find me waiting." "Such is fame!" laughed Burton. With a hasty word of thanks, Matt headed the machine the other way and got into the saddle. One turn of the pedal and the motor took up its cycle. Half a minute later the king of the motor boys was out of sight down the road. CHAPTER V. SOMETHING WRONG. McGlory, Carl, and Twomley waited in the calliope tent until their patience was exhausted. "Py shiminy," fluttered Carl, "I bed you somet'ing for nodding dot Vily Pill don'd vas by der site show yet." "I reckon you've dropped a bean on the right number," agreed the cowboy. "What's our next jump, your highness?" The question was put to the Englishman. "Aw, I say," said the latter, in remonstrance, "I'm not that, don't you know. I'm not of the peerage. An uncle and three cousins, all distressingly healthy, stand between me and an earldom." "I want to know!" murmured McGlory, in mock surprise. "Why, I didn't think any one this side a lord could wear one of those little window panes in the right eye." "You jest," said Twomley, with a faint smile. "Fancy!" "Well, anyhow, what are we going to do? Sit here and wait, or hit the trail ourselves and find out what's doing?" "Hit the trail?" echoed Twomley, lifting his brows. "Deuced odd, that. Why should we hit it, and what shall we hit it with?" "Vat a ignorance!" murmured Carl. "We'll hit it with our feet, excellency," went on McGlory. He had a hearty contempt for the monocle, and took it out on the wearer. "I don't know whether I rise to that," returned Twomley, "but if it means to go forth and look into the cause of our friends' delay in returning with Wily Bill, then, it's ay, ay, with a will." "Come on, then, and we'll vamose." McGlory led the way to the side-show tent, and Twomley and Carl followed him closely. The crowds had long since entered the big tents, and the performance in the "circus top" was in full blast. With the beginning of the "big show" there was no business left for the annex, and the ticket seller was withdrawn under the lee of a canvas wall, hobnobbing with the man on the door. These two informed McGlory, Twomley, and Carl that Wily Bill had left for town on the street car, and that Motor Matt and Burton had started for the car line in the hope of overhauling him. But that had been all of half an hour before. The three searchers immediately departed for the car-line loop. There they found Burton and a young fellow kicking their heels impatiently and keeping their eyes down the track. "Where's Matt?" asked McGlory. "Ask us something easy," replied Burton. "Wily has hiked for town. When we got here the car he was on was too far down the track to stop. This young man"--the showman indicated his companion--"came along on a motor cycle. Matt borrowed the machine with the intention of overtaking the car and bringing Wily back, but neither has shown up yet. Must be something wrong." "Vell, I bed you!" said Carl anxiously. "On some modor cycles Mile-a-minid Matt alvays geds vere he iss going pefore he shtarts. Somet'ing has gone crossvays alretty, und dot's no tream." "I'm doing a century to-day," remarked the motor cycle owner, "and this is cutting into my time." "Don't fret about your wheel, neighbor," spoke up McGlory. "You'll get it back, all right." "I'm not fretting. Motor Matt's welcome to a dozen of the gasoline bikes if I had 'em. But I'd like to be moving on." Burton looked at his watch. "Matt's been gone thirty-five minutes," he announced. "If he was running all the time," observed the lad from the motor-car works, "he could be thirty-five miles from here." "Perhaps," ventured Twomley, "he has mucked the play, somehow." "Mucked the play!" exclaimed the exasperated McGlory. "That's not his style, your lordship." "We'll wait twenty-five minutes longer," announced Burton. "If Matt isn't back by then, this young man and I will start along the car track in my runabout and we'll see what we can find." "Dake me along," clamored Carl. "I vas afraidt somet'ing iss wrong mit Matt." "If there are any extra passengers in the runabout," said McGlory resolutely, "I'm the one." "My word!" muttered Twomley. "I hope everything's all serene, I do, indeed. I'm a juggins at waiting when there's so much excitement going on." "Juggins is good," grunted McGlory. "You can retire somewhere, Mr. Twomley, and hold onto your nerves while the rest of us hunt up the 'barker.' You'll not shine much till we find Wily Bill, anyhow." "You're an odd stick," answered Twomley, whose good nature was not a thing to be ruffled. He was sharp enough to see that the cowboy had a pique at him, and he had sufficient good sense to take it calmly. "Py shinks," said Carl, after ten more weary minutes had passed, "Matt has hat time to do some centuries himseluf, und I can't guess it oudt for vy he don'd get pack. Oof you don'd dake me in der runaboudt, den, so helup me, I vill valk. Anydink is pedder to shtand as uncerdainties." Carl constantly watched the road that paralleled the car track. And so, for the most part, did the Englishman. "My word, but it is trying!" murmured Twomley. "If we could only see a bit of dust, then we'd know Motor Matt was coming, and my relief would be profound." "Dust! _Ach, himmelblitzen!_ Vy, Matt vill go so fast on dot machine der dust vill be a mile pehindt und you don'd see dot." "Here's something," came from McGlory. "Speak to me about it, will you? Where's Ping? Little Slant-eyes is always around when anything is doing, but I haven't seen him since he finished watering the calliope." Carl knew why Ping wasn't around. Ping was afraid Carl would do something to him to play even for the Roman-candle business. Oh, yes, that was an easy one for Carl to guess. There was secret satisfaction for the Dutch boy in the reflection. And he gloated over it and kept it to himself. "Time's up," announced Burton, snapping his watch, "and here's where I go for the runabout. My thoroughbred is hitched to the buggy, so be ready to go with me," he added to the owner of the motor cycle. "I'm not worrying about the wheel, understand," said the lad, "but about the century I'm to turn. I'm making it right in the teeth of this wind." Inside of five minutes Burton came with the runabout, his Kentucky thoroughbred stamping off the ground at a record pace. The runabout seat was narrow, and Burton and the lad from the motor-car factory filled it comfortably. But they took McGlory on their knees and whipped away, leaving Twomley and Carl gazing after them disconsolately. Hardly were the runabout and its passengers out of sight when a car rounded the loop and deposited its passengers on the platform. "Led's ged on der car, Misder Dumley," suggested Carl. "Ve vill vatch der road as ve go, und oof ve see somet'ing ve vill trop off. I peen a tedectif feller, und oof dere iss any clues dey von't ged avay from me." "Go you!" answered Twomley heartily. Any sort of action was a relief for his impatience, and he and Carl scrambled aboard the car. Meanwhile the pedigreed Kentucky cob was pounding off the distance. In the horse's performance the proud showman lost sight of the main business in hand--temporarily. "See that knee action!" he exulted. "Did either of you ever see a prettier bit of traveling? We're doing a mile in two-thirty!" "Bother the horse!" growled McGlory. "Keep your eyes on the road for clues." "Clues! I'll bet money the 'barker' wouldn't get off the car. How could Matt make him? He couldn't, of course. Nothing short of a cop and a warrant could make Wily Bill leave the car if he was set for reaching Grand Rapids. I might have known that, if I had stopped to think. We'll have to keep right on into town--and, then, like as not, we won't find either Matt or Wily. Now----" "Whoa!" cried McGlory. "You're shy a few, Burton. Here's where we stop." "What's up?" returned Burton, reining in his spirited roadster. "Look there!" McGlory pointed to the left-hand side of the road. Close to a steep bank, against a clump of bushes, stood the motor cycle. "Jupiter!" exclaimed Burton. "Great Scott!" cried the owner of the machine. McGlory tumbled clear of the runabout and started toward the bushes. He had not taken half a dozen steps, however, before he came to a dead stop. A form fluttered out of the bushes and approached him excitedly. "Ping!" gasped the cowboy. "Speak to me about this! Where'd you come from, Ping? And where's Pard Matt?" The Chinese boy's feelings apparently defied expression. He tried to speak, but his lips moved soundlessly. Hopping up and down in his sandals, he waved his arms and pointed--not toward Grand Rapids, but off across a piece of rough woodland. CHAPTER VI. A BLUNDER IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. Ping had felt certain that his move in touching off the Roman candle had not been seen. It was a disagreeable surprise to him, therefore, when Bill Wily told Carl just who was responsible for the fireworks. Ping and Carl were trying hard to be pards. Their hearts were not in the attempt, for deep in the spirit of each one slumbered a latent animosity against the other. But they had to try to fraternize. Motor Matt had issued an edict to the effect that, if they did not become pards, he and McGlory would cut them out of the motor boys' combination. So the lads did their utmost to appear friendly. They wandered around together, and whenever Matt or McGlory was in sight they locked arms and addressed each other in terms of endearment. When they were away from Matt and McGlory they still kept up the pretense, but in a manner that was more subdued. Ping could not resist the temptation to touch a match to the Roman candle. He had not expected to cause such a disturbance, and the fact that chaos had reigned in the side show, and that his culpability had become known, filled him with apprehension. Carl would tell Matt, and Matt would sidetrack his Chinese pard. Ping worried, and had no desire to see Matt, or any one else. The show was to be at Reid's Lake for three days, and there was no Sunday performance. Ping, therefore, could flock by himself until Monday afternoon. Ping's work consisted of watering the steam calliope, and in helping the aëroplane take its running start for the flights. Owing to the wind, there would be no morning flight, and--very likely, as he argued to himself--no afternoon ascension, either. And Ping knew Motor Matt would not work on Sunday. Taken all in all, this was a most propitious time for Ping to absent himself from the show grounds. With the idea that he would go into Grand Rapids and hunt up some of his countrymen, he left the grounds and made his way around the concert garden to the car-line loop. Here his nerve began to fail him, and he allowed two or three cars to come and go without getting aboard. Finally he bolstered up his tottering resolution and climbed into one of the cars. Looking through the open window, after he had taken his seat, he saw Wily Bill swing up by the hand rails. Ping was asking himself what this could mean when the car pulled out. A little worried, he knew not for what reason, he got up from his seat and walked to the forward platform, thinking it well to keep out of Bill Wily's sight. Suddenly he became aware of something. A voice, from far behind, was shouting for the car to stop. The passengers, thrusting their heads from the windows, were looking back, and some of them were talking excitedly. Ping, hanging out from the lower step, turned his gaze rearward, and what he saw caused his heart to thump wildly against his ribs. One of the little two-wheeled devil wagons was rushing along the road that paralleled the track, coming like a limited choo-choo train, and Motor Matt was in the saddle! Ping had but one thought. The Dutch boy had told Matt about the Roman candle, and Matt was chasing the street car in order to remove his Chinese pard, read the riot act to him, and cast him adrift. What a turn Ping had! He crouched down on the step, and the clatter of the gong, as the conductor gave the motorman the bell from the rear platform, sent a shiver of dread through his nerves. Rather than face Matt and be cut out of the motor boys' combination, Ping would have done almost anything. The only thing that suggested itself at that moment was to jump and run. His original intention to lie low until the Roman-candle incident blew over grew stronger in his mind. The car was beginning to slow down, but it was still proceeding at a lively gait when Ping threw himself straight out from the lower step. The Chinese boy did not know the proper way to alight from a swiftly moving trolley car, and the result of his leap can be imagined. The passengers who were looking out from that side of the car had a vision of a small Chinaman in the air, pigtail flying. The next instant the Chinaman touched ground, but found it moving too fast for a secure foothold. Ping bounded into the air again, his slouch hat going in one direction, his sandals in another, and he himself describing what is technically known as a parabola. The Le Bons--the best "kinkers" in the Big Consolidated--could not have twisted themselves into more fantastic shapes than did Ping during that stunt of ground-and-lofty tumbling. He landed on the ground like a frog taking to the water from the top of a toadstool, and he wound up his performance by throwing a number of choice cartwheels and then sitting up in the dust and looking around in considerable mental perturbation. About the first thing he saw and was able to realize was that another besides himself had made a jump from the car. The other was Wily Bill, and he must have dropped from the rear platform a little before Ping dropped from the platform forward. Wily Bill, however, must have known how to jump from a swiftly moving car and yet keep his balance, for he was on his feet and making a dash for a brushy bank at the roadside. Motor Matt had swerved his motor cycle and was making in the "barker's" direction, calling loudly the while for him to stop. The light that dawned on Ping, just then, was a good balm for his bruises. Matt was not chasing him, after all, but had been hot on the trail of Wily Bill! While Ping sat there in the dust, hat and sandals gone, his clothes torn and awry, and himself more or less disorganized, he saw Wily Bill scramble up the steep bank and vanish among the bushes on the top of it. Possibly thirty seconds later, Matt sprang from the motor cycle, leaped up the ascent like an antelope, and likewise vanished. "By Klismus!" murmured Ping, rubbing his knees. "Velly funny pidgin! My no savvy. One piecee queer biz, you bettee. Wow! China boy all blokee up! Motol Matt no wanchee pullee pin on China boy. Hoop-a-la!" Between his physical pain on account of his bruises and his rejoicing over the discovery that Matt had not been following him, Ping failed to observe that the street car had stopped and backed up to the place nearest the spot where he was crooning to himself and rubbing his bruised limbs. It was not until the conductor and the motorman faced him that Ping realized that he was the object of their consideration. "Didju fall off?" asked the conductor. "No makee fall," answered Ping, cocking up his almond eyes, "makee jump." "Blamed wonder yu didn't break yer neck!" growled the motorman. "Chinks don't know nothin' anyhow." "Hurt?" asked the conductor, animated by a laudable desire to avoid a damage suit in behalf of the company. "Heap sore," chattered Ping, "no bleakee bone. Hoop-a-la!" he jubilated, a wide grin cutting his yellow face in half. "Woosh!" he added, as the grin faded and a look of pain took its place. "Well, I'm stumped!" muttered the conductor. "Is he crazy, or what?" he added, looking at the motorman. "Pass it up," snapped the motorman. "Chinks is only half baked, best you can say for 'em. Let's snake 'im aboard and go on. We've lost enough time." One got on either side of Ping and lifted him to his feet. They would have dragged him to the car had he not resisted. "Leavee 'lone!" he shouted, squirming. "Oh, snakes!" ground out the exasperated motorman. "Ain't you fer the Rapids?" "No wanchee go Glan' Lapids!" declared Ping. "Why my makee jump my wanchee go Glan' Lapids?" "That's so," said the conductor. "What did he jump from the car for if he wanted to go on with us? We'll leave him, Jim. I thought, when I saw him hit the ground, we'd have to take him to the hospital, but he seems to be all right." Jim, with an angry exclamation, let go of Ping and hustled back to his place at the front end of the car. The conductor mounted the rear platform, and the starting bell jingled. As the passengers looked back, they saw the Chinese boy attempt a war dance in his stocking feet, then suddenly cease and reach down to clasp his right shin. "He's got out o' some lunatic asylum," thought the conductor. "Well, it's none o' my funeral," he added, and went into the car and began collecting fares. Ping, when the car was out of sight, limped around collecting his scattered wardrobe. While he was about it, he was wondering, in his feeble way, why Motor Matt was chasing Bill Wily. Probably, he reasoned, Wily had cut up so rough with Carl that Matt had thought best to pursue the man and call him to account. Ping was not in very good condition to take part in the chase, but if he could manage it, and proved of some assistance to Motor Matt, such a move would go far toward making his peace with the king of the motor boys. "My makee tly," groaned Ping, limping to the place where the motor cycle had been left. With infinite patience he crawled up the steep slope. One of his legs felt as though it didn't belong to him--it seemed more like a cork leg than anything else, and was numb from ankle to thigh. But, somehow, he managed to get up the bank with it. Pausing there, he called aloud for Motor Matt. His voice echoed weirdly in the scant timber of the rocky ground in front of him, and the shout brought no response. "My findee Motol Matt," declared the Chinese lad to himself, as he limped into the timber. "My ketchee Motol Matt, mebby ketchee Wily Bill. Woosh! Hoop-a-la!" CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS. While making his slow and painful way among the scrub oaks that grew out of the stony earth, Ping was looking in all directions for Matt and Wily. He was listening, too, with all his ears. But he could neither see nor hear anything of the two for whom he was searching. "My findee!" he said, with dogged determination. "Motol Matt no chasee China boy, him chasee Wily Bill," and again he exulted. Action was perhaps the best tonic he could have had. As he swung onward, the leg which did not seem to belong to him began to remind him, in no uncertain manner, that it was really his, and that he was responsible for its condition. A slow pain made itself manifest, running up the member like a streak of lightning and giving Ping a "gone" feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he was "game." Shutting his teeth on more than one groan, he kept resolutely on through the bleak timber, looking and listening. Finally he came out on a rough crossroad, which he followed. Five minutes of wabbling along this road brought him to the end of it--and across the end squatted a dingy white house with green shutters. The shutters were closed, and the house had the appearance of being deserted. Here, Ping felt, was the end of his trail. He was on the wrong track, and the question that pressed upon him was what he should do next. Withdrawing to a clump of bushes, he sat down and gave the matter extended thought. Who lived in the house? And was there any one at home? If there was any one in the place, would they talk with him and tell him whether they had seen Matt or the side-show man? Ping, unlike Carl, made no boasts of being a "tedectif." He could blunder around and, maybe, stumble upon something worth while, but it would be purely a hit-and-miss performance. Yes, he decided, he had better go to the house and see whether there was anybody there. Barely had he made up his mind when, with amazing suddenness, Bill Wily rushed around the corner of the house, jammed a key into the door, and disappeared. He did not close the door behind him, being, as it seemed, in too much of a hurry to attend to such trifling matters. While Ping was still wrenched with this startling exhibition, an even more astounding spectacle was wafted his way. Motor Matt followed Wily around the house corner, paused an instant in front of the open door, then was swallowed up in the dark interior. Ping had not called out, for amazement had held him speechless. The Chinese boy had blundered in leaping from the street car, but, as it had chanced, that had been a blunder in the right direction. All the heathen gods of luck had been ranged on his side, too, when he followed the crossroad and went into communion with himself in the clump of bushes facing the green-shuttered house. In about two minutes, Ping figured, Matt would have Bill Wily by the heels. So it followed, if Ping was to have any part in the capture, he would have to hurry. In the excitement of the moment he forgot his bruises, emerged from the undergrowth, and made his way rapidly toward the house. At the open door he stopped, thrust his head into the hallway, and used his ears. The silence was intense, and not the faintest sound was to be heard. There was something weirdly mysterious about this. With Matt and Wily both in the house, and each more or less hostile toward the other, there should have been a good deal of noise. A qualm raced through Ping's nerves. There was something ominous about mysteries, and he had made it a rule to fight shy of ominous things. He did not consider them at all good for a Chinaman's health, or his peace of mind. And a Melican house, too, deserted and with closed shutters, offered dangers not lightly to be reckoned with. But Ping, as yet, was Motor Matt's pard; and whereever Motor Matt led the way, then Ping would be more of a hired man than a pard if he did not follow. Shutting his teeth hard, and breathing only when necessary, the Chinese boy crossed the threshold of the house with the green shutters. He was in a narrow hall that extended through the house from front to rear. A stairway led to the second floor, and two doors opened off to left and right. Throttling his fears, Ping moved toward the door on the right, his sandals scuffling over the uncarpeted floor. There was no furniture in the house, and the floor was bare. The swish of the sandals sent vague fears cantering through the little Celestial, and he curled up his toes in order to wedge the soles of his footgear closer to the bottoms of his feet. The room he entered was dark. With a trembling hand he groped in his blouse for matches. Had he lost his matches in taking that header from the street car? His fears in that respect were short-lived, for he quickly found half a dozen of the small fire-sticks. Scratching one, he held it up and peered around. The room was empty--bare as a last year's bird's nest. Going back into the hall, he examined a room on the opposite side. That one also was empty, and over all the emptiness arose a musty odor as of a building long untenanted. Two more rooms remained to be examined on the first floor. One of these was the kitchen, and a quantity of soot had drifted down and lay in a heap on the floor. Ping kept away from the soot, and was glad afterward that he had done so. Across the hall was the last of the four rooms comprising the lower part of the house--dark, deserted, and musty as were the other three. Failure to encounter danger of any visible sort had heartened Ping wonderfully. "My makee go up stlails," he thought. "Mebby my ketchee something top-side." He moved softly, but the stairs creaked and rasped under his sandals in spite of his wariness. There were four rooms upstairs, just as there were below, and in none of the dark chambers did he discover any trace of Motor Matt or of Wily Bill. Ping was "stumped." The longer he thought of the mystery the more terrified he became. He believed in demons. Ben Ali, he knew, was possessed of them, for he had heard how the Hindoo, with his eyes alone, had put people to sleep and made them do strange things while they dreamed. Ping, naturally, had no idea that Ben Ali was in any way concerned with Matt's pursuit of Wily Bill, but the Chinaman's mind reverted to Ben Ali, and Aurung Zeeb, and Dhondaram, three Hindoos, all of whom, at various times, had formed a part of the Big Consolidated. Had he dared, Ping would have shouted Matt's name at the top of his voice. But he was afraid. A dragon, spouting fire from its red mouth, and with a hundred claw-armed feet, might materialize and attack him, did he dare awake the echoes of that sombre house. Turning swiftly away from the last room, Ping got astride the banisters, slid to the bottom of the stairs, and ducked through the front door. The bright sunshine was never pleasanter to him than at that moment. He gulped down a few draughts of pure outside air and started off toward the bushes, bent upon a little solitary reflection. By a sudden thought, he whirled abruptly, softly drew the door shut, turned the key in the lock, and then slipped the key into his pocket. He had locked the door on the mysteries, and he hoped the fiends of darkness would respect the barrier until he could think of some way to exorcise them. Once more in his original place among the bushes, Ping watched the house warily and tried to approach the problem in a reasonable way. But it was not a question of reason. His investigation had developed facts that defied every logical process. What had become of Motor Matt? This was the point that disturbed the Chinese boy most. If he could find Motor Matt, he would be content to leave the question of Wily's whereabouts out of the count. Abruptly Ping had an idea. Perhaps Wily had rushed out of a rear door, and Matt had followed him? During his investigations, Ping had tried no doors or windows. Getting to his feet, he made a circle around the house. There was one door in the rear, and only one. Cautiously he approached and tried the knob. The door was locked. As for the windows, every one was tightly closed in with the green shutters. These discoveries left Ping in a daze. After several minutes of bewilderment, he finally made up his mind to return to the show grounds, find McGlory, and acquaint him with the situation. McGlory would know what to do! Then, there was the two-wheeled devil wagon Motor Matt had left at the foot of the bank, by the roadside. A hazy idea of riding the machine back to the show grounds passed through the Chinaman's mind. To regain the road by the street-car track took time, but the distance was covered much more rapidly than Ping had covered it coming the other way. Strange to relate, the Chinese boy's bruises caused him little concern. All his aches and pains were lost in the details of the inexplicable situation connected with the deserted house. While he was in the brush, at the foot of the bank, eying the motor cycle a bit dubiously, he heard a patter of hoofs, a grind of wheels, and a sound of voices. Looking up, he saw Burton's runabout at a stop. Burton was in the buggy, and so was a young fellow Ping had never seen before--and McGlory. The cowboy was just scrambling out of the vehicle and starting in the direction of the motor cycle. The sight of reinforcements caused all Ping's wonder, and doubt, and apprehension to revive with redoubled force. He attempted to shout, but no words escaped his lips. Rushing forth to meet McGlory, he waved his arms and pointed in the direction of the house with the green shutters. CHAPTER VIII. THE PILE OF SOOT. Ping was not many minutes recovering the use of his tongue. McGlory grabbed him and shook his powers of speech back into their normal condition. "Where's Motor Matt?" cried McGlory. "My no savvy!" "How did you happen to be here?" "Stleet cal." "What're you making a run from the show grounds for without saying a word to Matt?" That was a point which Ping did not care to reveal. He was not above being careless with the truth in a pinch, having been raised that way. But, while he might resort to a little harmless fiction with McGlory, he would have cut his tongue out before he would have fibbed to Motor Matt. "Makee see Wily Bill ketchee cal," Ping explained; "my ketchee same cal. Follow Wily Bill. Wily Bill jump from cal. My jump, too. Tumble all ovel load. Wily Bill lun fo' top-side bank. Motol Matt chasee. Motol Matt leavee gas hlorsee by bank. My follow, no findee." Out of this pigeon English McGlory captured a few germs of sense. "What the nation was he following Wily for?" demanded Burton. "How did he know we wanted Wily?" Ping was still equal to the emergency. "Dutchy boy havee low with Wily Bill," he explained. "That's right," went on Burton; "you _were_ around during the row. I'd forgotten that. That may have been enough to put you on Wily's trail, although I can't figure it out exactly. But you followed him, and then you followed Matt when he ran after Wily. They went up the bank and into the woods, you say?" "Allee same." "Then where did they go?" demanded McGlory. "Makee tlacks fo' house with green blinds." "They made tracks for a house with green blinds? Now we're getting at it. Where's this house?" "Othel side woods. My findee, you savvy; makee sit down, do heap big think. Bymby, 'long come Wily Bill, unlock do', go in house. Plenty soon, 'long come Motol Matt, go in house, too." Ping became oppressed with the awe aroused by the event next to be described, and his voice sank into a husky whisper. "My makee tlacks inside, hunt evel place, no can find. House allee same empty. Motol Matt disappeal, vanish, makee go up in smoke. Woosh! My plenty 'flaid." "What's he givin' us?" snorted Burton. "He's talking through his hat, seems like, to me." "He's run into something that he can't cumtux," returned McGlory. "It's plain enough, though, that a house with green shutters is at the end of our trail. Ping can take us there, and it will be up to us to do the rest." "Say, young feller!" cried Burton, standing up in the runabout and addressing the lad from the motor-car works. The latter was pulling his motor cycle out of the bushes and making ready to forge away on the rest of his "century" run. "Well?" returned the youth, one leg over the saddle and ready to pedal off. "Load that machine into the runabout and drive this rig back to the show grounds for me, will you?" requested Burton. "I'm hungry to see this game through, and I can't leave the horse hitched in the road." "Couldn't get the motor cycle into the buggy," was the answer. "Anyhow, I guess I've helped you about as much as you could reasonably expect." "There's twenty coming to you," went on Burton. "Take the rig back and I'll make it thirty." "There's nothing coming to me. I told Motor Matt he could use the machine, and welcome. Now that he's done with it, I'll go on with my run." The motor began to pop, and presently settled into a steady hum. A minute later the motor cycle and its rider were out of sight. Just then, when it looked as though Burton was to be permanently retired from the rest of the pursuit, a street car from the lake rattled to a halt, and Carl and Twomley dropped from the steps. "Here's the Englishman," muttered McGlory, without much enthusiasm. "And Carl!" added Burton. "He'll take the rig back for me, and the rest of us will start for the house with the green shutters." "Vat's to pay?" clamored Carl, running toward McGlory and Ping. Ping's confidence in Carl, like Carl's confidence in Ping, was badly "shook." The Chinese boy backed away. "Here, Carl," cried Burton. "Jump into the runabout and take it back to the grounds for me. I've got business with McGlory." "Meppy I don'd got some pitzness mit McGlory, same as you," demurred Carl. "Vere iss Modor Matt?" "There's no time to palaver, Carl," interposed McGlory. "Take the rig back." When Matt was away, McGlory was the boss. Carl could not very well disobey such a pointblank order. Much against his will, he climbed into the runabout. "My word!" cried Twomley. "You seem to have discovered a clue of some sort. Who's the Chinaman?" "Never mind that, now," returned Barton. "Come with us, Twomley, and we'll tell you as we go along." "Lead off, Ping," ordered McGlory. Carl, very much out of temper, shook his fist at Burton, and then at Ping. Following this, he turned the rig the other way and rode moodily back toward the show grounds. Ping, meanwhile, had climbed the bank, and was leading the party of investigators through the woods in the direction of the crossroad. As they went along, Burton was telling Twomley what Ping had discovered. The information given by the Chinaman was lacking in many important points, but its very incompleteness added to the tensity of the situation. When they came to the end of the crossroad, Ping halted and indicated the house with the green shutters. "You say," remarked McGlory, giving the house a swift sizing, "that Wily Bill ran into the house?" "All same," answered Ping. "And that Pard Matt trailed after him?" "All same." "Then you went in, looked around, and couldn't see anything of either of them?" "My no findee." Ping shivered. "When my makee come out, my lockee do'." He dug up the key and handed it to McGlory. "Well," declared McGlory, "if Motor Matt and Wily Bill went in there, and didn't come out again, we'll find them." "If the Chinaman didn't find them," struck in Twomley, "they must have come out." "We'll soon know what's what," and the cowboy made his way to the door, thrust the key into the lock, and pushed the door ajar. The same dark, funereal silence that had greeted Ping stared McGlory, Burton, and Twomley in the face. "My no findee," chattered Ping, drawing back; "you no findee." McGlory pressed into the hall. "I'll take the rooms on the left," said he, "and the rest of you take the ones on the right. Do your bushwhacking, and then, if you don't find anything, meet me at the foot of the stairs for a look overhead." Nothing was found. The back door was securely bolted on the inside, and all the windows and blinds of the various lower windows firmly fastened. The situation upstairs was exactly the same. Puzzled and bewildered, the party returned to the lower hall. "If Ping's giving it to us straight," said McGlory, "neither Matt nor Wily got out of here. They couldn't have gone through the rear door or any of the windows, without leaving them open. And they couldn't have left by the front door because it was locked, and Ping had the key." "They might have slipped out while Ping was nosing around upstairs," suggested Burton. "They'd have made some noise," objected the cowboy. "Matt didn't have any call to keep quiet, and Ping would surely have heard him. Let's go back to the rear rooms again." Burton and Twomley had examined the kitchen. McGlory now looked that room over for himself. He was no more than two minutes in picking up a clue. The lighted match which he held close to the floor showed footprints outlined in black. He traced them to the pile of soot under the chimney. "Here's where we find something!" he cried. "Open those shutters, you fellows! We want light while we run out this trail of soot." Twomley and Burton unfastened the windows and pushed back the blinds on their screeching hinges. The sunlight, drifting into the room, brought out the trail with weird distinctness. "Maybe the Chinaman blundered into the soot and left the trail," hazarded Burton. "My no makee tlail," declared Ping. "No touchee soot." "There's only one of the chink, anyhow, pards," said McGlory, "and at least two pairs of feet walked through that pile of black stuff. One man wore shoes, and the other wore slippers. The slippers left marks a good deal like Ping's sandals, but the marks are too big for Ping. We'll find out a few things now, I reckon." With eyes bent sharply on the floor, the cowboy crossed the kitchen into the hall, and then moved along the hall to a spot under the stairs. The stairs were not enclosed, but sprang directly from the hall floor. In the angle formed by the flight and the floor the sooty trail vanished. "Now what?" queried Burton. "It looks like we were up in the air as much as ever." Without replying, McGlory drew his knife from his pocket, opened it, and went down on his knees. CHAPTER IX. MATT MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. Matt's pursuit of the street car reminded him of his old motor-cycle days in Arizona. The familiar hum of the twin cylinders between his knees carried his mind back to his ill-fated gasoline marvel, the _Comet_, in honor of which he had named the aëroplane he was using with the show. The borrowed motor cycle had all the improvements, and the way it could run warmed the cockles of Matt's heart. In less than a minute after leaving Burton and the machine's owner, the king of the motor boys was shooting along the road like a bullet out of a gun. He was pursuing an electric car that ran at a high rate of speed, but the motor cycle must have been going five feet to the car's one. Before Matt fairly realized it he was within sight of the car. When he was close enough to be heard he began to call to the conductor to stop. The passengers heard him, as the row of heads thrust out from each side of the car conclusively proved; and the conductor also heard him, for he appeared on the rear platform. Matt could see the conductor reaching for the bell rope. At the same time, Wily Bill rushed out on the back platform, took in the situation at a startled glance, and then dropped dexterously from the car at the track side. Matt was so wrapped up in what Wily Bill was doing that Ping's leap from the front platform escaped him entirely. Wily Bill scurried for the side of the road, and Matt shut off the power and glided after him. "Hold up there, Wily!" cried Matt. The "barker" paid no attention, but plunged up the bank and darted off into the timber. By that time Motor Matt's blood was up. He knew that a great deal depended on the capture of Wily. If the "barker" could be made to tell when and how he had received that note in Hindoostanee, a clue to the whereabouts of Ben Ali and the missing Margaret Manners would be secured. Appreciating fully the exigencies of the case, Matt sprang from the wheel and leaped up the bank. From the top of the rise he could see nothing of Wily, but a crashing of the undergrowth told him plainly in which direction the man had gone. He was but an instant in taking after him. Wily's actions were those of a guilty man; in fact, they inferred a deeper guilt than the mere possession of a note in Hindoostanee would indicate. This, naturally, made the fellow's capture all the more important. For a quarter of a mile, Matt judged, Wily led him a chase through the woods. The "barker" had lost a little of his lead, but was keeping up his fierce pace with a good deal of vigor. Then, suddenly, he began to double. Matt would run on, looking and listening, only to find that there was no thrashing brush ahead. When he stopped, the sounds made by the fleeing fugitive had changed their direction, and the young motorist had to whirl and take another course. For some time this variation of the game of hare and hounds continued, Matt drawing steadily nearer and nearer. At last Matt caught his first glimpse of Wily, since he had fled over the bank from the street car, at the rear of a house whose windows were closed with green shutters. Wily stood out against the house wall, his form sharply defined, just as Matt rushed from a fringe of hazels. The "barker" cast a look over his shoulder, gave vent to a panting exclamation, and darted around the end of the house. When Matt reached the front of the structure, Wily had vanished. The key to his disappearance was furnished by the wide-swinging front door, key still in the lock. Besides, Wily had not had time to go around the other side of the house, or to get into the woods again, so Matt knew he must have entered the building. With scarcely a moment's hesitation, the king of the motor boys followed the fugitive. Coming in out of the bright sunshine, the darkness of the shut-in hall was intense. As Matt ran on past one of the doors leading to a room on the right a sinewy, turbaned form leaped out and a fist shot through the gloom, landing on the back of Matt's head with tremendous force. Matt staggered, regained his balance, and whirled around. His brain was reeling, but, looking toward the light that entered at the open door, he saw that the man who had struck him was not Wily, as he had imagined, but a Hindoo--none other than his old acquaintance, Dhondaram. Flinging out his arms, he leaped at the Hindoo. Then it was that Wily completed the work that Dhondaram had begun. Another blow from behind, savagely given with all the "barker's" strength, caused Matt to sink to his knees and then straighten out unconscious on the bare floor. "You saw what was goin' on?" asked Wily breathlessly. "Even so, sahib," answered the other, in a low tone. "I'm in luck to find you here. Wasn't intendin' to blow in at this place till night--but any port in a storm. Pick him up and let's get away somewhere." "The kitchen, sahib." Between them, the unconscious king of the motor boys was lifted and carried into the kitchen. "Hang it!" growled Wily, floundering through the soot pile; "this won't do. There may be more after me. There's another place, under the stairs. Sharp's the word, now. Carry him there." Matt was not bereft of his senses for long. There was too much steel and whalebone in his athletic body to keep him steeped in oblivion for any great length of time. The first thing he saw, when his eyes slowly opened, was a candle planted in the earth. He was lying, hands and feet bound and a cloth over his mouth, in a sort of pit. Above him were the stringers and boards of a floor. A few moments passed while he was picking up the thread of events. While he was piecing details together, he heard a light footfall on the floor overhead, advancing and retreating. Later there came the creaking of boards as of some one climbing a flight of stairs. Wily and Dhondaram, silent and motionless as statues, knelt in the earth, the fluttering gleam of the candle over them, and were listening to the footfalls with bated breath. From the manner of these two Matt understood forthwith that the person in the upper part of the house must be one whom his captors feared. Had it not been for the cloth that smothered his lips, Matt would have shouted at the top of his voice and so have informed a possible friend where he was. Inasmuch as he could neither move nor make an audible sound, the prisoner lay quiet. There was no cellar under this house with the green shutters, only a scooped-out place in the earth where possibly potatoes and other vegetables had been kept. Presently the footsteps once more descended the stairs and could be heard leaving the house. Wily turned to Dhondaram with a deep breath of relief. "That was a close call," he muttered. "If we'd been a second later gettin' down here----" He bit off his words quickly. The door had slammed and the grating of a key could be heard. "_Maskee!_" rumbled Dhondaram. "The door has been closed and locked, sahib. You left the key in the door." "I was in too big a hurry to do anythin' else. As it was, Motor Matt came within one of layin' hands on me. See if he's got his wits back." On hands and knees the Hindoo crept to Matt's side and peered into his face. Matt kept his eyes closed. "Not yet, sahib," answered Dhondaram. "It is well. He shall not waken in this world. The goddess Kali----" Dhondaram did not finish the sentence. He had referred to the malign Hindoo deity invoked by thugs, and it may be he thought the talk unsuited to American ears. Lifting himself on his knees, he drew from the breast of his jacket a glittering blade. The next moment Wily Bill had caught his arm. "Chuck it!" he growled sternly. The Hindoo turned his glittering eyes on the "barker." "Sahib, you do not understood," said he, in a hissing voice. "I understood you're intendin' to use the knife," answered Wily Bill, "an' I won't have it. What d'you take me for? They don't hang people in this State, but I don't intend to pass the rest o' my days in the 'pen.' Put that knife back where you took it from." "It is my duty to do this thing," flared the Hindoo. "Go on!" "Ben Ali saved my life in my own country, and I joined the show of Burra Burton because he told me. I tried to remove Motor Matt because he told me. That will pay my debt to Ben Ali. I failed in my work while I was with the show, but now----" "You're goin' to fail here, too. I've got a tender regard for my liberty, an' that's why I was runnin' away from the show grounds. There was a fracas turned on in the side-show tent, an' I got mixed up in it. Durin' the row I lost a letter that came to me by mail--a letter that contained somethin' for you. Ben Ali, in my letter, said where he wanted to meet you. I don't know what he said in your letter, as that was in Hindoostanee." Dhondaram's eyes glowed expectantly, and he held out his hand. "The writing, sahib." "I haven't got it. Didn't I just tell you it was lost? That's what made me bolt from the grounds. One of Motor Matt's friends got the thing, and when I tried to get it, Burton took possession of it. If that letter's ever translated, I'll bet it contains stuff that would make the show too hot to hold me. I got away while there was time--but there wasn't any too much time, at that. If----" Dhondaram drew back. "Motor Matt, sahib," muttered Dhondaram, "he's listening to your talk." The prisoner had opened his eyes, and the keen glance of the Hindoo had detected it. Both Dhondaram and Wily turned their gaze on Matt. CHAPTER X. RESCUE! Motor Matt understood full well the gravity of his situation. Never until that moment had he known the cause of the murderous Dhondaram's hostility to him, but now it appeared that he was merely seeking to cancel a debt which he owed Ben Ali. Bill Wily's regard for his own welfare was all that stood between Motor Matt and the knife of the misguided Hindoo. "Give me that knife, Dhondaram," ordered Wily. "I will keep the knife, sahib," replied the other. "Keep it, then, and be hanged to you," answered Wily angrily, "but you'll settle with me if you try any knife tricks on the prisoner. I guess you rise to that, all right enough. Take off the gag. I want to talk with Motor Matt." Dhondaram bent down and removed the cloth. "I'm a 'barker,'" went on Wily, still addressing the Hindoo and making brief display of a revolver, "but here's somethin' that bites as well as barks. Put away that knife." Silently the Hindoo returned the knife to his jacket and sank back on his heels. "What was you chasin' me for, Motor Matt?" asked Wily. "Why were you running away from me?" Matt countered. "That's my business. You answer my question. I guess you'd better treat me white, 'cause it's me that keeps the Hindoo from doin' a little knife work on you." "Burton wanted you to tell him something about that letter," Matt answered, making up his mind that a little of the truth would not be out of place. "Oh, ho!" muttered Wily. "Does he think I can read Hindoostanee?" "No. What he wanted to know was where you got the letter. The Hindoos who have been connected with the show haven't turned out very well--they are all fugitives from the law, even Dhondaram." Not a ripple crossed the placid brown face of the Hindoo; only his glittering eyes revealed the feeling that slumbered in the depths of his soul. "I guessed there'd be a stir about that letter," went on Wily, "an' that's the reason I made up my mind to pull out. I'd had to explain, an' no matter what I'd said I'd have been fired, anyway. I used to live in Grand Rapids, and the home town was a good place for me to cut loose from the show, see?" "Why are you treating me like this?" asked Matt quietly. "Couldn't help it. Them kid pards o' yours was the cause o' the hull bloomin' twist-up!" Wily Bill swore savagely under his breath. "I'd like to take the kinks out o' that Dutchman. He's too much on the buttinsky order. You chased after me, hung on, an' wouldn't let go. What else could I do but make myself safe?" "You didn't have to have Dhondaram knock me down." "It wasn't him did that. He tried, but I had to finish the job. But I was treatin' you well, at that. I could have dropped down back of a clump o' bushes, there in the timber, and picked you off with this." Wily touched his hip pocket. "But I didn't. That ain't my style. I'd rather have you like this an' come to a little agreement with you. As for Dhondaram, I hadn't an idea he was in the house. I'd given him a key, an' I knew he might be here, but I wasn't expectin' him so soon. Mebby it was lucky for me that he was around." "So that's it, eh?" commented Matt sarcastically. "You've been meeting Dhondaram, and helping him, when you knew he had been a prisoner of Burton's and had escaped from the show train between Jackson and Kalamazoo. If a person helps a fugitive of the law to escape, he is guilty of a crime and can be punished for it." "There you hit it! But I was ducking out--and you wouldn't let me duck. I'm going to leave, in spite of you and Burton. That's the worst I've done--talkin' with Dhondaram and carryin' Hindoostanee letters. But I'll not be jugged for that, or----" A hiss of warning came from Dhondaram. At the same moment he leaned down and replaced the cloth over Matt's lips. Distant voices were heard, then the sound of a key rattling in a lock. "The fellow that was here before has brought some others," whispered Wily. "Hang the luck! I wish we had got out o' here while we had the chance. Now, then, we're in for it an' no mistake." "Listen, sahib!" frowned the Hindoo. The voices that had been heard outside the house were now talking in the hall. It was impossible to distinguish words, but Matt's heart leaped as he recognized McGlory's voice and Burton's. They were looking for him! "They cannot find us down here, sahib," murmured the Hindoo, his voice soft and purring as that of a tiger cat. "They will go as the first one went, then we can leave." This was Wily's hope. Breathlessly he listened to the sounds above. The footsteps and the voices faded away into the upper regions of the building. "Now," muttered Wily, "we might be able to dodge through the front door. They're all upstairs." Dhondaram shook his head. "The door in the floor, sahib, cannot be found," he whispered reassuringly. "The _feringhis_ will not discover us. Be patient." Presently Matt heard his friends returning to the lower floor, heard them enter the kitchen, heard the sound of lifted windows and opening blinds, marked the slow and steady advance from the kitchen into the hall, and along the hall to a point under the stairs. By then, even Dhondaram had begun to take alarm. "They're at the trap!" gasped Wily Bill. "Is there no way out of this hole, sahib?" demanded Dhondaram through his teeth. "Only by the way we came in. I lived in this house and I know all about it." Dhondaram smashed the flat of his hand down over the light of the candle. The Stygian blackness that reigned showed plainly the rim of daylight under the lifting door. "The revolver!" hissed Dhondaram. "Shoot, sahib!" "No, I tell you!" answered Wily. "I'll have none o' that, or----" With a savage snarl, Dhondaram hurled himself on Wily Bill in a furious effort to secure the revolver and fight off the approaching rescuers. The trapdoor had been thrown entirely back, and daylight was flooding the pit. The sounds of the struggle between the Hindoo and Wily Bill reached the ears of those above. "Here they are!" cried the voice of McGlory, and instantly he leaped downward. With a blow of his fist the Hindoo staggered the cowboy, leaped upward, and gained the floor. "Dhondaram!" yelled Burton, who was just preparing to follow McGlory down under the floor. The word was hardly out of his lips before the showman was compelled to drop back to avoid a sweeping blow of the knife in the Hindoo's hand. McGlory was looking for Matt, and paid little attention to the Hindoo. He found his pard with his groping hands, for his eyes were blinded by the sudden change from day to the darkness of the pit. "Bully for you, pard!" exclaimed McGlory. "Lashed hand and foot, or I'm a Piegan! Speak to me about this, will you? And gagged, too. Sufferin' blazes, but you've had a time! There, how's that?" The cowboy pulled away the cloth. "Wily's here," were Matt's first words. "He and the Hindoo had a fight, and----" "Bother Wily! It's you I'm after," and, with his open knife, McGlory slashed at the cords. "Now we can look after Wily." Leaving that part of the work to his chum, Matt leaped upward and climbed over the edge of the floor. Burton was running toward one of the front rooms. "Where's the Hindoo?" cried Matt. "The Englishman tagged him in here, after heading him off at the door," panted Burton. "I always knew that thug was a killer, and if I hadn't been quick he'd have knifed me." A smash of glass came from the front room and two of the blinds were smashed open. The light afforded by this gave Matt and Burton a view of a desperate struggle in which the attaché of the British Legation was proving himself a whole man, in every sense of the word. Unarmed, and with every disregard for his personal danger, Twomley had set upon the Hindoo. Dhondaram's knife had ripped Twomley's coat and brought a stain of red, but the Englishman had both hands around the Hindoo's throat, and they were flinging here and there around the room. The smash of glass and the crash of the blinds had been caused by Dhondaram falling heavily against one of the windows. Then suddenly, before either Matt or Burton could go to his aid, Twomley hurled his antagonist from him with terrific force. The Hindoo fell sprawling against the wall, and dropped stunned to the floor. His knife slipped from his hand, and Burton kicked it aside while he and Matt threw themselves upon the supine figure. "Take his turban," said Matt, "and bind his hands with it." The turban was merely a long strip of twisted cloth, and there were two or three yards of it--enough for both his wrists and ankles. Barely was the tying finished when McGlory drove Wily into the room with his own six-shooter. "Talk about this, friends," laughed McGlory. "Wily Bill fights with the Hindoo, and has the tuck about all taken out of him. I snatch his revolver, and then we come out from under the floor, Wily in the lead and acting real peaceable. You've caught Dhondaram, too. Everything's lovely, eh?" "All serene," answered the Englishman. He had removed his coat and was binding his handkerchief about his arm. "Twomley captured Dhondaram, Joe," said Matt, "and did it alone." "Getting stabbed for his pains," added Burton. "A scratch," was Twomley's cool response. "How could you expect me to do a thing like that without getting a nick or two? A pretty show altogether. And it might have been a good deal worse." CHAPTER XI. BILL WILY REPENTS. McGlory motioned Wily to take a seat on the floor, near Dhondaram, and then turned toward Twomley. "So you put the kibosh on our brown friend all by yourself, did you?" he asked. "It wasn't much," was the diffident answer. "I know these Hindoos somewhat." "You're the clear quill," said McGlory, "and I've got a different estimate of you. What do you think?" he added to Burton. "They had my pard down in the spud cellar, covered with ropes and gagged." "Nice how-d'ye-do!" growled Burton. "What sort of a way is that to act, Bill Wily?" and he flashed a look of anger and contempt at the "barker." "I've made a holy show of myself," mumbled Bill Wily. "That comes of gettin' confidential with these here chocolate-colored crooks. They're no good." "What do you think of yourself, hey?" "Not much, Burton, an' that's a fact. I'm down and out, and just because I wanted to shake your show an' not have any trouble. What a lot of excitement over nothin' at all!" "Fancy that!" remarked Twomley, mildly surprised. "I guess the man doesn't know the true state of affairs." "He'll know everything before we're done with him," snapped Burton. "You're not goin' to bear down too hard on me, are you, Burton?" pleaded Wily. "Why shouldn't I?" "What've I done?" "I can't tell that till I hear what happened to Motor Matt. If these disgraceful proceedings get out, it will be a black eye for the show." Boss Burton was a queer fish. He had always a high regard for carrying out every promise he made in his show "paper," and was also solicitous about the good name of the Big Consolidated; at the same time, he had done a number of things which gave Matt a poor opinion of his character. Matt, taking advantage of the opening afforded him, told what had happened after he had left Burton on the motor cycle. The rough treatment he had received brought scowls to the faces of McGlory and Burton. "That Hindoo might have knifed you, and all on account of Wily there!" breathed the showman. "But he didn't," returned Matt, "and that was on account of Wily, too. Keep that in mind, Burton." "Your head, pard," said the cowboy solicitously. "You've had a couple of good hard raps, and I'll bet that block of yours feels as big as a barrel." "I'm like Twomley," smiled Matt, "and couldn't expect to come through such a tussle without a few marks. But it's nothing serious. Another thing, Burton," he added, turning to the showman, "just recollect that, if Wily wanted to, he could have used that thing Joe has in his hand. But he wouldn't, and he fought with Dhondaram rather than let him use it." "Wily hadn't the nerve," commented Burton. "He's in the parlor class when it comes to strong-arm work. He's more of a shell worker and a confidence man." "Don't be rough, Burton," begged Wily Bill. "What've you got to say for yourself?" "I'm blamed sorry things turned out like they did. That's all." "Just how sorry are you? Sorry enough to make a clean breast of everything?" "That depends on what'll happen to me. You let the ticket man off when he and Dhondaram tried to loot the Jackson proceeds. I didn't do half as much as him." "Tell me what you've done, and then I'll tell you what I'm goin' to do," said Burton. "I knew Ben Ali pretty well when he was with the show," returned Wily, "but he didn't put it up with _me_ to help steal the ticket-wagon money. I'm not makin' such a terrible sight as spieler for that side-show outfit, and when I get a letter in Kalamazoo, inclosin' another in Hindoostanee and askin' me to deliver same, what am I goin' to do? That letter contained a money order for ten dollars." "And it was from Ben Ali?" asked Motor Matt. Wily nodded. "We got into Kalamazoo about three in the morning," proceeded Wily Bill, "and when I dropped off the train, Dhondaram stepped out from between a couple o' box cars----" "It was the night we left Jackson that we had Dhondaram lashed and lying in the aisle of the sleeper on section two of the show train," interrupted Burton. "He got loose and skipped. I fired a shot at him, but he jumped off the train. How could he have done that and then shown up in Kalamazoo the morning we got there?" The showman was trying to pick flaws in Wily's narrative, but the "barker" was equal to the emergency. "For the reason, Burton, that he didn't jump off the train. Dhondaram rode the platform, and now and then he dodged down on the bumpers when the train men came too close. As I say, he met me as I dropped off, and we had a bit of a chin together." "Why didn't you grab him," demanded Burton, "and turn him over to me?" "That's where I was lame, I expect, but you forget I was a friend of Ben Ali's, and Dhondaram was also a friend. That made a sort of hitch between us. Then, too, Dhondaram told me he was expecting word from Ben Ali in my care. I hadn't received any word, and I told him so. Dhondaram said that I would get a letter, sooner or later, and that he'd like to meet me somewhere near Grand Rapids. That's when I told him about this house and gave him one of my keys to it." "What have you got to do with this house?" queried Burton. "I happen to own it," was the surprising answer. "It ain't worth much, an' it's been condemned by a railroad that intends runnin' a line of rails and ties right over the place where it stands. For that reason it's closed up. I'm to get twelve hundred dollars for the property any day now. Why," and Wily Bill looked around, "when I was a kid I used to live here. When the folks died I rented the house an' took to roamin' around. It was a good place to meet Dhondaram and give him a letter if there was any come from Ben Ali. I wasn't expectin', though, to call here before night. The letter from Ben Ali reached me in Kalamazoo in the afternoon, at a time when Dhondaram must have been travelin' north." "What did you do with your part of the letter?" Wily's profession of repentance seemed to be sincere, and Burton and Matt were doing their utmost to find out everything he was able to tell. Dhondaram, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, glared at Wily fixedly while he talked. The savage menace of the Hindoo's look, however, seemed to make not the slightest impression on the "barker." "I tore up my part o' the letter, Burton," replied Wily. "Didn't think it best to carry it around. If I'd torn up Dhondaram's part, too, I guess I'd have been a whole lot better off." "I guess you would," agreed the showman dryly. "What had Ben Ali to say to you?" "He told me where he wanted Dhondaram to meet him. You see, Ben Ali's been busy, an' hasn't been payin' much attention to what's been goin' on in the show." "By Jove," put in Twomley, "I should say he had been busy." "Ben Ali didn't know Dhondaram had cooked his goose, so far as the show was concerned, in Jackson, the same day he joined on." "Where did Ben Ali send his letter from?" inquired Matt. "Lafayette." "And where does he want to meet Dhondaram?" "Five miles west of the Rapids, on the wagon road to Elgin. There's an openin' in the woods, somewhere there, and Ben Ali wants Dhondaram to join him at the place to-morrow morning. I don't know what's up, but I guess it's somethin' mighty important for the Hindoos." "Does Ben Ali know about this house of yours?" "Not a thing. I never told him. I guess I was foolish to jump off the car and run over here, but the ruction in the side show and the loss o' that Hindoostanee letter sure got me on the run. I thought mebby, if I couldn't dodge Motor Matt in the woods, I could get him somewhere and have a talk with him that would let me out. But things didn't come out as I wanted. I couldn't shake him in the timber, so I rushed for the house. Dhondaram was here, ahead o' schedule, an' he complicated matters a-considerable." "Do you think," asked Matt, "that we could go to that place on the Elgin road and meet Ben Ali instead of letting Dhondaram do it?" Twomley started, for he instantly caught Matt's idea. Dhondaram likewise showed much concern, and undoubtedly he surmised what was at the back of the young motorist's head. "I don't think you could," replied Wily. "Ben Ali ain't nobody's fool, and he'll have the road watched to see that only the right party comes. If the wrong party comes, then Ben Ali, more'n likely, 'll fade out of the oak openin'. You can't get there any way by road without Ben Ali findin' out just who's after him. That's my notion." "Suppose we should come in on him from both sides at once?" suggested Burton. "Then he'd slide out between you. Oh, he's a slippery proposition, that boy!" Twomley nodded affirmatively. "He speaks the truth," he averred. "A man who can do what Ben Ali has done is a rogue of the first water." "There's a way to get at him," said Matt confidently. "Here, in a thickly populated country, that scoundrel can't have things his own way." "He's takin' chances," put in Wily, "but that's his stock in trade--takin' chances an' throwin' in a little hypnotism now an' then. Why he's so particular about meetin' Dhondaram is what gets me." "He needs money," said Burton sarcastically, "and he has to run a few risks to get it." "I've got a plan," said Matt, starting toward the door. "What is it?" asked Burton and McGlory. Matt turned around in the doorway and cast a suggestive glance at Wily and Dhondaram. "I'll not go into it now," said he, "but it all depends on the truthfulness of Bill Wily. If Wily has given us a straight story, then the plan will work. If it does, then I shall insist that Wily be allowed to go free, without any punishment for what he has done. If the plan doesn't succeed, and Ben Ali is not out on the Elgin road to-morrow morning, I think Wily can be put through for the work he has done here in this old house." "I'm willin' to leave it that way," said Wily, "providin' you're careful how you come onto Ben Ali, so as not to scare him away, an' providin' Boss Burton gives me his word to back up Motor Matt's." "I'm in on the deal," declared Burton. "Both Wily and Dhondaram will have to be left here under suitable guard until after the plan is executed," continued Matt. "Count me in as one of the guard," spoke up Twomley, lighting a cigarette, "but send over some food and something to sit on. And," he finished, pointing to the weapon in the cowboy's hand, "Mr. McGlory might lend me that." "McGlory will stay and help you with your guard duty," said Matt. "I'll have to hurry off now. I suppose Ping and Carl are at the show grounds and are looking after the aëroplane?" "Ping!" exclaimed McGlory, looking around. "Why, where the nation is he? He was the one who brought us here, and I haven't thought of him until this minute. But Carl's at the grounds, Matt. Anyhow, one of the canvasmen is on duty at the aëroplane's berth." "Don't fret about the machine," reassured Burton. "I'm going right back to the grounds and I'll look after it personally." "Just a minute, gents," called Wily. "How did you fellows know we were under the floor." "You walked in the soot," laughed Burton derisively. "McGlory can tell you all about that." Thereupon he and Motor Matt left the room. They passed the trap in the hall floor, and Matt observed that it was flush with the boards and difficult to locate for any one who did not know it was there. "I guess the trouble I had here, Burton," remarked Matt, as he and the showman passed through the front door, "will turn out to be a pretty good thing, after all." "Not for Ben Ali," returned Burton, "if he is caught and turned over to Twomley." "I was thinking of Margaret Manners," said Matt. CHAPTER XII. MATT LAYS HIS PLANS. On the way through the woods and back to the road by the car track, Motor Matt was extremely thoughtful. By Ben Ali's cleverness in getting some white man to represent the agent of the British ambassador, the Hindoo had succeeded in luring his niece from the home of the English woman in whose care the girl had been left. Once this was accomplished, it was easy to guess how the artful Hindoo had proceeded. Miss Manners had been a hypnotic subject for so long that it was useless for her to attempt to fight against the black magic of her rascally uncle. He had but to catch her eye and snap his fingers, and the girl would be utterly in his power. To fight such a man as Ben Ali called for ways and means at once bold and wary. He was not to be easily snared. "You're as mum as an oyster," grunted Burton, as they neared the road. "I've spoken to you half a dozen times, and you didn't seem to hear me. Come back to earth now, and tell me what's on your mind?" "I'll tell you later, Burton," laughed Matt. "I've got a hard problem to solve, and I don't want to say anything about it until it's all worked out." "From what you said at that house with the green shutters, I take it you're not going back to the show with me?" "No." "Be back there in time to take the aëroplane aloft at six-thirty? The wind's down, and you can pull off the trick." "There'll be no aëroplane flight this afternoon, Burton. I have more important matters to attend to." Burton began to bristle. "By Jerry," he cried, "what am I giving you your salary for? We've missed one ascension to-day, and the people will be wild if we don't have one this afternoon." "Then," answered Matt, "tell them that we'll give an aëroplane performance for the whole of Grand Rapids to-morrow. That ought to satisfy them, and I know you'll make a lot of capital out of it." Burton stopped stock-still and stared. "You're crazy?" he bluntly inquired. "To-morrow's Sunday, and I've never yet been able to get you to make an ascension on Sunday. Backsliding, eh?" "For this one time," said Matt. "I'm not doing this for the benefit of your show, Burton, but because, as I size the matter up now, there's nothing else to be done." "Whew!" whistled the showman, "you're about the biggest conundrum, now and then, that I ever tackled. When'll you get back to the grounds?" "This evening, some time." "Hunt for me the minute you get there, and let me know what's up." They found Ping waiting for them in the road. He was a disconsolate-looking Chinaman, and ran up to Matt the moment he slipped down the steep bank. "You heap mad with Ping, huh?" the Chinese boy chattered. "You know him makee shoot Loman candle, play plenty hob with side show? Woosh! My velly bad China boy." Matt laughed. That laugh caused Ping to brighten. "I'll have to forgive you this once, Ping," said Matt. "A whole lot of good has resulted from that flare-up in the side-show tent. But I don't like practical jokes--you know that. Get on the car and go back to the grounds with Burton. As for the Roman-candle business, we'll talk about that later." "You no pullee pin on China boy?" faltered Ping. "No. You make your peace with Carl, that's all." "Hoop-a-la!" said Ping, and limped aboard an electric car that Burton had flagged. Matt caught a car going the other way, and, as soon as he reached Monroe Street, hurried to the nearest automobile garage, bent upon making the most of the daylight that remained. He hired a car and a driver who knew the city. It was a small roadster, and Matt had the driver take him beyond the city limits and out for five miles on the Elgin road. They passed through a small oak opening, which looked as though it might be the place where Ben Ali was to meet his crony, Dhondaram. "This will be far enough," said Matt. "Now, turn around and take us back to town." The king of the motor boys gave careful attention to all the landmarks, going both ways. Returning, dusk had begun to fall, and his survey could not be as comprehensive as the one made on the outward trip. However, he was abundantly satisfied with the information he had acquired. When they reached the garage, Matt bargained with the proprietor for a powerful touring car, with the same driver who had already been with him, to be at the show grounds at Reid's Lake at eight o'clock the following morning. After that, he dropped in at a restaurant and had a good meal, then boarded a car for the lake, and rode back to the grounds with a crowd of people who were going to the evening performance of the show. He had a good deal of amusement listening to the disappointed expressions of the people regarding the failure of Burton to have any aëroplane flights. Mixed up in the talk were a number of complimentary references to Motor Matt and his chums. These, so far as they applied to himself, the king of the motor boys tried not to hear. But, nevertheless, they caused a glow of satisfaction to mount to his face. It was certainly pleasant to know how his efforts in the line of duty had struck a popular chord. That wild half-hour in the air, over Jackson, when Matt found his batteries short-circuited by a coiling cobra, had been exploited through the press. These, while arousing the popular admiration, only made the general disappointment more keen because of the failure of the Saturday flights at Reid's Lake. When Matt got off the car at the lake, he made his way to the brilliantly lighted show grounds, and repaired immediately to the calliope tent. Burton was there, smoking a cigar and nervously walking back and forth in front of the canvas-covered calliope. "The people are pulling me all to pieces, Matt," he cried the moment the king of the motor boys entered the tent. "They're saying we could just as well have had a flight to-night, that I'm not living up to my promises, and all that. By Jerry, it hurts!" "Let it be announced in the circus tent," said Matt, "that there'll be a flight to-morrow morning at nine o'clock--not for exhibition purposes, as Motor Matt doesn't give a performance on Sunday--and that all who wish to can see it." "Good!" declared Burton. "I guess that'll catch them. But what are you making the flight for, if not to please the people?" "For the purpose of backcapping Ben Ali, capturing him, and finding out where he has taken Margaret Manners." Burton whirled around and gave Matt a steady look. "What have you got up your sleeve?" he demanded curtly. "Are you going to try that, all alone, in the _Comet_?" "Not all alone. You, and Twomley, and Joe are going to help. Send Harris and another trusty man over to that house with the green shutters, will you, and have them relieve the Englishman and McGlory. I want them here to talk with them." Harris was Burton's brother-in-law, and a thoroughly reliable man in every respect. "I've already sent them supper, a lantern, and a couple of chairs," said Burton, "but it seems to me all foolishness to hold the prisoners in the house. Why not send 'em to jail, where they belong?" "Because Wily may not belong in jail, and because, if Dhondaram is taken there to-night, Ben Ali might hear of it and not present himself in that oak opening on the Elgin road to-morrow." "Can't you tell me what you're going to do?" "Not till Twomley and Joe get here." With that, Matt dropped down on a cot, at one side of the tent, and tried to get a little rest. He was used to the band, and to the many other sounds that characterized a show just preceding a performance, and these did not bother him; but his head! that had suddenly begun to remind him that it had been badly treated during the afternoon. CHAPTER XIII. MOTOR CAR AND AEROPLANE. It was about nine o'clock in the evening when Matt was awakened by the arrival of McGlory and Twomley. Burton, curious and eager, came into the calliope tent with them. "I'll tell you what my plan is," said Matt, sitting up on the edge of the cot, "and then you can all go to bed and get a good night's rest. Ben Ali is a crafty scoundrel, and it is necessary for us to capture him in order to find out what he has done with Miss Manners." "That's the point," approved Twomley. "If we can't get hold of Ben Ali, the Secret Service men will have a bally time locating the girl." "I'm inclined to think that Bill Wily told nothing but the truth," proceeded Matt. "You never can tell about Wily," struck in Burton. "It's because he's so shifty and unreliable that they call him Wily Bill. I wouldn't bank too much on what he says." "It's neck or nothing with him," suggested Twomley. "He has everything to lose by not telling the truth, and I believe the fellow appreciates that fact." "You can gamble a blue stack he does!" declared McGlory. "Did you see the look Dhondaram gave him while he was handing us that long palaver? If the Hindoo ever gets foot-loose, I wouldn't stand in Wily's shoes for a bushel of pesos." "To my mind," said Matt, "the fact that Dhondaram was in that house proves the truth of Wily's story. Well, true or false, my whole plan is built up on what the 'barker' told us. We're to assume that Ben Ali will be in that oak opening, five miles from Grand Rapids on the Elgin road." "Who knows whether there's an opening there or not?" asked Burton. When the showman once lost confidence in a man, he put no trust in anything the man might do or say. "The opening is there," said Matt. "I went out in an automobile and saw it for myself." "Ah! So that's what you passed up the afternoon flight for, eh?" "Partly," answered Matt. "Now, let us suppose that Ben Ali is in that opening to-morrow, waiting for Dhondaram to arrive with money which Ben Ali thinks he has stolen. Quite likely the Hindoo will have some one with him--perhaps the old ticket man whom you discharged, Burton, and perhaps Aurung Zeeb. This ticket man has played the part of the agent representing the British ambassador in turning that trick in Lafayette----" "Sufferin' traitors!" chanted McGlory. "I've a hunch, pard, your finger's on the right button." "So," pursued Matt, "it is fair to assume that Ben Ali has some one to watch the Elgin road in the vicinity of the oak opening. If he is warned that any suspicious persons are approaching, the Hindoo will slide away snakelike and dodge pursuit." Twomley nodded. "You're a fair daisy, Motor Matt, in placing the situation squarely in front of us. By Jove, it looks like a hard nut to crack." "Matt will crack it," averred McGlory. "Listen, now, to how he proposes to do it." "How are you going about it?" inquired Burton impatiently. "I've had this on my mind ever since you and I left the house with the green shutters, and I can't tell how nervous you make me hanging fire about it. Seems like a mighty simple thing to go out in the woods, meet a fellow where he intends to be, and nab him." "Not so deuced simple as you suppose, Mr. Burton," returned Twomley, "when you consider the character of the man, and his ability to make passes, look at you, and give you your ticket to the Land of Nod." "We're going to work out this problem by motor car and aëroplane," said Matt. "Aëroplane!" exclaimed McGlory. "That means you and me, pard." "The motor car for you, Joe," smiled Matt. "You and Twomley, and Burton will go along the Elgin road in that." "What's the good?" demurred Burton. "You all seem to think it a cinch that the car will be seen, and that Ben Ali will get out of the way." "You'll lag behind, you and your car," continued Matt, "and you'll let me and the aëroplane move ahead. I'll keep over the road as well as I can, and you can see me. When I sight our quarry I'll descend; then you can put on all speed and come up." "The aëroplane will be a dead give-away!" asserted Burton. "Ben Ali and his outposts will see that as quick, or quicker, than they will the automobile." "Suppose Ben Ali sees only one man on the machine, and thinks that the man is Dhondaram?" asked Matt. "Would he run, then?" There was a silence, a startled silence, while the words of the young motorist were being pondered by his listeners. "How'll Ben Ali think Dhondaram is running the _Comet_, pard?" queried McGlory. "Because the man on the aëroplane will not look very much like Motor Matt, and _will_ look a little like a Hindoo." "You're going to make up for the part?" "It won't be much of a make-up. A white robe over my ordinary clothes will do." "But your face----" "In the air and at a distance, my face won't tell against the deception. When the _Comet_ has landed in the opening, then it will be Ben Ali and me for it--with an automobile full of reinforcements rushing to the scene." "It sounds good," said McGlory thoughtfully. "Here's something," observed Twomley, who had a clear head and a quick brain. "Ben Ali can think for himself. Won't he think it queer that Dhondaram is navigating the flying machine? Dhondaram, I make no doubt, is highly gifted, but will Ben Ali credit him with skill enough to operate the aëroplane?" "He may not," admitted Matt; "still, if Ben Ali sees the machine, and a man in it who looks like Dhondaram, even if Ben Ali doubts he'll hold his ground in order to make sure. Ben Ali won't run from one man. Besides, he's expecting Dhondaram. That's a weighty point." "I believe it will work," said Twomley. "At any rate, it will hold Ben Ali in the opening until the automobile has a chance to come close. Then the scoundrel is ours, no matter what he tries to do. By Jove, I like the idea!" "Another thing," spoke up McGlory. "If Ben Ali smells a rat and tries to make a run, Matt can keep over him and follow him." "Hardly that, Joe," returned Matt. "The woods are pretty thick along the Elgin road, and you know how big the top of a tree looks when you're gazing down on it. Besides, if there's any wind, the _Comet_ is going to be a fair-sized handful to take care of." "There you are," said Burton. "How do you know the opening is big enough for you to come down in? It won't do," and something akin to panic took hold of the showman, "to damage the aëroplane." "Oh, go off somewhere, Burton, and wring out your wet blanket," growled McGlory. "You're tryin' to throw it over everything." "We've got to get a look at this business from every angle," said Burton doggedly. "Well, be easy about the oak opening," came from Matt. "It's large enough to alight in and to start from. If there's only a little wind, there'll be no danger." The Englishman reached over and took Matt's hand. "Allow me," said he, with a solemn handshake. "Win or lose, my bucko, you have my admiration." Matt flushed. "Why," said he, "this is all talk, as yet, Twomley." "It's the sort of talk, my lad, that precedes notable achievements. Nine-tenths of all the great work that's done owes more to the head than to the hands. What about the automobile?" "That will be here at eight o'clock in the morning." "You even thought of that! I suppose I'll have to be catching a car for town." Twomley got up and flung away the remains of a cigarette. "You'd better stay here," suggested Matt. "There's an extra cot behind the calliope, and I'm sure Burton will give you your breakfast in the morning." Twomley cast a glance around him. The odor from the animal tent, of which the calliope house was only a lean-to, was strong and disquieting. A lantern, tied to one of the tent poles, shed a murky light over the litter of buckets and ropes that strewed the tent floor. Matt had made ready for bed by kicking off his shoes and removing his coat and hat. It was all very primitive. In Washington Twomley looked as though he might have been of a fastidious nature. But, whatever he was at Washington, he was "game" at Reid's Lake. "Go you," said he briefly. "Just where is that cot, my dear sir?" McGlory dragged it out for him and opened it up. "I'll pull it away from the wall of the animal top," said the cowboy. "Rajah, the bad elephant, is just on the other side of that piece of canvas, and he has the habit of snooping around in here with his trunk." "I don't fancy Rajah will bother me," and Twomley shucked out of his low patent leathers. "I could almost make a pard out of you," remarked McGlory. "Nice work you've mapped out for Sunday," was Burton's sly fling as he paused at the door on his way out. "Motor Matt, who refused to make flights on Sunday for me for an extra hundred a week, lays out to pull off a go like this! Well, I'm surprised." "Fate is no respecter of the calendar, Burton," Matt replied, with some show of feeling. "I'll work all day to-morrow if I can accomplish anything for Margaret Manners." "Shake again," said the attaché. CHAPTER XIV. THE OAK OPENING. Reid's Lake was a popular resort, and a large crowd rendezvoused there on Sundays and holidays. The coming of the crowd, however, had shifted to the beginning of the day, so that the start of the aëroplane might be witnessed. Owing to Burton's enterprise, an "extra" of one of the evening dailies was on the Grand Rapids streets at nine in the evening, announcing, in large type, that Boss Burton, regretting the disappointment caused the Grand Rapids people because of the failure of the aëroplane ascensions on the first day of the show, was glad to announce that the king of the motor boys would take his famous machine aloft on the following morning at nine o'clock. This was one of the little things Burton could do, on occasion, which jarred on Matt's nerves. He made it appear in the news columns as though Matt was making the ascension because Burton had so willed it, and as though the showman had willed it because of the disappointment which had been caused the Great Rapids people on the first day of the show. When Matt discovered this, it was too late to remedy it. He had the satisfaction, however, of telling Burton just what he thought. Extra cars were put on the run between town and the lake to accommodate the crowds. And the people came not only in the street cars, but also in carriages, wagons, and automobiles. Carl and Ping had slept under the lower wings of the _Comet_, as was their usual custom when the weather was at all propitious, and to the casual observer it would have looked as though the Roman-candle incident had been entirely forgotten. Matt was early at the machine, looking it over carefully and making sure that everything was in readiness. The _Comet_, he found, had never been in better trim for work than she was that morning. Then, too, such a day for aëroplane flying could not have been surpassed. There was not enough wind stirring to flutter the banners on the tent tops. It was necessary for McGlory, Twomley, and Burton to get away somewhat in advance of Matt, and to take up a position beyond the outskirts of the city on the Elgin road. At sharp eight-forty-five the motor car got away. McGlory was usually in charge of the start during the aëroplane flights, but now Matt placed Carl in command. The importance of the position filled Carl with glory, and was correspondingly depressing to Ping, who really knew more about the aëroplane than Carl could have learned in a hundred years. Carl and Ping were assisted by half a dozen stout canvasmen. Before Matt took his seat, to the wonder of the crowd pressing against the guard ropes, he shook out a white robe and arranged it about him in such a manner as to leave his arms perfectly clear, but covering every part of his clothing. After that he stepped on the footboard and dropped down in front of the motor. The canvasmen, divided by Carl into two groups of three each, were placed behind the wings. "All ready, Carl!" called Matt. "Retty it iss!" shouted Carl. The motor started merrily, the bicycle wheels began to turn, and the canvasmen to push. Slowly the _Comet_ gathered headway. Faster and faster it went, leaving the canvasmen behind; then, like a great bird, it soared into the air, followed by wild cheering. A vagrant puff of wind struck the planes, just over the concert garden, and only quick work on the part of the intrepid young motorist averted a disaster. Gathering headway under the impetus of the thrashing propeller, the aëroplane darted upward into the blue and began reaching out toward the city. Matt, while manipulating the aëroplane, had little time for sights and scenes below him. He was obliged to keep every faculty riveted on his work. Now and again, however, as he took his bearings and laid his course, he glimpsed the staring people in the roadways and on rooftops. Some of these spectators had opera glasses and binoculars. Over the flat roofs of the city he whirled, cheered almost continuously. The motor had never worked better. Everything depended on the motor. If the power had happened to fail, Matt could have glided harmlessly down the airy slope to earth--providing the city afforded him a good clear space in which to alight. A street zigzagged with telegraph, and telephone, and electric light wires was not such a place. Passing the close-packed buildings of the business section, Matt gained the residence districts, and held on in a straight line for the Elgin road. He watched his landmarks, and, while they looked differently to him from aloft than they did from the ground, he knew he was going right when he saw the waiting automobile. McGlory was standing up and waving his hat. Throwing full speed into the propeller, Matt set the automobile a fifty-mile pace. At such a speed only a few minutes were necessary to carry the flying machine close to the oak opening where Ben Ali was to be in waiting for Dhondaram. Peering forward and downward, Matt guided and manoeuvred the _Comet_ by sense of touch alone, watching eagerly the while for the great gap in the woods. Finally he saw it, and what he glimpsed in the centre of the cleared space--etched into his brain as by the instantaneous operation of a photographic lens--was startling, to say the least. The irregular circle of the opening was crossed through its centre by the hard, level road. Off to one side of the road were the dying embers of a fire, and near the fire lay a bundle, on which a young woman was sitting, her head bowed dejectedly. A turbaned figure stood at a distance from the girl--the figure covered with a red robe and its brown, staring face uplifted. This was Ben Ali. And the girl--who was she? Was it possible, _could_ it be possible, that the girl was Margaret Manners? A wild hope leaped in Motor Matt's breast. Ben Ali leaned on a club, leaned and watched with never a move toward running away. Probably he was speculating as to whether his confederate, Dhondaram, had learned to operate the air craft. Matt gave Ben Ali scant time to come to a conclusion. Quick work was now in order, and the _Comet_ ducked downward and slid through the air with slowing motor. Guided by a true, steady hand, the wheels brushed the roadway, then began to turn as the weight of the machine rested more heavily upon them. A short run of a dozen feet brought the _Comet_ to a stop. Ben Ali had not stirred from the place where Matt had first seen him standing. Gathering the white robe about him, Motor Matt stepped hurriedly to the ground and ran toward Ben Ali. The Hindoo, staring serpent-like, recoiled, his red robe falling away slightly as his hands raised the club. "Ben Ali," cried the king of the motor boys, "I have caught you at another of your tricks. Did you think I was Dhondaram? Dhondaram is a prisoner, and you will soon join him in jail." There followed a tense moment, during which Ben Ali's eyes glowed and scintillated with their marvelous powers, and his hands tightened on the bludgeon. It was not a time to delay matters, and the young motorist made ready for desperate work against the arrival of the automobile. "_Maskee!_" cried the astounded Hindoo, as Motor Matt leaped at him. Ben Ali's amazement appeared to hold him paralyzed for the moment. It was not until Matt had caught the club that he aroused himself and began vigorous resistance. Every instant Matt expected the automobile to come whirling to the spot with his friends. He had the club, but Ben Ali, with a tigrish spring, seized him about the throat and clung to him like a leech, and all the while Ben Ali's eyes were rolling about in a way that was horrible to behold. Matt dropped the club to catch at the Hindoo's straining arms. He felt a wave of weakness sweep through him, while the flashing eyes continued to exercise their baneful spell. Was he being hypnotized in spite of himself? He had read that this was impossible, and that no man could be put in a state of hypnosis against his will. Yet what did that strange weakness mean? A tremor ran through Matt's body. He tried to call aloud, but his lips framed voiceless words. By degrees he felt himself growing weaker and weaker, yielding more and more to the spell of the baneful orbs that sought his undoing. Then, when it seemed as though he was about to come entirely under Ben Ali's power, there fell a blow--sudden, quick, and accompanied by a wild, feminine cry. Ben Ali's tense fingers relaxed their grip, his form slumped forward, and Matt stood staring at the girl. She was Margaret Manners, there was not the least doubt of that. In order to save him, the girl had seized the bludgeon, had approached her uncle from behind, and struck him down. The girl's face was wild with grief, but there was a burning resolution in the eyes. "I had to!" she cried hysterically. "I had to do that in order to save you. It was the spell, the spell of the eyes! He would have made you his victim, Motor Matt, just as certainly as he has worked his will with me! Oh, let us get away from here! Quick!" In a frenzy of fear she cast aside the club and seized his arm with both hands. "There are others--Aurung Zeeb is one. They are armed, and they will soon be here." Matt dashed a hand across his forehead, as though to free his brain from some frightful dream. "There are others, you say?" he gasped. "Yes, yes," she answered distractedly. "Where?" "Watching the road! They---- Ah, too late, too late!" Matt whirled and looked across the oak opening. From the side lying nearest the town came a running figure. It was Aurung Zeeb. Where was the automobile? Matt could not hear it, and there was now no time to wait. The girl had dropped to her knees and thrown her hands over her face. "Come!" he called, bending down and catching her by the arm. "We can get away from here. Be brave, and trust to me!" The girl started up, and he ran with her toward the aëroplane. As they drew near the machine, Matt saw another Hindoo coming into the opening along the other road. CHAPTER XV. AEROPLANE WINS! Matt supposed that the automobile must have broken down somewhere on the road. His friends had not arrived in time to help him, so he was thrown upon his own resources. While he and Miss Manners were racing toward the aëroplane, Matt was measuring his chances. The appearance of the second Hindoo, on the other side of the opening, complicated the dangers of the situation. If these Hindoos were armed, as the girl had declared, then the case was indeed desperate. In making its start, however, the _Comet_ would be running away from Aurung Zeeb, and straight toward the other Hindoo. This second man would have to leave the road or be run down; and if the start was made quickly enough, the _Comet_ could get away from Aurung Zeeb. "Sit there," cried Matt, lifting the girl to a seat on the lower plane. "Hold on," he added, starting the motor, "and don't move." The girl's small fingers twined convulsively into the hand-holds. Matt dropped into his own seat and turned the power into the bicycle wheels. Slowly they took the push, the great wings lurching and swaying as the aëroplane moved. Would it be possible for the machine, unaided by a crew of men behind the wings, to take to the air before the trees on the opposite side of the opening interfered? This was a momentous, nay, a vital, question, and could only be solved by actual trial. Out of the tails of his eyes Matt saw Ben Ali rising groggily to his feet. He flung up his arms and shouted. Crack! From behind came a bullet, ripping through the canvas of the upper plane, but, fortunately, doing no damage to the machinery. Aurung Zeeb was doing the firing. And this same Aurung Zeeb had failed Ben Ali once in a dangerous pinch. This had caused a rupture of the friendly relations between the two men, but their differences had evidently been patched up. Now Aurung Zeeb was doing his utmost to help Ben Ali--and, perhaps, to land himself in the same trouble in which Dhondaram had been entrapped. Another bullet was fired, but Aurung Zeeb must have been shooting as he ran, for his aim was poor. Faster and faster raced the aëroplane, and Matt kept measuring the distance between the machine and the trees on the farther side of the opening. The Hindoo, in the road ahead, was running out of the aëroplane's path like a frightened hare. By then, Ben Ali had joined in the chase, but the speed of the _Comet_ was too great for the pursuers. They were close to the edge of the timber, very close, when Matt felt the wings beginning to lift. A dozen feet farther and they were in the air. In a flash the power was switched from the wheels to the propeller. The aëroplane dropped a little before it yielded to the thrashing blades of the screw; then it picked up the lost headway and arose. The upward tilt was frightful, but necessary if a wreck in the treetops was to be avoided. Never a word had come from Margaret Manners. White as a ghost, she held to her place, swaying her body to preserve a poise against the tilt and pitch of the huge framework. The wheels brushed against the outer ends of the tree limbs, but the machine continued to glide into the air, walking upward as though climbing the rounds of a ladder. If the motor had failed from any cause, there could have been no harmless gliding back to earth. A sheer drop downward would have been the result. But the motor performed its work, and the trees presently hid the Hindoos and screened the _Comet_ from any further attack. Then, and not till then, did the king of the motor boys draw a full breath. "Are you holding on, Miss Manners?" asked Matt. "Yes," was the reply in a stifled voice. "You're not afraid?" "No." "Bravo! We'll soon be back at the show grounds. You have seen the last of Ben Ali." High above the trees Matt brought the _Comet_ to an even keel, then laid out in a straightaway flight toward the lake. This time he did not follow the Elgin road, but struck across country the nearest way home. That was not the first time Margaret Manners had had a ride in the aëroplane. Some time before, when, under the name of Haidee, she had traveled with the Big Consolidated, she had ridden on a trapeze swung below the machine. It was against Matt's will, and only a trick of Burton's had made it possible for the girl to make the ascension. At the time she was under hypnotic influence, and could not realize what she was doing. So, it followed, this was really the first ride she had ever taken in the aëroplane while mistress of her own faculties and able to understand her situation. She behaved admirably, and did not even cry out when the wings tilted sideways, or ducked forward with the seeming intention of hurling her and Matt to the earth. There was no talk between the two. In silence Matt attended to his work, drove the _Comet_ at speed over the show grounds, circled, and came down in the roped-off space set apart for the machine. The crowds were still lingering, waiting for the aëroplane to return. Cheering began as soon as the _Comet_ was in sight, and was kept up until she was safely on the ground in the position from which she had originally started. Carl and Ping were waiting, too, and the eyes of both boys were big with astonishment when they saw and recognized Margaret Manners. "Vell, py shiminy grickets!" exclaimed Carl. The girl smiled at him wanly as Matt helped her from her seat. "You and Ping take care of the machine, Carl," cautioned Matt, as he led Miss Manners to the guard ropes and parted a course for her through the jostling mob. "Hurrah for Motor Matt!" shouted some one. "He goes out alone and comes back with a passenger!" A laugh followed the cheer. "What's the price for a trip on the _Comet_?" called some one else. "Where does your air-ship line run?" "Give me a ticket to San Francisco!" Matt met the joking good-naturedly and piloted Miss Manners to the calliope tent. The girl was tired and worn out. "You'd better get a little rest, Miss Manners," Matt suggested. "What you have passed through this morning would have shaken nerves much stronger than yours." "I don't want to rest," she answered; "I want to talk. You have saved me again, Motor Matt, but what is the use of it all if I can't leave this country and go to England, or back to India? Ben Ali will find me again." "You are through with him," said Matt, "just as I told you. A man has come from the British legation in Washington to get you and send you away by the first boat leaving New York." "The man who came to Mrs. Chadwick's in Lafayette said the same thing," answered the girl wearily. "It seems as though there is no escaping Ben Ali." "Has he hypnotized you many times since he took you from Mrs. Chadwick's?" asked Matt anxiously. "Only once. I gave up hope, and went with him without trying to resist. He said he intended to send me back to India, but not until the rajah had paid him a lot of rupees." "He treated you well?" "He always treated me well--in his way--but the horror of going into a trance and saying and doing things I know nothing about is more terrible than ever to me. It was the fear of a trance that made me promise not to make Uncle Ben any trouble." "Who was the man who impersonated the agent of the British ambassador?" "I had never seen him before." "I thought that perhaps he might have been the man who sold tickets in the ticket wagon for Burton--the one who was with the show when you and Ben Ali were traveling with us." She shook her head. "I should have known that man if it had been he." "Where did the man take you?" "On the train somewhere. I thought we were going to Washington until we got off the train at a little station and met Uncle Ben. It was then he threw me into a trance, and when he awoke me we were at a little house near the place where we went this morning to wait for Dhondaram. Aurung Zeeb was at the house, and so was the other Hindoo--a man I had never seen before. You are sure," the girl asked tremblingly, "that this other agent of the British ambassador is really the person he pretends to be?" The girl's lack of confidence was pitiable. She had suffered so much that Matt could readily understand her feelings. "I am positive, Miss Manners," he answered gently. "You must rest now. I will have Mrs. Harris come and stay with you for a while." The girl did not object, and Matt had soon found Mrs. Harris and sent her to the calliope tent. Two hours later, while Matt was lounging around the front of the animal tent, a tired party consisting of Burton, Twomley, and McGlory arrived from the direction of the street-car line. "You Matt!" cried McGlory. "Why didn't you wait and give us a chance?" "If I'd waited much longer," answered Matt, "there wouldn't have been a chance for anybody. Did you see me coming back from the oak opening?" "Did we?" echoed Twomley, putting his monocle in his eyes. "By Jove, I should say we did. Fancy! You up aloft, sailing as nice as you please with Miss Manners beside you, and Burton, McGlory, and me tramping along the road." "What was the matter?" asked Matt. "Matter?" fumed Burton. "What's the matter when you set out in an automobile and don't arrive where you're going? The motor bucked, three miles out of Grand Rapids, and you sailed right along and never paid any attention to us. McGlory, Twomley, and I started to walk the rest of the distance, when we saw the machine couldn't be fixed up for an hour or so, and before we'd gone a mile you sailed off in the direction of the show grounds--and never looked our way! Oh, blazes! I'm done with automobiles." CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION. Motor Matt's regret was keen over the failure to catch Ben Ali, Aurung Zeeb, and the unknown Hindoo. It was one of those cases, however, where it was best to be satisfied with the work accomplished, and to forget the failure whereby three miscreants escaped the consequence of their evil deeds. And it was possible that Ben Ali was not long to enjoy his freedom, for Twomley asserted that all the powers of the United States Secret Service would be bent toward accomplishing his ultimate capture. When it came to dealing legally with Dhondaram, a serious question arose. If the Hindoo was to be punished severely, it would be necessary to take him to Jackson, where the worst of his crimes had been committed. This would require the presence of complaining witnesses, of which Burton was one. For a man traveling from place to place constantly, as was Burton, such a move could not be made without great sacrifices. It was deemed better, therefore, to have Dhondaram brought to book for the lesser crime committed in the house of the green shutters. "Assault with murderous intent" was the charge, and a light sentence followed. Bill Wily, agreeably to promises given him, was released. Whether he profited by his experience or not, Motor Matt never afterward discovered. Such a lesson as he had had, however, should have been enough for any man. For a little matter of ten dollars, he had entered blindly into the schemes of Ben Ali--and Ben Ali's schemes left their mark on every person who had anything to do with them. Twomley was a delighted Englishman, if there ever was one. He had fulfilled the mission with which he had been intrusted by Sir Roger, and he had done so after discovering that his errand to Lafayette, so far as securing Miss Manners was concerned, was useless. A Roman candle in the side-show tent had lent itself to the perpetration of a practical joke; and out of that joke had come the clue which had made possible the second rescue of Margaret Manners. Carl was very much pleased to learn that so much good had developed from a row in the freak tent, but whether or not he forgave Ping for setting off the Roman candle is open to question. Carl had declared that he would "play even" with Ping for the candle episode, and those who knew Carl best believed that he would prove as good as his word. Monday morning Twomley and Miss Manners took a train for New York, but not until both the attaché and the girl had expressed to Matt and the motor boys their appreciation of all that they had done. It was somewhat indelicate of Carl, perhaps, to mention the matter of his five thousand dollars before Miss Manners, but he was beginning to worry about the money. As he expressed it, "Der longer vat der time iss, der more vat I don'd seem to ged dot rewart. I peen sefendeen years olt, und meppy I don'd lif more as sixdy years from now." Twomley assured Carl that he would do whatever he possibly could to hurry the money along. And with this promise Carl had to be satisfied. With the turning over of Dhondaram to the police, the liberating of Bill Wily, and the departure of Twomley and Miss Manners, a series of thrilling incidents connected with Motor Matt's show career came to a close. And Motor Matt's show experiences were likewise drawing near an end. Just how close this end was he did not dream that Monday morning when he and McGlory accompanied the attaché and his charge to the train. When the two boys got back to the show grounds, however, Boss Burton had a telegram for Matt. Burton was frankly worried about that telegram. Some other showman, he felt sure, was offering Matt a bigger salary for his aëroplane performances. "Don't you forget for a minute," said Burton, watching keenly as Matt opened the telegram, "that you're hooked up with me on a contract for the season. You can't break that contract, you know." "There were conditions, Burton," said Matt. "The only condition I remember was something about the government buying the aëroplane--which is all a dream. The government has bought one of the machines, and that's enough. It takes a Motor Matt to run one of those cranky Traquair air ships. It'll be a long while before Uncle Sam buys another." Matt read the message through, gave a whoop of delight, and passed the yellow slip on to McGlory. Then McGlory jubilated. "What's to pay?" demanded Burton. "Uncle Sam has done the trick!" crowed the cowboy. "He takes the _Comet_ at the same price he paid for the _June Bug_--fifteen thousand spot--machine to be crated and shipped immediately, if not sooner. Whoop-ya! That settles the aëroplane business for King & McGlory. The next game we get into will be something, I reckon, that I can take a hand in, and not leave Pard Matt to do all the work." Burton's face grew gloomy. "Let me look at that message," he requested. Matt handed it to him, and he read it over two or three times, then dropped it savagely, and ground it under his heel. "You don't _have_ to sell," said he angrily. "You can turn that offer down if you want to." "No, I can't," Matt answered. "The sale was virtually made up in North Dakota weeks ago. Besides, I'm not the only one interested in the deal." "Who else besides McGlory?" "Why, Mrs. Traquair, the widow of Harry Traquair, who invented the extension wings and a few other things that have made the aëroplane a success. Half of the fifteen thousand the government pays for the machine goes to Mrs. Traquair." "Oh, blazes!" growled Burton. "Don't tell the woman anything about it. Send word back to the war department you don't want to sell; then I'll make a new contract with you for a thousand a week. In seven or eight weeks you boys will receive all your share of what the government pays for the _Comet_." Matt listened to the showman gravely. "You don't mean what you say, Burton," said he. "If you think for a minute that I'd play crooked with Mrs. Traquair, or with the government, then you've got pretty far off your track. It's in our contract that, if the government wants the machine, the contract terminates. Here's where the motor boys' engagement with the Big Consolidated comes to a close." "You'll make a couple of flights to-day, won't you?" asked Burton, swallowing his disappointment. "Yes, I'll do that much for you," Matt answered, "and then, bright and early to-morrow morning, we begin crating the machine for shipment." "Blamed if I don't sort of hate to see the machine go," murmured McGlory. "Many a hair-raising old trip you've had in the _Comet_, pard, with me below lookin' up at you and almost kicking the bucket with heart failure! Mainy a thriller the machine has given us, and--well, I reckon it's done some good, too." "That's the best part of it, Joe," said the king of the motor boys. THE END. THE NEXT NUMBER (30) WILL CONTAIN Motor Matt's Mandarin OR, Turning a Trick for Tsan Ti. On the Mountainside--The Yellow Cord--The Glass Balls--The Paper Clue--Putting Two-and-two Together--A Smash--Nip and Tuck--Tsan Ti Vanishes Again--Tricked Once More--The Diamond Merchant--The Old Sugar Camp--A Tight Corner--The Glass Spheres--A Master Rogue--The Eye of Buddha--The Broken Hoodoo. MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NEW YORK, September 11, 1909. TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS. (_Postage Free._) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each. 3 months 65c. 4 months 85c. 6 months $1.25 One year 2.50 2 copies one year 4.00 1 copy two years 4.00 =How to Send Money=--By post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter. =Receipts=--Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. ORMOND G. SMITH, } GEORGE C. SMITH, } _Proprietors_. STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City. A BRAVE DEED. The mining town of Capelton was alive with excitement. A long-looked-for event was about to take place. Mr. Hilton, the owner of the mines and more than half the village, was to give a ball in honor of his son's twenty-first birthday, and also to celebrate the return of his only daughter from the Parisian school to which she had been sent when but ten years old. Carl Hilton was an only son, and because of his parents' indulgence had become selfish and tyrannical. His father idolized him, and was blind to his faults. He was to become a partner in the mines on attaining his majority. As Mr. Hilton had been out of health for more than a year, Carl had attended to most of the business, and he had so tyrannized over the miners that they one and all hated him; but they loved and respected his father, and for his sake bore in silence the abuse of the son. To this birthday ball all the miners and their families had been invited, and the rumors of the great beauty of Nina Hilton only added to the excitement and anticipation. I will not weary the reader by a description of the affair, and no event of interest occurred until supper was announced. It fell to the lot of Fred Chase, one of the foremen in the mines, to escort the beautiful Nina, and so deeply did they become engaged in conversation that it was some minutes before Fred noticed that Carl sat directly opposite, and was watching them closely. With an effort the young man concealed his annoyance, and continued his attentions to Nina. "I intend to visit the mines to-morrow," said the girl, in tones loud enough to be heard by her brother. "I want to descend the new shaft." "I shall be very happy to conduct you through the mines, but you must not descend the new shaft, for it is not safe. I have warned your brother that the roof of the mine is in danger of falling, but he only laughs at me, and I fear some terrible accident will be the result of his neglect." "You are a fool, Fred Chase! The shaft is safe enough; if you talk like this, the men will all be afraid of it, and refuse to work. I shall take Nina there myself to-morrow," said Carl angrily. The young man's face flushed, but he controlled himself, and answered coldly: "I spoke the truth; the shaft is not safe, and unless more timber is put in to support the roof, you will soon have proof that I am right. I only hope that no lives will be lost." "Pooh! You are a coward. I will show you to-morrow how little faith I put in your words." The eyes of all present were drawn to the two by Carl's excited tone, and Fred's reply was plainly heard. "Call me a coward, if you will, but time will prove the truth of my assertion. Neglect for twenty-four hours to order more timber to be placed in the new shaft for the support of its roof, and you alone will be responsible for what follows." Carl did not answer, but glanced angrily at Fred, who, after a minute's pause, turned to Nina again, and changed the subject of conversation. The following morning Carl started for the new shaft alone. Nina refused to accompany him, and begged him to delay his visit until the roof was made secure. "Nonsense, sis! It is safe enough. That fool, Fred Chase, wanted to impress you." Carl believed what he said. He had not visited the shaft for several weeks, and had not seen the timbers bend beneath the weight of earth above them. He reached the shaft just as half a dozen miners came from it, and in answer to his inquiries, was told that Fred Chase and another man had remained behind to finish filling the last car with ore. "I am going down," he said, and in a few minutes was lowered to the bottom of the shaft. In the distance he could see the lights of the two miners. He advanced toward them. By the light of his own lantern he saw that some of the beams were bent; all seemed weighted to their utmost capacity, and he could not but own to himself that Fred Chase was right. He involuntarily shuddered as, in passing one large post, a slight crackling sound was heard; but it was not repeated, and he went on, determined to again make light of the matter. "You see, I am not afraid of your shaft," he said sneeringly, as he reached the spot where the two men were standing with the now loaded car beside them. "Only cowards need boast of their bravery," said Fred sternly. "I am going on a short distance to look at the ore; you may wait for me at the foot of the shaft, and we will all be drawn up at once," continued Carl. He strolled on, while Fred and his companion returned, as directed, to the entrance. They had barely reached it when they heard a loud report behind; a cry of fear mingled with the noise of falling rocks; then all was still. With pallid faces the men looked at each other, for each knew what had happened. The roof had fallen, and Carl Hilton was either crushed beneath the rocks or imprisoned in the opening beyond. Only an instant did they stand motionless. Then Fred grasped the rope and gave the signal to be hoisted to the top. They told their sad story, and a messenger was dispatched to Mr. Hilton's residence. Soon the entrance to the shaft was a scene of wild excitement. The stricken relatives of the buried man had reached the spot as soon as possible. The father offered large rewards to any who would attempt the rescue of his son; but not a man would volunteer. Mr. Hilton doubled and trebled his reward, but to no avail; to his entreaties were added the frantic pleading of the mother and Nina's distressed sobs. Fred had stood silent, with his eyes bent on the ground, until the old man, in sheer despair, cried out: "I will give half of my fortune, and it is a large one, to the men who will help me reach my boy!" Fred came forward with a look of resolve on his face. "Mr. Hilton, not for your entire fortune would I enter that mine to save your son; but for humanity's sake, I will do my best to rescue him." A cheer from the miners greeted these brave words. With a wave of his hand, Fred commanded silence, and running his eye over the crowd, said slowly: "I must have three trusty men to help me. Who will go?" For an instant no one responded; then Charles Gray, Fred's chosen companion, stepped to his side. "I will go, Fred," he said quietly. Two more men quickly followed the example of their brave leader, and, armed with spades, bars, ropes, and a bottle of brandy, they were lowered into the shaft. Then followed a time of anxious suspense to the waiting crowd, who could only pray for the safety and success of the rescuing party. The first act of the workers was to place extra beams, a few of which were lowered down the shaft for the purpose, as near as they could to the fallen roof, to help bear any strain that might be resting on those already there. In a few minutes they realized their wisdom, for a cracking sound was heard which caused them to retreat toward the shaft; but it was not repeated, and they returned to their work. At the end of three hours of cautious digging they came to the car which Fred and his companion had stayed behind to fill, and they stopped for a few moments' rest. "He cannot be far from here, for we had barely reached the shaft when the roof fell. Hark! What was that?" Fred stopped suddenly to listen. "It was a groan! He is alive! Let us get to work, for he must be quite near," said Charlie Gray excitedly. With new zeal they worked on, and in half an hour they had reached an opening caused by two large rocks, which had fallen together in such a manner as to leave a space between them. In that space lay Carl, with one arm doubled under him, and one foot pinioned by a large stone. The poor fellow was terribly bruised and cut, but conscious. Very gently he was lifted by the men and borne to the foot of the shaft. The signal was given, and they were carefully drawn to the top, and when they laid Carl on the ground a shout went up from the miners that echoed loudly over the hills. "God bless you, Fred, and your brave companions!" said Mr. Hilton huskily, as he grasped the young man by the hand. "From my heart I thank you." "No thanks are due. I could not bear to see a fellow creature die without trying to save him." The crowd soon dispersed, and Carl was conveyed to his home. After many weeks of suffering he recovered; but the crushed foot was useless--he was a cripple for life. As soon as he was able to do so, Carl sent for Fred. "Forgive me, Fred," he said frankly. "I was wrong not to heed your advice, but my punishment has been great. Forget the past, and allow me to thank you for saving my life." Fred could not refuse the apology thus offered, and the two became fast friends. About a year afterward Mr. Hilton bestowed his daughter's hand upon the brave young man who had saved his son's life, and on his wedding day Fred became one of the owners of the mines. He is now a wealthy and prosperous man, and, with his beautiful wife, is almost worshiped by the miners. A LOCOMOTIVE HERO. Well, boys, if you wish it, I'll tell you the story. When I was a youth of eighteen, and lived with my parents, I had a boyish ambition to become an engineer, although I had been educated for loftier pursuits. During my college vacation, I constantly lounged about the station, making friends with the officials, and especially with an engineer named Silas Markley. I became much attached to this man, although he was forty years of age and by no means a sociable fellow. He was my ideal of a brave, skillful, thoroughbred engineer, and I looked up to him as something of a hero. He was not a married man, but lived alone with his old mother. I was a frequent visitor at their house, and I think they both took quite a fancy to me in their quiet, undemonstrative way. When this Markley's fireman left him, I induced him to let me take his place during the remainder of my vacation. He hesitated for some time before he consented to humor my boyish whim; but he finally yielded, and I was in great glee. The fact was that, in my idleness and the overworked state of my brain, I craved for the excitement, and, besides, I had such longing dreams of the fiery ride through the hills, mounted literally on the iron horse. So I became an expert fireman, and liked it exceedingly; for the excitement more than compensated for the rough work I was required to do. But there came a time when I got my fill of excitement. Mrs. Markley one day formed a plan which seemed to give her a good deal of happiness. It was her son's birthday, and she wanted to go down to Philadelphia in the train without letting him know anything about it, and there purchase a present for him. She took me into her confidence, and asked me to assist her. I arranged the preliminaries, got her into the train without being noticed by Markley, who, of course, was busy with his engine. The old lady was in high glee over the bit of innocent deception she was practicing on her son. She enjoined me again not to tell Silas, and then I left her and took my place. It was a midsummer day, and the weather was delightful. The train was one which stopped at the principal stations on the route. On this occasion, as there were two specials on the line, it was run by telegraph--that is, the engineer has simply to obey the instructions which he receives at each station, so that he is put as a machine in the hands of one controller, who directs all trains from a central point, and thus has the whole line under his eye. If the engineer does not obey to the least tittle his orders, it is destruction to the whole. Well, we started without mishap, and up to time, and easily reached the first station in the time allotted to us. As we stopped there, a boy ran alongside with the telegram, which he handed to the engineer. The next moment I heard a smothered exclamation from Markley. "Go back," he said to the boy; "tell Williams to have the message repeated; there's a mistake." The boy dashed off; in a few minutes he came flying back. "Had it repeated," he panted. "Williams is storming at you; says there's no mistake, and you'd best get on." He thrust the second message up as he spoke. Markley read it, and stood hesitating for half a minute. There was dismay and utter perplexity in the expression of his face as he looked at the telegram and the long train behind him. His lips moved as if he were calculating chances, and his eyes suddenly quailed as if he saw death at the end of the calculation. I was watching him with considerable curiosity. I ventured to ask him what was the matter, and what he was going to do. "I'm going to obey," he said curtly. The engine gave a long shriek of horror that made me start as if it were Markley's own voice. The next instant we slipped out of the station and dashed through low-lying farms at a speed which seemed dangerous to me. "Put in more coal," said Markley. I shoveled in more, but took time. "We are going very fast, Markley." He did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the steam gauge, his lips close shut. "More coal," he said. I threw it in. The fields and houses began to fly past half-seen. We were nearing Dufreme, the next station. Markley's eyes went from the gauge to the face of the timepiece and back. He moved like an automaton. There was little more meaning in his face. "More!" he said, without turning his eye. "Markley, do you know you are going at the rate of sixty miles an hour?" "Coal!" I was alarmed at the stern, cold rigidity of the man. His pallor was becoming frightful. I threw in the coal. At least we must stop at Dufreme. That was the next halt. The little town was approaching. As the first house came into view the engine sent its shrieks of warning; it grew louder--still louder. We dashed over the switches, up to the station, where a group of passengers waited, and passed it without the halt of an instant, catching a glimpse of the appalled faces and the waiting crowd. Then we were in the fields again. The speed now became literally breathless, the furnace glared red hot. The heat, the velocity, the terrible nervous strain of the man beside me seemed to weight the air. I found myself drawing long, stertorous breaths, like one drowning. I heaped in the coal at intervals as he bade me. I did it because I was oppressed by an odd sense of duty which I never had in my ordinary brainwork. Since then I have understood how it is that dull, ignorant men, without a spark of enthusiasm, show such heroism as soldiers, firemen, and captains of wrecked vessels. It is this overpowering sense of routine duty. It's a finer thing than sheer bravery, in my idea. However, I began to think that Markley was mad--laboring under some frenzy from drink, though I had never seen him touch liquor. He did not move hand or foot, except in the mechanical control of his engine, his eyes going from the gauge to the timepiece with a steadiness that was more terrible and threatening than any gleam of insanity would have been. Once he glared back at the long train sweeping after the engine with a headlong speed that rocked it from side to side. One could imagine he saw a hundred men and women in the cars, talking, reading, smoking, unconscious that their lives were all in the hold of one man, whom I now suspected to be mad. I knew by his look that he remembered that their lives were in his hand. He glanced at the clock. "Twenty miles," he muttered. "Throw on more coal, Jack; the fire is going out." I did it. Yes, I did it. There was something in the face of that man I could not resist. Then I climbed forward and shook him roughly by the shoulder. "Markley," I shouted, "you are running this train into the jaws of death!" "I know it," he replied quietly. "Your mother is on board." "Heavens!" He staggered to his feet. But even then he did not remove his eyes from the gauge. "Make up the fire," he commanded, and pushed in the throttle valve. "I will not." "Make up the fire, Jack," very quietly. "I will not. You may kill yourself and your mother, but you shall not murder me!" He looked at me. His kindly gray eyes glared like those of a wild beast, but he controlled himself in a moment. "I could throw you off this engine, and make short work of you," he said. "But, look here, do you see the station yonder?" I saw a faint streak in the sky about five miles ahead. "I was told to reach that station by six o'clock," he continued. "The express train meeting us is due now. I ought to have laid by for it at Defreme. I was told to come on. The track is a single one. Unless I make the siding at the station in three minutes, we shall meet it in yonder hollow." "Somebody's blunder?" I said. "Yes, I think so." I said nothing. I threw on coal. If I had had petroleum, I should have thrown it on; but I never was calmer in my life. When death actually stares a man in the face, it often frightens him into the most perfect composure. Markley pushed the valve still farther. The engine began to give a strange panting sound. Far off to the south I could see the dense black smoke of a train. I looked at Markley inquiringly. He nodded. It was the express. I stooped to the fire. "No more," he said. I looked across the clear summer sky at the gray smoke of the peaceful little village, and beyond that at a black line coming closer, closer, across the sky. Then I turned to the watch. In one minute more--well, I confess I sat down and buried my face in my hands. I don't think I tried to pray. I had a confused thought of mangled, dying men and women--mothers and their babies. There was a terrible shriek from the engine, against which I leaned, another in my face. A hot, hissing tempest swept past me. I looked up. We were on the siding, and the express had gone by. It grazed our end car in passing. In a sort of delirious joy, I sprang up and shouted to Markley. He did not speak. He sat there immovable and cold as a stone. I went to the train and brought his mother to him, and, when he opened his eyes and took the old lady's hand in his, I turned hastily away. Yes, gentlemen, I have been in many a railway accident, but I have always considered that the closest shave I ever had. What was the blunder? I don't know; Markley made light of it ever afterward, and kept it a secret; but no man on the line stood so high in the confidence of the company after that as he. By his coolness and nerve he had saved a hundred lives. GEESE DROWN A SQUIRREL. Jack, a big gray squirrel, who, with his mate, Jill, inhabited the island in the duck inclosure in the Bronx Park Zoo, New York City, sacrificed his life to his love of high living. It was this way: Jack and Jill long ago discovered that by crossing over the ten-foot-wide stream of water which separates the island from the mainland on all sides they could reach a trough filled with corn, which was replenished daily, for the ducks and geese, which rightfully inhabit the pond and island. A wire fence dividing the inclosure used by the mallard ducks from that enjoyed by the Canada geese offered a means of communication between the island and the corn trough, and Jack and Jill long ago became expert in running along the top of this ticklish pathway. Daily the two squirrels made pilgrimages to the corn trough, eaten to repletion, and then returned to the island. The ducks and the geese always swam close to the fence, flapping their wings and uttering hoarse cries of rage, but were never able to catch the nimble squirrels. Little by little, however, Jack lost his native agility as he partook of more and more of the rich food, and when he started back from a particularly heavy feast he waddled slowly along the top of the fence instead of hopping nimbly along as had been his wont. One of the mallards saw him and realized that he was too heavy and too well fed to move hurriedly. The duck sounded a cry which brought all of its mates, and they attacked Jack viciously. The squirrel tried to hurry, but at last was pushed off the fence and fell into the pond. In an instant he was surrounded by big Canada geese. Persons on shore saw him fight desperately for life, but finally he was forced under water. The geese churned the pond into a foam, and when they swam majestically away there was nothing to be seen of Jack. Jill, who ran back and forth on the shore of the island while Jack was fighting for his life, retired to a tree after the tragedy, and has not been seen since. Keepers think that she will not try to reach the corn trough any more. LATEST ISSUES MOTOR STORIES The latest and best five-cent weekly. We won't say how interesting it is. See for yourself. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.= 16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters. 17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos. 18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon. 19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn. 20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys. 21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need. 22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right. 23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck That Wins. 24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune. 25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game. 26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship. 27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show. 28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow. 29--Motor Matt's Make-up; or, Playing a New Rôle. TIP TOP WEEKLY The most popular publication for boys. The adventures of Frank and Dick Merriwell can be had only in this weekly. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two pages. Price, 5 cents.= 687--Dick Merriwell's Colors; or, All For the Blue. 688--Dick Merriwell, Driver; or, The Race for the Daremore Cup. 689--Dick Merriwell on the Deep; or, The Cruise of the _Yale_. 690--Dick Merriwell in the North Woods; or, The Timber Thieves of the Floodwood. 691--Dick Merriwell's Dandies; or, A Surprise for the Cowboy Nine. 692--Dick Merriwell's "Skyscooter"; or, Professor Pagan and the "Princess." 693--Dick Merriwell in the Elk Mountains; or, The Search for "Dead Injun" Mine. 694--Dick Merriwell in Utah; or, The Road to "Promised Land." 695--Dick Merriwell's Bluff; or, The Boy Who Ran Away. 696--Dick Merriwell in the Saddle; or, The Bunch from the Bar--Z. 697--Dick Merriwell's Ranch Friends; or, Sport on the Range. 698--Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake; or, The Mystery of the Mad Doctor. 699--Frank Merriwell's Hold-back; or, The Boys of Bristol. 700--Frank Merriwell's Lively Lads; or, The Rival Campers. NICK CARTER WEEKLY The best detective stories on earth. Nick Carter's exploits are read the world over. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.= 649--The Triangle Clue; or, Nick Carter's Greenwich Village Case. 650--The Hollingsworth Puzzle; or, Nick Carter Three Times Baffled. 651--The Affair of the Missing Bonds; or, Nick Carter in the Harness. 652--The Green Box Clue; or, Nick Carter's Good Friend. 653--The Taxicab Mystery; or, Nick Carter Closes a Deal. 654--The Mystery of a Hotel Room; or, Nick Carter's Best Work. 655--The Tragedy of the Well; or, Nick Carter Under Suspicion. 656--The Black Hand; or, Chick Carter's Well-laid Plot. 657--The Black Hand Nemesis; or, Chick Carter and the Mysterious Woman. 658--A Masterly Trick; or, Chick and the Beautiful Italian. 659--A Dangerous Man; or, Nick Carter and the Famous Castor Case. 660--Castor the Poisoner; or, Nick Carter Wins a Man. 661--The Castor Riddle; or, Nick Carter's Search for a Hidden Fortune. 662--A Tragedy of the Bowery; or, Nick Carter and Ida at Coney Island. 663--Four Scraps of Paper; or, Nick Carter's Coney Island Search. _For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt of price, 5 cents per copy, in money or postage stamps, by_ STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York =IF YOU WANT ANY BACK NUMBERS= of our Weeklies and cannot procure them from your newsdealer, they can be obtained from this office direct. Fill out the following Order Blank and send it to us with the price of the Weeklies you want and we will send them to you by return mail. =POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN THE SAME AS MONEY.= ________________________ _190_ _STREET & SMITH, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City._ _Dear Sirs: Enclosed please find_ ___________________________ _cents for which send me_: TIP TOP WEEKLY, Nos. ________________________________ NICK CARTER WEEKLY, " ________________________________ DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________ BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________ BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________ MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________ _Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________ _City_ ________________ _State_ ________________ A GREAT SUCCESS!! MOTOR STORIES Every boy who reads one of the splendid adventures of Motor Matt, which are making their appearance in this weekly, is at once surprised and delighted. Surprised at the generous quantity of reading matter that we are giving for five cents; delighted with the fascinating interest of the stories, second only to those published in the Tip Top Weekly. Matt has positive mechanical genius, and while his adventures are unusual, they are, however, drawn so true to life that the reader can clearly see how it is possible for the ordinary boy to experience them. _HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY AND THOSE TO BE PUBLISHED_: 1--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel. 2--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends. 3--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier. 4--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet." 5--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot. 6--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear. 7--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto. 8--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward. 9--Motor Matt's Air Ship; or, The Rival Inventors. 10--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot. 11--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady. 12--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas. 13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest. 14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the "Hawk." 15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the "Grampus." 16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters. 17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos. 18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon. 19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn. 20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys. 21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need. 22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right. 23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck that Wins. 24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune. 25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game. 26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship. 27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show. 28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow. To be Published on September 6th. 29--Motor Matt's Make-up; or, Playing a New Role. To be Published on September 13th. 30--Motor Matt's Mandarin; or, Turning a Trick for Tsan Ti. To be Published on September 20th. 31--Motor Matt's Mariner; or, Filling the Bill for Bunce. To be Published on September 27th. 32--Motor Matt's Double-trouble; or, The Last of the Hoodoo. PRICE, FIVE CENTS At all newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, by the publishers upon receipt of the price. STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Retained some inconsistent hyphenation; in many cases, words are hyphenated when used as adjectives but unhyphenated when used as nouns. Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=. Front and rear covers, accent is missing from "Role" in original; retained inconsistency. Page 1, corrected ? to ! after "Howdy, Dutch!" Page 3, corrected "shimiiy" to "shiminy" in "Py shiminy grickets!" Page 4, corrected "Wiley" to "Wily" in "Go back to your job, Wily." Page 6, removed stray single quote after "going to keep it." Page 8, added missing quote before "I'm the one." Page 9, corrected typo "minues" in "Inside of five minutes." Page 11, removed unnecessary quote before "Yes, he decided." (Adding a quote after "Yes" would also have been an option; however, this series usually does not quote thoughts). Page 16, changed "doin 'a" to "doin' a." Page 18, changed "go" to "got" in "What have you got to do with this house?" Page 19, changed "he" to "the" in "the loss o' that Hindoostanee." Page 21, changed "foolishnes" to "foolishness." Page 22, changed "fair to asume" to "fair to assume." Changed "every" to "ever" in "on my mind ever since." Page 24, expanded oe ligature to "oe" for this text edition. Ligature retained in HTML version. 
59072	----	THE SECRET TOMB BY MAURICE LE BLANC CREATOR OF "ARSENE LUPIN" FRONTISPIECE BY GEORGE W. GAGE NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA [Illustration: "Leave me alone!... I forbid you to touch me!"] CONTENTS I THE CHÂTEAU DE ROBOREY II DOROTHY'S CIRCUS III EXTRA LUCID IV THE CROSS-EXAMINATION V "WE WILL HELP YOU" VI ON THE ROAD VII THE HOUR DRAWS NEAR VIII ON THE IRON WIRE IX FACE TO FACE X TOWARDS THE GOLDEN FLEECE XI THE WILL OF THE MARQUIS DE BEAUGREVAL XII THE ELIXIR OF RESURRECTION XIII LAZARUS XIV THE FOURTH MEDAL XV THE KIDNAPING OF MONTFAUCON XVI THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE XVII THE SECRET PERISHES XVIII IN ROBORE FORTUNA THE SECRET TOMB CHAPTER I THE CHÂTEAU DE ROBOREY Under a sky heavy with stars and faintly brighter for a low-hanging sickle moon, the gipsy caravan slept on the turf by the roadside, its shutters closed, its shafts stretched out like arms. In the shadow of the ditch nearby a stertorous horse was snoring. Far away, above the black crest of the hills, a bright streak of sky announced the coming of the dawn. A church clock struck four. Here and there a bird awoke and began to sing. The air was soft and warm. Abruptly, from the interior of the caravan, a woman's voice cried: "Saint-Quentin! Saint-Quentin!" A head was thrust out of the little window which looked out over the box under the projecting roof. "A nice thing this! I thought as much! The rascal has decamped in the night. The little beast! Nice discipline this is!" Other voices joined in the grumbling. Two or three minutes passed, then the door in the back of the caravan opened and a shadowy figure descended the five steps of the ladder while two tousled heads appeared at the side window. "Dorothy! Where are you going?" "To look for Saint-Quentin!" replied the shadowy figure. "But he came back with you from your walk last night; and I saw him settle down on the box." "You can see that he isn't there any longer, Castor." "Where is he?" "Patience! I'm going to bring him back to you by the ears." But two small boys in their shirts came tumbling down the steps of the caravan and implored her: "No, no, mummy Dorothy! Don't you go away by yourself in the night-time. It's dangerous...." "What are you making a fuss about, Pollux? Dangerous? It's no business of yours!" She smacked them and kicked them gently, and brought them quickly back to the caravan into which they climbed. There, sitting on the stool, she took their two heads, pressed them against her face, and kissed them tenderly. "No ill feeling, children. Danger? I'll find Saint-Quentin in half an hour from now." "A nice business!... Saint-Quentin!... A beggar who isn't sixteen!" "While Castor and Pollux are twenty--taken together!" retorted Dorothy. "But what does he want to go traipsing about like this at night for? And it isn't the first time either.... Where is it he makes these expeditions to?" "To snare rabbits," she said. "There's nothing wrong in it, you see. But come, there's been talk enough about it. Go to by-by again, boys. And above all, Castor and Pollux, don't fight. D'you hear? And no noise. The Captain's asleep; and he doesn't like to be disturbed, the Captain doesn't." She took herself off, jumped over the ditch, crossed a meadow, in which her feet splashed up the water in the puddles, and gained a path which wound through a copse of young trees which only reached her shoulders. Twice already, the evening before, strolling with her comrade Saint-Quentin, she had followed this half-formed path, so that she went briskly forward without hesitating. She crossed two roads, came to a stream, the white pebbly bottom of which gleamed under the quiet water, stepped into it, and walked up it against the current, as if she wished to hide her tracks, and when the first light of day began to invest objects with clear shapes, darted forth afresh through the woods, light, graceful, not very tall, her legs bare below a very short skirt from which streamed behind her a flutter of many-colored ribbons. She ran, with effortless ease, surefooted, with never a chance of spraining an ankle, over the dead leaves, among the flowers of early spring, lilies of the valley, violet anemones, or white narcissi. Her black hair, not very long, was divided into two heavy masses which flapped like two wings. Her smiling face, parted lips, dilated nostrils, her half-closed eyes proclaimed all her delight in her swift course through the fresh air of the morning. Her neck, long and flexible, rose from a blouse of gray linen, closed by a kerchief of orange silk. She looked to be fifteen or sixteen years old. The wood came to an end. A valley lay before her, sunk between two walls of rock and turning off abruptly. Dorothy stopped short. She had reached her goal. Facing her, on a pedestal of granite, cleanly cut down, and not more than a hundred feet in diameter, rose the main building of a château, which though it lacked grandeur of style itself, yet drew from its position and the impressive nature of its construction an air of being a seigniorial residence. To the right and left the valley, narrowed to two ravines, appeared to envelop it like an old-time moat. But in front of Dorothy the full breadth of the valley formed a slightly undulating glacis, strewn with boulders and traversed by hedges of briar, which ended at the foot of the almost vertical cliff of the granite pedestal. "A quarter to five striking," murmured the young girl. "Saint-Quentin won't be long." She crouched down behind the enormous trunk of an uprooted tree and watched with unwinking eyes the line of demarcation between the château itself and its rocky base. A narrow shelf of rock lengthened this line, running below the windows of the ground floor; and there was a spot in this exiguous cornice at which there came to an end a slanting fissure in the face of the cliff, very narrow, something of the nature of a crevice in the face of a wall. The evening before, during their walk, Saint-Quentin had said, his finger pointing at the fissure: "Those people believe themselves to be perfectly secure; and yet nothing could be easier than to haul one's self up along that crack to one of the windows. ... Look; there's one which is actually half-open ... the window of some pantry." Dorothy had no doubt whatever that the idea of climbing the granite pedestal had gripped Saint-Quentin and that that very night he had stolen away to attempt it. What had become of him after the attempt? Had there not been some one in the room he had entered? Knowing nothing of the place he was exploring nor of the dwellers in it, had he not let himself be taken? Or was he merely waiting for the break of day? She was greatly troubled. For all that she could see no sign of a path along the ravine, some countryman might come along at the very moment at which Saint-Quentin took the risk of making his descent, a far more difficult business than climbing up. Of a sudden she quivered. One might have said that in thinking of this mischance she had brought it on them. She heard the sound of heavy footfalls coming along the ravine and making for its main entrance. She buried herself among the roots of the tree and they hid her. A man came in sight. He was wearing a long blouse; his face was encircled and hidden by a gray muffler; old, furred gloves covered his hands; he carried a gun on his arm, a mattock over his shoulder. She thought that he must be a sportsman, or rather a poacher, for he walked with an uneasy air, looking carefully about him, like one who feared to be seen, and who was carefully changing his usual bearing. But he came to a standstill near the wall fifty or sixty yards from the spot at which Saint-Quentin had made the ascent, and studied the ground, turning over some flat stones and bending down over them. At last he made up his mind and seizing one of these slabs by its narrower end, he raised it and set it up on end in such a manner that it was balanced after the fashion of a cromlech. So doing he uncovered a hole which had been hollowed out in the center of the deep imprint left by the slab. Then he took his mattock and set about enlarging it, removing the earth very quietly, evidently taking great care to make no noise. A few minutes more slipped away. Then the inevitable event which Dorothy had at once desired and feared took place. The window of the château, through which Saint-Quentin had climbed the night before, opened; and there appeared a long body clad in a long black coat, its head covered with a high hat, which, even at that distance, were plainly shiny, dirty, and patched. Squeezed flat against the wall, Saint-Quentin lowered himself from the window and succeeded in setting his two feet on the rocky shelf. On the instant Dorothy, who was at the back of the man in the blouse, was on the point of rising and making a warning signal to her comrade. The movement was useless. The man had perceived what looked to be a black devil clinging to the face of the cliff, and dropping his mattock, he slipped into the hole. For his part, Saint-Quentin, absorbed in his job of getting down, was paying no attention to what was going on below him, and could only have seen it by turning round, which was practically impossible. Uncoiling a rope, which he had, without doubt, picked up in the mansion, he ran it round a pillar of the balcony of the window in such a fashion that the two ends hung down the face of the cliff an equal distance. With the help of this double rope the descent presented no difficulty. Without losing a second, Dorothy, uneasy at being no longer able to see the man in a blouse, sprang from her hiding-place and raced to the hole. As she got a view of it, she smothered a cry. At the bottom of the hole, as at the bottom of a trench, the man, resting the barrel of his gun on the rampart of earth he had thrown up, was about to take deliberate aim at the unconscious climber. Call out? Warn Saint-Quentin? That was to precipitate the event, to make her presence known and find herself engaged in an unequal struggle with an armed adversary. But do something she must. Up there Saint-Quentin was availing himself of the fissure in the face of the cliff, for all the world as if he were descending the shaft of a chimney. The whole of him stuck out, a black and lean silhouette. His high hat had been crushed down, concertina fashion, right on to his ears. The man set the butt of his gun against his shoulder and took aim. Dorothy leapt forward and flung herself at the stone which stood up behind him and with the impetus of her spring and all her weight behind her outstretched hands, shoved it. It was badly balanced, gave at the shock, and toppled over, closing the excavation like a trap-door of stone, crushing the gun, and imprisoning the man in the blouse. The young girl got just a glimpse of his head as it bent and his shoulders as they were thrust down into the hole. She thought that the attack was only postponed, that the enemy would lose no time in getting out of his grave, and dashed at full speed to the bottom of the fissure at which she arrived at the same time as Saint-Quentin. "Quick ... quick!" she cried. "We must bolt!" In a flurry, he dragged down the rope by one of the ends, mumbling as he did so: "What's up? What d'you want? How did you know I was here?" She gripped his arm and tugged at it. "Bolt, idiot!... They've seen you!... They were going to take a shot at you!... Quick! They'll be after us!" "What's that? Be after us? Who?" "A queer-looking beggar disguised as a peasant. He's in a hole over yonder. He was going to shoot you like a partridge when I tumbled the slab on to the top of him." "But----" "Do as I tell you, idiot! And bring the rope with you. You mustn't leave any traces!" She turned and bolted; he followed her. They reached the end of the valley before the slab was raised, and without exchanging a word took cover in the wood. Twenty minutes later they entered the stream and did not leave it till they could emerge on to a bank of pebbles on which their feet could leave no print. Saint-Quentin was off again like an arrow; but Dorothy stopped short, suddenly shaken by a spasm of laughter which bent her double. "What is it?" he said. "What's the matter with you?" She could not answer. She was convulsed, her hands pressed against her ribs, her face scarlet, her teeth, small, regular, whitely-gleaming teeth, bared. At last she managed to stutter: "You--you--your high--high hat!... That b-b-black coat!... Your b-b-bare feet!... It's t-t-too funny!... Where did you sneak that disguise from?... Goodness! What a sight you are!" Her laughter rang out, young and fresh, on the silence in which the leaves were fluttering. Facing her, Saint-Quentin, an awkward stripling who had outgrown his strength, with his face too pale, his hair too fair, his ears sticking out, but with admirable, very kindly black eyes, gazed, smiling, at the young girl, delighted by this diversion which seemed to be turning aside from him the outburst of wrath he was expecting. Of a sudden, indeed, she fell upon him, attacking him with thumps and reproaches, but in a half-hearted fashion, with little bursts of laughter, which robbed the chastisement of its sting. "Wretch and rogue! You've been stealing again, have you? You're no longer satisfied with your salary as acrobat, aren't you, my fine fellow? You must still prig money or jewels to keep yourself in high hats, must you? What have you got, looter? Eh? Tell me!" By dint of striking and laughing she had soothed her righteous indignation. She set out again and Saint-Quentin, thoroughly abashed, stammered: "Tell you? What's the good of telling you? You've guessed everything, as usual.... As a matter of fact I did get in through that window, last evening.... It was a pantry at the end of a corridor which led to the ground-floor rooms.... Not a soul about.... The family was at dinner.... A servant's staircase led me up into another passage, which ran round the house, with the doors of all the rooms opening into it. I went through them all. Nothing--that is to say, pictures and other things too big to carry away. Then I hid myself in a closet, from which I could see into a little sitting-room next to the prettiest bedroom. They danced till late; then came upstairs ... fashionable people.... I saw them through a peep-hole in the door ... the ladies décolletées, the gentlemen in evening dress.... At last one of the ladies went into the boudoir. She put her jewels into a jewel-box and the jewel-box into a small safe, saying out loud as she opened it the three letters of the combination of the lock, R.O.B.... So that, when she went to bed, all I had to do was to make use of them.... After that.... I waited for daylight.... I wasn't going to chance stumbling about in the dark." "Let's see what you've got," she commanded. He opened his hand and disclosed on the palm of it two earrings, set with sapphires. She took them and looked at them. Her face changed; her eyes sparkled; she murmured in quite a different voice: "How lovely they are, sapphires!... The sky is sometimes like that--at night ... that dark blue, full of light...." At the moment they were crossing a piece of land on which stood a large scarecrow, simply clad in a pair of trousers. On one of the cross-sticks which served it for arms hung a jacket. It was the jacket of Saint-Quentin. He had hung it there the evening before, and in order to render himself unrecognizable, had borrowed the scarecrow's long coat and high hat. He took off that long coat, buttoned it over the plaster bosom of the scarecrow, and replaced the hat. Then he slipped on his jacket and rejoined Dorothy. She was still looking at the sapphires with an air of admiration. He bent over them and said: "Keep them, Dorothy. You know quite well that I'm not really a thief and that I only got them for you ... that you might have the pleasure of looking at them and touching them.... It often goes to my heart to see you running about in that beggarly get-up!... To think of you dancing on the tight-rope! You who ought to live in luxury!... Ah, to think of all I'd do for you, if you'd let me!" She raised her head, looked into his eyes, and said: "Would you really do anything for me?" "Anything, Dorothy." "Well, then, be honest, Saint-Quentin." They set out again; and the young girl continued: "Be honest, Saint-Quentin. That's all I ask of you. You and the other boys of the caravan, I've adopted you because, like me, you're war-orphans, and for the last two years we have wandered together along the high roads, happy rather than miserable, getting our fun, and on the whole, eating when we're hungry. But we must come to an understanding. I only like what is clean and straight and as clear as a ray of sunlight. Are you like me? This is the third time you've stolen to give me pleasure. Is this the last time? If it is, I pardon it. If it isn't, it's 'good-bye.'" She spoke very seriously, emphasizing each phrase by a toss of the head which made the two wings of her hair flap. Overwhelmed, Saint-Quentin said imploringly: "Don't you want to have anything more to do with me?" "Yes. But swear you won't do it again." "I swear I won't." "Then we won't say anything more about it. I feel that you mean what you say. Take back these jewels. You can hide them in the big basket under the caravan. Next week you will send them back by post. It's the Château de Chagny, isn't it?" "Yes, and I saw the lady's name on one of her band-boxes. She's the Comtesse de Chagny." They went on hand in hand. Twice they hid themselves to avoid meeting peasants, and at last, after several detours, they reached the neighborhood of the caravan. "Listen," said Saint-Quentin, pausing to listen himself. "Yes. That's what it is--Castor and Pollux fighting as usual, the rascals!" He dashed towards the sound. "Saint-Quentin!" cried the young girl. "I forbid you to hit them!" "You hit them often enough!" "Yes. But they like me to hit them." At the approach of Saint-Quentin, the two boys, who were fighting a duel with wooden swords, turned from one another to face the common enemy, howling: "Dorothy! Mummy Dorothy! Stop Saint-Quentin! He's a beast! Help!" There followed a distribution of cuffs, bursts of laughter, and hugs. "Dorothy, it's my turn to be hugged!" "Dorothy, it's my turn to be smacked!" But the young girl said in a scolding voice: "And the Captain? I'm sure you've gone and woke him up!" "The Captain? He's sleeping like a sapper," declared Pollux. "Just listen to his snoring!" By the side of the road the two urchins had lit a fire of wood. The pot, suspended from an iron tripod, was boiling. The four of them ate a steaming thick soup, bread and cheese, and drank a cup of coffee. Dorothy did not budge from her stool. Her three companions would not have permitted it. It was rather which of the three should rise to serve her, all of them attentive to her wants, eager, jealous of one another, even aggressive towards one another. The battles of Castor and Pollux were always started by the fact that she had shown favor to one or the other. The two urchins, stout and chubby, dressed alike in pants, a shirt, and jacket, when one least expected it and for all that they were as fond of one another as brothers, fell upon one another with ferocious violence, because the young girl had spoken too kindly to one, or delighted the other with a too affectionate look. As for Saint-Quentin, he cordially detested them. When Dorothy fondled them, he could have cheerfully wrung their necks. Never would she hug him. He had to content himself with good comradeship, trusting and affectionate, which only showed itself in a friendly hand-shake or a pleasant smile. The stripling delighted in them as the only reward which a poor devil like him could possibly deserve. Saint-Quentin was one of those who love with selfless devotion. "The arithmetic lesson now," was Dorothy's order. "And you, Saint-Quentin, go to sleep for an hour on the box." Castor brought his arithmetic. Pollux displayed his copy-book. The arithmetic lesson was followed by a lecture delivered by Dorothy on the Merovingian kings, then by a lecture on astronomy. The two children listened with almost impassioned attention; and Saint-Quentin on the box took good care not to go to sleep. In teaching, Dorothy gave full play to her lively fancy in a fashion which diverted her pupils and never allowed them to grow weary. She had an air of learning herself whatever she chanced to be teaching. And her discourse, delivered in a very gentle voice, revealed a considerable knowledge and understanding and the suppleness of a practical intelligence. At ten o'clock the young girl gave the order to harness the horse. The journey to the next town was a long one; and they had to arrive in time to secure the best place in front of the town-hall. "And the Captain? He hasn't had breakfast!" cried Castor. "All the better," said she. "The Captain always eats too much. It will give his stomach a rest. Besides if any one wakes him he's always in a frightful temper. Let him sleep on." They set out. The caravan moved along at the gentle pace of One-eyed Magpie, a lean old mare, but still strong and willing. They called her "One-eyed Magpie" because she had a piebald coat and had lost an eye. Heavy, perched on two high wheels, rocking, jingling like old iron, loaded with boxes, pots and pans, steps, barrels, and ropes, the caravan had recently been repainted. On both sides it bore the pompous inscription, "Dorothy's Circus, Manager's Carriage," which led one to believe that a file of wagons and vehicles was following at some distance with the staff, the properties, the baggage, and the wild beasts. Saint-Quentin, whip in hand, walked at the head of the caravan. Dorothy, with the two small boys at her side, gathered flowers from the banks, sang choruses of marching songs with them, or told them stories. But at the end of half an hour, in the middle of some cross-roads, she gave the order: "Halt!" "What is it?" asked Saint-Quentin, seeing that she was reading the directions on a sign-post. "Look," she said. "There's no need to look. It's straight on. I looked it up on our map." "Look," she repeated. "Chagny. A mile and a half." "Quite so. It's the village of our château of yesterday. Only to get to it we made a short cut through the woods." "Chagny. A mile and a half. Château de Roborey." She appeared to be troubled and in a low voice she murmured again: "Roborey--Roborey." "Doubtless that's the proper name of the château," hazarded Saint-Quentin. "What difference can it make to you?" "None--none." "But you look as if it made no end of a difference." "No. It's just a coincidence." "In what way?" "With regard to the name of Roborey----" "Well?" "Well, it's a word which was impressed on my memory ... a word which was uttered in circumstances----" "What circumstances, Dorothy?" She explained slowly with a thoughtful air: "Think a minute, Saint-Quentin. I told you that my father died of his wounds, at the beginning of the war, in a hospital near Chartres. I had been summoned; but I did not arrive in time.... But two wounded men, who occupied the beds next to his in the ward, told me that during his last hours he never stopped repeating the same word again and again: 'Roborey ... Roborey.' It came like a litany, unceasingly, and as if it weighed on his mind. Even when he was dying he still uttered the word: 'Roborey ... Roborey.'" "Yes," said Saint-Quentin. "I remember.... You did tell me about it." "Ever since then I have been asking myself what it meant and by what memory my poor father was obsessed at the time of his death. It was, apparently, more than an obsession ... it was a terror ... a dread. Why? I have never been able to find the explanation of it. So now you understand, Saint-Quentin, on seeing this name ... written there, staring me in the face ... on learning that there was a château of that name...." Saint-Quentin was frightened: "You never mean to go there, do you?" "Why not?" "It's madness, Dorothy!" The young girl was silent, considering. But Saint-Quentin felt sure that she had not abandoned this unprecedented design. He was seeking for arguments to dissuade her when Castor and Pollux came running up: "Three caravans are coming along!" They issued on the instant, one after the other in single file, from a sunken lane, which opened on to the cross-roads, and took the road to Roborey. They were an Aunt Sally, a Rifle-Range, and a Tortoise Merry-go-round. As he passed in front of Dorothy and Saint-Quentin, one of the men of the Rifle-Range called to them: "Are you coming along too?" "Where to?" said Dorothy. "To the château. There's a village fête in the grounds. Shall I keep a pitch for you?" "Right. And thanks very much," replied the young girl. The caravans went on their way. "What's the matter, Saint-Quentin?" said Dorothy. He was looking paler than usual. "What's the matter with you?" she repeated. "Your lips are twitching and you are turning green!" He stammered: "The p-p-police!" From the same sunken lane two horsemen came into the cross-roads, they rode on in front of the little party. "You see," said Dorothy, smiling, "they're not taking any notice of us." "No; but they're going to the château." "Of course they are. There's a fête there; and two policemen have to be present." "Always supposing that they haven't discovered the disappearance of the earrings and telephoned to the nearest police-station," he groaned. "It isn't likely. The lady will only discover it to-night, when she dresses for dinner." "All the same, don't let's go there," implored the unhappy stripling. "It's simply walking into the trap.... Besides, there's that man ... the man in the hole." "Oh, he dug his own grave," she said and laughed. "Suppose he's there.... Suppose he recognizes me?" "You were disguised. All they could do would be to arrest the scarecrow in the tall hat!" "And suppose they've already laid an information against me? If they searched us they'd find the earrings." "Drop them in some bushes in the park when we get there. I'll tell the people of the château their fortunes; and thanks to me, the lady will recover her earrings. Our fortunes are made." "But if by any chance----" "Rubbish! It would amuse me to go and see what is going on at the château which is named Roborey. So I'm going." "Yes; but I'm afraid ... afraid for you as well." "Then stay away." He shrugged his shoulders. "We'll chance it!" he said, and cracked his whip. CHAPTER II DOROTHY'S CIRCUS The château, situated at no great distance from Domfront, in the most rugged district of the picturesque department of the Orne, only received the name of Roborey in the course of the eighteenth century. Earlier it took its name of the Château de Chagny from the village which was grouped round it. The village green is in fact only a prolongation of the court-yard of the château. When the iron gates are open the two form an esplanade, constructed over the ancient moat, from which one descends on the right and left by steep slopes. The inner court-yard, circular and enclosed by two battlemented walls which run to the buildings of the château, is adorned by a fine old fountain of dolphins and sirens and a sun-dial set up on a rockery in the worst taste. Dorothy's Circus passed through the village, preceded by its band, that is to say that Castor and Pollux did their best to wreck their lungs in the effort to extract the largest possible number of false notes from two trumpets. Saint-Quentin had arrayed himself in a black satin doublet and carried over his shoulder the trident which so awes wild beasts, and a placard which announced that the performance would take place at three o'clock. Dorothy, standing upright on the roof of the caravan, directed One-eyed Magpie with four reins, wearing the majestic air of one driving a royal coach. Already a dozen vehicles stood on the esplanade; and round them the showmen were busily setting up their canvas tents and swings and wooden horses, etc. Dorothy's Circus made no such preparations. Its directress went to the mayor's office to have her license viséd, while Saint-Quentin unharnessed One-eyed Magpie, and the two musicians changed their profession and set about cooking the dinner. The Captain slept on. Towards noon the crowd began to flock in from all the neighboring villages. After the meal Saint-Quentin, Castor, and Pollux took a siesta beside the caravan. Dorothy again went off. She went down into the ravine, examined the slab over the excavation, went up out of it again, moved among the groups of peasants and strolled about the gardens, round the château, and everywhere else that one was allowed to go. "Well, how's your search getting on?" said Saint-Quentin when she returned to the caravan. She appeared thoughtful, and slowly she explained: "The château, which has been empty for a long while, belongs to the family of Chagny-Roborey, of which the last representative, Count Octave, a man about forty, married, twelve years ago, a very rich woman. After the war the Count and Countess restored and modernized the château. Yesterday evening they had a house-warming to which they invited a large party of guests who went away at the end of the evening. To-day they're having a kind of popular house-warming for the villagers." "And as regards this name of Roborey, have you learned anything?" "Nothing. I'm still quite ignorant why my father uttered it." "So that we can get away directly after the performance," said Saint-Quentin who was very eager to depart. "I don't know.... We'll see.... I've found out some rather queer things." "Have they anything to do with your father?" "No," she said with some hesitation. "Nothing to do with him. Nevertheless I should like to look more closely into the matter. When there is darkness anywhere, there's no knowing what it may hide.... I should like...." She remained silent for a long time. At last she went on in a serious tone, looking straight into Saint-Quentin's face: "Listen: you have confidence in me, haven't you? You know that I'm quite sensible at bottom ... and very prudent. You know that I have a certain amount of intuition ... and good eyes that see a little more than most people see.... Well, I've got a strong feeling that I ought to remain here." "Because of the name of Roborey?" "Because of that, and for other reasons, which will compel me perhaps, according to circumstances, to undertake unexpected enterprises ... dangerous ones. At that moment, Saint-Quentin, you must follow me--boldly." "Go on, Dorothy. Tell me what it is exactly." "Nothing.... Nothing definite at present.... One word, however. The man who was aiming at you this morning, the man in the blouse, is here." "Never! He's here, do you say? You've seen him? With the policemen?" She smiled. "Not yet. But that may happen. Where have you put those earrings?" "At the bottom of the basket, in a little card-board box with a rubber ring round it." "Good. As soon as the performance is over, stick them in that clump of rhododendrons between the gates and the coach-house." "Have they found out that they've disappeared?" "Not yet," said Dorothy. "From the things you told me I believe that the little safe is in the boudoir of the Countess. I heard some of the maids talking; and nothing was said about any robbery. They'd have been full of it." She added: "Look! there are some of the people from the château in front of the shooting-gallery. Is it that pretty fair lady with the grand air?" "Yes. I recognize her." "An extremely kind-hearted woman, according to what the maids said, and generous, always ready to listen to the unfortunate. The people about her are very fond of her ... much fonder of her than they are of her husband, who, it appears, is not at all easy to get on with." "Which of them is he? There are three men there." "The biggest ... the man in the gray suit ... with his stomach sticking out with importance. Look; he has taken a rifle. The two on either side of the Countess are distant relations. The tall one with the grizzled beard which runs up to his tortoise-shell spectacles, has been at the château a month. The other more sallow one, in a velveteen shooting-coat and gaiters, arrived yesterday." "But they look as if they knew you, both of them." "Yes. We've already spoken to one another. The bearded nobleman was even quite attentive." Saint-Quentin made an indignant movement. She checked him at once. "Keep calm, Saint-Quentin. And let's go closer to them. The battle begins." The crowd was thronging round the back of the tent to watch the exploits of the owner of the château, whose skill was well known. The dozen bullets which he fired made a ring round the center of the target; and there was a burst of applause. "No, no!" he protested modestly. "It's bad. Not a single bull's-eye." "Want of practice," said a voice near him. Dorothy had slipped into the front ranks of the throng; and she had said it in the quiet tone of a connoisseur. The spectators laughed. The bearded gentleman presented her to the Count and Countess. "Mademoiselle Dorothy, the directress of the circus." "Is it as circus directress that mademoiselle judges a target or as an expert?" said the Count jocosely. "As an expert." "Ah, mademoiselle also shoots?" "Now and then." "Jaguars?" "No. Pipe-bowls." "And mademoiselle does not miss her aim?" "Never." "Provided, of course, that she has a first-class weapon?" "Oh, no. A good shot can use any kind of weapon that comes to hand ... even an old-fashioned contraption like this." She gripped the butt of an old pistol, provided herself with six cartridges, and aimed at the card-board target cut out by the Count. The first shot was a bull's-eye. The second cut the black circle. The third was a bull's-eye. The Count was amazed. "It's marvelous.... She doesn't even take the trouble to aim. What do you say to that, d'Estreicher?" The bearded nobleman, as Dorothy called him, cried enthusiastically: "Unheard of! Marvelous! You could make a fortune, Mademoiselle!" Without answering, with the three remaining bullets she broke two pipe-bowls and shattered an empty egg-shell that was dancing on the top of a jet of water. And thereupon, pushing aside her admirers, and addressing the astonished crowd, she made the announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to inform you that the performance of Dorothy's Circus is about to take place. After exhibitions of marksmanship, choregraphic displays, then feats of strength and skill and tumbling, on foot, on horseback, on the earth and in the air. Fireworks, regattas, motor races, bull-fights, train hold-ups, all will be on view there. It is about to begin, ladies and gentlemen." From that moment Dorothy was all movement, liveliness, and gayety. Saint-Quentin had marked off a sufficiently large circle, in front of the door of the caravan, with a rope supported by stakes. Round this arena, in which chairs were reserved for the people of the château, the spectators were closely packed together on benches and flights of steps and on anything they could lay their hands on. And Dorothy danced. First of all on a rope, stretched between two posts. She bounced like a shuttlecock which the battledore catches and drives yet higher; or again she lay down and balanced herself on the rope as on a hammock, walked backwards and forwards, turned and saluted right and left; then leapt to the earth and began to dance. An extraordinary mixture of all the dances, in which nothing seemed studied or purposed, in which all the movements and attitudes appeared unconscious and to spring from a series of inspirations of the moment. By turns she was the London dancing-girl, the Spanish dancer with her castanets, the Russian who bounds and twirls, or, in the arms of Saint-Quentin, a barbaric creature dancing a languorous tango. And every time all that she needed was just a movement, the slightest movement, which changed the hang of her shawl, or the way her hair was arranged, to become from head to foot a Spanish, or Russian, or English, or Argentine girl. And all the while she was an incomparable vision of grace and charm, of harmonious and healthy youth, of pleasure and modesty, of extreme but measured joy. Castor and Pollux, bent over an old drum, beat with their fingers a muffled, rhythmical accompaniment. Speechless and motionless the spectators gazed and admired, spellbound by such a wealth of fantasy and the multitude of images which passed before their eyes. At the very moment when they were regarding her as a guttersnipe turning cartwheels, she suddenly appeared to them in the guise of a lady with a long train, flirting her fan and dancing the minuet. Was she a child or a woman? Was she under fifteen or over twenty? She cut short the clamor of applause which burst forth when she came to a sudden stop, by springing on to the roof of the caravan, and crying, with an imperious gesture: "Silence! The Captain is waking up!" There was, behind the box, a long narrow basket, in the shape of a closed sentry-box. Raising it by one end, she half opened the cover and cried: "Now, Captain Montfaucon, you've had a good sleep, haven't you? Come now, Captain, we're a bit behind-hand with our exercises. Make up for it, Captain!" She opened the top of the basket wide and disclosed in a kind of cradle, very comfortable, a little boy of seven or eight, with golden curls and red cheeks, who yawned prodigiously. Only half awake, he stretched out his hands to Dorothy who clasped him to her bosom and kissed him very tenderly. "Baron Saint-Quentin," she called out. "Catch hold of the Captain. Is his bread and jam ready? Captain Montfaucon will continue the performance by going through his drill." Captain Montfaucon was the comedian of the troupe. Dressed in an old American uniform, his tunic dragged along the ground, and his corkscrew trousers had their bottoms rolled up as high as his knees. This made a costume so hampering that he could not walk ten steps without falling full length. Captain Montfaucon provided the comedy by this unbroken series of falls and the impressive air with which he picked himself up again. When, furnished with a whip, his other hand useless by reason of the slice of bread and jam it held, his cheeks smeared with jam, he put the unbridled One-eyed Magpie through his performance, there was one continuous roar of laughter. "Mark time!" he ordered. "Right-about-turn!... Attention, One-eye' Magpie!"--he could never be induced to say "One-eyed"--"And now the goose-step. Good, One-eye' Magpie.... Perfect!" One-eyed Magpie, promoted to the rank of circus horse, trotted round in a circle without taking the slightest notice of the captain's orders, who, for his part, stumbling, falling, picking himself up, recovering his slice of bread and jam, did not bother for a moment about whether he was obeyed or not. It was so funny, the phlegm of the little man, and the undeviating course of the beast, that Dorothy herself was forced to laugh with a laughter that re-doubled the gayety of the spectators. They saw that the young girl, in spite of the fact that the performance was undoubtedly repeated every day, always took the same delight in it. "Excellent, Captain," she cried to encourage him. "Splendid! And now, captain, we'll act 'The Gipsy's Kidnaping,' a drama in a brace of shakes. Baron Saint-Quentin, you'll be the scoundrelly kidnaper." Uttering frightful howls, the scoundrelly kidnaper seized her and set her on One-eyed Magpie, bound her on her, and jumped up behind her. Under the double burden the mare staggered slowly off, while Baron Saint-Quentin yelled: "Gallop! Hell for leather!" The Captain quietly put a cap on a toy gun and aimed at the scoundrelly kidnaper. The cap cracked; Saint-Quentin fell off; and in a transport of gratitude the rescued gypsy covered her deliverer with kisses. There were other scenes in which Castor and Pollux took part. All were carried through with the same brisk liveliness. All were caricatures, really humorous, of what diverts or charms us, and revealed a lively imagination, powers of observation of the first order, a keen sense of the picturesque and the ridiculous. "Captain Montfaucon, take a bag and make a collection. Castor and Pollux, a roll of the drum to imitate the sound of falling water. Baron Saint-Quentin, beware of pickpockets!" The Captain dragged through the crowd an enormous bag in which were engulfed pennies and dirty notes; and from the top of the caravan Dorothy delivered her farewell address: "Very many thanks, agriculturists and towns-people! It is with regret that we leave this generous locality. But before we depart we take this opportunity of informing you that Mademoiselle Dorothy (she saluted) is not only the directress of a circus and a first-class performer. Mademoiselle Dorothy (she saluted) will also demonstrate her extraordinary excellence in the sphere of clairvoyance and psychic powers. The lines of the hand, the cards, coffee grounds, handwriting, and astrology have no secrets for her. She dissipates the darkness. She solves enigmas. With her magic ring she makes invisible springs burst forth, and above all, she discovers in the most unfathomable places, under the stones of old castles, and in the depths of forgotten dungeons, fantastic treasures whose existence no one suspected. A word to the wise is enough. I have the honor to thank you." She descended quickly. The three boys were packing up the properties. Saint-Quentin came to her. "We hook it, don't we, straight away? Those policemen have kept an eye on me the whole time." She replied: "Then you didn't hear the end of my speech?" "What about it?" "What about it? Why, the consultations are going to begin--the superlucid clairvoyant Dorothy. Look, I here come some clients ... the bearded nobleman and the gentleman in velveteen ... I like the gentleman in velveteen. He is very polite; and there's no side about his fawn-colored gaiters--the complete gentleman-farmer." The bearded nobleman was beside himself. He loaded the young girl with extravagant compliments, looking at her the while in an uncommonly equivocal fashion. He introduced himself as "Maxime d'Estreicher," introduced his companion as "Raoul Davernoie," and finally, on behalf of the Countess Octave, invited her to come to tea in the château. "Alone?" she asked. "Certainly not," protested Raoul Davernoie with a courteous bow. "Our cousin is anxious to congratulate all your comrades. Will you come, mademoiselle?" Dorothy accepted. Just a moment to change her frock, and she would come to the château. "No, no; no toilet!" cried d'Estreicher. "Come as you are.... You look perfectly charming in that slightly scanty costume. How pretty you are like that!" Dorothy flushed and said dryly: "No compliments, please." "It isn't a compliment, mademoiselle," he said a trifle ironically. "It's the natural homage one pays to beauty." He went off, taking Raoul Davernoie with him. "Saint-Quentin," murmured Dorothy, looking after them. "Keep an eye on that gentleman." "Why?" "He's the man in the blouse who nearly brought you down this morning." Saint-Quentin staggered as if he had received the charge of shot. "Are you sure?" "Very nearly. He has the same way of walking, dragging his right leg a little." He muttered: "He has recognized me!" "I think so. When he saw you jumping about during the performance it recalled to his mind the black devil performing acrobatic feats against the face of the cliff. And it was only a step from you to me who shoved the slab over on to his head. I read it all in his eyes and his attitude towards me this afternoon--just in his manner of speaking to me. There was a touch of mockery in it." Saint-Quentin lost his temper: "And we aren't hurrying off at once! You dare stay?" "I dare." "But that man?" "He doesn't know that I penetrated his disguise.... And as long as he doesn't know----" "You mean that your intention is?" "Perfectly simple--to tell them their fortunes, amuse them, and puzzle them." "But what's your object?" "I want to make them talk in their turn." "What about?" "What I want to know." "What do you want to know?" "That's what I don't know. It's for them to teach me." "And suppose they discover the robbery? Suppose they cross-examine us?" "Saint-Quentin, take the Captain's wooden gun, mount guard in front of the caravan, and when the policemen approach, shoot them down." When she had made herself tidy, she took Saint-Quentin with her to the château and on the way made him repeat all the details of his nocturnal expedition. Behind them came Castor and Pollux, then the Captain, who dragged after him by a string a little toy cart loaded with tiny packages. * * * * * They entertained them in the large drawing-room of the château. The Countess, who indeed was, as Dorothy had said, an agreeable and amiable woman, and of a seductive prettiness, stuffed the children with dainties, and was wholly charming to the young girl. For her part, Dorothy seemed quite as much at her ease with her hosts as she had been on the top of the caravan. She had merely hidden her short skirt and bodice under a large black shawl, drawn in at the waist by a belt. The ease of her manner, her cultivated intonation, her correct speech, to which now and then a slang word gave a certain spiciness, her quickness, and the intelligent expression of her brilliant eyes amazed the Countess and charmed the three men. "Mademoiselle," d'Estreicher exclaimed, "if you can foretell the future, I can assure you that I too can clearly foresee it, and that certain fortune awaits you. Ah, if you would put yourself in my hands and let me direct your career in Paris! I am in touch with all the worlds and I can guarantee your success." She tossed her head: "I don't need any one." "Mademoiselle," said he, "confess that you do not find me congenial." "Neither congenial nor uncongenial. I don't really know you." "If you really knew me, you'd have confidence in me." "I don't think so," she said. "Why?" She took his hand, turned it over, bent over the open palm, and as she examined it said slowly: "Dissipation.... Greedy for money.... Conscienceless...." "But I protest, mademoiselle! Conscienceless? I? I who am full of scruples." "Your hand says the opposite, monsieur." "Does it also say that I have no luck?" "None at all." "What? Shan't I ever be rich?" "I fear not." "Confound it.... And what about my death? Is it a long way off?" "Not very." "A painful death?" "A matter of seconds." "An accident, then?" "Yes." "What kind of accident?" She pointed with her finger: "Look here--at the base of the fore-finger." "What is there?" "The gallows." There was an outburst of laughter. D'Estreicher was enchanted. Count Octave clapped his hands. "Bravo, mademoiselle, the gallows for this old libertine; it must be that you have the gift of second sight. So I shall not hesitate...." He consulted his wife with a look of inquiry and continued: "So I shall not hesitate to tell you...." "To tell me," finished Dorothy mischievously, "the reasons for which you invited me to tea." The Count protested: "Not at all, mademoiselle. We invited you to tea solely for the pleasure of becoming acquainted with you." "And perhaps a little from the desire to appeal to my skill as a sorceress." The Countess Octave interposed: "Ah, well, yes, mademoiselle. Your final announcement excited our curiosity. Moreover, I will confess that we haven't much belief in things of this kind and that it is rather out of curiosity that we should like to ask you certain questions." "If you have no faith in my poor skill, madame, we'll let that pass, and all the same I'll manage to gratify your curiosity." "By what means?" "Merely by reflecting on your words." "What?" said the Countess. "No magnetic passes? No hypnotic sleep?" "No, madame--at least not for the present. Later on we'll see." Only keeping Saint-Quentin with her, she told the children to go and play in the garden. Then she sat down and said: "I'm listening, madame." "Just like that? Perfectly simply?" "Perfectly simply." "Well, then, mademoiselle----" The Countess spoke in a tone the carelessness of which was not perhaps absolutely sincere. "Well, then, mademoiselle, you spoke of forgotten dungeons and ancient stones and hidden treasures. Now, the Château de Roborey is several centuries old. It has undoubtedly been the scene of adventures and dramas; and it would amuse us to know whether any of its inhabitants have by any chance left in some out-of-way corner one of these fabulous treasures of which you spoke." Dorothy kept silent for some little time. Then she said: "I always answer with all the greater precision if full confidence is placed in me. If there are any reservations, if the question is not put as it ought to be...." "What reservations? I assure you, mademoiselle----" The young girl broke in firmly: "You asked me the question, madame, as if you were giving way to a sudden curiosity, which did not rest, so to speak, on any real base. Now you know as well as I do that excavations have been made in the château." "That's very possible," said Count Octave. "But if they were, it must have been dozens of years ago, in the time of my father or grandfather." "There are recent excavations," Dorothy asserted. "But we have only been living in the château a month!" "It isn't a matter of a month, but of some days ... of some hours...." The Countess declared with animation: "I assure you, mademoiselle, that we have not made researches of any kind." "Then the researches must have been made by some one else." "By whom? And under what conditions? And in what spot?" There was another silence. Then Dorothy went on: "You will excuse me, madame, if I have been going into matters which do not seem to be any business of mine. It's one of my faults. Saint-Quentin often says to me: 'Your craze for trespassing and ferreting about everywhere will lead people to say unpleasant things about you.' But it happened that, on arriving here, since we had to wait for the hour of the performance, I took a walk. I wandered right and left, looking at things, and in the end I made a certain number of observations which, as it seemed to me, are of some importance. Thus...." The Count and Countess drew nearer in their eagerness to hear her. She went on: "Thus, while I was admiring the beautiful old fountain in the court of honor, I was able to make sure that, all round it, holes have been dug under the marble basin which catches the water. Was the exploration profitable? I do not know. In any case, the earth has been put back into its place carefully, but not so well that one cannot see that the surface of the soil is raised." The Count and his guests looked at one another in astonishment. One of them objected: "Perhaps they've been repairing the basin ... or been putting in a waste pipe?" "No," said the Countess in a tone of decision. "No one has touched that fountain. And, doubtless, mademoiselle, you discovered other traces of the same kind of work." "Yes," said Dorothy. "Some one has been doing the same thing a little distance away--under the rockery, the pedestal on which the sun-dial stands. They have been boring across that rockery. An iron rod has been broken. It's there still." "But why?" cried the excited Countess. "Why these two spots rather than others? What are they searching for? What do they want? Have you any indication?" They had not long to wait for her answer; and Dorothy delivered it slowly, as if to make it quite clear that here was the essential point of her inquiry: "The motive of these investigations is engraved on the marble of the fountain. You can see it from here? Sirens surround a column surmounted by a capital. Isn't it so? Well, on one of the faces of the capital are some letters--almost effaced letters." "But we've never noticed them!" cried the Countess. "They are there," declared the young girl. "They are worn and hard to distinguish from the cracks in the marble. However, there is one word--a whole word--that one can reconstruct and read easily when once it has appeared to you." "What word?" "The word FORTUNA." The three syllables came long-drawn-out in a silence of stupefaction. The Count repeated them in a hushed voice, staring at Dorothy, who went on: "Yes; the word FORTUNA. And this word you find again also on the column of the sun-dial. Even yet more obliterated, to such a degree that one rather divines that it is there rather than actually reads it. But it certainly is there. Each letter is in its place. You cannot doubt it." The Count had not waited for her to finish speaking. Already he was out of the house; and through the open windows they saw him hurry to the fountain. He cast but one glance at it, passed in front of the sun-dial, and came quickly back. "Everything that mademoiselle says is the exact truth. They have dug at both spots ... and the word FORTUNA, which I saw at once, and which I had never seen before, gives the reason for their digging.... They have searched ... and perhaps they have found." "No," the young girl asserted calmly. "Why do you say no? What do you know about it?" She hesitated. Her eyes met the eyes of d'Estreicher. He knew now, doubtless, that he was unmasked, and he began to understand what the young girl was driving at. But would she dare to go to extremities and join battle? And then what were the reasons for this unforeseen struggle? With an air of challenge he repeated the Countess's question: "Yes; why do you say that they have found nothing?" Boldly Dorothy accepted the challenge. "Because the digging has gone on. There is in the ravine, under the walls of the château, among the stones which have fallen from the cliff, an ancient slab, which certainly comes from some demolished structure. The word FORTUNA is to be deciphered on the base of it also. Let some one move that slab and they will discover a perfectly fresh excavation, and the tracks of feet muddled up by the hand." CHAPTER III EXTRA-LUCID This last blow re-doubled the uneasiness of Count and Countess; and they took counsel in a low voice for a moment with their cousins d'Estreicher and Raoul Davernoie. Saint-Quentin on hearing Dorothy reveal the events in the ravine and the hiding-place of the man in the blouse had fallen back among the cushions of the great easy chair on which he was sitting. She was going mad! To set them on the trail of the man in the blouse was to set them on their own trail, his and Dorothy's. What madness! She, however, in the midst of all this excitement and anxiety remained wholly calm. She appeared to be following a quite definite course with her goal clearly in view, while the others, without her guidance, stumbled in a panic. "Mademoiselle," said the Countess, "your revelations have upset us considerably. They show how extraordinarily acute you are; and I cannot thank you enough for having given us this warning." "You have treated me so kindly, madame," she replied, "that I am only too delighted to have been of use to you." "Of immense use to us," agreed the Countess. "And I beg you to make the service complete." "How?" "By telling us what you know." "I don't know any more." "But perhaps you could learn more?" "In what way?" The Countess smiled: "By means of that skill in divination of which you were telling us a little while ago." "And in which you do not believe, madame." "But in which I'm quite ready to believe now." Dorothy bowed. "I'm quite willing.... But these are experiments which are not always successful." "Let's try." "Right. We'll try. But I must ask you not to expect too much." She took a handkerchief from Saint-Quentin's pocket and bandaged her eyes with it. "Astral vision, on condition of being blind," she said. "The less I see the more I see." And she added gravely: "Put your questions, madame. I will answer them to the best of my ability." "Remaining in a state of wakefulness all the time?" "Yes." She rested her two elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. The Countess at once said: "Who has been digging? Who has been making excavations under the fountain and under the sun-dial?" A minute passed slowly. They had the impression she was concentrating and withdrawing from all contact with the world around her. At last she said in measured tones which bore no resemblance to the accents of a pythoness or a somnambulist. "I see nothing on the esplanade. In that quarter the excavations must already be several days old, and all traces are obliterated. But in the ravine----" "In the ravine?" said the Countess. "The slab is standing on end and a man is digging a hole with a mattock." "A man? What man? Describe him." "He is wearing a very long blouse." "But his face?..." "His face is encircled by a muffler which passes under a cap with turned-down brim.... You cannot even see his eyes. When he has finished digging he lets the slab fall back into its place and carries away the mattock." "Nothing else?" "No. He has found nothing." "Are you sure of that?" "Absolutely sure." "And which way does he go?" "He goes back up the ravine.... He comes to the iron gates of the château." "But they're locked." "He has the key. He enters.... It is early in the morning.... No one is up.... He directs his steps to the orangerie.... There's a small room there." "Yes. The gardener keeps his implements in it." "The man sets the mattock in a corner, takes off his blouse and hangs it on a nail in the wall." "But he can't be the gardener!" exclaimed the Countess. "His face? Can you see his face?" "No ... no.... It remains covered up." "But his clothes?" "His clothes?... I can't make them out.... He goes out.... He disappears." The young girl broke off as if her attention were fixed on some one whose outline was blurred and lost in the shadow like a phantom. "I do not see him any longer," she said. "I can see nothing any longer.... Do I?... Ah yes, the steps of the château.... The door is shut quietly.... And then ... then the staircase.... A long corridor dimly lighted by small windows.... However I can distinguish some prints ... galloping horses ... sportsmen in red coats.... Ah! The man!... The man is there, on his knees, before a door.... He turns the handle of the door.... It opens." "It must be one of the servants," said the Countess in a hollow voice. "And it must be a room on the first floor, since there are prints on the passage walls. What is the room like?" "The shutters are closed. The man has lit a pocket-lamp and is hunting about.... There's a calendar on the chimney-piece.... It's to-day, Wednesday.... And an Empire clock with gilded columns...." "The clock in my boudoir," murmured the Countess. "The hands point to a quarter of six.... The light of the lamp is directed to the other side of the room, on to a walnut cupboard with two doors. The man opens the two doors and reveals a safe." They were listening to Dorothy in a troubled silence, their faces twitching with emotion. How could any one have failed to believe the whole of the vision the young girl was describing, seeing that she had never been over the château, never crossed the threshold of this boudoir, and that nevertheless she was describing things which must have been unknown to her. Dumfounded, the Countess exclaimed: "The safe was unlocked!... I'm certain of it ... I shut it after putting my jewels away ... I can still hear the sound of the door banging!" "Shut--yes. But the key there." "What does that matter? I have muddled up the letters of the combination." "Not so. The key turns." "Impossible!" "The key turns. I see the three letters." "The three letters! You see them!" "Clearly--an R, an O, and a B, that is to say the first three letters of the word Roborey. The safe is open. There's a jewel-case inside it. The man's hand gropes in it ... and takes...." "What? What? What has he taken?" "Two earrings." "Two sapphires, aren't they? Two sapphires?" "Yes, madame, two sapphires." Thoroughly upset and moving jerkily, the Countess went quickly out of the room, followed by her husband, and Raoul Davernoie. And Dorothy heard the Count say: "If this is true, you'll admit, Davernoie, that this instance of divination would be uncommonly strange." "Uncommonly strange indeed," replied d'Estreicher who had gone as far as the door with them. He shut the door on them and came back to the middle of the drawing-room with the manifest intention of speaking to the young girl. Dorothy had removed the handkerchief from her eyes and was rubbing them like a person who has come out of the dark. The bearded nobleman and she looked at one another for a few moments. Then, after some hesitation, he took a couple of steps back towards the door. But once more he changed his mind and turning towards Dorothy, stroked his beard at length, and at last broke into a quiet, delighted chuckle. Dorothy, who was never behind-hand when it came to laughing, did as the bearded nobleman had done. "You laugh?" said he. "I laugh because you laugh. But I am ignorant of the reason of your gayety. May I learn it?" "Certainly, mademoiselle. I laugh because I find all that very amusing." "What is very amusing?" D'Estreicher came a few steps further into the room and replied: "What is very amusing is to mix up into one and the same person the individual who was making an excavation under the slab of stone and this other individual who broke into the château last night and stole the jewels." "That is to say?" asked the young girl. "That is to say, to be yet more precise, the idea of throwing beforehand the burden of robbery committed by M. Saint-Quentin----" "Onto the back of M. d'Estreicher," said Dorothy, ending his sentence for him. The bearded nobleman made a wry face, but did not protest. He bowed and said: "That's it, exactly. We may just as well play with our cards on the table, mayn't we? We're neither of us people who have eyes for the purpose of not seeing. And if I saw a black silhouette slip out of a window last night. You, for your part, have seen----" "A gentleman who received a stone slab on his head." "Exactly. And I repeat, it's very ingenious of you to try to make them out to be one and the same person. Very ingenious ... and very dangerous." "In what way is it dangerous?" "In the sense that every attack provokes a counter-attack." "I haven't made any attack. But I wished to make it quite clear that I was ready to go to any lengths." "Even to the length of attributing the theft of this pair of earrings to me?" "Perhaps." "Oh! Then I'd better lose no time proving that they're in your hands." "Be quick about it." Once more he stopped short on the threshold of the door and said: "Then we're enemies?" "We're enemies." "Why? You're quite unacquainted with me." "I don't need to be acquainted with you to know who you are." "What? Who I am? I'm the Chevalier Maxime d'Estreicher." "Possibly. But you're also the gentleman who, secretly and without his cousins' knowledge, seeks ... that which he has no right to seek. With what object if not to steal it?" "And that's your business?" "Yes." "On what grounds?" "It won't be long before you learn." He made a movement--of anger or contempt? He controlled himself and mumbled: "All the worse for you and all the worse for Saint-Quentin. Good-bye for the present." Without another word he bowed and went out. It was an odd fact, but in this kind of brutal and violent duel, Dorothy had kept so cool that hardly had the door closed before, following her instincts of a street Arab, she indulged in a high kick and pirouetted half across the room. Then, satisfied with herself and the way things were going, she opened a glass-case, took from it a bottle of smelling-salts, and went to Saint-Quentin who was lying back in his easy chair. "Smell it, old chap." He sniffed it, began to sneeze, and stuttered: "We're lost!" "You're a fine fellow, Saint-Quentin! Why do you think we're lost?" "He's off to denounce us." "Undoubtedly he's off to buck up the inquiries about us. But as for denouncing us, for telling what he saw this morning, he daren't do it. If he does, I tell in my turn what I saw." "All the same, Dorothy, there was no point in telling them of the disappearance of the jewels." "They were bound to discover it sooner or later. The fact of having been the first to speak of it diverts suspicion." "Or turns it on to us, Dorothy." "In that case I accuse the bearded nobleman." "You need proofs." "I shall find them." "How you do detest him!" "No: but I wish to destroy him. He's a dangerous man, Saint-Quentin. I have an intuition of it; and you know that I hardly ever deceive myself. He has all the vices. He is betraying his cousins, the Count and Countess. He is capable of anything. I wish to rid them of him by any means." Saint-Quentin strove to reassure himself: "You're amazing. You make combinations and calculations; you act; you foresee. One feels that you direct your course in accordance with a plan." "In accordance with nothing at all, my lad. I go forward at a venture, and decide as Fortune bids." "However...." "I have a definite aim, that's all. Four people confront me, who, there's no doubt about it, are linked together by a common secret. Now the word 'Roborey,' uttered by my father when he was dying, gives me the right to try to find out whether he himself did not form part of this group, and if, in consequence, his daughter is not qualified to take his place. Up to now the four people hold together and keep me at a distance. I have vainly attempted the impossible to obtain their confidence in the first place and after it their confessions, so far without any result. But I shall succeed." She stamped her foot, with an abruptness in which was suddenly manifest all the energy and decision which animated this smiling and delicate creature, and she said again: "I shall succeed, Saint-Quentin. I swear it. I am not at the end of my revelations. There is another which will persuade them perhaps to be more open with me." "What is it, Dorothy?" "I know what I'm doing, my lad." She was silent. She gazed through the open window near which Castor and Pollux were fighting. The noise of hurrying footsteps reëchoed about the château. People were calling out to one another. A servant ran across the court at full speed and shut the gates, leaving a small part of the crowd and three or four caravans, of which one was Dorothy's Circus, in the court-yard. "The p-p-policemen! The p-p-policemen!" stammered Saint-Quintin. "There they are! They're examining the Rifle-Range!" "And d'Estreicher is with them," observed the young girl. "Oh, Dorothy, what have you done?" "It's all the same to me," she said, wholly unmoved. "These people have a secret which perhaps belongs to me as much as to them. I wish to know it. Excitement, sensations, all that works in my favor." "Nevertheless...." "Pipe, Saint-Quentin. To-day decides my future. Instead of trembling, rejoice ... a fox-trot, old chap!" She threw an arm round his waist, and propping him up like a tailor's dummy with wobbly legs, she forced him to turn; climbing in at the window, Castor and Pollux, followed by Captain Montfaucon, started to dance round the couple, chanting the air of the Capucine, first in the drawing-room, then across the large hall. But a fresh failure of Saint-Quentin's legs dashed the spirits of the dancers. Dorothy lost her temper. "What's the matter with you now?" she cried, trying to raise him and keep him upright. He stuttered: "I'm afraid ... I'm afraid." "But why on earth are you afraid? I've never seen you in such a funk. What are you afraid of?" "The jewels...." "Idiot! But you've thrown them into the clump!" "No." "You haven't?" "No." "But where are they then?" "I don't know. I looked for them in the basket as you told me to. They weren't there any longer. The little card-board box had disappeared." During his explanation Dorothy grew graver and graver. The danger suddenly grew clear to her. "Why didn't you tell me about it? I should not have acted as I did." "I didn't dare to. I didn't want to worry you." "Ah, Saint-Quentin, you were wrong, my lad." She uttered no other reproach, but added: "What's your explanation?" "I suppose I made a mistake and didn't put the earrings in the basket ... but somewhere else ... in some other part of the caravan.... I've looked everywhere without finding them.... But those policemen--they'll find them." The young girl was overwhelmed. The earrings discovered in her possession, the theft duly verified meant arrest and jail. "Leave me to my fate," groaned Saint-Quentin. "I'm nothing but an imbecile.... A criminal.... Don't try to save me.... Throw all the blame on me, since it is the truth." At that moment a police-inspector in uniform appeared on the threshold of the hall, under the guidance of one of the servants. "Not a word," murmured Dorothy. "I forbid you to utter a single word." The inspector came forward: "Mademoiselle Dorothy?" "I'm Mademoiselle Dorothy, inspector. What is it you want?" "Follow me. It will be necessary...." He was interrupted by the entrance of the Countess who hurried in, accompanied by her husband and Raoul Davernoie. "No, no, inspector!" she exclaimed. "I absolutely oppose anything which might appear to show a lack of trust in mademoiselle. There is some misunderstanding." Raoul Davernoie also protested. But Count Octave observed: "Bear in mind, dear, that this is merely a formality, a general measure which the inspector is bound to take. A robbery has been committed, it is only right that the inquiry should include everybody----" "But it was mademoiselle who informed of the robbery," interrupted the Countess. "It is she who for the last hour has been warning us of all that is being plotted against us!" "But why not let her be questioned like everybody else? As d'Estreicher said just now, it's possible that your earrings were not stolen from your safe. You may have put them in your ears without thinking to-day, and then lost them out-of-doors ... where some one has picked them up." The inspector, an honest fellow who seemed very much annoyed by this difference of opinion between the Count and Countess, did not know what to do. Dorothy helped him out of the awkward situation. "I quite agree with you, Count. My part in the business may very well appear suspicious to you; and you have the right to ask how I know the word that opens the safe, and if my talents as a diviner are enough to explain my clairvoyance. There isn't any reason then for making an exception in my favor." She bent low before the Countess and gently kissed her hand. "You mustn't be present at the inquiry, madame. It's not a pleasant business. For me, it's one of the risks we strolling entertainers run; but you would find it painful. Only, I beg you, for reasons which you will presently understand, to come back to us after they have questioned me." "I promise you I will." "I'm at your service, inspector." She went off with her four companions and the inspector of police. Saint-Quentin had the air of a condemned criminal being led to the gallows. Captain Montfaucon, his hands in his pockets, the string round his wrist, dragged along his baggage-wagon and whistled an American tune, like a gallant fellow who knows that all these little affairs always end well. At the end of the court-yard, the last of the country folk were departing through the open gates, beside which the gamekeeper was posted. The showmen were grouped about their tents and in the orangery where the second policeman was examining their licenses. On reaching her caravan, Dorothy perceived d'Estreicher talking to two servants. "You then are the director of the inquiry, monsieur?" she said gayly. "I am indeed, mademoiselle--in your interest," he said in the same tone. "Then I have no doubt about the result of it," she said; and turning to the inspector, she added: "I have no keys to give you. Dorothy's Circus has no locks. Every thing is open to the world. Empty hands and empty pockets." The inspector seemed to have no great relish for the job. The two servants did their best and d'Estreicher made no bones about advising them. "Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said to the young girl, taking her on one side. "I'm of the opinion that no effort should be spared to make your complicity quite out of the question." "It's a serious business," she said ironically. "In what way?" "Well, recall our conversation. There's a criminal: if it isn't me, it's you." D'Estreicher must have considered the young girl a formidable adversary, and he must have been frightened by her threats, for while he remained quite agreeable, gallant even, jesting with her, he was indefatigable in his investigation. At his bidding the servants lifted down the baskets and boxes, and displayed her wretched wardrobe, in the strongest contrast to the brilliantly colored handkerchiefs and shawls with which the young girl loved to adorn herself. They found nothing. They searched the walls and platform of the caravan, the mattresses, the harness of One-eyed Magpie, the sack of oats, and the food. Nothing. They searched the four boys. A maid felt Dorothy's clothes. The search was fruitless. The earrings were not to be found. "And that?" said d'Estreicher, pointing to the huge basket loaded with pots and pans which hung under the vehicle. With a furtive kick on the ankle Dorothy straightened Saint-Quentin who was tottering. "Let's bolt!" he stuttered. "Don't be a fool. The earrings are no longer there." "I may have made a mistake." "You're an idiot. One doesn't make a mistake in a case like that." "Then where is the card-board box?" "Have you got your eyes stuffed up?" "You can see it, can you?" "Of course I can see it--as plainly as the nose in the middle of your face." "In the caravan?" "No." "Where?" "On the ground ten yards away from you, between the legs of the bearded one." She glanced at the wagon of Captain Montfaucon which the child had abandoned to play with a doll, and the little packages from which, miniature bags and trunks and parcels, lay on the ground beside d'Estreicher's heels. One of these packages was nothing else than the card-board box which contained the earrings. Captain Montfaucon had that afternoon added it to what he called his haulage material. In confiding her unexpected discovery to Saint-Quentin, Dorothy, who did not suspect the keenness of the subtlety and power of observation of the man she was fighting, committed an irreparable imprudence. It was not on the young girl that d'Estreicher was keeping watch from behind the screen of his spectacles, but on her comrade Saint-Quentin whose distress and feebleness he had been quick to notice. Dorothy herself remained impassive. But would not Saint-Quentin end by giving some indication? That was what happened. When he recognized the little box with the red gutta-percha ring round it, Saint-Quentin heaved a great sigh in his sudden relief. He told himself that it would never occur to any one to untie these child's toys which lay on the ground for any one to pick up. Several times, without the slightest suspicion, d'Estreicher had brushed them aside with his feet and stumbled over the wagon, winning from the Captain this sharp reprimand: "Now then, sir! What would _you_ say, if you had a car and I knocked it over?" Saint-Quentin raised his head with a cheerful air. D'Estreicher followed the direction of his gaze and instinctively understood. The earrings were there, under the protection of Fortune and with the unwitting complicity of the captain. But in which of the packages? The card-board box seemed to him to be the most likely. Without a word he bent quickly down and seized it. He drew himself up, opened it with a furtive movement, and perceived, among some small white pebbles and shells, the two sapphires. He looked at Dorothy. She was very pale. CHAPTER IV THE CROSS-EXAMINATION "Let's bolt!" again said Saint-Quentin, who had sunk down on to a trunk and would have been incapable of making a single step. "A splendid idea!" said Dorothy in a low voice. "Harness One-eyed Magpie; let's all five of us hide ourselves in the caravan and hell for leather for the Belgian frontier!" She gazed steadfastly at her enemy. She felt that she was beaten. With one word he could hand her over to justice, throw her into prison, and render vain all her threats. Of what value are the accusations of a thief? Box in hand, he balanced himself on one foot then on the other with ironical satisfaction. He had the appearance of waiting for her to weaken and become a suppliant. How he misjudged her! On the contrary she maintained an attitude of defiance and challenge as if she had had the audacity to say to him: "If you speak, you're lost." He shrugged his shoulders and turning to the inspector who had seen nothing of this by-play, he said: "We may congratulate ourselves on having got it over, and entirely to mademoiselle's advantage. Goodness, what a disagreeable job!" "You had no business to set about it at all," said the Countess, coming up with the Count and Raoul Davernoie. "Oh yes, I had, dear cousin. Your husband and I had our doubts. It was just as well to clear them up." "And you've found nothing?" said the Count. "Nothing ... less than nothing--at the most an odd trifle with which Mr. Montfaucon was playing, and which Mademoiselle Dorothy had been kind enough to give me. You do, don't you, Mademoiselle?" "Yes," said Dorothy simply. He displayed the card-board box, round which he had again drawn the rubber ring, and handing it to the Countess: "Take care of that till to-morrow morning, will you, dear lady?" "Why should I take care of it and not you?" "It wouldn't be the same thing," said he. "To place it in your hands is as it were to affix a seal to it. To-morrow, at lunch, we'll open it together." "Do you make a point of it?" "Yes. It's an idea ... of sorts." "Very good," said the Countess. "I accept the charge if mademoiselle authorizes me to do so." "I ask it, madame," replied Dorothy, grasping the fact that the danger was postponed till the morrow. "The box contains nothing of importance, only white pebbles and shells. But since it amuses monsieur, and he wants a check on it, give him this small satisfaction." There remained, however, a formality which the inspector considered essential in inquiries of this kind. The examination of identification papers, delivery of documents, compliance with the regulations, were matters which he took very seriously indeed. On the other hand, if Dorothy surmised the existence of a secret between the Count and Countess and their cousins, it is certain that her hosts were not less puzzled by the strange personality which for an hour or two had dominated and disturbed them. Who was she? Where did she come from? What was her real name? What was the explanation of the fact that this distinguished and intelligent creature, with her supple cleverness and distinguished manners, was wandering about the country with four street-boys? She took from a locker in the caravan a passport-case which she carried under her arm; and when they all went into the orangery which was now empty, she took from this case a sheet of paper black with signatures and stamps and handed it to the inspector. "Is this all you've got?" he said almost immediately. "Isn't it sufficient? The secretary at the mayor's office this morning was satisfied with it." "They're satisfied with anything in mayors' offices," he said scornfully. "And what about these names?... Nobody's named Castor and Pollux?... And this one ... Baron de Saint-Quentin, acrobat!" Dorothy smiled: "Nevertheless it is his name and his profession." "Baron de Saint-Quentin?" "Certainly he was the son of a plumber who lived at Saint-Quentin and was called Baron." "But then he must have the paternal authorization." "Impossible." "Why?" "Because his father died during the occupation." "And his mother?" "She's dead too. No relations. The English adopted the boy. Towards the end of the war he was assistant-cook in a hospital at Bar-le-Duc, where I was a nurse. I adopted him." The inspector uttered a grunt of approval and continued his examination. "And Castor and Pollux." "I don't know where they come from. In 1918, during the German push towards Châlons, they were caught in the storm and picked up on a road by some French soldiers who gave them their nicknames. The shock was so great that they've lost all memory of the years before those days. Are they brothers? Were they acquaintances? Where are their families? Nobody knows. I adopted them." "Oh!" said the inspector, somewhat taken aback. Then he went on: "There remains now Sire Montfaucon, captain in the American army, decorated with the Croix de guerre." "Present," said a voice. Montfaucon drew himself stiffly upright in a soldierly attitude, his heels touching, and his little finger on the seam of his enormous trousers. Dorothy caught him on to her knee and gave him a smacking kiss. "A brat, about whom also nobody knows anything. When he was four he was living with a dozen American soldiers who had made for him, by way of cradle, a fur bag. The day of the great American attack, one of the twelve carried him on his back; and it happened that of all those who advanced, it was this soldier who went furthest, and that they found his body next day near Montfaucon hill. Beside him, in the fur bag, the child was asleep, slightly wounded. On the battle-field, the colonel decorated him with the Croix de guerre, and gave him the name and rank of Captain Montfaucon of the American army. Later it fell to me to nurse him at the hospital to which he was brought in. Three months after that the colonel wished to carry him off to America. Montfaucon refused. He did not wish to leave me. I adopted him." Dorothy told the child's story in a low voice full of tenderness. The eyes of the Countess shone with tears and she murmured: "You acted admirably--admirably, mademoiselle. Only that gave you four orphans to provide for. With what resources?" Dorothy laughed and said: "We were rich." "Rich?" "Yes, thanks to Montfaucon. Before he went his colonel left two thousand francs for him. We bought a caravan and an old horse. Dorothy's Circus was formed." "A difficult profession to which you have to serve an apprenticeship." "We served our apprenticeship under an old English soldier, formerly a clown, who taught us all the tricks of the trade and all the wheezes. And then I had it all in my blood. The tight-rope, dancing, I was broken in to them years ago. Then we set out across France. It's rather a hard life, but it keeps one in the best of health, one is never dull, and taken all round Dorothy's Circus is a success." "But does it comply with the official regulations?" asked the inspector whose respect for red tape enabled him to control the sympathy he was feeling for her. "For after all this document is only valuable from the point of view of references. What I should like to see is your own certificate of identity." "I have that certificate, inspector." "Made out by whom?" "By the Prefecture of Châlons, which is the chief city of the department in which I was born." "Show it to me." The young girl plainly hesitated. She looked at Count Octave then at the Countess. She had begged them to come just in order that they might be witnesses of her examination and hear the answers she proposed to give, and now, at the last moment, she was rather sorry that she had done so. "Would you prefer us to withdraw?" said the Countess. "No, no," she replied quickly. "On the contrary I insist on your knowing." "And us too?" said Raoul Davernoie. "Yes," she said smiling. "There is a fact which it is my duty to divulge to you. Oh, nothing of great importance. But ... all the same." She took from her case a dirty card with broken corners. "Here it is," she said. The inspector examined the card carefully and said in the tone of one who is not to be humbugged: "But that isn't your name. It's a _nom de guerre_ of course--like those of your young comrades?" "Not at all, inspector." "Come, come, you're not going to get me to believe...." "Here is my birth certificate in support of it, inspector, stamped with the stamp of the commune of Argonne." "What? You belong to the village of Argonne!" cried the Count de Chagny. "I did, Monsieur le Comte. But this unknown village, which gave its name to the whole district of the Argonne, no longer exists. The war has suppressed it." "Yes ... yes ... I know," said the Count. "We had a friend there--a relation. Didn't we, d'Estreicher?" "Doubtless it was Jean d'Argonne?" she asked. "It was. Jean d'Argonne died at the hospital at Clermont from the effects of a wound ... Lieutenant the Prince of Argonne. You knew him." "I knew him." "Where? When? Under what conditions?" "Goodness! Under the ordinary conditions in which one knows a person with whom one is closely connected." "What? There were ties between you and Jean d'Argonne ... the ties of relationship?" "The closest ties. He was my father." "Your father! Jean d'Argonne! What are you talking about? It's impossible! See why ... Jean's daughter was called Yolande." "Yolande, Isabel, Dorothy." The Count snatched the card which the inspector was turning over and over again, and read aloud in a tone of amazement: "Yolande Isabel Dorothy, Princess of Argonne!" She finished the sentence for him, laughing: "Countess Marescot, Baroness de la Hêtraie, de Beaugreval, and other places." The Count seized the birth certificate with no less eagerness, and more and more astounded, read it slowly syllable by syllable: "Yolande Isabel Dorothy, Princess of Argonne, born at Argonne, on the 14th of October, 1900, legitimate daughter of Jean de Marescot, Prince of Argonne, and of Jessie Varenne." Further doubt was impossible. The civil status to which the young girl laid claim was established by proofs, which they were the less inclined to challenge since the unexpected fact explained exactly everything which appeared inexplicable in the manners and even in the appearance of Dorothy. The Countess gave her feelings full play: "Yolande? You are the little Yolande about whom Jean d'Argonne used to talk to us with such fondness." "He was very fond of me," said the young girl. "Circumstances did not allow us to live always together as I should have liked. But I was as fond of him as if I had seen him every day." "Yes," said the Countess. "One could not help being fond of him. I only saw him twice in my life, in Paris, at the beginning of the war. But what delightful recollections of him I retain! A man teeming with gayety and lightheartedness! Just like you, Dorothy. Besides, I find him again in you ... the eyes ... and above all the smile." Dorothy displayed two photographs which she took from among her papers. "His portrait, madame. Do you recognize it?" "I should think so! And the other, this lady?" "My mother who died many years ago. He adored her." "Yes, yes, I know. She was formerly on the stage, wasn't she? I remember. We will talk it all over, if you will, and about your own life, the misfortunes which have driven you to live like this. But first of all, how came you here? And why?" Dorothy told them how she had chanced to see the word Roborey, which her father had repeated when he was dying. Then the Count interrupted her narration. He was a perfectly commonplace man who always did his best to invest matters with the greatest possible solemnity, in order that he might play the chief part in them, which his rank and fortune assigned to him. As a matter of form he consulted his two comrades, then, without waiting to hear their answers, he dismissed the inspector with the lack of ceremony of a grand seignior. In the same fashion he turned out Saint-Quentin and the three boys, carefully closed the two doors, bade the two women sit down, and walked up and down in front of them with his hands behind his back and an air of profound thoughtfulness. Dorothy was quite content. She had won a victory, compelled her hosts to speak the words she wanted. The Countess held her tightly to her. Raoul appeared to be a friend. All was going well. There was, indeed, standing a little apart from them, hostile and formidable, the bearded nobleman, whose hard eyes never left her. But sure of herself, accepting the combat, full of careless daring, she refused to bend before the menace of the terrible danger which, however, might at any moment crush her. "Mademoiselle," said the Count de Chagny with an air of great importance. "It has seemed to us, to my cousins and me, since you are the daughter of Jean d'Argonne, whose loss we so deeply deplore--it has seemed to us, I say, that we ought in our turn, to enlighten you concerning events of which he was cognizant and of which he would have informed you had he not been prevented by death ... of which he actually desired, as we know, that you should be informed." He paused, delighted with his preamble. On occasions like this he loved to indulge in a pomposity of diction employing only the most select vocabulary, striving to observe the rules of grammar, and fearless of subjunctives. He went on: "Mademoiselle, my father, François de Chagny, my grandfather, Dominique de Chagny, and my great-grandfather, Gaspard de Chagny, lived their lives in the sure conviction that great wealth would be ... how shall I put it? ... would be offered to them, by reason of certain unknown conditions of which each of them was confident in advance that he would be the beneficiary. And each of them took the greater joy in the fact and indulged in a hope all the more agreeable because the Revolution had ruined the house of the Counts de Chagny from the roof-tree to the basement. On what was this conviction based? Neither François, nor Dominique, nor Gaspard de Chagny ever knew. It came from vague legends which described exactly neither the nature of the riches nor the epoch at which they would appear, but all of which had this in common that they evoked the name of Roborey. And these legends could not have gone very far back since this château, which was formerly called the Château de Chagny, only received the name of Chagny-Roborey in the reign of Louis XVI. Is it this designation which brought about the excavations that were made from time to time? It is extremely probable. At all events it is a fact that at the very moment the war broke out I had formed the resolution of restoring this Château de Roborey, which had become merely a shooting-box and definitely settling down in it, for all that, and I am not ashamed to say it, my recent marriage with Madame de Chagny had enabled me to wait for these so-called riches without excessive impatience." The Count smiled a subtle smile in making this discreet allusion to the manner in which he had regilded his heraldic shield, and continued: "It is needless to tell you, I hope, that during the war the Count de Chagny did his duty as a good Frenchman. In 1915, as lieutenant of light-infantry, I was in Paris on leave when a series of coincidences, brought about by the war, brought me into touch with three persons with whom I had not previously been acquainted, and whose ties of kin-ship with the Chagny-Roborey I learnt by accident. The first was the father of Raoul Davernoie, Commandant Georges Davernoie, the second Maxime d'Estreicher, the last Jean d'Argonne. All four of us were distant cousins, all four on leave or recovering from wounds. And so it came about that in the course of our interviews, that we learnt, to our great surprise, that the same legend had been handed down in each of our four families. Like their fathers and their grandfathers Georges Davernoie, d'Estreicher, and Jean d'Argonne were awaiting the fabulous fortune which was promised them and which was to settle the debts which this conviction had led them on to contract. Moreover, the same ignorance prevailed among the four cousins. No proof, no indication----" After a fresh pause intended to lead up to an impressive effect, the Count continued: "But yes, one indication, however: Jean d'Argonne remembered a gold medal the importance of which his father had formerly impressed on him. His father died a few days later from an accident in the hunting-field without having told him anything more. But Jean d'Argonne declared that this medal bore on it an inscription, and that one of these words, he did not recall it at once, was this word Roborey, on which all our hopes are undoubtedly concentrated. He informed us then of his intention of ransacking the twenty trunks or so, which he had been able in August, 1914, to bring away from his country seat before its imminent pillage, and to store in a shed at Bar-le-Duc. But before he went, since we were all men of honor, exposed to the risks of war, we all four took a solemn oath that all our discoveries relative to the famous treasure, should be common property. Henceforth and forever, the treasure, should Providence decide to grant it to us, belonged to all the four; and Jean d'Argonne, whose leave expired, left us." "It was at the end of 1915, wasn't it?" asked Dorothy. "We passed a week together, the happiest week of my life. I was never to see him again." "It was indeed towards the end of 1915," the Count agreed. "A month later Jean d'Argonne, wounded in the North, was sent into hospital at Chartres, from which he wrote to us a long letter ... never finished." The Countess de Chagny made a sudden movement. She appeared to disapprove of what her husband had said. "Yes, yes, I will lay that letter before you," said the Count firmly. "Perhaps you're right," murmured the Countess. "Nevertheless----" "What are you afraid of, madame?" said Dorothy. "I am afraid of our causing you pain to no purpose, Dorothy. The end of it will reveal to you very painful things." "But it is our duty to communicate it to her," said the Count in a peremptory tone. And he drew from his pocket-book a letter stamped with the Red Cross and unfolded it. Dorothy felt her heart flutter with a sudden oppression. She recognized her father's handwriting. The Countess squeezed her hand. She saw that Raoul Davernoie was regarding her with an air of compassion; and with an anxious face, trying less to understand the sentences she heard than to guess the end of this letter, she listened to it. "My dear Octave, "I will first of all set your mind at rest about my wound. It is a mere nothing, no complications to be afraid of. At the most a little fever at night, which bothers the major; but all that will pass. We will say no more about it, but come straight to my journey to Bar-le-Duc. "Octave, I may tell you without any beating about the bush that it has not been useless, and that after a patient search I ended by ferreting out from among a pile of boots and that conglomeration of useless objects which one brings away with one when one bolts, the precious medal. At the end of my convalescence when I come to Paris I will show it to you. But in the meantime, while keeping secret the indications engraved on the face of the medal, I may tell you that on the reverse are engraved these three Latin words: '_In Robore Fortuna_.' Three words which may be thus translated: 'Fortune is in the firm heart,' but which, in view of the presence of this word 'Robore' and in spite of the difference in the spelling, doubtless point to the Château de Roborey as the place in which the fortune, of which our family legends tell will consequently be hidden. "Have we not here, my dear Octave, a step forward on our path towards the truth? We shall do better still. And perhaps we shall be helped in the matter, in the most unexpected fashion, by an extremely nice young person, with whom I have just passed several days which have charmed me--I mean my dear little Yolande. "You know, my dear friend, that I have very often regretted not having been the father I should like to have been. My love for Yolande's mother, my grief at her death, my life of wandering during the years which followed it, all kept me far away from the modest farm which you call my country seat, and which, I am sure, is no longer anything but a heap of ruins. "During that time, Yolande was living in the care of the people who farmed my land, bringing herself up, getting her education from the village priest, or the schoolmaster, and above all from Nature, loving the animals, cultivating her flowers, light-hearted and uncommonly thoughtful. "Several times, during my visits to Argonne, her common sense and intelligence astonished me. On this occasion I found her, in the field-hospital of Bar-le-Duc, in which she has, on her own initiative, established herself as an assistant-nurse, a young girl. Barely fifteen, you cannot imagine the ascendancy she exercises over everyone about her. She decides matters like a grown person and she makes those decisions according to her own judgment. She has an accurate insight into reality, not merely into appearances but into that which lies below appearances. "'You do see clearly,' I said to her. 'You have the eyes of a cat which moves, quite at its ease, through the darkness.' "My dear Octave, when the war is finished, I shall bring Yolande to you; and I assure you that, along with our friends, we shall succeed in our enterprise----" The Count stopped. Dorothy smiled sadly, deeply touched by the tenderness and admiration which this letter so clearly displayed. She asked: "That isn't all, is it?" "The letter itself ends there," said the Count. "Dated the 16th of January, it was not posted till the 20th. I did not receive it, for various reasons, till three weeks later. And I learnt later that on the 15th of January Jean d'Argonne had a more violent attack of fever, of that fever which baffled the surgeon-major and which indicated a sudden infection of the wound of which your father died ... or at least----" "Or at least?" asked the young girl. "Or at least which was officially stated to be the cause of his death," said the Count in a lower voice. "What's that you say? What's that you say?" cried Dorothy. "My father did not die of his wound?" "It is not certain," the Count suggested. "But then what did he die of? What do you suggest? What do you suppose?" CHAPTER V "WE WILL HELP YOU" The Count was silent. Dorothy murmured fearfully, full of the dread with which the utterance of certain words inspired one: "Is it possible? Can they have murdered.... Can they have murdered my father?" "Everything leads one to believe it." "And how?" "Poison." The blow had fallen. The young girl burst into tears. The Count bent over her and said: "Read it. For my part, I am of the opinion that your father scribbled these last pages between two attacks of fever. When he was dead, the hospital authorities finding a letter and an envelope all ready for the post, sent it all on to me without examining it. Look at the end.... It is the writing of a very sick man.... The pencil moves at random directed by an effort of will which was every moment growing weaker." Dorothy dried her tears. She wished to know and judge for herself, and she read in a low voice: "What a dream!... But was it really a dream?... What I saw last night, did I see it in a nightmare? Or did I actually see it?... The rest of the wounded men ... my neighbors ... not one of them was awakened. Yet the man ... the men made a noise.... There were two of them. They were talking in a low voice ... in the garden ... under a window ... which was certainly open on account of the heat.... And then the window was pushed.... To do that one of the two must have climbed on to the shoulders of the other. What did he want? He tried to pass his arm through.... But the window caught against the table by the side of the bed.... And then he must have slipped off his jacket.... In spite of that his sleeve must have caught in the window and only his arm ... his bare arm, came through ... preceded by a hand which groped in my direction ... in the direction of the drawer.... Then I understood.... The medal was in the drawer.... Ah, how I wanted to cry out! But my throat was cramped.... Then another thing terrified me. The hand held a small bottle.... There was on the table a glass of water, for me to drink with a dose of my medicine.... The hand poured several drops from the bottle into the glass. Horror!... Poison beyond a doubt!... But I will not drink my medicine--no, no!... And I write this, this morning, to make sure of being able to recall it.... I write that the hand afterwards opened the drawer.... And while it was seizing the medal ... I saw ... I saw on the naked arm ... above the elbow ... words written----" Dorothy had to bend lower so shaky and illegible did the writing become; and it was with great difficulty that she was able, syllable by syllable, to decipher it: "Three words written ... tattooed ... as sailors do ... three words ... Good God! ... these three words! The words on the medal!... _In robore fortuna!_" That was all. The unfinished sheet showed nothing more but undecipherable characters, which Dorothy did not even try to make out. For a long while she sat with bowed head, the tears falling from her half-closed eyes. They perceived that the circumstances in which, in all likelihood, her father had died, had brought back all her grief. The Count, however, continued: "The fever must have returned ... the delirium ... and not knowing what he was doing, he must have drunk the poison. Or, at any rate, it is a plausible hypothesis ... for what else could it have been that this hand poured into the glass? But I confess that we have not arrived at any certainty in the matter. D'Estreicher and Raoul's father, at once apprized by me of what had happened, accompanied me to Chartres. Unfortunately, the staff, the surgeon-major and the two nurses had been changed, so that I was brought up short against the official document which ascribed the death to infectious complications. Moreover, ought we to have made further researches? My two cousins were not of that opinion, neither was I? A crime?... How to prove it? By means of these lines in which a sick man describe a nightmare which has ridden him? Impossible. Isn't that your opinion, mademoiselle?" Dorothy did not answer; and it put the Count rather out of countenance. He seemed to defend himself--not without a touch of temper: "But we could not, Mademoiselle! Owing to the war, we ran against endless difficulties. It was impossible! We had to cling to the one fact which we had actually learned and not venture beyond this actual fact which I will state in these terms: In addition to us four, to us three rather, since Jean d'Argonne, alas! was no more, there was a fourth person attacking the problem which we had set ourselves to solve; and that person, moreover, had a considerable advantage over us. A rival, an enemy had arisen, capable of the most infamous actions to attain his end. What enemy? "Events did not allow us to busy ourselves with this affair, and what is more, prevented us from finding you as we should have wished. Two letters that I wrote to you at Bar-le-Duc remained unanswered. Months passed. Georges Davernoie was killed at Verdun, d'Estreicher wounded in Artois, and I myself despatched on a mission to Salonica from which I did not return till after the Armistice. In the following year the work here was begun. The house-warming took place yesterday, and only to-day does chance bring you here. "You can understand, Mademoiselle, how amazed we were when we learned, step by step, first that excavations were being made without our knowing anything about it, that the places in which they had been made were explained by the word Fortuna, which bore out exactly the inscription which your father had read twice, on the gold medal and on the arm which stole the gold medal from him. Our confidence in your extraordinary clearsightedness became such that Madame de Chagny and Raoul Davernoie wished you to be informed of the complete history of the affair; and I must admit that the Countess de Chagny displayed remarkable intuition and judgment since the confidence we felt in you was really placed in that Yolande d'Argonne whom her father recommended to us. It is then but natural, mademoiselle, that we should invite you to collaborate with us in our attempt. You take the place of Jean d'Argonne, as Raoul Davernoie has taken the place of Georges Davernoie. Our partnership is unbroken." A shadow rested on the satisfaction that the Count de Chagny was feeling in his eloquence and magnanimous proposal. Dorothy maintained an obstinate silence. Her eyes gazed vacantly before her. She did not stir. Was she thinking that the Count had not taken much trouble to discover the daughter of his kinsman Jean d'Argonne and to rescue her from the life she was leading? Was she still feeling some resentment on account of the humiliation she had suffered in being accused of stealing the earrings? The Countess de Chagny questioned her gently: "What's the matter, Dorothy? This letter has filled you with gloom. It's the death of your father, isn't it?" "Yes," said Dorothy after a pause in a dull voice. "It's a terrible business." "You also believe that they murdered him?" "Certainly. If not, the medal would have been found. Besides, the last sheets of the letter are explicit." "And it's your feeling that we ought to have striven to bring the murderer to book?" "I don't know ... I don't know," said the young girl slowly. "But if you think so, we can take the matter up again. You may be sure that we will lend you our assistance." "No," she said. "I will act alone. It will be best. I will discover the guilty man; and he shall be punished. I promise my father he shall. I swear it." She uttered these words with measured gravity, raising her hand a little. "We will help you, Dorothy," declared the Countess. "For I hope that you won't leave us.... Here you are at home." Dorothy shook her head. "You are too kind, madame." "It isn't kindness: it's affection. You won my heart at first sight, and I beg you to be my friend." "I am, madame--wholly your friend. But----" "What? You refuse?" exclaimed the Count de Chagny in a tone of vexation. "We offer the daughter of Jean d'Argonne, our cousin, a life befitting her name and birth and you prefer to go back to that wretched existence!" "It is not wretched, I assure you, monsieur. My four children and I are used to it. Their health demands it." The Countess insisted: "But we can't allow it--really! You're going to stay with us at least some days; and from this evening you will dine and sleep at the château." "I beg you to excuse me, madame. I'm rather tired.... I want to be alone." In truth she appeared of a sudden to be worn out with fatigue. One would never have supposed that a smile could animate that drawn, dejected face. The Countess de Chagny insisted no longer. "Ah well, postpone your decision till to-morrow. Send your four children to dinner this evening. It will give us great pleasure to question them.... Between now and to-morrow you can think it over, and if you persist, I'll let you go your way. You'll agree to that, won't you?" Dorothy rose and went towards the door. The Count and Countess went with her. But on the threshold she paused for a moment. In spite of her grief, the mysterious adventure which had during the last hour or two been revealed to her continued to exercise her mind, without, so to speak, her being aware of it; and throwing the first ray of light into the darkness, she asserted: "I really believe that all the legends that have been handed down in our families are based on a reality. There must be somewhere about here buried, or hidden, treasure; and that treasure one of these days will become the property of him, or of those who shall be the possessors of the talisman--that is to say, of the gold medal which was stolen from my father. That's why I should like to know whether any of you, besides my father, has ever heard of a gold medal being mentioned in these legends." It was Raoul Davernoie who answered: "That's a point on which I can give you some information, mademoiselle. A fortnight ago I saw in the hands of my grandfather, with whom I live at Hillocks Manor in Vendée, a large gold coin. He was studying it; and he put it back in its case at once with the evident intention of hiding it from me." "And he didn't tell you anything about it?" "Not a word. However, on the eve of my departure he said to me: 'When you come back I've an important revelation to make to you. I ought to have made it long ago.'" "You believe that he was referring to the matter in hand?" "I do. And for that reason on my arrival at Roborey I informed my cousins, de Chagny and d'Estreicher, who promised to pay me a visit at the end of July when I will inform them of what I have learned." "That's all?" "All, mademoiselle; and it appears to me to confirm your hypothesis. We have here a talisman of which there are doubtless several copies." "Yes ... yes ... there's no doubt about it," murmured the young girl. "And the death of my father is explained by the fact that he was the possessor of this talisman." "But," objected Raoul Davernoie, "was it not enough to steal it from him? Why this useless crime?" "Because, remember, the gold medal gives certain indications. In getting rid of my father they reduced the number of those who, in perhaps the near future, will be called upon to share these riches. Who knows whether other crimes have not been committed?" "Other crimes? In that case my grandfather is in danger." "He is," she said simply. The Count became uneasy and, pretending to laugh, he said: "Then we also are in danger, mademoiselle, since there are signs of recent excavation about Roborey." "You also, Count." "We ought then to be on our guard." "I advise you to." The Count de Chagny turned pale and said in a shaky voice: "How? What measures should we take?" "I will tell you to-morrow," said Dorothy. "You shall know to-morrow what you have to fear and what measures you ought to take to defend yourselves." "You promise that?" "I promise it." D'Estreicher, who had followed with close attention every phase of the conversation, without taking part in it, stepped forward: "We make all the more point of this meeting to-morrow, mademoiselle, because we still have to solve together a little additional problem, the problem of the card-board box. You haven't forgotten it?" "I forget nothing, monsieur," she said. "To-morrow, at the hour fixed, that little matter and other matters, the theft of the sapphire earrings among other things, shall be made clear." She went out of the orangery. * * * * * The night was falling. The gates had been re-opened; and the showmen, having dismantled their shows, were departing. Dorothy found Saint-Quentin waiting for her in great anxiety and the three children lighting a fire. When the dinner-bell rang, she sent them to the château and remained alone to make her meal of the thick soup and some fruit. In the evening, while waiting for them, she strolled through the night towards the parapet which looked down on to the ravine and rested her elbows on it. The moon was not visible, but the veil of light clouds, which floated across the heavens, were imbued with its light. For a long while she was conscious of the deep silence, and, bare-headed, she presented her burning brow to the fresh evening airs which ruffled her hair. "Dorothy...." Her name had been spoken in a low voice by some one who had drawn near her without her hearing him. But the sound of his voice, low as it was, made her tremble. Even before recognizing the outline of d'Estreicher she divined his presence. Had the parapet been lower and the ravine less profound she might have essayed flight, such dread did this man inspire in her. However, she braced herself to keep calm and master him. "What do you want, monsieur," she said coldly. "The Count and Countess had the delicacy to respect my desire to keep quiet. I'm surprised to see you here." He did not answer, but she discerned his dark shape nearer and repeated: "What do you want?" "I only want to say a few words to you," he murmured. "To-morrow--at the château will be soon enough." "No; what I have to say can only be heard by you and me; and I can assure you, mademoiselle, that you can listen to it without being offended. In spite of the incomprehensible hostility that you have displayed towards me from the moment we met, I feel, for my part, nothing but friendliness, admiration, and the greatest respect for you. You need fear neither my words nor my actions. I am not addressing myself to the charming and attractive young girl, but to the woman who, all this afternoon, has dumfounded us by her intelligence. Now, listen to me----" "No," she broke in. "I will not. Your proposals can only be insulting." He went on, in a louder voice; and she could feel that gentleness and respectfulness did not come easy to him; he went on: "Listen to me. I order you to listen to me ... and to answer at once. I'm no maker of phrases and I'll come straight to the point, rather crudely if I must, at the risk of shocking you. Here it is: Chance has in a trice thrown you into an affair which I have every right to consider my business and no one else's. We are stuck with supernumeraries, of whom, when the time comes, I do not mean to take the slightest account. All these people are imbeciles who will never get anywhere. Chagny is a conceited ass.... Davernoie a country bumpkin ... so much dead weight that we've got to lug about with us, you and I. Then why work for them?... Let's work for ourselves, for the two of us. Will you? You and I partners, friends, what a job we should make of it! My energy and strength at the service of your intelligence and clearsightedness! Besides ... besides, consider all I know! For I, I know the problem! What will take you weeks to discover, what, I'm certain, you'll never discover, I have at my fingers' ends. I know all the factors in the problem except one or two which I shall end by adding to them. Help me. Let us search together. It means a fortune, the discovery of fabulous wealth, boundless power.... Will you?" He bent a little too far over the young girl; and his fingers brushed the cloak she was wearing. Dorothy, who had listened in silence in order to learn the inmost thoughts of her adversary, started back indignantly at his touch. "Be off!... Leave me alone!... I forbid you to touch me!... You a friend?... You? You?" The repulsion with which he inspired Dorothy set him beside himself, and foaming with rage, he cried furiously: "So.... So ... you refuse? You refuse, in spite of the secret I have surprised, in spite of what I can do ... and what I'm going to do.... For the stolen earrings: it is not merely a matter of Saint-Quentin. You were there, in the ravine, to watch over his expedition. And what is more, as his accomplice, you protected him. And the proof exists, terrible, irrefutable. The box is in the hands of the Countess. And you dare? You! A thief!" He made a grab at her. Dorothy ducked and slipped along the parapet. But he was able to grip her wrists, and he was dragging her towards him, when of a sudden he let go of her, struck by a ray of light which blinded him. Perched on the parapet Montfaucon had switched full on his face the clear light of an electric torch. D'Estreicher took himself off. The ray followed him, cleverly guided. "Dirty little brat!" he growled. "I'll get you.... And you too, young woman! If to-morrow, at two o'clock, at the château, you do not come to heel, the box will be opened in the presence of the police. It's for you to choose." He disappeared in the shrubbery. * * * * * Toward three o'clock in the morning, the trap, which looked down on the box from the interior of the caravan, was opened, as it had been opened the morning before. A hand reached out and shook Saint-Quentin, who was sleeping under his rugs. "Get up. Dress yourself. No noise." He protested. "Dorothy, what you wish to do is absurd." "Do as you're told." Saint-Quentin obeyed. Outside the caravan he found Dorothy, quite ready. By the light of the moon he saw that she was carrying a canvas bag, slung on a band running over her shoulder, and a coil of rope. She led him to the spot at which the parapet touched the entrance gates. They fastened the rope to one of the bars and slid down it. Then Saint-Quentin climbed up to the parapet and unfastened the rope. They went down the slope into the ravine and along the foot of the cliff to the fissure up which Saint-Quentin had climbed the night before. "Let us climb up," said Dorothy. "You will let down the rope and help me to ascend." The ascent was not very difficult. The window of the pantry was open. They climbed in through it and Dorothy lit her bull's-eye lantern. "Take that little ladder in the corner," she said. But Saint-Quentin started to reason with her afresh: "It's absurd. It's madness. We are running into the lion's maw." "Get on!" "But indeed, Dorothy." He got a thump in the ribs. "Stop it! And answer me," she snapped. "You're sure that d'Estreicher's is the last bedroom in the left-hand passage." "Certain. As you told me to, I questioned the servants without seeming to do so, after dinner last night." "And you dropped the powder I gave you into his cup of coffee?" "Yes." "Then he's sleeping like a log; and we can go straight to him. Not another word!" On their way they stopped at a door. It was the dressing-room adjoining the boudoir of the Countess. Saint-Quentin set his ladder against it and climbed through the transom. Three minutes later he came back. "Did you find the card-board box?" Dorothy asked. "Yes. I found it on the table, took the earrings out of it, and put the box back in its place with the rubber ring round it." They went on down the passage. Each bedroom had a dressing-room and a closet which served as wardrobe attached to it. They stopped before the last transom; Saint-Quentin climbed through it and opened the door of the dressing-room for Dorothy. There was a door between the dressing-room and the bedroom. Dorothy opened it an inch and let a ray from her lantern fall on the bed. "He's asleep," she whispered. She drew a large handkerchief from her bag, uncorked a small bottle of chloroform and poured some drops on the handkerchief. Across the bed, in his clothes, like a man suddenly overcome by sleep, d'Estreicher was sleeping so deeply that the young girl switched on the electric light. Then very gently she placed the chloroformed handkerchief over his face. The man sighed, writhed, and was still. Very cautiously Dorothy and Saint-Quentin passed two slip-knots in a rope over both of his arms and tied the two ends of it round the iron uprights of the bed. Then quickly without bothering about him they wrapped the bedclothes round his body and legs, and tied them round him with the table-cloth and curtain-cords. Then d'Estreicher did awake. He tried to defend himself--too late. He called out. Dorothy gagged him with a napkin. * * * * * Next morning the Count and Countess de Chagny were taking their coffee with Raoul Davernoie in the big dining-room of the château when the porter came to inform them that at daybreak the directress of Dorothy's Circus had asked him to open the gates and that the caravan had departed. The directress had left a letter addressed to the Count de Chagny. All three of them went upstairs to the Countess's boudoir. The letter ran as follows: "My cousin"--offended by her brusqueness, the Count started--then he went on: "My cousin: I took an oath, and I keep it. The man who was making excavations round the château and last night stole the earrings, is the same person who five years ago stole the medal and poisoned my father. "I hand him over to you. Let justice take its course. "DOROTHY, PRINCESS OF ARGONNE." The Count and Countess and their cousin gazed at one another in amazement. What did it mean? Who was the culprit. How and where had she handed him over? "It's a pity that d'Estreicher isn't down," said the Count. "He is so helpful." The Countess took up the card-board box which d'Estreicher had entrusted to her and opened it without more ado. The box contained exactly what Dorothy had told them, some white pebbles and shells. Then why did d'Estreicher seem to attach so much importance to his finding it? Some one knocked gently at the boudoir door. It was the major-domo, the Count's confidential man. "What is it, Dominique?" "The château was broken into last night." "Impossible!" the Count declared in a positive tone. "The doors were all locked. Where did they break in?" "I don't know. But I've found a ladder against the wall by Monsieur d'Estreicher's bedroom; and the transom is broken. The criminals made their way into the dressing-room and when they had done the job, came out through the bedroom door." "What job?" "I don't know, sir. I didn't like to go further into the matter by myself. I put everything back in its place." The Count de Chagny drew a hundred-franc note from his pocket. "Not a word of this, Dominique. Watch the corridor and see that no one disturbs us." Raoul and his wife followed him. The door between d'Estreicher's dressing-room and bedroom was half open. The smell of chloroform filled the room. The Count uttered a cry. On his bed lay d'Estreicher gagged and safely bound to it. His eyes were rolling wildly. He was groaning. Beside him lay the muffler which Dorothy had described as belonging to the man who was engaged in making excavations. On the table, well in sight, lay the sapphire earrings. But a terrifying, overwhelming sight met the eyes of all three of them simultaneously--the irrefutable proof of the murder of Jean d'Argonne and the theft of the medal. His right arm, bare, was stretched out across the bed, fastened by the wrist. And on that arm they read, tattooed: _In robore fortuna._ CHAPTER VI ON THE ROAD Every day, at the easy walk or slack trot of One-eyed Magpie, Dorothy's Circus moved on. In the afternoon they gave their performance; after it they strolled about those old towns of France, the picturesque charm of which appealed so strongly to the young girl. Domfront, Mortain, Avranches, Fougères, Vitré, feudal cities, girdled in places by their fortifications, or bristling with their ancient keeps.... Dorothy visited them with all the emotion of a creature who understands the past and evokes it with a passionate enthusiasm. She visited them alone, even as she walked alone along the high roads, with so manifest a desire to keep to herself that the others, while watching her with anxious eyes and silently begging for a glance from their little mother, did not speak a word to her. That lasted a week, a very dull week for the children. The pale Saint-Quentin walked at the head of One-eyed Magpie as he would have walked at the head of a horse drawing a hearse. Castor and Pollux fought no longer. As for the captain he buried himself in the perusal of his lesson-books and wore himself out over addition and subtraction, knowing that Dorothy, the school-mistress of the troupe, as a rule deeply appreciated these fits of industry. His efforts were vain. Dorothy was thinking of something else. Every morning, at the first village they went through, she bought a newspaper, looked through it and crumpled it up with a movement of irritation, as if she had failed to find what she was looking for. Saint-Quentin at once picked it up and in his turn ran his eye through it. Nothing. Nothing about the crime of which she had informed him in a few words. Nothing about the arrest of that infamous d'Estreicher whom the two of them had trussed up on his bed. At last on the eighth day, as the sun shines after unceasing rain, the smile appeared. It did not spring from any outside cause. It was that life recovered its grip on her. Dorothy's spirit was throwing off the distant tragedy in which her father lost his life. She became the light-hearted, cheerful, and affectionate Dorothy of old. Castor, Pollux, and the captain were smothered with kisses. Saint-Quentin was thumped and shaken warmly by the hand. At the performance they gave under the ramparts of Vitré she displayed an astonishing energy and gayety. And when the audience had departed, she hustled off her four comrades on one of those mad rounds which were for them the most exquisite of treats. Saint-Quentin wept with joy: "I thought you didn't love us any more," he said. "Why shouldn't I love my four brats any more?" "Because you're a princess." "Wasn't I a princess before, idiot?" In taking them through the narrow streets of old Vitré, amid the huddle of wooden houses, roofed with rough tiles, by fits and starts she told them for the first time about her early years. She had always been happy, never having known shackles, boredom, or discipline, things which cramp the free instincts and deform the disposition. Not that she had been a rebel. She was quite ready to submit to rules and obligations, but she had had to choose them herself; they had had to be such that her child's reason, already very clear and direct, could accept them as just and necessary. It had been the same with the education she had given herself: she had only learnt from others that which it had pleased her to know, extracting from the village priest at Argonne all the Latin he knew, and letting him keep his catechism to himself; learning many things with the schoolmaster, many others from the books she borrowed, and very many more from the old couple who farmed her father's land, in whose charge her parents had left her. "I owe most to those two," she said. "But for them I should not know what a bird is, or a plant, or a tree--the meaning of real things." "It wasn't them, however, who taught you to dance on a tight rope and manage a circus," said Saint-Quentin, chaffing her. "I've always danced on the tight rope. Some people are born poets. I was born a rope-dancer. Dancing is part of me. I get that from my mother who was by no means a theatrical star, but simply a fine little dancer, a dancing-girl of the music-halls and the English circus. I see her still. She was adorable; she could never keep still; and she loved stuffs of gorgeous colors ... and beautiful jewels even more." "Like you," said Saint-Quentin in a low voice. "Like me," she said. "Yes: I take an extravagant pleasure in handling them and looking at them. I love things that shine. All these stones throw out flames which dazzle me. I should like to be very rich in order to have very fine ones that I should wear always--on my fingers and round my neck." "And since you will never be rich?" "Then I shall do without them." For all that she had been brought up anyhow, deprived of mentors and good advice, having only before her eyes as example the frivolous life her parents led, she had acquired strong moral principles, always maintained a considerable natural dignity, and remained untroubled by the reproaches of conscience. That which is evil is evil--no traffic in it. "One is happy," she said, "when one is in perfect agreement with good people. I am a good girl. If one lets one's self be guilty of a doubtful action, one repeats it without knowing it and one ends by yielding to temptation as one picks flowers and fruit over the hedge by the roadside." Dorothy did not pick flowers and fruit over the hedge. For a long while she went on telling them all about herself. Saint-Quentin listened open-mouthed. "Goodness! Wherever did you learn all that? You're always surprising me, Dorothy. And then how do you guess what you do guess? Guess what is passing in people's minds? The other day at Roborey, I didn't understand what was going on, not a scrap of it." "Ah, that's quite another matter. It's a need to combine, to organize, to command, a need to undertake and to succeed. When I was a child I gathered together all the urchins in the village and formed bands. I was always the chief of the band. Only the others used to rob the farm-yards and kitchen-gardens, and go poaching. With me, it was quite the opposite. We used to form a league against an evil-doer and hunt for the sheep or duck stolen from an old woman, or again we exercised our wits in making inquiries. Oh those inquiries! They were my strong point. Before the police could be informed, I would unravel an affair in such a way that the country people roundabout came to consult the little girl of thirteen or fourteen that I was. 'A perfect little witch,' they used to say. Goodness, no! You know as well as I, Saint-Quentin, if I sometimes play the clairvoyant or tell fortunes by cards, everything I tell people I arrive at from facts which I observe and interpret. And I also arrive at those facts, I must admit, by a kind of intuition which shows me things under an aspect which does not at once appear to other people. Yes, very often I see, before comprehending. Then, most complicated affairs appear to me, at the first glance, very simple, and I am always astonished that no one has picked out such and such a detail which contains in it the whole of the truth." Saint-Quentin, convinced, reflected. He threw back his head: "That's it! That's it! Nothing escapes you; you think of everything. And that's how it came about that the earrings, instead of having been stolen by Saint-Quentin, were stolen by d'Estreicher. And it is d'Estreicher and not Saint-Quentin who will go to prison because you willed it so." She began to laugh: "Perhaps I did will it so. But Justice shows no sign of submitting to my will. The newspapers do not speak of anything happening. There is no mention of the drama of Roborey." "Then what has become of that scoundrel?" "I don't know." "And won't you be able to learn?" "Yes," she said confidently. "How?" "From Raoul Davernoie." "You're going to see him then?" "I've written to him." "Where to?" "At Roborey." "He answered you." "Yes--a telegram which I went to the Post Office to find before the performance." "And he's going to meet us?" "Yes. On leaving Roborey and returning home, he is to meet us at Vitré at about three o'clock. It's three now." They had climbed up to a point in the city from which one had a view of a road which wound in and out among meadows and woods. "There," she said. "His car ought not to be long coming into sight. That's his road." "You really believe----" "I really believe that that excellent young fellow will not miss an opportunity of seeing me again," she said, smiling. Saint-Quentin, always rather jealous and easily upset, sighed: "All the people you talk to are like that, obliging and full of attention." They waited several minutes. A car came into sight between two hedges. They went forward and so came close to the caravan round which the three urchins were playing. Presently the car came up the ascent and emerged from a turning, driven by Raoul Davernoie. Running to meet him and preventing him by a gesture from getting out of the car, Dorothy called out to him: "Well, what has happened? Arrested?" "Who? D'Estreicher?" said Raoul, a little taken aback by this greeting. "D'Estreicher of course.... He has been handed over to the police, hasn't he? He's under lock and key?" "No." "Why not?" "He escaped." The answer gave her a shock. "D'Estreicher free!... Free to act!... It's frightful!" And under her breath she muttered: "Good heavens! Why--why didn't I stay? I should have prevented this escape." But repining was of no avail and Dorothy was not the girl to waste much time on it. Without further delay she began to question the young man. "Why did you stay on at the château?" "To be exact--because of d'Estreicher." "Granted. But an hour after his escape you ought to have started for home." "For what reason?" "Your grandfather.... I warned you at Roborey." Raoul Davernoie protested: "First of all I have written to him to be on his guard for reasons which I would explain to him. And then, as a matter of fact, the risk that he runs is a trifle problematical." "In what way? He is the possessor of that indispensable key to the treasure, the gold medal. D'Estreicher knows it. And you do not believe in his danger." "But this key to the treasure, d'Estreicher also possesses it, since on the day he murdered your father, he stole the gold medal from him." Dorothy stood beside the door of the car, her hand on the handle to prevent Raoul from opening it. "Start at once, I beg you. I certainly don't understand the whole of the affair. Is d'Estreicher, who already is the possessor of the medal, going to try to steal a second? Has the one he stole from my father been stolen from him by an accomplice? As yet I don't know anything about it. But I am certain that from now on the real ground of the struggle is younder, at your home. I'm so sure of it that I'm going there myself as well. Look: here is my road-map. Hillocks Manor near Clisson--still nearly a hundred miles to go--eight stages for the caravan. Be off; you will get there to-night. I shall be there in eight days." Dominated by her, he gave way. "Perhaps you're right. I ought to have thought of all this myself--especially since my father will be alone to-night." "Alone?" "Yes. All the servants are keeping holiday. One of them is getting married at a neighboring village." She started. "Does d'Estreicher know?" "I think so. I fancy I spoke of this fête before him, during my stay at Roborey." "And when did he escape?" "The day before yesterday." "So since the day before yesterday----" She did not finish the sentence. She ran to the caravan, up the steps, into it. Almost on the instant she came out of it with a small suit-case and a cloak. "I'm off," she said. "I'm coming with you. There isn't a moment to be lost!" She cranked up the engine herself, giving her orders the while: "I give the car and the three children into your charge, Saint-Quentin. Follow the red line I have drawn on the map. Double stages--no performances. You can be there in five days." She took the seat beside Davernoie. The car was already starting when she caught up the captain who was stretching out his hands to her. She dropped him among the portmanteaux and bags in the tonneau. "There--keep quiet. Au revoir, Saint-Quentin, Castor and Pollux--no fighting!" She waved good-bye to them. The whole scene had not lasted three minutes. Raoul Davernoie's car was by way of being an old, old model. Therefore its pace was but moderate, and Raoul, delighted to be taking with him this charming creature, who was also his cousin, and his relations with whom, thanks to what had happened, were uncommonly intimate, was able to relate in detail what had taken place, the manner of their finding d'Estreicher, and the incidents of his captivity. "What saved him," said he, "was a rather deep wound he had made in his head by striking it against the iron bed-head in his efforts to rid himself of his bonds. He lost a lot of blood. Fever declared itself; and my cousin de Chagny--you must have noticed that he is of a timid disposition--at once said to us: "'That gives us time.'" "Time for what?" I asked him. "'Time to think things over. You understand clearly enough that all this is going to give rise to an unheard-of scandal, and one which, for the honor of our families, we might perhaps be able to avoid.'" "I opposed any delay. I wanted them to telephone at once to the police. But de Chagny was in his own house, you know. And the days passed waiting for him to come to a decision which he could not bring himself to make. They had told the servants that d'Estreicher was ill. Only the major-domo was in our confidence, brought him his food, and kept guard over him. Besides, the prisoner seemed so feeble. You would have declared that he had no strength left. How was one to distrust so sick a man?" Dorothy asked: "But what explanation of his conduct did he give?" "None, because we didn't question him." "Didn't he speak of me? Didn't he make any accusations against me?" "No. He went on playing the part of a sick man, prostrated by pain and fever. During this time de Chagny wrote to Paris for information about him, for after all, his relations with his cousin only went back as far as 1915. "Three days ago we received a telegram which said: "'_A very dangerous man. Wanted by the police. Letters follows._' "At once de Chagny came to a decision and the day before yesterday, in the morning, he telephoned to the police. When the inspector arrived, he was too late. D'Estreicher had fled." "Doubtless through the window of a pantry which looks down on the ravine?" said Dorothy. "Yes, and down a fissure in the face of the cliff. How did you know?" "It was the way Saint-Quentin and I took to get at d'Estreicher." And forthwith, cutting short any questions, she added: "Well, what was the information you got about him?" "Extremely serious. Antoine d'Estreicher, formerly a naval officer, was dismissed the service for theft. Later, prosecuted for being an accomplice in a case of murder, he was released for lack of evidence. At the beginning of the war he deserted. Evidence of it has come to hand and a fortnight ago an inquiry into the matter was begun. During the war he borrowed the personality of one of his relations, who had been dead some years; and it is actually under his new name of Maxime d'Estreicher that the police are hunting for him." "What a pity! A scoundrel like that! To have him in one's hands and let him go!" "We will find him again." "Yes: always providing that it isn't too late." Raoul quickened their pace. They were going at a fair rate, running through the villages without slackening their pace and bumping over the cobbles of the towns. The night was beginning to fall when they reached Nantes, where they had to stop to buy petrol. "Still an hour's journey," said Raoul. On the way she made him explain to her the exact topography of Hillocks Manor, the direction of the road which ran through the orchard to the house, the position of the hall and staircase. Moreover, he had to give her full information about his grandfather's habits, about the old man's age (he was seventy-five), and his dog Goliath--a huge beast, terrible to look at, with a terrific bark, but quite harmless and incapable of defending his master. At the big market-town of Clisson, they entered La Vendée. When they had nearly reached the Manor Raoul would have liked to make a detour through the village where they would find the servants. They could take with them a couple of farm-laborers. Dorothy would not hear of it. "But, after all," he exclaimed, "what are you afraid of?" "Everything," she replied. "From that man--everything. We have no right to lose a minute." They left the main road and turned down a lane which was more like a deep-rutted cart-track. "There it is, over yonder," he said. "There is a light in the window of his room." Almost at once he stopped the car and jumped out of it. A turreted gateway, relic of a far-removed epoch, rose in the high wall which encircled the estate. The gate was shut. While Raoul was engaged in opening it, they heard, dominating the dull noise of the engine, the barking of a dog. From the clearness of the sound and the direction from which it came Raoul declared that Goliath was not inside the Manor, but outside it, at the foot of the steps, also that he was barking in front of a shut-up house. "Well, are you never going to open that gate?" cried Dorothy. He came back hurriedly to her. "It's very disquieting. Some one has shot the bolt and turned the key in the lock." "Don't they always?" "Never. Some stranger has done it.... And then you hear that barking." "Well?" "There's another gate two hundred yards further on." "And suppose that's locked too. No: we must act at once." She moved to the steering-wheel and drove the car close under the wall a little higher up, to the right of the gateway. Then she piled the four cushions on the seat and stood on the top of them. "Montfaucon!" she called. The Captain understood. In half-a-dozen movements he climbed up Dorothy's back and stood upright on her shoulders. With that advantage his hands touched the top of the wall. Clinging to it, with Dorothy's help, he pulled himself up. When he was astride it, Raoul threw a rope to him. He tied one end round his waist, Dorothy held the other. In a few seconds the child touched the ground on the other side of the wall, and Raoul had barely got back to the gate before the key grated in the lock and the bolts were drawn. Raoul did not get back to the car. He dashed across the orchard, followed by Dorothy and the Captain. As she ran she said to the child: "Go round the house and if you see a ladder against it, pull it down!" As they expected, they found Goliath on the steps scratching at the closed door. They made him stop barking and in the silence they heard above them outcries and the sound of a struggle. Instantly, to frighten the assailant, Raoul fired off his revolver. Then with his latch-key he opened the door; and they ran up the stairs. One of the rooms facing them was lighted by two lamps. On the floor, face downwards, Raoul's grandfather was writhing and uttering faint, hoarse cries. Raoul dropped on his knees beside him. Dorothy seized one of the lamps and ran into the room on the opposite side of the corridor. She had noticed that the door of it was open. The room was empty; through the open window stuck the top of a ladder. She leant out: "Montfaucon!" "Here I am, mummy," the child replied. "Did you see any one come down the ladder and run away?" "From a distance, mummy--as I came round the corner of the house." "Did you recognize the man?" "The man was two, mummy." "Ah, there were two, were there?" "Yes ... another man ... and the nasty gentleman." Raoul's grandfather was not dead; he was not even in any danger of dying. From certain details of the conflict it looked as if d'Estreicher and his confederate had tried by threats and violence to force the old man to reveal what he knew, and doubtless to hand over the gold piece. In particular his throat showed red finger-marks where they had gripped it. Had the ruffian and his confederate succeeded at the last moment? The servants were not very late getting back. The doctor was summoned and declared that there was no fear of any complications. But in the course of the next day they found that the old man did not answer any questions, did not appear to understand them, and only expressed himself by an incomprehensible stuttering. The agitation, terror, and suffering had been too much for him.... He was mad. CHAPTER VII THE HOUR DRAWS NEAR In the flat country, in which stands Hillocks Manor, a deep gorge has been hollowed out by the river Maine. This gorge rings round the meadows and orchards and buildings of the Manor. Hillocks, humped with rocks and covered with fir-trees, rise in a semicircle at the back of the estate, and a backwater of the Maine, cutting the ring and isolating the hillocks, has formed a pleasant lake, which reflects the dark stones and red bricks and tiles of the ancient building. To-day that building is by way of being a farm. Part of the ground-floor is used for storerooms and barns, evidence of a wider cultivation, formerly flourishing, but very much fallen off since the days when Raoul's grandfather made it his business in life. The old Baron, as they called him, had a right to the title and to the apostrophe since the property, before the Revolution, formed the barony d'Avernoie. A great sportsman, a fine figure of a man, and fond of wine and women, he had very little liking for work; and his son, Raoul's father, inheriting this distaste, had in his manner of life shown an equal lack of care for the future. "I have done what I could, once I was demobilized," Raoul confided to Dorothy, "to restore prosperity here; and up-hill work it has been. But what would you? My father and my grandfather lived their lives in the assurance, which evidently sprang from those legends you have heard of: 'One of these days we shall be rich. So why worry?' And they did not worry. Actually we are in the hands of a money-lender who has bought up all our debts; and I have just heard that during my stay at Roborey my grandfather signed a bill of sale which gives that money-lender the power to turn us out of the house in six weeks." He was an excellent young fellow, a trifle slow-witted, rather awkward in manner, but of an upright disposition, serious and thoughtful. The charm of Dorothy had made an instant conquest of him, and in spite of an invincible timidity which had always prevented him from putting into words his deeper feelings, he did not hide either his admiration or the fact that she had robbed him of his peace of mind. Everything that she said charmed him. Everything that she bade him do was done. Following her advice he made no secret of the assault of which his grandfather had been the victim and lodged a complaint against this unknown criminal. To the people about him he talked openly about the fortune which he expected to come to him shortly and of the investigations on foot to discover a gold medal, the possession of which was the first condition of obtaining it. Without revealing Dorothy's name, he did not conceal the fact that she was a distant cousin, or the reasons which brought her to the Manor. Three days later, having screwed double stages out of One-eyed Magpie, Saint-Quentin arrived in company with Castor and Pollux. Dorothy would not hear of any abode but her beloved caravan, which was installed in the middle of the court-yard; and once more the five comrades settled down to their happy, careless life. Castor and Pollux fought with less vigor. Saint-Quentin fished in the lake. The captain, always immensely consequential, took the old baron under his care and related to him and to Goliath interminable yarns. As for Dorothy, she was observing. They found that she wore an air of mystery, keeping her thoughts and proceedings to herself. She spent hours playing with her comrades superintending their exercises. Then, her eyes fixed on the old baron, who, accompanied by his faithful dog, with tottering gait and dulled eyes, would go and lean against a tree in the orchard, she watched everything which might be a manifestation of instinct in him or of a survival of the past. At other times Raoul surprised her in some corner, motionless and silent. It seemed to him then as if the whole affair was confined to her brain, and that it was there, much more than on the estate of Hillocks Manor that she was looking for the guiding clue. Several days in succession she spent the hours in the loft of a granary where there were some bookshelves, and on them, old newspapers, bundles of papers, pamphlets, printed during the last century, histories of the district, communal reports, and parish records. "Well," asked Raoul, laughing. "Are we getting on? I have an impression that your eyes are beginning to see more clearly." "Perhaps. I won't say that they aren't." The eyes of Dorothy! In that combination of charming things her face, it was they above everything which held one's attention. Large, almond-shaped and lengthened in the shadow of their black lashes, they surprised one by the inconceivable diversity of their coloring and expression: of the blue which changed like the blue of the sea according to the hour and the light; of a blue which seemed to vary with the successive thoughts which changed her expression. And these eyes, so delightful that it seemed that they must always be smiling or laughing, were in moments of meditation the gravest eyes that ever were, when she half-closed and fixed them on some image in her mind. Raoul, now, only saw through them, and was only really interested in what they expressed. The fabulous story of the treasure and the medal was wholly summed up for him in the charming spectacle afforded by two beautiful eyes observant or thoughtful, troubled or joyful. And perhaps Dorothy allowed herself to be observed with a certain satisfaction. The love of this big, shy young fellow touched her by its respectfulness, she who had only known hitherto the brutal homage of desire. One day she made him take a seat in the little boat which was moored to the shore of the lake, and letting it drift with the current she said to him: "We are drawing near." "Near what?" he asked, startled. "The hour which so many things have so long foretold." "You believe?" "I believe that you made no mistake the day on which you saw in your grandfather's hands that gold medal in which all the traditions of the family seem to be summed up. Unfortunately the poor man lost his reason before you were put in possession of the facts; and the thread which bound the past to the future has been broken." "Then what do you hope for, if we do not find that medal? We've searched everywhere, his room, his clothes, the house, the orchard, and found nothing." "It is impossible that he should keep to himself forever the answer to the enigma. If his reason is dead, his instincts survive. And what an instinct that is that centuries have been forming! Doubtless he has put the coin within reach, or within sight. You may be sure that he has hidden it in such a way that no execrable piece of bad luck could rob him of it without his being aware of it. But don't worry: at the appointed hour some unconscious gesture will reveal the truth to us." Raoul objected. "But what if d'Estreicher took it from him?" "He did not. If he had, we should not have heard the noise of the struggle. Your grandfather resisted to the end; and it was only our coming which put d'Estreicher to flight." "Oh, that ruffian! If only I had him in my hands!" exclaimed Raoul. The boat was drifting gently. Dorothy said in a very low voice, barely moving her lips: "Not so loud! He can hear us." "What! What do you mean?" "I say that he is close by and that he doesn't lose a single word of what we say," she went on in the same low voice. Raoul was dumfounded. "But--but--what does it mean? Can you see him?" "No. But I can feel his presence; and he can see us." "Where from?" "From some place among the hillocks. I have been thinking that this name of Hillocks Manor pointed to some inpenetrable hiding-place, and I've discovered a proof of it in one of those old books, which actually speaks of a hiding-place where the Vendéans lay hid, and says that it is believed to be in the neighborhood of Tiffauges and Clisson." "But how should d'Estreicher have learnt of it?" "Remember that the day of the assault your grandfather was alone, or believed himself to be alone. Strolling among the hillocks, he would have disclosed one of the entrances. D'Estreicher was watching him at the time. And since then the rascal had been using it as a refuge. "Look at the ground, all humps and ravines. On the right, on the left, everywhere, there are places in the rock for observations, so to speak, from which one can hear and see everything that takes place inside the boundaries of the estate. D'Estreicher is there." "What is he doing?" "He's searching and, what's more, he is keeping an eye on my investigations. He also--for all that I can't guess exactly the reason--wants the gold medal. And he is afraid that I shall get it before him." "But we must inform the police!" "Not yet. This underground hiding-place should have several issues, some of which perhaps run under the river. If we give the ruffian warning, he will escape." "Then what's your plan?" "To get him to come out of this lair and trap him." "How?" "I'll tell you at the appointed time, and that will not be long. I repeat: the hour draws near." "What proof have you?" "This," she said. "I have seen the money-lender, Monsieur Voirin, and he showed me the bill of sale. If by five o'clock on July 31st Monsieur Voirin, who has desired all his life to acquire the Manor, has not received the sum of three hundred thousand francs in cash or government securities, the Manor becomes his property." "I know," said he. "And it will break my heart to go away from here." She protested: "There's no question of your going away from here." "Why not? There's no reason why I should become rich in a month." "Yes, there is a reason, the reason which has always sustained your grandfather, the reason which made him act as he did on this occasion, which made him say to old Voirin--I repeat the money-lender's words: 'Don't get bucked about this, Voirin. On the 31st of July I shall pay you in cash.' This is the first time that we are face to face with a precise fact. Up to now words and a confused tradition. To-day a fact. A fact which proves that, according to your grandfather all the legends which turn round these promised riches come to a head on a certain day in the month of July." The boat touched the bank. Dorothy sprang lightly ashore and cried without fear of being heard: "Raoul, to-day's the 27th of June. In a few weeks you will be rich; and I too. And d'Estreicher will be hanged high and dry as I predicted to his face." That very evening Dorothy slipped out of the Manor and furtively made her way to a lane which ran between very tall hedges. After an hour's walking she came to a little garden at the bottom of which a light was shining. Her private investigations had brought to her knowledge the name of an old lady, Juliet Assire, whom the gossip of the countryside declared to be one of the old flames of the Baron. Before his attack, the Baron paid her a visit, for all that she was deaf, in poor health, and rather feeble-witted. Moreover, thanks to the lack of discretion of the maid who looked after her and whom Saint-Quentin had questioned, Dorothy had learnt that Juliet Assire was the possessor of a medal of the kind they were searching for at the Manor. Dorothy had formed the plan of taking advantage of the maid's weekly evening out to knock at the door and question Juliet Assire. But Fortune decided otherwise. The door was not locked, and when she stepped over the threshold of the low and comfortable sitting-room, she perceived the old lady asleep in the lamplight, her head bent over the canvas which she was engaged in embroidering. "Suppose I look for it?" thought Dorothy. "What's the use of asking her questions she won't answer?" She looked round her, examined the prints hanging on the wall, the clock under its glass case, the candlesticks. Further on an inner staircase led up to the bedrooms. She was moving towards it when the door creaked. On the instant she was certain that d'Estreicher was about to appear. Had he followed her?... Had he by any chance brought her there by a combination of machinations? She was frightened and thought only of flight.... The staircase? The rooms on the first floor.... She hadn't the time! Near her was a glass door.... Doubtless it led to the kitchen.... And from there to the back door through which she could escape. She went through it and at once found out her mistake. She was in a dark closet, a cupboard rather, against the boards of which she had to flatten herself before she could get the door shut. She found herself a prisoner. At that moment the door of the room opened, very quietly. Two men came cautiously into it; and immediately one of them whispered: "The old woman's asleep." Through the glass, which was covered by a torn curtain, Dorothy easily recognized d'Estreicher, in spite of his turned-up coat-collar and the flaps of his cap, which were tied under his chin. His confederate in like manner had hidden half his face in a muffler. "That damsel does make you play the fool," he said. "Play the fool? Not a bit of it!" growled d'Estreicher. "I'm keeping an eye on her, that's all." "Rot! You're always shadowing her. You're losing your head about her.... You'll go on doing it till the day she helps you to lose it for good." "I don't say, no. She nearly succeeded in doing it at Roberey. But I need her." "What for?" "For the medal. She's the only person capable of laying her hands on it." "Not here--in any case. We've already searched the house twice." "Badly, without a doubt, since she is coming to it. At least when we caught sight of her she was certainly coming in this direction. The chatter of the maid has sent her here; and she has chosen the night when the old woman would be alone." "You are stuck on your little pet." "I'm stuck on her," growled d'Estreicher. "Only let me lay my hands on her, and I swear the little devil won't forget it in a hurry!" Dorothy shivered. There was in the accents of this man a hate and at the same time a violence of desire which terrified her. He was silent, posted behind the door, listening for her coming. Several minutes passed. Juliet Assire still slept, her hand hanging lower and lower over her work. At last d'Estreicher muttered: "She isn't coming. She must have turned off somewhere." "Ah well, let's clear out," said his accomplice. "No." "Have you got an idea?" "A determination--to find the medal." "But since we've already searched the house twice----" "We went about it the wrong way. We must change our methods.... All the worse for the old woman!" He banged the table at the risk of waking Juliet Assire. "After all, it's too silly! The maid distinctly said: 'There's a medal in the house, the kind of thing they're looking for at the Manor.' Then let's make use of the opportunity, what? What failed in the case of the Baron may succeed to-day." "What? You'd----" "Make her speak--yes. As I tried to make the Baron speak. Only, she's a woman, she is." D'Estreicher had taken off his cap. His evil face wore an expression of savage cruelty. He went to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he came back to the arm-chair in which the good lady was sleeping, gazed at her a moment and of a sudden fell upon her, gripping her throat, and thrust her backwards against the back of the chair. His confederate chuckled: "You needn't give yourself all that trouble. If you squeeze too hard, you'll kill the poor old thing." D'Estreicher opened his fingers a little. The old woman opened her eyes wide and uttered a low groan. "Speak!" d'Estreicher commanded. "The Baron intrusted a medal to you. Where have you put it?" Juliet Assire did not clearly understand what was happening to her. She struggled. Exasperated, he shook her. "Will you prattle? Hey? Where's your old sweetheart's medal? He gave it to you all right. Don't say he didn't, you old hag! Your maid's telling everybody who cares to listen to her. Come, speak up. If you don't----" He picked one of the iron fire-dogs with copper knobs from the hearthstone and brandished it crying: "One ... two ... three.... At twenty I'll crack your skull!" CHAPTER VIII ON THE IRON WIRE The door behind which Dorothy was hiding herself shut badly. Having pushed it to gently, she not only saw but heard everything that took place, except that the face of Juliet Assire remained hidden from her. The ruffian's threat did not trouble her much, for she knew that he would not put it into execution. In fact d'Estreicher counted up to twenty without the old woman having uttered a word. But her resistance infuriated him to such a degree that, dropping the mass of iron, he seized the hand of Juliet Assire and twisted it violently. Juliet Assire yelled with pain. "Ah, you're beginning to understand, are you?" he said. "Perhaps you'll answer.... Where is the medal?" She was silent. He gave her hand another twist. The old woman fell on her knees and begged for mercy incoherently. "Speak!" he cried. "Speak! I'll go on twisting till you speak!" She stammered several syllables. "What's that you say? Speak more distinctly, will you? Do you want me to give it another twist?" "No ... no," she implored. "It's there ... at the Manor ... in the river." "In the river? What nonsense! You threw it into the river? You're laughing at me!" He held her down with one knee on her chest, their hands clenched round one another. From her post of observation Dorothy watched them, horror-stricken, powerless against these two men, but nevertheless unable to resign herself to inaction. "Then I'll twist it, what?" growled the ruffian. "You prefer it to speaking?" He made a quick movement which drew a cry from Juliet Assire. And all at once she raised herself, showed her face convulsed with terror, moved her lips, and succeeded in stuttering: "The c--c--cupboard ... the cupboard ... the flagstones." The sentence was never finished, though the mouth continued to move, but a strange thing happened: her frightful face little by little grew calm, assumed an ineffable serenity, became happy, smiling; and of a sudden Juliet Assire burst out laughing. She no longer felt the torture of her twisted wrist and she laughed gently, not jerkily, with an expression of beatitude. She was mad. "You've no luck," said his confederate in a mocking tone. "Directly you try to make people speak, they collapse--the Baron, cracked; his sweetheart, mad as a hatter. You're doing well." The exasperated d'Estreicher thrust away the old woman who stumbled and turning fell down behind an arm-chair quite close to Dorothy, and cried furiously. "You're right, my luck's out. But this time perhaps we've found a lode. Before her brain gave she spoke of a cupboard and flagstones. Which? This one or that? They're both paved with flags?" He pointed first to the kind of closet in which Dorothy was hiding and then to a cupboard on the other side of the fireplace. "I'll begin with this cupboard. You start on that one," he said. "Or rather, no--come and help me; we'll go through this one thoroughly first." He knelt down near the fireplace, opened the cupboard door, and with the poker got to work on one of the cracks between the flags of its floor which his accomplice tried to raise. Dorothy lost no time. She knew that they were coming to the closet and that she was lost if she did not fly. The old woman, stretched out close to her, was laughing gently and then grew silent as the men worked on. Hidden by the arm-chair, Dorothy slipped noiselessly out of the cupboard, took off the lace cap which covered the hair of Juliet Assire and put it on her own head. Then she took her spectacles, then her shawl, put it round her shoulders, and succeeded in hiding her figure with a big table-cloth of black serge. At that moment Juliet fell silent. On the instant Dorothy took up her even, joyous laughter. She rose, and stooping like an old woman, ambled across the room. D'Estreicher growled: "What's the old lunatic up to? Mind she doesn't get away." "How _can_ she get away?" asked his confederate. "You've got the key in your pocket." "The window." "Much too high. Besides she doesn't want to leave the cottage." Dorothy slipped in front of the window, the sill of which, uncommonly high up, was on a level with her eyes. The shutters were not closed. With a slow movement she succeeded in turning the catch. Then she paused. She knew that directly it was opened the window would let in the fresh air and the noises outside, and give the ruffians warning. In a few seconds she calculated and analyzed the movements she would need to make. Sure of herself and relying on her extraordinary agility, she took a look at her enemies; then swiftly, without a single mistake or a second's hesitation, she threw the window wide, jumped on to the sill, and from it into the garden. There came two shouts together, then a hubbub of cries. But it took the two men time to understand, to stumble upon the body of the real Juliet and discover it was she, to unlock the door. Dorothy made use of it. Too clever to escape down the garden and through the gate, she ran round the cottage, jumped down a slope, scratched herself among the thorns of a hedge, and came out into the fields. As she did so pistol-shots rang out. D'Estreicher and his confederate were firing at the shadows. * * * * * When Dorothy had rejoined Raoul and the children, who, alarmed by her absence, were waiting for her at the door of the caravan, and had told them briefly about her expedition, she ended: "And now we're going to make an end of it. The final hand will be played in exactly a week from to-day." These few days were very sweet to the two young people. While still remaining shy, Raoul grew bolder in his talks with her and let her see more clearly the depths of his nature, at once serious and impassioned. Dorothy abandoned herself with a certain joy to this love, of the sincerity of which she was fully conscious. Deeply disturbed, Saint-Quentin and his comrades grew uncommonly gloomy. The captain tossed his head and said: "Dorothy, I think I like this one less than the nasty gentleman, and if you'd listen to me...." "What should we do, my lamb?" "We'd harness One-eye' Magpie and go away." "And the treasure? You know we're hunting for treasure." "You're the treasure, mummy. And I'm afraid that they'll take you away from us." "Don't you worry, my child. My four children will always come first." But the four children did worry. The sense of danger weighed on them. In this confined space, between the walls of Hillocks Manor they breathed a heavy atmosphere which troubled them. Raoul was the chief danger: but another danger was little by little taking form in their minds: twice they saw the outline of a man moving stealthily among the thickets of the hillocks in the dusk. On the 30th of June, Dorothy begged Raoul to give all his staff a holiday next day. It was the day of the great religious fête at Clisson. Three of the stoutest of the servants, armed with guns, were ordered to come back surreptitiously at four in the afternoon and wait near a little inn, Masson Inn, a quarter of a mile from the Manor. Next day Dorothy seemed in higher spirits than ever. She danced jigs in the court-yard and sang English songs. She sang others in the boat, in which she had asked Raoul to row her, and then behaved so wildly, that several times they just missed capsizing. In this way it came about that in juggling with three coral bracelets she let one of them fall into the water. She wanted to recover it, dipped her bare arm in the water as high as the shoulder, and remained motionless, her head bent over the lake, as if she was considering carefully something she saw on its bottom. "What are you looking at like that?" said Raoul. "There has been no rain for a long while, the lake is low, and one can see more distinctly the stones and pebbles on the bottom. Now I've already noticed that some of the stones are arranged in a certain pattern. Look." "Undoubtedly," he said. "And they've hewn stones, shaped. One might fancy that they formed huge letters. Have you noticed it?" "Yes. And one can guess the words that those letters form: '_In robore fortuna._' At the mayor's office I've studied an old map of the neighborhood. Here, where we are, was formerly the principal lawn of a sunken garden, and on this very lawn one of your ancestors had this device inscribed in blocks of stone. Since then some one has let in the water of the Maine over the sunken garden. The pool has taken the place of the lawn. The device is hidden." And she added between her teeth: "And so are the few words and the figures below the device, which I have not yet been able to see. And it's that which interests me. Do you see them?" "Yes. But indistinctly." "That's just it. We're too near them. We need to look at them from a height." "Let's climb up on the hillocks." "No use. The slope--the water would blur the image." "Then," said he, laughing, "we must mount above them in an aëroplane." At lunch-time they parted. After the meal, Raoul superintended the departure of the _char-à-bancs_, which were taking all the staff of the Manor to Clisson, then he took his way to the pool where he saw Dorothy's little troupe hard at work on the bank. The captain, always the man of affairs, was running to and fro somewhat in the manner of a Gugusse. The others were carrying out exactly Dorothy's instructions. When it was all over, a sufficiently thick iron wire was stretched above the lake at a height of ten or twelve feet, fastened at one end to the gable of a barn, at the other to a ring affixed to a rock among the hillocks. "Hang it all!" he said. "It looks to me as if you'd made preparations for one of your circus turns." "You're right," she replied gayly. "Having no aëroplane I fall back on my aërial rope-walking." "What? Is that what you intend to do?" he exclaimed in anxious accents. "But you're bound to fall." "I can swim." "No, no. I refuse to allow it." "By what right?" "You haven't even a balancing-pole." "A balancing-pole?" she said, running off. "And what next? A net? A safety-rope?" She climbed up the ladder inside the barn and appeared on the edge of the roof. She was laughing, as was her custom when she began her performance before a crowd. She was dressed in a silk frock, with broad white and red stripes, a scarlet silk handkerchief was crossed over her chest. Raoul was in a state of feverish excitement. The captain went to him. "Do you want to help mummy, Dorothy?" he said in a confidential tone. "Certainly I do." "Well, go away, monsieur." Dorothy stretched out her leg. Her foot, which was bare in a cloth sandal divided at the big toe, tried the wire, as a bather's foot tries the coldness of the water. And then she quickly stepped on to it, made several steps, sliding, and stopped. She saluted right and left, pretending to believe herself in the presence of a large audience, and came sliding forward again with a regular, rhythmic movement of her legs and a swaying of her bust and arms which balanced her like the beating of the wings of a bird. So she arrived above the pool. The wire, slackened, bent under her weight and jerked upwards. A second time she stopped, when she was over the middle of the pool. This was the hardest part of her undertaking. She was no longer able to hook, so to speak, her gaze on a fixed point among the hillocks, and lend her balance the support of something stable. She had to lower her eyes and try to read, in the moving and glittering water, repelling the fascination of the sun's reflection, the words and the figures. A terribly dangerous task! She had to essay it several times and to rise upright the very moment she found herself bending over the void. A minute or two passed, minutes of veritable anguish. She brought them to an end by a salute with both arms, stretching them out with even gracefulness, and a cry of victory; then she at once walked on again. Raoul had crossed the bridge which spans the end of the pool and he was already on a kind of platform among the hillocks, at which the wire ended. She was struck by his paleness and touched by his anxiety on her account. "Goodness," she said, gripping his hand. "Were you as frightened as that on my account?... If I'd only known!... And yet, no": she went on. "Even if I had known, I should have made the experiment, so certain was I of the result." "Well?" he said. "Well, I read the device distinctly, and the date under it, which we couldn't make out--the 12th of July, 1921. We know now that the 12th of July of this year is the great day foretold so many years ago. But there's something better, I fancy." She called Saint-Quentin to her and said some words to him in a low voice. Saint-Quentin ran to the caravan and a few minutes came out of it in his acrobat's tights. He stepped into the boat with Dorothy, who rowed it to the middle of the pool. He slipped quickly into the water and dived. Twice he came up to receive more exact instructions from Dorothy. At last, the third time he came up, he cried: "Here it is, mummy!" He tossed into the boat a somewhat heavy object. Dorothy snatched it up, examined it, and when they reached the bank, handed it to Raoul. It was a metal disc, of rusted iron or copper, of the size of a saucer, and convex--like an enormous watch. It must have been formed of two plates joined together, but the edges of these plates had been soldered together so that one could not open it. Dorothy rubbed one of its faces and pointed out to Raoul with her finger the deeply engraved word: "Fortuna." "I was not mistaken," she said, "and poor old Juliet Assire was speaking the truth, in speaking first of the river. During one of their last meetings the Baron must have thrown in here the gold medal in its metal case." "But why?" "Didn't you write to him from Roborey, after I left, to be on his guard?" "Yes." "In that case what better hiding-place could he find for the medal till the day came for him to use it than the bottom of the pool? The first boy who came along could fish it out for him." Joyously she tossed the disc in the air and juggled with it and three pebbles. Then she caught hold of the shivering Saint-Quentin, very scraggy in his wet tights, and with the other three boys danced round the platform, singing the lay of "The Recovered Medal." At the end of his breath the captain made the observation that there was a fête at Clisson and that they might very well go there to celebrate their success. "Let's harness One-eye' Magpie." Dorothy approved of it. "Excellent! But One-eyed Magpie's too slow. What about your car, Raoul?" They hurried back to the Manor. Saint-Quentin went to change his costume. Raoul set his engine going and brought the car out of the garage. While the three boys were getting into it, he went to Dorothy, who had sat down at a little table on the terrace which ran the length of the building. "Are you ready?" he asked. She said: "But I never had any intention of going with you. To-day you're going to be nursemaid." He was not greatly surprised. Since early morning he had had an odd feeling that everything that happened was not quite natural. The incidents followed one another in such perfect sequence and with a logic and exactness foreign to actuality. One might have said that they were scenes in a too-well-made play, of which it would have been easy, with a little experience of the playwright's art, to analyze the construction and the tricks. Certainly, without knowing Dorothy's game, he guessed the dénouement she proposed to bring about--the capture of d'Estreicher. But by means of what stratagem? "Don't question me," she said. "We are watched. So no heroics, no remonstrances. Listen." She was amusing herself by spinning the disk on the table and quite calmly she outlined her plan and her maneuvers. "It's like this. A day or two ago I wrote, in your name, to the Public Prosecutor, advising him that our friend d'Estreicher, for whom the police are hunting, guilty of attempts to murder Baron Davernoie and Madame Juliet Assire, would be at Hillocks Manor to-day. I asked him to send two detectives who would find you at Masson Inn at four o'clock. It's now a quarter to four. Your three servants will be there too. So off you go." "What am I to do?" "Come back quickly with the two detectives and your three servants, not by the main road, but by the paths Saint-Quentin and the three boys will point out to you. At the end of them you will find ladders ready. You will set them up against the wall. D'Estreicher and his confederate will be there. You will cover them with your guns while the detectives arrest them." "Are you sure that d'Estreicher will come out of the hillocks--if it's the fact that the hillocks are his hiding-place?" "Quite sure. Here is the medal. He knows that it is in my hands. How can he help seizing the opportunity of taking it now that we are on the eve of the great event." She expressed herself with a disconcerting calmness. For all that she was exposing herself alone to all the menace of a combat which promised to be formidable, she had not the faintest air of being in danger. Indeed, such was her indifference to the risk she was running that, when the old Baron went past them and into the Manor, followed by his faithful Goliath, she imparted to Raoul some results of her observations. "Have you noticed that for the last day or two that your grandfather has been ill at ease? He too is instinctively aware that the great event is at hand, and he wants to act. He is pulling himself together and struggling against the disease which paralyzes him in the very hour of action." In spite of everything, Raoul hesitated. The idea of leaving her to face d'Estreicher alone was infinitely painful to him. "One question," he said. "Only one then, for you've no time to lose." "You made all your preparations for to-day. The police are informed, the servants warned, the rendezvous fixed. Good. But nevertheless you couldn't know that the discovery of this disc would take place just an hour before that rendezvous." "Excellent, Raoul; I congratulate you. You've put your finger on the weak point in my explanation. But I can't tell you anything more at the moment." "Nevertheless----" "Do as I ask you, Raoul. You know that I don't act at random." Dorothy's confidence, her boldness, the simplicity of her plan, her quiet smile, all inspired him with such trust in her judgment that he raised no more objections. "Very well," he said. "I'll go." "That's right," she said, laughing. "You have faith. In that case make haste and come back quickly, for d'Estreicher will come here not only to get hold of the medal but also for something on which perhaps he is equally keen." "What's that?" "Me." This was a suggestion which hastened the young man's decision. The car started and crossed the orchard. Saint-Quentin opened the big gate and shut it again as soon as the car had gone through it. Dorothy was alone; and she was to remain alone and defenceless for as long she reckoned, if her calculations were correct, as twelve to fifteen minutes. * * * * * Keeping her back turned to the hillocks, she did not stir from her chair. She appeared to be very busy with the disc, testing the soldering, like one who seeks to discover the secret or the weak point of a piece of mechanism. But with her ears, all her nerves on edge, she tried to catch every sound or rustle that the breeze might bring her. By turns she was sustained by an unshakable certainty, or attacked by discouraging doubts. Yes: d'Estreicher was bound to come. She could not admit to herself that he might not come. The medal would draw him to her with an irresistible enticement. "And yet, no," she said to herself. "He will be on his guard. My little maneuver is really too puerile. This case, this medal which we find at the fateful moment, this departure of Raoul and the children, and then my staying alone in the empty farm, when my one care on the contrary would be to protect my find against the enemy--all this is really too far-fetched. An old fox like d'Estreicher will shun the trap." And then the other side of the problem presented itself: "He _will_ come. Perhaps he has already left his lair. Manifestly the danger will be clear to him, but afterwards, when it is too late. At the actual moment he is not free to act or not to act. He obeys." So once more Dorothy was guided by her keen insight into the trend of events, in spite of what her reason might tell her. The facts grouped themselves before her intelligence in a logical sequence and with strict method, she saw their accomplishment while they were yet in process of becoming. The motives which actuated other people were always perfectly clear to her. Her intuition revealed them; her quick intelligence instantly fitted them to the circumstances. Besides, as she had said, d'Estreicher was drawn by a double temptation. If he succeeded in resisting the temptation to try to seize the medal, how could he help succumbing to the temptation to seize that marvelous prize, right within his reach, Dorothy herself? She sat upright with a smile. The sound of footsteps had fallen on her ears. It must come from the wooden bridge which spanned the end of the pool. The enemy was coming! * * * * * But almost at the same moment she heard another sound on her right and then another on her left. D'Estreicher had _two_ confederates. She was hemmed in! The hands of her watch pointed to five minutes to four. CHAPTER IX FACE TO FACE "If they seize me," she thought. "If it's d'Estreicher's intention to kidnap me without more ado, there's nothing to be done. Before I could be rescued, they would carry me off to their underground lair, and from there I don't know where!" And why should it be otherwise? Master of the medal and of Dorothy, the ruffian had only to fly. On the instant she saw all the faults of her plan. In order to compel d'Estreicher to risk a sortie that she might capture him during that sortie, she had invented a too subtle ruse, which actual developments of Fortune's spite might turn to her undoing. A conflict which turns on the number of seconds gained or lost is extremely doubtful. She went quickly into the house and pushed the disc under a heap of discarded things in a small lumber-room. The necessary hunt for it would delay for a while the enemy's flight. But when she came back to go out of the house, d'Estreicher, grimacing ironically behind his spectacles and under his thick beard, stood on the threshold of the front door. Dorothy never carried a revolver. All her life she never cared to trust to anything but her courage and intelligence. She regretted it at this horrible moment when she found herself face to face with the man who had murdered her father. Her first act would have been to blow out his brains. Divining her vengeful thought, he seized her arm quickly and twisted it, as he had twisted the arm of old Juliet Assire. Then bending over her, he snapped: "Where have you put it?... Be quick!" She did not even dream of resisting, so acute was the pain, and took him to the little room, and pointed to the heap. He found the disc at once, weighed it in his hand, examining it with an air of immense satisfaction and said: "That's all right. Victory at last! Twenty years of struggle come to an end. And over and above what I bargained for, you, Dorothy--the most magnificent and desirable of rewards." He ran his hand over her frock to make sure that she was not armed, then seized her round the body, and with a strength which no one would have believed him to possess, swung her over his shoulder on to his back. "You make me feel uneasy, Dorothy," he chuckled. "What? No resistance? What pretty behavior, my dear! There must be something in the way of a trap under it all. So I'll be off." Outside she caught sight of the two men, who were on guard at the big gate. One of them was the confederate she knew, from having seen him at Juliet Assire's cottage. The other, his face flattened against the bars of a small wicket, was watching the road. D'Estreicher called to them: "Keep your eyes skinned, boys. You mustn't be caught in the sheepfold. And when I whistle, bucket off back to the hillocks." He himself made for them with long strides without weakening under his burden. She could smell the odor of a damp cellar with which his subterranean lair had impregnated his garments. He held her by the neck with a hard hand that bruised it. They came to the wooden bridge and were just about to cross it. No more than a hundred yards from it, perhaps, among the bushes and rocks, was one of the entrances to his underground lair. Already the man was raising his whistle to his lips. With a deft movement, Dorothy snatched the disc, which was sticking up above the top of the pocket into which he had stuffed it, and threw it towards the pool. It ran along the ground, rolled down the bank, and disappeared under the water. "You little devil!" growled the ruffian throwing her roughly to the ground. "Stir, and I'll break your head!" He went down the bank and floundered about in the viscid mud of the river, keeping an eye on Dorothy and cursing her. She did not dream of flying. She kept looking from one to another of the points at the top of the wall above which she expected the heads of the farm-servants or the detectives to rise. It was certainly five or six minutes past the hour, yet none of them appeared. Nevertheless she did not lose hope. She expected d'Estreicher, who had evidently lost his head, to make some mistake of which she could take advantage. "Yes, yes," he snarled: "You wish to gain time, my dear. And suppose you do? Do you think I'll let go of you? I've got you both, you and the medal; and your bumpkin of a Raoul isn't the man to loosen my grip. Besides, if he does come, it'll be all the worse for him. My men have their orders: a good crack on the head----" He was still searching; he stopped short, uttered a cry of triumph and stood upright, the disc in his hand. "Here it is, ducky. Certainly the luck is with me; and you've lost. On we go, cousin Dorothy!" Dorothy cast a last look along the walls. No one. Instinctively, at the approach of the man she hated, she made as if to thrust him off. It made him laugh--so absurd did any resistance seem. Violently he beat down her outstretched arms, and again swung her on to his shoulder with a movement in which there was as much hate as desire. "Say good-bye to your sweetheart, Dorothy, for the good Raoul is in love with you. Say good-bye to him. If ever you see him again, it will be too late." He crossed the bridge and strode in among the hillocks. It was all over. In another thirty seconds, even if he were attacked, no longer being in sight of the points on the wall at which the men armed with guns were to rise up, he would have time to reach the mouth of the entrance to his lair. Dorothy had lost the battle. Raoul and the detectives would arrive too late. "You don't know how nice it is to have you there, all quivering, and to carry you away with me, against me, without your being able to escape the inevitable," whispered d'Estreicher. "But what's the matter with you? Are you crying? You mustn't, my dear. After all why should you? You would certainly let yourself be lulled one of these days on the bosom of the handsome Raoul. Then there's no reason why I should be more distasteful to you than he, is there? But--hang it!" he cried angrily, "haven't you done sobbing yet?" He turned her on his shoulder and caught hold of her head. He was dumfounded. Dorothy was laughing. "What--what's this? What are you laughing at? Is it p-p-possible that you dare to laugh? What on earth do you mean by it?" This laughter frightened him as a threat of danger? The slut! What was she laughing at? A sudden fury rose in him, and setting her down clumsily against a tree, he struck her with his clenched fist, out of which a ring stuck, on the forehead, among her hair, with such force that the blood spurted out. She was still laughing, as she stammered: "You b-b-brute! What a brute you are!" "If you laugh, I'll bite your mouth, you hussy," he snarled, bending over her red lips. He did not dare to carry out the threat, respecting her in spite of himself, and even a little intimidated. She was frightened, however, and laughed no more. "What is this? What is it?" he repeated. "You should be crying, and you're laughing. Why?" "I was laughing because of the plates," she said. "What plates?" "Those which form the case of the medal." "These?" "Yes." "What about them?" "They're the plates of Dorothy's Circus. I used to juggle with them." He looked utterly flabbergasted. "What's this rot you're talking?" "It is rot, isn't it? Saint-Quentin and I soldered them together; I engraved the motto on them with a knife; and last night we threw them into the pool." "But you're mad. I don't understand. With what object did you do it?" "Since poor old Juliet Assire babbled some admissions about the river when you tortured her, I was pretty sure you'd fall into the trap." "What do you mean? What trap?" "I wanted to get you to come out of here." "You knew that I was here then?" "Rather! I knew that you were watching us fish up the case; and I knew for certain what would happen after that. Believing that this case, found at the bottom of the pool under your very eyes, contained the medal, and seeing moreover that Raoul had gone and I was alone at the Manor, you wouldn't be able to come. But you have come." He stuttered: "The g-g-gold medal.... It isn't in this case then?" "No. It's empty." "And Raoul?... Raoul?... You're expecting him?" "Yes." "Alone?" "With some detectives. He went to meet them." He clenched his fists and growled: "You little beast, you denounced me." "I denounced you." Not for a second did d'Estreicher think she might be lying. He held the metal disc in his hand; and it would have been easy enough to force it open with his knife. To what end? The disc was empty. He was sure of it. Of a sudden he grasped the full force of the comedy she had played on the pool; it explained to him the odd uneasiness and disquiet he had felt while he was watching that series of actions the connection of which seemed to him strange. However he had come. He had plunged blindly, with his head down, into the trap she had audaciously laid for him before his very eyes. Of what miraculous power was she mistress? And how was he going to slip through the meshes of the net which was being drawn tighter and tighter round him? "Let's be getting away," he said, eager to get out of danger. But he was suffering from a lassitude of will, and instead of picking up his victim, he questioned her. "The disc is empty. But you know where the medal is?" he questioned. "Of course I know," said Dorothy, who only thought of gaining time and whose furtive eyes were scanning the top of the wall. The man's eyes sparkled: "Ah, you do, do you?... You must be a fool to admit it!... Since you know, you're going to tell, my dear. If not----" He drew his revolver. She said mockingly: "Just as with Juliet Assire? Twenty's what you count, isn't it? You may as well save your breath; it doesn't work with me." "I swear, dammit!----" "Words!" No: the battle was certainly not lost. Dorothy, though exhausted, her face smeared with blood, clung to every possible incident with grim tenacity. She felt strongly that, in his fury, d'Estreicher was capable of killing her. But she was quite as clearly aware of his confusion of ideas and of her power over him. He hadn't the strength to depart and abandon the medal for which he had struggled so desperately. If only his hesitation lasted a few minutes longer, Raoul was bound to appear on the scene. At this moment an incident occurred which appeared to excite her keenest interest, for she leant forward to follow it more closely. The old Baron came out of the Manor, carrying a bag, not dressed, as usual, in a blouse, but in a cloth suit, and wearing a felt hat. That showed that he had made a choice, that is to say, an effort of thought. Then there was another such effort. Goliath was not with him. He waited for him, stamped his foot, and when the dog did come, caught him by the collar, looked about him, and took his way to the gate. The two confederates barred his path; he muttered some grumbling complaints and tried to get past them. They shoved him back and at last he went off among the trees, without loosing Goliath, but leaving his bag behind him. His action was easy to understand; and Dorothy and d'Estreicher alike grasped the fact that the old fellow had wanted to go off on the quest of the treasure. In spite of his madness, he had not forgotten the enterprise. The appointed date was engraved on his memory; and on the day he had fixed, he strapped up his bag and started out like a piece of mechanism which one has wound up and which goes off at the moment fixed. D'Estreicher called out to his confederates: "Search his bag!" Since they found nothing, no medal, no clue, he walked up and down in front of Dorothy for a moment, undecided what course to take and then stopped beside her: "Answer me. Raoul loves you. You don't love him. Otherwise I should have put a stop to your little flirtation a fortnight ago. But all the same you feel some obligations towards him in the matter of the medal and the treasure; and you've joined forces. It's just foolishness, my dear, and I'm going to set your mind at rest about the matter, for there's a thing you don't know and I'm going to tell it you. After which I'm sure you'll speak. Answer me then. With regard to this medal, you must be wondering how I come to be hunting for it, since, as you very well know, I stole it from your father. What do you suppose?" "I suppose somebody took it from you." "You're right. But do you know who it was?" "No." "Raoul's father, George Davernoie." She started and exclaimed: "You lie!" "I do not!" he declared firmly. "You remember your father's last letter which cousin Octave read to us at Roborey? The Prince of Argonne related how he heard two men talking under his window and saw a hand slip through it towards the table and sneak the medal. Well, the man who had accompanied the other on the expedition and was waiting below, was George Davernoie. And that rogue, Dorothy, the very next night robbed his comrade." Dorothy was shaking with indignation and abhorrence: "It's a lie! Raoul's father take to such a trade? A thief?" "Worse than that. For the enterprise had not only robbery for its aim.... And if the man who poured the poison into the glass and whose tattooed arm was seen by the Prince of Argonne, does not deny his acts, he doesn't forget that the poison was provided by the other." "You lie! You lie! You alone are the culprit! You alone murdered my father!" "You don't really believe that. And look: here's a letter from him to the old Baron, to his father, that is. I found it among the Baron's papers. Read it: "'I have at last laid my hand on the indispensable gold piece. On my next leave I'll bring it to you.' "And look at the date. A week after the death of the Prince of Argonne! Do you believe me now, eh? And don't you think that we might come to an understanding between ourselves, apart from this milksop Raoul?" This revelation had tried Dorothy sorely. However, she pulled herself together and putting a good face on it, she asked: "What do you mean?" "I mean that the gold medal, brought to the Baron, intrusted by him to his old flame for a while, then hidden I don't know where, belongs to you. Raoul has no right to it. I'll buy it from you." "At what price?" "Any price you like--half the treasure, if you demand it." Dorothy saw on the instant how she could make the most of the situation. Here again was a way of gaining some minutes, decisive minutes perhaps, a painful and costly way, since she risked handing over to him the key to the treasure. But dare she hesitate? D'Estreicher was nearly at the end of his patience. He was beside himself at the notion of the imminent attack with which he was threatened. Let him get carried away by an access of panic and all would be lost by his taking flight. "A partnership between us? Never! A sharing of the treasure which would make me your ally? A thousand times, no! I detest you. But an agreement for a few moments? Perhaps." "Your conditions?" he said. "Be quick! Make the most of my allowing you to impose conditions!" "That won't take long. You have a double object--the medal and me. You must choose between them. Which do you want most?" "The medal." "If you let me go free, I'll give it to you." "Swear to me on your honor that you know where it is." "I swear it." "How long have you known?" "For about five minutes. A little while ago I did not know. A little fact has just come under my observation which has informed me." He believed her. It was impossible for him to disbelieve her. Everything that she said in that fashion, looking you straight in the face, was the exact truth. "Speak." "It's for you to speak first. Swear that as soon as my promise is fulfilled, I shall be free." The ruffian blinked. The idea of keeping an oath appeared comic to him; and Dorothy was quite aware that his oath had no value of any kind. "I swear it," he said. Then he repeated: "Speak. I can't quite make out what you are faking; but it doesn't strike me as being gospel truth. So I don't put much faith in it; and don't you forget it." The conflict between them was now at its height; and what gave that conflict its peculiar character was that both of them saw clearly the adversary's game. Dorothy had no doubt that Raoul, after an unforeseen delay, was on his way to the Manor, and d'Estreicher, who had no more doubt of it than she, knew that all her actions were based on her expectation of immediate intervention. But there was one trifling fact which rendered their chances of victory equal. D'Estreicher believed himself to be in perfect security because his two confederates, glued to the wicket, were watching the road for the coming of the car; while the young girl had taken the admirable precaution of instructing Raoul to abandon the car and take the paths which were out of sight of the gate. All her hope sprang from this precaution. She made her explanation quietly, all the while bearing in mind her keen desire to drag out the interview. "I've never ceased to believe," she said "--and I'm sure that you are of the same opinion that the Baron has never, so to speak, quitted the medal." "I hunted everywhere," d'Estreicher objected. "So did I. But I don't mean that he kept it on him. I meant that he kept it and still keeps it within reach." "You do?" "Yes. He has always managed in such a way that he has only to stretch out his hand to grasp it." "Impossible. We should have seen it." "Not at all. Only just now you failed to see anything." "Just now?" "Yes. When he was going off, compelled by the bidding of his instinct--when he was going off on the very day he had fixed before he fell ill----" "He was going off without the medal." "With the medal." "They searched his bag." "The bag wasn't the only thing he was taking with him." "What else was there? Hang it all! You were more than a hundred yards away from him! You saw nothing." "I saw that he was holding something besides his bag." "What?" "Goliath." D'Estreicher was silent, struck by that simple word and all it signified. "Goliath," Dorothy went on, "Goliath who _never quitted him_, Goliath always _within reach of his hand_, and whom he was holding, whom he is holding at this moment. Look at him. His five fingers are clenched round the dog's collar. Do you understand? _Round its collar!_" Once more d'Estreicher had no doubt. Dorothy's declaration immediately appeared to him to meet all the circumstances of the case. Once more she threw light on the affair. Beyond that light: nothing but darkness and contradictions. He recovered all his coolness. His will to act instantly revived; and at the same time he saw clearly all the precautions to be taken to minimize the risks of the attempt. He drew from his pocket a thin piece of rope, with which he bound Dorothy, and a handkerchief which he tied across her mouth. "If you've made a mistake, darling, all the worse for you. You'll pay for it." And he added in a sarcastic tone: "Moreover, if you haven't made a mistake, all the worse for you just the same. I'm not the man to lose my prey." He hailed his confederates: "Hi, boys! Is there any one on the road?" "Not a soul!" "Keep your eyes open! We'll be off in three minutes. When I whistle, bucket off to the entrance to the caves. I'll bring the young woman along." The threat, terrible as it was, did not effect Dorothy. For her the whole drama was unfolding itself down below, between d'Estreicher and the Baron. D'Estreicher ran down from the hillocks, crossed the bridge, and ran towards the old man who was sitting on a bench on the terrace, with Goliath's head on his knee. Dorothy felt her heart beating wildly. Not that she doubted that he would find the medal. It would be found in the dog's collar--of that she was sure. But it must be that this supreme effort to snatch a last delay could not fail. "If the barrel of a gun doesn't appear above the top of the wall before a minute is up, d'Estreicher is my master." And since she would rather kill herself than submit to that degradation, during that minute her life was at stake. The respite accorded by circumstances was longer than that. D'Estreicher, having flung himself on the dog, met with an unexpected resistance from the Baron. The old man thrust him off furiously, while the dog barked and dragged himself free from the ruffian's grip. The struggle was prolonged. Dorothy followed its phases with alternating fear and hope, backing up Raoul's grandfather with all the force of her will, cursing the energy and stubbornness of the ruffian. In the end the old Baron grew tired and appeared all at once to lose interest in what might happen. One might have thought that Goliath must have suddenly fallen a victim to the same sense of lassitude. He sat down at his master's feet and let himself be handled with a kind of indifference. With trembling fingers d'Estreicher caught hold of the collar, and ran his fingers along the nail-studded leather under the dog's thick coat. His fingers found the buckle. But he got no further. The dramatic surprise came at last. A man's bust rose above the wall, and a voice cried: "Hands up!" At last Dorothy smiled with an indescribable sensation of joy and deliverance. Her plan, delayed by some obstacle, was a success. Near Saint-Quentin who had been the first to appear, another figure rose above the wall, leveled a gun, and cried: "Hands up!" Instantly d'Estreicher abandoned his search and looked about him with an air of panic. Two other shouts rang out: "Hands up! Hands up!" From the points chosen by the young girl two more guns were leveled at him, and the men who aimed, aimed straight at d'Estreicher only. Nevertheless he hesitated. A bullet sang over his head. His hands went up. His confederates were already half-way to the hillocks in their flight. No one paid any attention to them. They ran across the bridge and disappeared in the direction of an isolated hillock which was called the Labyrinth. The big gate flew open. Raoul rushed through it, followed by two men whom Dorothy did not know, but who must be the detectives dispatched on his information. D'Estreicher did not budge; he kept his hands up; and doubtless he would not have made any resistance, if a false move of the police had not given him the chance. As they reached him they closed round him, covering him for two or three seconds from the fire of the servants on the wall. He took advantage of their error to whip out his revolver and shoot. Four times it cracked. Three bullets went wide. The fourth buried itself in Raoul's leg; and he fell to the ground with a groan. It was a futile outburst of rage and savagery. On the instant the detectives grappled with d'Estreicher, disarmed him, and reduced him to impotence. They handcuffed him; and as they did so his eyes sought Dorothy, who was almost out of sight, for she had slipped behind a clump of bushes; and as they sought her they filled with an expression of appalling hate. * * * * * It was Saint-Quentin, followed by the captain, who found Dorothy; and at the sight of her blood-smeared face, they were nearly beside themselves. "Silence," she commanded, to cut short their questions. "Yes, I'm wounded. But it's a mere nothing. Run to the Baron, captain; catch hold of Goliath, pat him, and take off his collar. In the collar, you will find behind the metal plate, on which his name is engraved, a pocket, forming a lining to it and containing the metal we're looking for. Bring it to me." The boy hurried off. "Saint-Quentin," Dorothy continued. "Have the detectives seen me?" "No." "You must give every one to understand that I left the Manor some time ago and that you're to meet me at the market-town, Roche-sur-Yon. I don't want to be mixed up with the inquiry. They'll examine me; and it will be a sheer waste of time." "But Monsieur Davernoie?" "As soon as you get the chance, tell him. Tell him that I've gone for reasons which I will explain later, and that I beg him to keep silent about everything that concerns us. Besides, he is wounded, and his mind is confused, and nobody will think about me. They're going to hunt through the hillocks, I expect, to get hold of d'Estreicher's confederates. They mustn't see me. Cover me with branches." "That's all right," she said when he had done so, "As soon as it is getting dark, come, all four of you, and carry me down to the caravan; and we'll start as soon as it's daylight. Perhaps I shall be out of sorts for a few days. Rather too much overwork and excitement--nothing for you to worry about. Do you understand, my boy?" "Yes, Dorothy." As she had foreseen, the two detectives, having shut up d'Estreicher at the Manor, passed at no great distance from her, guided by one of the farm-servants. She presently heard them calling out and guessed that they had discovered the entrance to the caves of the Labyrinth, down which d'Estreicher's confederates had fled. "Pursuit is useless," murmured Dorothy. "The quarry has too long a start." She felt exhausted. But for nothing in the world would she have yielded to her lassitude before the return of the captain. She asked Saint-Quentin how the attack had come to be so long delayed. "An accident, wasn't it?" "Yes," said he. "The detectives made a mistake about the inn; and the farm-servants were late getting back from the fête. It was necessary to collect the whole lot; and the car broke down." Montfaucon came running up. Dorothy went on: "Perhaps, Saint-Quentin, there'll be the name of a town, or rather of a château, on the medal. In that case, find out all you can about the route and take the caravan there. Did you find it, captain?" "Yes, mummy." "Give it to me, pet." What emotion Dorothy felt when she touched the gold medal so keenly coveted by them all, which one might reckon the most precious of talismans, as the guarantee even of success! It was a medal twice the size of a five-franc piece, and above all much thicker, less smoothly cut than a modern medal, less delicately modeled, and of duller gold that did not shine. On the face was the motto: _In robore fortuna_, On the reverse these lines: _July 12, 1921._ _At noon. Before the clock of the Château of Roche-Périac._ "The twelfth of July," muttered Dorothy. "I have time to faint." She fainted. CHAPTER X TOWARDS THE GOLDEN FLEECE It was not till nearly three days afterwards that Dorothy got the better of the physical torpor, aggravated by fever, which had overwhelmed her. The four boys gave a performance on the outskirts of Nantes. Montfaucon took the place of the directress in the leading rôle. It was a less taking spectacle; but in it the captain displayed such an animated comicality that the takings were good. Saint-Quentin insisted that Dorothy should take another two days' rest. What need was there to hurry? The village of Roche-Périac was at the most sixty-five miles from Nantes so that there was no need for them to set out till six days before the time appointed. She allowed herself to be ordered about by him, for she was still suffering from a profound lassitude as a result of so many ups and downs and such violent emotions. She thought a great deal about Raoul Davernoie, but in a spirit of angry revolt against the feeling of tenderness towards the young man with which those weeks of intimacy had inspired her. However little he might be connected with the drama in which the Prince of Argonne had met his death, he was none the less the son of the man who had assisted d'Estreicher in the perpetration of the crime. How could she forget that? How could she forgive it? The quiet pleasantness of the journey soothed the young girl. Her ardent and happy nature got the better of painful memories and past fatigues. The nearer she drew to her goal, the more fully her strength of mind and body came back to her, her joy in life, her childlike gayety, and her resolve to bring the enterprise to a successful end. "Saint-Quentin," she said, "we are advancing to the capture of the Golden Fleece. Are you bearing in mind the solemn importance of the days that are passing? Four days yet ... three days ... two days; and the Golden Fleece is ours. Baron de Saint-Quentin, in a fortnight you will be dressed like a dandy." "And you like a princess," replied Saint-Quentin, to whom this prospect of fortune, promising a less close intimacy with his great friend, did not seem to give any great pleasure. She was strongly of the opinion that other trials awaited her, that there would still be obstacles to surmount and perhaps enemies to fight. But for the time being there was a respite and a truce. The first part of the drama was finished. Other adventures were about to begin. Curious and of a daring spirit, she smiled at the mysterious future which opened before her. On the fourth day they crossed the Vilaine, the right bank of which they were henceforth to follow, along the top of the slopes which run down to the river. It was a somewhat barren country, sparsely inhabited, over which they moved slowly under a scorching sun which overwhelmed One-eyed Magpie. At last, next day, the 11th of July, they saw on a sign-post: _Roche-Périac 12-1/2 Miles_ "We shall sleep there to-night," declared Dorothy. It was a painful stage of the journey.... The heat was suffocating. On the way they picked up a tramp who lay groaning on the dusty grass. A woman and a club-footed child were walking a hundred yards ahead of them without One-eyed Magpie being able to catch them up. Dorothy and the four boys took it in turn to sit with the tramp in the caravan. He was a wretched old man, worn out by poverty, whose rags were only held together by pieces of string. In the middle of his bushy hair and unkempt beard his eyes, however, still had a certain glow, and when Dorothy questioned him about the life he led, he confounded her by saying: "One mustn't complain. My father, who was a traveling knife-grinder always said to me: 'Hyacinth--that's my name--Hyacinth, one isn't miserable while one's brave: Fortune is in the firm heart.'" Dorothy concealed her amazement and said: "That's not a weighty legacy. Did he only leave you this secret?" "Yes," said the tramp quite simply. "That and a piece of advice: to go on the 12th of July every year, and wait in front of the church of Roche-Périac for somebody who will give me hundreds and thousands. I go there every year. I've never received anything but pennies. All the same, it keeps one going, that idea does. I shall be there to-morrow, as I was last year ... and as I shall be next." The old man fell back upon his own thoughts. Dorothy said no more. But an hour later she offered the shelter of the box to the woman and the club-footed child, whom they had at last overtaken. And questioning this woman, she learnt that she was a factory hand from Paris who was going to the church of Roche-Périac that her child's foot might be healed. "In my family," said the woman, "in my father's time and my grandfather's too, one always did the same thing when a child was ill, one took it on the 12th of July into the chapel of Saint Fortunat at Roche-Périac. It's a certain cure." So, by these two other channels, the legend had passed to this woman of the people and this tramp, but a deformed legend, of which there only remained a few shreds of the truth: the church took the place of the château, Saint Fortunat of the fortune. Only the day of the month mattered; there was no question of the year. There was no mention at all of the medal. And each was making a pilgrimage towards the place from which so many families had looked for miraculous aid. That evening the caravan reached the village, and at once Dorothy obtained information about the Château de la Roche-Périac. The only château of that name that was known was some ruins six miles further on situated on the shore of the ocean on a small peninsula. "We'll sleep here," said Dorothy, "and we'll start early in the morning." They did not start early in the morning. The caravan was drawn into a barn for the night; and soon after midnight Saint-Quentin was awakened by the pungent fumes of smoke and a crackling. He jumped up. The barn was on fire. He shouted and called for help. Some peasants, passing along the high road by a happy chance, ran to his assistance. It was quite time. They had barely dragged the caravan out of the barn when the roof fell in. Dorothy and her comrades were uninjured. But One-eyed Magpie half roasted, refused firmly to let himself be harnessed; the shafts chafed her burns. It was not till seven o'clock that the caravan tottered off, drawn by a wretched horse they had hired, and followed by One-eyed Magpie. As they crossed the square in front of the church, they saw the woman and her child kneeling at the end of the porch, and the tramp on his quest. For them the adventure would go no further. There were no further incidents. Except Saint-Quentin on the box, they went to sleep in the caravan, leaning against one another. At half-past nine they stopped. They had come to a cottage dignified with the name of an inn, on the door of which they read "Widow Amoureux. Lodging for man and beast." A few hundred yards away, at the bottom of a slope which ended in a low cliff, the little peninsula of Périac stretched out into the ocean five promontories which looked like the five fingers of a hand. On their left was the mouth of the Vilaine. For the children it was the end of the expedition. They made a meal in a dimly lighted room, furnished with a zinc counter, in which coffee was served. Then while Castor and Pollux fed One-eyed Magpie, Dorothy questioned the widow Amoureux, a big, cheerful, talkative country-woman about the ruins of Roche-Périac. "Ah, you're going there too, are you, my dear?" the widow exclaimed. "I'm not the first then?" said Dorothy. "Goodness, no. There's already an old gentleman and his wife. I've seen the old gentleman before at this time of year. Once he slept here. He's one of those who seek." "Who seek what?" "Who can tell? A treasure, according to what they say. The people about here don't believe in it. But people come from a long way off who hunt in the woods and turn over the stones." "It's allowed then, is it?" "Why not? The island of Périac--I call it an island because at high tide the road to it is covered--belongs to the monks of the monastery of Sarzeau, a couple of leagues further on. It seems, indeed, that they're ready to sell the ruins and all the land. But who'd buy them? There's none of it cultivated; it's all wild." "Is there any other road to it but this?" "Yes, a stony road which starts at the cliff and runs into the road to Vannes. But I tell you, my dear, it's a lost land--deserted. I don't see ten travelers a year--some shepherds, that's all." At last at ten o'clock, the caravan was properly installed, and in spite of the entreaties of Saint-Quentin who would have liked to go with her and to whom she intrusted the children, Dorothy, dressed in her prettiest frock and adorned with her most striking fichu, started on her campaign. * * * * * The great day had begun--the day of triumph or disappointment, of darkness or light. Whichever it might be, for a girl like Dorothy with her mind always alert and of an ever quivering sensitiveness, the moment was delightful. Her imagination created a fantastic palace, bright with a thousand shining windows, people with good and bad genies, with Prince Charmings and beneficent fairies. A light breeze blew from the sea and tempered the rays of the sun with its freshness. The further she advanced the more distinctly she saw the jagged contours of the five promontories and of the peninsula in which they were rooted in a mass of bushes and green rocks. The meager outline of a half demolished tower rose above the tops of the trees; and here and there among them one caught sight of the gray stones of a ruin. But the slope became steeper. The Vannes' road joined hers where it ran down a break in the cliff, and Dorothy saw that the sea, very high up at the moment, almost bathed the foot of this cliff, covering with calm, shallow water the causeway to the peninsula. On the top were standing, upright, the old gentleman and the lady of whom the widow Amoureux had told her. Dorothy was amazed to recognize Raoul's grandfather and his old flame Juliet Assire. The old Baron! Juliet Assire! How had they been able to get away from the Manor, to escape from Raoul, to make the journey, and reach the threshold of the ruins? She came right up to them without their even seeming to notice her presence. Their eyes were vague; and they were gazing in dull surprise at this sheet of water which hindered their progress. Dorothy was touched. Two centuries of chimerical hopes had bequeathed to the old Baron instructions so precise that they survived the extinction of his power to think. He had come here from a distance, in spite of terrible fatigues and super-human efforts to attain the goal, groping his way, in the dark, and accompanied by another creature, like himself, demented. And behold both of them stopped dead before a little water as before an obstacle there was no surmounting. She said to him gently: "Will you follow me? It's a mere nothing to go through." He raised his head and looked at her and did not reply. The woman also was silent. Neither he nor she could understand. They were automata rather than living beings, urged on by an impulse which was outside them. They had come without knowing what they were doing; they had stopped and they would go back without knowing what they were doing. There was no time to lose. Dorothy did not insist. She pulled up her frock and pinned it between her legs. She took off her shoes and stockings and stepped into the water which was so shallow that her knees were not wet. When she reached the further shore the old people had not budged. With a dumfounded air they still gazed at the unforeseen obstacle. In spite of herself, with a compassionate smile, she stretched out her arms towards them. The old Baron again threw back his head. Juliet Assire was as still as a statue. "Good-bye," said Dorothy, almost happy at their inaction and at being alone to prosecute the enterprise. The approach to the peninsula of Périac is made very narrow by two marshes, according to the widow Amoureux reputed to be very dangerous, between which a narrow band of solid ground affords the only path. This path mounted a wooded ravine, which some faded writing on an old board described as "Bad Going" and came out to a plateau covered with gorse and heather. At the end of twenty minutes Dorothy crossed the débris of part of the old wall which ran round the château. She slackened her pace. At every step it seemed to her that she was penetrating into a more and more mysterious region in which time had accumulated more silence and more solitude. The trees hugged one another more closely. The shade of the brushwood was so thick that no flowers grew beneath it. Who then had lived here formerly and planted these trees, some of which were of rare species and foreign origin? The road split into three paths, goat-tracks, along which one had to walk in a stooping posture under the low branches. She chose at random the middle track of the three and passed through a series of small enclosures marked out by small walls of crumbling stone. Under heavy draperies of ivy she saw rows of buildings. She did not doubt that her goal was close at hand, and her emotion was so great that she had to sit down like a pilgrim who is about to arrive in sight of the sacred spot towards which he has been advancing ever since his earliest days. And of her inmost self she asked this question: "Suppose I have made a mistake? Suppose all this means nothing at all? Yes: in the little leather bag I have in my pocket, there is a medal, and on it the name of a château, and a given day in a given year. And here I am at the château at the appointed time; but all the same what is there to prove that my reasoning is sound, or that anything is going to happen? A hundred and fifty or two hundred years is a very long time, and any number of things may have happened to sweep away the combinations of which I believe I have caught a glimpse." She rose. Step by step she advanced slowly. A pavement of different-colored bricks, arranged in a design, covered the ground. The arch of an isolated gateway, quite bare, opened high above. She passed through it, and at once, at the end of a large court-yard, she saw--and it was all she did see--the face of a clock. A glance at her watch showed her that it was half-past eleven. There was no one else in the ruins. And truly it seemed as if there never could be any one else in this last corner of the world, whither chance could only bring ignorant wayfarers or shepherds in quest of pasturage for their flocks. Indeed, there were only fragments of ruins, rather than actual ruins, covered with ivy and briers--here a porch, there a vault, further on a chimney-piece, further still the skeleton of a summer-house--alone, venerable witnesses to a time at which there had been a house, with a court-yard in front, wings on both sides, surrounded by a park. Further off there stood, in groups or in fragments of avenues, fine old trees, chiefly oaks, wide-spreading, venerable, and majestic. At one side of the court-yard, the shape of which she could make out by the position of the buildings which had crumbled to ruins, part of the front, still intact, and backed by a small hill of ruins, held, at the top of a very low first story, this clock which had escaped by a miracle man's ravages. Across its face stretched its two big hands, the color of rust. Most of the hours, engraved contrary to the usual custom in Roman figures, were effaced. Moss and wall-pellitory were growing between the gaping stones of the face. Right at the bottom of it, under cover in a small niche, a bell awaited the stroke of the hammer. A dead clock, whose heart had ceased to beat. Dorothy had the impression that time had stopped there for centuries, suspended from these motionless hands, from that hammer which no longer struck, from that silent bell in its sheltering niche. Then she espied underneath it, on a marble tablet, some scarcely legible letters, and mounting a pile of stones, she could decipher the words: _In robore fortuna!_ _In robore fortuna!_ The beautiful and noble motto that one found everywhere, at Roborey, at the Manor, at the Château de la Roche-Périac, and on the medal! Was Dorothy right then? Were the instructions given by the medal still valid? And was it truly a meeting-place to which one was summoned, across time and space, in front of this dead clock? She gained control of herself and said, laughing: "A meeting-place to which I alone shall come." So keen was this conviction of hers that she could hardly believe that those who, like herself, had been summoned would come. The formidable series of chances, thanks to which, little by little, she had come to the very heart of this enigmatic adventure, could not logically be repeated in the case of some other privileged being. The chain of tradition must have been broken in the other families, or have ended in fragments of the truth, as the instances of the tramp and the factory hand proved. "No one will come," she repeated. "It is five and twenty to twelve. Consequently----" She did not finish the sentence. A sound came from the land side, a sound near at hand, distinct from those produced by the movements of the sea or the wind. She listened. It came with an even beat which grew more and more distinct. "Some peasant ... some wood-cutter," she thought. No. It was something else. She made it out more clearly the nearer it came: it was the slow and measured step of a horse whose hoofs were striking the harder soil of the path. Dorothy followed its progress through one after the other of the inclosures of the old estate, then along the brick pavement. A clicking of the tongue of a rider, urging on his mount, at intervals came to her ears. Her eyes fixed on the yawning arch Dorothy waited almost shivering with curiosity. And suddenly a horseman appeared. An odd-looking horseman, who looked so large on his little horse, that one was rather inclined to believe that he was advancing by means of those long legs which hung down so far, and pulling the horse along like a child's toy. His check suit, his knickerbockers, his thick woolen stockings, his clean-shaven face, the pipe between his teeth, his phlegmatic air, all proclaimed his English nationality. On seeing Dorothy he said to himself and without the slightest air of astonishment: "Oh." And he would have continued his journey if he had not caught sight of the clock. He pulled in his horse. To dismount he had only to stand on tip-toe and his horse slipped from under him. He knotted the bridle round a root, looked at his watch, and took up his position not far from the clock. "Here is a gentleman who doesn't waste words," thought Dorothy. "An Englishman for certain." She presently discovered that he kept looking at her, but as one looks at a woman one finds pretty and not at all as one looks at a person with whom circumstances demand that one should converse. His pipe having gone out, he lit it again; and so they remained three or four minutes, close to one another, serious, without stirring. The breeze blew the smoke from his pipe towards her. "It's too silly," said Dorothy to herself. "For after all it's very likely that this taciturn gentleman and I have an appointment. Upon my word, I'm going to introduce myself. Under which name?" This question threw her into a state of considerable embarrassment. Ought she to introduce herself to him as Princess of Argonne or as Dorothy the rope-dancer? The solemnity of the occasion called for a ceremonious presentation and the revelation of her rank. But on the other hand her variegated costume with its short skirt called for less pomp. Decidedly "Rope-dancer" sufficed. These considerations, to the humor of which she was quite alive, had brought a smile to her face. The young man observed it. He smiled too. Both of them opened their mouths, and they were about to speak at the same time when an incident stopped them on the verge of utterance. A man came out of the path into the court-yard, a pedestrian with a clean shaven face, very pale, one arm in a sling under a jacket much too large for him, and a Russian soldier's cap. The sight of the clock brought him also to a dead stop. Perceiving Dorothy and her companion, he smiled an expansive smile that opened his mouth from ear to ear, and took off his cap, uncovering a completely shaven head. During this incident the sound of a motor had been throbbing away, at first at some distance. The explosions grew louder, and there burst, once more through the arch, into the court-yard a motor-cycle which went bumping over the uneven ground and stopped short. The motor-cyclist had caught sight of the clock. Quite young, of a well set-up, well-proportioned figure, tall, slim, and of a cheerful countenance, he was certainly, like the first-comer, of the Anglo-Saxon race. Having propped up his motor-cycle, he walked towards Dorothy, watch in hand as if he were on the point of saying: "You will note that I am not late." But he was interrupted by two more arrivals who came almost simultaneously. A second horseman came trotting briskly through the arch on a big, lean horse, and at the sight of the group gathered in front of the clock, drew rein sharply, saying in Italian: "Gently--gently." He had a fine profile and an amiable face, and when he had tied up his mount, he came forward hat in hand, as one about to pay his respects to a lady. But, mounted on a donkey, appeared a fifth individual, from a different direction from any of the others. On the threshold of the court he pulled up in amazement, staring stupidly with wide-open eyes behind his spectacles. "Is it p-p-possible?" he stammered. "Is it possible? They've come. The whole thing isn't a fairy-tale!" He was quite sixty. Dressed in a frock-coat, his head covered with a black straw hat, he wore whiskers and carried under his arm a leather satchel. He did not cease to reiterate in a flustered voice: "They have come!... They have come to the rendezvous!... It's unbelievable!" Up to now Dorothy had been silent in the face of the exclamations and arrivals of her companions. The need of explanations, of speech even, seemed to diminish in her the more they flocked round her. She became serious and grave. Her thoughtful eyes expressed an intense emotion. Each apparition seemed to her as tremendous an event as a miracle. Like the gentleman in the frock-coat with the satchel, she murmured: "Is it possible? They have come to the rendezvous!" She looked at her watch. Noon. "Listen," she said, stretching out her hand. "Listen. The Angelus is ringing somewhere ... at the village church...." They uncovered their heads, and while they listened to the ringing of the bell, which came to them in irregular bursts, one would have said that they were waiting for the clock to start going and connect with the minute that was passing the thread of the minutes of long ago. Dorothy fell on her knees. Her emotion was so deep that she was weeping. CHAPTER XI THE WILL OF THE MARQUIS DE BEAUGREVAL Tears of joy, tears which relieved her strained nerves and bathed her in an immense peacefulness. The five men were greatly disturbed, knowing neither what to do nor what to say. "Mademoiselle?... What's the matter, mademoiselle?" They seemed so staggered by her sobs and by their own presence round her, that Dorothy passed suddenly from tears to laughter, and yielding to her natural impulse, she began forthwith to dance, without troubling to know whether she would appear to them to be a princess or a rope-dancer. And the more this unexpected display increased the embarrassment of her companions the gayer she grew. Fandango, jig, reel, she gave a snatch of each, with a simulated accompaniment of castanets, and a genuine accompaniment of English songs and Auvergnat ritornelles, and above all of bursts of laughter which awakened the echoes of Roche-Périac. "But laugh too, all five of you!" she cried. "You look like five mummies. It's I who order you to laugh, I, Dorothy, rope-dancer and Princess of Argonne. Come, Mr. Lawyer," she added, addressing the gentleman in the frock-coat. "Look more cheerful. I assure you that there's plenty to be cheerful about." She darted to the good man, shook him by the hand, and said, as if to assure him of his status: "You are the lawyer, aren't you? The notary charged with the execution of the provisions of a will. That's much clearer than you think.... We'll explain it to you.... You are the notary?" "That is the fact," stammered the gentleman. "I am Maître Delarue, notary at Nantes." "At Nantes? Excellent; we know where we are. And it's a question of a gold medal, isn't it?... A gold medal which each has received as a summons to the rendezvous?" "Yes, yes," he said, more and more flustered. "A gold medal--a rendezvous." "The 12th of July, 1921." "Yes, yes--1921." "At noon?" "At noon." He made as if to look at his watch. She stopped him: "You needn't take the trouble, Maître Delarue; we've heard the Angelus. You are punctual at the rendezvous.... We are too.... Everything is in order.... Each has his gold medal.... They're going to show it to you." She drew Maître Delarue towards the clock, and said with even greater animation: "This is Maître Delarue, the notary. You understand? If you don't, I can speak English--and Italian--and Javanese." All four of them protested that they understood French. "Excellent. We shall understand one another better. Then this is Maître Delarue; he is the notary, the man who has been instructed to preside at our meeting. In France notaries represent the dead. So that since it is a dead man who brings us together, you see how important Maître Delarue's position is in the matter. You don't grasp it? How funny that is! To me it is all so clear--and so amusing. So strange! It's the prettiest adventure I ever heard of--and the most thrilling. Think now! We all belong to the same family.... We're by way of being cousins. Then we ought to be joyful like relations who have come together. And all the more because--yes: I'm right--all four of you are decorated.... The French Croix de Guerre. Then all four of you have fought?... Fought in France?... You have defended my dear country?" She shook hands with all of them, with an air of affection, and since the American and the Italian displayed an equal warmth, of a sudden, with a spontaneous movement, she rose on tip-toe and kissed them on both cheeks. "Welcome cousin from America ... welcome cousin from Italy ... welcome to my country. And to you two also, greetings. It's settled that we're comrades--friends--isn't it?" The atmosphere was charged with joy and that good humor which comes from being young and full of life. They felt themselves to be really of the same family, scattered members brought together. They no longer felt the constraint of a first meeting. They had known one another for years and years--for ages! cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. So the four men surrounded her, at once attracted by her charm and lightheartedness, and surprised by the light she brought into the obscure story which so suddenly united them to one another. All barriers were swept away. There was none of that slow infiltration of feeling which little by little fills you with trust and sympathy, but the sudden inrush of the most unreserved comradeship. Each wished to please and each felt that he did please. Dorothy separated them and set them in a row as if about to review them. "I'll take you in turn, my friends. Excuse me, Monsieur Delarue, I'll do the questioning and verify their credentials. Number one, the gentleman from America, who are you? Your name?" The American answered: "Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia." "Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia. You received from your father a gold medal?" "From my mother, mademoiselle. My father died many years ago." "And from whom did your mother receive it?" "From her father." "And he from his and so on in succession, isn't that it?" Archibald Webster confirmed her statement in excellent French, as if it was his duty to answer her questions: "And so on in succession, as you say, mademoiselle. A family tradition, which goes back to we don't know when, ascribes a French origin to her family, and directs that a certain medal should be transmitted to the eldest son, without more than two persons ever knowing of its existence." "And what do you understand this tradition to mean?" "I don't know what it means. My mother told me that it gave us a right to a share of a treasure. But she laughed as she told me and sent me to France rather out of curiosity." "Show me your medal, Archibald Webster." The American took the gold medal from his waistcoat pocket. It was exactly like the one Dorothy possessed--the inscription, the size, the dull color were the same. Dorothy showed it to Maître Delarue, then gave it back to the American, and went on with her questioning: "Number two--English, aren't you?" "George Errington, of London." "Tell us what you know, George Errington, of London." The Englishman shook his pipe, emptied it, and answered in equally good French. "I know no more. An orphan from birth, I received the medal three days ago from the hands of my guardian, my father's brother. He told me that, according to my father, it was a matter of collecting a bequest, and according to himself, there was nothing in it, but I ought to obey the summons." "You were right to obey it, George Errington. Show me your medal. Right: you're in order.... Number three--a Russian, doubtless?" The man in the soldier's cap understood; but he did not speak French. He smiled his large smile and gave her a scrap of paper of doubtful cleanliness, on which was written: "Kourobelef, French war, Salonica. War with Wrangel." "The medal?" said Dorothy. "Right. You're one of us. And the medal of number four--the gentleman from Italy?" "Marco Dario, of Geneva," answered the Italian, showing his medal. "I found it on my father's body, in Champagne, one day after we had been fighting side by side. He had never spoken to me about it." "Nevertheless you have come here." "I did not intend to. And then, in spite of myself, as I had returned to Champagne--to my father's tomb, I took the train to Vannes." "Yes," she said: "like the others you have obeyed the command of our common ancestor. What ancestor? And why this command? That is what Monsieur Delarue is going to reveal to us. Come Monsieur Delarue: all is in order. All of us have the token. It is now in order for us to call on you for the explanation." "What explanation?" asked the lawyer, still dazed by so many surprises. "I don't quite know...." "How do you mean you don't know?... Why this leather satchel.... And why have you made the journey from Nantes to Roche-Périac? Come, open your satchel and read to us the documents it must contain." "You truly believe----" "Of course I believe! We have, all five of us, these gentlemen and myself, performed our duty in coming here and informing you of our identity. It is your turn to carry out your mission. We are all ears." The gayety of the young girl spread around her such an atmosphere of cordiality that even Maître Delarue himself felt its beneficent effects. Besides, the business was already in train; and he entered smoothly on ground over which the young girl had traced, in the midst of apparently impenetrable brushwood, a path which he could follow with perfect ease. "But certainly," said he. "But certainly.... There is nothing else to do.... And I must communicate what I know to you.... Excuse me.... But this affair is so disconcerting." Getting the better of the confusion into which he had been thrown, he recovered all the dignity which befits a lawyer. They set him in the seat of honor on a kind of shelf formed by an inequality of the ground, and formed a circle round him. Following Dorothy's instructions, he opened his satchel with the air of importance of a man used to having every eye fixed on him and every ear stretched to catch his every word, and without waiting to be again pressed to speak, embarked on a discourse evidently prepared for the event of his finding himself, contrary to all reasonable expectation, in the presence of some one at the appointed rendezvous. "My preamble will be brief," he said, "for I am eager to come to the object of this reunion. On the day--it is fourteen years ago--on which I installed myself at Nantes in the office of a notary whose practice I had bought, my predecessor, after having given me full information about the more complicated cases in hand, exclaimed: 'Ah, but I was forgetting ... not that it's of any importance.... But all the same.... Look, my dear confrère, this is the oldest set of papers in the office.... And a measly set too, since it only consists of a sealed letter with a note of instructions, which I will read to you: _Missive intrusted to the strict care of the Sire Barbier, scrivener, and of his successors, to be opened on the 12th of July, 1921, at noon, in front of the clock of the Château of Roche-Périac, and to be read in the presence of all possessors of a gold medal struck at my instance._ "There! No other explanations. My predecessor did not receive any from the man from whom he had bought the practice. The most he could learn, after researches among the old registers of the parish of Périac, was that the Sire Barbier (Hippolyte Jean), scrivener, lived at the beginning of the eighteenth century. At what epoch was his office closed? For what reasons were his papers transported to Nantes? Perhaps we may suppose that owing to certain circumstances, one of the lords of Roche-Périac left the country and settled down at Nantes with his furniture, his horses, and his household down to the village scrivener. Anyhow, for nearly two hundred years the letter intrusted to the strict care of the scrivener Barbier and his successors, lay at the bottom of drawers and pigeon-holes, without any one's having tried to violate the secrecy enjoined by the writer of it. And so it came about that in all probability it would fall to my lot to break the seal!" Maître Delarue made a pause and looked at his auditors. They were, as they say, hanging on his lips. Pleased with the impression he had produced, he tapped the leather satchel, and continued: "Need I tell you that my thoughts have very often dwelt on this prospect and that I have been curious to learn the contents of such a letter? A journey even which I made to this château gave me no information, in spite of my searches in the archives of the villages and towns of the district. Then the appointed time drew near. Before doing anything I went to consult the president of the civil court. A question presented itself. If the letter was to be considered a testamentary disposition, perhaps I ought not to open it except in the presence of that magistrate. That was my opinion. It was not his. He was of the opinion that we were confronted by a display of fantasy (he went so far as to murmur the word 'humbug') which was outside the scope of the law and that I should act quite simply. 'A trysting-place beneath the elm,' he said, joking, 'has been fixed for you at noon on the 12th of July. Go there, Monsieur Delarue, break the seal of the missive in accordance with the instructions, and come back and tell me all about it. I promise you not not to laugh if you come back looking like a fool.' Accordingly, in a very sceptical state of mind, I took the train to Vannes, then the coach, and then hired a donkey to bring me to the ruins. You can imagine my surprise at finding that I was not alone under the elm--I mean the clock--at the rendezvous but that all of you were waiting for me." The four young people laughed heartily. Marco Dario, of Genoa, said: "All the same the business grows serious." George Errington, of London, added: "Perhaps the story of the treasure is not so absurd." "Monsieur Delarue's letter is going to inform us," said Dorothy. So the moment had come. They gathered more closely round the notary. A certain gravity mingled with the gayety on the young faces; and it grew deeper when Maître Delarue displayed before the eyes of all one of those large square envelopes which formerly one made oneself out of a thick sheet of paper. It was discolored with that peculiar shine which only the lapse of time can give to paper. It was sealed with five seals, once upon a time red perhaps, but now of a grayish violet seamed by a thousand little cracks like a network of wrinkles. In the left-hand corner at the top, the formula of transmission must have been renewed several times, traced afresh with ink by the successors of the scrivener Barbier. "The seals are quite intact," said Monsieur Delarue. "You can even manage to make out the three Latin words of the motto." "_In robore fortuna_," said Dorothy. "Ah, you know?" said the notary, surprised. "Yes, Monsieur Delarue, yes, they are the same as those engraved on the gold medals, and those I discovered just now, half rubbed out, under the face of the clock." "We have here an indisputable connection," said the notary, "which draws together the different parts of the affair and confers on it an authenticity----" "Open the letter--open it, Monsieur Delarue," said Dorothy impatiently. Three of the seals were broken; the envelope was unfolded. It contained a large sheet of parchment, broken into four pieces which separated and had to be put together again. From top to bottom and on both sides the sheet of parchment was covered with large handwriting with bold down-strokes, which had evidently been written in indelible ink. The lines almost touched and the letters were so close together that the whole had the appearance of an old printed page in a very large type. "I'm going to read it," murmured Monsieur Delarue. "Don't lose a second--for the love of God!" cried Dorothy. He took a second pair of glasses from his pocket and put them on over the first, and read: "'_Written this day, the 12th of July, 1721_ ...'" "Two centuries!" gasped the notary and began again: "'_Written this day, the 12th of July, 1721, the last day of my existence, to be read the 12th of July, 1921, the first day of my resurrection._'" The notary stopped short. The young people looked at one another with an air of stupefaction. Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia, observed: "This gentleman was mad." "The word resurrection is perhaps used in a symbolic sense," said Maître Delarue. "We shall learn from what follows: I will continue: "'_My children_'...." He stopped again and said: "'_My children_'.... He is addressing you." "For goodness sake, Maître Delarue, do not stop again, I beg you!" exclaimed Dorothy. "All this is thrilling." "Nevertheless...." "No, Maître Delarue, comment is useless. We're eager to know, aren't we, comrades?" The four young men supported her vehemently. Thereupon the notary resumed his reading, with the hesitation and repetitions imposed by the difficulties of the text: "'_My children_, "'_On leaving a meeting of the Academy of the sciences of Paris, to which Monsieur de Fontenelle had had the goodness to invite me, the illustrious author of the "Discourses on the Plurality of Worlds," seized me by the arm and said:_ "'Marquis, would you mind enlightening me on a point about which, it seems, you maintain a shrinking reserve? How did you get that wound on your left hand, get your _fourth finger cut off at the very root? The story goes that you left that finger at the bottom of one of your retorts, for you have the reputation, Marquis, of being something of an alchemist, and of seeking, inside the walls of your Château of Roche-Périac, the elixir of life._' "'I do not seek it, Monsieur de Fontenelle,' I answered, 'I possess it.' "'Truly?' "'Truly, Monsieur de Fontenelle, and if you will permit me to put you in possession of a small phial, the pitiless Fate will certainly have to wait till your hundredth year.' "'I accept with the greatest pleasure,' he said, laughing--'on condition that you keep me company. We are of the same age--which gives us another forty good years to live.' "'For my part, Monsieur de Fontenelle, to live longer does not greatly appeal to me. What is the good of sticking stubbornly to a world in which no new spectacle can surprise and in which the day that is coming will be the same as the day that is done. What I wish to do is to come to life again, to come to life again in a century or two, to make the acquaintance of my grandchildren's children, and see what men have done since our time. There will be great changes here below, in the government of empires as well as in everyday life. I shall learn about them.' "'Bravo, Marquis!' exclaimed Monsieur de Fontenelle, who seemed more and more amused. 'Bravo! It is another elixir which will give you this marvelous power.' "'Another,' I asserted. 'I brought it back with me from India, where, as you know, I spent ten years of my youth, becoming the friend of the priests of that marvelous country, from which every revelation and every religion came to us. They initiated me into some of their chief mysteries.' "'Why not into all?' asked Monsieur de Fontenelle, with a touch of irony. "'There are some secrets which they refused to reveal to me, such as the power to communicate with those other worlds, about which you have just discoursed so admirably, Monsieur de Fontenelle, and the power to live again.' "Nevertheless, Marquis, you claim----' "'That secret, Monsieur de Fontenelle, I stole; and to punish me for the theft they sentenced me to the punishment of having all my fingers torn off. After pulling off the first finger, they offered to pardon me, if I consented to restore the phial I had stolen. I told them where it was hidden. But I had taken the precaution beforehand to change the contents, having poured the elixir into another phial.' "'So that, at the cost of one of your fingers, you have purchased a kind of immortality.... Of which you propose to make use. Eh, Marquis,' said Monsieur de Fontenelle. "'As soon as I shall have put my affairs in order,' I answered; 'that is to say, in about a couple of years.' "'You're going to make use of it to live again?' "'In the year of grace 1921.' "My story caused Monsieur de Fontenelle the greatest amusement; and in taking leave of me, he promised to relate it in his Memoirs as a proof of my lively imagination--and doubtless, as he said to himself, of my insanity." Maître Delarue paused to take breath and looked round the circle with questioning eyes. Marco Dario, of Genoa, threw back his head and laughed. The Russian showed his white teeth. The two Anglo-Saxons seemed greatly amused. "Rather a joke," said George Errington, of London, with a chuckle. "Some farce," said Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia. Dorothy said nothing; her eyes were thoughtful. Silence fell and Maître Dalarue continued: "Monsieur de Fontenelle was wrong to laugh, my children. There was no imagination or insanity about it. The great Indian priests know things that we do not know and never shall know; and I am the master of one of the most wonderful of their secrets. The time has come to make use of it. I am resolved to do so. Last year, my wife was killed by accident, leaving me in bitter sorrow. My four sons, like me of a venturesome spirit, are fighting or in business in foreign lands. I live alone. Shall I drag on to the end an old age that is useless and without charm? No. Everything is ready for my departure ... and for my return. My old servants, Geoffrey and his wife, faithful companions for thirty years, with a full knowledge of my project, have sworn to obey me. I say good-bye to my age. "Learn, my children, the events which are about to take place at the Château of Roche-Périac. At two o'clock in the afternoon I shall fall into a stupor. The doctor, summoned by Geoffrey, will ascertain that my heart is no longer beating. I shall be quite dead as far as human knowledge goes; and my servants will nail me up in the coffin which is ready for me. When night comes, Geoffrey and his wife will take me out of that coffin and carry me on a stretcher, to the ruins of Cocquesin tower, the oldest donjon of the Lords of Périac. Then they will fill the coffin with stones and nail it up again. "For his part, Master Barbier, executor of my will and administrator of my property, will find in my drawer instructions, charging him to notify my four sons of my death and to convey to each of the four his share of his inheritance. Moreover by means of a special courier he will dispatch to each a gold medal which I have had struck, engraved with my motto and the date the 12th of July, 1921, the day of my resurrection. This medal will be transmitted from hand to hand, from generation to generation, beginning with the eldest son or grandson, in such a manner that not more than two persons shall know the secret at one time. Lastly Master Barbier will keep this letter, which I am going to seal with five seals, and which will be transmitted from scrivener to scrivener till the appointed date. "When you read this letter, my children, the hour of noon on the 12th of July, 1921, will have struck. You will be gathered together under the clock of my château, fifty yards from old Cocquesin tower, where I shall have been sleeping for two centuries. I have chosen it as my resting-place, calculating that, if the revolutions which I foresee destroy the buildings in use, they will leave alone that which is already a crumbling ruin. Then, going along the avenue of oaks, which my father planted, you will come to this tower, which will doubtless be much the same as it is to-day. You will stop under the arch from which the draw-bridge was formerly raised, and one of you counting to the left, from the groove of the portcullis, the third stone above it, will push it straight before him, while another, counting on the right, always from the groove, the third stone above it, will do as the first is doing. Under this double pressure, exercised at the same time, the middle of the right wall will swing back inwards and form an incline, which will bring you to the bottom of a stone staircase in the thickness of the wall. "Lighted by a torch, you will ascend a hundred and thirty-two steps, they will bring you to a partition of plaster which Geoffrey will have built up after my death. You will break it down with a pick-ax, waiting for you on the last step, and you will see a small massive door, the key of which only turns if one presses at the same time the three bricks which form part of that step. "Through that door you will enter a chamber in which there will be a bed behind curtains. You will draw aside those curtains. I shall be sleeping there. "Do not be surprised, my children, at finding me younger perhaps than the portrait of me which Monsieur Nicolas de Largillière, the King's painter, painted last year, and which hangs at the head of my bed. Two centuries' sleep, the resting of my heart, which will scarcely beat, will, I have no doubt, have filled up my wrinkles and restored youth to my features. It will not be an old man you will gaze upon. "My children, the phial will be on a stool beside the bed, wrapped in linen, corked with virgin wax. You will at once break the neck of the phial. While one of you opens my teeth with the point of a knife, another will pour the elixir, not drop by drop but in a thin trickle, which should flow down to the bottom of my throat. Some minutes will pass. Then little by little life will return. The beating of my heart will grow quicker. My breast will rise and fall; and my eyes will open. "Perhaps, my children, it will be necessary for you to speak in low voices, and not light up the room with too bright a light, that my eyes and ears may not suffer any shock. Perhaps on the other hand I shall only see you and hear you indistinctly, with enfeebled organs. I do not know. I foresee a period of torpor and uneasiness, during which I shall have to collect my thoughts as one does on awaking from sleep. Moreover I shall make no haste about it, and I beg you not to try to quicken my efforts. Quiet days and a nourishing diet will insensibly restore me to the sweetness of life. "Have no fear at all that I shall need to live at your expense. Unknown to my relations I brought back from the Indies four diamonds of extraordinary size, which I have hidden in a hiding-place there is no finding. They will easily suffice to keep me in luxury befitting my station. "Since I have to take into consideration that I may have forgotten the secret hiding-place of the diamonds, I have set forth the secret in some lines enclosed herein in a second envelope bearing the designation 'The Codicil.' "Of this codicil I have not breathed a word, not even to my servant Geoffrey and his wife. If out of human weakness they bequeath to their children an account revealing my secret history, they will not be able to reveal the hiding-place of those four marvelous diamonds, which they have often admired and which they will seek in vain after I am gone. "The enclosed envelope then will be handed over to me as soon as I return to life. In the event--to my thinking impossible, but which none the less your interests compel me to take into account--of destiny having betrayed me and of your finding no trace of me, you will yourselves open the envelope and learning the whereabouts of the hiding-place, take possession of the diamonds. Then and thereafter I declare that the ownership of the diamonds is vested in those of my descendants who shall present the gold medal, and that no person shall have the right to intervene in the fair partition of them, on which they shall agree among themselves, and I beg them to make that partition themselves as their consciences shall direct. "I have said what I have to say, my children. I am about to enter into the silence and await your coming. I do not doubt that you will come from all the corners of the earth at the imperious summons of the gold medal. Sprung from the same stock, be as brothers and sisters among yourselves. Approach with serious minds him who sleeps, and deliver him from the bonds which keep him in the kingdom of darkness. "Written by my own hand, in perfect health of mind and body, this day, the 12th of July, 1721. Delivered under my hand and seal. "Jean-Pierre-Augustin de la Roche, Marquis de ----" Maître Delarue was silent, bent nearer to the paper, and murmured: "The signature is scarcely legible: the name begins with a B or an R ... the flourish muddles up all the letters." Dorothy said slowly: "Jean-Pierre-Augustin de la Roche, Marquis de Beaugreval." "Yes, yes: that's it!" cried the notary at once. "Marquis de Beaugreval. How did you know?" CHAPTER XII THE ELIXIR OF RESURRECTION Dorothy did not answer. She was still quite absorbed in the strange will of the Marquis. Her companions, their eyes fixed on her, seemed to be waiting for her to express an opinion; and since she remained silent, George Earrington, of London, said: "Not a bad joke. What?" She shook her head: "Is it quite certain, cousin, that it is a joke?" "Oh, mademoiselle! This resurrection ... the elixir ... the hidden diamonds!" "I don't say that it isn't," said Dorothy, smiling. "The old fellow does seem to me a trifle cracked. Nevertheless the letter he has written to us is certainly authentic; at the end of two centuries we have come, as he foresaw that we should, to the rendezvous he appointed, and above all we are certainly members of the same family." "I think that we might start embracing all over again, mademoiselle." "I'm sure, if our ancestor permits it, I shall be charmed," said Dorothy. "But he does permit it." "We'll go and ask him." Maître Delarue protested: "You'll go without me, mademoiselle. Understand once and for all that I am not going to see whether Jean-Pierre-Augustin de la Roche, Marquis de Beaugreval, is still alive at the age of two hundred and sixty-two years!" "But he isn't as old as all that, Maître Delarue. We need not count the two hundred years' sleep. Then it's only a matter of sixty-two years; that's quite normal. His friend, Monsieur de Fontenelle, as the Marquis predicted and thanks to an elixir of life, lived to be a hundred." "In fact you do not believe in it, mademoiselle?" "No. But all the same there should be something in it." "What else can there be in it?" "We shall know presently. But at the moment I confess to my shame that I should like before----" She paused; and with one accord they cried: "What?" She laughed. "Well, the truth is I'm hungry--hungry with a two-hundred-year-old hunger--as hungry as the Marquis de Beaugreval must be. Has any of you by any chance----" The three young men darted away. One ran to his motor-cycle, the other two to their horses. Each had a haversack full of provisions which they brought and set out on the grass at Dorothy's feet. The Russian Kourobelef, who had only a slice of bread, dragged a large flat stone in front of her by way of table. "This is really nice!" she said, clapping her hands. "A real family lunch! We invite you to join us, Maître Delarue, and you also, soldier of Wrangel." The meal, washed down by the good wine of Anjou, was a merry one. They drank the health of the worthy nobleman who had had the excellent idea of bringing them together at his château; and Webster made a speech in his honor. The diamonds, the codicil, the survival of their ancestor and his resurrection had become so many trifles to which they paid no further attention. For them the adventure came to an end with the reading of the letter and the improvised meal. And even so it was amazing enough! "And so amusing!" said Dorothy, who kept laughing. "I assure you that I have never been so amused--never." Her four cousins, as she called them, hung on her lips and never took their eyes off her, amused and astonished by everything she said. At first sight they had understood her and she had understood them, without the five of them having to pass through the usual stages of becoming intimate, through which people who are thrown together for the first time generally have to pass. To them she was grace, beauty, spirit and freshness. She represented the charming country from which their ancestors had long ago departed; they found in her at once a sister of whom they were proud and a woman they burned to win. Already rivals, each of them strove to appear at his best. Errington, Webster, and Dario organized contests, feats of strength, exhibitions of balancing; they ran races. The only prize they asked for was that Dorothy, queen of the tourney, should regard them with favor with those beautiful eyes, of which they felt the profound seduction, and which appeared to them the most beautiful eyes they had ever seen. But the winner of the tournament was Dorothy herself. Directly she took part in it, all that the others could do was to sit down, look on, and wonder. A fragment of wall, of which the top had crumbled so thin that it was nearly a sharp edge, served her as a tight-rope. She climbed trees and let herself drop from branch to branch. Springing upon the big horse of Dario she forced him through the paces of a circus horse. Then, seizing the bridle of the pony, she did a turn on the two of them, lying down, standing up, or astride. She performed all these feats with a modest grace, full of reserve, without a trace of coquetry. The young men were no less enthusiastic than amazed. The acrobat delighted them. But the young girl inspired them with a respect from which not one of them dreamt of departing. Who was she? They called her princess, laughing; but their laughter was full of deference. Really they did not understand it. It was not till three in the afternoon that they decided to carry the adventure to its end. They all started to do so in the spirit of picnickers. Maître Delarue, to whose head the good wine of Anjou had mounted in some quantity, with his broad bow unknotted and his tall hat on the back of his head, led the way on his donkey, chanting couplets about the resurrection of Marquis Lazarus. Dario, of Genoa, imitated a mandolin accompaniment. Errington and Webster held over Dorothy's head, to keep the sun off it, an umbrella made of ferns and wild flowers. * * * * * They went round the hillock, which was composed of the débris of the old château, behind the clock and along a beautiful avenue of trees centuries old, which ended in a circular glade in the middle of which rose a magnificent oak. Maître Delarue said in the tone of a guide: "These are the trees planted by the Marquis de Beaugreval's father. You will observe their vigor. Venerable trees, if ever there were any! Behold the oak king! Whole generations have taken shelter under his boughs. Hats off, gentlemen!" Then they came to the woody slopes of a small hill, on the summit of which in the middle of a circular embankment, formed by the ruins of the wall that had encircled it, rose a tower oval in shape. "Cocquesin tower," said Maître Delarue, more and more cheerful. "Venerable ruins, if ever there were any! Remnants of the feudal keep! That's where the sleeping Marquis of the enchanted wood is waiting for us, whom we're going to resuscitate with a thimbleful of foaming elixir." The blue sky appeared through the empty windows. Whole masses of wall had fallen down. However, the whole of the right side seemed to be intact; and if there really was a staircase and some kind of habitation, as the Marquis had stated, it could only be in that part of the tower. And now the arch, against which the draw-bridge had formerly been raised opened before them. The approach to it was so blocked by interlaced briars and bushes, that it took them a long time to reach the vault in which were the stones indicated by the Marquis de Beaugreval. Then, another barrier of fallen stones, and another effort to clear a double path to the two walls. "Here we are," said Dorothy at last. She had directed their labors. "And we can be quite sure that no one has been before us." Before beginning the operation which had been enjoined on them they went to the end of the vault. It opened on to the immense nave formed by the interior of the keep, its stories fallen away, its only roof the sky. They saw, one above the other, the embrasures of four fireplaces, under chimney-pieces of sculptured stone, full now of wild plants. One might have described it as the oval of a Roman amphitheater, with a series of small vaulted chambers above, of which one perceived the gaping openings, separated by passages into distinct groups. "The visitors who risk coming to Roche-Périac can enter from this side," said Dorothy. "Wedding parties from the neighborhood must come here now and then. Look: there are greasy pieces of paper and sardine-tins scattered about on the ground." "It's odd that the draw-bridge vault hasn't been cleared out," said Webster. "By whom? Do you think that picnickers are going to waste their time doing what we have done, when on the opposite side there are easy entrances?" They did not seem in any hurry to get to work to verify the statements of the Marquis; and it was rather to have their consciences clear and to be able to say to themselves without any equivocation, "The adventure is finished," that they attacked the walls of the vault. Dorothy, sceptical as the others, again carelessly took command, and said: "Come on, cousins. You didn't come from America and Russia to stand still with folded arms. We owe our ancestor this proof of our good will before we have the right to throw our medals into drawers. Dario, of Genoa--Errington, be so good as to push, each on the side you are, the third stone at the top. Yes: those two, since this is the groove in which the old portcullis worked." The stones were a good height above the ground, so that the Englishman and the Italian had to raise their arms to reach them. Following Dorothy's advice, they climbed on to the shoulders of Webster and Kourobelef. "Are you ready?" "We're ready," replied Errington and Dario. "Then push gently with a continuous pressure. And above all have faith! Maître Delarue has no faith. So I am not asking him to do anything." The two young men set their hands against the two stones and pushed hard. "Come: a little vigor!" said Dorothy in a tone of jest. "The statements of the Marquis are gospel truth. He has written that the stone on the right will slip back. Let the stone on the right slip back." "Mine _is_ moving," said the Englishman, on the left. "So is mine," said the Italian, on the right. "It isn't possible!" cried Dorothy incredulously. "But it is! But it is!" declared the Englishman. "And the stone above it, too. They are slipping back from the top." The words were hardly out of his mouth, when the two stones, forming one piece, slipped back into the interior of the wall and revealed in the semi-darkness the foot of a staircase and some steps. The Englishman uttered a cry of triumph: "The worthy gentleman did not lie! There's the staircase!" For a moment they remained speechless. Not that there was anything extraordinary in the affair so far; but it was a confirmation of the first part of the Marquis de Beaugreval's statement; and they asked themselves if the rest of his predictions would not be fulfilled with the same exactness. "If it turns out that there are a hundred and thirty-two steps, I shall declare myself convinced," said Errington. "What?" said Maître Delarue, who also appeared deeply impressed. "Do you mean to assert that the Marquis----" "That the Marquis is awaiting us like a man who is expecting our visit." "You're raving," growled the notary. "Isn't he, mademoiselle?" The young men hauled themselves on to the landing formed by the stones which had slipped back. Dorothy joined them. Two electric pocket-lamps took the place of the torch suggested by the Marquis de Beaugreval, and they set about mounting the high steps which wound upwards in a very narrow space. "Fifteen--sixteen--seventeen," Dario counted. To hearten himself, Maître Delarue sang the couplets of "da Tour, prende garde." But at the thirtieth step he began to save his breath. "It's a steep climb, isn't it?" said Dorothy. "Yes it is. But it's chiefly the idea of paying a visit to a dead man. It makes my legs a bit shaky." At the fiftieth step a hole in the wall let in some light. Dorothy looked out and saw the woods of La Roche-Périac; but a cornice, jutting out, prevented her from seeing the ground at the foot of the keep. They continued the ascent. Maître Delarue kept singing in a more and more shaky voice, and towards the end it was rather a groaning than a singing. "A hundred ... a hundred and ten ... a hundred and twenty." At a hundred and thirty-two he made the announcement: "It is indeed the last. A wall blocks the staircase. About this also our ancestor was telling the truth." "And are there three bricks let into the step?" "There are." "And a pick-ax?" "It's here." "Come: on getting to the top of the staircase and examining what we find there, every detail agrees with the will, so that we have only to carry out the good man's final instructions." She said: "Break down the wall, Webster. It's only a plaster partition." At the first blow in fact the wall crumbled away, disclosing a small, low door. "Goodness!" muttered the lawyer, who was no longer trying to dissemble his uneasiness. "The program is indeed being carried out item by item." "Ah, you're becoming a trifle less sceptical, Maître Delarue. You'll be declaring next that the door will open." "I do declare it. This old lunatic was a clever mechanician and a scenical producer of the first order." "You speak of him as if he were dead," observed Dorothy. The notary seized her arm. "Of course I do! I'm quite willing to admit that he's behind this door. But alive? No, no! Certainly not!" She put her foot on one of the bricks. Errington and Dario pressed the two others. The door jerked violently, quivered, and turned on its hinges. "Holy Virgin!" murmured Dario. "We're confronted by a genuine miracle. Are we going to see Satan?" By the light of their lamps they perceived a fair-sized room with an arched ceiling. No ornament relieved the bareness of the stone walls. There was nothing in the way of furniture in it. But one judged that there was a small, low room, which formed an alcove, from the piece of tapestry, roughly nailed to a beam, which ran along the left side of it. The five men and Dorothy did not stir, silent, motionless. Maître Delarue, extremely pale, seemed very ill at ease indeed. Was it the fumes of wine, or the distress inspired by mystery? No one was smiling any longer. Dorothy could not withdraw her eyes from the piece of tapestry. So the adventure did not come to an end with the astonishing meeting of the Marquis' heirs, nor with the reading of his fantastic will. It went as far as the hollow stairway in the old tower, to which no one had ever penetrated, to the very threshold of the inviolable retreat in which the Marquis had drunk the draft which brings sleep.... Or which kills. What was there behind the tapestry? A bed, of course ... some garments which kept perhaps the shape of the body they had covered ... and besides, a handful of ashes. She turned her head to her companions as if to say to them: "Shall I go first?" They stood motionless--undecided, ill at ease. Then she took a step forward--then two. The tapestry was within reach. With a hesitating hand she took hold of the edge of it, while the young men drew nearer. They turned the light of their lamps into the alcove. At the back of it was a bed. On that bed lay a man. * * * * * This vision was, in spite of everything, so unexpected, that for a few seconds Dorothy's legs almost failed her, and she let the tapestry fall. It was Archibald Webster who, deeply perturbed, raised it quickly, and walked briskly to this sleeping man, as if he were about to shake him and awake him forthwith. The others tumbled into the alcove after him. Archibald stopped short at the bed, with his arm raised, and dared not make another movement. One might have judged the man on the bed to be sixty years old. But in the strange paleness of that wholly colorless skin, beneath which flowed no single drop of blood, there was something that was of no age. A face absolutely hairless. Not an eyelash, no eyebrows. The nose, cartilage and all, transparent like the noses of some consumptives. No flesh. A jaw, bones, cheek-bones, large sunken eyelids. That was the face between two sticking-out ears; and above it was an enormous forehead running up into an entirely bald skull. "The finger--the finger!" murmured Dorothy. The fourth finger of the left hand was missing, cut exactly level with the palm as the will had stated. The man was dressed in a coat of chestnut-colored cloth, a black silk waistcoat, embroidered in green, and breeches. His stockings were of fine wool. He wore no shoes. "He _must_ be dead," said one of the young men in a low voice. To make sure, it would have been necessary to bend down and apply one's ear to the breast above the heart. But they had an odd feeling that, at the slightest touch, this shape of a man would crumble to dust and so vanish like a phantom. Besides, to make such an experiment, would it not be to commit sacrilege? To suspect death and question a corpse: none of them dared. Dorothy shivered, her womanly nerves strained to excess. Maître Delarue besought her: "Let's get away.... It's got nothing to do with us.... It's a devilish business." But George Errington had an idea. He took a small mirror from his pocket and held it close to the man's lips. After the lapse of some seconds there was a film on it. "Oh! I b-b-believe he's alive!" he stammered. "He's alive! He's alive!" muttered the young people, keeping with difficulty their excitement within bounds. Maître Delarue's legs were so shaky that he had to sit down on the foot of the bed. He murmured again and again: "A devilish business! We've no right----" They kept looking at one another with troubled faces. The idea that this dead man was alive--for he was dead, undeniably dead--the idea that this dead man was alive shocked them as something monstrous. And yet was not the evidence that he was alive quite as strong as the evidence that he was dead? They believed in his death because it was impossible that he should be alive. But could they deny the evidence of their own eyes because that evidence was against all reason? Dorothy said: "Look: his chest rises and falls--you can see it--ever so slowly and ever so little. But it does. Then he is _not_ dead." They protested. "No.... It's out of the question. Such a phenomenon would be inexplicable." "I'm not so sure ... I'm not so sure. It might be a kind of lethargy ... a kind of hypnotic trance," she murmured. "A trance which lasted two hundred years?" "I don't know.... I don't understand it." "Well?" "Well, we must act." "But how?" "As the will tells us to act. The instructions are quite definite. Our duty is to execute them blindly and without question." "How?" "We must try to awaken him with the elixir of which the will speaks." "Here it is," said Marco Dario, picking up from the stool a small object wrapped in linen. He unfolded the wrapping and displayed a phial, of antique shape, heavy, of crystal, with a round bottom and long neck which terminated in a large wax cork. He handed it to Dorothy, who broke off the top of the neck with a sharp tap against the edge of the stool. "Has any of you a knife?" she asked. "Thank you, Archibald. Open the blade and introduce the point between the teeth as the will directs." They acted as might a doctor confronted by a patient whom he does not know exactly how to handle, but whom he nevertheless treats, without the slightest hesitation, according to the formal prescription in use in similar cases. They would see what happened. The essential thing was to carry out the instructions. Archibald Webster did not find it easy to perform his task. The lips were tightly closed, the upper teeth, for the most part black and decayed, were so firmly wedged against the lower that the knife-point could not force its way between them. He had to introduce it sideways, and then raise the handle to force the jaws apart. "Don't move," said Dorothy. She bent down. Her right hand, holding the phial, tilted it gently. A few drops of a liquid of the color and odor of green Chartreuse fell between the lips; then an even trickle flowed from the phial, which was soon empty. "That's done," she said, straightening herself. Looking at her companions, she tried to smile. All of them were staring at the dead man. She murmured: "We've got to wait. It doesn't work straightaway." And as she uttered the words she thought: "And then what? I am ready to admit that it will have an effect and that this man will awake from sleep! Or rather from death.... For such a sleep is nothing but death. No: really we are the victims of a collective hallucination.... No: there was no film on the mirror. No: the chest does not rise and fall. No--a thousand times no! One does _not_ come to life again!" "Three minutes gone," said Marco Dario. And watch in hand, he counted, minute by minute, five more minutes--then five more. The waiting of these six persons would have been incomprehensible, had its explanation not been found in the fact that all the events foretold by the Marquis de Beaugreval had followed one another with mathematical precision. There had been a series of facts which was very like a series of miracles, which compelled the witnesses of those facts to be patient--at least till the moment fixed for the supreme miracle. "Fifteen minutes," said the Italian. A few more seconds passed. Of a sudden they quivered. A hushed exclamation burst from the lips of each. _The man's eyelids had moved._ In a moment the phenomenon was repeated, and so clearly and distinctly that further doubt was impossible. It was the twitching of two eyes that tried to open. At the same time the arms stirred. The hands quivered. "Oh!" stuttered the distracted notary. "He's alive! He's alive!" CHAPTER XIII LAZARUS Dorothy gazed; her eyes missed no slightest movement. Like her, the young men remained motionless, with drawn faces. The Italian, however, just sketched the sign of the cross. "He's alive!" broke in Maître Delarue. "Look; he's looking at us." A strange gaze. It did not shift; it did not try to see. The gaze of the newly born, animated by no thought. Vague, unconscious, it shunned the light of the lamps and seemed ready to be extinguished in a new sleep. On the other hand the rest of the body became instinct with life, as if the blood resumed its normal course under the impulsion of a heart which again began to beat. The arms and the hands moved with purposed movements. Then suddenly the legs slipped off the bed. The bust was raised. After several attempts the man sat up. Then they saw him face to face; and since one of the young men raised his lamp that its light might not shine in his eyes, that lamp lit up on the wall of the alcove above the bed the portrait of which the Marquis had made mention. They could then perceive that it was indeed the portrait of the man. The same enormous brow, the same eyes deeply sunk in their orbits, the same high cheek-bones, the same bony jaw, the same projecting ears. But the man, contrary to the prediction in the letter, had greatly aged and grown considerably thinner, for the portrait represented a nobleman of good appearance and sufficiently plump. Twice he tried to stand upright without succeeding. He was too weak; his legs refused to support him. He seemed also to be laboring under a heavy oppression and to breathe with difficulty, either because he had lost the habit or because he needed more air. Dorothy observed two planks nailed to the wall, pointed them out to Dario and Webster, and signed to them to pull them down. It was easy to do so, for they were not nailed very firmly to the wall; and they uncovered a small round window, a bull's-eye rather, not more than a foot or fifteen inches across. A whiff of fresh air blew into the room all round the man sitting on the bed; and for all that he appeared to have no understanding of anything, he turned towards the window, and opening his mouth, drew in great breaths. All these trifling incidents were spread over a considerable time. The astonished witnesses of them had a feeling that they were taking part in the mysterious phases of a resurrection which they were wholly unable to consider final. Every minute gained by this living dead man appeared to them a new miracle which passed all imagining, and they hoped for the inevitable event which would restore things to their natural order, and which would be as it were the disarticulation and crumbling away of this incredible automaton. Dorothy stamped her foot impatiently, as if she were struggling against herself and trying to shake off a torpor. She turned away from this sight which fascinated her, and her face took on an expression of such profound thought, that her companions withdrew their eyes from the man to watch her. Her eyes were seeking something. Their blue irises became of a deeper blue. They seemed to see beyond what ordinary eyes see and to pursue the truth into more distant regions. At the end of a minute or two she said: "We must try." She went firmly to the bed. After all here was a clear and definite phenomenon; it had to be taken into account: this man was alive. It was necessary therefore to treat him as a living being, who has ears to hear and a mouth to speak with, and who distinguishes the things about him by a personal existence. This man had a name. Every circumstance pointed directly to the fact that his presence in this sealed chamber was the result not of a miracle--a hypothesis which they need only examine as a last resort--but of an experiment that had succeeded--a hypothesis which one had no right to set aside for _a priori_ reasons, however astonishing it might appear to be. Then why not question him? She sat down beside him, took his hands, which were cold and moist, in hers and said gravely: "We have hastened hither at your summons.... We are they to whom the gold medal----" She stopped. The words were not coming easily to her. They seemed to her absurd and childish; and she was quite certain that they must appear so to those who heard them. But she must make an effort to continue: "In our families the gold medal has passed from hand to hand right down to us.... It is now for two centuries that the tradition has been forming and that your will----" But she was incapable of continuing on these pompous lines. Another voice within her murmured: "Goodness, how idiotic what I am saying is!" However, the hands of the man were growing warm from their contact with hers. He almost wore an air of hearing the noise of her words and of understanding that they were addressed to him. And so, dropping the phrase-making, she brought herself to speak to him simply, as to a poor man whom his resurrection did not set apart from human necessities: "Are you hungry?... Do you want to eat? ... to drink? Answer. What would you like?... My friends and I will try...." The old man, with the light full on his face, his mouth open, his lower lip hanging down, preserved a dull and stupid countenance, animated by no expression, no desire. Without turning away from him, Dorothy called out to the notary: "Don't you think we ought to offer him the second envelope, Maître Delarue, the codicil? His understanding may perhaps awake at the sight of this paper which formerly belonged to him, and which, according to the instructions in the will, we're to hand over to him." Maître Delarue agreed with her and passed the envelope to her. She held it out to the old man, saying: "Here are the directions for finding the diamonds, written by yourself. No one knows these directions. Here they are." She stretched out her hand. It was clear that the old man tried to respond with a similar movement. She accentuated the gesture. He lowered his eyes towards the envelope; and his fingers opened to receive it. "You quite understand?" she asked. "You are going to open this envelope. It contains the secret of the diamonds--a fortune." Once more she stopped abruptly, as if struck by a sudden thought, something she had unexpectedly observed. Webster said to her: "He certainly understands. When he opens the letter and reads it, the whole of the past will come back to his memory. We may give it to him." George Errington supported him. "Yes, mademoiselle, we may give it to him. It's a secret which belongs to him." Dorothy however did not perform the action she had suggested. She looked at the old man with the most earnest attention. Then she took the lamp, moved it away, then near, examined the mutilated hand, and then suddenly burst into a fit of wild laughter; it burst out with all the violence of laughter long restrained. Bent double, holding her ribs, she laughed till it hurt her. Her pretty head shook her wavy hair in a series of jerks. And it was a laugh so fresh and so young, of such irresistible gayety that the young men burst out laughing in their turn. Maître Delarue, on the other hand, irritated by a hilarity which seemed to him out of place in the circumstances protested in a tone of annoyance: "Really, I'm amazed.... There's nothing to laugh at in all this.... We are in the presence of a really extraordinary occurrence...." His shocked air re-doubled Dorothy's merriment. She stammered: "Yes--extraordinary--a miracle! Goodness, how funny it is! And what a pleasure it is to let one's self go! I had been holding myself in quite long enough. Yes, I was manifestly serious ... uneasy.... But all the same I did want to laugh!... It is all so funny!" The notary muttered: "I don't see anything funny in it.... The Marquis----" Dorothy's delight passed all bounds. She repeated, wringing her hands, with tears in her eyes: "The Marquis!... The friend of Fontenelle! The revivified Marquis! Lazarus de Beaugreval! Then you didn't see?" "I saw the film on the mirror ... the eyes open." "Yes, yes: I know. But the rest?" "What rest?" "In his mouth?" "What on earth is it?" "There's a...." "A what? Out with it!" "A false tooth!" Maître Delarue repeated slowly: "There's a false tooth?" "Yes, a molar ... a molar all of gold!" "Well, what about it?" Dorothy did not immediately reply. She gave Maître Delarue plenty of time to collect his wits and to grasp the full value of this discovery. He said again in a less assured tone: "Well?" "Well, there you are?" she said, very much out of breath. "I ask myself, with positive anguish: did they make gold teeth in the days of Louis XIV and Louis XV?... Because, you see, if the Marquis was unable to get his gold tooth before he died, he must have had his dentist come here--to this tower--while he was dead. That is to say, he must have learnt from the newspapers, or from some other source, that he could have a false tooth put in the place of the one which used to ache in the days of Louis XIV." Dorothy had finally succeeded in repressing the ill-timed mirth which had so terribly shocked Maître Delarue. She was merely smiling--but smiling with an extremely mischievous and delighted air. Naturally the four strangers, grouped closely round her, were also smiling with the air of people amused beyond words. On his bed, the man, always impassive and stupid, continued his breathing exercises. The notary drew his companions out of the alcove, into the outer room so that they formed a group with their backs to the bed, and said in a low voice: "Then, according to you, mademoiselle, this is a mystification?" "I'm afraid so," she said, tossing her head with a humorous air. "But the Marquis?" "The Marquis has nothing to do with the matter," she said. "The adventure of the Marquis came to an end on the 12th of July, 1721, when he swallowed a drug which put an end to his brilliant existence for good and all. All that remains of the Marquis, in spite of his hopes of a resurrection, is: firstly, a pinch of ashes mingled with the dust of this room; secondly, the authentic and curious letter which Maître Delarue read to us; thirdly, a lot of enormous diamonds hidden somewhere or other; fourthly, the clothes he was wearing at the supreme hour when he voluntarily shut himself up in his tomb, that is to say in this room." "And those clothes?" "Our man is dressed in them--unless he bought others, since the old ones must have been in a very bad state." "But how could he get here? This window is too narrow; besides it's inaccessible. Then how?..." "Doubtless the same way we did." "Impossible! Think of all the obstacles, the difficulties, the wall of briers which barred the road." "Are we sure that this wall was not already pierced in some other place, that the plaster partition had not been broken down and reconstructed, that the door of this room had not been opened before we came?" "But it would have been necessary for this man to know the secret combinations of the Marquis, the mechanical device of the two stones and so on." "Why not? Perhaps the Marquis left a copy of his letter ... or a draft of it. But no.... Of course!... Better than that! We know the truth from the Marquis de Beaugreval himself.... He foresaw it, since he alludes to an always possible defection of his old servant, Geoffrey, and takes into account the possibility of the good fellow's writing a description of what had taken place. This description the good fellow did write, and along different lines it has come down to our time." "It's a simple supposition." "It's a supposition more than probable, Maître Delarue, since besides us, besides these four young men and myself, there are other families in which the history, or a part of the history of Beaugreval, has been handed down; and as a consequence for some months I've been fighting for the possession of the indispensable gold medal stolen from my father." Her words made a very deep impression. She entered into details: "The family of Chagny-Roborey in the Orne, the family of Argonne in the Ardennes, the family of Davernoie in Vendée, are so many focuses of the tradition. And around it dramas, robberies, assassinations, madness, a regular boiling up of passion and violence." "Nevertheless," observed Errington, "here there is no one but us. What are the others doing?" "They're waiting. They're waiting for a date of which they are ignorant. They are waiting for the medal. I saw in front of the church of Roche-Périac a tramp and a factory hand, a woman, from Paris. I saw two poor mad people who came to the rendezvous and are waiting at the edge of the water. A week ago I handed over to the police a dangerous criminal of the name of d'Estreicher, a distant connection of my family, who had committed a murder to obtain possession of the gold medal. Will you believe me now when I tell you that we are dealing with an impostor?" Dario said: "Then the man who is here has come to play the same part as the Marquis expected to play two hundred years after his death?" "Of course." "With what object?" "The diamonds, I tell you--the diamonds!" "But since he knew of their existence, he had only to search for them and appropriate them." "You can take it from me that he has searched for them and without ceasing, but in vain. A fresh proof that the man only knew Geoffrey's story, since Geoffrey had not been informed by his master of their hiding-place. And it is in order to learn where this hiding-place is, to be present at the meeting of the descendants of the Marquis de Beaugreval, that he is playing to-day, the 12th of July, 1921, after months and years of preparation, the part of the Marquis." "A dangerous part! An impossible part!" "Possible for at least some hours, which would be enough. What do I say, some hours? But just think: at the end of ten minutes we were all of one mind about giving him the second envelope which contains the key to the enigma, and which was probably the actual object of his enterprise. He must have known of the existence of a codicil, of a document giving directions. But where to find that document. No longer any scrivener Barbier--no longer any successors. But where to find it? Why here! At the meeting on the 12th of July. Logically, the codicil must be brought to that meeting. Logically, it would be handed over to him. And as a matter of fact I had it in my hand. I held it out to him. A second later he would have obtained from it the information he wanted. After that, good-bye. The Marquis de Beaugreval, once possessor of the diamonds of the Marquis de Beaugreval, would retire into the void, that is to say he would bolt at full speed." Webster asked: "Why didn't you give him the envelope? Did you guess?" "Guess? No. But I distrusted him. In offering it to him I was above all things making an experiment. What evidence it would be against him, if he accepted my offer by a gesture of acceptance, inexplicable at the end of such a short period? He did accept. I saw his hand tremble with impatience. I knew where I was. But at the same time Fortune was kind to me; I saw that little bit of gold in his mouth." It was all linked together in a flawless chain of reasoning. Dorothy had set forth the coördination of events, causes and effects, as one displays a piece of tapestry in which the complicated play of design and color produces the most harmonious unity. The four young men were astounded; not one of them threw any doubt on her statement. Archibald Webster said: "One would think that you had been present throughout the whole adventure." "Yes," said Dario. "The revivified Marquis played a whole comedy before you." "What a power of observation and what terrible logic!" said Errington, of London. And Webster added: "And what intuition!" Dorothy did not respond to the praise with her habitual smile. One would have said that events were happening in a manner far from pleasing to her, which seemed to promise others which she distrusted in advance. But what events? What was there to fear? In the silence Maître Delarue suddenly cried: "Well, for my part, I assert that you're making a mistake. I'm not at all of your opinion, mademoiselle." Maître Delarue was one of those people who cling the more firmly to an opinion the longer they have been adopting it. The resurrection of the Marquis suddenly appeared to him a dogma he was bound to defend. He repeated: "Not at all of your opinion! You are piling up unfounded hypotheses. No: this man is not an impostor. There is evidence in his favor which you do not take into account." "What evidence?" she asked. "Well, his portrait! His indisputable resemblance to the portrait of the Marquis de Beaugreval, executed by Largillière!" "Who tells you that this is the portrait of the Marquis, and not the portrait of the man himself? It's a very easy way of resembling any one." "But this old frame? This canvas which dates from earlier days?" "Let us admit that the frame remained. Let us admit that the old canvas, instead of having been changed, has simply been painted over in such a way as to represent the false Marquis here present." "And the cut-off finger?" exclaimed Maître Delarue triumphantly. "A finger can be cut off." The notary became vehement: "Oh, no! A thousand times, no! Whatever be the attraction of the benefit to be derived, one does not mutilate oneself. No, no: your contention falls to the ground. What? You represent this fellow as ready to cut off his finger! This fellow with his dull face, his air of stupidity! But he is incapable of it! He's weak and a coward...." The argument struck Dorothy. It threw light on the most obscure part of the business; and she drew from it exactly the conclusions it warranted. "You're right," she said. "A man like him is incapable of mutilating himself." "In that case?" "In that case, some one else has charged himself with this sinister task." "Some one else has cut off the finger? An accomplice?" "More than an accomplice, his chief? The brain which has devised these combinations is not his. He is not the man who has staged the adventure. He is only an instrument, some common rogue chosen for his fleshless aspect. The man who holds the threads remains invisible; and he is formidable." The notary shivered. "One would say you knew him." After a pause she answered slowly: "It is possible that I do know him. If my instinct does not deceive me, the master criminal is the man who I handed over to justice, this d'Estreicher of whom I spoke just now. While he is in prison his accomplices--for there are several of them--have taken up the work he began and are trying to carry it through.... Yes, yes," she added, "one can well believe that it is d'Estreicher who has arranged the whole business. He has been engaged in the affair for years; and such a machination is entirely in accord with his cunning and wily spirit. We must be on our guard against him. Even in prison he is a dangerous adversary." "Dangerous ... dangerous ..." said the notary, trying to reassure himself. "I don't see what threatens us. Besides, the affair draws to its end. As regards the precious stones, open the codicil. And as far as I am concerned, my task is performed." "It isn't a matter of knowing whether your task is performed, Maître Delarue," Dorothy answered in the same thoughtful tone. "It's a matter of escaping a danger which is not quite clear to me but which permits me to expect anything, which I foresee more and more clearly. Where will it come from? I don't know. But it exists." "It's terrible," groaned Maître Delarue. "How are we to defend ourselves? What are we to do?" "What are we to do?" She turned towards the little room which served as alcove. The man no longer stirred, his head and face buried in the shadow. "Question him. You quite understand that this super did not come here alone. They have intrusted him with this post, but the others are on the watch, the agents of d'Estreicher. They are waiting in the wings for the result of the comedy. They are spying on us. Perhaps they hear us. Question him. He is going to tell us the measures to be taken against us in case of a check." "He will not speak." "But he will--he will. He is in our hands; and it is entirely to his interest to win our forgiveness for the part he has played. He is one of those people who are always on the side of the stronger.... Look at him." The man remained motionless. Not a gesture. However his attitude did not look natural. Sitting as he was, half bent over, he should have lost his balance. "Errington ... Webster ... light him up," Dorothy ordered. Simultaneously the rays from the two electric lamps fell on him. Some seconds passed. "Ah!" sighed Dorothy, who was the first to grasp the terrible fact; and she started back. All six of them were shocked by the same sight, at first inexplicable. The bust and the head which they believed to be motionless, were bending a little forward, with a movement which was hardly perceptible, but which did not cease. At the bottom of the orbits rose the eyes, quite round, eyes full of terror, which gleamed, like carbuncles, in the concentric fires of the two lamps. His mouth moved convulsively as if to utter a cry which did not issue from it. Then the head settled down on to the chest, dragging the bust with it. They saw for some seconds the ebony hilt of a dagger, the blade of which half buried in the right shoulder, at the junction with the neck, was streaming with blood. And finally the whole body huddled on to itself. Slowly, like a wounded beast, the man sank to his knees on the stone floor, and suddenly fell in a heap. CHAPTER XIV THE FOURTH MEDAL Violent though this sensational turn was, it provoked from those who witnessed it neither outcries nor disorder. Something mastered their terror, smothered their words, and restrained their gestures: the impossibility of conceiving how this murder had been committed. The impossible resurrection of the Marquis was transformed into a miracle of death quite as impossible; but they could not deny this miracle since it had taken place before their eyes. In truth, they had the impression, since no living being had entered, that death itself had stepped over the threshold, crossed the room to the man, struck him in their presence with its invisible hand, and then gone away, leaving the murderous weapon in the corpse. None but a phantom could have passed. None but a phantom could have killed. "Errington," said Dorothy, who had recovered her coolness more quickly than her companions, "there's no one on the staircase, is there? Dario, surely the window is too small for any one to slip through? Webster and Kourobelef look to the walls of the alcove." She stooped and took the dagger from the wound. No convulsion stirred the victim's body. It was indeed a corpse. An examination of the dagger and the clothes gave no clue. Errington and Dario rendered an account of their mission. The staircase? Empty. The window? Too narrow. They joined the Russian and the American, as did Dorothy also; and all five of them examined and sounded the walls of the alcove with such minuteness that Dorothy expressed the absolute conviction of all of them when she declared in a tone of finality: "No entrance. It is impossible to admit that any one passed that way." "Then?" stuttered the notary, who was sitting on the stool and had not moved for the excellent reason that his legs refused to be of the slightest use to him. "Then?" He asked the question with a kind of humility as if he regretted not having admitted without opposition all Dorothy's explanations, and promised to accept all she should consent to give him. Dorothy, who had so clearly announced the peril which threatened them, and so clearly elucidated all the problems of this obscure affair, suddenly appeared to him to be a woman who makes no mistake, who cannot make any mistake. And owing to that fact he saw in her a powerful protection against the attacks which were about to ensue. Dorothy for her part felt confusedly that the truth was prowling round her, that she was on the point of perceiving with perfect clearness that which had no form, and that it was a thing which must moreover astonish her infinitely. Why could she not guess what was hidden in the shadow? It appeared almost as if she was afraid to guess it and that she was deliberately turning away from a danger which her intelligence would have pointed out to her at once, if her womanly instincts had not suffered her to blind herself for several minutes. Indeed, those several minutes, she lost them. Like one whom dangers surround and who does not know against which he must first defend himself, she shuffled about on one spot. She wasted time on futile phrases, keeping herself simply to the actual facts of the situation, in the hope perhaps that one of her words might strike the enlightening spark out of its flint. "Maître Delarue, there's a death and a crime. We must therefore inform the police. However ... however I think we could put it off for a day or two." "Put it off?" he protested. "That's a step I won't take. That is a formality which admits of no delay." "You will never get back to Périac." "Why not?" "Because the band which had been able to get rid under our very eyes of a confederate who was in its way, must have taken precautions, and the road which leads to Périac must be guarded." "You believe that?... You believe that?" stuttered Maître Delarue. "I believe it." She answered in a hesitating fashion. At the moment she was suffering bitterly, being one of those creatures to whom uncertainty is torture. She had a profound impression that an essential element of the truth was lacking. Protected as she was in that tower, with four resolute men beside her, it was not she who directed events. She was under the constraint of the law of the enemy who was oppressing and in a way directing her as his fancy took him. "But it's terrible," lamented Maître Delarue. "I cannot stay here forever.... My practice demands my attention.... I have a wife ... children." "Go, Maître Delarue. But first of all hand over to us the envelope of the codicil that I gave back to you. We will open it in your presence." "Have you the right?" "Why not? The letter of the Marquis is explicit: 'In the event of Destiny having betrayed me and your finding no trace of me, you will yourselves open the envelope, and learning their hiding-place, take possession of the diamonds.' That's clear, isn't it? And since we know that the Marquis is dead and quite dead, we have the right to take possession of the four diamonds of which we are the proprietors--all five of us ... all five." She stopped short. She had uttered words which, as the saying goes, clashed curiously. The contradiction of the terms she had used--four diamonds, five proprietors--was so flagrant that the young men were struck by them, and that Maître Delarue himself, absorbed as he was in other matters, received a considerable shock. "As a matter of fact that's true: you are five. How was it we didn't notice that detail? You are five and there are only four diamonds." Dario explained. "Doubtless that arises from the fact that there are four men and that we have only paid attention to this number four, four strangers in contrast with you, mademoiselle, who are French." "But you can't get away from the fact that you are five," said Maître Delarue. "And what about it?" said Webster. "Well, you're five; and the Marquis, according to his letter, had only four sons to whom he left four gold medals. You understand, four gold medals?" Webster made the objection: "He could have bequeathed four ... and left five." He looked at Dorothy. She was silent. Was she going to find in this unexpected incident the solution of the enigma which escaped him? She said thoughtfully: "Always supposing that a fifth medal has not been fabricated since on the model of the others and then transmitted to us by a process of fraud." "How are we to know it?" "Let us compare our medals," she said. "An examination of them will enlighten us perhaps." Webster was the first to present his medal: It showed no peculiarity which gave them to believe that it was not one of the four original pieces struck by the instructions of the Marquis and controlled by him. An examination of the medals of Dario, Kourobelef, and Errington showed the same. Maître Delarue who had taken all four of them and was examining them minutely, held out his hand for Dorothy's medal. She had taken out the little leather purse which she had slipped into her bodice. She untied the strings and stood amazed. The purse was empty. She shook it, turned it inside out. Nothing. "It's gone.... It's gone," she said in a hushed voice. An astonished silence followed her declaration. Then the notary asked: "You haven't lost it by any chance?" "No," she said. "I can't have lost it. If I had, I should have lost the little bag at the same time." "But how do you explain it?" said the notary. Dario intervened a trifle dryly: "Mademoiselle has no need to explain. For you don't pretend...." "Of course none of us supposes that mademoiselle has come here without having the right," said the notary. "In the place of four medals there are five, that's all I meant to say." Dorothy said again in the most positive tones: "I have not lost it. From the moment it was missing----" She was on the point of saying: "From the moment it was missing from this purse it had been stolen from me." She did not finish that sentence. Her heart was wrung by a sudden anguish, as she suddenly grasped the full meaning of such an accusation; and the problem presented itself to her in all its simplicity and with its only possible and exact solution: "_The four pieces of gold are there. One of them has been stolen from me. Then one of these four men is a thief._" And this undeniable fact brought her abruptly to such a vision of the facts, to a certainty so unforeseen and so formidable that she needed almost super-human energy to restrain herself. It was needful that no one should be on their guard against her, before she had considered the matter and fully taken in the tragic aspect of the situation. She accepted therefore the notary's hypothesis and murmured: "After all ... yes ... that's it. You must be right, Maître Delarue, I've lost that medal.... But how? I can't think in what way I could have lost it ... at what moment." She spoke in a very low voice, an absent-minded voice. The parted curls showed her forehead furrowed by anxiety. Maître Delarue and the four strangers were exchanging futile phrases; not one of them seemed worth her consideration. Then they were silent. The silence lengthened. The lamps were switched off. The light from the little window was concentrated on Dorothy. She was very pale, so pale that she was aware of it and hid her face in her hands in order to prevent them from perceiving the effects of the emotions which were racking her. Violent emotions, which proceeded from that truth that she had had such difficulty in attaining and which was disengaging itself from the shadows. It was not by scraps that she was gathering up the revealing clues but in a mass so to speak. The clouds had been swept away. In front of her, before her closed eyes, she saw ... she saw.... Ah! What a terrifying fact! However she stubbornly kept herself silent and motionless, while to her mind there presented themselves in quick succession during the course of a few seconds all the questions and all the answers, all the arguments and all the proofs. She recalled the fact that the night before at the village of Périac the caravan had nearly been destroyed by fire. Who had started that fire? And with what motive? Might she not suppose that one of those unhoped-for helpers, who had appeared so suddenly in the very nick of time, had taken advantage of the confusion to slip into the caravan, ransack her sleeping birth, and open the little leather purse hanging from a nail. Possessor of the medal, the chief of the gang returned in haste to the ruins of Roche-Périac and disposed his men in that peninsula, the innermost recesses of which must be known to him, and in which he had everything arranged in view of the fateful day, the 12th of July, 1921. Doubtless he had had a dress rehearsal with his confederate cast for the part of the sleeping Marquis. Final instructions. Promises of reward in the event of success. Menaces in the event of failure. And at noon he arrived quietly in front of the clock, like the other strangers, presented the medal, the only certificate of identity required, and was present at the reading of the will. Then came the ascent of the tower and the resurrection of the Marquis. In another instant she would have handed over the codicil to him; and he reached his goal. The great plot which d'Estreicher had been so long weaving attained its end. And how could she fail to observe that up to the very last minute, there had been in the working out of that plan, in the performance of unforeseen actions, necessitated by the chances, the same boldness, the same vigor, the same methodical decision? There are battles which are only won when the chief is on the battle-field. _He is here_, she thought, distracted. He has escaped from prison and _he is here_. His confederate was going to betray him and join us; he killed him. _He is here._ Rid of his beard and spectacles, his skull shaved, his arm in a sling, disguised as a Russian soldier, not speaking a word, changing his bearing, he was unrecognizable. But it is certainly d'Estreicher. Now he has his eyes fixed on me. He is hesitating. He is asking himself have I penetrated his disguise.... Whether he can go on with the comedy ... or whether he should unmask and compel us, revolver in hand, to hand over the codicil, that is to say the diamonds. Dorothy did not know what to do. In her place a man of her character and temper would have settled the question by throwing himself on the enemy. But a woman?... Already her legs were failing her; she was in the grip of terror--of terror also for the three young men whom d'Estreicher could lay low with three shots. She withdrew her hands from her face. Without turning she was aware that they were waiting, _all four of them_. D'Estreicher was one of the group, his eyes fixed on her ... yes, fixed on her.... She felt the savage glare which followed her slightest movement and sought to discover her intentions. She slid a step towards the door. Her plan was to gain that door, bar the enemy's way, face him, and throw herself between him and the three young men. Blockaded against the walls of the room, with escape impossible, there were plenty of chances that he would be forced to yield to the will of three strong and resolute men. She moved yet another step, imperceptibly ... then another. Ten feet separated her from the door. She saw on her right its heavy mass, studded with nails. She said, as if the disappearance of the medal still filled her mind: "I must have lost it ... a day or two ago.... I had it on my knee.... I must have forgotten to put it back----" Suddenly she made her spring. Too late. At the very moment that she drew herself together, d'Estreicher, foreseeing it, leapt in front of the door, a revolver in either outstretched hand. This sudden act was masked by no single word. There was no need of words indeed for the three young men to grasp the fact that the murderer of the false Marquis stood before them. Instinctively they recoiled from the menace; then on the instant pulled themselves together, and ready for the counterstroke, they advanced. Dorothy stopped them at the moment that d'Estreicher was on the point of shooting. Drawn to her full height in front of them, she protected them, certain that the scoundrel would not pull the trigger. But he was aiming straight at her bosom; and the young men could not stir, while, his right arm outstretched, with his left hand still holding the other revolver, he felt for the lock. "Leave it to us, mademoiselle!" cried Webster, beside himself. "A single movement and he kills me," she said. The scoundrel did not utter a word, he opened the door behind him, flattened himself against the wall, then slipped quickly out. The three young men sprang forward like unleashed hounds--only to dash themselves against the obstacle of the heavy door. CHAPTER XV THE KIDNAPING OF MONTFAUCON For a minute or two extreme confusion reigned in the room. Errington and Webster struggled furiously with the old lock. Almost past use, it worked badly from the inside. Exasperated and maddened at having let the enemy escape, they got in one another's way and their efforts only ended in their jamming it. Marco Dario raged at them. "Get on! Get on! What are you messing about like that for?... It's d'Estreicher, isn't it, mademoiselle? The man you spoke of? He murdered his confederate?... He stole the medal from you? Holy Virgin, hurry up, you two!" Dorothy tried to reason with them: "Wait, I implore you. Think. We must work together.... It's madness to act at random!" But they did not listen to her; and, when the door did open, they rushed down the staircase, while she called out to them: "I implore you.... They're below.... They're watching you." Then a whistle, strident and prolonged, rent the air. It came from without. She ran to the window. Nothing was to be seen from it, and in despair she asked herself: "What does that mean? He isn't calling his confederates. They're with him now. Then, why that signal?" She was about to go down in her turn when she found herself caught by her petticoat. From the beginning of the scene, in front of d'Estreicher and his leveled revolvers, Maître Delarue had sunk down in the darkest corner, and now he was imploring her, almost on his knees: "You aren't going to abandon me--with the corpse?... And then that scoundrel might come back!... His confederates!" She pulled him to his feet. "No time to lose.... We must go to the help of our friends...." "Go to their help? Stout young fellows like them?" he cried indignantly. Dorothy drew him along by the hand as one leads a child. They went, anyhow, half-way down the staircase. Maître Delarue was sniveling, Dorothy muttering: "Why that signal? To whom was it given? And what are they to do?" An idea little by little took hold of her. She thought of the four children who had remained at the inn, of Saint-Quentin, of Montfaucon. And this idea so tormented her that three parts of the way down the staircase she stopped at the hole which pierced the wall, which she had noticed as they came up. After all what could an old man and a young girl do to help three young men? "What is it?" stammered the notary. "Can one hear the f-f-f-fight?" "One can't hear anything," she said bending down. She squeezed herself into the narrow passage and crawled to the opening. Then, having looked more carefully than she had done in the afternoon, she perceived on her right, on the cornice, a good-sized bundle, thrust down into a crack, screened in front by wild plants. It was a rope-ladder. One of its ends was fastened to a hook driven into the wall. "Excellent," she said. "It's evident that on occasions d'Estreicher uses this exit. In the event of danger it's an easy way to safety, since this side of the tower is opposite the entrance in the interior." The way to safety was less easy for Maître Delarue, who began by groaning. "Never in my life! Get down that way?" "Nonsense!" she said. "It isn't thirty-five feet--only two stories." "As well commit suicide." "Do you prefer a knife stuck in you? Remember that d'Estreicher has only one aim--the codicil. And you have it." Terrified, Maître Delarue made up his mind to it, on condition that Dorothy descended first to make sure that the ladder was in a good state and that no rungs were missing. Dorothy did not bother about rungs. She gripped the ladder between her legs and slid from the top to bottom. Then catching hold of the two ropes she kept them as stiff as she could. The operation was nevertheless painful and lengthy; and Maître Delarue expended so much courage on it that he nearly fainted at the lower rungs. The sweat trickled down his face and over his hands in great drops. With a few words Dorothy restored his courage. "You can hear them.... Don't you hear them?" Maître Delarue could hear nothing. But he set out at a run, breathless from the start, mumbling: "They're after us!... In a minute they'll attack us!" A side-path led them through thick brushwood to the main path, which connected the keep with the clearing in which the solitary oak stood. No one behind them. More confident, Maître Delarue threatened: "The blackguards! At the first house I send a messenger to the nearest police station.... Then I mobilize the peasants--with guns, forks and anything handy. And you, what's your plan?" "I haven't one." "What? No plan? You?" "No," she said. "I've acted rather at random, I'm afraid." "Ah, you see clearly----" "I'm not afraid for myself." "For whom?" "For my children." Maître Delarue exclaimed: "Gracious! You've got children?" "I left them at the inn." "But how many have you?" "Four." The notary was flabbergasted. "Four children! Then you're married?" "No," admitted Dorothy, not perceiving the good man's mistake. "But I wish to secure their safety. Fortunately Saint-Quentin is not an idiot." "Saint-Quentin?" "Yes, the eldest of the urchins ... an artful lad, cunning as a monkey." Maître Delarue gave up trying to understand. Besides, nothing was of any importance to him but the prospect of being overtaken before he had passed that narrow, devilish causeway. "Let's run! Let's run!" he said, for all that his shortness of breath compelled him to go slower every minute. "And then catch hold, mademoiselle! Here's the second envelope! There's no reason why I should carry such a dangerous paper on me; and after all it's no business of mine." She took the envelope and put it in her purse just as they came into the court of the clock. Maître Delarue who could move only with great difficulty, uttered a cry of joy on perceiving his donkey in the act of browsing in the most peaceful fashion in the world, at some distance from the motor-cycle and the two horses. "You'll excuse me, mademoiselle." He scrambled on to his mount. The donkey began by backing; and it threw the good man into such a state of exasperation that he belabored its head and belly with thumps and kicks. The donkey suddenly gave in and went off like an arrow. Dorothy called out to him: "Look out, Maître Delarue! The confederates have been warned!" The notary heard the words, on the instant leaned back in the saddle, and tugged desperately at the reins. But nothing could stop the brute. When Dorothy got clear of the ruins of the outer wall, she saw him a long way off, still going hard. Then she began to run again, in a growing disquiet: d'Estreicher's whistle had been meant for confederates posted on the mainland at the entrance to the peninsula the access to which they were guarding. She said to herself: "In any case if I don't get through, Maître Delarue will; and it is clear that Saint-Quentin will be warned and be on his guard." The sea, very blue and very calm, had ebbed to right and left, forming two bays on the other side of which rose the cliff of the coast. The path down the gorge was distinguishable by the dark cutting she saw in the mass of trees which covered the plateau. Here and there it rose to some height. Twice she caught sight of the flying notary. But as in her turn she reached the line of the trees, a report rang out ahead, and a little smoke rose in the air above what must have been the steepest point in the path. There came cries and shouts for help; then silence. Dorothy doubled her speed in order to help Maître Delarue; undoubtedly he had been attacked. But after running for some minutes at such a pace that no sound could have reached her ears, she had barely time to spring out of the path to get out of the way of the furiously galloping donkey whose rider was crouching forward on its back with his arms knotted round its neck. Maître Delarue, since his head was glued to the further side of its neck, did not even see her. More anxious than ever, since it was clear that Saint-Quentin and his comrades would not be warned if she did not succeed in getting through the path down the gorge and over the causeway, she started to run again. Then she caught sight of the figures of two men on one of the high points of the path in front, coming towards her. They were the confederates. They had barred the road to Maître Delarue and were now acting after the manner of beaters. She flung herself into the bushes, dropped into a hollow full of dead leaves, and covered herself with them. The confederates passed her in silence. She heard the dull noise of their hobnailed boots, which went further and further off in the direction of the ruins; and when she raised herself, they had disappeared. Forthwith, having no further obstacle before her, Dorothy made her way down the path, so correctly described by the board as bad going, and came to the causeway which joined the peninsula to the mainland, observed that the Baron Davernoie and his old flame were no longer on the edge of the water, mounted the slope, and hurried towards the inn. A little way from it she called out: "Saint-Quentin!... Saint-Quentin." Getting no answer, her forebodings re-doubled. She passed in front of the house and saw no one. She crossed the orchard, went to the barn, and jerked open the caravan door. There once more--no one. Nothing but the children's bags and the usual things. "Saint-Quentin!... Saint-Quentin!" she cried again. She returned to the house and this time she entered. The little room which formed the café and in which stood the zinc counter, was empty. Over-turned benches and chairs lay about the floor. On a table stood three glasses, half full, and a bottle. Dorothy called out: "Madame Amoureux!" She thought she heard a groan and went to the counter. Behind it, doubled up, her legs and arms bound, the landlady was lying with a handkerchief covering her mouth. "Hurt?" asked Dorothy when she had freed her from the gag. "No ... no ..." "And the children?" said the young girl in a shaky voice. "They're all right." "Where are they?" "Down on the beach, I think." "All of them?" "All but one, the smallest." "Montfaucon." "Yes." "Good heavens! What has become of him?" "They've carried him off." "Who?" "Two men--two men who came in and asked for a drink. The little boy was playing near us. The others must have been amusing themselves at the bottom of the orchards behind the barns. We couldn't hear them. And then of a sudden one of the men, with whom I was drinking a glass of wine, seized me by the throat while the second caught hold of the little boy. "'Not a word,' said they. 'If you speak, we'll squeeze your throttle. Where are the other nippers?' "It occurred to me to say that they were down on the beach fishing among the rocks. "'It's true, that, is it, old 'un?' said they. 'If you're lying, you're taking a great risk. Swear it.' "'I swear it.' "'And you too, nipper, answer. Where are your brothers and sisters?' "I was terribly afraid, madam. The little boy was crying. But all the same he said, and well he knew it wasn't true: "'They're playing down below--among the rocks.' "Then they tied me up and said: "'You stay there. We're coming back. And if we don't find you here, look out, mother.' "And off they went, taking the little boy with them. One of them had rolled him up in his jacket." Dorothy, very pale, was considering. She asked: "And Saint-Quentin?" "He came in about half an hour afterwards to look for Montfaucon. He ended by finding me. I told him the story: 'Ah,' said he, the tears in his eyes. 'Whatever will mummy say?' He wanted to cut my ropes. I refused. I was afraid the men would come back. Then he took down an old broken gun from above the chimney-piece, a chassepot which dates from the time of my dead father, without any cartridges, and went off with the two others." "But where was he going?" said Dorothy. "Goodness, I don't know. I gathered they were going along the seashore." "And how long ago is that?" "A good hour at least." "A good hour," murmured Dorothy. This time the landlady did not refuse to have her bonds untied. As soon as she was free she said to Dorothy who wished to dispatch her to Périac in search of help: "To Périac? Six miles! But, my poor lady, I haven't the strength. The best thing you can do is to get there yourself as fast as your legs will carry you." Dorothy did not even consider this counsel. She was in a hurry to return to the ruins and there join battle with the enemy. She set off again at a run. So the attack she had foreseen had indeed developed; but an hour earlier--that is to say before the signal was given--and the two men were forthwith posted on the path to the causeway with the mission to establish a barrage, then at the whistle to fall back on the scene of operations. Only too well did Dorothy understand the motive of this kidnaping. In the battle they were fighting it was not only a matter of stealing the diamonds; there was another victory for which d'Estreicher was striving with quite as much intensity and ruthlessness. Now Montfaucon, in his hands, was the pledge of victory. Cost what it might, whatever happened, admitting even that the luck turned against him, Dorothy must surrender at discretion and bend the knee. To save Montfaucon from certain death it was beyond doubt that she would not recoil from any act, from any trial. "Oh, the monster!" she murmured. "He is not mistaken. He holds me by what I hold dearest!" Several times she noticed, across the path, groups of small pebbles arranged in circles, or cut-off twigs, which were to her so much information furnished by Saint-Quentin. From them she learnt that the children instead of keeping straight along the path to the gorge, had turned off to the left and gone round the marsh to the seashore so betaking themselves to the shelter of the rocks. But she paid no attention to this maneuver, for she could only think of the danger which threatened Montfaucon and had no other aim than to get to his kidnapers. She took her way to the peninsula, mounted the gorge, where she met no one, and reached the plateau. As she did so she heard the sound of a second report. Some one had fired in the ruins. At whom? At Maître Delarue? At one of the three young men? "Ah," she said to herself anxiously. "Perhaps I ought never to have left them, those three friends of mine. All four of us together, we could have defended ourselves. Instead of that, we are far from one another, helpless." What astonished her when she had crossed the outer wall, was the infinite silence into which she seemed to herself to enter. The field of battle was not large--a couple of miles long, at the most, and a few hundred yards across; and yet in this restricted space, in which perhaps nine or ten men were pitted against her, not a sound. Not a mutter of human speech. Nothing but the twittering of birds or the rustling of leaves, which fell gently, cautiously, as if things themselves were conspiring not to break the silence. "It's terrible," murmured Dorothy. "What is the meaning of it? Am I to believe that all is over? Or rather that nothing has begun, that the adversaries are watching one another before coming to blows--on the one side Errington, Webster, and Dario, on the other d'Estreicher and his confederates?" She advanced quickly into the court of the clock. There she saw still, near the two tied-up horses, the donkey, eating the leaves of a shrub, his bridle dragging on the ground, his saddle quite straight on his back, his coat shining with sweat. What has become of Maître Delarue? Had he been able to rejoin the group of the foreigners? Had his mount thrown him and delivered him into the power of the enemy? Thus at every moment questions presented themselves which it was impossible to answer. The shadow was thickening. Dorothy was not timid. During the war, in the ambulances in the first line, she had grown used more quickly than many men to the bursting of shells; and the hour of bombardment did not shake her nerves. But mistress of her nerves as she was, on the other hand, she was more susceptible than a man of less courage to the influence of everything unknown, of everything that is unseen and unheard. Her extreme sensitiveness gave her a keen sense of danger; and at that moment she had the deepest impression of danger. She went on however. An invincible force drove her on till she should find her friends and Montfaucon should be freed. She hurried to the avenue of great trees, crossed the clearing of the old solitary oak, and mounted the rising ground on which rose Cocquesin tower. More and more the solitude and the silence troubled her. The profound silence. A solitude so abnormal that Dorothy reached the point of believing herself to be no longer alone. Some one was watching. Men were following her as she went. It seemed to her that she was exposed to all menaces, that the barrels of guns were leveled at her, that she was about to fall into the trap which her enemy had laid. The impression was so strong that Dorothy, who knew her nature and the correctness of her presentiments, reckoned it a certainty resting on irrefutable proofs. She even knew where the ambush was awaiting her. They had guessed that her instinct, her calculations, that all the circumstances of the drama, would bring her back to the tower; and there they were awaiting her. She stopped at the entrance of the vault. On the opposite side, above the steps which descended into the immense nave of the donjon, her enemies must be posted. Let her make a few more steps and they would capture her. She stood quite still. She no longer doubted that Maître Delarue had been taken, and that, yielding to threats, he had disclosed the fact that the second envelope was in her hands, that second envelope without which the diamonds of the Marquis de Beaugreval would never be discovered. A minute or two passed. No single indication allowed her to believe in the actual presence of the enemies she imagined. But the mere logic of the events demanded that they should be there. She must then act as if they were there. By one of those imperceptible movements which seemed to have no object, without letting anything in her attitude awake the suspicion in her invisible enemies that she was accomplishing a definite action, she managed to open her purse and extract the envelope. She crumpled it up and reduced it to a tiny ball. Then, letting her arm hang down, she went some steps into the vault. Behind her, violently, with a loud crash, something fell down. It was the old feudal portcullis, which fell from above, came grating down its grooves, and blocked the entrance with its heavy trellis-work of massive wood. CHAPTER XVI THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE Dorothy did not turn round. She was a prisoner. "I made no mistake," she thought. "They are the masters of the field of battle. But what has become of the others?" On her right opened the entrance to the staircase which ascended the tower. Perhaps she might have fled up it and availed herself once more of the rope-ladder? But what use would it be? Did not the kidnaping of Montfaucon oblige her to fight to the end, in spite of the hopelessness of the conflict? She must throw herself into the arena, among the ferocious beasts. She went on. Though alone and without friends, she found herself quite cool. As she went, she let the little ball of paper roll down her skirt. It rolled along the floor and was lost among the pebbles and dust which covered it. As she came to the end of the vault, two arms shot out and two men covered her with their revolvers. "Don't move!" She shrugged her shoulders. One of them repeated harshly: "Don't move, or I shoot." She looked at them. They were two subordinates, poisonous-looking rogues, dressed as sailors. She thought she recognized in them the two individuals who had accompanied d'Estreicher to the Manor. She said to them: "The child? What have you done with the child? It was you who carried him off, wasn't it?" With a sudden movement they seized her arms; and while one kept her covered with his revolver, the other set about the task of searching her. But an imperious voice checked them: "Stop that. I'll do it myself." A third personage whom Dorothy had not perceived, stepped out from the wall where enormous roots of ivy had concealed him.... D'Estreicher! * * * * * For all that he was still rigged out in his disguise of a Russian soldier, he was no longer the same man. Again she found him the d'Estreicher of Roborey and Hillocks Manor. He had resumed his arrogant air and his wicked expression, and did not try to conceal his slight limp. Now that his hair and beard were shaved off, she observed the flatness of the back of his head and the apelike development of his jaw. He stood a long while without speaking. Was he tasting the joy of triumph? One would have said rather that he felt a certain discomfort in the presence of his victim, or at least that he was hesitating in his attack. He walked up and down, his hands behind his back, stopped, then walked up and down again. He asked her: "Have you any weapon?" "None," she declared. He told his two henchmen to go back to their comrades; then once more he began to walk up and down. Dorothy studied him carefully, searching his face for something human of which she might take hold. But there was nothing but vulgarity, baseness, and cunning in it. She had only herself to rely on. In the lists formed by the ruins of the great tower, surrounded by a band of scoundrels, commanded by the most implacable of chiefs, watched, coveted, helpless, she had as her unique resource, her subtle intelligence. It was infinitely little, and it was much, since already once before, within the walls of Hillocks Manor, placed in the same situation, and facing the same enemy, she had conquered. It was much because this enemy distrusted himself and so lost some of his advantages. For the moment he believed himself sure of success; and his attitude displayed all the insolence of one who believes he has nothing to fear. Their eyes met. He began: "How pretty she is, the little devil! A morsel fit for a king. It's a pity she detests me." And, drawing nearer, he added: "It really is detestation, Dorothy?" She recoiled a step. He frowned. "Yes: I know ... your father.... Bah! Your father was very ill.... He would have died in any case. So it wasn't really I who killed him." She said: "And your confederate ... a little while ago?... The false Marquis." He sneered: "Don't let's talk about that, I beg you. A measly fellow not worth a single regret ... so cowardly and so ungrateful that, finding himself unmasked, he was ready to betray me--as you guessed. For nothing escapes you, Dorothy, and on my word it has been child's play to you to solve every problem. I who have been working with the narrative of the servant Geoffrey, whose descendant I believe myself to be, have spent years making out what you have unraveled in a few minutes. Not a moment's hesitation. Not a mistake. You have spotted my game just as if you held my cards in your hand. And what astonishes me most, Dorothy, is your coolness at this moment. For at last, my dear, you know where we stand." "I know." "And you're not on your knees!" he exclaimed. "Truly I was looking to hear your supplications.... I saw you at my feet, dragging yourself along the ground. Instead of that, eyes which meet mine squarely, an attitude of provocation." "I am not provoking you. I am listening." "Then let us regulate our accounts. There are two. The account Dorothy." He smiled. "We won't talk about that yet. That comes last. And the account diamonds. At the present moment I should have been the possessor of them if you had not intercepted the indispensable document. Enough of obstacles! Maître Delarue has confessed, with a revolver at his temple, that he gave you back the second envelope. Give it to me." "If I don't?" "All the worse for Montfaucon." Dorothy did not even tremble. Assuredly she saw clearly the situation in which she found herself and understood that the duel she was fighting was much more serious than the first, at the Manor. There she expected help. Here nothing. No matter! With such a personage, there must be no weakening. The victor would be the one who should preserve an unshakable coolness, and should end, at some moment or other, by dominating the adversary. "To hold out to the end!" she thought stubbornly. "... To the end.... And not till the last quarter of an hour ... but till the last quarter of the last minute." She stared at her enemy and said in a tone of command: "There's a child here who is suffering. First of all I order you to hand him over to me." "Oh, indeed," he said ironically. "Mademoiselle orders. And by what right?" "By the right given me by the certainty that before long you will be forced to obey me." "By whom, my liege lady?" "By my three friends, Errington, Webster, and Dario." "Of course ... of course ..." he said. "Those gentlemen are stout young fellows accustomed to field sports, and you have every right to count on those intrepid champions." He beckoned to Dorothy to follow him and crossed the arena, covered with stones, which formed the interior of the donjon. To the right of a breach, which formed the opposite entrance, and behind a curtain of ivy stretched over the bushes, were small vaulted chambers, which must have been ancient prisons. One still saw rings affixed to the stones at their base. In three of these cells, Errington, Webster, and Dario were stretched out, firmly gagged, bound with ropes, which reduced them to the condition of mummies and fastened them to the rings. Three men, armed with rifles, guarded them. In a fourth cell was the corpse of the false Marquis. The fifth contained Maître Delarue and Montfaucon. The child was rolled up in a rug. Above a strip of stuff, which hid the lower part of his face, his poor eyes, full of tears, smiled at Dorothy. She crushed down the sob which rose to her throat. She uttered no word of protest or reproach. One would have said, indeed, that all these were secondary incidents which could not affect the issue of the conflict. "Well?" chuckled d'Estreicher. "What do you think of your defenders? And what do you think of the forces at my disposal? Three comrades to guard the prisoners, two others posted as sentinels to watch the approaches. I can be easy in mind, what? But why, my beauty, did you leave them? You were the bond of union. Left to themselves, they let themselves be gathered in stupidly, one by one, at the exit from the donjon. It was no use any one of them struggling ... it didn't work. Not one of my men got a shadow of a scratch. I had more trouble with M. Delarue. I had to oblige him with a bullet through his hat before he'd come down from a tree in which he had perched himself. As for Montfaucon, an angel of sweetness! Consequently, you see, your champions being out of it, you can only count on yourself; and that isn't much." "It's enough," she said. "The secret of the diamonds depends on me and on me only. So you're going to untie the bonds of my friends and set the child free." "In return for what?" "In return for that I will give you the envelope of the Marquis de Beaugreval." He looked at her. "Hang it, it's an attractive offer. Then you'd give up the diamonds?" "Yes." "Yourself and in the name of your friends?" "Yes." "Give me the envelope." "Cut the ropes." An access of rage seized him: "Give me the envelope. After all I'm master. Give it me!" "No," she said. "I will have it.... I will have that envelope!" "No," she said, yet more forcibly. He snatched the purse pinned to her bodice, for the top of it showed above its edge. "Ah!" he said in a tone of victory. "The notary told me that you had put it in this ... as you did the gold medal. At last I am going to learn!" But there was nothing in the purse. Disappointed, mad with rage, he shook his fist in Dorothy's face, shouting: "That was the game, was it? Your friends set free, I was done. The envelope, at once!" "I have torn it up," she declared. "You lie! One doesn't tear up a thing like that! One doesn't destroy a secret like that!" She repeated: "I tore it up; but I read it first. Cut the bonds of my friends; and I reveal the secret to you." He howled: "You lie! You lie! The envelope at once.... Ah, if you think that you can go on laughing at me for very long! I've had enough of it! For the last time, the envelope!" "No," she said. He rushed towards the cell in which the child was lying, tore the cloak off him, seized his hair with one hand and began to swing him like a bundle he was going to throw to a distance. "The envelope! Or I smash his head against the wall!" he shouted at Dorothy. He was a loathsome sight. His features were distorted by a horrible ferocity. His confederates gazed at him, laughing. Dorothy raised her hand in token of acceptance. He set the child on the ground and came back to her. He was covered with sweat. "The envelope," he said once more. She explained: "In the entrance vault ... in this end of it, opening into this place ... a little ball on the ground, among the pebbles." He called one of his confederates and repeated the information to him. The man went off, running. "It was time!" muttered the ruffian, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Look you, you shouldn't provoke me. And then why that air of defiance?" he added, as if Dorothy's coolness shamed him. "Damn it all! Lower your eyes! Am I not master here? Master of your friends ... master of you ... yes, of you." He repeated this word two or three times, almost to himself and with a look which made Dorothy uneasy. But, hearing his confederate, he turned and called to him sharply. "Well?" "Here it is." "You're sure? You're sure? Ah, here we are. This is the real victory." He unfolded the crumpled envelope and held it in his hands, turning it slowly over and over as if it were the most precious of possessions. It had not been opened; the seals were intact; no one then knew the great secret which he was going to learn. He could not prevent himself from saying aloud: "No one ... no one but me...." He unsealed the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper folded in two, on which only three or four lines were written. He read those lines and seemed greatly astonished. "Oh, it's devilish clever! And I understand why I found nothing, nor any of those who have searched. The old chap was right: the hiding-place is undiscoverable." He began to walk up and down, in silence, like a man who is weighing alternative actions. Then, returning to the cells, he said to the three guards, his finger pointing to the prisoners: "No means of their escaping, is there? The ropes are strong. Then march along to the boat and get ready to start." His confederates hesitated. "Well, what's the matter with you?" said their leader. One of them risked saying: "But ... the treasure?" Dorothy observed their hostile attitude. Doubtless they distrusted one another; and the idea of leaving before the division of the spoil, appeared to endanger their interests. "The treasure?" he cried. "What about it? Do you suppose I'm going to swallow it. You'll get the share you've been promised. I've sworn it. And a big share too." He bullied all three of them, impatient to be alone. "Hurry up! Ah, I was forgetting.... Call your two comrades on duty; and all five of you carry away the false Marquis. We'll throw him into the sea. In that way he'll neither be seen nor known. Get on." His confederates discussed the matter for a moment. But their leader maintained his ascendancy over them, and grumbling, with lowering faces, they obeyed his orders. "Six o'clock," he said. "At seven I'll be with you so that we can get off soon after dark. And have everything ready, mind you! Set the cabin in order.... Perhaps there'll be an additional passenger." Once more he looked at Dorothy and studied her face while his confederates moved off. "A passenger, or rather a lady passenger. What, Dorothy?" Always impassive, she did not answer. But her suffering became keener and keener. The terrible moment drew near. He still held the envelope and the letter of the Marquis in his hand. From his pocket he drew a lighter and lit it to read the instructions once more. "Admirable!" he murmured almost purring with satisfaction. "A first-class idea!... As well search at the bottom of hell. Ah, that Marquis! What a man!" He twisted the paper into a long spill and put its end in the flame. The paper caught fire. At its flame he lit a cigarette with an affectation of nonchalance, and turning toward the prisoners, he waited, with hand outstretched, till there remained of the document only a little ash which was scattered by the breath of the breeze. "Look Webster, look Errington and Dario. This is all you'll ever see of the secret of your ancestor ... a little ash.... It's gone. Confess that you haven't been very smart. You are three stout fellows and you haven't been able either to keep the treasure which was waiting for you, nor to defend the pretty cousin whom you admired, open-mouthed. Hang it! There were six of us in the little room in the tower; and it would have been enough for one of you to grip hold of my collar.... I was damned uncomfortable. Instead of that, what a cropper you came. All the worse for you ... and all the worse for her!" He showed them his revolver. "I shan't need to use this. What?" he said. "You must have noticed that at the slightest movement the cords grow tighter round your throats. If you insist ... it's strangulation pure and simple. A word to the wise. Now, cousin Dorothy, I'm at your service. Follow me. We're going to perform the impossible in our attempt to come to an understanding." All resistance was futile. She went with him to the other side of the tower across an accumulation of ruins, to a chamber of which there only remained the walls, pierced with loop-holes, which he said was the ancient guardroom. "We shall be able to talk comfortably here. Your suitors will be able neither to see nor hear us. The solitude is absolute. Look here's a grassy bank. Please sit down." She crossed her arms and remained standing, her head straight. He waited, murmured: "As you like"; then, taking the seat he had offered her, he said: "This is our third interview, Dorothy. The first time, on the terrace of Roborey, you refused my offers, which was to be expected. You were ignorant of the exact value of my information; and all I could seem to you was a rather odd and disreputable person, against who you were burning to make war. A very noble sentiment which imposed on the Chagny cousins, but which did not deceive me, since I knew all about the theft of the earrings. In reality you had only one object: to get rid, in view of the great windfall you hoped for, of the most dangerous competitor. And the chief proof of that is that immediately after having denounced me you hurried off to Hillocks Manor, where you would probably find the solution of the riddle, and where I was again brought up short by your intrigues. To turn young Davernoie's head and sneak the medal, such was the task you undertook, and I admiringly confess carried it out from beginning to end. Only ... only ... d'Estreicher is not the kind of man to be disposed of so easily. Escape, that sham fire, the recovery of the medal, the capture of the codicil, in short complete redress. At the present moment the four diamonds belong to me. Whether I take possession of them to-morrow, or in a week, or in a year, is of no consequence. They are mine. Dozens of people, hundreds perhaps, have been vainly searching for them for two centuries; there is no reason why others should find them now. Behold me then exceedingly rich ... millions and millions. Wealth like that permits one to become honest ... which is my intention ... if always Dorothy consents to be the passenger of whom I told my men. One word in answer. Is it yes? Is it no?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I knew what to expect," he said. "All the same I wished to make the test ... before having recourse to extreme measures." He awaited the effect of this threat. Dorothy did not stir. "How calm you are!" he said in a tone in which there was a note of disquiet. "However you understand the situation exactly?" "Exactly." "We're alone. I have as pledges, as means of acting on you, the life of Montfaucon and the lives of these three bound men. Then how comes it that you are so calm?" She said clearly and positively: "I am calm because I know you are lost." "Come, come," he said laughing. "Irretrievably lost." "And why?" "Just now, at the inn, after having learnt about the kidnaping of Montfaucon, I sent my three other boys to the nearest farms to bring all the peasants they met." He sneered: "By the time they've got together a troop of peasants, I shall be a long way off." "They are nearly here. I'm certain of it." "Too late, my pretty dear. If I'd had the slightest doubt, I'd have had you carried off by my men." "By your men? No...." "What is there to prevent it?" "You are afraid of them, in spite of your airs of wild-beast tamer. They're asking themselves whether you didn't stay here to take advantage of the secret you have stolen and get hold of the diamonds. They would find an ally in me. You would not dare to take the risk." "And then?" "Then that's why I am calm." He shook his head and in a grating voice: "A lie, little one. Play-acting. You are paler than the dead, for you know exactly where you stand. Whether I am tracked here in an hour, or whether my men end by betraying me, makes little difference. What does matter, to you, to me, is not what happens in an hour, but what is going to happen now. And you have no doubts about what is going to happen, have you?" He rose and standing over her, studied her with a menacing bitterness: "From the first minute I was caught like an imbecile! Rope-dancer, acrobat, princess, thief, mountebank, there is something in you which overwhelms me. I have always despised women ... not one has troubled me in my life. You, you attract me while you frighten me. Love? No. Hate.... Or rather a disease.... A poison which burns me and of which I must rid myself, Dorothy." He was very close to her, his eyes hard and full of fever. His hands hovered about the young girl's shoulders, ready to throw her down. To avoid their grasp she had to draw back towards the wall. He said in a very low, breathless voice: "Stop laughing, Dorothy! I've had enough of your gypsy spells. The taste of your lips, that's the potion that's going to heal me. Afterwards I shall be able to fly and never see you again. But afterwards only. Do you understand?" He set his two hands on her shoulders so roughly that she tottered. However, she continued to defy him with her attitude wholly contemptuous. Her will was strained to prevent him from getting once more the impression that she could tremble in the depths of her being and grow weak. "Do you understand?... Do you understand?" the man stuttered, hammering her arms and neck. "Do you understand that nothing can stop it? Help is impossible. It's the penalty of defeat. To-day I avenge myself ... and at the same time I free myself from you.... When we are separated, I shall be able to say to myself: 'Yes, she hurt me, but I do not regret it. The dénouement of the adventure effaces everything.'" He leant more and more heavily on the young girl's shoulders, and said to her with sarcastic joy: "Your eyes are troubled, Dorothy! What a pleasure to see that! There is fear in your eyes--fear.... How beautiful they are, Dorothy! This is indeed the reward of victory--just a look like that, which is full of fear--fear of me. That is worth more than anything. Dorothy, Dorothy, I love you.... Forget you? What folly! If I wish to kiss your lips, it is that I may love you even more ... and that you may love me ... that you may follow me like a slave and like the mistress of my heart." She touched the wall. The man tried to draw her to him. She made an effort to free herself. "Ah!" he cried in a sudden fury, mauling her. "No resistance, my dear. Give me your lips, at once, do you hear! If not, it's Montfaucon who'll pay. Do you want me to swing him round again as I did just now? Come, obey, or I'll certainly cut across to his cell; and so much the worse for the brat's head!" Dorothy was at the end of her forces. Her legs were bending. All her being shuddered with horror at this contact with the ruffian; and at the same time she trembled to repulse him, so great was her fear lest he should at once fling himself on the child. Her stiff arms began to bend. The man re-doubled his efforts to force her to her knees. It was all over. He was nearly at his goal. But at that moment the most unexpected sight caught her eye. Behind him, a few feet away, something was moving, something which passed through the opposite wall. It was the barrel of a rifle leveled at him through the loop-hole slit. On the instant she remembered that Saint-Quentin had carried away from the inn an old and useless rifle without cartridges! She did not make a sign which could draw d'Estreicher's attention to it. She understood Saint-Quentin's maneuver. The boy threatened, but he could only threaten. It was for her to contrive the method by which that menace should as soon as d'Estreicher saw it directed against him, have its full effect. It was certain that d'Estreicher would only need a moment to perceive, as Dorothy herself perceived, the rust and the deplorable condition of the weapon, as harmless as a child's gun. Quite clearly Dorothy perceived what she had to: to pull herself together, to face the enemy boldly, and to confuse him, were it only for a few seconds, as she had already succeeded in upsetting him by her coolness and self-control. Her safety, the safety of Montfaucon depended on her firmness. _In robore fortuna_, she thought. But that thought she unconsciously uttered in a low voice, as one utters a prayer for protection. And at once she felt her adversary's grip relax. The old motto, on which he had so often reflected, uttered so quietly, at such a moment, by this woman whom he believed to be at bay, disconcerted him. He looked at her closely and was astounded. Never had her beautiful face worn such a serene air. Over the white teeth the lips opened, and the eyes, a moment ago terrified and despairing, now regarded him with the quietest smile. "What on earth is it?" he cried, beside himself, as he recalled her astounding laughter near the pool at Hillocks Manor. "Are you going to laugh again to-day?" "I'm laughing for the same reason: you are lost." He tried to take it as a joke: "Hang it! How?" "Yes," she declared. "I told you so from the first moment; and I was right." "You're mad," he said, shrugging his shoulders. She noticed that he had grown more respectful, and sure of a victory which rested in her extraordinary coolness and in the absolute similarity of the two scenes, she repeated: "You are lost. The situation really is the same as at the Manor. There Raoul and the children had gone to seek for help; and of a sudden, when you were the master, the barrel of a gun was leveled at you. Here, it is the same. The three urchins have found men. They are there, as at the Manor with their guns.... You remember? They are here. The barrels of the guns are leveled at you." "You l-l-lie!" stammered the ruffian. "They are there," she declared in a yet more impressive tone. "I've heard my boys' signal. They haven't wasted time coming round the tower. They are on the other side of that wall." "You lie!" he cried. "What you say is impossible!" She said, always with the coolness of a person no longer menaced by peril, and with an imperious contempt: "Turn round!... You'll see _their_ guns leveled at your breast. At a word from me they fire! Turn round then!" He shrunk back. He did not wish to obey. But Dorothy's eyes, blazing, irresistible, stronger than he, compelled him; and yielding to their compulsion, he turned round. It was the last quarter of the last minute. With all the force of her being, with a strength of conviction which did not permit the ruffian to think, she commanded: "Hands up, you blackguard! Or they'll shoot you like a dog! Hands up! Shoot there! Show no mercy! Shoot! Hands up!" D'Estreicher saw the rifle. He raised his hands. Dorothy sprang on him and in a second tore a revolver from his jacket pocket, and aiming at his head, without her heart quickening a beat and with a perfectly steady hand, she said slowly, her eyes gleaming maliciously: "Idiot! I told you plainly you were lost." CHAPTER XVII THE SECRET PERISHES The scene had not lasted a minute; and in less than a minute the readjustment had taken place. Defeat was changed to victory. A precarious victory. Dorothy knew that a man like d'Estreicher would not long remain the dupe of the illusion with which, by a stroke of really incredible daring, she had filled his mind. Nevertheless she essayed the impossible to bring about the ruffian's capture, a capture which she could not effect alone, and which would only become definite if she kept him awed till the freeing of Webster, Errington, and Marco Dario. As authoritative as if she were disposing of an army corps, she gave her orders to her rescuers: "One of you stay there with the rifle leveled, ready to fire at the slightest movement, and let the remainder of the troop go to set the prisoners free! Hurry up, now. Go round the tower. They're to the left of the entrance--a little further on." The remainder of the troop was Castor and Pollux, unless Saint-Quentin went with them, thinking it best simply to leave his rifle, model 1870, resting in the loop-hole and aimed directly at the ruffian. "They are going.... They are entering.... They are searching," she said to herself, trying to follow the movements of the children. But she saw d'Estreicher's tense face little by little relax. He had looked at the barrel of the rifle. He had heard the quiet steps of the children, so different from the row which a band of peasants would have made. Soon she no longer doubted that the ruffian would escape before the others came. The last of his hesitation vanished; he let his arms fall, grinding his teeth. "Sold!" he said. "It's those brats and the rifle is nothing but old iron! My God, you have a nerve!" "Am I to shoot?" "Come off it! A girl like you kills to defend herself, not for killing's sake. To hand me over to justice? Will that give you back the diamonds? I would rather have my tongue torn out and be roasted over a slow fire than divulge the secret. They're mine. I'll take them when I please." "One step forward and I shoot." "Right, you've won the party. I'm off." He listened. "The brats are gabbling over yonder. By the time they've untied them, I shall be a long way off. _Au revoir...._ We shall meet again." "No," she said. "Yes. I shall have the last word. The diamonds first. The love affair afterwards. I did wrong to mix the two." She shook her head. "You will not have the diamonds. Would I let you go, if I weren't sure? But, and I've told you so: you are lost." "Lost? And why?" he sneered. "I feel it." He was about to reply. But the sound of voices nearer came to their ears. He leapt out of the guardroom and ran for it, bending low, through the bushes. Dorothy, who had darted after him, aimed at him, with a sudden determination to bring him down. But, after a moment's hesitation, she lowered her weapon, murmuring: "No, no. I cannot.... I cannot. And then what good would it be? Anyhow my father will be avenged...." She went towards her friends. The boys had had great difficulty in freeing them, so tangled was the network of cords that bound them. Webster was the first to get to his feet and run to meet her. "Where is he?" "Gone," she said. "What! You had a revolver and you let him get away?" Errington came up, then Dario, both furious. "He has got away? Is it possible? But which way did he go?" Webster snatched Dorothy's weapon. "You hadn't the heart to kill him? Was that it?" "I had not," said Dorothy. "A blackguard like that! A murderer! Ah well, that's not our way, I swear. Here we are, friends." Dorothy barred their way. "And his confederates? There are five or six of them besides d'Estreicher--all armed with rifles." "All the better," said the American. "There are seven shots in the revolver." "I beg you," she said, fearing the result of an unequal battle. "I beg you.... Besides, it's too late.... They must have got on board their boat." "We'll see about that." The three young men set out in pursuit. She would have liked to go with them, but Montfaucon clung to her skirt, sobbing, his legs still hampered by his bonds. "Mummy ... mummy ... don't go away.... I was so frightened!" She no longer thought of anything but him, took him on her knees, and consoled him. "You mustn't cry, Captain dear. It's all over. That nasty man won't come back any more. Have you thanked Saint-Quentin? And your comrades Castor and Pollux? Where would we have been without them, my darling?" She kissed the three boys tenderly. "Yes! Where would we have been? Ah, Saint-Quentin, the idea of the rifle.... What a find! You are a splendid fellow, old chap! Come and be kissed again! And tell me how you managed to get to us? I didn't miss the little heaps of pebbles that you sowed along the path from the inn. But why did you go round the marsh? Did you hope to get to the ruins of the château by going along the beach at the foot of the cliffs?" "Yes, mummy," replied Saint-Quentin, very proud at being so complimented by her, and deeply moved by her kisses. "And wasn't it impossible?" "Yes. But I found a better way ... on the sand, a little boat, which we pushed into the sea." "And you had the courage, the three of you, and the strength to row? It must have taken you an hour?" "An hour and a half, mummy. There were heaps of sandbanks which blocked our way. At last we landed not far from here in sight of the tower. And when we got here I recognized the voice of d'Estreicher." "Ah, my poor, dear darlings!" Again there was a deluge of kisses, which she rained right and left on the cheeks of Saint-Quentin, Castor's forehead, and the Captain's head. And she laughed! And she sang! It was so good to be alive. So good to be no longer face to face with a brute who gripped your wrists and sullied you with his abominable leer! But she suddenly broke off in the middle of these transports. "And Maître Delarue? I was forgetting him!" He was lying at the back of his cell behind a rampart of tall grasses. "Attend to him! Quick, Saint-Quentin, cut his ropes. Goodness! He has fainted. Look here, Maître Delarue, you come to your senses. If not, I leave you." "Leave me!" cried the notary, suddenly waking up. "But you've no right! The enemy----" "The enemy has run away, Maître Delarue." "He may come back. These are terrible people. Look at the hole their chief made in my hat! The donkey finished by throwing me off, just at the entrance to the ruins. I took refuge in a tree and refused to come down. I didn't stay there long. The ruffian knocked my hat off with a bullet." "Are you dead?" "No. But I'm suffering from internal pains and bruises." "That will soon pass off, Maître Delarue. To-morrow there won't be anything left, I assure you. Saint-Quentin, I put Maître Delarue in your charge. And yours, too, Montfaucon. Rub him." She hurried off with the intention of joining her three friends, whose badly conducted expedition worried her. Starting out at random, without any plan of attack, they ran the risk once more of letting themselves be taken one by one. Happily for them, the young men did not know the place where d'Estreicher's boat was moored; and though the portion of the peninsula situated beyond the ruins was of no great extent, since they were at once hampered by masses of rock which formed veritable barriers, she found all three of them. Each of them had lost his way in the labyrinth of little paths, and each of them, without knowing it, was returning to the tower. Dorothy, who had a finer sense of orientation, did not lose her way. She had a flair for the little paths which led nowhere, and instinctively chose those which led to her goal. Moreover she soon discovered foot-prints. It was the path followed regularly by the band in going to and fro between the ruins and the sea. It was no longer possible to go astray. But at this point they heard cries which came from a point straight ahead of them. Then the path turned sharply and ran to the right. A pile of rocks had necessitated this change of direction, abrupt and rugged rocks. Nevertheless they scaled them to avoid making the apparently long detour. Dario who was the most agile and leading, suddenly exclaimed: "I see them! They're all on the boat.... But what the devil are they doing?" Webster joined him, revolver in hand: "Yes, I see them too! Let's run down.... We shall be nearer to them." Before them was the extremity of the plateau, on which the rocks stood, on a promontory, a hundred and twenty feet high, which commanded the beach. Two very high granite needles formed as it were the pillars of an open door, through which they saw the blue expanse of the ocean. "Look out! Down with you!" commanded Dorothy, dropping full length on the ground. The others flattened themselves against the rocky walls. A hundred and fifty yards in front of them, on the deck of a large motor fishing-boat, there was a group of five men; and among them a woman was gesticulating. On seeing Dorothy and her friends, one of the men turned sharply, brought his rifle to his shoulder, and fired. A splinter of granite flew from the wall near Errington. "Halt there! Or I'll shoot again!" cried the man who had fired. Dorothy checked her companions. "What are you going to do? The cliff is perpendicular. You don't mean to jump into the empty air?" "No, but we can get back to the road and go round," Dario proposed. "I forbid you to stir. It would be madness." Webster lost his temper: "I've a revolver!" "They have rifles, they have. Besides, you would get there too late. The drama would be over." "What drama?" "Look." Dominated by her, they remained quiet, sheltered from the bullets. Below them developed, like a performance at which they were compelled to be present without taking part in it, what Dorothy had called the drama; and all at once they grasped its tragic horror. The big boat was rocking beside a natural quay which formed the landing-place of a peaceful little creek. The woman and the five men were bending over an inert body which appeared to be bound with bands of red wool. The woman was apostrophizing this sixth individual, shaking her fists in his face, and heaping abuse on him, of which only a few words reached the ears of the young people. "Thief!... Coward!... You refuse, do you?... You wait a minute!" She gave some orders with regard to an operation, for which everything was ready, for the young people perceived, when the group of ruffians broke up, that the end of a long rope which ran over the mainyard, was round the prisoner's neck. Two men caught hold of the other end of it. The inert body was set on its feet. It stood upright for a few seconds, like a doll one is about to make dance. Then, gently, without a jerk, they drew it up a yard from the deck. "D'Estreicher!" murmured one of the young men recognizing the Russian soldier's cap. Dorothy recalled with a shudder the prediction she had made to her enemy directly after their meeting at the Château de Roborey. She said in a low voice: "Yes, d'Estreicher." "What do they want from him?" "They want to get the diamonds from him." "But he hasn't got them." "No. But they may believe he has them. I suspected that that was what they had in mind. I noticed the savage expression of their faces and the glances they exchanged as they left the ruins by d'Estreicher's orders. They obeyed him in order to prepare the trap into which he has fallen." Below, the figure only remained suspended from the yard for an instant. They lowered the doll. Then they drew it up again twice; and the woman yelled: "Will you speak?... The treasure you promised us?... What have you done with it?" Beside Dorothy, Webster muttered: "It isn't possible! We can't allow them to...." "What?" said Dorothy. "You wanted to kill him a little while ago.... Do you want to save him now?" Webster and his friends did not quite know what they wanted. But they refused to remain inactive any longer in presence of this heartrending spectacle. The cliff was perpendicular, but there were fissures and runlets of sand in it. Webster, seeing that the man with the rifle was no longer paying any attention to them, risked the descent. Dario and Errington followed him. The attempt was vain. The gang had no intention of fighting. The woman started the motor. When the three young men set foot on the sand of the beach, the boat was moving out to sea, with the engine going full speed. The American vainly fired the seven shots in his revolver. He was furious; and he said to Dorothy who got down to him: "All the same ... all the same we should have acted differently.... There goes a band of rogues, clearing off under our very eyes." "What can we do?" said Dorothy. "Isn't the chief culprit punished? When they're out to sea, they'll search him again, and once certain that his pockets are really empty, that he knows the secret and will not reveal it, they'll throw their chief into the sea, along with the false Marquis, whose corpse is actually at the bottom of the hold." "And that's enough for you? The punishment of d'Estreicher?" "Yes." "You hate him intensely then?" "He murdered my father," she said. The young men bowed gravely. Then Dario resumed: "But the others?..." "Let them go and get hanged somewhere else! It's much better for us. The band arrested and handed over to justice would have meant an inquiry, a trial, the whole adventure spread broadcast. Was that to our interest? The Marquis de Beaugreval advised us to settle our affairs among ourselves." Errington sighed: "Our affairs are all settled. The secret of the diamonds is lost." Far away, northwards, towards Brittany, the boat was moving away. * * * * * That same evening, towards nine o'clock, after having intrusted Maître Delarue to the care of the widow Amoureux--all he thought of was getting a good night's rest and returning to his office as quickly as possible--and after having enjoined on the widow absolute silence about the assault of which she had been the victim, Errington and Dario harnessed their horses to the caravan. Saint-Quentin led One-eyed Magpie behind it. They returned by the stony path up the gorge to the ruins of Roche-Périac. Dorothy and the children resumed possession of their lodging. The three young men installed themselves in the cells of the tower. Next morning, early, Archibald Webster mounted his motor-cycle. He did not return till noon. "I've come from Sarzeau," he said. "I have seen the monks of the abbey. I have bought from them the ruins of Roche-Périac." "Heavens!" cried Dorothy. "Do you mean to end your days here?" "No; but Errington, Dario, and I wish to search in peace; and for peace there is no place like home." "Archibald Webster, you seem to be very rich; are you as firmly bent on finding the diamonds as all that?" "I'm bent on this business of our ancestor Beaugreval ending as it ought to end, and that chance shouldn't, some day or other, give those diamonds to some one, without any right to them, who happens to come along. Will you help us, Dorothy?" "Goodness, no." "Hang it! Why not?" "Because as far as I am concerned, the adventure came to an end with the punishment of the culprit." They looked downcast. "Nevertheless you're staying on?" "Yes, I need rest and my four boys need it too. Twelve days here, leading the family life with you, will do us a world of good. On the twenty-fourth of July, in the morning, I'm off." "The date is fixed?" "Yes." "For us, too?" "Yes. I'm taking you with me." "And to where do we travel?" "An old Manor in Vendée where, at the end of July, other descendants of the lord of Beaugreval will find themselves gathered together. I'm eager to introduce you to our cousins Davernoie and Chagny-Roborey. After that you will be at liberty to return here ... to bury yourselves with the diamonds of Golconda." "Along with you, Dorothy?" "Without me." "In that case," said Webster, "I sell my ruins." For the three young men those few days were a continuous enchantment. During the morning they searched, without any kind of method be it said, and with an ardor that lessened all the more quickly because Dorothy did not take part in their investigations. Really they were only waiting for the moment when they would be with her again. They lunched together, near the caravan, which Dorothy had established under the shade of the big oak which commanded the avenue of trees. A delightful meal, followed by an afternoon no less delightful, and by an evening which they would have willingly prolonged till the coming of dawn. Not a cloud in the sky spoilt the beautiful weather. Not a traveler tried to make his way into their domain or pass beyond the notice they had nailed to a branch: "Private property. Man-traps." They lived by themselves, with the four boys with whom they had become the warmest friends, and in whose games they took part, all seven of them in an ecstasy before her whom they called the wonderful Dorothy. She charmed and dazzled them. Her presence of mind during the painful day of the 12th of July, her coolness in the chamber in the tower, her journey to the inn, her unyielding struggle against d'Estreicher, her courage, her gayety, were so many things that awoke in them an astounded admiration. She seemed to them the most natural and the most mysterious of creatures. For all that she lavished explanations on them and told them all about her childhood, her life as nurse, her life as showman, the events at the Château de Roborey and Hillocks Manor, they could not bring themselves to grasp the fact that she was at once the Princess of Argonne and circus-manager, that she was just that, manifestly as reserved as she was fanciful, manifestly the daughter of a grand seignior every whit as much as mountebank and rope-dancer. But her delicate tenderness towards the four children touched them profoundly, to such a degree did the maternal instinct reveal itself in her affectionate looks and patient care. On the fourth day Marco Dario succeeded in drawing her aside and made his proposal: "I have two sisters who would love you like a sister. I live in an old palace in which, if you would come to it, you would wear the air of a lady of the Renaissance." On the fifth day the trembling Errington spoke to her of his mother, "who would be so happy to have a daughter like you." On the sixth day it was Webster's turn. On the seventh day they nearly came to blows. On the eighth day, they clamored to her to choose between them. "Why between _you_?" said she laughingly. "You are not the only people in my life, besides my four boys. I have relations, cousins, other suitors perhaps." "Choose." On the ninth day, under severe pressure, she promised to choose. "Well there," she said. "I'll set you all in a row and kiss the one who shall be my husband." "When?" "On the first day of the month of August." "Swear it!" "I swear it." After that they stopped searching for the diamonds. As Errington observed--and Montfaucon had said it before him--the diamonds they desired were she, Dorothy. Their ancestor Beaugreval could not have foreseen for them a more magnificent treasure. On the morning of the 24th Dorothy gave the signal for their departure. They quitted the ruins of Roche-Périac and said good-bye to the riches of the Marquis de Beaugreval. "All the same," said Dario. "You ought to have searched, cousin Dorothy. You only are capable of discovering what no one has discovered for two centuries." With a careless gesture she replied: "Our excellent ancestor took care to tell us himself where the fortune was to be found--_In robore_.... Let us accept his decision." They traveled again the stages which she had traveled already, crossed the Vilaine, and took, the road to Nantes. In the villages--one must live; and the young girl accepted help from no one--Dorothy's Circus gave performances. Fresh cause for amazement on the part of the three foreigners. Dorothy conducting the parade, Dorothy on One-eyed Magpie, Dorothy addressing the public, what sparkling and picturesque scenes! They slept two nights at Nantes, where Dorothy desired to see Maître Delarue. Quite recovered from his emotions, the notary welcomed her warmly, introduced her to his family, and kept her to lunch. Finally on the last day of the month, starting early in the morning, they reached Hillocks Manor in the middle of the afternoon. Dorothy left the caravan in front of the gateway with the boys, and entered, accompanied by the three young men. * * * * * The court-yard was empty. The farm-servants must be at work in the fields. But through the open windows of the Manor they heard the noise of a violent discussion. A man's voice, harsh and common--Dorothy recognized it as the voice of Voirin, the money-lender--was scolding furiously; reinforced by thumps on the table: "You've got to pay, Monsieur Raoul. Here's the bill of sale, signed by your grandfather. At five o'clock on the 31st of July, 1921, three hundred thousand francs in bank-notes or Government securities. If not, the Manor is mine. It's four-fifty. Where's the money?" Dorothy heard next the voice of Raoul, then the voice of Count Octave de Chagny offering to arrange to pay the sum. "No arrangements," said the money-lender. "Bank-notes. It's four fifty-six." Archibald Webster caught Dorothy by the sleeve and murmured: "Raoul? It's one of our cousins?" "Yes." "And the other man?" "A money-lender." "Offer him a check." "He won't take it." "Why not?" "He wants the Manor." "What of it? We're not going to let a thing like that happen." Dorothy said to him: "You're a good fellow, Archibald, and I thank you. But do you think that it's by chance that we're here on the 31st of July at four minutes to five?" She went towards the steps, mounted them, crossed the hall, and entered the room. Two cries greeted her appearance on the scene. Raoul started up, very pale, the Countess de Chagny ran to her. She stopped them with a gesture. In front of the table, Voirin, supported by two friends whom he had brought as witnesses, his papers and deeds spread out before him, held his watch in his hand. "Five o'clock!" he cried in a tone of victory. She corrected him: "Five o'clock by your watch, perhaps. But look at the clock. We have still three minutes." "And what of it?" said the money-lender. "Well, three minutes are more than we need to pay this little bill and clear you out of the house." She opened the traveling cape she was wearing and from one of its inner pockets drew a huge yellow envelope which she tore open. Out of it came a bundle of thousand-franc notes and a packet of securities. "Count, monsieur. No, not here. It would take rather a time; and we're eager to be by ourselves." Gently, but with a continuous pressure, she pushed him towards the door, and his two witnesses with him. "Excuse me, monsieur, but it's a family party ... cousins who haven't seen one another for two hundred years.... And we're eager to be by ourselves.... You're not angry with me, are you? And, by the way, you will send the receipt to Monsieur Davernoie. Au revoir, gentlemen.... There: there's five o'clock striking.... Au revoir." CHAPTER XVIII IN ROBORE FORTUNA When Dorothy had shut the door on the three men, she turned to find Raoul flushed and frowning; and he said: "No, no. I can't allow it.... You should have consulted me first." "Don't get angry," she said gently. "I wished first of all to rid you of this fellow Voirin. That gives us time to think things out." "I've thought them out!" he snapped. "I consider that settlement null and void!" "I beg you, Raoul--a little patience. Postpone your decision till to-morrow. By to-morrow, perhaps, I shall have persuaded you." She kissed the Countess de Chagny, then beckoning to the three strangers, she introduced them. "I bring you guests, madame. Our cousin George Errington, of London. Our cousin Marco Dario, of Genoa. Our cousin Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia. Knowing that you were to come here, I was determined that the family should be complete." Thereupon she introduced Raoul Davernoie, Count Octave and his wife. They exchanged vigorous handshakes. "Excellent," she said. "We are united as I desired, and we have thousands and thousands of things to talk about. I've seen d'Estreicher again, Raoul; and as I predicted he has been hanged. Also I met your grandfather and Juliet Assire a long way from here. But perhaps we are getting along a bit too quickly. First of all there is a most urgent duty to fulfill with regard to our three cousins who are bitter enemies of the dry régime." She opened the cupboard and found a bottle of port and some biscuits, and as she poured out the wine, she set about relating her expedition to Roche-Périac. She told the story quickly and a trifle incoherently, omitting details and getting them in the wrong order, but for the most part giving them a comic turn which greatly amused the Count and Countess de Chagny. "Then," said the Countess when she came to the end of her story, "the diamonds are lost?" "That," she replied, "is the business of my three cousins. Ask them." During the young girl's explanations, they had all three stood rather apart, listening to Dorothy, pleasant to their hosts, but wearing an absent-minded air, as if they were absorbed in their own thoughts; and those thoughts the Countess must be thinking too, as well as the Count, for there was one matter which filled the minds of all of them and made them ill at ease, till it should be cleared up. It was Errington who took the matter up, before the Countess had asked the question; and he said to the young girl: "Cousin Dorothy, we don't understand.... No, we're quite in the dark; and I think you won't think us indiscreet if we speak quite openly." "Speak away, Errington." "Ah, well, it's this--that three hundred thousand francs----" "Where did they come from?" said Dorothy ending his sentence for him. "That's what you want to know, isn't it?" "Well, yes." She bent towards the Englishman's ear and whispered: "All my savings ... earned by the sweat of my brow." "I beg you...." "Doesn't that explanation satisfy you? Then I'll be frank." She bent towards his other ear, and in a lower whisper still: "I stole them." "Oh, don't joke about it, cousin." "But goodness, George Errington, if I did not steal them, what do you suppose I did do?" He said slowly: "My friends and I are asking ourselves if you didn't find them." "Where?" "In the ruins of Périac!" She clapped her hands. "Bravo! They've guessed it. You're right, George Errington, of London: I found them at the foot of a tree, under a heap of dead leaves and stones. That's where the Marquis de Beaugreval hid his bank-notes and six per cents." The other two cousins stepped forward. Marco Dario, who looked very worried, said gravely: "Be serious, cousin Dorothy, we beg you, and don't laugh at us. Are we to consider the diamonds lost or found? It's a matter of great importance to some of us--I admit that it is to me. I had given up hopes of them. But now all at once you let us imagine an unexpected miracle. Is there one?" She said: "But why this supposition?" "Firstly because of this unexpected money which we might attribute to the sale of one of the diamonds. And then ... and then.... I must say it, because it seems to us, taking it all round, quite impossible that you should have given up the search for that treasure. What? You, Dorothy, after months of conflicts and victories, at the moment you reach your goal, you suddenly decide to stand by with your arms folded! Not a single effort! Not one investigation! No, no, on your part it's incredible." She looked from one to the other mischievously. "So that according to you, cousins, I must have performed the double miracle of finding the diamonds without searching for them." "There's nothing you couldn't do," said Webster gayly. The Countess supported them: "Nothing, Dorothy. And I see from your air that you've succeeded in this too." She did not say no. She smiled quietly. They were all round her, curious or anxious. The Countess murmured: "You have succeeded. Haven't you?" "Yes," said Dorothy. She had succeeded! The insoluble problem, with which so many minds had wrestled so many times and at such length, for ages--she had solved it! "But when? At what moment?" cried George Errington. "You never left us!" "Oh, it goes a long way further back than that. It goes back to my visit to the Château de Roborey." "Eh, what? What's that you say?" cried the astounded Count de Chagny. "From the first minute I knew at any rate the nature of the hiding-place in which the treasure was shut up." "But how?" "From the motto." "From the motto?" "But it's so plain! So plain that I've never understood the blindness of those who have searched for the treasure, and that I went so far as to declare the man who, when concealing a treasure, gave so much information about it, ingenuous in the extreme. But he was right, was the Marquis de Beaugreval. He could engrave it all over the place, on the clock of his château, on the wax of his seals, since to his descendants his motto meant nothing at all." "If you knew, why didn't you act at once?" said the Countess. "I knew the nature of the hiding-place, but not the spot on which it stood. This information was supplied by the gold medal. Three hours after my arrival at the ruins I knew all about it." Marco Dario repeated several times. "_In robore fortuna.... In robore fortuna...._" And the others also pronounced the three words, as if they were a cabalistic formula, the mere utterance of which is sufficient to produce marvelous results. "Dario," she said, "you know Latin? And you, Errington? And you, Webster?" "Well enough," said Dario, "to make out the sense of those three words--there's nothing tricky about them. _Fortuna_ means the fortune...." "In this case the diamonds," said she. "That's right," said Dario; and he continued his translation: "The diamonds are ... in _robore_...." "In the firm heart," said Errington, laughing. "In vigor, in force," added Webster. "And for you three that's all that the word '_robore_,' the ablative of the Latin word 'robur' means?" "Goodness, yes!" they answered. "_Robur_ ... force ... firmness ... energy." She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully: "Ah, well, I, who know just about as much Latin as you do, but have the very great advantage over you of being a country girl--to me, when I walk in the country and see that variety of oak which is called the _rouvre_, it nearly always occurs that the old French word _rouvre_ is derived from the Latin word 'robur,' which means force, and also means oak. And that's what led me, when on the 12th of July I passed, along with you, near the oak, which stands out so prominently in the middle of the clearing, at the beginning of the avenue of oaks--that's what led me to make the connection between that tree and the hiding-place, and so to translate the information which our ancestor untiringly repeated to us: 'I have hidden my fortune in the hollow of a rouvre oak.' There you are. As you perceive,--it's as simple as winking." Having made her explanation with a charming gayety, she was silent. The three young men gazed at her in wonder and amazement. Her charming eyes were full of her simple satisfaction at having astonished her friends by this uncommon quality, this inexplicable faculty with which she was gifted. "You _are_ different," said Webster. "You belong to a race ... a race----" "A race of sound Frenchmen, who have plenty of good sense, like all the French." "No, no," said he, incapable of formulating the thoughts which oppressed all three of them. "No, no. It's something else." He bent down before her and brushed her hand with his lips. Errington and Dario also bent down in the same respectful act, while, to hide her emotion she mechanically translated: "_Fortuna_, fortune.... In _robore_, in the oak." And she added: "In the deepest depths of the oak, in the heart of the oak, one might say. There was about six feet from the ground one of those ring-shaped swellings, that scar which wounds in the trunks of trees leave. And I had an intuition that that was the place in which I must search, and that there the Marquis de Beaugreval had buried the diamonds he was keeping for his second existence. There was nothing else to do but make the test. That's what I did, during the first few nights while my three cousins were sleeping. Saint-Quentin and I got to work at our exploring with our gimlets and saws and center-bits. And one evening I suddenly came across something too hard to bore. I had not been mistaken. The opening was enlarged and one by one I drew out of it four balls of the size of a hazel-nut. All I had to do was to clear off a regular matrix of dirt to bring to light four diamonds. Here are three of them. The fourth is in pawn with Maître Delarue, who very kindly agreed, after a good deal of hesitation, and a minute expert examination by his jeweler, to lend me the necessary money till to-morrow." She gave the three diamonds to her three friends, magnificent stones, of the same size, quite extraordinary size, and cut in the old-fashioned way with opposing facets. Errington, Webster, and Dario found it disturbing merely to look at them and handle them. Two centuries before, the Marquis de Beaugreval, that strange visionary, dead of his splendid dream of a resurrection, had intrusted them to the very tree under which doubtless he used to go and lie and read. For two hundred years Nature had continued her slow and uninterrupted work of building walls, ever and ever thicker walls, round the little prison chosen with such a subtle intelligence. For two hundred years generation after generation had passed near this fabulous treasure searching for it perhaps by reason of a confused legend, and now the great-great-great-great-granddaughter of the good man, having discovered the undiscoverable secret, and penetrated to the most mysterious and obscure of caskets, offered them the precious stones which their ancestor had brought back from the Indies. "Keep them," she said. "Three families sprung from the three sons of the Marquis have lived outside France. The French descendants of the fourth son will share the fourth diamond." "What do you mean?" asked Count Octave in a tone of surprise. "I say that we are three French heirs, you, Raoul, and I, that each diamond, according to the jeweler's valuation is worth several millions, and that our rights, the rights of all three of us, are equal." "My right is null," said Count Octave. "Why?" she said. "We are partners. A compact, a promise to share the treasure made you a partner with my father and Raoul's father." "A lapsed compact!" cried Raoul Davernoie in his turn. "For my part I accept nothing. The will leaves no room for discussion. Four medals, four diamonds. Your three cousins and you, Dorothy; you only have the right to inherit the riches of the Marquis!" She protested warmly: "And you too, Raoul! You too! We fought together! Your grandfather was a direct descendant of the Marquis! He possessed the token of the medal!" "That medal was of no value." "How do you know? You've never had it in your hands." "I have." "Impossible. There was nothing in the disc I fished up under your eyes. It was simply a bait to catch d'Estreicher. Then?" "When my grandfather came back from his journey to Roche-Périac, where you met him with Juliet Assire, one day I found him weeping in the orchard. He was looking at a gold medal, which he let me take from him and look at. On it were all the indications you have described. But the two faces were canceled by a cross, which manifestly, as I told you, deprived it of all value." Dorothy appeared greatly surprised by this revelation, and she replied in an absent-minded tone: "Oh! ... really?... You saw?..." She went to one of the windows and stood there for some minutes, her forehead resting against a pane. The last veils which obscured the adventure were withdrawn. Really there had been two gold medals. One, which was invalid and belonged to Jean d'Argonne, had been stolen by d'Estreicher, recovered by Raoul's father, and sent to the old Baron. The other, the valid one was the one which belonged to the old Baron, who, out of prudence or greed, had never spoken of it to his son or grandson. In his madness, and dispossessed in his turn of the token, which he had hidden in his dog's collar, he had gone to win the treasure with the other medal, which he had intrusted to Juliet Assire, and which d'Estreicher had been unable to find. All at once Dorothy saw all the consequences which followed this revelation. In taking from the dog's collar the medal which she believed to be hers, she had robbed Raoul of his inheritance. In returning to the Manor and offering alms to the son of the man who had been an accomplice in her father's murder, she had imagined that she was performing an act of generosity and forgiveness, whereas she was merely restoring a small portion of that of which she had robbed him. She restrained herself and said nothing. She must act cautiously in order that Raoul might never suspect his father's crime. When she came from the window to the middle of the room, you would have said that her eyes were full of tears. Nevertheless she was smiling, and she said in a careless tone: "Serious business to-morrow. To-day let us rejoice at being reunited and celebrate that reunion. Will you invite me to dinner, Raoul? And my children too?" She had recovered all her gayety. She ran to the big gateway of the orchard and called the boys, who came joyfully. The Captain threw himself into the arms of the Countess de Chagny. Saint-Quentin kissed her hand. They observed that Castor and Pollux had swollen noses, signs of a recent conflict. The dinner was washed down with sparkling cider and champagne. All the evening Dorothy was light-hearted and affectionate to them all. They felt that she was happy to be alive. Archibald Webster recalled her promise to her. It was the next day, the first of August, that she was to choose among her suitors. "I stick to my promise," she said. "You will choose among those who are here? For I suppose that cousin Raoul is not the last to come forward as a candidate." "Among those who are here. And as there can be only one chosen, I insist on kissing you all to-night." She kissed the four young men, then the Count and Countess, then the four boys. The party did not break up till midnight. * * * * * Next morning Raoul, Octave de Chagny, his wife, and the three strangers were at breakfast in the dining-room when a farm servant brought a letter. Raoul looked at the handwriting and murmured gloomily: "Ah, a letter from her.... Like the last time.... She has gone." He remembered, as did the Count and Countess, her departure from Roborey. He tore open the letter and read aloud: "Raoul, my friend, "I earnestly beg you to believe blindly what I am going to tell you. It was revealed to me by certain facts which I learnt only yesterday. "What I am writing is not a supposition, but an absolute certainty. I know it as surely as I know that light exists, and though I have very sound reasons for not divulging the proofs of it, I nevertheless wish you to act and think with the same conviction and serenity as I do myself. "By my eternal salvation, this is the truth. Errington, Webster, Dario, and you, Raoul, are the veritable heirs of the Marquis de Beaugreval, specified in his will. Therefore the fourth diamond is yours. Webster will be delighted to go to Nantes to-morrow to give Maître Delarue a check for three hundred thousand francs and bring you back the diamond. I am sending to Maître Delarue at the same time as the receipt which he signed, the necessary instructions. "I will confess, Raoul, that I felt a little disappointed yesterday when I discerned the truth--not much--just a few tears. To-day I am quite contented. I had no great liking for that fortune--too many crimes and too many horrors went with it. Some things I should never have been able to forget. And then ... and then money is a prison; and I could not bear to live locked up. "Raoul, and you, my three new friends, you asked me,--rather by way of a joke, wasn't it?--to choose a sweetheart among those who found themselves at the Manor yesterday. May I answer you in rather the same manner, that my choice is made, that it is only possible for me to devote myself to the youngest of my four boys first, then to the others? Don't be angry with me, my friends. My heart, up to now, is only the heart of a mother; and it only thrills with tenderness, anxiety and love for them. What would they do if I were to leave them? What would become of my poor Montfaucon? They need me and the really healthy life we lead together. Like them I am a nomad, a vagabond. There is no dwelling-place as good as our caravan. Let me go back to the high road. "And then, after a time we will meet again, shall we? Our cousins the de Chagny will welcome us at Roborey. Come, let us fix a date. Christmas and New Year's Day there--does that please you? "Good-bye, my friend. My best love to you all, and a few tears.... _In robore fortuna._ Fortune is in the firm heart. "I kiss you all. "DOROTHY." A long silence followed the reading of this letter. At the end of it Count Octave said: "Strange creature! When one considers that she had the four diamonds in her pocket, that is to say ten or twelve million francs, and that it would have been so easy for her to say nothing and keep them." But the young men did not take up this train of thought. For them Dorothy was the very spirit of happiness. And happiness was going away. Raoul looked at his watch and beckoned to them to come with him. He led them to the highest point of the Hillocks. On the horizon, on a white road which ran upwards among the meadows, the caravan was moving. Three boys walked beside One-eyed Magpie. Saint-Quentin was leading him. Behind, all alone, Dorothy--Princess of Argonne and rope-dancer. 
59982	----	_the human element_ BY LEO KELLEY _It was absolutely amazing what science could do. The last century of progress had been wonderful! Why even the circus was far better--or was it?_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "Going to the circus?" the man with the sallow complexion asked. Kevin nodded but didn't look at his questioner. He nervously brushed back the lock of gray hair from his lined forehead and pushed his rimless glasses into a more secure position on his nose. His worried expression made him look older than his forty-eight years. "Hear it's better than ever," the man continued in a flat toneless voice. "_The Great Golden Ball_ is supposed to be really something. Or so they say. I go every year. It's really amazing what they can do nowadays--science, I mean. Even the circus is better for it." Is it? thought Kevin as the speeding, robot driven monorail transport rocketed past the brilliant pastel buildings shining slimly in the sunlight filtering through the plastic dome covering New New York. Oh, is it? The man next to Kevin, discouraged by the lack of response to his attempts at conversation, quieted and both men relaxed in the privacy of their own thoughts. At any rate, the other man did. Kevin couldn't relax. His son and daughter-in-law with whom he lived could not be aware of his absence yet, Kevin reassured himself. No one knew he was here. And when the men came for him, and Sally, perhaps with tears in her eyes, went to fetch him and his small suitcase it would be too late. And that would be that. The transport slowed noiselessly to a stop and most of the passengers rose to leave. The robot driver sat motionless until the last of the people, Kevin among them, stepped from the loading platform to the ground. The electronic currents whirred, the doors closed and, the circuit complete, the transport moved off into the shining caverns of the city. The people hurried forward and passed quickly through the entrance to the amphitheater over which hung a sign: MAIN ENTRANCE TO 2088 VERSION OF CALDWELL'S GIANT CIRCUS Kevin watched the people file through the entrance and slowly, almost reluctantly, followed them. He presented the red plastic coin to the robot at the entrance, but hardly heard as its electrical voice crackled, "Thank you, sir. Enjoy the show." Kevin walked with the crowd along the spotless corridor and stepped aboard the automatic lift, getting out at the floor above. He seated himself in one of the comfortable lounging chairs and shuddered slightly as it fitted itself to the contours of his body. His fingers clutched tightly the undistinguished box he carried and something within him resisted the comfort offered by the large chair in which he sat. People continued to file in and take places and the amphitheater was quickly filled. Soundlessly. The walls absorbed the sound and invisible filters removed the dust from the air. Occasionally people took small pills from the containers built into the sides of their chairs and popped them into their mouths. Kevin knew the pills tasted like popcorn, candy floss, and some even like hot dogs. But they were, of course, not the same as the real thing. Neither was the amphitheater. Once there had been great canvas tents put up in the open air, and wood shavings covering the ground within, and hard benches for seats. The area around the tents had been sprinkled with small stands that sold soda in bottles and candy floss colored pink that melted into sweet nothingness in one's mouth. And everywhere there was an exciting smell made up of many separate things. Animals, the food-stuffs on sale, sawdust, and the sweat of many human beings pressed tightly together on the bleachers. There were the shouts of barkers, colored lights, and men who sold little lizards that changed color as you watched them. Kevin knew all this for he had read it in the book which he had bought from the ancient shopkeeper in the run-down section of New New York, how many years ago? Kevin smiled slightly to himself as he recalled the puzzled expression on the shop-keeper's face when he purchased the book. The circus was beginning and Kevin interrupted his reverie to watch. On small elevated squares in the center of the great arena stood figures almost too horrible to look at. Some flailed many arms about aimlessly; some simply stood--vacantly--and their undersize extra limbs which should have been wings fluttered sadly. One or two figures crawled about on their small squares scratching their scaly skins and making whimpering noises. One seemed to be making efforts to rise from where it lay in an amorphous heap, but was prevented from doing so by a grotesque over-sized head which the creature seemed incapable of raising from the slab on which it sprawled. Kevin's stomach tightened. Every year, he knew, specimens such as these, the products of the effects of radiation on the genes of their parents or, perhaps, grandparents during the war that ended nearly a hundred years ago, were placed on display in the circus on their small squares where rising electrical currents instead of bars imprisoned them. Even the freak shows in the twentieth century circus were different from this. At least then the freaks were still, well, _people_, and freely chose to exhibit their oddities for profit. In many cases it was the only way they could earn a living. But this was different. These senseless mutants were captured like animals after having been abandoned by their parents; and were being displayed with the same lack of humanity. Kevin watched robots perform mindless feats of strength as the circus continued. He saw colored opaque rays support a slab of concrete and gasped with the rest of the audience as the heavy slab was suddenly disintegrated by a sudden rainbow fusion of all the rays. He listened as the recorded commercials whispered their wiles to the captive audience. Suddenly a panel slowly opened in the ceiling of the amphitheater and dramatically, silently, an immense golden sphere descended until it hung glistening at the end of its thin cable in the center of the great arena. The lights dimmed and a hush fell over the crowd. The sphere suddenly glowed brightly and, at this signal, all other lights in the amphitheater were turned off. Kevin stared as the sphere began to rotate on its axis. He heard the first reaction the audience had yet shown; the "ohs" and "ahs" that used to accompany fireworks displays in the old days. He looked into the sphere and could not believe what he saw. _He_ was in the sphere and he--! Everyone would know, he thought in horror and fear! He tore his eyes from the sphere and looked, expecting anything, at the people near him whose faces were dimly visible in the light from the sphere. They all gazed spellbound at the hypnotically revolving globe. Kevin listened as a woman whispered to the man next to her without taking her eyes from the shining bubble. "Can you see it, Jim?" "Yeah," the man answered softly. "I always dreamed of playing a love scene with Dirk Anders. He's the best actor in the Lifies. And there I am! Doing it--in the Golden Ball," the woman sighed. "That's not what I see," the man said in a low voice, not taking his eyes from the turning globe. Kevin watched the man's mouth working. Saw him wipe the spittle from the corners of his mouth. He turned away from the naked look in the man's eager eyes. A child of nine or ten in front of Kevin clutched excitedly at the sleeve of the woman next to him. "I'm in there, Mom! See me! And I've got a dog! See, he's all black with one white paw! Just like I told you I wanted him to be, Mom!" The woman answered her son absently as she stared intently into the ball and Kevin wondered what private and personal dream she saw herself living. _The Great Golden Ball_, as it turned hypnotically on its cable, was providing everyone with a vision of his or her own particular wish-fulfillment. The spellbound audience was happily wallowing in a dream world. Kevin left his seat abruptly and boarded the lift in the corridor. On the lower floor he searched until he found the entrance to the arena. It was temporarily empty, but soon the robots would be using it as they brought equipment into the arena for the next display. Kevin opened his box and took from it the gaudy costume he had secretly made. Quickly he slipped it over his clothes. He took out a small mirror and, working quickly, covered his face with white powder. As he applied grease paint to his face in bright, bold strokes, a saucy grin smiled back at him from the mirror's surface. He slipped the white skull piece over his head and fastened the red wig to it. One last look in the mirror and he was ready. Kevin skipped lightly, in spite of his forty-eight years, out into the glaring light of the arena. Silence greeted him. He walked about. He skipped. And suddenly fell. He rose, rubbing the place of his contact with the floor, and scanned the floor beneath his feet. Suddenly, he threw up his hands in mock surprise and, bending from the waist, picked up something from the floor. Triumphantly he held it up. It took the audience a minute or two to "see" the imaginary straw, or pin, or whatever it was, that was clutched between Kevin's thumb and index finger. His painted smile beamed on the people before him and seemed to grow larger as a faint titter arose from a little girl in the first tier of seats. Kevin waved to her. She hid her face in her hands. And then waved shyly back. Kevin skipped about the arena watching the people whispering among themselves. The softest ripple of laughter ran through the audience and Kevin's heart soared. He repeated his fall and waved to a small boy who waved wildly back. Kevin's wig bobbed gaily as he hopped and strutted about the arena waving to the children. "Wave to me! Wave to me!" cried a shrill voice from the stands. Kevin did not see the robots approaching on the run and yet was not surprised when they seized him and carried him from the arena, his red wig still bobbing gaily. It could not have ended otherwise, Kevin knew. But no matter. The children had laughed. So had many of the adults. * * * * * The robots deposited him in the corridor beside the entrance to the arena and Kevin found himself facing two well dressed and corpulent gentlemen. "What's going on here?" shouted the first man. This was Mr. Caldwell himself, the owner of the circus. His picture had been on the Communico Screen in connection with the advertising for the circus Kevin remembered. "Are you crazy?" the second man sputtered. Kevin slowly removed the wig and the white skull piece and stood with lowered eyes, his arms at his sides, facing the two angry men. As they continued to shout at him for an explanation Kevin, using the skull piece, wiped the clown make-up from his face. Both men, out of breath, paused and Kevin opened his mouth to speak. "I want to apolo--," he began but Caldwell interrupted him. "Hey, Mike," he said to the other man, "Isn't this the guy whose picture they're sending out on the Communico Screen? You know, the guy who ran away from his son's house before they could send him to the Psych Center?" Kevin didn't give the man a chance to answer the question. "That's true, sir, and I'm going home now. I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused but I had to do it. I--," he faltered. How could he explain about what he had done and why he had done it? Kevin brushed the gray lock of hair back from his forehead and reached absently for the glasses he had removed earlier while applying his make-up. "It's a very long story," he said finally and there was a weariness in his tone that was not merely the result of his exertion in the arena moments before. He stood quietly before the two men. The shouting from the arena did not quite penetrate his consciousness. Kevin thought of Sally and Edward and how they had reluctantly decided to send him to the Psych Rehabilitation Center because he persisted in "living in the past" as they put it and refused to be suitably interested in or impressed with the "progress" their century had made. When Kevin had tried to explain that the progress they spoke of was not all, he sincerely believed, of a worthwhile nature they had merely shrugged and looked at him oddly. He was willing to go through with the Psychlab's "Rehabilitation Program" now for he had proved his point. There were some good things from the past and a clown was one of them. A circus without noise and fanfare and excitement and laughter was nothing. He hated the sterility of its present scientific gadgetry. The best that could be said for it was that it did no obvious harm. But with the advent of _The Great Golden Ball_ people were taking one more step away from what could be a pleasant reality and one more step in the direction of Dreamland. And Kevin was certain that this Dreamland would one day prove to be crawling with nightmares. "--something written about this a long time ago," Caldwell was saying to his assistant. "Looks like its got possibilities. Back in the 1900's they used to have these guys who made fools of themselves in the circus. People loved them. Sorta made them see their own faults and frustrations and all." "But, sir--" the younger man began. "I know we're supposed to be a streamlined outfit, but you can hear that crowd yelling out there as well as I can. That's proof enough for me! This thing's good!" Kevin listened in amazement. This was not the way he had expected things to go. They should have sent him home in the custody of one of the robots by now. Or called the Psych Rehabilitation Center to have someone come and get him. "What's your name, dad?" Caldwell asked. "Molloy. Kevin Molloy," Kevin answered, feeling shy all at once. "But I didn't--" "Listen Molloy. Get out there and do whatever you did before. No, don't ask any questions now. We can settle details later. But from now on you're working for Caldwell's Circus!" Kevin pulled the skull piece on his head once again and with shaking fingers applied his grease paint. It was a poor job but Kevin hoped it would look good enough. Still fastening the red wig, he ran out into the arena and was stopped short by the thunderous roar that went up from the crowd. Kevin lifted a boy from the stands and sat down on the floor of the arena, the boy on his lap. The age old game began. Kevin's hands covered his face. The boy pulled away one finger after another until Kevin's painted smile beamed out at him. They laughed together. Kevin played the clown and listened simultaneously to the voice shouting in his mind. Sally had always said an older man should have a hobby or something to keep him occupied. That was why I got such crazy ideas, she said, because I didn't have enough to do since I retired. Well, now I've got more than a hobby. I've got a job. I'm a _clown_! Maybe I can get Caldwell to put some sawdust on this floor; it's awfully slippery. Kevin placed the boy back in the stands and skipped about the arena. Maybe he'll put up a candy floss stand and sell popcorn instead of all those pills, Kevin thought as he smiled at the happy crowd. Kevin slipped, fell, and the crowd howled its delight when he found the imaginary straw. As he staggered exhausted from the arena, his heart singing, Mr. Caldwell was still excitedly talking to his assistant, who was vigorously nodding his head in agreement. "----remember some ancient history myself! We'll get him to teach some other guys the same kind of stuff. Remind me to ask him about that. I figure maybe we've come full circle on this, and he's got just what we need around here----the human element." 
62349	----	The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town--to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. He knocked over the pitcher of _thil_, but it didn't matter. The pitcher was empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, not very hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough to spring them. "We," he said, "are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up and down the drain." He added, as an afterthought, "Destitute." I looked at him. I said sourly, "You're kidding!" "Kidding." Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me through a curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. "He says I'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show in Space, plastered so thick with attachments...." "It's no more plastered than you are." I was sore because he'd been a lot quicker grabbing the pitcher. "The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey! I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle for eleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down! Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!" I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insults Buckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's face unless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see his grey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martian girl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch the slanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing round toward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven to Shannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, "Bucky. Hold on, fella. I...." Somebody said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister Buckhalter Shannon?" Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiled pleasantly and said, very gently: "Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?" I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even if he was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannon settled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressed in dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering of grey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfully clean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trust with their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with pale blue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, "I don't think you understand." I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chair back. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. I got my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed, and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise. It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up, quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. "What's eating you, Jig? I'm not going to hurt him." "Shut up," I said. "Look what he's got there. Money!" The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. "Yes," he said. "Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?" Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. "Delighted. I'm Shannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager." He looked down at the table. "I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity." The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his face stayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a start that it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan I ever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any more than you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said, "Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, looking like hungry cats at a mouse-hole." The little guy nodded. "Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. Simon Beamish. I wish to--ah--charter your circus." * * * * * I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn't say anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a fresh pitcher of _thil_ on the table. Then I cleared my throat. "What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?" Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. "I have independent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lighten the burden of life for those less fortunate...." Bucky got red around the ears. "Just a minute," he murmured, and started to get up. I kicked him under the table. "Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish." He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamish ignored him. He went on, quietly, "I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the most valuable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation of toil and boredom...." I said, "Sure, sure. But what was your idea?" "There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where no entertainment of the--_proper_ sort has been available. I propose to remedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to make a tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt." Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started to speak, and I kicked him again. "That would be expensive, Mister Beamish," I said. "We'd have to cancel several engagements...." He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, "I quite understand that. I would be prepared...." The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and I glared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man--a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terran colony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like the scenery--scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding the curtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much larger than the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, "Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again." "Gertrude be blowed," growled Bucky. "Can't you see I'm busy?" Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. "I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrude ain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something...." I said, "That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now." He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber to fit me for a coffin. "Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome, see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-pot ship'll hold her." He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamish cleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, "Gertrude?" "Yeah. She's kind of temperamental." Bucky took a quick drink. I finished for him. "She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swamp Venusian _cansin_. The only other one on the Triangle belongs to Savitt Brothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude." She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may be a little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped she wouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-looking circus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. "A _cansin_. Well, well! The mystery surrounding the origin and species of the _cansin_ is a fascinating subject. The extreme rarity of the animal...." We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, "We'd have to have at least a hundred U.C.'s." It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker. Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of a second I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and my stomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. "I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will be agreeable to me." He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeled off half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. "By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you in the morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night." We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky made grab for the money, but I beat him to it. "Scram," I said. "There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs. Here." I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. "We can get lushed enough on this." Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath back he said suddenly, "Beamish is pulling some kind of a game." "Yeah." "It may be crooked." "Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake!" I yelled. "You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?" Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunic where the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. "Yeah," he said. "I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury." He poked his head outside. "Hey, boy! More _thildatum_!" * * * * * It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport where Shannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Late as it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sitting around and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restless under the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead and dried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blown red dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance to the roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on his feet. He waved and said, "Hiya, boys." They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. I grinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot more than money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out of his own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time in weeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly, Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts. Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. "Now?" he said. "Now," I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to join in. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all went home happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and the green girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt the muscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkers and joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in the passageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose. "They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I've rewarded them." I said, "Sure," rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. "Let's go see Gertrude." I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny going into the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a city guy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. But Bucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. "Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye." "You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'...." The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall down the ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't.... Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there was a dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started down the long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks and compression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn't near as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It's the smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them, breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walled around them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, and then wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again. A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell, ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the same time. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name I could think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a great metallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gow had them nicely conditioned to that gong. * * * * * But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feel them inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared of them. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought--like I wanted to put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night, all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. "She's gettin' worse," he said. "She's lonesome." "That's tough," said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like an owl's. He swayed slightly. "That's sure tough." He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tank and even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking a deep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a _cansin_. There's only two of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say will make much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an "end of evolution." Seems old Dame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The _cansins_ were pretty successful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works and now there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where even the Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stuck some place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a little bird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cage with her hands--yeah, hands--hanging over her knees and her snaky head sunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything. Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made the mane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyes clear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked like old Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, "She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one." Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, "Be reasonable, Gow! Nobody's ever seen a male _cansin_. There may not even be any." Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head. The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. That close, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and cold inside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, "You'll have to snap her out of this, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts." He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stood looking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then he turned to Gertrude. "I saved her life," he said. "When we bought her out of Hanak's wreck and everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I know her. I can do things with her. But this time...." He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like a woman's talking about a sick child. "This time," he said, "I ain't sure." "Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we need her." I took Shannon's arm. "Come to bed, Bucky darlin'." He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look at us. Bucky sobbed. "You were right, Jig," he mumbled. "Circus is no good. I know it. But it's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there with Gertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love...." "Sure, sure," I told him. "Stop crying down my neck." We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomed high and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion all around us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mist rose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintly with blue, cold fire. I yelled, "Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow--for God's sake!" I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limp and heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans and roars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it all I could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, "_Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wants to kill us!_" I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. I sobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. I rolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in the hollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along the back of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting my mouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking, "This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!" Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. His little brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of his teeth, and he gummed _thak_-weed. It smelt. "You pretty, Mis' Jig," he giggled. "You funny like hell." He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him and said, "Where's Shannon? How is he?" "Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow come nickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!" I said, "Yeah," and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell down a couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over the washstand--I was in my own cell--and I saw what Kanza meant. The damned snakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotch plaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there was a big burn across his neck. He said: "Beamish is here with his lawyer." I picked up my shirt. "Right with you." Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. "Jig," he said, "those vapor worms were all right when we went in. Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose." I hurt all over. I growled, "With that brain, son, you should go far. Nobody saw anything, of course?" Bucky shook his head. "Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?" "Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped." "One hundred U.C.'s," said Bucky softly, "for a few lousy swampedge mining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?" I shrugged. "You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off the creditors." "Yeah," Bucky said reflectively. "And I hear starvation isn't a comfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign." He put his hand on the latch and looked at my feet. "And--uh--Jig, I...." I said, "Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!" We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge, and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around looking like a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovian strong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat had kittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. It lived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes out of their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time. Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. It didn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you at dinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, I was ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on our itinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. It was Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and a bunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middle of it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, and our router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. "A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!" I snarled, "What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show!" and went out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but they weren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venus heat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude, screaming. * * * * * The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing in the mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and I stood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman was standing in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and her triangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything on but her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn't sound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks with the electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusian middle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed with white reptilian teeth. "Death," she whispered. "Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I can smell it in the swamp wind." The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin under her jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. "The deep swamps are angry," she whispered. "Something has been taken. They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!" She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tight and cold. Bucky said, "Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump." We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landing field when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. We could see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three or four tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, "Jig--it's Sam Kapper." We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeled around to see what was happening. People began to close in on the man who crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses and carnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren't too broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed, hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick, looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all over like animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned over and put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. I only caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn't realize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with a couple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulled the curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on the cigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, "Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?" * * * * * Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard lines of his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was covered with mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, "I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found it and brought it out." The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. "Help me," he said simply. "I'm scared." His mouth drooled. "I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It's got to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but they wouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it...." He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. "I don't know how they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back. I've got to...." Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared, suddenly. I said, "Get what back where?" Bucky got up. "I'll get a doctor," he said. "Stick with him." Kapper grabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his hands stood out like guy wires. "Don't leave me. Got to tell you--where it is. Got to take it back. Promise you'll take it back." He gasped and struggled over his breathing. "Sure," said Bucky. "Sure, well take it back. What is it?" Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight for air. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was no use. Kapper whispered, "_Cansin_. Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back." "Where is it, Sam?" I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamish was standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kapper made a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky felt Kapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. "Heart?" said Beamish finally. "Yeah," said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. "Poor Sam." I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked at Beamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon and pushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. "Keep this guy here till I get back," I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. "Shut up," I told him. "We got a contract." I yanked the curtains shut and walked over to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in the place. At first glance they looked okay--a hard-faced, muscular bunch of miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they never did any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartender was a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white hair coiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. "_Lhak_," I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of a green bottle. I reached for it, casually. "That guy we brought in," I said. "He sure has a skinful. Passed out cold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?" "_Selak_," said a voice in my ear. "As if you didn't know." I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standing behind me. And I remembered him, then. * * * * * Circus people get around a lot, and the Law supplies us with Wanted sheets. I remembered this guy from the last batch they handed us on Mars. Melak Thompson was his name, and he had a reputation. He had a face you wouldn't forget. Dark and kind of handsome, with the Dry-lander blood showing in the heavy bones and the tilted green eyes. His mouth was smiling and brutal. He nodded at the booth. "Let's take a walk," he said. We took a walk. The men sitting at the dirty tables were still silent, and still not miners. I began to sweat. The booth was a little crowded with us all in there. I sat jammed up against Sam Kapper's body. Bucky Shannon's grey-green eyes were sleepy, and there was a vein beating on his forehead. Beamish said to Melak, "Kapper's dead. Dead, without talking." "That's tough." Melak shook his dark head. "We was gentle with him." "Yeah," I said. Kapper had been a good guy, and I was mad. "Feed anybody enough _selak_, and you can afford to be. It's a dirty death." _Selak's_ made from a Venusian half-cousin of henbane, which is what scopolamine comes from. It has a terrific effect on the heart. And Kapper had simply torn himself apart trying to keep from talking while he was under the influence. Bucky Shannon made a slow, ugly move to get up. Beamish said, "Sit down." There was something in his voice and his bland blue eyes. Shannon sat down. Melak was looking at Beamish, still grinning. "Well," he said, "I guess your idea was pretty good after all." I had a sudden inspiration. The burns were still sore on my body, and Rapper's tortured face was close to mine, and I took a wild shot at something I wasn't even sure I saw. "Yeah," I said. "A swell idea. Why did you try so hard to butch it, Melak?" He stopped grinning. Beamish looked forward a little. My tongue stuck in my mouth, but I managed to say. "You get it, Bucky. A male _cansin_, Kapper said. The only one in captivity, maybe even on Venus. Worth its weight in credit slips. That's why Beamish was so happy to overpay us to get us out here--because he thought Gertrude could find her boy friend fast, even if Kapper didn't talk." I turned to Melak again. "A swell idea. Why did you have those vapor snakes turned loose on us? Did you think Kapper was enough?" He struck me, pretty hard, across the mouth. My head banged back against the booth wall and for a minute I couldn't see anything but spangles of fire shooting around. I heard Beamish say, from a great distance, "How about it, Melak?" It was awfully still in the booth. I swallowed some blood and blinked my eyes clear enough to see Bucky Shannon poised across the table like a bow starting to unbend. And suddenly, somewhere far off over the drum of rain on the flimsy roof, there began to be noises. I hadn't been comfortable up till then. I'm no Superman, nor one of those guys you read about who can stare Death in the eye and shatter him with a light laugh. But all of a sudden I was afraid. Afraid so that all the fear I'd felt before was nothing. And it was funny, too. I didn't know what it was, then, but I knew what it wasn't. It wasn't Beamish or Melak or those hard guys beyond the curtains, or even Kapper's body pressed up against me. I didn't know what it was. But I wanted to get down on the floor and hide myself in a crack, like a cockroach. * * * * * The others felt it, too. I remember the sweat standing out on Bucky Shannon's forehead, and the sudden tightening of Beamish's jaw, and the glitter in Melak's green eyes. Beyond the curtains there was an uneasy stirring of feet. The confused, distant noise grew louder. Somewhere, not very far away, a woman began to scream. Beamish said softly, "You dirty double-crossing rat." His face was still dead-pan, only now it was like something beaten out of iron. His hands were out of sight under the table. Melak smiled. I could feel his body shift and tense beside me. "Sure," he said. "I double-crossed you. Why not? I planted a guy in the circus hammer gang and he crawled in the sewage lock and tried to get these punks. I'm glad now he bungled it. Kapper had guts." Beamish whispered, "You're a fool. You don't know what you're playing with. I've done research, and I do." "Too bad you wasted the time," said Melak. "Because you're through." He threw himself suddenly aside, lifting the table hard into Beamish. The curtains ripped away and he rolled in them, twisting like a snake. I yelled to Bucky and dropped flat. Beamish had drawn a gun under the table. The blast of it seared my face. The next second four heavy blasters spoke at once. Beamish's gun dropped on the floor. Then it was quiet again, and I could hear the woman screaming, outside in the beating rain. Melak got up. "Sure I double-crossed you," he said softly. "Why should I split with anybody? Nobody knows about it but us. Kapper couldn't send word from the swamps when he caught it, and he couldn't send word from here because he wasn't let. "That critter'll bring anything I ask for it. Why should I split with you?" Beamish didn't answer. I don't think Melak thought he would. The noise from outside was getting louder. Bucky groaned. "It's coming from the pitch, Jig. Trouble. We've got to...." The table was yanked from over us. We got up off our knees. Melak looked at us. He was shaking a little and his green eyes were mean. "I don't think," he said, "I really need you guys around, either." He jerked his head suddenly. "Cripes, I wish that dame would shut up!" It was getting on my nerves, too--that monotonous, sawing screech. Melak stepped aside. "Get 'em, boys. I don't want 'em dragging their outfit down on our necks." Four blaster barrels came up. My insides came up with them. I was way beyond anything, then--even panic. Gow burst in through the doorway. He was soaked to the skin, tattered, bleeding, and wild-eyed. He yelled, "Boss! Gertrude...." Then he saw the guns and stopped. It was very still in the place. Outside there was sound rising like a sullen tide against the walls. The woman's screaming became something not human, and then stopped, short. Gow said, almost absently, "Gertrude went nuts. We'd brought her cage up from the tank for the show and she--broke out. There wasn't nothin' we could do. She busted a lot of cages and then disappeared." Melak snarled something, I don't know what. The wall behind Gow jarred, buckled, and split open around the doorway. Bamboo fragments clattered on the floor. Somebody yelled, and a blaster went off. Gertrude stood in the splintered opening. She looked at us with cold, mad green eyes, towering huge and blue against the low roof, her hands swinging and her crest erect. She let go one wild, whistling screech and came straight toward the booth. Bucky Shannon touched my arm. "Climb into your brassies, kid," he muttered. "Here's our chance!" I caught his shoulder. He followed the line of my pointing, and I felt him tremble. Gertrude was coming at us like a rocket express. Behind her wet and glistening from the hot rain, came three more just like her. III We scattered, all of us, hunting for a way out. There was only one door leading to the back, and it was stoppered tight with men cursing and fighting to get through. Gow was crouched in a corner by the splintered wall. I pulled Bucky along, thinking we might get in back of the _cansins_ and sneak out. I wondered what they wanted. And I wondered where in heck you could hide a thing as big as Gertrude and keep anybody from finding out. Somebody screamed briefly. I saw one of the strange _cansins_ toss the bartender aside like a dry twig. Gow rose up in front of me with a queer staring look in his eyes. "Somethin's wrong," he said. "All wrong. I...." His mouth twitched. He turned sharply and started to scramble through the wrecked hall. Bucky and I were right on his heels. I think Melak and some of his lobbygows were crowding us, but nobody was thinking about things like that any more. I knew what was eating Gow. The fear that had looked out of Kapper's eyes. The fear that was riding me. Fear that had nothing to do with anything physical. Bucky cursed and stumbled beside me. And suddenly the four _cansins_ let go a tremendous thundering scream. The hair rose on my neck, and I turned to look. I just had to. Gertrude had turned away from the booth. They stood, the four of them, their huge black shoulders touching, their crests like rows of petrified flame, staring at what Gertrude held in her arms. It was Kapper's body. Slowly, with infinite gentleness, she began to strip him. He hung loose in the cradle of one great arm, his flesh showing blue-white against her blueness. Her free hand ripped his clothes away like things made of paper. I don't know why nobody tried to shoot the beasts after the first second. Sheer panic, I guess. We could have killed them all, then. But we just stood looking, fascinated by the slow, intent baring of Kapper's body. And the strange fear. It was on us all. Kapper lay naked in her black arms. She raised him slowly over her head, her eyes blind green fires deep under bony brows. The others drew closer, shivering, and I could hear them whimper. Strangers from the deep swamps with no stink of man on them. I thought of the Nahali woman laughing in the hot rain. Death from the deep swamps, because something had been taken, and they were angry. There was a little black box strapped to Kapper's thin white belly. Gertrude shifted her hands a little. The blood hammered in my ears. I was sick. I didn't want to look any more. I couldn't help it. Bucky Shannon caught a hard, sobbing breath. Gertrude broke Sam Kapper's body in two. * * * * * I can still hear the noise it made. The blood ran dark and sluggish down her arms. It worried me that Kapper's face didn't change expression. The little black box on his belly split with the rest of him. Something rose out of it. Something no bigger than my forefinger that carried a cold green blaze around it like a ball of St. Elmo's fire. Gertrude threw Kapper away. I heard the two flopping thuds of him hitting the floor. Some guy was down on his knees close to me. His lips moved. I don't know if he could remember his prayers. Somebody else was vomiting, hard. I wanted to, but my stomach felt frozen. The cold green fire had a shape inside it. I couldn't make it out clearly, except that it looked horribly human. It put out four thin green filaments. Don't ask me if they were physical things like tentacles, or just beams of light, or maybe thought. I don't know. Whatever they were, they worked. They connected with the four black, snaky heads of the female _cansins_. I felt the shock of them connecting with my own nerves. And it was like something had welded those four brutes together into one. They had been four. Separate, with hard outlines. Now they were one. One single interlocking entity. I guess it was just my being so scared and sick, but I thought I saw their outlines blur a little. Gow spoke suddenly. His voice was pretty loud, and calm. "That was it," he said, as though it was the only thing in the world that mattered. "They ain't complete by themselves. Like the _zurats_ back home on Mercury. They got a community brain. No wonder Gertrude was lonesome." His voice broke the spell. Somebody screamed, and everybody started to move at once, clawing in blind panic for the openings. And we all knew, then, what we were afraid of. We were afraid of the little thing in the black box, the thing in a cloak of fire that had risen from the ruins of Kapper's body, and the power that lived in it. I suppose we thought we were going to fight it, all right. But outside, where we could breathe. Not in here, with the hugeness of the females smothering us, penned in with the last male _cansin_ in creation. I knew then why Kapper had broken, and why he hadn't told, in spite of the _selak_. The thing hadn't let him. And it had called to its kind, from the deep swamps and Buckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus. * * * * * The deep indigo night of Venus had settled down, in the smell of mud and jungle and the hot rain. Lights flared crazily here and there out of open doorways. People were yelling, the tight, animal mob-yell of fear. There was no place to run in Nahru. The jungle held it. The thick green jungle built on quicksand and crawling with death. Behind us the four _cansins_ raised a wild whistling screech. It was answered, out of the hot night between the little shacks of Nahru. Brute voices, singing their hate. Suddenly I remembered what Gow had said. "_She busted a lot of cages...._" God knew what was loose in that town. Bucky Shannon spoke beside me. We were still running, slipping and floundering in the mud, making toward the ship from sheer instinct. He gasped, "We got to get those babies rounded up. Gow! Gow, you hear me? We got to get 'em back!" Gow's voice came sullenly. "I hear you, boss." We slowed down. It was suddenly important to hear what more Gow had to say. "Don't you get it?" he asked slowly. "Gertrude let 'em out. She wanted 'em--to help her. They know it. They ain't going back." Somewhere behind us a plastic shack cracked open like an eggshell. Human cries were drowned in a whistling screech. Off to the right the Mercurian cave-cat began to laugh like a crazy woman. Slow, patient, animal hate, walled around them, waiting. The feel and smell of hate in the brute tank. I could feel and smell it now, in Nahru, only it wasn't patient and waiting any more. The time it had waited for was here. Gertrude had set it free. Shannon said, very softly, "Mother o' God, what are we going to do?" "Get back to the ship. Get back and get out of here!" I jumped. It was Melak's voice, sounding hard and ugly. Light spilling out of a sagging door made a faint silhouette of him in the rain. He held a blaster in his hand. Shannon snarled, "Take off with half my gang stranded here? You go to hell!" Rockets blasted suddenly out on the landing field. Somebody had made it to Beamish's yacht and gone. The runabout followed it. The circus ship was still there, and the only one in Nahru. I said, "We can't go. Not with a couple hundred credits' worth of animals running loose in the town." "Get on to the ship," said Melak. "Cripes, if I knew how to fly I'd leave you here! Now move!" Shannon was almost crying. He started to rush Melak. I caught him and said, "Sure. Sure we'll move. All of us. Look behind you!" "I was weaned on that one. Move!" Well, it was his funeral. * * * * * It was almost ours, too. Ganymedian puffballs move fast. They had come out from between two shacks, skimming over the mud on their long white cilia. There were three of them, rolled up in balls about the size of my head. They didn't make any noise. They came up behind Melak. Two of them unrolled suddenly, whipping out into lean, fuzzy ropes about five feet long. They went around the Martian 'breed. The third one came straight at me. Melak made a noise that wasn't human and went down. The puffballs tightened around him, pulsing a little with the pleasure of digestion. Gow was on the other side of Melak, too far away, and unarmed. I jumped, and the mud tripped me. Shannon fell the other way. The puffball, strung out now like a fuzzy snake, paused a moment, not three inches from my face. I lay still on my belly, choking on my heart. Shannon moved, and it whipped down across his legs. He screamed. I could feel the poison from the thing eating into him. I got to my knees and he cursed me and raised something out of the mud. It was Melak's blaster. He fired, between his feet. The puffball shrivelled to a little stinking wire and dropped away. Bucky said evenly, "That pays me off. Now it's all your party, Jig." He fainted. His legs were already swelling. Gow bent over him. "He's gotta have the croaker, quick." "You take him to the ship, Gow. If you can get there." "Me? I'm the zoo-man. I oughta...." "Do I look like Superman, to carry that big lug?" I didn't know why it was so hard to talk. "Get him there. Then round up everybody left at the ship. Get guns and ropes and torches and come back, quick!" He nodded and got Bucky across his shoulders. I gave him the blaster. Then I turned back. I knew where most of the circus gang would be--spread out among the bars. It was a lot darker, because now all the doors were closed, except two or three where the people hadn't lived to close them. It was quieter, too, because there's a limit to the noise a human throat can make. There was just the hot rain, and the soft jungle undertone of things padding and slithering in the mud, hunting. Up the street somewhere the _cansins_ screamed, and another shack split open. Instantly the brute clamor went up from the dark alleys, answering. Animal legions from five different planets, led by a tiny creature in a cloak of green fire. And man was the common enemy. A pair of Martian sand-tigers shot out into the street ahead of me. They were frolicking like kittens, playing with something dark and tattered. Then they saw me and dropped it, and came sliding on their bellies, their six powerful legs sucking in the mud. There was no place to go. I don't remember being particularly scared, but that wasn't because I was brave. It was sheer exhaustion. A guy can only take so much. Now I was just walking around, seeing and hearing, but not feeling anything inside. Like a guy that's coked to the ears, or punchy from a beating. I picked up a double handful of mud and slung it in their snarling pusses, and threw my head back and yelled. "Ha-a-y _Rube_!" A door at my left opened three inches, daggering the rain with yellow light. A voice said, "For gossakes get in here!" I picked up another handful of mud. The Martian cats were pawing the last load out of their eyes. I gave them more to play with. I guess they weren't very hungry, just then. I said, "I'm going to get the _cansins_." Just like that. I told you I was out on my feet. Clean nuts. The guy in the doorway thought so too. "Will you come in before you're too dead?" "And wait around for those big apes to crack the house open over my head? The hell with that." More mud sploshed in the cats' faces. They were beginning to get sore. "The rest of the critters are just following the _cansins_. Sort of a mopping-up brigade. Stop the _cansins_, and we can round up the others easy." "Oh, sure," said the man. "Any time before breakfast. Are you coming, pal, or do I shut this door again?" I don't know how it would have turned out. Probably I'd have wound up inside the cats. But one of 'em let out a shrill, nasty wail, the kind they give the trainer when they're challenging him to a finish fight, and somebody came shouldering out past the man in the doorway. The door swung wide, so that there was plenty of light. The six-inch fangs on the Martian kitties were a beautiful, shining white. The newcomer said something to the cats in a level undertone and came to me. It was Jarin, the Titan who works the cats. He's about half my height, metallic green in color, and faster on his feet than a rummy grabbing the first drink. He looks like a walking barrel when he's folded up, and like nothing on earth when he isn't. He was unfolded then. He went up to the cats, light and dainty in the mud. They were crouching uneasily, coughing and snarling, wanting to rush him and not quite daring to. The male sprang. IV All I could see was a green blur in the rain. I heard the crisp, wicked smacks of Jarin's tentacles on the tiger. It flopped over in mid-air, buried its face in the mud and came up yowling, like your Aunt Minnie's cat when you stepped on its tail. It went away from there, fast, with its mate right behind it. Jarin chuckled softly. "About the _cansins_," he hissed. "You had an idea?" Somewhere, quite close to us, there was the familiar sound of a plastic shack going to pieces. I remembered hearing blasters rip occasionally. But only Melak's hoods were armed with anything heavy enough to do any good, and I guessed most of them had beat it to Beamish's yacht. A _cansin_ has a hell of a tough hide, and their vitality is something you wouldn't believe if you hadn't seen it. The familiar whistling screech went up, and the babel of human screams and the brute chorus from the rainy alleys. I think, right then, I began to get scared. The fear began to seep through my dopey calm, like pain in a new wound. I shuddered and said, "No. No ideas." There was a soft step in the mud behind me. I spun around, sweating. Ahra the Nahali woman stood there, red-eyed and laughing. "You are frightened," she whispered. I didn't deny it. "I can help you stop the _cansins_." Her eyes glittered like wet rubies, and her teeth were white and sharp. "It may not work, and you may die. Will you try it?" She was daring me. She was hardly more human than the brutes themselves, and she belonged with the rain and the hot indigo night. I said, "You don't want to help, Ahra. You want us to die." I could see the pale skin throbbing under her bony jaw. She laughed, soft alien laughter that made my back hair stir and prickle. "You humans," she whispered. "Trampling and spoiling. The middle swamps have suffered you, greedy after oil and plumes and _ti_. But you we can fight." She jerked her round, glistening head toward the sound of destruction. "The death from the deep swamps, no. You deserve to die, you humans. You went meddling with something too big even for your pride. But because the _cansins_ killed my mate and our first young...." She hunched up. I thought she was going to flop on her belly like a cayman in the mud. Her teeth gleamed, sharp and savage. "Legend says the _cansins_ were once the wisest race on Venus. They were worshipped as gods by the little pre-human creatures of the swamp edges. They were going to be the reasoning lords of a planet. "But nature made a mistake. Perhaps some mutation that couldn't be stopped. I don't know. Anyway, the females grew until their one thought was to find enough food. The males tried to balance this. Most of their strength was in their minds, anyway. But they couldn't. "The _cansins_ took to eating their worshippers. At the same time the number of eggs they laid grew smaller and smaller. Finally the swamp-edgers drove them out, back into the deep swamps. "They've been there ever since, going farther and farther on the path of evolution, dwindling in numbers, always hungry, and hating the humans who robbed them of their future. Even us they hate, because we go erect and have speech. The females are not independent. The male controls the community mind--they must have unity to exist at all. "If you could control the male...." I thought of the little creature in the ball of green fire. I shivered, and the pit of my stomach pinched up. I said, "Yeah? How?" She chuckled at me. "It may mean death. Will you risk it?" I didn't have to. I could beat it back to the ship, maybe even rescue some of the gang, with Jarin's help. Then I thought about Bucky and the way he cried down my neck that night in the tank and what would happen to us if we didn't get the animals rounded up. I thought--oh, hell, why does a guy ever do anything? I don't know. Maybe I thought I'd never get across the field to the ship anyhow. I said, "Spill it, you she-snake. What do I do?" "Get Quern," she said, and went off through the hot rain, back into the plastic shack. The door slammed shut. Jarin and I were alone in the dark. I said, "Will you help me?" "Of course." I looked down the street toward the landing field. I felt tired, suddenly. Gone in the knees and weak, and sick to vomiting with fear. "Here comes Gow," I said. "He's got seven or eight guys with guns. Just keep the critters off us until we get through with the _cansins_, and try not to kill any more than you can help." Good old Jig, thinking about money even then. Gow came up. We talked a minute, just the things that had to be said, and then I asked, "Anybody have an idea where Quern might be?" "Yeah," said Gow slowly. "He was in the ginmill next to the one we was in. Drunk. I heard him singin' when I went by. I think the big apes wrecked it." * * * * * We started off up the muddy street, more as though we'd been wound up to go somewhere and couldn't stop than like men with a purpose. The _cansins_ were close. Awful close. You could hear them sucking and slopping in the muck. The rain fell straight down, almost solid, and the air was thick and hot. We did a lot of shouting. Some men came out of the shacks to join us, but nobody had seen Quern since the trouble started. We had trouble with the animals in the streets. The vapor snakes got one man, and an Ionian _hru_ poisoned one guy so bad he died the next day. We had to kill a couple of big babies that wouldn't scare off. And we found the ginmill. Gow was right. It was wrecked, and there were things scattered around amongst the splinters. I was glad it was dark. "Well," I said, "that's that. We'll just have to do what we can with the blasters." It wouldn't be much. We didn't carry any heavy artillery, and a _cansin_ is awfully hard to stop. "Any you guys wanta scram, do it now. The rest of you come on." I took a step. Something squirmed under my foot, squeaked, and began to curse in a voice like a katydid's. "My God," I said. "It's Quern." I picked him up. His rubbery little body was slick with mud. He spat and hiccoughed, and snarled, "Of course it's Quern. Fine thing, leaving me in the mud like that. I might ha' drowned." He started cursing again in Low Martian, which is his native tongue. He's a Diran from the sea-bottom pits of Shun. Somebody laughed. It sounded hysterical. "The little lush! He don't even know what's happened!" And he didn't. The _cansins_ hadn't even seen him. He'd just been tromped into the mud and left there, unharmed. Gow caught his breath suddenly, and somebody whimpered. I looked up. I couldn't see much, in the rain and the indigo dark, but I didn't have to see. I knew what was coming. A little vicious splotch of living green against the darkness, and underneath it four huge shadows, trampling knee-deep in mud, making toward a plastic hut filled with human beings. I said softly, "Quern, I never thought you were such a hell of a wonderful hypnotist." He twinged in my hands. His anger almost burned me. He started to speak, but I stopped him. "Here's your chance to prove it, chum. See that little green light floating there? Well, go to it, Quern. And it had better be good, or it's curtains--for Nahru and all of us." I walked over toward the _cansins_, holding Quern in my hands. * * * * * The brutes must have sensed us. They stopped and wheeled around. Quern shivered. He was beginning to understand things. He snarled, "How do you expect me to do my act? No platform--nothing! You're crazy, Jig! Let's get out of here!" I shook him. "Put that baby to sleep. Make him and his harem go out of town, north. There's quicksand there. Go on, damn you!" He cursed me. You could smell the fear rising hot from us all. I heard feet running behind me, and then more, going away. Quern said, "All right, you crazy fool. Raise me up. Hold your hands flat." I made a platform out of my palms. And the _cansins_ started our way. Gow whispered, "Don't shoot. Don't anybody shoot." I don't think he knew then, that there wasn't anybody left to shoot but himself and Jarin. The _cansins_ were huge and solid, behemoths carved from the night. They towered over us, and the green light pulsed. My jaw hung open and I couldn't breathe, and I'd have run only my joints were all water. Quern went into his act. He began to show color. Out of nothing his body started to glow, from inside. You could see the round blurred shape of him, and the phosphorescence of his guts, showing through. First red, savage as a punch in the face, and then all the rest of the spectrum, sometimes one color, sometimes a swirl of them. His body changed shape. I could feel the queer rubbery movement of it on my hands. I remembered the rubes I'd seen standing around Quern's platform, their eyes drawn half out of their heads by the shifting lines and colors. It worked with them. But not here. The _cansins_ came on. The green light flared a little brighter, and that was all. Habit and control were so strong that not even the females paid much attention to Quern. I could see the rain smoking off their huge black shoulders. They were right on top of us. Quern gasped, "I can't do it!" His glow deadened. I shook him. I yelled, "I knew you were a phony! You two-bit yentzer! Jarin, slow 'em down, can't you?" Quern began to shimmer again. Jarin faded in, hardly visible in the darkness. I heard his tentacles whiplashing across hard flesh. One of the _cansins_ screamed. The green light did a sharp dip and swirl. And I yelled, "Gow! Speak to Gertrude!" The terrifying forward march slowed a little. Quern was churning colors out of his guts as though his life depended on it--which it did. Gow stepped forward a little. "Gertrude," he said. "Gertrude, you ugly, slab-sided, left-handed--" He cursed her, affectionately. I never heard anything like his voice. I wanted to cry. In Quern's faint hypnotic glow I saw the green eyes of the nearest female watching, looking wide and queer. The male was angry, now. Angry and scared. You could tell by the vicious brightness of him. We decided afterward that his light was the same kind a glow-worm carries around, only stronger. He was fighting. Fighting to hold those four minds against the attraction of Quern's shifting glow. He'd have done it, too, if it hadn't been for Gow. Gow, standing in the hot rain and cursing Gertrude with tears in his voice. Gertrude screamed. Suddenly, for no reason, a strange uncertain cry. She moved. A sort of shudder ran through the other three. It was a little like a wall cracking. The male burned savagely. The females were watching Quern, now. Gertrude had made the breach. Now the community mind was fastened on the hypnotic little Martian. I could see their green eyes, wide and glassy, their snaky heads nodding a little, trying to follow the flowing outlines. The male began to dim. He shivered, and lurched a couple of times, still trying to fight. Gow's voice went on, hoarsely, and Gertrude whimpered. The male floated a little closer. I could see, suddenly, what kept him up. Wings, like a hummingbird's, blurred with motion. They slowed, and the green light dimmed. He began to bob a little in the hot rain, watching Quern. Quern shivered. "They're under," he sighed. "They're under." "Send them out. North, to the quicksands." My arms and shoulders ached and I was swaying on my feet. I hardly heard Quern's thin, dreamy voice. I did hear the slow, obedient noise of their great feet slogging away, the last male _cansin_ a dull green mote above them. And I heard Gow crying. * * * * * We got the last of the animals back by noon of the next day. We did what we could for Nahru. Thank God our own beasts hadn't done much damage. We left a lot of Beamish's credits to help out, and took the old tub off away from there. Bucky Shannon recovered nicely. I'm still herding his Imperial Washout around the Triangle. We're not doing so hot without Gertrude, but what the hell--we're used to the sewage lock. And if anyone has a _cansin_ he wants to sell.... Thanks, chum, but we're not in the market. Now, or ever. I sometimes wonder if there are any more of them in the deep swamps, waiting for their mate to come back. 
59853	----	+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [Illustration: "The lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(See page 71.)] A YOUNG HERO; OR, FIGHTING TO WIN. BY EDWARD S. ELLIS, _Author of_ "Adrift in the Wilds," etc., etc. ILLUSTRATED. [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK: A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. COPYRIGHT 1888, BY A. L. BURT. A YOUNG HERO. CHAPTER I. THE PEACEMAKER. "A fight! A fight! Form a ring!" A dozen or more excited boys shouted these words, and, rushing forward, hastily formed a ring around two playmates who stood in the middle of the road, their hats off, eyes glaring, fists clenched, while they panted with anger, and were on the point of flying at one another with the fury of young wildcats. They had been striking, kicking and biting a minute before over some trifling dispute, and they had now stopped to take breath and gather strength before attacking each other again with a fierceness which had become all the greater from the brief rest. "Give it to him, Sam! Black his eyes for him! Hit him under the ear! Bloody his nose!" Thus shouted the partisans of Sammy McClay, who had thrown down his school books, and pitched into his opponent, as though he meant to leave nothing of him. The friends of Joe Hunt were just as loud and urgent. "Sail in, Joe! You can whip him before he knows it! Kick him! Don't be a coward! You've got him!" A party of boys and girls were on their way home from the Tottenville public school, laughing, romping and frolicking with each other, when, all at once, like a couple of bantam chickens, these two youngsters began fighting. The girls looked on in a horrified way, whispering to each other, and declaring that they meant to tell Mr. McCurtis, the teacher, including also the respective mothers of the young pugilists. The other boys, as is nearly always the case, did their utmost to urge on the fight, and, closing about Sam and Joe, taunted them in loud voices, and appealed to them to resume hostilities at once. The fighters seemed to be equally matched, and, as they panted and glared, each waited for the other to renew the struggle by striking the first blow. "You just hit me if you dare! that's all I want!" exclaimed Sammy McClay, shaking his head so vigorously that he almost bumped his nose against that of Joe Hunt, who was just as ferocious, as he called back: "You touch me, Sam McClay, just touch me! I dare you! double, double dare you." Matters were fast coming to the exploding point, but not fast enough to suit the audience. Jimmy Emery picked up a chip, and running forward, balanced it in a delicate position on the shoulder of Sam McClay, and, addressing his opponent said: "Knock that off, Joe!" "Yes, knock it off!" shouted Sam, "I dare you to knock it off!" "Who's afraid?" demanded Joe, looking at the chip, with an expression which showed he meant to flip it to the ground. "Well, you just try it--that's all!" Joe was in the very act of upsetting the bit of wood, when a boy about their own age, with a flapping straw hat, and with his trousers rolled far above his knees, ran in between the two, and used his arms with so much vigor that the contestants were thrown quite a distance apart. "What's the matter with you fellows?" demanded this boy, glancing from one to the other. "What do you want to make fools of yourselves for?" "He run against me," said Sammy McClay, "and knocked me over Jim Emery." "Well, what of it?" asked the peacemaker. "Will it make you feel any better to get your head cracked? What's the matter of _you_, Joe Hunt?" he added, turning his glance without changing his position, toward the other pugilist. "What did he punch me for, when I stubbed my toe and run agin him?" and Joe showed a disposition just then to move around his questioner, so as to get at the offender. The other boys did not like this interference with their enjoyment, and called on the peacemaker to let them have it out; but he stood his ground, and shaking his right fist at Sammy McClay, and his left at Joe Hunt, he told them they must let each other alone, or he would whip them both. This created some laughter, for the lad was no older than they, and hardly as tall as either; but there is a great deal in the manner of a man or boy. If his flashing eye, his stern voice, and look of determination show that he means what he says, or is in dead earnest, his opponent generally yields. At the critical juncture, the girls added their voices in favor of peace, and their champion, stooping down, picked up the hats from the ground, and jammed them upon their owners' heads with a force that nearly threw them off their feet. "That's enough! now come on!" Sam and Joe walked along, rather sullenly at first. They glowered on each other, shook their heads, muttered and seemed on the point of renewing the contest more than once; but the passions of childhood are brief, and the storm soon blew over. Before the boys and girls had reached the cross-roads, Sam McClay and Joe Hunt were playing with each other like the best of friends, as indeed they were. The name of the lad who had stopped the fight was Fred Sheldon, and he is the hero of this story. CHAPTER II. THE CALL TO SCHOOL. Fred Sheldon, as I have said, is the hero of this story. He was twelve years of age, the picture of rosy health, good nature, bounding spirits and mental strength. He was bright and well advanced in his studies, and as is generally the case with such vigorous youngsters he was fond of fun, which too often, perhaps, passed the line of propriety and became mischief. On the Monday morning after the fight, which Fred Sheldon interrupted, some ten or twelve boys stopped on their way to the Tottenville Public School to admire in open-mouthed wonder, the gorgeous pictures pasted on a huge framework of boards, put up for the sole purpose of making such a display. These flaming posters were devoted to setting forth the unparalleled attractions of Bandman's great menagerie and circus, which was announced to appear in the well-known "Hart's Half-Acre," near the village of Tottenville. These scenes, in which elephants, tigers, leopards, camels, sacred cows, and indeed an almost endless array of animals were shown on a scale that indicated they were as high as a meeting-house, in which the serpents, it unwound from the trees where they were crushing men and beasts to death, would have stretched across "Hart's Half-Acre" (which really contained several acres), those frightful encounters, in which a man, single-handed, was seen to be spreading death and destruction with a clubbed gun among the fierce denizens of the forest; all these had been displayed on the side of barns and covered bridges, at the cross-roads, and indeed in every possible available space for the past three weeks; and, as the date of the great show was the one succeeding that of which we are speaking, it can be understood that the little village of Tottenville and the surrounding country were in a state of excitement such as had not been known since the advent of the preceding circus. Regularly every day the school children had stopped in front of the huge bill-board and studied and admired and talked over the great show, while those who expected to go in the afternoon or evening looked down in pity on their less fortunate playmates. The interest seemed to intensify as the day approached, and, now that it was so close at hand, the little group found it hard to tear themselves away from the fascinating scenes before them. Down in one corner of the board was the picture of a hyena desecrating a cemetery, as it is well known those animals are fond of doing. This bad creature, naturally enough, became very distasteful to the boys, who showed their ill-will in many ways. Several almost ruined their new shoes by kicking him, while others had pelted him with stones, and still others, in face of the warning printed in big letters, had haggled him dreadfully with their jack-knives. It was a warm summer morning and most of the boys not only were bare-footed, but had their trousers rolled above their knees, and, generally, were without coat or vest. "To-morrow afternoon the show will be here," said Sammy McClay, smacking his lips and shaking his head as though he tasted a luscious morsel, "and I'm going." "How are you going," asked Joe Hunt, sarcastically, "when your father said he wouldn't give you the money?" "Never you mind," was the answer, with another significant shake of the head. "I'm goin'--that's all." "Goin' to try and crawl under the tent. I know. But you can't do it. You'll get a whack from the whip of the man that's watching that you'll feel for six weeks. Don't I know--'cause, didn't I try it?" "I wouldn't be such a dunce as you; you got half way under the tent and then stuck fast, so you couldn't go backward or forward, and you begun to yell so you like to broke up the performance, and when the man come along why he had the best chance in the world to cowhide you, and he did it. I think I know a little better than that." At this moment, Mr. Abijah McCurtis, the school teacher in the little stone school-house a hundred yards away, solemnly lifted his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, and grasping the handle of his large cracked bell walked to the door and swayed it vigorously for a minute or so. This was the regular summons for the boys and girls to enter school, and he had sent forth the unmusical clangor, summer and winter, for a full two-score years. Having called the pupils together, the pedagogue sat down, drew his spectacles back astride of his nose, and resumed setting copies in the books which had been laid on his desk the day before. In a minute or so the boys and girls came straggling in, but the experienced eye of the teacher saw that several were missing. Looking through the open door he discovered where the four delinquent urchins were; they were still standing in front of the great showy placards, studying the enchanting pictures, as they had done so many times before. They were all talking earnestly, Sammy McClay, Joe Hunt, Jimmy Emery and Fred Sheldon, and they had failed for the first time in their lives to hear the cracked bell. Most teachers, we are bound to believe, would have called the boys a second time or sent another lad to notify them, but the present chance was one of those which, unfortunately, the old-time pedagogue was glad to have, and Mr. McCurtis seized it with pleasure. Rising from his seat, he picked up from where it lay across his desk a long, thin switch, and started toward the four barefooted lads, who were admiring the circus pictures. Nothing could have been more inviting, for, not only were they barefooted, but each had his trousers rolled to the knee, and Fred Sheldon had drawn and squeezed his so far that they could go no further. His plump, clean legs offered the most inviting temptation to the teacher, who was one of those sour old pedagogues, of the long ago, who delighted in seeing children tortured under the guise of so-called discipline. "I don't believe in wearing trousers in warm weather," said Fred, when anybody looked wonderingly to see whether he really had such useful garments on, "and that's why I roll mine so high up. Don't you see I'm ready to run into the water, and----" "How about going through the bushes and briars?" asked Joe Hunt. "I don't go through 'em," was the crushing answer. "I feel so supple and limber that I just jump right over the top. I tell you, boys, that you ought to see me jump----" Fred's wish was gratified, for at that moment he gave such an exhibition of jumping as none of his companions had ever seen before. With a shout he sprang high in air, kicking out his bare legs in a frantic way, and ran with might and main for the school-house. The other three lads did pretty much the same, for the appearance of the teacher among them was made known by the whizzing hiss of his long, slender switch, which first landed on Fred's legs, and was then quickly transferred to the lower limbs of the other boys, the little company immediately heading for the school house, with Fred Sheldon at the front. Each one shouted, and made a high and frantic leap every few steps, believing that the teacher was close behind him with upraised stick, and looking for the chance to bring it down with effect. "I'll teach you not to stand gaping at those pictures," shouted Mr. McCurtis, striding wrathfully after them. A man three-score years old cannot be expected to be as active as a boy with one-fifth as many years; but the teacher had the advantage of being very tall and quite attenuated, and for a short distance he could outrun any of his pupils. The plump, shapely legs of Fred Sheldon, twinkling and doubling under him as he ran, seemed to be irresistibly tempting to Mr. McCurtis, who, with upraised switch, dashed for him like a thunder-gust, paying no attention to the others, who ducked aside as he passed. "It's your fault, you young scapegrace," called out the pursuer, as he rapidly overhauled him; "you haven't been thinking of anything else but circuses for the past month and I mean to whip it out of you--good gracious sakes!" Fred Sheldon had seen how rapidly the teacher was gaining, and finding there was no escape, resorted to the common trick among boys of suddenly falling flat on his face while running at full speed. The cruel-hearted teacher at that very moment made a savage stroke, intending to raise a ridge on the flesh of the lad, who escaped it by a hair's breadth, as may be said. The spiteful blow spent itself in vacancy, and the momentum spun Mr. McCurtis around on one foot, so that he faced the other way. At that instant his heels struck the prostrate form of the crouching boy, and he went over, landing upon his back, his legs pointing upward, like a pair of huge dividers. There is nothing a boy perceives so quickly as a chance for fun, and before the teacher could rise, Sammy McClay also went tumbling over the grinning Fred Sheldon, with such violence, indeed, that he struck the bewildered instructor as he was trying to adjust his spectacles to see where he was. Then came Joe Hunt and Jimmy Emery, and Fred Sheldon capped the climax by running at full speed and jumping on the struggling group, spreading out his arms and legs in the effort to bear them down to the earth. But the difficulty was that Fred was not very heavy nor bony, so that his presence on top caused very little inconvenience, the teacher rising so hurriedly that Fred fell from his shoulders, and landed on his head when he struck the earth. The latter was dented, but Fred wasn't hurt at all, and he and his friends scrambled hastily into the school-house, where the other children were in an uproar, fairly dancing with delight at the exhibition, or rather "circus," as some of them called it, which took place before the school-house and without any expense to them. By the time the discomfited teacher had got upon his feet and shaken himself together, the four lads were in school, busily engaged in scratching their legs and studying their lessons. Mr. McCurtis strode in a minute later switch in hand, and in such a grim mood that he could only quiet his nerves by walking around the room and whipping every boy in it. CHAPTER III. STARTLING NEWS. Fred Sheldon was the only child of a widow, who lived on a small place a mile beyond the village, and managed to eke out a living thereon, assisted by a small pension from the government, her husband having been killed during the late war. A half-mile beyond stood a large building, gray with age and surrounded with trees, flowers and climbing vines. The broad bricks of which it was composed were known to have been brought from Holland long before the revolution, and about the time when George Washington was hunting for the cherry-tree with his little hatchet. In this old structure lived the sisters Perkinpine--Annie and Lizzie--who were nearly seventy years of age. They were twins, had never been married, were generally known to be wealthy, but preferred to live entirely by themselves, with no companion but three or four cats, and not even a watch-dog. Their ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the section, and the Holland bricks could show where they had been chipped and broken by the bullets of the Indians who howled around the solid old structure, through the snowy night, as ravenous as so many wolves to reach the cowering women and children within. The property had descended to the sisters in regular succession, and there could be no doubt they were rich in valuable lands, if in nothing else. Their retiring disposition repelled attention from their neighbors, but it was known there was much old and valuable silver, and most probably money itself, in the house. Michael Heyland was their hired man, but he lived in a small house some distance away, where he always spent his nights. Young Fred Sheldon was once sent over to the residence of the Misses Perkinpine after a heavy snowstorm, to see whether he could do anything for the old ladies. He was then only ten years old, but his handsome, ruddy face, his respectful manner, and his cheerful eagerness to oblige them, thawed a great deal of their natural reserve, and they gradually came to like him. He visited the old brick house quite often, and frequently bore substantial presents to his mother, though, rather curiously, the old ladies never asked that she should pay them a visit. The Misses Perkinpine lived very well indeed, and Fred Sheldon was not long in discovering it. When he called there he never could get away without eating some of the vast hunks of gingerbread and enormous pieces of thick, luscious pie, of which Fred, like all boys, was very fond. There was no denying that Fred had established himself as a favorite in that peculiar household, as he well deserved to be. On the afternoon succeeding his switching at school he reached home and did his chores, whistling cheerily in the meanwhile, and thinking of little else than the great circus on the morrow, when he suddenly stopped in surprise upon seeing a carriage standing in front of the gate. Just then his mother called him to the house and explained: "Your Uncle William is quite ill, Fred, and has sent for me. You know he lives twelve miles away, and it will take us a good while to get there; if you are afraid to stay here alone you can go with us." Fred was too quick to trip himself in that fashion. To-morrow was circus day, and if he went to his Uncle Will's, he might miss it. "Miss Annie asked me this morning to go over and see them again," he said, alluding to one of the Misses Perkinpine, "and they'll be mighty glad to have me there." "That will be much better, for you will be so near home that you can come over in the morning and see that everything is right, but I'm afraid you'll eat too much pie and cake and pudding and preserves." "I ain't afraid," laughed Fred, who kissed his mother good-by and saw the carriage vanish down the road in the gloom of the gathering darkness. Then he busied himself with the chores, locked up the house and put everything in shape preparatory to going away. He was still whistling, and was walking rapidly toward the gate, when he was surprised and a little startled by observing the figure of a man, standing on the outside, as motionless as a stone, and no doubt watching him. He appeared to be ill-dressed, and Fred at once set him down as one of those pests of society known as a tramp, who had probably stopped to get something to eat. "What do you want?" asked the lad, with an air of bravery which he was far from feeling, as he halted within two or three rods of the unexpected guest, ready to retreat if it should become necessary. "I want you to keep a civil tongue in your head," was the answer, in a harsh rasping voice. "I didn't mean to be uncivil," was the truthful reply of Fred, who believed in courtesy to every one. "Who lives here, then?" asked the other in the same gruff voice. "My mother, Mrs. Mary Sheldon, and myself, but my mother isn't at home." The stranger was silent a moment, and then looking around, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, asked in a lower voice: "Can you tell me where the Miss Perkinpines live?" "Right over yonder," was the response of the boy, pointing toward the house, which was invisible in the darkness, but a star-like twinkle of light showed where it was, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Fred came near adding that he was on his way there, and would show him the road, but a sudden impulse restrained him. The tramp-like individual peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and then inquired: "How fur is it?" "About half a mile." The stranger waited another minute or so, as if debating with himself whether he should ask some other questions that were in his mind; but, without another word, he moved away and speedily disappeared from the road. Although he walked for several paces on the rough gravel in front of the gate, the lad did not hear the slightest sound. He must have been barefooted, or more likely, wore rubber shoes. Fred Sheldon could not help feeling very uncomfortable over the incident itself. The question about the old ladies, and the man's looks and manner impressed him that he meant ill toward his good friends, and Fred stood a long time asking himself what he ought to do. He thought of going down to the village and telling Archie Jackson, the bustling little constable, what he feared, or of appealing to some of the neighbors; and pity it is he did not do so, but he was restrained by the peculiar disposition of the Misses Perkinpine, who might be very much displeased with him. As he himself was about the only visitor they received, and as they had lived so long by themselves, they would not thank him, to say the least--that is, viewing the matter from his standpoint. "I'll tell the ladies about it," he finally concluded, "and we'll lock the doors and sit up all night. I wish they had three or four dogs and a whole lot of guns; or if I had a lasso," he added, recalling one of the circus pictures, "and the tramp tried to get in, I'd throw it over his head and pull him half way to the top of the house and let him hang there until he promised to behave himself." Fred's head had been slightly turned by the circus posters, and it can hardly be said that he was the best guard the ladies could have in case there were any sinister designs on the part of the tramp. But the boy was sure he was never more needed at the old brick house than he was on that night, and hushing his whistle, he started up the road in the direction taken by the stranger. It was a trying ordeal for the little fellow, whose chief fear was that he would overtake the repulsive individual and suffer for interfering with his plans. There was a faint moon in the sky, but its light now and then was obscured by the clouds which floated over its face. Here and there, too, were trees, beneath whose shadows the boy stepped lightly, listening and looking about him, and imagining more than once he saw the figure dreaded so much. But he observed nothing of him, nor did he meet any of his neighbors, either in wagons or on foot, and his heart beat tumultuously when he drew near the grove of trees, some distance back from the road, in the midst of which stood the old Holland brick mansion. To reach it it was necessary to walk through a short lane, lined on either hand by a row of stately poplars, whose shade gave a cool twilight gloom to the intervening space at mid-day. "Maybe he isn't here, after all," said Fred to himself, as he passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house, "and I guess----" Just then the slightest possible rustling caught his ear, and he stepped back behind the trunk of a large weeping willow. He was not mistaken; some one was moving through the shrubbery at the corner of the house, and the next minute the frightened boy saw the tramp come stealthily to view, and stepping close to the window of the dining-room, peer into it. As the curtain was down it was hard to see how he could discover anything of the inmates, but he may have been able to detect something of the interior by looking through at the side of the curtain, or possibly he was only listening. At any rate he stood thus but a short time, when he withdrew and slowly passed from view around the corner. The instant he was gone Fred moved forward and knocked softly on the door, so softly indeed, that he had to repeat it before some one approached from the inside and asked who was there. When his voice was recognized the bolt was withdrawn and he was most cordially welcomed by the old ladies, who were just about to take up their knitting and sewing, having finished their tea. When Fred told them he had come to stay all night and hadn't had any supper, they were more pleased than ever, and insisted that he should go out and finish a large amount of gingerbread, custard and pie, for the latter delicacy was always at command. "I'll eat some," replied Fred, "but I don't feel very hungry." "Why, what's the matter?" asked Miss Annie, peering over her spectacles in alarm; "are you sick? If you are we've got lots of castor oil and rhubarb and jalap and boneset; shall I mix you up some?" "O my gracious! no--don't mention 'em again; I ain't sick that way--I mean I'm scared." "Scared at what? Afraid there isn't enough supper for you?" asked Miss Lizzie, looking smilingly down upon the handsome boy. "I tell you," said Fred, glancing from one to the other, "I think there's a robber going to try and break into your house to-night and steal everything you've got, and then he'll kill you both, and after that I'm sure he means to burn down the house, and that'll be the last all of you and your cats." When the young visitor made such a prodigious declaration, he supposed the ladies would scream and probably faint away. But the very hugeness of the boy's warning caused emotions the reverse of what he anticipated. They looked kindly at him a minute or so and then quietly smiled. "What a little coward you are, Fred," said Miss Annie; "surely there is nobody who would harm two old creatures like us." "But they want your money," persisted Fred, still standing in the middle of the floor. Both ladies were too truthful to deny that they had any, even to such a child, and Lizzie said: "We haven't enough to tempt anybody to do such a great wrong." "You can't tell about that, then I 'spose some of those silver dishes must be worth a great deal." "Yes, so they are," said Annie, "and we prize them the most because our great, great, great-grandfather brought them over the sea a good many years ago, and they have always been in our family." "But," interposed Lizzie, "we lock them up every night." "What in?" "A great big strong chest." "Anybody could break it open, though." "Yes, but it's locked; and you know it's against the law to break a lock." "Well," said Fred, with a great sigh, "I hope there won't anybody disturb you, but I hope you will fasten all the windows and doors to-night." "We always do; and then," added the benign old lady, raising her head so as to look under her spectacles in the face of the lad, "you know we have you to take care of us." "Have you got a gun in the house?" "Mercy, yes; there's one over the fire-place, where father put it forty years ago." "Is there anything the matter with it?" "Nothing, only the lock is broke off, and I think father said the barrel was bursted." Fred laughed in spite of himself. "What under the sun is such an old thing good for?" "It has done us just as much good as if it were a new cannon--but come out to your supper." The cheerful manner of the old ladies had done much to relieve Fred's mind of his fears, and a great deal of his natural appetite came back to him. He walked into the kitchen, where he seated himself at a table on which was spread enough food for several grown persons, and telling him he must not leave any of it to be wasted, the ladies withdrew, closing the door behind them, so that he might not be embarrassed by their presence. "I wonder whether there's any use of being scared," said Fred to himself, as he first sunk his big, sound teeth into a huge slice of buttered short-cake, on which some peach jam had been spread! "If I hadn't seen that tramp looking in at the window I wouldn't feel so bad, and I declare," he added in dismay, "when they questioned me, I never thought to tell 'em that. Never mind, I'll give 'em the whole story when I finish five or six slices of this short-cake and some ginger-cake, and three or four pieces of pie, and then, I think, they'll believe I'm right." For several minutes the boy devoted himself entirely to his meal, and had the good ladies peeped through the door while he was thus employed they would have been highly pleased to see how well he was getting along. "I wish I was an old maid and hadn't anything to do but to cook nice food like this and play with the cats--my gracious!" Just then the door creaked, and, looking up, Fred Sheldon saw to his consternation the very tramp of whom he had been thinking walk into the room and approach the table. His clothing was ragged and unclean, a cord being drawn around his waist to keep his coat together, while the collar was up so high about his neck that nothing of the shirt was visible. His hair was frowsy and uncombed, as were his huge yellow whiskers, which seemed to grow up almost to his eyes, and stuck out like the quills on a porcupine. As the intruder looked at the boy and shuffled toward him, in his soft rubber shoes, he indulged in a broad grin, which caused his teeth to shine through his scraggly beard. He held his hat, which resembled a dishcloth, as much as anything, in his hand, and was all suavity. His voice sounded as though he had a bad cold, with now and then an odd squeak. As he bowed he said: "Good evening, young man; I hope I don't intrude." As he approached the table and helped himself to a chair, the ladies came along behind him, Miss Lizzie saying: "This poor man, Frederick, has had nothing to eat for three days, and is trying to get home to his family. I'm sure you will be glad to have him sit at the table with you." "Yes, I'm awful glad," replied the boy, almost choking with the fib. "I was beginning to feel kind of lonely, but I'm through and he can have the table to himself." "You said you were a shipwrecked sailor, I believe?" was the inquiring remark of Miss Lizzie, as the two sisters stood in the door, beaming kindly on the tramp, who began to play havoc with the eatables before him. "Yes, mum; we was shipwrecked on the Jarsey coast; I was second mate and all was drowned but me. I hung to the rigging for three days and nights in the awfullest snow storm you ever heard of." "Mercy goodness," gasped Annie; "when was that?" "Last week," was the response, as the tramp wrenched the leg of a chicken apart with hands and teeth. "Do they have snow storms down there in summer time?" asked Fred, as he moved away from the table. The tramp, with his mouth full of meat, and with his two hands grasping the chicken-bone between his teeth, stopped work and glared at the impudent youngster, as if he would look him through and through for daring to ask the question. "Young man," said he, as he solemnly resumed operations, "of course, they have snow storms down there in summer time; I'm ashamed of your ignorance; you're rather small to put in when grown-up folks are talking, and I'd advise you to listen arter this." Fred concluded he would do so, using his eyes meanwhile. "Yes, mum," continued the tramp; "I was in the rigging for three days and nights, and then was washed off by the breakers and carried ashore, where I was robbed of all my clothing, money and jewels." "Deary, deary me!" exclaimed the sisters in concert. "How dreadful." "You are right, ladies, and I've been tramping ever since." "How far away is your home?" "Only a hundred miles, or so." "You have a family, have you?" "A wife and four babies--if they only knowed what their poor father had passed through--excuse these tears, mum." The tramp just then gave a sniff and drew his sleeve across his forehead, but Fred Sheldon, who was watching him closely, did not detect anything like a tear. But he noted something else, which had escaped the eyes of the kind-hearted ladies. The movement of the arm before the face seemed to displace the luxuriant yellow beard. Instead of sitting on the countenance as it did at first, even in its ugliness, it was slewed to one side. Only for a moment, however, for by a quick flirt of the hand, as though he were scratching his chin, he replaced it. And just then Fred Sheldon noticed another fact. The hand with which this was done was as small, white and fair as that of a woman--altogether the opposite of that which would have been seen had the tramp's calling been what he claimed. The ladies, after a few more thoughtful questions, withdrew, so that their guest might not feel any delicacy in eating all he wished--an altogether unnecessary step on their part. Fred went out with them, but after he had been gone a few minutes he slyly peeped through the crack of the door, without the ladies observing the impolite proceeding. The guest was still doing his best in the way of satisfying his appetite, but he was looking around the room, at the ceiling, the floor, the doors, windows and fire-place, and indeed at everything, as though he was greatly interested in them, as was doubtless the case. All at once he stopped and listened, glancing furtively at the door, as if he feared some one was about to enter the room. Then he quietly rose, stepped quickly and noiselessly to one of the windows, took out the large nail which was always inserted over the sash at night to keep it fastened, put it in his pocket, and, with a half chuckle and grin, seated himself again at the table. At the rate of eating which was displayed, he soon finished, and, wiping his greasy hands on his hair, he gave a great sigh of relief, picked up his slouchy hat, and moved toward the door leading to the room in which the ladies sat. "I'm very much obleeged to you," said he, bowing very low, as he shuffled toward the outer door, "and I shall ever remember you in my prayers; sorry I can't pay you better, mums." The sisters protested they were more than repaid in the gratitude he showed, and they begged him, if he ever came that way, to call again. He promised that he would be glad to do so, and departed. "You may laugh all you're a mind to," said Fred, when he had gone, "but that's the man I saw peeping in the window, and he means to come back here to-night and rob you." The boy told all that he knew, and the ladies, while not sharing his fright, agreed that it was best to take extra precautions in locking up. CHAPTER IV. ON GUARD. The sisters Perkinpine always retired early, and, candle in hand, they made the round of the windows and doors on the first floor. When they came to the window from which the nail had been removed, Fred told them he had seen the tramp take it out, and he was sure he would try and enter there. This served to add to the uneasiness of the sisters, but they had great confidence in the security of the house, which had never been disturbed by burglars, so far as they knew, in all its long history. "The chest where we keep the silver and what little money we have," said Lizzie, "is up-stairs, next to the spare bed-room." "Leave the door open and let me sleep there," said Fred, stoutly. "Gracious alive, what can you do if they should come?" was the amazed inquiry. "I don't know as I can do anything, but I can try; I want that old musket that's over the fire-place, too." "Why, it will go off and kill you." Fred insisted so strongly, however, that he was allowed to climb upon a chair and take down the antiquated weapon, covered with rust and dust. When he came to examine it he found that the description he had heard was correct--the ancient flintlock was good for nothing, and the barrel, when last discharged, must have exploded at the breach, for it was twisted and split open, so that a load of powder could only injure the one who might fire it, were such a feat possible. The sisters showed as much fear of it when it was taken down as though it were in good order, primed and cocked, and they begged the lad to restore it to its place as quickly as possible. But he seemed to think he had charge of the business for the evening, and, bidding them good-night, he took his candle and went to his room, which he had occupied once or twice before. It may well be asked what young Fred Sheldon expected to do with such a useless musket, should emergency arise demanding a weapon. Indeed, the boy would have found it hard to tell himself, excepting that he hoped to scare the man or men away by the pretence of a power which he did not possess. Now that the young hero was finally left alone, he felt that he had a most serious duty to perform. The spare bedroom which was placed at his disposal was a large, old-fashioned apartment, with two windows front and rear, with a door opening into the next room, somewhat smaller in size, both being carpeted, while the smaller contained nothing but a few chairs and a large chest, in which were silver and money worth several thousand dollars. "I'll set the candle in there on the chest," concluded Fred, "and I'll stay in here with the gun. If he comes up-stairs and gets into the room I'll try and make him believe I've got a loaded rifle to shoot him with." The door opening outward from each apartment had nothing but the old-style iron latch, large and strong, and fastened in place by turning down a small iron tongue. It would take much effort to force such a door, but Fred had no doubt any burglar could do it, even though it were ten times as strong. He piled chairs against both, and then made an examination of the windows. To his consternation, the covered porch extending along the front of the house, passed beneath every window, and was so low that it would be a very easy thing to step from the hypostyle to the entrance. The room occupied by the ladies was in another part of the building, and much more inaccessible. Young as Fred Sheldon was, he could not help wondering how it was that where everything was so inviting to burglars they had not visited these credulous and trusting sisters before. "If that tramp, that I don't believe is a tramp, tries to get into the house he'll do it by one of the windows, for that one is fastened down stairs, and all he has to do is to climb up the portico and crawl in here." The night was so warm that Fred thought he would smother when he had fastened all the windows down, and he finally compromised by raising one of those at the back of the house, where he was sure there was the least danger of any one entering. This being done, he sat down in a chair, with the rusty musket in his hand, and began his watch. From his position he could see the broad, flat candlestick standing on the chest, with the dip already burned so low that it was doubtful whether it could last an hour longer. "What's the use of that burning, anyway?" he asked himself; "that fellow isn't afraid to come in, and the candle will only serve to show him the way." Acting under the impulse, he walked softly through the door to where the yellow light was burning, and with one puff extinguished it. The wick glowed several minutes longer, sending out a strong odor, which pervaded both rooms. Fred watched it until all became darkness, and then he was not sure he had done a wise thing after all. The trees on both sides of the house were so dense that their leaves shut out nearly all the moonlight which otherwise would have entered the room. Only a few rays came through the window of the other apartment, and these, striking the large, square chest showed its dim outlines, with the phantom-like candlestick on top. Where Fred himself sat it was dark and gloomy, and his situation, we are sure all will admit, was enough to try the nerves of the strongest man, even if furnished with a good weapon of offence and defence. "I hope the ladies will sleep," was the unselfish thought of the little hero, "for there isn't any use of their being disturbed when they can't do anything but scream, and a robber don't care for that." One of the hardest things is to keep awake when exhausted by some unusual effort of the bodily or mental powers, and we all know under how many conditions it is utterly impossible. The sentinel on the outpost or the watch on deck fights off his drowsiness by steadily pacing back and forth. If he sits down for a few minutes he is sure to succumb. When Fremont, the pathfinder, was lost with his command in the Rocky Mountains, and was subjected to such arctic rigors in the dead of winter as befell the crew of the Jeannette in the ice-resounding oceans of the far north the professor, who accompanied the expedition for the purpose of making scientific investigations, warned all that their greatest peril lay in yielding to the drowsiness which the extreme cold would be sure to bring upon them. He begged them to resist it with all the energy of their natures, for in no other way could they escape with their lives. And yet this same professor was the first one of the party to give up and to lie down for his last long sleep, from which it was all Fremont could do to arouse him. Fred Sheldon felt that everything depended on him, and with the exaggerated fears that come to a youngster at such a time he was sure that if he fell asleep the evil man would enter the room, take all the money and plate and then sacrifice him. "I could keep awake a week," he muttered, as he tipped his chair back against the wall, so as to rest easier, while he leaned the musket along side of him, in such position that it could be seized at a moment's warning. The night remained solemn and still. Far in the distance he could hear the flow of the river, and from the forest, less than a mile away, seemed to come a murmur, like the "voice of silence" itself. Now and then the crowing of a cock was answered by another a long distance off, and occasionally the soft night wind stirred the vegetation surrounding the house. But among them all was no sound which the excited imagination could torture into such as would be made by a stealthy entrance into the house. In short, everything was of the nature to induce sleep, and it was not yet ten o'clock when Fred began to wink, very slowly and solemnly, his grasp on the ruined weapon relaxed, his head bobbed forward several times and at last he was asleep. As his mind had been so intensely occupied by thoughts of burglars and their evil doings, his dreams were naturally of the same unpleasant personages. In his fancy he was sitting on the treasure-chest, unable to move, while an ogre-like creature climbed into the window, slowly raised an immense club and then brought it down on the head of the boy with a terrific crash. With an exclamation of terror Fred awoke, and found that he had fallen forward on his face, sprawling on the floor at full length, while the jar tipped the musket over so that it fell across him. In his dream it had seemed that the burglar was a full hour climbing upon the roof and through the window, and yet the whole vision began and ended during the second or two occupied in falling from his chair. In the confusion of the moment Fred was sure the man he dreaded was in the room, but when he had got back into the chair he was gratified beyond measure to find his mistake. "I'm a pretty fellow to keep watch," he muttered, rubbing his eyes; "I don't suppose that I was awake more than a half hour. It must be past midnight, so I've had enough sleep to last me without any more of it before to-morrow night." He resumed his seat, never more wide awake in all his life. It was not as late as he supposed, but the hour had come when it was all-important that he should keep his senses about him. Hearing nothing unusual he rose to his feet and walked to the rear window and looked out. It was somewhat cooler and a gentle breeze felt very pleasant on his fevered face. The same stillness held reign, and he moved to the front, where he took a similar view. So far as could be told, everything was right and he resumed his seat. But at this juncture Fred was startled by a sound, the meaning of which he well knew. Some one was trying hard to raise the dining-room window--the rattling being such that there was no mistake about it. "It's that tramp!" exclaimed the boy, all excitement, stepping softly into the next room and listening at the head of the stairs, "and he's trying the window that he took the nail out of." The noise continued several minutes--long after the time, indeed, when the tramp must have learned that his trick had been discovered--and then all became still. This window was the front, and Fred, in the hope of scaring the fellow away, raised the sash, and, leaning out, peered into the darkness and called out: "Halloo, down there! What do you want?" As may be supposed, there was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, Fred concluded to give a warning. "If I hear anything more of you, I'll try and shoot; I've got a gun here and we're ready for you!" This threat ought to have frightened an ordinary person away, and the boy was not without a strong hope that it had served that purpose with the tramp whom he dreaded so much. He thought he could discern his dark figure among the trees, but it was probably fancy, for the gloom was too great for his eyes to be of any use in that respect. Fred listened a considerable while longer, and then, drawing his head within, said: "I shouldn't wonder if I had scared him off----" Just then a soft step roused him, and turning his head, he saw that the very tramp of whom he was thinking and of whom he believed he was happily rid, had entered the room, and was standing within a few feet of him. CHAPTER V. BRAVE WORK. When Fred Sheldon turned on his heel and saw the outlines of the tramp in the room behind him he gave a start and exclamation of fear, as the bravest man might have done under the circumstances. The intruder chuckled and said in his rasping, creaking voice: "Don't be skeert, young man; if you keep quiet you won't get hurt, but if you go to yelping or making any sort of noise I'll wring your head as if you was a chicken I wanted for dinner." Fred made no answer to this, when the tramp added, in the same husky undertone, as he stepped forward in a threatening way: "Do you hear what I said?" "Yes, sir; I hear you." "Well, just step back through that door in t'other room and watch me while I look through this chest for a gold ring I lost last week." Poor Fred was in a terrible state of mind, and, passing softly through the door opening into his bed-room, he paused by the chair where he had sat so long, and then faced toward the tramp, who said, by way of amendment: "I forgot to say that if you try to climb out of the winder onto the porto rico or to sneak out any way I'll give you a touch of that." As he spoke he suddenly held up a bull's-eye lantern, which poured a strong stream of light toward the boy. It looked as if he must have lighted it inside the house, and had come into the room with it under his coat. While he carried this lantern in one hand he held a pistol, shining with polished silver, in the other, and behind the two objects the bearded face loomed up like that of some ogre of darkness. The scamp did not seem to think this remark required anything in the way of response, and, kneeling before the huge oaken chest, he began his evil work. For a few moments Fred was so interested that he ceased to reproach himself for having failed to do his duty. The tramp set the lantern on the floor beside him, so that it threw its beams directly into the room where the boy stood. The marauder, it must be said, did not act like a professional. One of the burglars who infest society to-day would have made short work with the lock, though it was of the massive and powerful kind, in use many years ago; but this person fumbled and worked a good while without getting it open. He muttered impatiently to himself several times, and then caught up the bull's-eye, and, bending his head over, carefully examined it, to learn why it resisted his vigorous efforts. The action of the man seemed to rouse Fred, who, without a moment's thought, stepped backward toward the open window at the rear, the one which had been raised all the time to afford ventilation. He thought if the dreadful man should object, he could make excuse on account of the warmth of the night. But the lad moved so softly, or the wicked fellow was so interested in his own work that he did not notice him, for he said nothing, and though Fred could see him no longer he could hear him toiling, with occasional mutterings of anger at his failure to open the chest, which was believed to contain so much valuable silverware and money. The diverging rays from the dark-lantern still shot through the open door into the bed-room. They made a well-defined path along the floor, quite narrow and not very high, and which, striking the white wall at the opposite side, terminated in one splash of yellow, in which the specks of the whitewash could be plainly seen. It was as if a great wedge of golden light lay on the floor, with the head against the wall and the tapering point passing through the door and ending at the chest in the other room. While Fred Sheldon was looking at the curious sight he noticed something in the illuminated path. It would be thought that, in the natural fear of a boy in his situation, he would have felt no interest in it, but, led on by a curiosity which none but a lad feels, he stepped softly forward on tip-toe. Before he stooped over to pick it up he saw that it was a handsome pocket-knife. "He has dropped it," was the thought of Fred, who wondered how he came to do it; "anyway I'll hold on to it for awhile." He quietly shoved it down into his pocket, where his old Barlow knife, his jewsharp, eleven marbles, two slate pencils, a couple of large coppers, some cake crumbs and other trifles nestled, and then, having succeeded so well, he again went softly to the open window at the rear. Just as he reached it he heard an unusual noise in the smaller apartment where the man was at work, and he was sure the burglar had discovered what he was doing, and was about to punish him. But the sound was not repeated, and the boy believed the tramp had got the chest open. If such were the fact, he was not likely to think of the youngster in the next room for several minutes more. Fred was plucky, and the thought instantly came to him that he had a chance to leave the room and give an alarm; but to go to the front and climb out on the roof of the porch would bring him so close to the tramp that discovery would be certain. At the rear there was nothing by which he could descend to the ground. It was a straight wall, invisible in the darkness and too high for any one to leap. He might hang down from the sill by his hands and then let go, but he was too unfamiliar with the surroundings to make such an attempt. "Maybe there's a tub of water down there," he said to himself, trying to peer into the gloom; "and I might turn over and strike on my head into it, or it might be the swill barrel, and I wouldn't want to get my head and shoulders wedged into that----" At that instant something as soft as a feather touched his cheek. The gentle night wind had moved the rustling limbs, so that one of them in swaying only a few inches had reached out, as it were, and kissed the chubby face of the brave little boy. "Why didn't I think of that?" he asked himself, as he caught hold of the friendly limb. "I can hold on and swing to the ground." It looked, indeed, as if such a movement was easy. By reaching his hand forward he could follow the limb until it was fully an inch in diameter. That was plenty strong enough to hold his weight. Glancing around, he saw the same wedge of golden light streaming into the room, and the sounds were such that he was sure the burglar had opened the chest and was helping himself to the riches within. The next minute Fred bent forward, and, griping the limb with both hands, swung out of the window. All was darkness, and he shut his eyes and held his breath with that peculiar dizzy feeling which comes over one when he cowers before an expected blow on the head. The sensation was that of rushing into the leaves and undergrowth, and then, feeling himself stopping rather suddenly, he let go. He alighted upon his feet, the distance being so short that he was scarcely jarred, and he drew a sigh of relief when he realized that his venture had ended so well. "There," he said to himself, as he adjusted his clothing, "I ain't afraid of him now, I can outrun him if I only have a fair chance, and there's plenty of places where a fellow can hide." Looking up to the house it was all dark; not a ray from the lantern could be seen, and the sisters were no doubt sleeping as sweetly as they had slept nearly every night for the past three-score years and more. But Fred understood the value of time too well to stay in the vicinity while the tramp was engaged with his nefarious work above. If the law-breaker was to be caught, it must be done speedily. But there were no houses near at hand, and it would take fully an hour to bring Archie Jackson, the constable, to the spot. "The nearest house is Mike Heyland's, the hired man, and I'll go for him." Filled with this thought, Fred moved softly around to the front, passed through the gate, entered the short lane, and began walking between the rows of trees in the direction of the highway. An active boy of his age finds his most natural gait to be a trot, and Fred took up that pace. "It's so dark here under these trees that if there's anything in the road I'll tumble over it, for I never miss----" "Halloo there, you boy!" As these startling words fell upon young Sheldon's ear, the figure of a man suddenly stepped out from the denser shadows and halted in front of the affrighted boy, who stopped short, wondering what it meant. There was nothing in the voice and manner of the stranger, however, which gave confidence to Fred, who quickly rallied, and stepping closer, caught his hand with the confiding faith of childhood. "O, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid I'd have to run clear to Tottenville to find somebody." "What's the matter, my little man?" "Why, there's a robber in the house back there; he's stealing all the silver and money that belongs to the Misses Perkinpine, and they're sound asleep--just think of it--and he's got a lantern up there and is at work at the chest now, and said he would shoot me if I made any noise or tried to get away, but I catched hold of a limb and swung out the window, and here I am!" exclaimed Fred, stopping short and panting. "Well now, that's lucky, for I happen to have a good, loaded pistol with me. I'm visiting Mr. Spriggins in Tottenville, and went out fishing this afternoon, but stayed longer than I intended, and was going home across lots when I struck the lane here without knowing exactly where I was; but I'm glad I met you." "So'm I," exclaimed the gratified Fred; "will you help me catch that tramp?" "Indeed I will; come on, my little man." The stranger stepped off briskly, Fred close behind him, and passed through the gate at the front of the old brick house, which looked as dark and still as though no living person had been in it for years. "Don't make any noise," whispered the elder, turning part way round and raising his finger. "You needn't be afraid of my doing so," replied the boy, who was sure the caution was unnecessary. Fred did not notice the fact at the time that the man who had come along so opportunely seemed to be quite familiar with the place, but he walked straight to a rear window, which, despite the care with which it had been fastened down, was found to be raised. "There's where he went in," whispered Fred's friend, "and there's where we're going after him." "All right," said Fred, who did not hesitate, although he could not see much prospect of his doing anything. "I'll follow." The man reached up and catching hold of the sash placed his feet on the sill and stepped softly into the room. Then turning so his figure could be seen plainly in the moonlight, he said in the same guarded voice: "He may hear me coming, do you, therefore, go round to the front and if he tries to climb down by way of the porch, run round here and let me know. We'll make it hot for him." This seemed a prudent arrangement, for it may be said, it guarded all points. The man who had just entered would, prevent the thieving tramp from retreating by the path he used in entering, while the sharp eyes of the boy would be quick to discover him the moment he sought to use the front window. "I guess we've got him," thought Fred, as he took his station by the front porch and looked steadily upward, like one who is studying the appearance of a new comet or some constellation in the heavens; "that man going after him ain't afraid of anything, and he looks strong and big enough to take him by the collar and shake him, just as Mr. McCurtis shakes us boys when he wants to exercise himself." For several minutes the vigilant Fred was in a flutter of excitement, expecting to hear the report of firearms and the sound of struggling on the floor above. "I wonder if Miss Annie and Lizzie will wake up when the shooting begins," thought Fred; "I don't suppose they will, for they are so used to sleeping all night that nothing less than a big thunder-storm will start them--but it seems to me it's time that something took place." Young Sheldon had the natural impatience of youth, and when ten minutes passed without stirring up matters, he thought his friend was too slow in his movements. Besides, his neck began to ache from looking so steadily upward, so he walked back in the yard some distance, and leaning against a tree, shoved his hands down in his pockets and continued the scrutiny. This made it more pleasant for a short time only, when he finally struck the happy expedient of lying down on his side and then placing his head upon his hand in such an easy position that the ache vanished at once. Fifteen more minutes went by, and Fred began to wonder what it all meant. It seemed to him that fully an hour had gone since stationing himself as a watcher, and not the slightest sound had come back to tell him that any living person was in the house. "There's something wrong about this," he finally exclaimed, springing to his feet; "maybe the tramp got away before I came back; but then, if that's so, why didn't the other fellow find it out long ago?" Loth to leave his post, Fred moved cautiously among the trees a while longer, and still failing to detect anything that would throw light on the mystery, he suddenly formed a determination, which was a rare one, indeed, for a lad of his years. "I'll go in and find out for myself!" Boy-like, having made the resolve, he acted upon it without stopping to think what the cost might be. He was in his bare feet, and it was an easy matter for a little fellow like him to climb through an open window on the first floor without making a noise. When he got into the room, however, where it was as dark as the darkest midnight he ever saw, things began to appear different, that is so far as anything can be said to appear where it is invisible. He could see nothing at all, and reaching out his hands, he began shuffling along in that doubting manner which we all use under such circumstances. He knew that he was in the dining-room, from which it was necessary to pass through a door into the broad hall, and up the stairs to the spare room, where it was expected he would sleep whenever he favored the twin maiden sisters with a visit. He could find his way there in the dark, but he was afraid of the obstructions in his path. "I 'spose all the chairs have been set out of the way, 'cause Miss Annie and Lizzie are very particular, and they wouldn't----" Just then Fred's knee came against a chair, and before he could stop himself, he fell over it with a racket which he was sure would awaken the ladies themselves. "That must have jarred every window in the house," he gasped, rubbing his knees. He listened for a minute or two before starting on again, but the same profound stillness reigned. It followed, as a matter of course, that the men up-stairs had heard the tumult, but Fred consoled himself with the belief that it was such a tremendous noise that they would mistake its meaning altogether. "Any way, I don't mean to fall over any more chairs," muttered the lad, shuffling along with more care, and holding his hands down, so as to detect such an obstruction. It is hardly necessary to tell what followed. Let any one undertake to make his way across a dark room, without crossing his hands in front and the edge of a door is sure to get between them. Fred Sheldon received a bump which made him see stars, but after rubbing his forehead for a moment he moved out into the broad hall, where there was no more danger of anything of the kind. The heavy oaken stairs were of such solid structure that when he placed his foot on the steps they gave back no sound, and he stepped quite briskly to the top without making any noise that could betray his approach. "I wonder what they thought when I tumbled over the chair," pondered Fred, who began to feel more certain than before that something was amiss. Reaching out his hands in the dark he found that the door of his own room was wide open, and he walked in without trouble. As he did so a faint light which entered by the rear window gave him a clear idea of the interior. With his heart beating very fast Fred tip-toed toward the front until he could look through the open door into the small room where the large oaken chest stood. By this time the moon was so high that he could see the interior with more distinctness than before. All was still and deserted; both the men were gone. "That's queer," muttered the puzzled lad; "if the tramp slipped away, the other man that I met on the road ought to have found it out; but what's become of him?" Running his hand deep down among the treasures in his trousers pocket, Fred fished out a lucifer match, which he drew on the wall, and, as the tiny twist of flame expanded, he touched it to the wick of the candle that he held above his head. The sight which met his gaze was a curious one indeed, and held him almost breathless for the time. The lid of the huge chest was thrown back against the wall, and all that was within it were rumpled sheets of old brown paper, which had no doubt been used as wrappings for the pieces of the silver tea-service. On the floor beside the chest was a large pocket-book, wrong side out. This, doubtless, had once held the money belonging to the old ladies, but it held it no longer. Money and silverware were gone! "The tramp got away while we were down the lane," said Fred, as he stood looking at the signs of ruin about him; "but why didn't my friend let me know about it, and where is he?" Fred Sheldon stopped in dismay, for just then the whole truth came upon him like a flash. These two men were partners, and the man in the lane was on the watch to see that no strangers approached without the alarm being given to the one inside the house. "Why didn't I think of that?" mentally exclaimed the boy, so overcome that he dropped into a chair, helpless and weak, holding the candle in hand. It is easy to see how natural it was for a lad of his age to be deceived as was Fred Sheldon, who never in all his life had been placed in such a trying position. He sat for several minutes looking at the open chest, which seemed to speak so eloquently of the wrong it had suffered, and then he reproached himself for having failed so completely in doing his duty. "I can't see anything I've done," he thought, "which could have been of any good, while there was plenty of chances to make some use of myself if I had any sense about me." Indeed there did appear to be some justice in the self-reproach of the lad, who added in the same vein: "I knew, the minute he stopped to ask questions at our front gate, that he meant to come here and rob the house, and I ought to have started right off for Constable Jackson, without running to tell the folks. Then they laughed at me and I thought I was mistaken, even after I had seen him peeping through the window. When he was eating his supper I was sure of it, and then I should have slipped away and got somebody else here to help watch, but we didn't have anything to shoot with, and when I tried to keep guard I fell asleep, and when I woke up I was simple enough to think there was only one way of his coming into the house, and, while I had my eye on that, he walked right in behind me." Then, as Fred recalled his meeting with the second party in the lane, he heaved a great sigh. "Well, I'm the biggest blockhead in the country--that's all--and I hope I won't have to tell anybody the whole story. Halloo!" Just then he happened to think of the pocket-knife he had picked up on the floor, and he drew it out of his pocket. Boy-like, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when they rested on the implement so indispensable to every youngster, and which was much the finest one he had ever had in his hand. The handle was pearl and the two blades were of the finest steel and almost as keen as a razor. Fred set the candle on a chair, and leaning over, carefully examined the knife, which seemed to grow in beauty the more he handled it. "The man that dropped that is the one who stole all the silverware and money, and there's the letters of his name," added the boy. True enough. On the little piece of brass on the side of the handle were roughly cut the letters, "N. H. H." CHAPTER VI. ON THE OUTSIDE. When Fred Sheldon had spent some minutes examining the knife he had picked up from the floor, he opened and closed the blades several times, and finally dropped it into his pocket, running his hand to the bottom to make sure there was no hole through which the precious implement might be lost. "I think that knife is worth about a thousand dollars," he said, with a great sigh; "and if Aunt Lizzie and Annie don't get their silverware and money back, why they can hold on to the jack-knife." At this juncture it struck the lad as a very strange thing that the two ladies should sleep in one part of the house and leave their valuables in another. It would have been more consistent if they had kept the chest in their own sleeping apartment, but they were very peculiar in some respects, and there was no accounting for many things they did. "Maybe they went in there!" suddenly exclaimed Fred, referring to the tramp and his friend. "They must have thought it likely there was something in their bed-room worth hunting for. I'll see." He felt faint at heart at the thought that the good ladies had been molested while they lay unconscious in bed, but he pushed his way through the house, candle in hand, with the real bravery which was a part of his nature. His heart was throbbing rapidly when he reached the door of their apartment and softly raised the latch. But it was fastened from within, and when he listened he distinctly heard the low, gentle breathing of the good souls who had slumbered so quietly all through these exciting scenes. "I am so thankful they haven't been disturbed," said Fred, making his way back to his own room, where he blew out his light, said his prayers and jumped into bed. Despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed, and the chagrin he felt over his stupidity, Fred soon dropped into a sound slumber, which lasted until the sun shone through the window. Even then it was broken by the gentle voice of Aunt Lizzie, as she was sometimes called, sounding from the foot of the stairs. Fred was dressed and down in a twinkling, and in the rushing, headlong, helter-skelter fashion of youngsters of his age, he told the story of the robbery that had been committed during the night. The old ladies listened quietly, but the news was exciting, indeed, and when Aunt Lizzie, the mildest soul that ever lived, said: "I hope you are mistaken, Fred; after breakfast we'll go up-stairs and see for ourselves." "I shall see now," said her sister Annie, starting up the steps, followed by Fred and the other. There they quickly learned the whole truth. Eight hundred and odd dollars were in the pocketbook, and the intrinsic worth of the silver tea service amounted to fully three times as much, while ten times that sum would not have persuaded the ladies to part with it. They were thrown into dismay by the loss, which grew upon them as they reflected over it. "Why didn't you call us?" asked the white-faced Aunt Lizzie. "Why, what would you have done if I had called you?" asked Fred, in turn. "We would have talked with them and shown them what a wicked thing they were doing, and reminded them how unlawful and wrong it is to pick a lock and steal things." "Gracious alive! if I had undertaken to call you that first man would have shot me, and it was lucky he didn't see me when I swung out the back window; but they left something behind them which I'd rather have than all your silver," said Fred. "What's that?" He drew out the pocket-knife and showed it, looking so wistfully that they did not even take it from his hand, but told the gleeful lad to keep it for himself. "You may be sure I will," was his comment as he stowed it away once more; "a boy don't get a chance at a knife like that more than once in a lifetime." The old ladies, mild and sweet-tempered as they were, became so faint and weak as they fully realized their loss, that they could eat no breakfast at all, and only swallowed a cup of coffee. Fred was affected in the same manner, but not to so great an extent. However, he was anxious to do all he could for the good ladies, and spending only a few minutes at the table he donned his hat and said he would go for Constable Archie Jackson. The hired man, Michael Heyland, had arrived, and was at work out-doors, so there was no call for the boy to remain longer. As Fred hastened down the lane, he was surprised to hear sounds of martial music, but when he caught sight of a gorgeous band and a number of square, box-like wagons with yellow animals painted on the outside, he recalled that this was the day of the circus, and his heart gave a great bound of delight. "I wish Miss Annie and Lizzie hadn't lost their money and silver," he said, "for maybe I could have persuaded them to go to the circus with me, and I'm sure they would have enjoyed themselves." Running forward, Fred perched himself on the fence until the last wagon rattled by, when he slipped to the ground and trotted behind it, feeling that delight which comes to all lads in looking upon the place where wild animals are known to be housed. At every dwelling they passed the inmates hastened out, and the musicians increased the volume of their music until the air seemed to throb and pulsate with the stirring strains. When the town of Tottenville was reached, the whole place was topsy-turvy. The men and wagons, with the tents and poles, had been on the ground several hours, hard at work, and crowds had been watching them from the moment of their arrival. As the rest of the vehicles gathered in a circle, which was to be enclosed by the canvas, the interest was of such an intense character that literally nothing else was seen or thought of by the countrymen and villagers. There was no one who gaped with more open-mouthed wonder than Fred Sheldon, who forgot for the time the real business which had brought him to Tottenville. As usual, he had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and with his hands deep in his pockets, walked about with his straw hat flapping in the slight breeze, staring at everything relating to the menagerie and circus, and tasting beforehand the delights that awaited him in the afternoon, when he would be permitted to gaze until tired, if such a thing were possible. "That's the cage that has the great African lion," said Fred to Jimmy Emery and Joe Hunt, who stood beside him; "just look at that picture where he's got a man in his jaws, running off with him, and not caring a cent for the hunters firing at him." "Them's Tottenhots," said Joe Hunt, who was glad of a chance of airing his knowledge of natural history; "they live in the upper part of Africa, on the Hang Ho river, close to London." "My gracious," said Fred, with a laugh; "you've got Europe, Asia and Africa all mixed up, and the people are the Hottentots; there isn't anybody in the world with such a name as Tottenhots." "Yes, there is, too; ain't we folks that live in Tottenville Tottenhots, smarty?" "Let's ask that big boy there about them; he belongs to the show." The young man to whom they alluded stood a short distance off, with a long whip in his hand, watching the operations of those who were erecting the canvas. He was quite red in the face, had a bushy head of hair almost of the same hue, and was anything but attractive in appearance. His trousers were tucked in his boot-tops; he wore a blue shirt, sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a strong briar-wood pipe, occasionally indulging in some remark in which there was a shocking amount of profanity. The boys started toward him, and had nearly reached him when Jimmy Emery said in an excited undertone: "Why, don't you see who he is? He's Bud Heyland." "So he is. His father told me last spring he had gone off to join a circus, but I forgot all about it." Bud Heyland was the son of Michael Heyland, the man who did the work for the sisters Perkinpine, and before he left was known as the bully of the neighborhood. He was a year or two older than the oldest in school, and he played the tyrant among the other youngsters, whose life sometimes became a burden to them when he was near. He generally punished two or three of the lads each day after school for some imaginary offense. If they told the teacher, he would scold and threaten Bud, who would tell some outlandish falsehood, and then whip the boys again for telling tales. If they appealed to Mr. McCurtis, the same programme was gone through as before; and as the original victims continued to be worsted, they finally gave it up as a losing business and bore their sorrows uncomplainingly. Fred Sheldon tried several times to get up a confederation against the bully, with a view of bringing him to justice, but the others were too timid, and nothing came from it. Bud was especially ugly in his actions toward Fred, who had no father to take the matter in hand, while Mr. Heyland himself simply smoked his pipe and grunted out that he couldn't do anything with Bud and had given him up long ago. Finally Mr. McCurtis lost all patience, and summoning his energies he flogged the young scamp most thoroughly and then bundled him out of the door, forbidding him to come to school any more. This suited Bud, who hurled several stones through the window, and then went home, stayed several days and finally went off with a circus, with one of whose drivers he had formed an acquaintance. The boys were a little backward when they recognized Bud, but concluded he would be glad to see them, especially as they all intended to visit the menagerie during the afternoon. "Halloo, Bud!" called out Fred, with a grin, as he and his two friends approached; "how are you?" The boy, who was sixteen years old, turned about and looked at them for a minute, and then asked: "Is that you, younkers? What'er you doin' here?" "Oh, looking around a little. We're all coming this afternoon." "You are, eh? Do you expect to crawl under the tent?" "No, we're going to pay our way in; Jim and Joe didn't know whether they could come or not, but it's all fixed now." "I watch outside with this cart-whip for boys that try to crawl under, and it's fun when I bring the lash down on 'em. Do you see?" As he spoke, Bud gave a flourish with the whip, whirling the lash about his head and causing it to snap like a firecracker. CHAPTER VII. "THE LION IS LOOSE!" "I'll show you how it works," he called out, with a grin, and without a word of warning he whirled it about the legs and bodies of the boys, who jumped with pain and started to run. He followed them just as the teacher did before, delivering blows rapidly, every one of which fairly burned and blistered where it struck. Bud laughed and enjoyed it, because he was inflicting suffering, and he would have caused serious injury had not one of the men shouted to him to stop. Bud obeyed, catching the end of the lash in the hand which held the whipstock, and slouching back to his position, said: "They wanted me to give 'em free tickets, and 'cause I wouldn't they told me they were going to crawl under the tent; so I thought I would let 'em have a little taste beforehand." "You mustn't be quite so ready," said the man; "some time you will get into trouble." "It wan't be the first time," said Bud, looking with a grin at the poor boys, all three of whom were crying with pain; "and I reckon I can get out ag'in, as I've done often enough." Fred Sheldon, after edging away from the other lads and his friends, all of whom were pitying him, recalled that he had come into the village of Tottenville to see the constable, Archie Jackson, and to tell him about the robbery that had been committed at the residence of the Misses Perkinpine the preceding evening. Archie, a short, bustling, somewhat pompous man, who turned in his toes when he walked, was found among the crowd that were admiring the circus and menagerie, and was soon made acquainted with the alarming occurrence. "Just what might have been expected," he said, severely, when he had heard the particulars; "it was some of them circus people, you can make up your mind to that. There's always an ugly crowd going along with 'em, and sometimes a little ahead. It's been some of 'em, I'm sure; very well, very well, I'll go right out and investigate." He told Fred it was necessary he should go along with him, and the boy did so, being informed that he would be permitted to attend the show in the afternoon. The fussy constable made the investigation, assisted by the sisters, who had become much calmer, and by Fred, who, it will be understood, was an important witness. The officer went through and through the house, examining the floor and chairs and windows and furniture for marks that might help him in ferreting out the guilty parties. He looked very wise, and, when he was done, said he had his own theory, and he was more convinced than ever that the two burglars were attachés of Bandman's menagerie and circus. "Purely as a matter of business," said he, "I'll attend the performances this afternoon and evening; I don't believe in circuses, but an officer of the law must sometimes go where his inclination doesn't lead him. Wouldn't you ladies like to attend the show?" The sisters were quite shocked at the invitation, and said that nothing could induce them to go to such an exhibition, when they never attended one in all their lives. "In the meantime," added the bustling officer, "I suggest that you offer a reward for the recovery of the goods." "The suggestion is a good one," said Aunt Annie, "for I do not believe we shall ever get back the silverware unless we make it an inducement for everybody to hunt for it." After some further words it was agreed that the constable should have a hundred posters printed, offering a reward for the recovery of the stolen property, nothing being said about the capture and conviction of the thieves. Nor would the conscientious ladies consent to make any offer that could be accepted by the thieves themselves, by which they could claim protection against prosecution. They would rather bear their irreparable loss than consent to compound crime. "I know Mr. Carter, a very skillful detective in New York," said Archie Jackson, as he prepared to go, "and I will send for him. He's the sharpest man I ever saw, and if the property can be found, he's the one to do it." The confidence of the officer gave the ladies much hope, and they resumed their duties in their household, as they had done so many times for years past. As the afternoon approached, the crowds began streaming into Tottenville, and the sight was a stirring one, with the band of music inside, the shouts of the peddlers on the outside, and the general confusion and expectancy on the part of all. The doors were open early, for, as is always the case, the multitude were ahead of time, and were clamoring for admission. As may be supposed, the boys were among the earliest, and the little fellows who had suffered at the hands of the cruel Bud Heyland forgot all their miseries in the delight of the entertainment. On this special occasion Fred had rolled down his trousers and wore a pair of shoes, although most of his playmates preferred no covering at all for their brown, expanding feet. The "performance," as the circus portion was called, did not begin until two o'clock, so that more than an hour was at the disposal of the visitors in which to inspect the animals. These were found to be much less awe-inspiring than they were pictured on the flaming posters and on the sides of their cages. The hippopotamus, which was represented as crushing a large boat, containing several men, in his jaws, was taken for a small, queer-looking pig, as it was partly seen in the tank, while the grizzly bear, the "Monarch of the Western Wilds," who had slain any number of men before capture, did not look any more formidable than a common dog. The chief interest of Fred and two or three of his young friends centered around the cage containing the Numidian lion. He was of pretty fair size, looked very fierce, and strode majestically back and forth in his narrow quarters, now and then giving vent to a cavernous growl, which, although not very pleasant to hear, was not so appalling by any means as some travelers declare it to be. Most of the boys soon went to the cage of monkeys, whose funny antics kept them in a continual roar; but Fred and Joe Hunt, who were about the same age, seemed never to tire of watching the king of beasts. "Come, move on there; you've been gaping long enough, and it's time other folks had a chance." It was Bud Heyland, who had yielded his position on the outside for a few minutes to one of the men, and had come in to look around. He raised his whip in a threatening manner, but did not let it descend. "I'm not in anybody's way," replied the indignant Fred, "and I'll stand here as long as I want to." "You will, eh? I'll show you!" This time the bully drew back his whip with the intention of striking, but before he could do so Archie Jackson, standing near, called out: "You touch him if you dare!" Bud turned toward the constable, who stood at his elbow, with flashing eyes, and demanded: "What's the matter with you?" "That boy isn't doing any harm, and if you touch him I'll take you by the collar and lock you up where you'll stay a while after this miserable show has gone." Bud knew the officer and held him in more fear than any one else in the community, but he growled: "This boy crawled under the tent, and he's no business in here." "That's a falsehood, for I saw him buy his ticket. Come now, young man, I _know something about last night's nefarious proceedings_." It would be hard to describe the significance with which these words were spoken, but it may be said that no one could have made them more impressive than did the fiery constable, who said them over a second time, and then, shaking his head very knowingly, walked away. It may have been that Bud Heyland was such a bad boy that his conscience accused him at all times, but Fred Sheldon was certain he saw the red face grow more crimson under the words of the hot-tempered constable. "Can it be Bud knows anything about last night?" Fred asked himself, attentively watching the movements of Bud, who affected to be interested in something going on a rod or two distant. He walked rapidly thither, but was gone only a short while when he came back scowling at Fred, who looked at him in an inquiring way. "What are you staring at me so for?" asked Bud, half raising his hand as if he wanted to strike, but was afraid to do so. Fred now did something which bordered on insolence, though the party of the other part deserved no consideration therefor. The little fellow looked steadily in the red, inflamed face, and with that peculiar grin that means so much in a boy, said in a low, confidential voice: "Bud, how about last night?" Young Sheldon had no warrant to assume that Bud Heyland knew anything of the robbery, and he was only following up the hint given by Archie Jackson himself. This may have been the reason that Fred fancied he could detect a resemblance--very slight though it was--between the voice of Bud Heyland and that of the tramp who sat at the table in the old brick house, and who, beyond question, had a false beard on. The young man with the whip in his hand simply looked back at the handsome countenance before him, and without any appearance of emotion, asked in turn: "What are you talking about?" Fred continued to look and smile, until suddenly Bud lost all self-command and whirled his whip over his head. As he did so, the lash flew through the bars of the cage and struck the Numidian lion a sharp, stinging blow on the nose. He gave a growl of anger, and half-rearing on his hind feet, made a furious clawing and clutching with both paws. The end of the lash seemed to have hit him in the eye, for he was furious for a minute. Bud Heyland knew what the sounds behind him meant, and instead of striking the young lad whom he detested so much, he turned about in the hope of soothing the enraged lion. He spoke kindly to the beast, and failing to produce any effect, was about to call one of the men to bring some meat, but at that instant every one near at hand was startled by a crashing, grinding sound, and the cage was seen to sway as if on the point of turning over. Then, before any one could comprehend fully what had occurred, a huge form was seen to bound through the air in front of the cage, landing directly among the terrified group, who stood spell-bound, scarcely realizing their fearful peril. "The lion is loose! the lion is loose!" was the next cry that rang through the enclosure. [Illustration: "The lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(See page 71.)] CHAPTER VIII. A DAY OF EXCITEMENT IN TOTTENVILLE. If any of our readers were ever so unfortunate as to be in the neighborhood of a menagerie of animals when one of the fiercest has broken loose he can form some idea of the confusion, terror and consternation caused by the escape of the lion from his cage. Strong men rushed headlong over each other; parents caught up their children and struggled desperately to get as far as possible from the dreadful beast; the other animals uttered fierce growls and cries; women and children screamed and fainted; brave escorts deserted young ladies, leaving them to look out for themselves, while they joined in the frantic struggle for life; some crawled under the wagons; others clambered upon the top, and one man, original even in his panic, scrambled into the cage just vacated by the lion, intending to do his utmost to keep the rightful owner from getting back again. Could any one have looked upon the exciting scene, and preserved his self-possession, he would have observed a burly boy climbing desperately up the center pole, never pausing until he reached the point where the heavy ropes of the canvas converged, when he stopped panting, and looked down on what was passing beneath him. The name of that young man was Bud Heyland. Among the multitude that swarmed through the entrance to the tent, which was choked until strong men fought savagely to beat back the mad tide, were three boys who got outside safely on their feet, and, drawing in their breath, broke into a blind but very earnest run that was intended to take them as far as possible from the dangerous spot. They were Jimmy Emery, Joe Hunt and Fred Sheldon. The last-named saw the lion make a tremendous bound, which landed him almost at his feet, and Fred was sure it was all over with him; but he did not stand still and be devoured, but plunged in among the struggling mass and reached the exterior of the tent without a scratch. High above the din and tumult rose the shout of the principal showman: "Don't kill the lion! Don't kill the lion!" It was hard to see the necessity for this cry, inasmuch as the danger seemed to be altogether the other way, but the one who uttered the useless words was evidently afraid some of the people would begin shooting at the beast, which was altogether too valuable to lose, if there was any way of avoiding it. It may be, too, that he believed a general fusillade, when the confusion was so great, would be more perilous to the people than to the lion. There is reason in the belief that, as some scientists claim, there is a sense of humor which sometimes comes to the surface in certain animals, and the action of the Numidian lion when he broke out tended to confirm such a statement. He seemed to forget all about the sharp cut he had received across the nose and eyes the moment he was clear of his cage and to enjoy the hubbub he created. Had he chosen he could have lacerated and killed a score of children within his reach, but instead of doing so he jumped at the terrified crowd, striking them pretty hard blows with his fore paws, then wheeling about and making for another group, who were literally driven out of their senses by the sight of the brute coming toward them. One young gentleman who was with a lady left her without a word, and, catching sight of a small ladder, placed it hastily against the center pole and ran rapidly up the rounds, but the ladder itself stood so nearly perpendicular that when he reached the top and looked around to see whether the king of beasts was following him, it tipped backward, and he fell directly upon the shoulders of the lion, rolling off and turning a back somersault, where he lay kicking with might and main, and shouting to everybody to come and take him away. The brute paid no attention to him except to act in a confused manner for a minute or two, when he darted straight across the ring to an open space in the wall of the tent, made by some men who had cut it with their knives. The next moment he was on the outside. The bewilderment and consternation seemed to increase every minute, and did not abate when the lion was seen to be galloping up the road toward a forest, in which he disappeared. A number of the show people ran after him, shouting and calling continually to others to keep out of his way and not to kill him. The beast had entered a track of dense woodland, covering fully a dozen acres, and abounding with undergrowth, where it was probable he could hide himself for days from his would-be captors. The incident broke up the exhibition for the afternoon, although it was announced that it would go on again as usual in the evening, when something like self-possession came back to the vast swarm of people scattered through the village and over the grounds, it was found that although a number had been severely bruised and trampled upon, no one was seriously injured, and what was the strangest fact of all, no one could be found who had suffered any hurt from the lion. This was unaccountable to nearly every one, though the explanation, or partial one, at least, appeared within the succeeding few days. Had the lion been able to understand the peril into which he entered by this freak of his it may be safely said that he would not have left his cage, for no sooner had the community a chance to draw breath and realize the situation than they resolved that it would never do to allow such a ferocious animal to remain at large. "Why, he can hide in the woods there and sally out and kill a half dozen at a time, just as they do in their native country," said Archie Jackson, discussing the matter in the village store. "Yes," assented a neighbor; "the lion is the awfulest kind of a creature, which is why they call him the king of beasts. In Brazil and Italy, where they run wild, they're worse than--than--than a--that is--than a steam b'iler explosion." "We must organize," added the constable, compressing his thin lips; "self-protection demands it." "I think we had better call on the Governor to bring out the military, and to keep up the hunt until he is exterminated." "No need of calling on the military, so long as the civil law is sufficient," insisted Archie. "A half-dozen of us, well armed, will be able to smoke him out." "Will you j'ine?" asked one of the neighbors. The constable cleared his throat before saying: "I've some important business on my hands that'll keep me pretty busy for a few days. If you will wait till that is over, it will give me pleasure--ahem!--to j'ine you." "By that time there won't be any of us left to j'ine," said the neighbor with a contemptuous sniff. "It looks very much, Archie, as though you were trying to get out of it." The constable grew red in the face at the general smile this caused, and said, in his most impressive manner: "Gentlemen, I'll go with you in search of the lion; more than that, gentlemen and fellow-citizens, I'll lead you." "That's business; you ain't such a big coward as people say you are." "Who says I'm a coward--show him to me----" At this moment one of the young men attached to the menagerie and circus entered, and when all became still said: "Gentlemen, my name is Jacob Kincade, and I'm the keeper of the lion which broke out to-day and is off somewhere in the woods. He is a very valuable animal to us, we having imported him directly from the Bushman country, at a great expense. His being at large has created a great excitement, as was to be expected, but we don't want him killed." "Of course not," said Archie Jackson, who echoed the sentiment of his neighbors, as he added, "You prefer that he should go raging 'round the country and chaw us all up instead. My friend, that little scheme won't work; we're just on the point of organizing an exploring expedition to shoot the lion. Our duty to our wives and families demands that we should extirpate the scourge. Yes, sir," added Archie, rising from his chair and gesticulating like an orator, "as patriots we are bound to prevent any foreign monsters, especially them as are worshiped by the red-coats, to squat on our soil and murder our citizens. The glorious American eagle----" "One minute," interrupted Mr. Kincade, with a wave of his hand. "It isn't the eagle, but the lion we are considering. The menagerie, having made engagements so far ahead, must show in Lumberton to-morrow evening, but two of us will stay behind to arrange for his recapture. Bud Heyland, whose home is in this vicinity, and myself would like to employ a dozen of you to assist. You will be well paid therefor, and whoever secures him, without harm, will receive a reward of a hundred dollars." While these important words were being uttered, Archie Jackson remained standing on the floor, facing the speaker, with his hand still raised, as if he intended resuming his patriotic speech at the point where it had been broken in upon. But when the showman stopped Archie stood staring at him with mouth open, hand raised and silent tongue. "Go on," suggested one at his elbow. But the constable let his arm fall against his side, and said: "I had a good thing about the emblem of British tyranny, but he put me out. Will give a hundred dollars, eh? That's another matter altogether. But I say, Mr. Kincade, how shall we go to work to capture a lion? That sort of game ain't abundant in these parts, and I don't think there's any one here that's ever hunted 'em." Old Mr. Scrapton, who was known to be the teller of the most amazing stories ever heard in the neighborhood, opened his mouth to relate how he had lassoed lions forty years before, when he was hunting on the plains of Texas, but he restrained himself. He thought it best to wait till this particular beast had been disposed of and was out of the neighborhood. "I may say, gentlemen," added the showman, with a peculiar smile, "that this lion is not so savage and dangerous as most people think. You will call to mind, although he broke loose in the afternoon, when the tent was crowded with people, and when he had every opportunity he could wish, yet he did not hurt any one." "That is a very remarkable circumstance," said the constable, in a low voice, heard by all. "I am warranted, therefore," added Mr. Kincade, "in saying that there is no cause for such extreme fright on your part. You should fix some sort of cage and bait it with meat. Then watch, and when he goes in spring the trap, and there he is." "Yes, but will he stay there?" "If the trap is strong enough." "How would it do to lasso him?" "If you are skilled in throwing the lasso and can fling several nooses over his head simultaneously from different directions. By that I mean if three or four of you can lasso him at the same instant, from different directions, so he will be held fast, why the scheme will work splendidly." All eyes turned toward old Mr. Scrapton, who cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other and looked very wise. It was known that he had a long buffalo thong looped and hanging over his fire-place at home, with which, he had often told, he used to lasso wild horses in the Southwest. When the old gentleman saw the general interest he had awakened, he nodded his head patronizingly and said: "Yes, boys, I'll go with you and show you how the thing is done." The important conversation, of which we have given a part, took place in the principal store in Tottenville late on the evening succeeding the escape of the lion and after the performance was over. Mr. Kincade, by virtue of his superior experience with wild animals, gave the men a great many good points and awakened such an ambition in them to capture the beast that he was quite hopeful of his being retaken in a short time. It was understood that if the lion was injured in any way not a penny's reward would be paid, and a careful observer of matters would have thought there was reason to fear the neighbors were placing themselves in great personal peril, through their anxiety to take the king of beasts alive and unharmed. On the morrow, when the children wended their way to the old stone school-house again, they stopped to look at Archie Jackson, who was busy tearing down the huge posters of the menagerie and circus, preparatory to tacking up some others which he had brought with him and held under his arm. The constable dipped into several professions. He sometimes dug wells and helped to move houses for his neighbors. Beside this, he was known as the auctioneer of the neighborhood, and tacked up the announcement posters for himself. As soon as he had cleared a space, he posted the following, printed in large, black letters: ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. The above reward will be paid for the capture of the lion which escaped from Bandman's great menagerie and circus on Tuesday the twenty-first instant. Nothing will be paid if the animal is injured in any manner. The undersigned will be at the Tottenville Hotel for a few days, and will hand the reward named to any one who will secure the lion so that he can be returned to his cage. JACOB KINCADE. Directly beneath this paper was placed a second one, and it seemed a curious coincident that it also was the announcement of a reward. FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. The above reward will be paid for the recovery of the silver tea-service stolen from the residence of the Misses Perkinpine on the night of the twentieth instant. A liberal price will be given for anything in the way of information which may lead to the recovery of the property or the detection of the thieves. Attached to the last was a minute description of the various articles stolen, and the information that any one who wished further particulars could receive them by communicating with Archibald Jackson, constable, in Tottenville. The menagerie and circus had departed, but the excitement which it left behind was probably greater and more intense than that which preceded its arrival. Its coming was announced by a daring robbery, and when it went the most terrible animal in its "colossal and unparalleled collection" remained to prowl through the woods and feast upon the men, women, boys and girls of the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cows, oxen, sheep, lambs and pigs with which it was to be supposed the king of beasts would amuse himself when he desired a little recreation that should remind him of his native, far-away country. Around these posters were gathered the same trio which we pictured on the opening of our story. "I tell you I'd like to catch that lion," said Jimmy Emery, smacking his lips over the prospect; "but I don't see how it can be done." "Why couldn't we coax him into the school-house this afternoon after all the girls and boys are gone?" asked Joe Hunt; "it's so low and flat he would take it for his den, that is, if we kill a calf and lay it inside the door." "But Mr. McCurtis stays an hour after school to set copies," said Fred Sheldon. Joe Hunt scratched his arms, which still felt the sting of the blows for his failure in his lessons, and said: "That's one reason why I am so anxious to get the lion in there." "Well, younkers, I s'pose you're going to earn both of them rewards?" It was Bud Heyland who uttered these words, as he halted among the boys, who were rather shy of him. Bud had his trousers tucked in the top of his boots, his sombrero and blue shirt on, his rank brier-wood pipe in his mouth, and the whip, whose lash looked like a long, coiling black snake, in his hand. His face was red as usual, with blotches on his nose and cheeks, such as must have been caused by dissipation. He was ugly by nature, and had the neighborhood been given the choice between having him and the lion as a pest it may be safely said that Bud would not have been the choice of all. "I don't think there's much chance for us," said Fred Sheldon, quietly edging away from the bully; "for I don't see how we are to catch and hold him." "It would not do for him to see you," said Bud, taking his pipe from his mouth and grinning at Fred. "Why not?" "He's so fond of calves he'd be sure to go for you." "That's why he tried so hard to get at you, I s'pose, when you climbed the tent pole and was so scared you've been pale ever since." Bud was angered by this remark, which caused a general laugh, and he raised his whip, but just then he saw the teacher, Mr. McCurtis, close at hand, and he refrained. Although large and strong, like all bullies, he was a coward, and could not forget the severe drubbing received from this severe pedagogue, "all of ye olden times." He walked sullenly away, resolved to punish the impudent Fred Sheldon before he left the neighborhood, while the ringing of the cracked bell a minute or two later drew the boys and girls to the building and the studies of the day were begun. Young Fred Sheldon was the brightest and best boy in school, and he got through his lessons with his usual facility, but it may be said that his thoughts were anywhere but in the school-room. Indeed, there was plenty to rack his brain over, for during the few minutes when Bud Heyland stood talking to the boys before school Fred was impressed more than ever with the fact that his voice resembled that of the tramp who had been entertained by the Misses Perkinpine a couple of nights before. "I s'pose he tried to make his voice sound different," thought Fred, "but he didn't remember it all the time. Bud's voice is coarser than it used to be, which I s'pose is because it's changing, but every once in awhile it sounded just like it did a few minutes ago. "Then it seems to me," added our hero, pursuing the same train of perplexing thought, "that the voice of the other man--the one that come on to me in the lane--was like somebody I've heard, but I can't think who the person can be." Fred took out his new knife and looked at it in a furtive way. When he had admired it a few minutes he fixed his eyes on the three letters cut in the brass piece. "They're 'N. H. H.,'" he said, "as sure as I live; but 'N. H. H.' don't stand for Bud Heyland, though the last name is the same. If that was Bud who stole the silver then he must have dropped the knife on the floor, though I don't see how he could do it without knowing it. I s'pose he stole the knife from some one else." The boy had not shown his prize to any of his playmates, having thought it best to keep it out of sight. He could not help believing that Bud Heyland had something to do with the robbery, but it was difficult to think of any way by which the offense could be proven against him. "He'll deny it, of course, and even Aunt Annie and Lizzie will declare that it wasn't him that sat at the table the other night and eat enough for a half-dozen men, or as much as I wanted, anyway. He's such a mean, ugly boy that I wish I could prove it on him--that is, if he did it." That day Fred received word from his mother that she would not return for several days, and he was directed to look after the house, while he was permitted to sleep at the old brick mansion if he chose. Accordingly Fred saw that all his chores were properly done after he reached home that afternoon, when he started for the home of the maiden ladies, where he was more than welcome. The boy followed the same course he took two nights before, and his thoughts were so occupied that he went along at times almost instinctively, as may be said. "Gracious," he muttered, "but if I could find that silver for them--she don't say anything about the money that was taken--that would be an awful big reward. Five hundred dollars! It would more than pay the mortgage on our place. Then that one hundred dollars for the lion--gracious alive!" gasped Fred, stopping short and looking around in dismay. "I wonder where that lion is. He's been loose twenty-four hours, and I should like to know how many people he has killed. I heard he was seen up among the hills this morning, and eat a whole family and a team of horses, but I think maybe there's some mistake about it. "I wonder why he didn't kill somebody yesterday when he had such a good chance. He jumped right down in front of me, and I just gave up, and wished I was a better boy before I should go and leave mother alone; but he didn't pay any attention to me, nor anybody else, but he's a terrible creature, for all that." Now that Fred's thoughts were turned toward the beast that was prowling somewhere in the neighborhood, he could think of nothing else. There was the fact that this peril was a present one, which drove all thoughts of Bud Heyland and the robbery from the mind of the boy. The rustling wind, the murmur of the woods, and the soft, hollow roar of the distant river were all suggestive of the dreaded lion, and Fred found himself walking on tip-toe and peering forward in the gloom, often stopping and looking behind and around, and fancying he caught an outline of the crouching beast. But at last he reached the short lane and began moving with a rapid and confident step. The moon was shining a little more brightly than when he went over the ground before, and here and there the rays found their way between the poplars and served to light the road in front. "I guess he is asleep in the woods and will keep out of sight till he's found----" The heart of Fred Sheldon rose in his throat, and, as he stopped short, it seemed that his hair rose on end. And well it might, for there, directly in the road before him, where the moon's rays shot through the branches, the unmistakable figure of the dreaded lion suddenly appeared. CHAPTER IX. SEVERAL MISHAPS. On this same eventful evening, Archie Jackson, the constable of Tottenville, started from the residence of the Misses Perkinpine for his own house in the village. He had been out to make some inquiries of the ladies, for it will be remembered that he had two very important matters on hand--the detection of the robbers who had taken the property of the sisters and the leadership of the party who were to recapture the lion. At the close of the day, as he moved off toward the village, some time before the arrival of Fred Sheldon, he could not console himself with the knowledge that anything like real progress had been made in either case. "I've sent for that New York detective, Carter, to come down at once, and he ought to be here, but I haven't seen anything of him. Like enough he's off somewhere and won't be heard from for a week. I don't know as I care, for I begin to feel as though I can work out this nefarious proceeding myself. "Then the lion. Well, I can't say that I desire to go hunting for that sort of game, for I never studied their habits much, but as this cretur' doesn't seem to be very ferocious we ought to be able to run him in. I've organized the company, and Scrapton says he'll bring out his lasso and show two or three of us how to fling the thing, so we can all neck him at the same time. "If I can work up this matter and the other," continued the constable, who was "counting his chickens before they were hatched," "I shall make a nice little fee. I'm sure the lion will stay in the woods till he's pretty hungry. All the wild reports we've heard to-day have nothing in them. Nobody has seen him since he took to the forest yesterday afternoon, and what's more, nobody will----" And just then came the greatest shock of Archie Jackson's life. He was walking along the road toward Tottenville, and had reached a place where a row of trees overhung the path. He had taken a different route home from that pursued by Fred Sheldon, and was in quite a comfortable frame of mind, as the remarks quoted will show, when he gave a gasp of fright, for there, at the side of the path, he was sure he saw the lion himself sitting on his haunches and waiting for him to come within reach of his frightful claws and teeth. The constable did not observe him until he was within arm's length, as may be said, and then the poor fellow was transfixed. He stood a minute or so, doing nothing but breathe and staring at the monster. The lion seemed to comprehend that he was master of the situation, for he quietly remained sitting on his haunches, no doubt waiting for his victim to prepare for his inevitable fate. Finally, Archie began to experience something like a reaction, and he asked himself whether he was to perish thus miserably, or was there not some hope, no matter how desperate, for him. Of course he had no gun, but he generally carried a loaded revolver, for his profession often demanded the display of such a weapon; but to his dismay, when he softly reached his right hand back to his hip to draw it, he recalled that he had cleaned it that afternoon, and left it lying on his stand at home. The situation was enough to make one despair, and for an instant after the discovery the officer felt such a weakness in the knees that it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground in a perfect collapse; but he speedily rallied, and determined on one great effort for life. "I will strike him with my fist--that will knock him over--and then run for a tree." This was his resolve. Archie could deliver a powerful blow, and, believing the lion would not wait any longer, he drew back his clenched hand and aimed for the forehead directly between the eyes. He measured the distance correctly, but the instant the blow landed he felt he had made a mistake; it was not the runaway lion which he had struck, but the stump of an old tree. It is hardly necessary to say that the constable suffered more than did the stump, and for a minute or two he was sure he had fractured the bones of his hand, so great was the pain. He danced about on one foot, shaking the bruised member and bewailing the stupidity that led him to make such a grievous error. "That beats anything I ever knowed in all my life," he exclaimed, "and how glad I am that nobody else knows it; if the folks ever hear of it, they will plague me forever and----" "Halloo, Archie, what's the matter?" The cold chills ran down the officer's back as he heard this hail, and suppressing all expression of pain, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked quickly around. In the dim moonlight he saw old man Scrapton and two neighbors, Vincent and Emery, fathers respectively of two playmates of Fred Sheldon. Each carried a coil of long, strong rope in his right hand and seemed to be considerably excited over something. "We're after the lion," said Mr. Scrapton; "have you seen him?" "No, I don't think he's anywhere around here." "I've had Vincent and Emery out in the meadow nearly all day, practicing throwing the lasso, and they've got the hang of it exactly. Emery can fling the noose over the horns of a cow a dozen yards away and never miss, while Vincent, by way of experiment, dropped the noose over the shoulders of his wife at a greater distance." "Yes," said Mr. Vincent, "but I don't regard that as much of a success. Mrs. Vincent objected, and before I could let go of my end of the lasso, she drawed me to her and--well, I'd prefer to talk of something else." The constable laughed and said: "It's a good thing to practice a little beforehand, when you are going into such a dangerous business as this." "I suppose that's the reason you've been hammering that white oak stump," suggested Mr. Scrapton, with a chuckle. Archie Jackson saw he was caught, and begged his friends to say nothing about it, as he had already suffered as much in spirit as body. "But do you expect to find the lion to-night?" he asked, with unaffected interest. "Yes, we know just where to look for him," said Mr. Scrapton; "he stayed in the woods all day, but just as the sun was setting I catched sight of him along the edge of the fence, and he isn't far from there this very minute." "Do you want me to go with you?" "Certainly." "But I have no weapon." "All the better; I made each leave his gun and pistols at home, for they'd be so scared at the first sight of the cretur' they'd fire before they knowed it and spoil everything. Like the boys at Ticonderoga, if their guns ain't loaded, they can't shoot 'em." "But I don't see what help I can give you, as I haven't got a rope; and even if I had, I wouldn't know how to use it." "Come along, any way; we'll feel safer if we have another with us." It cannot be said that the constable was very enthusiastic, for there was something in the idea of hunting the king of beasts without firearms which was as terrifying as it was grotesque. However, he could not refuse, and the four started down the road and across the field, in the direction of the large tract of forest in which it was known the lion had taken refuge when he broke from his cage the day before. A walk of something like a third of a mile took the party to the edge of the wood, where they stopped and held a consultation in whispers. None of them were so brave as they seemed a short time before, and all secretly wished they were safe at home. "I don't see how you can expect to find him by hunting in the night time, when you have made no preparation," said Archie Jackson, strongly impressed with the absurdity of the whole business. "But I have made preparation," answered Scrapton, in the same guarded undertone. "How?" "I killed a pig and threw him over the fence yonder by that pile of rocks--good heavens!" At the moment of pointing his finger to indicate the spot, all heard a low cavernous growl, which sent a shiver of affright from head to foot. They were about to break into a run, when the constable said: "If you start, he will be after us; let's stand our ground." "Certainly," assented Mr. Vincent, through his chattering teeth. "Certainly, certainly," added his neighbor, in the same quaking voice. Toning down their extreme terror as best they could, the four frightened friends strained their eyes to catch a sight of the animal. "He's there," said Scrapton, fingering his lasso in a way which showed he was very eager to hurl it. "Where?" "Right behind the fence; I see him; he's crouching down and eating the carcass of the pig." "When he gets through with that he will come for us." "Like enough--but that will be all right," said the old gentleman, who really showed more self-possession than any of the others; "for it will give us just the chance we want." "How so?" "When he comes over the fence we'll sort of scatter and throw our lassoes together; then each will pull with all his might and main." "But," said Mr. Vincent, "s'posing we pull his head off, we won't get any of the reward." "We can't pull hard enough to do that, but if we hold on we'll keep him fast, so he can't move any way at all, and bime-by he'll get so tired that he'll give up, and we'll have him, certain sure." "That is, if he don't happen to have us," said Mr. Jackson. "As I haven't got any rope, s'pose I climb over the fence and scare him up so he will come toward you." The idea seemed to be a good one, as the others looked at it, but when the constable moved off to carry out his proposition they thought he was making altogether too extended a circuit, and that it would be a long while before he would succeed in his undertaking. Archie finally vanished in the gloom, and climbing over the fence into the woods moved a short distance toward the spot where the animal lay, when he paused. "The man who goes to hunt a wild lion with nothing but a jack-knife with both blades broke out is a natural-born idiot, which his name isn't Archie Jackson. I've business elsewhere." And thereupon he deliberately turned about and started homeward by a circuitous route. Meanwhile old Mr. Scrapton and Vincent and Emery stood trembling and waiting for the appearance of the lion, which, judging from the sounds that reached their ears, was busy crunching the bones of the young porker that had been slain for his special benefit. They didn't know whether to stay where they were or to break into a run. The danger seemed great, but the reward was so tempting that they held their ground. "He may start to run away," weakly suggested Mr. Vincent. "I don't think so, now that he's tasted blood, but if he does," said the leader of the party, "we must foller." "But he can run faster than we----" "There he comes!" In the darkness they saw the faintly-outlined figure of an animal clambering over the fence, with growls and mutterings, and hardly conscious of what they were doing, the three men immediately separated several yards from each other and nervously clutched their ropes, ready to fling them the instant the opportunity presented itself. "There he comes!" called out Mr. Scrapton again; "throw your lassoes!" At the same instant the three coils of rope whizzed through the air as a dark figure was seen moving in a direction which promised to bring him to a point equidistant from all. Mr. Vincent was too enthusiastic in throwing his noose, for it went beyond the animal and settled around the neck of the astonished Mr. Emery, who thought the lion had caught him in his embrace, thrown as he was off his feet and pulled fiercely over the ground by the thrower. Mr. Emery missed his mark altogether, although Mr. Scrapton had to dodge his head to escape the encircling coil. The old gentleman would have lassoed the animal had he not discovered at the very instant the noose left his hand that it was his own mastiff, Towser, that they were seeking to capture instead of a runaway lion. CHAPTER X. A BRAVE ACT. Meanwhile Fred Sheldon had become involved in anything but a pleasant experience. There might be mistakes ludicrous and otherwise in the case of others, but when he saw the animal in the lane before him, as revealed by the rays of the moon, there was no error. It was the identical lion that had escaped from the menagerie the day previous, and the beast must have noted the presence of the terrified lad, who stopped such a short distance from him. Master Fred was so transfixed that he did not stir for a few seconds, and then it seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to turn about and run, and yell with might and main, just as he did some weeks before when he stepped into a yellow-jackets' nest. It is hard to understand how the yelling helps a boy when caught in such a dilemma, but we know from experience that it is easier to screech at the top of one's voice, as you strike at the insects that settle about your head, than it is to concentrate all your powers in the single act of running. Almost unconsciously, Fred began stepping backward, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lion as he did so. If the latter was aware of the stratagem, which is sometimes used with advantage by the African hunter, he did not immediately seek to thwart it, but continued facing him, and occasionally swaying his tail, accompanied by low, thunderous growls. The boys of the school had learned a great deal of natural history within the last day or two, and Fred had read about the king of beasts. He knew that a lion could crouch on his belly, and, with one prodigious bound, pass over the intervening space. The lad was afraid the one before him meant to act according to the instincts of his nature, and he retreated more rapidly, until all at once he whirled about and ran for dear life, directly toward the highway. He did not shout, though, if he had seen any other person, he would have called for help; but, when he reached the road, he cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to feel the horrible claws at the same instant. The lion was invisible. Fred could scarcely believe his eyes; but such was the fact. "I don't understand him," was the conclusion of the boy, who kept moving further away, scarcely daring to believe in his own escape even for a few brief minutes. Fred had been too thoroughly scared to wish to meet the lion again, but he wanted to get back to the house that the Misses Perkinpine could be told of the new danger which threatened them. "I think they'll be more likely to believe me than night before last," said the lad to himself. But nothing could tempt him to venture along the lane again after such an experience. It was easy enough to reach the house by a long detour, but the half belief that the lion was lurking in the vicinity made the effort anything but assuring. However, Fred Sheldon thought it his duty to let his good friends know the new peril to which they were subject, in the event of venturing out of doors. So slow and stealthy was his next approach to the building that nearly an hour passed before he found himself in the small yard surrounding the house; but, when once there, he hastened to the front door and gave such a resounding knock with the old-fashioned brass knocker that it could have been heard a long distance away, on the still summer night. It seemed a good while to Fred before the bolt was withdrawn, and Aunt Annie appeared in her cap and spectacles. "Oh, it's you, Fred, is it?" she exclaimed with pleasure, when she recognized the young man who was so welcome at all times. "You are so late that we had given you up, and were going to retire." "I started early enough, but it seems to me as if every sort of awful thing is after us," replied Fred, as he hastily followed the lady into the dining-room, where the sisters began preparing the meal for which the visitor, like all urchins of his age, was ready at any time. "What's the matter now, Freddy?" asked Aunt Lizzie. "Why, you had a tramp after you night before last, and now you've got a big, roaring lion." "A what?" asked the two in amazement, for they had not heard a syllable of the exciting incident of the day before. "Why, there's a lion that broke out of the menagerie yesterday, and they haven't been able to catch him yet." "Land sakes alive!" gasped Aunt Annie, sinking into a chair and raising her hands, "what is the world coming to?" Aunt Lizzie sat down more deliberately, but her pale face and amazed look showed she was no less agitated. Fred helped himself to some more of the luscious shortcake and golden butter and preserves, and feeling the importance of his position told the story with which our readers are familiar, though it must be confessed the lad exaggerated somewhat, as perhaps was slightly excusable under the circumstances. Still it was not right for him to describe the lion as of the size of an ordinary elephant, unless he referred to the baby elephant, which had never been seen in this country at that time. Nor should he have pictured his run down the lane, with the beast behind him all the way, snapping at his head, while Fred only saved himself by his dexterity in dodging him. There was scarcely any excuse for such hyperbole, though the narrative was implicitly believed by the ladies, who felt they were in greater danger than if a score of burglarious tramps were planning to rob them. "They've offered one hundred dollars to any one who catches the lion without hurting him," added Fred, as well as he could speak with his mouth filled with spongy gingerbread. "A hundred dollars!" exclaimed Aunt Lizzie; "why, he'll kill anybody who goes near him. If I were a man I wouldn't try to capture him for a million dollars." "I'm going to try to catch him," said Fred, in his off-hand fashion, as though it was a small matter, and then, swallowing enough of the sweet food to allow him to speak more plainly, he added: "Lions ain't of much account when you get used to 'em; I'm beginning to feel as though I'm going to make that hundred dollars." But the good ladies could not accept this statement as an earnest one, and they chided their youthful visitor for talking so at random. Fred thought it best not to insist, and finished his meal without any further declarations of what he intended to do. "They've left two persons behind to look after the lion," he said; "one is named Kincade and the other is Bud Heyland, you know him--the son of Michael, your hired man." "Yes; he called here to-day." "He did. What for?" "Oh, nothing in particular; he said he heard we had had our silverware stolen, and he wanted to tell us how sorry he felt and to ask whether we had any suspicion of who took it." "He did, eh?" said Fred, half to himself, with a belief that he understood the real cause of that call. "I think Bud is getting to be a much better boy than he used to be," added Aunt Annie; "he was real sorry for us, and talked real nice. He said he expected to be at home for two or three days, though he didn't tell us what for, and he would drop in to see us." Master Sheldon made no answer to this, but he "had his thoughts," and he kept them to himself. The hour was quite advanced, for the days were long, so that the fastenings of the house were looked to with great care, and Fred went to the same room he had occupied two nights before, the one immediately preceding having been spent at home, as he partly expected the return of his mother. After saying his prayers and extinguishing the light, he walked to the rear window and looked out on the solemn scene. Everything was still, but he had stood thus only for a minute or two, when in the quiet, he detected a peculiar sound, which puzzled him at first; but as he listened, he learned that it came from the smoke-house, a small structure near the wood-house. Like the residence, it was built of old-fashioned Holland brick, and was as strong as a modern prison cell. "Somebody is in there stealing meat," was the conclusion of Fred; "I wonder who it can be." He listened a moment longer, and then heard the same kind of growl he had noticed the day before when standing in front of the lion's cage. Beyond a doubt the king of beasts was helping himself to such food as suited him. In a twinkling Fred Sheldon hurried softly down stairs, cautiously opened the kitchen door, and looked out and listened. Yes, he was in there; he could hear him growling and crunching bones, and evidently enjoying the greatest feast of his life. "Now, if he don't hear me coming, I'll have him sure," Fred said to himself, as he began stealing toward the door through which the lion had passed. CHAPTER XI. A REWARD WELL EARNED. The smoke-house attached to the Perkinpine mansion, as we have already said, was made of bricks, and was a strong, massive structure. Although originally used for a building in which meat was cured, it had been adapted to the purposes of a milk store-house. A stream of water ran through one side and the milk and fresh meats were kept there so long as it was possible during the summer weather. A supply of mutton and lamb had been placed in it the evening before by Michael, the hired man, a portion for the use of the ladies and a portion for himself, when he should come to take it away in the morning. There had never been an ice-house on the property, that luxury having been much less known a half a century ago than it is to-day. The lion, in snuffing around the premises, had scented this store-house of meat, and was feasting himself upon it when detected by Fred Sheldon, who, with very little hesitation, covered the couple of rods necessary to reach it. It is difficult to comprehend the trying nature of such a venture, but the reward was a gigantic one in the eyes of Fred, who was very hopeful also of the chance being favorable for capturing the animal. Having started he did not dare to turn back, but hastened forward on tip-toe, and with a firm hand caught the latch of the door. The instant he did so the latter was closed and fastened. He expected the lion would make a plunge against it, and break out. Having done all he could to secure him, Fred scurried back through the kitchen door, which he nervously closed after him, and then scampered in such haste to his room that he feared he had awakened the two ladies in the other part of the house. Hurrying to the window, the lad looked anxiously out and down upon the smoke-house as it was called. To his delight he saw nothing different in its appearance from what it was when he left it a few moments before. It followed, therefore, that the lion was within, as indeed was proven by the sounds which reached the ears of the listening lad. But was the little structure strong enough to hold him? When he broke through his own cage with such ease, would he find any difficulty in making his way out of this place? These were the questions our hero asked himself, and which he could not answer as he wished. While the walls of the little building were strong and secure, yet the door was an ordinary one of wood, fastened by a common iron latch and catch, supplemented by a padlock whenever Michael Heyland chose to take the trouble; but the door was as secure against the animal within with the simple latch in place as it was with the addition of the lock, for it was not to be expected that he would attempt to force his way out in any manner other than by flinging himself against the door itself whenever he should become tired of his restraint. After a while all became still within the smoke-house, and it must have been that the unconscious captive, having gorged himself, had lain down for a good sleep. Fred Sheldon was all excitement and hope, for he felt that if the creature could be kept well supplied with food, he was likely to remain content with his quarters for a considerable time. Tired and worn out, the boy finally lay down on his bed and slept till morning. The moment his eyes were open, he arose and looked out. The smoke-house showed no signs of disturbance, the door remaining latched as it was the night before. "He's there yet," exclaimed the delighted boy, hurriedly donning his clothes and going down the stairs in three jumps. He was right in his guess, for when he cautiously peeped through the slats of the window he saw the monster stretched out upon the floor in a sound slumber. When Fred told the Misses Perkinpine that the lion was fastened in the smoke-house their alarm passed all bounds. They instantly withdrew to the uppermost room, where they declared they would stay until the neighbors should come and kill the creature. Fred tried to persuade them out of their fears, but it was useless, and gathering what meat he could in the house he shoved it through the small window, and then hurried off toward Tottenville. "The lion has got plenty of food, and there is the little stream of water running through the smoke-house, so he ought to be content to stay there for the day." Jacob Kincade sat on the porch of the Tottenville Hotel, smoking a cigar and talking with a number of the villagers, who were gathered around him. Bud Heyland stayed with his folks up the road, and he had not come down to the village yet. The talk, as a matter of course was about the lion, which was believed to be ranging through the country, and playing havoc with the live stock of the farmers. Among the listeners were several boys, with open mouths and eyes, and when Fred joined them no one paid any attention to him. "As I was saying," observed Mr. Kincade, flinging one of his legs over the other, and flirting the ashes from his cigar, "the lion is one of the most valuable in the country. He has a wonderful history, having killed a number of people before he was captured in Africa. Colonel Bandman has been offered a large price for him, which explains why he is so anxious to secure him unhurt." "What is the reward?" asked one of the bystanders. "It was originally a hundred dollars, but I've just received a letter from Colonel Bandman, in which he instructs me to make the reward two hundred, provided the animal is not injured at all." "What does that offer imply?" asked another of the deeply interested group. "The only feasible plan, in my judgment, is to construct a large cage and to lure the lion into that. I have a couple of carpenters hard at work, but the trouble is the animal has such a good chance now of getting all the meat he wants that it will be difficult to get him inside of anything that looks like a cage." "If he could be got into a place where he could be held secure until you brought up his own cage, that would be all you would ask?" continued the speaker, who evidently was forming some plan of operations in his own mind. "That is all, sir." "_I've got your lion for you!_" This rather weighty assertion was made by Fred Sheldon, from his position in the group. An instant hush fell upon all, who looked wonderingly at the lad, as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. Before any comment was made our hero, somewhat flushed in the face, as he summoned up his courage, added: "I've got the lion fast, and if you will go with me I will show you where he is." Mr. Kincade laughed, as did one or two others. Taking a puff or two of his cigar, the showman added: "Run home, sonny, and don't bother us any more." But in that little party were a number who knew Fred Sheldon to be an honest and truthful boy. They made inquiries of him, and when his straightforward answers had been given they told the showman he could rely on what had been said. Mr. Kincade thereupon instantly made preparations, the group swelling to large proportions, as the news spread that the wild beast had been captured. The cage of the lion, which had been strongly repaired, was driven to the front of the hotel; Jake Kincade mounted, took the lines in hand and started toward the home of the Misses Perkinpine, the villagers following close beside and after him. Just as they turned into the short lane leading to the place, whom should they meet but Bud Heyland in a state of great excitement. He was seen running and cracking his whip over his head, and shouting---- "I've got him! I've got him! I've got the lion!" The wagon and company halted for him to explain. "I've got him up here in the old maids' smoke-house. I put some meat in there last night, for I seen tracks that showed me he had been prowling around, and this morning when me and the old man went over to look there he was! I'll take that reward, Jacob, if you please." And the boy grinned and ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice, while the others turned inquiringly toward Fred Sheldon, whose cheeks burned with indignation. "He tells a falsehood," said Fred. "He never knew a thing about it till this morning." "I didn't, eh?" shouted Bud. "I'll show you!" Thereupon he raised his whip, but Mr. Emery stepped in front and said, calmly: "Bud, it won't be well for you to strike that boy." "Well, I don't want anybody telling me I don't tell the truth, for I'm square in everything I do, and I won't be insulted." Mr. Kincade was on the point of taking the word of Bud Heyland that the reward had been earned by him, when he saw from the disposition of the crowd that it would not permit any such injustice as that. "If you've got the animal secure I'm satisfied," called out the showman from his seat, as he assumed an easy, lolling attitude. "You two chaps and the crowd can settle the question of who's entitled to the reward between you, and I only ask that you don't be too long about it, for the critter may get hungry and eat his way out." Mr. Emery, at the suggestion of several, took charge of the investigation. Turning to Fred he said: "The people here have heard your story, and Bud can now tell his." "Why, I hain't got much to tell," said the big boy, in his swaggering manner. "As I said awhile ago, I seen signs around the place last night which showed the lion was sneaking about the premises. He likes to eat good little boys, and I s'pose he was looking for Freddy there," said young Heyland, with a grinning leer at our hero, which brought a smile to several faces. "So I didn't say anything to the old man but just flung a lot of meat in the smoke-house and went home to sleep. This morning the old man awoke afore I did, which ain't often the case, and going over to his work found the trap had been sprung and the game was there. "The old man (Bud seemed to be proud of calling his father by that disrespectful name) came running home and pitched through the door as white as a ghost, and it was a minute or two before he could tell his story. When he had let it out and the old woman begun to shiver, why I laughed, and told 'em how I'd set the trap and earned the reward. With that the old man cooled down, and I got him back with me to look at the beast, which is still asleep, and then I started to tell you about it, Jake, when I meets this crowd and hears with pain and surprise the awful whopper this good little boy tells. I believe he slept in the house there last night, and when he woke up and went out in the smoke-house to steal a drink of milk and seen the lion, he was so scared that he nearly broke his neck running down to the village to tell about it." This fiction was told so well that several looked at Fred to see what he had to say. The lad, still flushed in the face, stepped forward and said: "I'd like to ask Bud a question or two." As he spoke, Fred addressed Mr. Emery, and then turned toward the grinning bully, who said: "Go ahead with all you're a mind to." "You say you put the meat in there on purpose to catch the lion last night?" "That's just what I done, Freddy, my boy." "Where did you get the meat?" "At home of the old woman." "After you put it in the smoke-house, you didn't go back until this morning?" "No, sir; my little Sunday school lad." "Who, then, shut and fastened the door, after the lion walked in the smoke-house to eat the meat?" Bud Heyland's face flushed still redder, and he coughed, swallowed and stuttered---- "Who shut the door? Why--that is--yes--why what's the use of asking such infarnal questions?" demanded Bud in desperation, as the listeners broke into laughter. Mr. Emery quietly turned to Kincade, who was leaning back on his elevated seat and said: "The reward of two hundred dollars belongs to Master Fred here," and the decision was received with shouts of approbation. Bud Heyland's eyes flashed with indignation, and he muttered to himself; but, in the face of such a number, he dared not protest, and he followed them as they pushed on toward the little structure where the escaped beast was restrained of his liberty. A reconnoissance showed that he was still there, and the arrangements for his transfer were speedily made and carried out with much less difficulty than would have been supposed. The cage was placed in front of the door of the smoke-house, communication being opened, after an inclined plane was so arranged that the beast could not walk out without going directly into his old quarters. Several pounds of raw, bleeding meat were placed in the cage, and then the animal was stirred up with a long pole. He growled several times, got on his feet, looked about as if a little confused, and then seemed to be pleased at the familiar sight of his old home, for he walked deliberately up the inclined plane into the cage, and lay down as if to complete his nap, so rudely broken a few minutes before. The door was quickly closed and fastened, and the escaped lion was recaptured! When all saw how easily it was done, and recalled the fact that the king of beasts, so far as was known, had injured no person at all, there was a great deal of inquiry for the explanation. Why was it that, with such opportunities for destroying human life, he had failed to rend any one to fragments? Jacob Kincade, after some laughter, stated that the lion, although once an animal of tiger-like ferocity and strength, was now so old that he was comparatively harmless. His teeth were poor, as was shown by the little progress he had made with the bony meat in the smoke-house. If driven into a corner he might make a fight, but if he had been loose for a month it was hardly likely he would have killed anybody. The blow which he received in the eye from Bud Heyland's whip incited him to fury for the moment, but by the time he got fairly outside he was comparatively harmless, and the hurried climbing of the center-pole by Bud Heyland was altogether a piece of superfluity. As Fred Sheldon had fairly earned the two hundred dollars, he was told to call at the hotel in Tottenville that afternoon and it would be paid him. It is not necessary to say that he was there punctually, for the sum was a fortune in his eyes. As he came to the porch a number of loungers were there as usual, and Fred found himself quite a hero among his playmates and fellows. Not only was Jake Kincade present, with his cigar alternately between his finger and lips, but Bud Heyland and a stranger were sitting on the bench which ran along the porch, their legs crossed, one smoking his briar-wood and the other a cigar. Despite Fred's agitation over his own prospects, he could not help noticing this stranger whom, he believed, he had never seen before. His dress and appearance were much like those of a cattle drover. He wore a large, gray sombrero, a blue flannel shirt, had no suspenders, coarse corduroy trousers, though the weather was warm, with the legs tucked in the tops of his huge cowhide boots, the front of which reached far above his knees, like those of a cavalryman. He had frowsy, abundant hair, a smoothly-shaven face--that is, the stubby beard was no more than two or three days old--and he seemed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age. Looking at his rather regular features, it would be hard to tell whether he was a good or evil man, but it was very evident that he and Bud Heyland had struck up a strong intimacy, which was growing. They sat close together, chatted and laughed, and indulged in jokes at the expense of those around them, careless alike of the feelings that were hurt or the resentment engendered. As Fred approached he saw Bud turn his head and speak to the stranger, who instantly centered his gaze on the boy, so there could be no doubt that his attention was called to him. Fred was moving rather timidly toward Kincade, when the stranger raised his hand and crooked his finger toward him. Wondering what he could want, Fred Sheldon diverged toward him and took off his hat. "I wouldn't stand bareheaded, Freddy, dear," said Bud, with his old grin; "you might catch cold in your brains." Neither of the others noticed this course remark, and the stranger, scrutinizing the boy with great interest, said: "What is your name, please?" "Frederick Sheldon." "And you are the boy who locked the lion in the smoke-house last night when you heard the poor fellow trying to use his aged teeth on some bones?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you deserve credit; for you thought, like everybody else, that he was as fierce as he was a dozen years ago. Well, all I want to say, Fred, is that I'm Cyrus Sutton, stopping here at the hotel, and I'm somewhat interested in cattle. Bud, here, doesn't feel very well, and he's got leave of absence for two or three days and is going to stay at home. Bud and I are strong friends, and I've formed a rather good opinion of you and I congratulate you on having earned such a respectable pile of money. Mr. Kincade is ready and glad to pay you." Squire Jones, a plain, honest, old man, who had been justice of the peace for fully two score years, went into the inner room with Fred Sheldon and Jacob Kincade to see that everything was in proper shape; for as the boy was a minor his rights needed careful protection. All was done deliberately and carefully, and the entire amount of money, in good, crisp greenbacks, was placed in the trembling hands of Fred Sheldon, who felt just then as though he would buy up the entire village of Tottenville, and present it to his poor friends. "Come over to my office with me," said the squire, when the transaction was finished. The lad willingly walked across the street and into the dingy quarters of the old man, who closed the door and said: "I am real glad, Frederick, that you have earned such a sum of money, for your mother needs it, and I know you to be a truthful and honest boy; but let me ask you what you mean to do with it?" "Save it." "I know, but how and where? It will not be safe in your house nor at the Misses Perkinpines', as the events of the other night prove. It ought to be placed somewhere where it will be safe." "Tell me where to put it." "There is the Lynton Bank ten miles away, but you couldn't drive there before it would be closed. I have a good, strong, burglar-proof safe, in which I have many valuable papers. If you wish it, I will seal the money in a large envelope, write your name on the back and lock it up for you. Then, whenever you want it, I will turn it over to you." Fred replied that he would be glad to have him do as proposed, and the old squire, with solemn deliberation, went through the ceremony of placing the two hundred dollars safely among his other papers and swinging the ponderous safe-door upon them. Fred would have liked to keep the money to look at and admire and show to his playmates, but he saw how much wiser the course of the squire was, and it was a great relief to the boy to have the custody of such riches in other hands. When he came out on the street again he looked across to the hotel and noticed that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton were no longer visible. He supposed they were inside visiting the bar, and without giving them any further thought, Fred started for his home to complete his chores before going over to stay with the Misses Perkinpine. After reaching a certain point up the road a short cut was almost always used by Fred, who followed quite a well-beaten path through a long stretch of woods. The boy was in high spirits, for he could not feel otherwise after the wonderful success which had attended his efforts to capture the astray lion. "If I could only get on the track of the men that stole the silverware and money, why, I would retire wealthy," he said to himself, with a smile; "but I don't see where there is much chance----" "Halloo, there, Freddy dear!" It was Bud Heyland who hailed the startled youngster in this fashion, and when our hero stopped and looked up, he saw the bully standing before him, whip in hand and waiting for him to approach. CHAPTER XII. A BUSINESS TRANSACTION. When Fred Sheldon saw Bud Heyland standing before him in the path, his impulse was to whirl about and run, for he knew too well what to expect from the bully; but the latter, reading his thoughts called out: "Hold on, Freddy, I won't hurt you, though you deserve a good horsewhipping on account of the mean way you cheated me out of the reward for capturing the lion; but I have a little business with you." Wondering what all this could mean Fred stood still while the red-faced young man approached, though our hero wished as fervently that he was somewhere else as he did when he found himself face to face with the lion in the lane. "Jake sent me," added Bud in his most persuasive manner, and with a strong effort to win the confidence of the boy, who was somewhat reassured by the last words. "What does Mr. Kincade want?" asked Fred. "Why, he told me to hurry after you and say that he had made a mistake in paying you that money." "I guess he didn't make any mistake," replied the surprised boy. "Yes, he did; it's twenty dollars short." "No, it isn't, for Squire Jones and I counted it over twice." "That don't make any difference; I tell you there was a mistake and he sent me to correct it." "Why didn't you come over to Squire Jones' office, then, and fix it?" "I didn't know you was there." Fred knew this was untrue, for Bud sat on the porch and watched him as he walked across the street with the squire. "Well, if you are so sure of it, then you can give me the twenty dollars and it will be all right." "I want you to take out the money and count it here before me." "I sha'n't do it." "I guess you will; you've got to." "But I can't." "What's the reason you can't?" "I haven't got the money with me." "You haven't!" exclaimed Bud, in dismay. "Where is it?" "Locked up in Squire Jones' safe." The bully was thunderstruck, and gave expression to some exclamations too forcible to be recorded. It was evident that he was unprepared for such news, and he seemed to be eager to apply his cruel whip to the little fellow toward whom he felt such unreasonable hatred. "I've got a settlement to make with you, any way," he said, advancing threateningly toward him. "What have I done," asked Fred, backing away from him, "that you should take every chance you can get, Bud, to hurt me?" "What have you done?" repeated the bully, "you've done a good deal, as you know well enough." But at this juncture, when poor Fred thought there was no escape for him, Bud Heyland, very curiously, changed his mind. "I'll let you off this time," said he, "but it won't do for you to try any more of your tricks. When I come to think, it was ten dollars that the money was short. Here is a twenty-dollar bill. I want you to get it changed and give me the ten dollars to-morrow." Fred Sheldon was bewildered by this unexpected turn to the interview, but he took the bill mechanically, and promised to do as he was told. "There's another thing I want to say to you," added Bud, stopping as he was on the point of moving away: "You must not answer any questions that may be asked you about the bill." The wondering expression of the lad showed that he failed to take in the full meaning of this warning, and Bud added, impatiently. "Don't tell anybody I gave it to you. Say you found it in the road if they want to know where you got it; that's all. Do you understand?" Fred began to comprehend, and he resolved on the instant that he would not tell a falsehood to save himself from a score of whippings at the hands of this evil boy, who would not have given the caution had he not possessed good reasons for doing so. Bud Heyland repeated the last warning, word for word, as first uttered, and then, striding by the affrighted Fred, continued in the direction of Tottenville, while the younger boy was glad enough to go homeward. The sun had not set yet when he reached the house where he was born, and he hurried through with his work and set out for the old brick dwelling, which had been the scene of so many stirring incidents within the last few days. He was anxious to see his mother, who had been away several days. He felt that she ought to know of his great good fortune, that she might rejoice with him. "If she doesn't get there by to-morrow or next day I'll have to go after her," he said to himself, "for I'll burst if I have to hold this news much longer. And won't she be glad? It's hard work for us to get along on our pension, and I can see she has to deny herself a good many things so that I can go to school. I thought I would be happy when I got the money, and so I am, but it is more on her account than on my own--halloo!" It seemed as if the lane leading to the old brick mansion was destined to play a very important part in the history of the lad, for he had reached the very spot where he met the lion the night before, when a man suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees and stood for a moment, with the setting sun shining full on his back, his figure looking as if it were stamped in ink against the flaming horizon beyond. As Fred stared at him, he held up his right hand and crooked his finger for him to approach, just as he did when sitting on the porch of the village hotel, for it was Cyrus Sutton. The boy was not pleased, by any means, to meet him in such a place, for he had felt suspicious of him ever since he saw him sitting in such familiar converse with Bud Heyland and Jacob Kincade. Nevertheless, our hero walked boldly toward him, and with a faint "Good-evening, sir," waited to hear what he had to say. "Your name is Frederick Sheldon, I believe?" Fred nodded to signify that he was correct in his surmise. "You met Bud Heyland in the woods over yonder, didn't you?" "Yes, sir; how could you know it?" "I saw him going in that direction, and I saw you come out the path; what more natural than that I should conclude you had met? He gave you a twenty-dollar bill to get changed, didn't he?" "He did, sir," was the answer of the amazed boy, who wondered how it was this person could have learned so much, unless he got the news from Bud Heyland himself. "Let me see the money." Fred did not like this peremptory way of being addressed by a person whom he had never seen until that afternoon, but he drew the bill from his pocket. As he did so he brought several other articles with it, among them his new knife, which dropped to the ground. He quickly picked them up, and shoved them hurriedly out of sight. Mr. Sutton did not seem to notice this trifling mishap, but his eyes were bent on the crumpled bill which was handed to him. As soon as he got it in his hands he turned his back toward the setting sun, and placing himself in the line of some of the horizontal rays which found their way between the trees he carefully studied the paper. He stood full a minute without moving, and then merely said, "Ahem!" as though he were clearing his throat. Then he carefully doubled up the piece of national currency, and opening his pocket-book placed it in it. "Are you going to keep that?" asked Fred. "It isn't yours." "He wanted you to get it changed, didn't he?" "Yes, sir; but he didn't want me to give it away." "Of course not, of course not; excuse me, but I only wanted to change the bill for you. Here you are." Thereupon he handed four five-dollar bills to Fred, who accepted them gladly enough, though still wondering at the peculiar actions of the man. "One word," he added. "Bud told you not to answer any questions when you got the bill changed. I haven't asked you any, but he will have some to ask himself, which he will be very anxious you should answer. Take my advice, and don't let him know a single thing." "I won't," said Fred, giving his promise before he thought. "Very well, don't forget it; he will be on the lookout for you to-morrow, and when you see him, hand him his ten dollars and keep the rest for yourself, and then end the interview. Good evening, my son." "Good evening," and Fred was moving on, when Mr. Cyrus Sutton said: "Hold on a minute," at the same time crooking his forefinger in a way peculiar to himself; "I understand you were in the house there the other night, when it was robbed by a tramp." "I was, sir; the whole village knows that." "You were lucky enough to get away while it was going on, though you were deceived by the man whom you met here in the lane." The lad assured him he was correct, as he seemed to be in every supposition which he made. "Do you think you would know either of those men if you met them again?" The question was a startling one, not from the words themselves, but from the peculiar manner in which it was asked. Cyrus Sutton bent forward, thrusting his face almost in that of the boy and dropping his voice to a deep guttural bass as he fixed his eyes on those of Fred. The latter looked up and said: "The voice of the man I met in the lane sounded just like yours. Are you the man?" It surely was a stranger question than that to which the lad had made answer, and Sutton, throwing back his head, laughed as if he would sink to the earth from excess of mirth. "Well, that's the greatest joke of the season. Am I the other tramp that led you on such a wild-goose chase? Well, I should say not." Nevertheless Fred Sheldon felt absolutely sure that this was the man he accused him of being. Mr. Sutton, with a few jesting remarks, bade the boy good-evening, and the latter hastened on to the brick mansion, where he busied himself for a half hour in doing up a few chores that Michael, the hired man, had left for him. When these were finished, he went into the house, with a good appetite for his supper, which was awaiting him. The old ladies were greatly pleased to learn he had been paid such a large sum for capturing the lion, and they did not regret the fright they had suffered, since it resulted in such substantial good for their favorite. "Now, if you could only find our silverware," said Aunt Annie, "what a nice sum you would earn!" "Wouldn't I? I'd just roll in wealth, and I'd make mother so happy she'd feel miserable." "But I'm afraid we shall never see the silver again," observed Miss Lizzie, with a deep sigh. "Wasn't there some money taken, too?" "Yes; several hundred dollars. But we don't mind that, for we can get along without it; but the silverware, you know, has been in the family for more than two centuries." "You haven't owned it all that time, have you?" "My goodness! How old do you suppose we are?" asked the amused old lady. "I never thought, but it would be a good thing to get the money, too, wouldn't it? Has Archie Jackson been here to-day?" "Yes. He says that the officer he sent for doesn't come, and so he's going to be a detective himself." "A detective," repeated Fred to himself. "That's a man, I believe, that goes prying around after thieves and bad people, and is pretty smart in making himself look like other folks." "Yes," said Aunt Lizzie, "he went all over the house again, and climbed out on top of the porch, and was crawling around there, 'looking for signs,' as he called them. I don't know how he made out, but he must have been careless, for he slipped off and came down on his head and shoulders, and when we ran out to help him up, said some awful bad words, and went limping down the lane." "He don't know how to climb," said Fred, as he disposed of his usual supply of gingerbread; "it takes a boy like me to climb, a man is always sure to get in trouble." "Archibald seems to be very unfortunate," said Aunt Annie mildly, and with a meek smile on her face, "for just before he fell off the roof of the porch, he came bumping all the way down-stairs and said the bad man had put oil on them, so as to make him slip to the bottom. I am quite anxious about him, but I hope no bones were broken." "I saw that his hand was swelled up too," said the sister, "and when I inquired about it he said he caught it in the crack of the door, playing with his little boy, though I don't see how that could make such a hurt as his was. But there has been some one else here." "Who was that?" asked Fred, excitedly. "A very nice, gentlemanly person, though he wasn't dressed in very fine clothes. His name was--let me see, circus-circum--no----" "Cyrus Sutton?" "That's it--yes, that's his name." "What was he after?" demanded Fred, indignantly. "He said he was staying in the village a little while, and, having heard about our loss, he came out to make inquiries." "I would like to know what business he had to do that," said the boy, who was sure the old ladies were altogether too credulous and kind to strangers who presented themselves at their doors. "Why, Frederick, it was a great favor for him to show such an interest in our affairs." "Yes; so it was in them other two chaps, I s'pose; this ain't the first time Mr. Cyrus Sutton has been in your house." "What do you mean, Frederick?" "I mean this," answered Fred, wheeling his chair about and slapping his hand several times upon the table, by way of emphasis, "that Mr. Cyrus Sutton, as he calls himself, is the man I met in the lane the other night, and who climbed into the window and helped the other fellow carry off your plate and money; there!" The ladies raised their hands in protesting amazement. "Impossible! You must be mistaken!" "I know it, and I told him so, too!" "You did! Didn't he kill you?" "Not that I know of," laughed Fred. "I don't feel very dead, anyway; but though he had on whiskers the other night as the other one did, I knew his voice." Young Sheldon did not think it best to say anything about the suspicion he had formed against Bud Heyland, for that was coming so near home that it would doubtless cause immediate trouble. Nor did he tell how he was sure, only a short time before, that Jacob Kincade was the partner of Bud in the theft, but that the latter, who handed him the two hundred dollars, was relieved from all suspicion, at least so far as the lad himself was concerned. "Have you told Archibald of this?" asked Aunt Lizzie, when Fred had repeated his declaration several times. "What's the use of telling him? He would start in such a hurry to arrest him that he would tumble over something and break his neck. Then, he'd get the reward, too, and I wouldn't have any of it." "We will see that you have justice," said Miss Lizzie, assuringly; "you deserve it for what you have already done." "I don't want it, and I won't have it until I can earn it, that's certain. I must go to school to-morrow, and I brought over two of my books to study my lessons. I had mother's permission to stay home to go to the circus, but I was out to-day, and I s'pose Mr. McCurtis will give me a good whipping for it to-morrow. Anyway, I'll wear my trousers down, instead of rolling 'em up, till I learn how the land lies." This seemed a prudent conclusion, and as the ladies were anxious that their favorite should keep up with his classes they busied themselves with their household duties while the lad applied himself with might and main to his mental work. At the end of half an hour he had mastered it, and asked the ladies if there was anything he could do for them. "I forgot to tell Michael," said Aunt Annie, "before he went home, that we want some groceries from the store, and I would like him to give the order before coming here in the morning." "I'll take the order to him if you will write it out." Thanking him for his courtesy, the order was prepared, and, tucking it in his pocket, Fred Sheldon started down the road on a trot to the home of Michael Heyland, the hired man. "I wonder whether Bud is there?" he said to himself, as he approached the humble house. "I don't s'pose he'll bother me, but he'll want to know about that money as soon as he sees me." Without any hesitation the lad knocked at the door and was bidden to enter. As he did so he saw that Mrs. Heyland was the only one at home. "Michael has gone to the village," said the lady of the house, in explanation; "but I'm expecting him home in the course of an hour or so, and perhaps you had better wait." "I guess there isn't any need of it. Aunt Annie wants him to take an order to the store to-morrow morning before he comes up to the house, and I can leave it with you." "Is it writ out?" "Yes; here it is," said Fred, laying the piece of folded paper on the stand beside the Bible and a copy of the Tottenville _Weekly Illuminator_. The lad had no particular excuse for staying longer, but he was anxious to ask several questions before going back, and he was in doubt as to how he should go about it. But when he was invited to sit down he did so, and asked, in the most natural manner: "Where is Bud?" "He's down to the village, too." "When will he be home?" "That's a hard question to answer, and I don't think Bud himself could tell you if he tried. You know he's been traveling so long with the circus and has so many friends in the village that they are all glad to see him and won't let him come home. Bud was always a good boy, and I don't wonder that everybody thinks so much of him." Fred Sheldon indulged in a little smile for his own amusement, but he took care that the doting mother did not notice it. "Michael was always hard on Bud, but he sees how great his mistake was, and when he rode by on the big wagon, cracking his whip, he felt as proud of him as I did." "Is Bud going to be home long?" "He got leave of absence for a few days, because the boy isn't feeling very well. They've worked him too hard altogether. You observed how pale-looking he is?" Fred could not say that he had noticed any alarming paleness about the young man, but he did not deny the assertion of the mother. "Does Bud like it with the circus?" "Oh, yes, and they just dote on him. Bud tells me that Colonel Bandman, the owner of the circus and menagerie, has told him that if he keeps on doing so well he's going to take him in as partner next year." "Mrs. Heyland, why do you call him Bud?" "He was such a sweet baby that we nick-named him 'Birdy,' and it has stuck by him since. When he went to school he was called Budman, that being a cunning fancy of the darling boy, but his right name is Nathaniel Higgens, though most people don't know it." Fred Sheldon had got the information he was seeking. CHAPTER XIII. THE EAVESDROPPER. Fred Sheldon had learned one most important fact. Beyond all doubt the letters "N. H. H." stood for the name Nathaniel Higgens Heyland, who for some months past had been attached as an employee to Colonel Bandman's menagerie and circus. By some means, hard to understand, this young man had dropped his pocket-knife, bearing these initials, on the floor of the upper room of the brick mansion, at the time he entered it disguised as an ordinary tramp, and with the sole purpose of robbery. It was proven, therefore, that Bud had committed that great offense against the laws of his country, as well as against those of his Maker, and he was deserving of severe punishment. But young, as bright, honest Fred Sheldon was, he knew that the hardest work of all remained before him. How was the silver plate to be recovered, for the task would be less than half performed should the owners fail to secure that? How could the guilt of Bud Heyland be brought home to him, and who was his partner? Although Fred was sure that the stranger who called himself Cyrus Sutton was the other criminal, yet he saw no way in which that fact could be established, nor could he believe that the proof which he held of Bud's criminality would convince others. Bud was such an evil lad that he would not hesitate to tell any number of falsehoods, and he was so skilled in wrong talking, as well as wrong doing, that he might deceive every one else. Fred Sheldon felt that he needed now the counsel of one person above all others. The one man to whom his thoughts first turned was Archie Jackson, the constable, and he was afraid to trust him, for the temptation of obtaining the large reward offered was likely to lead him to do injustice to the boy. The one person whom he longed to see above all others was his mother--that noble, brave woman whose love and wisdom had guided him so well along his journey of life, short though it had been. It was she who had awakened in him the desire to become a good and learned man, who had cheered him in his studies, who had entertained him with stories culled from history and calculated to arouse an honorable ambition in his heart. The memory of his father was dim and misty, but there was a halo of glory that would ever envelop that sacred name. Fred could just remember the bright spring morning when the patriot, clad in his uniform of a private, had taken his wee baby boy in his arms, tossed him in the air, and, as he came down, kissed him over and over again, and told him that he was the son of a soldier who intended to fight for his country; and commending him to God and his wife, had resigned him to the weeping mother, who was pressed to his heart, and then, catching up his musket he had hurried out the little gate and walked rapidly down the road. Held in the mother's arms, Fred had strained his baby eyes until the loved form of his father faded out in the distance, and then the heavy-hearted wife took up the burden of life once more. But, though she shaded her weary eyes and looked down the road many a time, the husband never came back again. Somewhere, many long miles away, he found his last resting place, there to sleep until the last trump shall wake the dead, and those who have been separated in this life shall be reunited, never to part again. Fred's memories of those sad days, we say, were dim and shadowy, but he saw how bravely his mother fought her own battle, more sorrowful than that in which the noble husband went down, and Fred, young though he was, had been all that the fondest mother could wish. "Let him be spared to me, oh, Heavenly Father," she plead, and henceforth she lived only for him. It was she who taught him to kneel at her knee and to murmur his prayers morning and evening; who told him of the Gracious Father who will reward every good deed and punish every evil one not repented of; it was she who taught him to be manly and truthful and honest and brave for the right, and whose counsel and guidance were more precious than those of any earthly friend ever could be. Fred had no secret from her, and now that so much had taken place in the last few days he felt that he could not stand it much longer without her to counsel and direct him. "I sha'n't tell anybody a word of what I've found out," he said to himself, as he walked thoughtfully along the road, in the direction of the old brick mansion, where he expected to spend the night; "the Misses Perkinpine are such simple souls that they can't help a big boy like me, and though they might give me something, I don't want it unless I earn it. I'll bet mother can give me a lift." And holding this very high and not exaggerated opinion of his parent's wisdom, he continued onward, fervently hoping that she would return on the morrow. "We've never been apart so long since I can remember," he added, "and I'm beginning to feel homesick." The night was clear and starlight, the moon had not yet risen, but he could see very distinctly for a short distance in the highway. He was thinking of nothing in the way of further incident to him, but, as it sometimes happens in this world, the current of one's life, after flowing smoothly and calmly for a long time, suddenly comes upon shoals and breakers and everything is stormy for a while. Fred, in accordance with his favorite custom, had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and was barefooted. In the dust of the road he walked without noise, and as the night was very still he could hear the least sound. Though involved in deep thought he was of such a wide-awake nature that he could never be insensible to what was going on around him. He heard again the soft murmur of the wind in the forest, the faint, distant moan of the river, the cock crowing fully a mile away, answered by a similar signal of a chanticleer still further off, and then all at once he distinctly caught the subdued sound of voices. He at once stopped in the road and looked and listened. He could see nothing, but his keen ears told him the faint noise came from a point directly ahead, and was either in or at the side of the road. His intimate knowledge of the highway, even to the rocks and fences and piles of rails, that here and there lined it, enabled him to recall that there was a broad, flat rock, perhaps a hundred rods ahead, on the right side of the path, and that it was the one on which many a tired traveler sat down to rest. No doubt the persons whose voices reached him were sitting there, holding some sort of conference, and Fred asked himself how he should pass them without discovery, for, like almost every one, he was timid of meeting strangers on a lonely road after dark. His recourse suggested itself the next minute--he had only to climb the fence and move around them. At this point there was a meadow on each side of the highway, without any trees near the road, so that great care was needed to avoid observation, but in the starlight night Fred had little doubt of being able to get by without detection. Very carefully he climbed the fence, and, dropping gently upon the grass on the other side, he walked off across the field, peering through the gloom in the direction of the rock by the roadside, whence came the murmur of voices. The boy was so far away that, as yet, he had not caught a glimpse of the others, but when he stopped at the point where he thought it safe to begin to approach the road again, one of the parties gave utterance to an exclamation in a louder voice than usual. Fred instantly recognized it as that of Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover, who had formed such a strong friendship for Bud Heyland. "I'll bet that Bud is there, too," muttered Fred, moving stealthily in the direction of the rock; "they are always--halloo!" In imitation of the loud voice of Sutton, the other did the same, and in the still night there could be no mistaking it; the only son of Michael Heyland was sitting at the roadside, in conversation with Cyrus Sutton. It was natural that Young Sheldon should conclude they were discussing the subject of the robbery, and he was at once seized with the desire to learn what it was they were saying, for, more than likely, it would throw some light on the matter. Fred had been taught by his mother that it was mean to tell tales of, or to play the eavesdropper upon, another, but in this case he felt warranted in breaking the rule for the sake of the good that it might do. Accordingly, he crept through the grass toward the highway until he caught the outlines of the two figures between the fence rails and thrown against the sky beyond. At the same time the rank odor of tobacco came stealing through the summer air, as it floated from the strong briar-wood pipe of Bud Heyland. It was not to be supposed that two persons, engaged in an unlawful business, would sit down beside a public highway and hold a conversation in such a loud voice that any one in the neighborhood would be able to learn all their secrets. Fred Sheldon got quite close, but though the murmur was continued with more distinctness than before, he could not distinguish many words nor keep the run of the conversation. There may have been something in the fact that the faces of the two, as a rule, were turned away from the listener, but now and then in speaking one of them would look at the other and raise his voice slightly. This indicated that he was more in earnest just then, and Fred caught a word or two without difficulty, the fragments, as they reached him, making a queer jumble. Bud Heyland's voice was first identified in the jumble and murmur. "Big thing--clean two thousand--got it down fine, Sutton." The reply of the companion was not audible, but Bud continued staring at him and smoking so furiously that the boy, crouching behind them, plainly saw the vapor as it curled upward and tainted the clear summer air above their heads. In a moment, however, Fred caught the profile of Cyrus Sutton against the starlight background, while that of young Heyland and his briar-wood looked as if drawn in ink against the sky. Both were looking at each other, and the words reached him more distinctly. "Must be careful--dangerous business--been there myself, Bud, don't be in a hurry." This, of course, was spoken by the cattle drover, and it was plain that it must refer to the robbery. Bud was laboring under some impatience and was quick to make answer. "Can't play this sick bus'ness much longer--must join the circus at Belgrade in a few days--must make a move pretty soon." "Won't keep you waiting long--but the best jobs in--country--spoiled by haste. Take it easy till you can be sure how the land lies." "That may all be--but----" Just then Bud Heyland turned his head so that only the back portion was toward the listener, and his voice dropped so low that it was some time before another word could be distinguished. Fred Sheldon was deeply interested, for a new and strong suspicion was beginning to take possession of him. It seemed to him on the sudden that the two worthies were not discussing the past so much as they were the future. That is, instead of talking about the despoiling of the Perkinpine mansion, a few nights before, they were laying plans for the commission of some new offense. "That Sutton is a regular burglar," thought Fred, "and he has come down here to join Bud, and they're going to rob all the houses in the neighborhood. I wonder whom they're thinking about now." The anxiety of the eavesdropper to hear more of what passed between the conspirators was so great that he grew less guarded in his movements than he should have been. His situation was such already that had the suspicion of the two been directed behind them they would have been almost sure to discover the listener; but, although they should have been careful themselves, it was hardly to be expected that they would be looking for spies in such a place and at such a time. Fred caught several words, which roused his curiosity to such a point that he determined to hear more, though the risk should be ten times as great. As silently, therefore, as possible, he crept forward until he was within a dozen feet of the rock on which Heyland and Sutton sat. The fact that the two had their faces turned away from him, still interfered with the audibility of the words spoken in a lower tone than the others, but the listener heard enough to fill him not only with greater anxiety than ever, but with a new fear altogether. Without giving all the fragments his ear caught, he picked up enough to convince him that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton were discussing their past deeds and laying plans for the commission of some new act of evil. It was the latter fact which so excited the boy that he almost forgot the duty of using care against being discovered, and gradually crept up near enough to keep the run of the conversation. But, when he had secured such a position, he was annoyed beyond bearing by the silence, occasionally broken, of the two. It looked, indeed, as if they had got through the preliminaries of some evil scheme, and were now speaking in a desultory way of anything which came in their heads, while one smoked his pipe and the other his cigar. Cyrus Sutton held a jack-knife in his hand, which he now and then rubbed against a portion of the rock, as if to sharpen the blade, while he puffed the smoke first on the one side of his head and then on the other. Bud was equally attentive to his pipe, the strong odor of which at times almost sickened young Sheldon. Bud had not his whip with him, and he swung his legs and knocked his heels against the rock and seemed as well satisfied with himself as such worthless fellows generally are. "It's a pretty big thing and it will take a good deal of care and skill to work it through." This remark was made by Sutton, after a minute's pause on the part of both, and was instantly commented upon by Bud in his off-hand style. "Of course it does, but don't you s'pose we know all that? Haven't we done it in more than one other place than Tottenville?" "Yes," said Sutton, "and I've run as close to the wind as I want to, and closer than I mean to again, if I can help it." "Well, then," said Bud, "we'll fix it to-morrow night." "All right," said the drover, "but remember you can't be too careful, Bud, for this is a dangerous business." "I reckon I'm as careful as you or any one else," retorted the youth, "and ain't in any need of advice." These words disclosed one important fact to Fred Sheldon; they showed that the unlawful deed contemplated was fixed for the succeeding night. "They're going to break into another house," he mentally said, "and to-morrow is the time. Now, if I can only learn whose house it is, I will tell Archie Jackson." This caused his heart to beat faster, and again the lad thought of nothing else than to listen and catch the words of the conspirators. "Do you think we can manage it alone?" asked Sutton, turning his head so that the words were unmistakably distinct. "What's to hinder? Halloo! what's that?" Bud Heyland straightened himself and looked up and down the road. The affrighted Fred Sheldon saw his head and shoulders rise to view as he glanced about him, while his companion seemed occupied also in looking and listening. What was it they had heard? The lad was not aware that he had made the slightest noise, but the next guarded remark of Heyland startled him. "I heard something move, as if in the grass." "It would be a pretty thing if some one overheard our plans," said Cyrus Sutton, turning squarely about, so that his face was toward the crouching lad; "we ought to have looked out for that. Where did it seem to come from?" "Maybe I was mistaken; it was very faint, and I couldn't think of the right course; it may have been across the road or behind us." Fred Sheldon began to think it was time for him to withdraw, for his situation was becoming a dangerous one, indeed. "I guess you were mistaken," said Sutton, off-hand; "this is a slow neighborhood and the people don't know enough to play such a game as that." "You was saying a minute ago that you couldn't be too careful; I'll take a look across the road and up and down, while you can see how things are over the fence there." The last clause referred to the hiding place of Fred Sheldon, who wondered how it was he had not already been seen, when he could distinguish both forms so plainly, now that they stood up on their feet. It looked as if detection was certain, even without the two men shifting their positions in the least. The lad was lying flat on the ground and so motionless that he might have hoped to escape if special attention were not called to him. But he felt that if the cattle-drover came over the fence it would be useless to wait a second. As Bud Heyland spoke he started across the highway, while Cyrus Sutton called out: "All right!" As he did so he placed his hand on the top rail of the fence and with one bound leaped over, dropping upon his feet within a few steps of poor Fred Sheldon, who, with every reason for believing he had been seen, sprang to his feet and ran for dear life. CHAPTER XIV. FRED'S BEST FRIEND. Fred Sheldon sprang up from his hiding-place in the grass, almost before the drover vaulted over the fence, and ran across the meadow in the manner he did when he believed the wandering lion was at his heels. Cyrus Sutton seemed to be confused for the minute, as though he had scared up some strange sort of animal, and he stared until the dark figure began to grow dim in the distance. Even then he might not have said or done anything had not Bud Heyland heard the noise and come clambering over the fence after him. "Why don't you shoot him?" demanded Bud; "he's a spy that has been listening! Let's capture him! Come on! It will never do for him to get away! If we can't overhaul him, we can shoot him on the fly!" The impetuous Bud struck across the lot much the same as a frightened ox would have done when galloping. He was in dead earnest, for he and Sutton had been discussing some important schemes, which it would not do for outsiders to learn anything about. He held his pistol in hand, and was resolved that the spy should not escape him. The skurrying figure was dimly visible in the moonlight, but in his haste and excitement Bud probably did not observe that the object of the chase was of very short stature. Sutton kept close beside Bud, occasionally falling a little behind, as though it was hard work. "He's running as fast as we," said Sutton; "you had better hail him." Bud Heyland did so on the instant. "Hold on there! Stop! Surrender and you will be spared! If you don't stop I'll shoot!" Master Frederick Sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself. The terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions. "I give you warning," called out Bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that I'll shoot, and when I take aim I'm always sure to hit something." "That's what makes me so afraid," said Sutton, dropping a little behind, "for I think I'm in more danger than the one ahead." Bud Heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. A person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more. Bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait. "That bullet grazed him," said Bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how I'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when I pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air." To make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger. But there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when Sutton said with a laugh: "I don't see him jump and yell, Bud," the marksman, retorted: "You'd better shoot yourself, then." "No; I was afraid you would shoot me instead of him. I think you came nearer me than you did him. Hark! Did you hear the man laugh then. He don't mind us so long as we keep shooting at him." "Did he laugh?" demanded Bud, savagely. "If he laughed at me he shall die!" Hurriedly replacing his useless pistol in his pocket he resumed his pursuit with fierce energy, for he was resolved on overhauling the man who had dared to listen to what had been said. Had Bud been alone he would have left the pursuit to some one else, but with the muscular Cyrus Sutton at his back he was running over with courage and vengeance. Although the halt had been a brief one, yet it could not fail to prove of advantage to the fugitive, who was speeding with might and main across the meadow, and had begun to work off to the left, because he was anxious to reach the shelter of some woods, where he was hopeful of dodging his pursuers. It would seem that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton could easily outspeed such a small boy as Fred Sheldon, but they were so bulky that it was much harder work for them to run, and they could not last so long. Hitherto they had lumbered along pretty heavily, but now they settled down to work with all the vigor they possessed, realizing that it was useless to expect to capture the fugitive in any other way. Meanwhile Fred Sheldon was doing his "level best;" active and quick in his movements he could run rapidly for one of his years, and could keep it up much longer than those behind him, though for a short distance their speed was the greater. Dreading, as he did, to fall into the hands of Bud Heyland and his lawless companion, he put forth all the power at his command, and glancing over his shoulder now and then he kept up his flight with an energy that taxed his strength and endurance to the utmost. When he found that they were not gaining on him he was encouraged, but greatly frightened by the pistol-shots. He was sure that one of the bullets went through his hat and the other grazed his ear, but so long as they didn't disable him he meant to keep going. He was nearly across the meadow when he recalled that he was speeding directly toward a worm-fence which separated it from the adjoining field. It would take a few precious seconds to surmount that, and he turned diagonally toward the left, as has been stated, because by taking such a course, he could reach the edge of a small stretch of woods, in whose shadows he hoped to secure shelter from his would-be captors. This change in the line of flight could not fail to operate to the disadvantage of the fugitive, for a time at least, for, being understood by Bud and Cyrus, they swerved still more, and sped along with increased speed, so that they rapidly recovered the ground lost a short time before. They were aiming to cut off Fred, who saw his danger at once, and changed his course to what might be called "straight away" again, throwing his pursuers directly behind him. This checked the scheme for the time, but it deprived Fred of his great hope of going over the fence directly into the darkness of the woods. As it was, he was now speeding toward the high worm-fence which separated the field he was in from the one adjoining. Already he could see the long, crooked line of rails, as they stretched out to the right and left in front of him, disappearing in the gloom and looking like mingling lines of India ink against the sky beyond. Even in such stirring moments odd thoughts come to us, and Fred, while on the dead run, compared in his mind the fence rails to the crooked and erratic lines he had drawn with his pen on a sheet of white paper. Although he could leap higher in the air and further on the level than any lad of his age, he knew better than to try and vault such a fence. As he approached it, therefore, he slackened his gait slightly, and springing upward with one foot on the middle rail, he placed the other instantly after on the topmost one and went over like a greyhound, with scarcely any hesitation, continuing his flight, and once more swerving to the left toward the woods on which he now fixed his hopes. Possibly Bud Heyland thought that the fact of his being attached to Colonel Bandman's great menagerie and circus called upon him to perform greater athletic feats; for instead of imitating the more prudent course of the fugitive, he made a tremendous effort to clear the fence with one bound. He would have succeeded but for the top three rails. As it was his rather large feet struck them, and he went over with a crash, his hat flying off and his head ploughing quite a furrow in the ground. [Illustration: Bud Heyland fell headlong over the fence in pursuit of Fred. --(See page 151.)] He rolled over several times, and as he picked himself up it seemed as if most of his bones were broken and he never had been so jarred in all his life. "Did you fall?" asked Cyrus Sutton, unable to suppress his laughter, as he climbed hastily after him. "I tripped a little," was the angry reply, "and I don't see anything to laugh at; come on! we'll have him yet!" To the astonishment of the cattle dealer, Bud caught up his hat and resumed the pursuit with only a moment's delay, and limping only slightly from his severe shaking up. Fred Sheldon was dimly visible making for the woods, and the two followed, Sutton just a little behind his friend. "You might as well give it up," said the elder; "he's got too much of a start and is making for cover." "I'm bound to have him before he can reach it, and I'll pay him for all this." No more than one hundred feet separated the parties, when Fred, beginning to feel the effects of his severe exertion, darted in among the shadows of the wood, and, hardly knowing what was the best to do, threw himself flat on the ground, behind the trunk of a large tree, where he lay panting and afraid the loud throbbing of his heart would betray him to his pursuers, who were so close behind him. Had he been given a single minute more he would have made a sharp turn in his course, and thus could have thrown them off the track without difficulty; but, as it was--we shall see. Bud Heyland rushed by within a few feet, and halted a couple of yards beyond, while Sutton stopped within a third of that distance, where Fred lay flat on the ground. "Do you hear him?" asked Bud. "Hear him? No; he's given us the slip, and it's all time thrown away to hunt further for him." Bud uttered an angry exclamation and stood a few minutes listening for some sound that would tell where the eavesdropper was. But nothing was heard, and Sutton moved forward, passing so close to Fred that the latter could have reached out his hand and touched him. "How could he help seeing me?" the boy asked himself, as the man joined Bud Heyland, and the two turned off and moved in the direction of the highway. Some distance away Bud Heyland and Sutton stopped and talked together in such low tones that Fred Sheldon could only hear the murmur of their voices, as he did when he first learned of their presence beside the road. But it is, perhaps, needless to say that he was content to let them hold their conference in peace, without any effort on his part to overhear any more of it. He was only too glad to let them alone, and to indulge a hope that they would be equally considerate toward him. Bud would have continued the search much longer and with a strong probability of success had not Sutton persuaded him that it was only a waste of time to do so. Accordingly they resumed their walk, with many expressions of impatience over their failure to capture the individual who dared to discover their secrets in such an underhanded way. "He looked to me like a very small man," said Bud, as he walked slowly along, dusting the dirt from his clothing and rubbing the many bruised portions of his body. "Of course he was," replied Sutton, "or he wouldn't have gone into that kind of business." "I don't mean that; he seemed like a short man." "Yes, so he was, but there are plenty of full-grown men in this world who are no taller than he." "It's too bad, I broke my pipe all to pieces when I fell over the fence, and jammed the stem half way down my throat." "I thought you had broken your neck," said Sutton, "and you ought to be thankful that you did not." Bud muttered an ill-natured reply, and the two soon after debouched into the highway, along which they continued until the house of the younger was reached, where they stopped a minute or so for a few more words, when they separated for the night. Fred Sheldon waited until they were far beyond sight and hearing, when he cautiously rose to his feet and stood for a short time to make sure he could leave the spot without detection. "I guess I've had enough for one night," he said with a sigh, as he turned off across the meadow until he reached the border of the lane, along which he walked until he knocked at the door of the Misses Perkinpine, where he was admitted with the same cordiality that was always shown him. They seemed to think he had stayed at the hired man's house for a chat with Bud, and made no inquiries, while the boy himself did not deem it best to tell what had befallen him. His recent experience had been so severe upon him that he felt hungry enough to eat another supper, and he would not have required a second invitation to do so, but, as the first was not given, he concluded to deny himself for the once. Fred expected to lie awake a long time after going to bed, trying to solve the meaning of the few significant words he had overheard, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and did not wake until called by Aunt Lizzie. This was Friday, the last school-day of the week, and he made sure of being on hand in time. As he had been absent by the permission of his mother, made known through a note sent before she went to see her brother, Mr. McCurtis could not take him to task for his failure to attend school, but a number of lads who had been tempted away by the circus and the excitement over the escaped lion were punished severely. However, they absented themselves with a full knowledge of what would follow, and took the bitter dregs with the sweet, content to have the pain if they might first have the pleasure. "I have excused several of you," said the teacher, peering very keenly through his glasses at Fred, "for absence, but I have not been asked to excuse any failure in lessons, and I do not intend to do so. Those who have been loitering and wasting their time will soon make it appear when called on to recite, and they must be prepared for the consequences." This remark was intended especially for Fred, who was thankful that he found out what the lessons of the day were, for he had prepared himself perfectly. And it was well he did so, for the teacher seemed determined to puzzle him. Fred was asked every sort of question the lesson could suggest. It had always been said by Mrs. Sheldon that Fred never knew a lesson so long as he failed to see clear through it, and could answer any question germane to it. He felt the wisdom of such instruction on this occasion, when the teacher at the end of the examination allowed him to take his seat and remarked, half angrily: "There's a boy who knows his lessons, which is more than I can say of a good many of you. I think it will be a good thing for him to go out and hunt a few more lions." This was intended as a witticism on the part of the teacher, and, like the urchins of Goldsmith's "Deserted Village," they all laughed with "counterfeit glee," some of the boys roaring as if they would fall off the benches from the excess of their mirth. Mr. McCurtis smiled grimly, and felt it was another proof that when he became a school teacher the world lost one of its greatest comedians and wits. At recess and noon Fred was quite a hero among the scholars. They gathered about him and he had to tell the story over and over again, as well as the dreadful feelings that must have been his when he woke up in the night and found that a real, live burglar was in his room. Like most boys of his age, Fred unconsciously exaggerated in telling the narratives so often, but he certainly deserved credit, not only for his genuine bravery, but for the self-restraint that enabled him to keep back some other things he might have related which would have raised him still more in the admiration of his young friends. "I'm going to tell them to mother first of all," was his conclusion, "and I will take her advice as to what I should do." He brought the lunch the Misses Perkinpine had put up for him, and stayed in the neighborhood of the school-house all noon, with a number of others, who lived some distance away. As the weather was quite warm, the boys sat under a tree, talking over the stirring incidents of the preceding few days. Fred was answering a question for the twentieth time, when he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of Bud Heyland, with his trousers tucked in his boots, his briar-wood pipe--that is, a new one--in his mouth, and his blacksnake-whip in hand. As he walked along he looked at the school-house very narrowly, almost coming to a full stop, and acting as though he was searching for some one. He did not observe that half a dozen boys were stretched out in the shadow of the big tree across the road. "Keep still!" said Fred, in a whisper, "and maybe he won't see us." But young Heyland was not to be misled so easily. Observing that the school was dismissed, he looked all around him, and quickly espied the little fellows lolling in the shade, when he immediately walked over toward them. Fred Sheldon's heart was in his mouth on the instant, for he was sure Bud was looking for him. "He must have known me last night," he thought, "and as he couldn't catch me then he has come to pay me off now." But it would have been a confession of guilt to start and run, and Bud would be certain to overtake him before he could go far, so the boy did not stir from the ground on which he was reclining. "Halloo, Bud," called out several, as he approached. "How are you getting along?" "None of your business," was the characteristic answer; "is Fred Sheldon there?" "I'm here," said Fred, rising to the sitting position. "What do you want of me?" Bud Heyland acted curiously. He looked sharply at the boy, and then said: "I don't want anything of you just now, but I'll see you later," and without anything further he moved on, leaving our hero wondering why he had not asked for the ten dollars due him. Fred expected he would return, and was greatly relieved when the teacher appeared and school was called. Fearful that the bully would wait for him on the road, Fred went to the old brick mansion first, where he stayed till dark, when he decided to run over to his own home, look after matters there, and then return by a new route to the old ladies who were so kind to him. He kept a sharp lookout on the road, but saw nothing of either Bud or Cyrus Sutton. "It seems to me," said Fred to himself, as he approached the old familiar spot, "that I ought to hear something from mother by this time. There isn't any school to-morrow, and I'll walk over to Uncle Will's and find out when she's coming home, and then I'll tell her all I've got to tell, which is so much, with what I want to ask, that it'll take me a week to get through--halloo! What does that mean?" He stopped short in the road, for through the closed blinds of the lower story he caught the twinkling rays of a light that some one had started within. "I wonder whether it is our house they're going to rob to-night," exclaimed Fred, adding the next moment, with a grim humor: "If it is, they will be more disappointed than they ever were in their lives." A minute's thought satisfied him that no one with a view to robbery was there, for the good reason that there was nothing to steal, as anyone would be quick to learn. "It must be some tramp prowling around in the hope of getting something to eat. Anyway, I will soon find out----" Just then the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open by some person, who leaned part way out the window in full view. One glance was enough for Fred Sheldon to recognize that face and form, the dearest on earth, as seen in the starlight, with the yellow rays of the lamp behind them. "Halloo, mother! Ain't I glad to see you? How are you? Bless your dear soul! What made you stay away so long?" "Fred, my own boy!" And leaning out the window she threw both arms about the neck of the lad, who in turn threw his about her, just as the two always did when they met after a brief separation. The fact of it was, Fred Sheldon was in love with his mother and always had been, and that sort of boy is sure to make his mark in this world. A few minutes later the happy boy had entered the house and was sitting at the tea table, eating very little and talking very much. The mother told him that his uncle had been dangerously ill, but had begun to mend that day, and was now believed to have passed the crisis of his fever, and would soon get well. She therefore expected to stay with her boy all the time. And then the delighted little fellow began his story, or rather series of stories, while the kind eyes of the handsome and proud parent were fixed on the boy with an interest which could not have been stronger. Her face paled when, in his own graphic way, he pictured his lonely watch in the old brick mansion, and the dreadful discovery that the wicked tramp had entered the building stealthily behind him. She shuddered to think that her loved one had been so imperiled, and was thankful indeed that Providence had protected him. Then the story of the lion, of its unexpected breaking out from the cage, the panic of the audience, his encounter with it in the lane, its entry into the smoke-house, his shutting the door, and finally how he earned and received the reward. All this was told with a childish simplicity and truthfulness which would have thrilled any one who had a less personal interest than the boy's mother. As I have said, there were no secrets that the son kept from his parent. He told how he saw that the tramp wore false whiskers and how he dropped a knife on the floor, which he got and showed to his mother, explaining to her at the same time that the letters were the initials of the young man known through the neighborhood as "Bud" Heyland. "That may all be," said she, smilingly, "and yet Bud may be as innocent as you or I." "How is that?" asked Fred, wonderingly. "He may have traded or lost the knife, or some one may have stolen it and left it there on purpose to turn suspicion toward Bud. Such things have been done many a time, and it is odd that anyone could drop a knife in such a place without knowing it." Fred opened his eyes. "Then Bud is innocent, you think?" "No, I believe he is guilty, for you say you were pretty sure of his voice, but it won't do to be too certain. As to the other man, who misled you when you met him in the lane, it is a hard thing to say who he is." "Why, mother, I'm surer of him than I am of Bud, and I'm dead sure of him, you know." "What are your reasons?" Fred gave them as they are already known to the reader. The wise little woman listened attentively, and said when he had finished: "I don't wonder that you think as you do, but you once was as sure, as I understand, of Mr. Kincade, the one who paid you the reward." "That is so," assented Fred, "but I hadn't had so much time to think over the whole matter." "Very probably you are right, for they are intimate, and they are staying in the neighborhood for no good. Tell me just what you heard them say last night, when they sat on the rock by the roadside. Be careful not to put in any words of your own, but give only precisely what you know were spoken by the two." The boy did as requested, the mother now and then asking a question and keeping him down close to the task of telling only the plain, simple truth, concerning which there was so much of interest to both. When he was through she said the words of the two showed that some wicked scheme was in contemplation, though nothing had been heard to indicate its precise nature. The matter having been fully told the question remained--and it was the great one which underlay all others--what could Fred do to earn the large reward offered by the two ladies who had lost their property? "Remember," said his mother, thoughtfully, "you are only a small boy fourteen years old, and it is not reasonable to think you can out-general two bad persons who have learned to be cunning in all they do." "Nor was it reasonable to think I would out-general a big lion," said Fred, with a laugh, as he leaned on his mother's lap and looked up in her eyes. "No; but that lion was old and harmless; he might have spent the remainder of his days in this neighborhood without any one being in danger." "But we didn't know that." "But you know that Bud Heyland and this Mr. Sutton are much older than you and are experienced in evil doing." "So was the lion," ventured Fred, slyly, quite hopeful of earning the prize on which he had set his heart. "I have been thinking that maybe I ought to tell Mr. Jackson, the constable, about the knife, with Bud's name on it." "No," said the mother. "It isn't best to tell him anything, for he has little discretion. He boasts too much about what he is going to do; the wise and skilful man never does that." Mrs. Sheldon had "gauged" the fussy little constable accurately when she thus described him. "Fred," suddenly said his mother, "do not the Misses Perkinpine expect you to stay at their house to-night?" "Yes, I told them I would be back, and they will be greatly surprised, for I didn't say anything about your coming home, because I thought Uncle Will was so sick you wouldn't be able to leave him." "Then you had better run over and explain why it is you cannot stay with them to-night." The affectionate boy disliked to leave his mother when they were holding such a pleasant conversation, but he could please her only by doing so, and donning his broad-brimmed straw hat, and bidding her good-night, passed out the door, promising soon to return. Fred was so anxious to spend the evening at home that he broke into a trot the instant he passed out the gate, and kept it up along the highway until he reached the short lane, which was so familiar to him. The same eagerness to return caused him to forget one fact that had hitherto impressed him, which was that the conspiracy of Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton was intended to be carried out this same evening. The boy had gone almost the length of the lane when he was surprised to observe a point of light moving about in the shadow of the trees, the night being darker than the previous one. "What under the sun can that be?" he asked, stopping short and scrutinizing it with an interest that may be imagined. Viewed from where he stood, it looked like a jack-o'-lantern, or a candle which some one held in his hand while moving about. It had that swaying, up-and-down motion, such as a person makes when walking rapidly, while now and then it shot up a little higher, as though the bearer had raised it over his head to get a better view of his surroundings. "Well, that beats everything I ever heard of," muttered Fred, resuming his walk toward the house; "it must be some kind of a lantern, and maybe it's one of them dark ones which robbers use, and they are taking a look at the outside to see which is the best way of getting inside, though I don't think there is anything left for them." The distance to the house was so short that Fred soon reached the yard. On his way thither the strange light vanished several times, only to reappear again, its occasional eclipse, no doubt, being due to the intervening vegetation. When the boy came closer he saw that the lantern was held in the hand of Aunt Lizzie, who was walking slowly around the yard, with her sister by her side, while they peered here and there with great deliberation and care. "Why, Aunt Lizzie!" called out Fred, as he came up, "what are you looking for?" The good ladies turned toward him with a faint gasp of fright, and then gave utterance to an expression of thankfulness. "Why, Frederick, we are looking for you," was the reply, and then, complimenting his truthfulness, she added, "you promised to come back, and we knew you wouldn't tell a story, and sister and I thought maybe you were hungry and sick somewhere around the yard, and if so we were going to get you into the house and give you some supper." "Why, aunties, I've had supper," laughed Fred, amused beyond measure at the simplicity of the good ladies. "We didn't suppose that made any difference," was the kind remark of the good ladies, who showed by the observation that they had a pretty accurate knowledge after all of this particular specimen of boyhood. CHAPTER XV. THE MEETING IN THE WOOD. Fred Sheldon told his good friends that inasmuch as his mother had returned, he would stay at home hereafter, though he promised to drop in upon them quite often and "take dinner or supper." The lantern was blown out and the sisters went inside, where, for the present, we must bid them good-night, and the lad started homeward. He had not quite reached the main highway, when, in the stillness of the night, he caught the rattle of carriage or wagon wheels. There was nothing unusual in this, for it was the place and time to look for vehicles, many of which went along the road at all hours of the day and night. But so many strange things had happened to Fred during the week now drawing to a close that he stopped on reaching the outlet of the lane, and, standing close to the shaded trunk of a large tree, waited until the wagon should go by. As it came nearer he saw that it was what is known in some parts of the country as a "spring-wagon," being light running, with a straight body and without any cover, so that the driver, sitting on the front seat, was the most conspicuous object about it. As it came directly opposite Fred could see that the driver wore a large sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a pipe. At the same moment, too, he gave a peculiar sound, caused by an old habit of clearing his throat, which identified him at once as Bud Heyland. "That's odd," thought Fred, stepping out from his place of concealment and following after him; "when Bud goes out at night with a strange wagon or alone, or with Cyrus Sutton, there's something wrong on foot." Not knowing what was best for him to do, Fred walked behind the wagon a short distance, for the horse was going so slow that this was an easy matter. But all at once Bud struck the animal a sharp blow, which sent him spinning forward at such a rate that he speedily vanished in the darkness. Young Sheldon continued walking toward home, his thoughts busy until he reached the stretch of woods, where the courage of any boy would have been tried in passing it after nightfall. Brave as he undoubtedly was, Fred felt a little shiver, when fairly among the dense shadows, for there were some dismal legends connected with it, and these had grown with the passage of years. But Fred had never turned back for anything of the kind, and he was now so cheered by the prospect of being soon again with his mother that he stepped off briskly, and would have struck up one of his characteristic whistling tunes had he not heard the rattle of the same wagon which Bud Heyland drove by a short while before. "That's strange," thought the lad; "he couldn't have gone very far, or he wouldn't have come back so soon." The darkness was so profound over the stretch of road leading through the wood that Fred had no fear of being seen as he stepped a little to one side and waited for the vehicle to pass. Fortunately for night travel, the portion of the highway which led through the forest was not long, for, without the aid of a lantern, no one could see whither he was going, and everything had to be left to the instinct of the horse himself. The beast approached at a slow walk, while Bud no doubt was perched on the high front seat, using his eyes for all they were worth, which was nothing at all where the gloom was so impenetrable. He must have refilled his pipe a short time before, for he was smoking so vigorously that the ember-like glow of the top of the tobacco could be seen, and the crimson reflection even revealed the end of Bud's nose and the faintest possible glimpse of his downy mustache and pimply cheeks, as they glided through the darkness. The light from this pipe was so marked that Fred moved back a step or two, afraid it might reveal him to his enemy. His withdrawal was not entirely satisfactory to himself, as he could not observe where to place his feet, and striking his heels against a fallen limb, he went over backward with quite a bump. "Who's that?" demanded Bud Heyland, checking his horse and glaring about in the gloom; "is that you, Sutton?" Fred thought it wiser to make no response, and he silently got upon his feet again. Bud repeated his question in a husky undertone, and receiving no reply muttered some profanity and started the horse forward at the same slow, deliberate pace. Wondering what it could all mean, young Sheldon stood in the middle of the road, looking in the direction of the vanishing wagon, of which, as a matter of course, he could not catch the slightest glimpse, and asking himself whether it would be wise to investigate further. "There's some mischief going on, and it may be that I can--halloo!" Once more Bud Heyland drew his horse to a halt, and the same solemn stillness held reign as before. But it was only for a minute or two, when Bud gave utterance to a low whistle, which sounded like the tremolo notes of a flute, on the still air. Fred Sheldon recalled that the bully used to indulge in that peculiar signal when he attended school, merely because he fancied it, and when there could be no significance at all attached to it. It was now repeated several times, with such intervals as to show that Bud was expecting a reply, though none could be heard by the lad, who was listening for a response. All at once, yielding to a mischievous impulse, Fred Sheldon replied, imitating Bud's call with astonishing accuracy. Instantly the bully seized upon it, and the signal was exchanged several times, when Bud sprang out of his wagon and came toward the spot where the other stood. Fred was frightened when he found there was likely to be a meeting between him and the one he dreaded so much, and he became as silent as the tomb. Bud advanced through the gloom, continually whistling and giving utterance to angry expressions because he was not answered, while Fred carefully picked his way a few paces further to the rear to escape discovery. "Why don't you speak?" called out Bud; "if you can whistle you can use your voice, can't you?" Although this question could have been easily answered, Fred Sheldon thought it best to hold his peace. "If you ain't the biggest fool that ever undertook to play the gentleman!" added the disgusted bully, groping cautiously among the trees; "everything is ready for----" Just then an outstretching limb passed under the chin of Bud Heyland, and, though walking slowly, he thought it would lift his head off his shoulders before he could stop himself. When he did so he was in anything but an amiable mood, and Fred, laughing, yet scared, was glad he had the friendly darkness in which to find shelter from the ugliness of the fellow. Bud had hardly regained anything like his self-possession when he caught a similar signal to those which had been going on for some minutes between Fred Sheldon and himself. It came from some point beyond Fred, but evidently in the highway. The angry Heyland called out: "What's the matter with you? Why don't you come on, you fool?" The person thus addressed hurried over the short distance until he was close to where Bud stood rubbing his chin and muttering all sorts of bad words at the delay and pain to which he had been subjected. "Halloo, Bud, where are you?" Guarded as the voice was, Fred immediately recognized it as belonging to Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover. "I'm here; where would I be?" growled the angry bully. "Tumbling over a fence, or cracking your head against a tree, I suppose," said Sutton, with a laugh; "when I whistled to you, why didn't you whistle back again, as we agreed to do?" It is easy to picture the scowling glare which Bud Heyland turned upon Sutton as he answered: "You're a purty one to talk about signals, ain't you? After answering me half a dozen times, and I got close to you, you must shut up your mouth, and while I went groping about, I came near sawing my head off with a knotty limb. When you heard me, why did you stop?" "Heard you? What are you talking about?" "Didn't you whistle to me a while ago, and didn't you keep it up till I got here, and then you stopped? What are you talking about, indeed!" "I was a little late," said Sutton, who began to suspect the truth, "and have just come into the wood; I whistled to you, and then you called to me in a rather more personal style than I think is good taste, and I came forward and here I am, and that's all there is about it." "Wasn't that you that answered my whistling a little while ago?" asked Bud Heyland in an undertone, that fairly trembled with dread. "No, sir; as I have explained to you, I signaled to find where you were only a minute since, and I heard nothing of the kind from you." "Then we're betrayed!" Words would fail to depict the tragic manner in which Bud Heyland gave utterance to this strange remark. His voice was in that peculiar condition, known as "changing," and at times was a deep bass, sometimes breaking into a thin squeak. He sank it to its profoundest depths as he slowly repeated the terrifying expression, and the effect would have been very impressive, even to Cyrus Sutton, but for the fact that on the last word his voice broke and terminated with a sound like that made by a domestic fowl when the farmer seizes it by the head with the intention of wringing its neck. But Cyrus Sutton seemed to think that it was anything else than a laughing matter, and he asked the particulars of Bud, who gave them in a stealthily modulated voice, every word of which was plainly heard by Fred Sheldon, who began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "You remember the man that was behind us listening when we sat on the rock last night?" asked Bud. "Of course I do." "Well, he's watching us still, and ain't far off this very minute. I wish I had a chance to draw a bead on him." "You drew several beads last night," said Sutton. "See here," snarled Bud, "that's enough of that. I'll give you a little advice for your own good--let it drop." "Well, Bud," said the other, in an anxious voice, "it won't do to try it on now if some one is watching us. So drive back to Tottenville, put the horse away and we'll take a look around to-morrow night. If the coast is clear we'll wind the business up." "It's got to be wound up then," said the bully, earnestly; "it won't do for me to wait any longer; I've got to j'ine the circus on Monday, and I must start on Sunday to make it." "Very well; then we'll take a look around to-morrow and fix things at night." "Agreed," said Bud, "for you can see that if some officer is watching us--halloo!" This exclamation was caused by the sudden sound of wagon wheels, and man and boy knew at once that Bud's horse, probably tired of standing still, had started homeward with the enthusiasm of a steed who believes that a good supper is awaiting him. CHAPTER XVI. BUD'S MISHAPS. When a horse takes it into his head to go home, with a view of having a good meal, the attraction seems to become stronger from the moment he makes the first move. Bud Heyland's animal began with a very moderate pace, but he increased it so rapidly that by the time the angry driver was on the run, the quadruped was going almost equally as fast. In the hope of scaring the brute into stopping Bud shouted: "Whoa! whoa! Stop, or I'll kill you!" If the horse understood the command, he did not appreciate the threat, and, therefore, it served rather as a spur to his exertion, for he went faster than ever. It is well known, also, that under such circumstances the sagacious animal is only intent on reaching home with the least delay, and he does not care a pin whether his flight injures the vehicle behind him or not. In fact, he seems to be better pleased if it does suffer some disarrangement. When, therefore, the animal debouched from the wood into the faint light under the stars he was on a gallop, and the wagon was bounding along from side to side in an alarming way. Bud was not far behind it, and shouting in his fiercest manner, he soon saw that he was only wasting his strength. He then ceased his outcries and devoted all his energies to overtaking the runaway horse. "It'll be just like him to smash the wagon all to flinders," growled Bud, "and I'll have to pay for the damages." As nearly as could be determined, horse and lad were going at the same pace, the boy slightly gaining, perhaps, and growing more furious each minute, for this piece of treachery on the part of the horse. Some twenty yards separated the pursuer from the team, when a heavy, lumbering wagon loomed to view ahead. "Get out of the road!" called Bud, excitedly. "This hoss is running away, and he'll smash you if you don't!" At such times a farmer is slow to grasp the situation, and the old gentleman, who was half asleep, could not understand what all the rumpus was about, until the galloping horse was upon him. Then he wrenched his lines, hoping to pull his team aside in time, but his honest nags were as slow as their owner, and all they did was to get themselves out of the way, so as to allow the light vehicle to crash into that to which they were attached. It is the frailer vessel which generally goes to the wall at such times, though Bud's was armed with a good deal of momentum. As it was the front wheel was twisted off, and the frightened horse continued at a swifter gait than ever toward his home, while Bud, seeing how useless it was to try to overtake him, turned upon the old farmer, who was carefully climbing out of his wagon to see whether his property had suffered any damage. "Why didn't you get out the way when I hollered to you?" demanded the panting Bud, advancing threateningly upon him. "Why didn't you holler sooner, my young friend?" asked the old gentleman, in a soft voice. "I yelled to you soon enough, and you're a big fool that you didn't pull aside as I told you. I hope your old rattle-trap has been hurt so it can't be fixed up." "I can't diskiver that it's been hurt at all, and I'm very thankful," remarked the farmer, stooping down and feeling the spokes and axletree with his hands; "but don't you know it is very disrespectful for a boy like you to call an old man a fool?" Bud snarled: "I generally say just what I mean, and what are you going to do about it, old Hay Seed?" The gentleman thus alluded to showed what he meant to do about it, for he reached quietly upward and lifted his whip from its socket in the front of the wagon. "I say again," added Bud, not noticing the movement, and swaggering about, "that any man who acts like you is a natural born fool, and the best thing you can do is to go home----" Just then something cracked like a pistol shot and the whip of the old farmer whizzed about the legs of the astounded scapegrace, who, with a howl similar to that which Fred Sheldon uttered under similar treatment, bounded high in air and started on a run in the direction of his flying vehicle. At the second step the whip descended again, and it was repeated several times before the terrified Bud could get beyond reach of the indignant gentleman, who certainly showed more vigor than any one not knowing him would have looked for. "Some boys is very disrespectful, and should be teached manners," he muttered, turning calmly about and going back to his team, which stood sleepily in the road awaiting him. "What's getting into folks?" growled Bud Heyland, trying to rub his smarting legs in half a dozen places at once; "that's the sassiest old curmudgeon I ever seen. If I'd knowed he was so sensitive I wouldn't have argued the matter so strong. Jingo! But he knows how to swing a whip. When he brought down the lash on to me, I orter just jumped right into him and knocked him down, and I'd done it, too, if I hadn't been afraid of one thing, which was that he'd knocked me down first. Plague on him! I'll get even with him yet. I wish----" Bud stopped short in inexpressible disgust, for just then he recalled that he had his loaded revolver with him, and he ought to have used it to defend himself. The assault of the old gentleman was so sudden that his victim had no time to think of anything but to place himself beyond reach of his strong and active arm. "I don't know what makes me so blamed slow in thinking of things," added Bud, resuming the rubbing of his legs and his walk toward Tottenville, "but I must learn to wake up sooner. I'm sure I got in some good work to-day, and I'll finish it up in style to-morrow night, or my name ain't Nathaniel Higgins Heyland, and then I'm going to skip out of this slow place in a hurry and have a good time with the boys. What's that?" He discerned the dim outlines of some peculiar looking object in the road, and going to it, suddenly saw what it was. "Yes, I might have knowed it!" he muttered, with another forcible expression; "it's a wagon wheel; the second one off that good-for-nothing one I hired of Grimsby, and I'll have a pretty bill to pay when I get there. I 'spose I'll find the rest of the wagon strewed all along the road; yes----" Bud was not far wrong in his supposition, for a little further on he came upon a third wheel, which was leaning against the fence, as though it were "tired," and near by was the fourth. After that the fragments of the ruined vehicle were met with continually, until the angered young man wondered how it was there could be so much material in such an ordinary structure. "It's about time I begun to find something of the horse," he added, with a grim sense of the grotesque humor of the idea; "I wouldn't care if I came across his head and legs scattered along the road, for I'm mad enough agin him to blow him up, but I won't get the chance, for old Grimsby won't let me have him agin when I go out to take a ride to-morrow night." Things could not have been in a worse condition than when Bud, tired and angry, walked up on the porch of the hotel and dropped wearily into one of the chairs that were always there. Old Mr. Grimsby was awaiting him, and said the animal was badly bruised, and as for the wagon, the only portion he could find any trace of was the shafts, which came bounding into the village behind the flying horse. Mr. Grimsby's principal grief seemed to be that Bud himself had not shared the fate of the wagon, and he did not hesitate to so express himself. "The damages won't be a cent less than a hundred dollars," added the angry keeper of the livery stable. "Will you call it square for that?" asked Bud, looking at the man, who was leaning against the post in front of him. "Yes, of course I will?" "Very well; write out a receipt in full and sign it and I'll pay it." Mr. Grimsby scanned him curiously for a minute, and then said: "If you're in earnest come over to my office." Bud got up and followed him into his little dingy office, where he kept a record of his humble livery business, and after considerable fumbling with his oil-lamp, found pen and paper and the receipt was written and signed. While he was thus employed Bud Heyland had counted one hundred dollars in ten-dollar bills, which he passed over to Mr. Grimsby, who, as was his custom, counted them over several times. As he did so he noticed that they were crisp, new bills, and looked as if they were in circulation for the first time. He carefully folded them up and put them away in his wallet with a grim smile, such as is apt to be shown by a man of that character when he thinks he has got the better of a friend in a bargain or trade. And as Bud Heyland walked out he smiled, too, in a very meaning way. CHAPTER XVII. TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS. Fred Sheldon did not give much attention to Bud Heyland after he started in pursuit of his runaway horse, but, turning in the opposite direction, he moved carefully through the wood toward his mother's house. He did not forget that Cyrus Sutton was somewhere near him, and the boy dreaded a meeting with the cattle drover almost as much as he did with Bud Heyland himself; but he managed to get out of the piece of wood without seeing or being seen by him, and then he made all haste to his own home, where he found his mother beginning to wonder over his long absence. Fred told the whole story, anxious to hear what she had to say about a matter on which he had made up his own mind. "It looks as though Bud Heyland and this Mr. Sutton, that you have told me about, are partners in some evil doing." "Of course they are; it can't be anything else, but what were they doing in the woods with the wagon?" "Perhaps they expected to meet some one else." "I don't think so, from what they said; it would have been better if I hadn't whistled to Bud, wouldn't it?" "Perhaps not," replied the mother, "for it looks as if by doing so you prevented their perpetrating some wrong for which they had laid their plans, and were frightened by finding some one else was near them." "I'm going to take a look through that wood to-morrow and keep watch; I think I will find out something worth knowing." "You cannot be too careful, Fred, for it is a wonder to me that you have kept out of trouble so long----" Both were startled at this moment by the closing of the gate, followed by a rapid footstep along the short walk, and then came a sharp knocking on the door. Fred sprang up from his seat beside his mother and quickly opened the door. The fussy little constable, Archie Jackson, stood before them. "Good evening, Frederick; good evening, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, looking across the room to the lady and taking off his hat to her, as he stepped within. The handsome little lady arose, bowed and invited him to a seat, which he accepted, bowing his thanks again. It was easy to see from the manner of Archie that he was full of the most important kind of business. He was in danger of tipping his chair over, from the prodigious extent to which he threw out his breast, as he carefully deposited his hat on the floor beside him and cleared his throat, with a vigor which could have been heard by any one passing outside. "A pleasant night," he remarked, looking benignantly upon Mrs. Sheldon, who nodded her head to signify that she agreed with him in his opinion of the weather. After this preliminary he came to the point--that is, in his own peculiar way. "Mrs. Sheldon, you have a very fine boy there," he said, nodding toward Fred, who turned quite red in the face. "I am glad to hear you have such a good opinion of him," was the modest manner in which the mother acknowledged the compliment to her only child. "I understand that he is the brightest scholar in school, and has the reputation of being truthful and honest, and I know him to be as full of pluck and courage as a--a--spring lamb," added the constable, clearing his throat again, to help him out of his search for a metaphor. Mrs. Sheldon simply bowed and smiled, while Archie looked at his right hand, which was still swollen and tender from its violent contact with the stump that he mistook for the lion some nights before. He remarked something about hurting it in the crack of the door when playing with his children, and added: "Fred has become quite famous from the shrewd manner in which he captured the lion." "I don't see as he deserves any special credit for that," observed the mother, "for I understand the animal was such an old one that he was almost harmless, and then he was kind enough to walk into the smoke-house and give Fred just the chance he needed. I regard it rather as a piece of good fortune than a display of courage." "You are altogether too modest, Mrs. Sheldon--altogether too modest. Think of his stealing up to the open door of the smoke or milk-house when the creatur' was crunching bones inside! I tell you, Mrs. Sheldon, it took a great deal more courage than you will find in most men to do that." The lady was compelled to admit that it was a severe test of the bravery of a boy, but she insisted that Fred had been favored by Providence, or good fortune, as some called it. "What I want to come at," added Archie, clearing his throat again and spitting in his hat, mistaking it for the cuspidor on the other side, "is that I would be pleased if he could secure the reward which the Misses Perkinpine have offered for the recovery of their silverware, to say nothing of the money that was taken." "It would be too unreasonable to hope that he could succeed in such a task as that." "I'm not so sure, when you recollect that he saw the two parties who were engaged in the burglarious transaction. I thought maybe he might have some clew which would enable the officers of the law to lay their fingers on the guilty parties." Fred was half tempted to say that he had such a clew in his pocket that very minute, but he was wise enough to hold his peace. Once more the constable cleared his throat. "But such is not the fact--ah, excuse me--I thought that was the spittoon, instead of my hat--how stupid!--and to relieve his mind of the anxiety which I know he must feel, I have called to make a statement." Having said this much the visitor waited until he thought his auditors were fully impressed, when he added: "When this robbery was made known to me I sent to New York city at once for one of the most famous detectives, giving him full particulars and urging him to come without delay; but for some reason, which I cannot understand, Mr. Carter has neither come nor written--a very discourteous proceeding on his part, to say the least; so I undertook the whole business alone--that is, without asking the help of anyone." "I hope you have met with success," was the truthful wish expressed by Mrs. Sheldon. "I have, I am glad to inform you. I have found out who the man was that, in the disguise of a tramp, eat a meal at the house of the Misses Perkinpine on Monday evening, and who afterward entered the building stealthily, and with the assistance of a confederate carried off all their valuable silverware and a considerable amount of money." "You've fastened it on Bud, eh?" asked Fred, greatly interested. The constable looked impressively at the lad, and said: "There's where you make a great mistake; in fact, nothing in this world is easier than to make an error. I was sure it was Bud from what you told me, and you will remember I hinted as much to him on the day of the circus." "Yes, and he turned red in the face and was scared." "His face couldn't turn much redder than it is, and blushing under such circumstances can't always be taken as a proof of guilt; but I set to work and I found the guilty man." "And it wasn't Bud?" "He hadn't anything to do with it." "But there were two of them, for I saw them." "Of course; and I know the other man also." This was important news indeed, and mother and son could only stare at their visitor in amazement. The constable, with all the pomposity of which he was master, picked up his hat from the floor and arose to his feet. "Of course a detective doesn't go round the country boasting of what he has done and is going to do. Those who know me, know that I am one of the most modest of men and rarely speak of my many exploits. But I may tell you that you can prepare yourselves for one of the greatest surprises of your life." "When is it going to come?" asked Fred. "Very soon; in a day or two; maybe to-morrow; at any rate by Monday at the latest." Mrs. Sheldon saw that the fussy officer was anxious to tell more and needed but the excuse of a question or two from her. But she did not ask him anything, for with the intuition of her sex she had read his nature the first time she talked with him, and she had little faith in his high-sounding declaration of success. Still, she knew that it was not unlikely he had stumbled upon the truth, while groping about; but she could form no idea, of who the suspected parties were, and she allowed her visitor to bid her good evening without gaining any further knowledge of them. Archie was heard walking down the path and out the gate, still clearing his throat, and doubtless with his shoulders thrown to the rear so far that he was in danger of falling over backwards. Mrs. Sheldon smiled in her quiet way after his departure, and said: "I can't feel much faith in him, but it may be he has found who the guilty ones are." "I don't believe it," replied Fred, stoutly; "for, when he declares that Bud had nothing to do with it, I know he is wrong. Suppose I had taken out this knife and told him all about it, what would he have said?" "It wouldn't have changed his opinion, for he is one of those men whose opinions are set and very difficult to change. He is confident he is right, and we shall know what it all means in a short time." "Perhaps I will find out something to-morrow." "More than likely you will fail altogether----" To the surprise of both, they heard the gate open and shut again, another series of hastening steps sounded upon the gravel, and in a moment a quick, nervous rap came upon the door. "Archie has come back to tell us the rest of his story," said Fred, springing up to answer the summons; "I thought he couldn't go away without letting us know----" But the lad was mistaken, for, when he opened the door, who should he see standing before him but Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover, and the intimate friend of Bud Heyland? He smiled pleasantly, doffed his hat, bowed and apologized for his intrusion, adding: "I am sure you hardly expected me, and I only came because it was necessary that I should meet you both. Ah!" Mrs. Sheldon had risen and advanced a couple of steps to greet her visitor, but, while the words were in her mouth she stopped short and looked wonderingly at him. And Cyrus Sutton did the same respecting her; Fred, beholding the interesting spectacle of the two, whom he had believed to be utter strangers, staring at each other, with a fixidity of gaze, followed the next moment by an expression of looks and words which showed that this was not the first time they had met. Fred's first emotion was that of resentment that such a worthless and evil-disposed man should presume to smile, extend his hand and say, as he advanced: "This is a surprise, indeed! I had no idea that Mrs. Sheldon was you." "And when I heard of Mr. Cyrus Sutton I never dreamed that it could be you," she answered. She was about to add something more when he motioned her not to speak the words that he had reason to believe were on her tongue, and Fred knew not whether to be still angrier or more amazed. Mr. Cyrus Sutton took the chair to which he was invited and began talking about unimportant matters which it was plain were of no interest to either and were introductory to something that was to follow. This continued several minutes, and then Mrs. Sheldon asked her visitor to excuse her for a minute or two while she accompanied her son to bed. "My dear boy," she said, after they were alone in his little room, and he was about to kneel to say his prayers, "you must not be displeased at what you saw to-night. I know Mr. Cyrus Sutton very well and he has called on some business which he wishes to discuss with me alone." "But he's a thief and robber," said Fred, "and I don't like to have him in the house unless I'm awake to take care of you." "You need have no fears about me," replied the mother, stroking back his hair and kissing the forehead of the manly fellow. "I would be willing to talk before you, but I saw that he preferred not to do so, and as the matter is all in my interest, which you know is yours, it is proper that I should show that much deference to him." "Well, it's all right if you say so," was the hearty response of Fred, who now knelt down and went through his prayers as usual. His mother kissed him good-night and descended the stairs, and in a few minutes the murmur of voices reached the ears of the lad, who could have crept part way down-stairs and heard everything said. But nothing in the world would have induced him to do such a dishonorable thing, and he finally sank to slumber, with the dim words sounding to him, as they do to us in dreams. In the morning his mother laughingly told him he would have to restrain his curiosity for a day or two, but she would tell him all as soon as Mr. Sutton gave his permission. Fred felt all the eagerness natural to one of his years to know the meaning of the strange visit, but he was content to wait his mother's own good time, when she could make known the strange story which he realized she would soon have to tell him. This day was Saturday, and Fred Sheldon determined to use it to the utmost, for he knew the singular incidents in which he had become involved were likely to press forward to some conclusion. After breakfast and his morning chores, he started down the road in the direction of the village, it being his intention to pass through or rather into the wood where Sutton and Bud Heyland had held their meeting of the night before. He had not reached the stretch of forest when he caught sight of Bud himself coming toward him on foot. The sombrero-like hat, the briar-wood pipe and the big boots, with the trousers tucked in the top, could be recognized as far as visible. The bully had not his whip with him, both hands being shoved low down in his trousers pockets. He slouched along until close to Fred, when he stopped, and, leaning on the fence, waited for the boy to come up. Fred would have been glad to avoid him, but there was no good way of doing so. He walked forward, whistling a tune, and made a move as if to go by, nodding his head and saying: "Halloo, Bud." "Hold on; don't be in a hurry," said the other, "I want to see you." "Well, what is it?" asked Fred, stopping before him. "You want to play the thief, do you?" "I don't know what you mean," replied Fred, a half-dozen misgivings stirring his fears. "How about that twenty dollars I gave you to get changed?" "I declare I forgot all about it," replied Fred, greatly relieved that it was no worse. "Did you get it changed?" "Yes, and here are your ten dollars." Bud took the bills and scanned them narrowly, and Fred started on again. "Hold on!" commanded the other; "don't be in such a hurry; don't start ahead agin till I tell you to. Did they ask you any questions when you got it changed?" "Nothing very particular, but changed it very gladly." "Who was it that done it for you?" "I told him the one who gave me the bill didn't wish me to answer any questions, and then this gentleman said it was all right, and just for the fun of the thing I mustn't tell anything about him." Bud Heyland looked at the fellow standing a few feet away as if he hardly understood what this meant. Finally he asked, in his gruff, dictatorial way: "Who was he?" "I cannot tell you." "You cannot? You've got to." "But I can't break my promise, Bud; I wouldn't tell a story to save my life." "Bah, that's some of your mother's stuff; I'll soon take it out of you," said the bully, advancing threateningly toward him. "If you don't tell me all about him I'll break every bone in your body." "You can do it then, for you won't find out." Believing that he would have to fight for his very life, as the bully could catch him before he could get away, Fred drew his knife from his pocket, intending to use it as a weapon of defense. While in the act of opening it, Bud Heyland caught sight of it, and with an exclamation of surprise, he demanded: "Where did you get that?" "I found it," replied Fred, who saw how he had forgotten himself in his fear; "is it yours?" "Let me look at it," said Bud, reaching out his hand for it. Fred hardly knew whether he ought to surrender such a weapon or not, but, as the interest of the bully seemed to center entirely in it, he thought it best to do so. Bud Heyland examined the jack-knife with great interest. One glance was enough for him to recognize it as his own. He opened the blades and shut them two or three times, and then dropped it into his pocket with the remark: "I'll take charge of that, I reckon." "Is it yours?" "I rather think it is, now," answered Bud, with an impudent grin! "Where did you find it?" "Down yonder," answered Fred, pointing in a loose kind of way toward the old brick mansion. "It was stole from me two weeks ago by a tramp, and it's funny that he lost it in this neighborhood. You can go now; I'll let you off this time, 'cause I'm so glad to get my old knife agin that was give to me two years ago." And to the surprise and delight of Fred Sheldon, he was allowed to pass on without further questioning. "I wonder whether I was wrong," said Fred, recalling the words of the bully; "he said he had it stolen from him two weeks ago by a tramp, and mother says that it isn't any proof that Bud is guilty because his knife was found there. Some one might have put it on the floor on purpose, and she says that just such things have been done before by persons who didn't want to be suspected." "That agrees with what the constable says, too," added the boy, still following the same line of thought, "he is sure he has got the right man and it isn't Bud or Cyrus Sutton. Bud is bad enough to do anything of the kind, but maybe I was mistaken." The lad was sorely puzzled, for matters were taking a shape which would have puzzled an older head than his. Everything he had seen and heard for the last few days confirmed his theory that Heyland and Sutton were the guilty ones, and now the theory was being upset in a singular fashion. Fred was in this mental muddle when he awoke to the fact that he had passed the boundary of the wood and would soon be beyond the place where he had intended to make some observations that day. "I don't know whether there's any use in my trying to do anything," he said, still bewildered over what he had seen and heard within the last few hours. Nevertheless, he did try hard, and we may say, succeeded, too. He first looked hastily about him, and seeing no one, turned around and ran back into the wood. He did not remain in the highway itself, but entered the undergrowth, where it would be difficult for any one in the road to detect him. "I noticed that when I spoke about coming here this morning, mother encouraged me, and told me to be careful, and so I will." He now began picking his way through the dense wood with the care of a veritable American Indian stealing upon the camp of an enemy. CHAPTER XVIII. EUREKA! This was the wood where Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton held their stolen interview the night before. The former was now in the immediate neighborhood, so that Fred Sheldon had reason to think something would be done in the same place before the close of day, or at most, before the rising of to-morrow's sun. No one could have been more familiar with this small stretch of forest than was our young hero, who did not take a great while to reach a point close to the other side. He was near the road which wound its way through it, but was on the watch to escape being seen by any one passing by. Having reached this point, Fred stood several minutes, uncertain what he ought to do. Evidently there was nothing to be gained by advancing further, nor by turning back, so he waited. "I wonder where Bud has gone. There is something in the wood which he is interested in----" The thought was not expressed when the rustling of leaves was heard, and Fred knew some one was near him. Afraid of being discovered, he shrank close to the trunk of a large tree, behind which he could hide himself the moment it became necessary. No doubt the person moving through the wood was using some care, but he did not know how to prevent the rustling of the leaves, and it is not likely he made much effort. At any rate the advantage was on the side of Fred, who, a minute later, caught sight of a slouchy sombrero and briarwood pipe moving along at a height of five feet or so above the ground, while now and then the motion of the huge boots was seen beneath. "It's Bud, and he's looking for something," was the conclusion of Fred, fairly trembling with excitement; "and it won't do for him to see me watching him." The trouble was that it was now broad daylight, and it is no easy matter for one to shadow a person without being observed; but Fred had the advantage of the shelter in the dense growth of shrubbery which prevailed in most parts of the wood. However, he was in mortal dread of discovery by Bud, for he believed the ugly fellow would kill him should he find him watching his movements. It was this fear which caused the lad to wait a minute or two after Bud Heyland had disappeared, and until the rustling of the leaves could no longer be heard. Then, with the utmost care, he began picking his way through the undergrowth, stopping suddenly when he caught the sound again. The wood was not extensive enough to permit a very extended hunt, and when Fred paused a second time he was sure the end was at hand. He was alarmed when he found, from the stillness, that Bud Heyland was not moving. Fred waited quietly, and then began slowly rising until he stood at his full height, and looked carefully around him. Nothing could be seen of the bully, though the watcher was confident he was not far off, and it would not do to venture any further just then. "If it was only the night time," thought Fred, "I wouldn't be so scared, for he might take me for a man; but it would never do for him to find me here." The sudden ceasing of the rustling, which had betrayed the passage of Bud Heyland a few minutes previous could not be anything else but proof that he was near by. "Maybe he suspects something, and is waiting to find whether he is seen by any one. Strange that in looking round he does not look up," whispered Fred to himself, recalling an anecdote which he had once heard told in Sunday-school: "Bud looks everywhere but above, where there is that Eye which never sleeps, watching his wrong-doing." A boy has not the patience of a man accustomed to watching and waiting, and when several minutes had passed without any new developments, Fred began to get fidgety. "He has gone on further, and I have lost him; he has done this to lead me off, and I won't see anything more of him." But the boy was in error, and very speedily saw a good deal more of Bud Heyland than he wished. The rustling of the leaves, such as is heard when one is kicking them up as he walks along, aroused the watcher the next minute, and Fred stealthily arose, and scanned his surroundings. As he did so, he caught sight of Bud Heyland walking in such a direction that he was certain to pass close to him. Luckily the bully was looking another way at that moment, or he would have seen the scared face as is presented itself to view. As Fred dropped out of sight and hastily crept behind the large tree-trunk he felt that he would willingly give the two hundred dollars that he received in the way of a reward could he but be in any place half a mile or more away. It would never do to break into a run as he felt like doing, for then he would be sure to be discovered and captured, while there was a slight probability of not being seen if he should remain where he was. Shortly after Fred caught sight of a pair of huge boots stalking through the undergrowth, and he knew only too well what they contained. He shrank into as close quarters as possible, and prayed that he might not be noticed. The prayer was granted, although it will always remain a mystery to Fred Sheldon how it was Bud Heyland passed so very close to him and yet never turned his eyes from staring straight ahead. But Bud went on, vanished from sight, and in a few minutes the rattling of the dry leaves ceased and all was quiet. The sound of wagon wheels, as a vehicle moved over the road, was heard, and then all became still again. Not until sure the fellow was out of sight did Fred rise to his feet and move away from his hiding place. Then, instead of following Bud, he walked in the opposite direction. "He has been out here to hunt for something and didn't find it." Looking down to the ground the bright-eyed lad was able to see where Bud had stirred the leaves, as he carelessly walked along, no doubt oblivious of the fact that his own thoughtlessness might be used against him. "He's the only one who has been here lately, and I think I can track him through the wood. If he had been as careful as I, he wouldn't have left such tell-tale footprints." The work of trailing Bud, as it may be called, was not such an easy matter as Fred had supposed, for he soon found places where it was hard to tell whether or not the leaves had been disturbed by the boots of a person or the hoofs of some quadruped. But Fred persevered, and at the end of half an hour, by attentively studying the ground, he reached a point a little over two hundred yards from where he himself had been hiding, and where he was certain Bud Heyland had been. "Here's where he stopped, and after a while turned about and went back again," was the conclusion of Fred; "though I can't see what he did it for." It was no longer worth while to examine the ground, for there was nothing to be learned there, and Fred began studying the appearance of things above the earth. There were a number of varieties of trees growing about him--oak, maple, birch, chestnut and others, such as Fred had looked on many a time before, and nothing struck him as particularly worthy of notice. But, hold! only a short ways off was an oak, or rather the remains of one, for it had evidently been struck by lightning and shattered. It had never worn a comely appearance, for its trunk was covered with black, scraggy excrescences, like the warts which sometimes disfigure the human skin. Furthermore, the lower portion of the trunk was hollow, the width of the cavity being fully a foot at the base. The bolt from heaven had scattered the splinters, limbs and fragments in all directions, and no one could view this proof of the terrific power of that comparatively unknown force in nature without a shudder. Fred Sheldon stood looking around him until his eye rested on this interesting sight, when he viewed it some minutes more, with open eyes and mouth. Then, with a strange feeling, he walked slowly toward the remains of the trunk, and stepping upon one of the broken pieces, drew himself up and peered down into the hollow, rotten cavity. He had been standing in the sunshine but a short time before, and it takes the pupil of the eye some time to become adapted to such a sudden change. At first all was blank darkness, but shortly Fred saw something gleaming in the bottom of the opening. He thought it was that peculiar fungus growth known as "fox-fire," but his vision rapidly grew more distinct, and drawing himself further up, he reached down and touched the curious objects with his hand. Eureka! There was all the silver plate which had been stolen from the old brick mansion a few nights before. Not a piece was missing! Fred Sheldon had discovered it at last, and as he dropped back again on his feet, he threw his cap into the air and gave a shout, for just about that time he felt he was the happiest youngster in the United States of America! [Illustration: On finding the stolen silver, Fred threw his cap in the air and gave a shout.] CHAPTER XIX. A SLIGHT MISTAKE. When Archibald Jackson, constable of Tottenville and the surrounding country, strode forth from the home of Widow Sheldon on the night of the call which we have described, he felt like "shaking hands with himself," for he was confident he had made one of the greatest strikes that ever came in the way of any one in his profession--a strike that would render him famous throughout the country, and even in the city of New York. "A man has to be born a detective," he said, as he fell over a wheelbarrow at the side of the road; "for without great natural gifts he cannot attain to preeminence, as it were, in his profession. I was born a detective, and would have beaten any of those fellows from Irish Yard or Welsh Yard or Scotland Yard, or whatever they call it. "Queer I never thought of it before, but that was always the trouble with me; I've been too modest," he added, as he climbed over the fence to pick up his hat, which a limb had knocked off; "but when this robbery at the Misses Perkinpine's occurred, instead of relying on my own brains I must send for Mr. Carter, and was worried half to death because he didn't come. "I s'pose he found the task was too gigantic for him, so he wouldn't run the risk of failure. Then for the first time I sot down and begun to use my brains. It didn't take me long to work the thing out; it came to me like a flash, as it always does to men of genius--confound that root; it's ripped the toe of my shoe off." But Archie was so elevated in the region of conceit and self-satisfaction that he could not be disturbed by the petty annoyances of earth; he strode along the road with his chest thrust forward and his head so high in air that it was no wonder his feet tripped and bothered him now and then. "I don't see any use of delaying the blow," he added, as he approached his home; "it will make a sensation to-morrow when the exposure is made. The New York papers will be full of it and they will send their reporters to interview me. They'll print a sketch of my life and nominate me for governor, and the illustrated papers will have my picture, and my wife Betsey will find what a man of genius her husband--ah! oh! I forgot about that post!" He was recalled to himself by a violent collision with the hitching-post in front of his own house, and picking up his hat and waiting until he could gain full command of his breath, he entered the bosom of his family fully resolved to "strike the blow" on the morrow, which should make him famous throughout the country. With the rising of the sun he found himself feeling more important than ever. Swallowing his breakfast hastily and looking at his bruised knuckles, he bade his family good-by, telling his wife if anybody came after him they should be told that the constable had gone away on imperative business. With this farewell Archie went to the depot, boarded the cars and started for the country town of Walsingham, fifty miles distant. He bought a copy of a leading daily, and after viewing the scenery for several miles, pretended to read, while he gave free rein to his imagination and drew a gorgeous picture of the near future. "To-morrow the papers will be full of it," he said, not noticing that several were smiling because he held the journal upside down, "and they'll want to put me on the force in New York. They've got to pay me a good salary if they get me--that's sartin." Some time after he drew forth a couple of legal documents, which he read with care, as he had read them a score of times. They were correctly-drawn papers calling for the arrest of two certain parties. "The warrants are all right," mused the officer, as he replaced them carefully in the inside pocket of his coat, "and the two gentlemen--and especially one of them--will open his eyes when I place my hand on his shoulder and tell him he is wanted." A couple of hours later, the constable left the cars at the town of Walsingham, which was in the extreme corner of the county that also held Tottenville, and walked in his pompous fashion toward that portion where Colonel Bandman's menagerie and circus were making ready for the usual display. It was near the hour of noon, and the regular street parade had taken place, and the hundreds of people from the country were tramping back and forth, crunching peanuts, eating lunch and making themselves ill on the diluted stuff sold under the name of lemonade. The constable paid scarcely any heed to these, but wended his way to the hotel, where he inquired for Colonel Bandman, the proprietor of the establishment which was creating such an excitement through the country. Archie was told that he had just sat down to dinner, whereupon he said he would wait until the gentleman was through, as he did not wish to be too severe upon him. Then the officer occupied a chair by the window on the inside, and feeling in his pockets, to make sure the warrants were there, he kept an eye on the dining-room, to be certain the proprietor did not take the alarm and get away. After a long time Colonel Bandman, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, came forth, hat in hand, and looked about him, as if he expected to meet some one. "Are you the gentleman who was inquiring for me?" he asked, advancing toward the constable, who rose to his feet, and with all the impressiveness of manner which he could assume, said, as he placed his hand on his shoulder: "Colonel James Bandman, you are my prisoner!" The other donned his hat, looked somewhat surprised, as was natural, and with his eyes fixed on the face of the constable, asked: "On what charge am I arrested?" "Burglary." "Let me see the warrant." "Oh, that's all right," said Mr. Jackson, drawing forth a document from his pocket and opening it before him; "read it for yourself." The colonel glanced at it for a moment, and said with a half smile: "My name is not mentioned there; that calls upon you to arrest Thomas Gibby, who is my ticket agent." "Oh, ah--that's the wrong paper; here's the right one." With which he gave Colonel James Bandman the pleasure of reading the document, which, in due and legal form, commanded Archibald Jackson to take the gentleman into custody. "I presume the offense is bailable?" asked the colonel, with an odd smile. "Certainly, certainly, sir; I will accompany you before a magistrate who will fix your bail. Where can I find Mr. Gibby?" "I will bring him, if you will excuse me for a minute." Colonel Bandman started to enter the hotel again, but the vigilant constable caught his arm: "No you don't; I'll stay with you, please; we'll go together; I don't intend you shall slip through my fingers." The colonel was evidently good-natured, for he only laughed and then, allowing the officer to take his arm, started for the dining-room, but unexpectedly met the individual whom they wanted in the hall. When Gibby had been made acquainted with the business of the severe-looking official he was disposed to get angry, but a word and a suggestive look from Colonel Bandman quieted him, and the two walked with the officer in the direction of a magistrate. "I've got this thing down fine on you," ventured Mr. Jackson, by way of helping them to a feeling of resignation, "the proofs of the nefarious transaction in which you were engaged being beyond question." Colonel Bandman made no answer, though his companion muttered something which their custodian did not catch. As they walked through the street they attracted some attention, but it was only a short distance to the magistrate's office, where the official listened attentively to the complaints. When made aware of its character he turned smilingly toward the chief prisoner and said: "Well, colonel, what have you to say to this?" "I should like to ask Mr. Jackson on what grounds he bases his charge of burglary against me." "The house of the Misses Perkinpine, near Tottenville, in this county, was robbed of a lot of valuable silver plate and several hundred dollars in money on Monday night last. It was the night before the circus showed in that town. Fortunately for the cause of justice the two parties were seen and identified, especially the one who did the actual robbing. A bright young boy, who is very truthful, saw the robber at his work, identified him as the ungrateful wretch who was given his supper by the two excellent ladies, whom he basely robbed afterward. The description of the pretended tramp corresponds exactly with that of Colonel Bandman--so closely, indeed, that there can be no mistake about him. The account of his confederate is not so full, but it is sufficient to identify him as Mr. Gibby, there. When I was assured beyond all mistake that they were the two wretches I took out them warrants in proper form, as you will find, and I now ask that they may be held to await the action of the grand jury." Having delivered himself of this rather grandiloquent speech, Mr. Jackson bowed to the court and stepped back to allow the accused to speak. Colonel Bandman, instead of doing so, turned to the magistrate and nodded for him to say something. That official, addressing himself to the constable, asked: "You are certain this offense was committed on last Monday evening?" "There can be no possible mistake about it." "And it was done by these two?" "That is equally sartin." "If one is guilty both are; if one is innocent so is the other?" "Yes, sir; if you choose to put it that way." "It becomes my duty to inform you then, Mr. Jackson, that Colonel Bandman has not been out of the town of Walsingham for the past six weeks; he is an old schoolmate of mine, and on last Monday night he stayed in my house with his wife and daughter. This complaint is dismissed, and the best thing you can do is to hasten home by the next train. Good day, sir." Archie wanted to say something, but he could think of nothing appropriate, and, catching up his hat, he made haste to the station where he boarded the cars without a ticket. He was never known to refer to his great mistake afterward unless some one else mentioned it, and even then the constable always seemed anxious to turn the subject to something else. CHAPTER XX. ALL IN GOOD TIME. Between nine and ten o'clock on the Saturday evening succeeding the incidents I have described, a wagon similar to the one wrecked the night before, drove out of Tottenville with two persons on the front seat. The driver was Jacob Kincade, who, having safely passed the recaptured lion over to Colonel Bandman, secured a couple of days' leave of absence and hurried back to Tottenville, where he engaged the team, and, accompanied by Bud Heyland, drove out in the direction of the wood where matters went so unsatisfactorily when Bud assumed charge. "I was awful 'fraid you wouldn't come to time," said Bud, when they were fairly beyond the village, "which is why I tried to run the machine myself and got things mixed. Sutton insisted on waiting till you arriv', but when he seen how sot I was he give in and 'greed to meet me at the place." "That was all well enough," observed Mr. Kincade; "but there's some things you tell me which I don't like. You said some one was listening behind the fence the other night when you and Sutton was talking about this business." "That's so; but Sutton showed me afterwards that the man, who was short and stumpy, couldn't have heard anything that would let him know what he was driving at. We have a way of talking that anybody else might hear every word and yet he wouldn't understand it. That's an idee of mine." "But you said some one--and I've no doubt it's the same chap--was whistling round the wood last night and scared you, so you made up your mind to wait till to-night." "That rather got me, but Sut says that no man that 'spected anything wrong would go whistling round the woods in that style. That ain't the way detectives do." "Maybe not, but are you sure there ain't any of them detectives about?" "Me and Sut have been on the watch, and there hasn't been a stranger in the village that we don't know all about. That's the biggest joke I ever heard of," laughed Bud, "that 'ere Jackson going out to Walsingham and arresting the colonel and Gibby." "Yes," laughed Kincade, "it took place just as I was coming away. I wish they'd locked up the colonel for awhile, just for the fun of the thing. But he and Gibby were discharged at once. I came on in the same train with Jackson, though I didn't talk with him about it, for I saw he felt pretty cheap. "However," added Kincade, "that's got nothing to do with this business, which I feel a little nervous over. It was a mighty big load for us to get out in the wood last Monday night, and I felt as though my back was broke when we put the last piece in the tree. S'pose somebody has found it!" "No danger of that," said Bud. "I was out there to-day and seen that it was all right." "Sure nobody was watching you?" "I took good care of that. We'll find it there just as we left it, and after we get it into the wagon we'll drive over to Tom Carmen's and he'll dispose of it for us." Tom Carmen lived at the "Four Corners," as the place was called, and had the reputation of being engaged in more than one kind of unlawful business. It was about ten miles off, and the thieves intended to drive there and place their plunder in his hands, he agreeing to melt it up and give them full value, less a small commission for his services. The arrangement with Carmen had not been made until after the robbery, which accounts for the hiding of the spoils for several days. It did not take long, however, to come to an understanding with him, and the plunder would have been taken away the preceding night by Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton but for the mishaps already mentioned. "You're sure Sutton will be there?" asked Kincade, as they approached the wood. "You can depend on him every time," was the confident response; "he was to go out after dark to make sure that no one else is prowling around. He's one of the best fellows I ever met," added Bud, who was enthusiastic over his new acquaintance; "we've fixed up half a dozen schemes that we're going into as soon as we get this off our hands." "Am I in?" "Of course," said Bud; "the gang is to be us three, and each goes in on the ground floor. We're going to make a bigger pile than Colonel Bandman himself, even with all his menagerie and circus." "I liked Sutton--what little I seen of him," said Kincade. "Oh, he's true blue--well, here we are." Both ceased talking as they entered the shadow of the wood, for, bad as they were, they could not help feeling somewhat nervous over the prospect. The weather had been clear and pleasant all the week, and the stars were shining in an unclouded sky, in which there was no moon. A few minutes after they met a farmer's wagon, which was avoided with some difficulty, as it was hard to see each other, but the two passed in safety, and reached the spot they had in mind. Here Bud Heyland took the reins, because he knew the place so well, and drew the horse aside until he and the vehicle would clear any team that might come along. To prevent any such accident as that of the preceding night the animal was secured, and the man and big boy stepped carefully a little further into the wood, Bud uttering the same signal as before. It was instantly answered from a point near at hand, and the next minute Cyrus Sutton came forward, faintly visible as he stepped close to them and spoke: "I've been waiting more than two hours, and thought I heard you coming a half dozen times." He shook hands with Kincade and Bud, the latter asking: "Is everything all right?" "Yes, I've had my eyes open, you may depend." "Will there be any risk in leaving the horse here?" asked Kincade. "None at all--no one will disturb him." "Then we had better go on, for there's a pretty good load to carry." "I guess I can find the way best," said Bud, taking the lead. "I've been over the route so often I can follow it with my eyes shut." Sutton was also familiar with it, and though it cost some trouble and not a little care, they advanced without much difficulty. Bud regretted that he had not brought his bull's eye lantern with him, and beyond question it would have been of service, but Sutton said it might attract attention, and it was better to get along without it if possible. The distance was considerable, and all of half an hour was taken in making their way through the wood, the darkness being such in many places that they had to hold their hands in front of them to escape collision with limbs and trunks of trees. "Here we are!" It was Bud Heyland who spoke, and in the dim light his companions saw that he was right. There was a small, natural clearing, which enabled them to observe the blasted oak without difficulty. The little party stood close by the hiding-place of the plunder that had been taken from the old brick mansion several nights before. "You can reach down to it, can't you?" asked Sutton, addressing Bud Heyland. "Yes; it's only a little ways down." "Hand it out, then," added Kincade; "I shan't feel right till we have all this loot safely stowed away with Tom Carmen at the 'Four Corners.'" "All right," responded Bud, who immediately thrust his head and shoulders into the cavity. He remained in this bent position less than a minute, when he jerked out his head as though some serpent had struck at him with his fangs, and exclaimed: "It's all gone!" "What?" gasped Jake Kincade. "Somebody has taken everything away----" In the dim light, Bud Heyland at that juncture observed something which amazed him still more. Instead of two men there were three, and two of them were struggling fiercely together. These were Cyrus Sutton and Jacob Kincade, but the struggle was short. In a twinkling the showman was thrown on his back, and the nippers placed on his wrists. "It's no use," said Sutton, as he had called himself, in a low voice; "the game is up, Jacob." Before Bud Heyland could understand that he and Kincade were entrapped, the third man sprang forward and manipulated the handcuffs so dexterously that Bud quickly realized he was a helpless captive. This third man was Archie Jackson, the constable, who could not avoid declaring in a louder voice than was necessary. "We've got you both, and you may as well take it like men. This gentleman whom you two took for Cyrus Sutton, a cattle drover, is my old friend James Carter, the detective, from New York." And such was the truth indeed. CHAPTER XXI. HOW IT WAS DONE. As was intimated at the close of the preceding chapter, the individual who has figured thus far as Cyrus Sutton, interested in the cattle business, was in reality James Carter, the well-known detective of the metropolis. When he received word from Archie Jackson of the robbery that had been committed near Tottenville, he went out at once to the little town to investigate. Mr. Carter was a shrewd man, who understood his business, and he took the precaution to go in such a disguise that the fussy little constable never once suspected his identity. The detective wished to find out whether it would do to trust the officer, and he was quick to see that if Jackson was taken into his confidence, he would be likely to spoil everything, from his inability to keep a secret. So the real detective went to work in his own fashion, following up the clews with care, and allowing Jackson to disport himself as seemed best. He was not slow to fix his suspicions on the right parties, and he then devoted himself to winning the confidence of Bud Heyland. It would have been an easy matter to fasten the guilt on this bad boy, but the keen-witted officer was quick to perceive that he had struck another and more important trail, which could not be followed to a successful conclusion without the full confidence of young Heyland. He learned that Bud was being used as a tool by other parties, who were circulating counterfeit money, and Jacob Kincade was one of the leaders, with the other two who composed the company in New York. The detectives in that city were put to work and captured the knaves almost at the same time that Bud and Kincade were taken. It required a little time for Mr. Carter to satisfy himself beyond all mistake that the two named were the ones who were engaged in the dangerous pursuit of "shoving" spurious money, and he resolved that when he moved he would have the proof established beyond a shadow of doubt. He easily drew the most important facts from Bud, and thus it will be seen the recovery of the stolen silverware became secondary to the detection of the dealers in counterfeit money. The officer was annoyed by the failure of Kincade to appear on the night he agreed, and was fearful lest he suspected something and would keep out of the way. He could have taken him at the time Fred Sheldon was paid his reward, for he knew the showman at that time had a lot of bad money in his possession, though he paid good bills to Fred, who, it will be remembered, placed them in the hands of Squire Jones. Bud was determined to exchange bad currency for this, and waylaid Fred for that purpose, but failed, for the reason already given. He, however, gave Fred twenty dollars to change, which it will also be remembered fell into the hands of the detective a few minutes later, and was one of the several links in the chain of evidence that was forged about the unsuspecting youth and his employer. Then Bud, like many beginners in actual transgression, became careless, and worked off a great deal of the counterfeit money in the village where he was staying, among the lot being the one hundred dollars which he paid the liveryman for wrecking his wagon. When Fred Sheldon came into the village to claim his reward for securing the estray lion, Cyrus Sutton, as he was known, who was sitting on the hotel porch, became interested in him. He scrutinized him sharply, but avoided asking him any questions. It was natural, however, that he should feel some curiosity, and he learned that what he suspected was true; the boy was the child of Mary Sheldon, who was the widow of George Sheldon, killed some years before on the battle-field. George Sheldon and James Carter had been comrades from the beginning of the war until the former fell while fighting for his country. The two had "drank from the same canteen," and were as closely bound together as if brothers. Carter held the head of Sheldon when he lay dying, and sent the last message to his wife, who had also been a schoolmate of Carter's. An aptitude which the latter showed in tracing crime and wrong-doers led him into the detective business, and he lost sight of the widow of his old friend and their baby boy, until drawn to Tottenville in the pursuit of his profession. He reproached himself that he did not discover the truth sooner, but when he found that Mrs. Sheldon was absent he could only wait until she returned, and as we have shown, he took the first occasion to call upon her and renew the acquaintance of former years. But the moment Carter identified the brave little fellow who had earned his reward for capturing the wild beast he made up his mind to do a generous thing for him and his mother; he was determined that if it could possibly be brought about Fred should receive the five hundred dollars reward offered for the recovery of the silver plate stolen from the Misses Perkinpine. Circumstances already had done a good deal to help him in his laudable purpose, for, as we have shown, Fred had witnessed the robbery, and, in fact, had been brought in contact with both of the guilty parties. Mr. Carter was afraid to take Fred into his entire confidence, on account of his tender years; and though he was an unusually bright and courageous lad, the detective was reluctant to bring him into any more intimate association with crime than was necessary from the service he intended to do him. As he was too prudent to trust the constable, Archie Jackson, it will be seen that he worked entirely alone until the night that Mrs. Sheldon returned home. Then he called upon her and told her his whole plans, for he knew that Fred inherited a good deal of his bravery from her, and though it was contrary to his rule to make a confidant of any one, he did not hesitate to tell her all. She was deeply grateful for the kindness he contemplated, though she was not assured that it was for the best to involve Fred as was proposed. The detective, however, succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and they agreed upon the plan of action. The boy was encouraged to make his hunt in the wood, for Carter had already learned from Bud Heyland that the plunder was hidden somewhere in it, and he had agreed to assist in bringing it forth, though Bud would not agree to show him precisely where it was, until the time should come for taking it away. When Fred found the hiding place he was so overjoyed that for awhile he did not know what to do; finally he concluded, as a matter of safety, to remove and hide it somewhere else. Accordingly he tugged and lifted the heavy pieces out one by one, and then carried them all some distance, placed them on the ground at the foot of a large beech tree and covered them up as best he could with leaves. This took him until nearly noon, when he ran home to tell his mother what he had done. Within the next hour James Carter knew it and he laughed with satisfaction. "It was the wisest thing that could have been done." "Why so?" asked the widow. "Don't you see he has already earned the reward, and, what is more, he shall have it, too. He has recovered the plate without the slightest assistance from any one." "But the thieves have not been caught." "That is my work; I will attend to that." "And what shall Fred do?" "Keep him home to-night, give him a good supper and put him to bed early, and tell him it will be all right in the morning." Mrs. Sheldon did not feel exactly clear that it was "all right," but the good-hearted Carter had a way of carrying his point, and he would not listen to any argument from her. So she performed her part of the programme in spirit and letter, and when Fred Sheldon closed his eyes in slumber that Saturday evening it was in the belief that everything would come out as his mother promised, even though he believed that one of the guiltiest of the criminals was the man known as Cyrus Sutton. Mrs. Sheldon wanted to tell the little fellow the whole story that night, but the detective would not consent until the "case was closed." When Archie Jackson was called upon late in the afternoon by James Carter and informed how matters stood, he was dumfounded for several minutes. It seemed like doubting his own senses, to believe that the cattle drover was no other than the famous New York detective, but he was convinced at last, and entered with great ardor into the scheme for the capture of the criminals. Mr. Carter impressed upon the constable the fact that the offered reward had already been earned by Master Fred Sheldon. Archie was disposed to demur, but finally, with some show of grace, he gave in and said he would be pleased to extend his congratulations to the young gentleman. A little judicious flattery on the part of the detective convinced Archie that a point had been reached in the proceedings, where his services were indispensable, and that, if the two law breakers were to be captured, it must be through the help of the brave Tottenville constable, who would receive liberal compensation for his assistance. Accordingly, Archie was stationed near the spot where it was certain Bud Heyland and Jacob Kincade would appear, later in the evening. At a preconcerted signal, he sprang from his concealment, and the reader has learned that he performed his part in really creditable style. CHAPTER XXII. AN ATTEMPTED RESCUE. Now since the reader knows how it happened that Archie Jackson and he who had masqueraded under the name of Cyrus Sutton chanced to be at this particular spot in the woods when the thieves would have removed their booty, and also why the silver could not be found by these worthies, it is necessary to return to the place where the arrest was made. Bud Heyland did not take kindly to the idea of being a prisoner. None knew better than himself the proofs which could be brought against him, and, after the first surprise passed away, his only thought was of how he might escape. While the valiant Archie stood over him in an attitude of triumph, the detective was holding a short but very concise conversation with the second captive. "I'll make you smart for this," Bud heard Kincade say. "Things have come to a pretty pass when a man who is invited by a friend to stop on the road a minute in order to look for a whip that was lost while we were hunting for the lion, gets treated in this manner by a couple of drunken fools." Taking his cue from the speech, Bud added in an injured tone: "That's a fact. I was on my way to join the show; but thought it might be possible to find the whip, for it belongs to Colonel Bandman, an' he kicked because I left it." "After the plans we have laid, Heyland, do you think it is well to try such a story on me," Carter asked sternly. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. Jake has told how we happened to come here." "He didn't explain why you wanted Fred Sheldon to change a twenty-dollar bill for you, nor how it happened that you had an hundred dollars to pay for the wagon which was smashed." "I've got nothing to do with any counterfeit money that has been passed, and I defy you to prove it," Kincade cried, energetically. "Who said anything about counterfeits?" the detective asked, sternly. "It will be well for you to keep your mouth shut, unless you want to get deeper in the mire than you are already. It so chances, however, that I have ample proof of your connection with the robbery, aside from what Bud may have let drop, and, in addition, will show how long you have been engaged in the business of passing worthless money, so there is no need of any further talk. Will you walk to the road, or shall we be forced to carry you?" This question was asked because Bud had seated himself as if intending to remain for some time; but he sprung to his feet immediately, so thoroughly cowed, that he would have attempted to obey any command, however unreasonable, in the hope of finding favor in the sight of his captors. "We've got to do what you say, for awhile, anyhow," Kincade replied, sulkily; "but somebody will suffer because of this outrage." "I'll take the chances," Carter replied, laughingly. "Step out lively, for I intend to get some sleep to-night." "Hold on a minute," the fussy little constable cried, as he ran to the side of the detective and whispered: "I think we should take the silver with us. There may be more of this gang who will come after it when they find we have nabbed these two." "I fancy it's safe," was the careless reply, "and whether it is or not, we must wait until we see Fred again, for I haven't the slightest idea where he hid it." "But, you see----" "Now, don't fret, my friend," the detective interrupted, determined that Fred should take the silver himself to the maiden ladies. "You have conducted the case so admirably thus far that it would be a shame to run the risk of spoiling the job by loitering here where there may be an attempt at a rescue." This bit of flattery, coupled with the intimation that there might be a fight, caused Archie to remain silent. He was eager to be in town where he could relate his wonderful skill in trapping the thieves, as well as his fear lest there should be a hand-to-hand encounter with desperate men, and these desires caused him to make every effort to land the prisoners in jail. He even lost sight of the reward, for the time being, through the anxiety to sing his own praises, and in his sternest tones, which were not very dreadful, by the way, he urged Bud forward. "If you make the slightest show of trying to run away, I'll put a dozen bullets in your body," he said, and then, as he reached for his weapon to further intimidate the prisoner, he discovered, to his chagrin, that, as on a previous occasion, his revolver was at home; but in its place, put there while he labored under great excitement, was the tack-hammer, symbol of his trade as bill-poster. The two men went toward the road very meekly, evidently concluding that submission was the best policy, and for once Carter made a mistake. Having worked up the case to such a satisfactory conclusion, and believing these were the only two attachés of the circus in the vicinity, he allowed Archie Jackson to manage matters from this point. The valiant constable, thinking only of the glory with which he would cover himself as soon as he was at the hotel amid a throng of his acquaintances, simply paid attention to the fact that the prisoners were marching properly in front of him, heeding not the rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond. Kincade heard them, however, and he whispered softly to Bud: "There's just a chance that some of our people are coming. I heard Colonel Bandman say he should send Albers and Towsey back to look up some harness that was left to be repaired, and this is about the time they ought to be here." "Much good it will do us with that fool of a Jackson ready to shoot, the first move we make," Bud replied petulantly. "Go on without so much talk," Archie cried fiercely, from the rear. "You can't play any games on me." "From what I've heard, you know pretty well how a man can shoot in the dark, an' I'll take my chances of gettin' a bullet in the back rather than go to jail for ten years or so. When I give the word, run the best you know how." Bud promised to obey; but from the tone of his voice it could be told that he had much rather shoot at a person than act as target himself, and Archie ordered the prisoners to quicken their speed. Carter was several paces in the rear, remaining in the background in order, for the better carrying out of his own plans in regard to Fred, it should appear as if the constable was the commanding officer, and when the party arrived at the edge of the road where Bud had fastened the horse, the rumble of the approaching team could be heard very distinctly. "Now's our time! Run for your life!" Kincade whispered, staring up the road at the same instant, and as Bud followed at full speed both shouted for help at the utmost strength of their lungs. It was as if this daring attempt at escape deprived Archie of all power of motion. He lost several valuable seconds staring after his vanishing prisoners in speechless surprise, and followed this officer-like proceeding by attempting to shoot the fugitives with the tack-hammer. Carter, although not anticipating anything of the kind, had his wits about him, and, rushing past the bewildered constable, darted up the road in silence. He was well armed; but did not care to run the risk of killing one of the thieves, more especially since he felt positive of overtaking both in a short time, owing to the fact that the manacles upon their wrists would prevent them from any extraordinary speed. Neither Bud nor Kincade ceased to call for help, and almost before Carter was well in pursuit a voice from the oncoming team could be heard saying: "That's some of our crowd. I'm sure nobody but Jake could yell so loud." "It _is_ me!" Kincade shouted. "Hold hard, for there are a couple of officers close behind!" By the sounds which followed, Carter understood that the new-comers were turning their wagon, preparatory to carrying the arrested parties in the opposite direction, and he cried to the valiant Archie, who as yet had not collected his scattered senses sufficiently to join in the pursuit: "Bring that team on here, and be quick about it!" Now, to discharge a weapon would be to imperil the lives of the new actors on the scene, and this was not to be thought of for a moment. Carter strained every muscle to overtake his prisoners before they could clamber into the wagon; but in vain. Even in the gloom he could see the dark forms of the men as they leaped into the rear of the vehicle, and in another instant the horse was off at a full gallop in the direction from which he had just come. For the detective to go on afoot would have been folly, and once more he cried for Archie to bring the team, which had been left by the roadside when Kincade and Bud arrived. The little constable had by this time managed to understand at least a portion of what was going on around him, and, in a very bungling fashion, was trying to unfasten the hitching-rein; but he made such a poor job of it that Carter was forced to return and do the work himself. "Get in quickly," the detective said, sharply, as he led the horse into the road, and following Archie, the two were soon riding at a mad pace in pursuit, regardless alike of possible vehicles to be met, or the danger of being overturned. "Why didn't you shoot 'em when you had the chance?" Archie asked, as soon as he realized the startling change in the condition of affairs. "Because that should be done only when a man is actually in fear of his life, or believes a dangerous prisoner cannot be halted in any other way." "But that was the only chance of stoppin' them fellers." "I'll have them before morning," was the quiet reply, as the driver urged the horse to still greater exertions. "Those men have been traveling a long distance, while our animal is fresh, therefore it's only a question of time; but how does it happen that you didn't shoot? I left the fellows in your charge." "I was out putting up some bills this afternoon, and had my hammer with me, of course. When we got ready for this trip, I felt on the outside of my hip pocket, and made sure it was my revolver that formed such a bunch." "Another time I should advise you to be certain which of your many offices you intend to represent," Carter said, quietly. "I'm not positive, however, that we haven't cause to be thankful, for somebody might have been hurt." "There's no question about it, if I had been armed," was the reply, in a blood-thirsty tone, for Archie was rapidly recovering his alleged courage. "And I, being in the rear, stood as good a chance of receiving the bullet as did the men." "You have never seen me shoot," the little constable said, proudly. "Fortunately, I never did," Carter replied, and then the conversation ceased, as they were at the forks of a road where it was necessary to come to a halt in order to learn in which direction the fugitives had gone. This was soon ascertained, and as the detective applied the whip vigorously, he said, warningly: "Now keep your wits about you, for we are where they will try to give us the slip, and it is more than possible Heyland and Kincade may jump out of the wagon, leaving us to follow the team, while they make good their escape." Archie tried very hard to do as he was commanded; he stared into darkness, able now and then to distinguish the outlines of the vehicle in advance, and at the same time was forced to exert all his strength to prevent being thrown from his seat, so recklessly was Carter driving. "We'll be upset," he finally said, in a mild tone of protest. "The road seems to be very rough, and there must be considerable danger in going at such a pace." "No more for us than for them. I'll take a good many chances rather than go back to Tottenville and admit that we allowed two prisoners to escape after we had them ironed." The little constable had nothing more to say. He also thought it would be awkward to explain to his particular friends how, after such a marvelous piece of detective work, the criminals had got free. This, coupled with the story of his bruised hand, would give the fun-loving inhabitants of the village an opportunity to make his life miserable with pointless jokes and alleged witticisms, therefore he shut his teeth firmly, resolved not to make any further protest even though convinced that his life was actually in danger. During half an hour the chase continued, and for at least twenty minutes of this time the pursuers were so near the pursued that it would have been impossible for either occupant of the wagon to leap out unnoticed. Now the foremost horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue, owing to previous travel and the unusual load. Both whip and voice was used to urge him on; but in vain, and Carter said, in a low tone to Archie: "The chase is nearly ended! Be ready to leap out the instant we stop." Then, drawing his revolver, he cried, "There's no chance of your giving us the slip. Pull up, or I shall fire! If the prisoners are delivered to me at once there will be nothing said regarding the effort to aid them in escaping; but a delay of five minutes will result in imprisonment for the whole party." Kincade's friends evidently recognized the folly of prolonging the struggle, and, to save themselves from possible penalties of the law, the driver shouted: "I'll pull up. Look out that you don't run into us!" It required no great effort to bring both the panting steeds to a stand-still, and in a twinkling Carter was standing at one side of the vehicle with his revolver in hand, while Archie, with a boldness that surprised him afterward, stationed himself directly opposite, holding the tack-hammer as if on the point of shooting the culprits. Kincade realized that it was best to submit to the inevitable with a good grace, and he descended from the wagon, saying to the little constable as he did so: "Don't shoot! I'll agree to go peacefully." "Then see that you behave yourself, or I'll blow the whole top of your head off," Archie replied, in a blood-thirsty tone; but at the same time he took very good care to keep the hammer out of sight. Bud Heyland resisted even now when those who had tried to aid were ready to give him up. "I won't go back!" he cried, kicking vigorously as the detective attempted to pull him from the wagon. "I've done nothing for which I can be arrested, and you shan't take me." The long chase had exhausted all of Carter's patience, and he was not disposed to spend many seconds in expostulating. Seizing the kicking youth by one foot he dragged him with no gentle force to the ground, and an instant later the men in the wagon drove off, evidently preferring flight to the chances that the detective would keep his promise. "Bundle them into the carriage, and tie their legs," Carter said to the constable, and in a very short space of time the thieves were lying in the bottom of the vehicle unable to move hand or foot. Now that there was not the slightest possibility the culprits could escape, Archie kept vigilant watch over them. The least movement on the part of either, as Carter drove the tired horse back to the village, was the signal for him to use his hammer on any portion of their bodies which was most convenient, and this repeated punishment must have caused Bud to remember how often he had ill-treated those who were quite as unable to "strike back" as he now was. Not until the prisoners were safely lodged in the little building which served as jail did Archie feel perfectly safe, and then all his old pompous manner returned. But for the detective he would have hurried away to tell the news, late in the night though it was, for in his own opinion at least, this night's work had shown him to be not only a true hero, but an able detective. "It is considerably past midnight," Carter said, as they left the jail, "and we have a great deal to do before this job is finished." "What do you mean?" "Are we to leave the silver and money?" "Of course not; but you said we'd have to wait until we saw Fred." "Exactly so; but what is to prevent our doing that now? When the property has been delivered to its rightful owners you and I can take our ease; until then we are bound to keep moving." Archie was disappointed at not being able to establish, without loss of time, his claim to being a great man; but he had no idea of allowing anything to be done in the matter when he was not present, if it could be avoided, and he clambered into the wagon once more. The two drove directly to the Sheldon home, and Fred was dreaming that burglars were trying to get into the house, when he suddenly became conscious that some one was pounding vigorously on the front door. Leaping from the bed and looking out of the window he was surprised at seeing the man whom he knew as Cyrus Sutton, and at the same moment he heard his mother ask: "What is the matter, Mr. Carter?" "Nothing, except that we want Fred. The case is closed, and to save time we'd better get the property at once. Have you any objection to his going with me?" "Not the slightest. I will awaken him." "I'll be down in a minute," Fred cried, as he began to make a hurried toilet, wondering meanwhile why Bud Heyland's friend should be trusted so implicitly by his mother. As a matter of course it was necessary for Mrs. Sheldon to explain to her son who Cyrus Sutton really was and Fred was still in a maze of bewilderment when his mother admitted the detective. "Why didn't you tell me," he cried reproachfully. "No good could have come of it," the gentleman replied laughingly, "and, besides, I can't see how you failed to discover the secret, either when you ran away after listening behind the rock on the road-side, or when I passed so near while supposed to be hunting for you." "Did you see me then?" "Certainly, and but for such slight obstructions as I placed in Bud's way, he might have overtaken you." "Where is Archie?" "Out in the wagon waiting for you. Kincade and Bud are in the lock-up where we just left them, and now it is proposed to get the silver in order to deliver it early in the morning." "Did mother tell you I found it?" "She did, and I am heartily glad, since now the reward will be yours, and with it you can clear your home from debt." Fred did not wait to ask any further questions. In a very few moments he was ready for the journey, and, with the promise to "come home as soon as the work was done," he went out to where Archie greeted him in the most effusive manner. "We have covered ourselves with glory," the little constable cried. "This is a case which will be told throughout the country, and the fact that we arrested the culprits and recovered the property when there was absolutely no clew on which to work, is something unparalleled in the annals of detective history." Fred was neither prepared to agree to, nor dispute this statement. The only fact which remained distinct in his mind was that the reward would be his, and if there was any glory attached he felt perfectly willing Archie should take it all. "Get into the wagon, Fred," Carter said impatiently. "It will take us until daylight to get the stuff, and we don't want to shock the good people of Tottenville by doing too much driving after sunrise." Fred obeyed without delay, and during the ride Archie gave him all the particulars concerning the capture of the thieves, save in regard to his own stupidity which permitted the temporary escape. Knowing the woods in the vicinity of his home as well as Fred did, it was not difficult for him to go directly to the place where he had hidden the silver, even in the night, and half an hour later the stolen service was in the carriage. "It is nearly daylight," Carter said, when they were driving in the direction of the village again, "and the best thing we can do will be to go to Fred's home, where he and I can keep guard over the treasure until it is a proper time to return it to its owners." "In that case I may as well go home awhile," Archie said reflectively. "Doubtless my wife will be wondering what has kept me, and there is no need of three to watch the silver." "Very well, we shall not leave there until about nine o'clock," and Carter reined in the horse as they were in front of the fussy little constable's house, for him to alight. CHAPTER XXIII. THE SILVERWARE RETURNED. The sabbath morning dawned cool, breezy and delightful, and the maiden twin sisters, Misses Annie and Lizzie Perkinpine, made their preparations for driving to the village church, just as they had been in the habit of doing for many years. It required a storm of unusual violence to keep them from the Sunday service, which was more edifying to the good souls than any worldly entertainment could have been. They were not among those whose health permits them to attend secular amusements, but who invariably feel "indisposed" when their spiritual duties are involved. "I was afraid, sister," said Annie, "that when our silver was stolen, the loss would weigh so heavily upon me that I would not be able to enjoy the church service as much as usual, but I am thankful that it made no difference with me; how was it with _you_?" "I could not help feeling disturbed for some days," was the reply, "for it _was_ a loss indeed, but, when we have so much to be grateful for, how wrong it is to repine----" "What's that?" interrupted the other, hastening to the window as she heard the rattle of carriage wheels; "some one is coming here as sure as I live." "The folks must have forgot that it is the Sabbath," was the grieved remark of the other. "But this is something out of the common. Heigho!" This exclamation was caused by the sight of Cyrus Sutton, as he leaped lightly out of the wagon and tied his horse, while Fred Sheldon seemed to be tugging at something on the floor of the vehicle, which resisted his efforts. Mr. Sutton, having fastened the horse, went to the help of the youngster, and the next moment the two approached the house bearing a considerable burden. "My gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Lizzie, throwing up her hands, and ready to sink to the floor in her astonishment; "they have got our silverware." "You are right," added her sister, "they have the whole six pieces, slop-jar, sugar bowl, cream pitcher--not one of the six missing. They have them _all_; _now_ we can go to church and enjoy the sermon more than ever." The massive service of solid silver quaintly fashioned and carved by the puffy craftsmen of Amsterdam, who wrought and toiled when sturdy old Von Tromp was pounding the British tars off Goodwin Sands, more than two centuries ago, was carried into the house with considerable effort and set on the dining-room table, while for a minute or two the owners could do nothing but clasp and unclasp their hands and utter exclamations of wonder and thankfulness that the invaluable heirlooms had at last come back to them. The detective and lad looked smilingly at the ladies, hardly less pleased than they. "Where did you find them?" asked Aunt Lizzie, addressing herself directly to Mr. Carter, as was natural for her to do. The detective pointed to the boy and said: "Ask him." "Why, what can Fred know about it?" inquired the lady, beaming kindly upon the blushing lad. "He knows everything, for it was not I, but he, who found them." "Why, Fred, how can that be?" "I found them in an old tree in the woods," replied the little fellow, blushing to his ears. "This gentleman helped me to bring them here, for I never could have lugged them alone." "Of course you couldn't, but since you have earned the reward, you shall have it. To-day is the holy Sabbath, and it would be wrong, therefore, to engage in any business, but come around early to-morrow morning and we will be ready." "And I want to say," said Aunt Annie, pinching the chubby cheek of the happy youngster, "that there isn't any one in the whole world that we would rather give the reward to than you." "And there is none that it will please me more to see receive it," was the cordial remark of Mr. Carter, who, respecting the scruples of the good ladies, was about to bid them good-morning, when Aunt Lizzie, walking to the window, said: "I wonder what is keeping Michael." "I am afraid he will not be here to-day," said the officer. "Why not?" asked the sisters together in astonishment. "Well, to tell you the truth, he is in trouble." "Why, what has Michael done." "Nothing himself, but do you remember the tramp who came here last Monday night, and, after eating at your table, stole, or rather helped to steal, your silver service?" "Of course we remember him." "Well, that tramp was Michael's son Bud, who had put on false whiskers and disguised himself so that you never suspected who he was. Bud is a bad boy and is now in jail." "What is the world coming to?" gasped Aunt Lizzie, sinking into a chair with clasped hands, while her sister was no less shocked. In their kindness of heart they would have been glad to lose a large part of the precious silverware could it have been the means of restoring the boy to honesty and innocence. But that was impossible, and the sisters could only grieve over the depravity of one whom they had trusted. They asked nothing about the money that was taken with the silver, but Mr. Carter handed more than one-half of the sum to them. "Bud had spent considerable, but he gave me this; Kincade declared that he hadn't a penny left, but I don't believe him; this will considerably decrease your loss." At this moment, there was a resounding knock on the door, and in response to the summons to enter, Archie Jackson appeared, very red in the face and puffing hard. Bowing hastily to the ladies, he said impatiently to the officer: "It seems to me you're deef." "Why so?" "I've been chasing and yelling after you for half a mile, but you either pretended you didn't hear me or maybe you didn't." "I assure you, Archie, that I would have stopped on the first call, if I had heard you, for you know how glad I am always to have your company, and how little we could have done without your help." The detective knew how to mollify the fussy constable, whose face flushed a still brighter red, under the compliments of his employer, as he may be termed. "I knowed you was coming here," explained Archie, "and so I come along, so as to vouch to these ladies for you." "You are very kind, but they seem to be satisfied with Master Fred's indorsement, for he has the reputation of being a truthful lad." "I'm glad to hear it; how far, may I ask," he continued, clearing his throat, "have you progressed in the settlement of the various questions and complications arising from the nefarious transaction on Monday evening last?" "The plate has been returned to the ladies, as your eyes must have told you; but, since this is the first day of the week, the reward will not be handed over to Fred until to-morrow morning. "Accept my congratulations, sir, accept my congratulations," said the constable, stepping ardently toward the boy and effusively extending his hand. The ladies declined to accept the money which the detective offered, insisting that it belonged to him. He complied with their wishes, and, since it was evident that Archie had hastened over solely to make sure he was not forgotten in the general distribution of wages, the detective handed him one hundred dollars, which was received with delight, since it was far more than the constable had ever earned in such a short time in all his life before. "Before I leave," said Mr. Carter, addressing the ladies, "I must impress one important truth upon you." "You mean about the sin of stealing," said Aunt Annie; "Oh, we have thought a good deal about _that_." The officer smiled in spite of himself, but quickly became serious again. "You mistake me. I refer to your practice of keeping such valuable plate as loosely as you have been in the habit of doing for so many years. The fact of the robbery will cause it to be generally known that your silver can be had by any one who chooses to enter your house and take it, and you may rest assured, that if you leave it exposed it won't be long before it will vanish again, beyond the reach of all the Fred Sheldons and detectives in the United States." "Your words are wise," said Aunt Annie, "and I have made up my mind that we must purchase two or three more locks and put them on the chest." "I think I know a better plan than _that_," Aunt Lizzie hastened to say. "What's that?" inquired the visitor. "We'll get Michael to bring some real heavy stones to the house and place them on the lid of the chest, so as to hold it down." "Neither of your plans will work," said Mr. Carter solemnly; "you must either place your silver in the bank, where you can get it whenever you wish, or you must buy a burglar-proof safe and lock it up in that every night." "I have heard of such things," said Aunt Lizzie, "and I think we will procure a safe, for it is more pleasant to know that the silver is in the house than it is to have it in the bank, miles off, where it will be so hard to take and bring it. What do you think, sister?" "The same as you do." "Then we will buy the safe." "And until you do so, the silver must be deposited in the bank; though, as this is Sunday, you will have to keep it in the house until the morrow." "I shall not feel afraid to do that," was the serene response of sister Lizzie, "because no man, even if he is wicked enough to be a robber, would be so abandoned as to commit the crime on _Sunday_." The beautiful faith of the good soul was not shocked by any violent results of her trust. Though the silver remained in her house during the rest of that day and the following night, it was not disturbed, and on the morrow was safely delivered to the bank, where it stayed until the huge safe was set up in the old mansion, in which the precious stuff was deposited, and where at this writing it still remains, undisturbed by any wicked law-breakers. You may not know it, but it is a fact that there are circuses traveling over the country to-day whose ticket-sellers receive no wages at all, because they rely upon the short change and the bad money which they can work off on their patrons. Not only that, but I know of a case where a man paid twenty dollars monthly for the privilege of selling tickets for a circus. From this statement, I must except any and all enterprises with which my old friend, P. T. Barnum, has any connection. Nothing could induce him to countenance such dishonesty. Trained in this pernicious school, Jacob Kincade did not hesitate to launch out more boldly, and finally he formed a partnership with two other knaves, for the purpose of circulating counterfeit money, engaging now and then in the side speculation of burglary, as was the case at Tottenville, where he arrived a few hours in advance of the show itself. He and his two companions were deserving of no sympathy, and each was sentenced to ten years in the State prison. The youth of Bud Heyland, his honest repentance and the grief of his father and mother aroused great sympathy for him. It could not be denied that he was a bad boy, who had started wrong, and was traveling fast along the downward path. In truth, he had already gone so far that it may be said the goal was in sight when he was brought up with such a round turn. A fact greatly in his favor was apparent to all--he had been used as a cat's paw by others. He was ignorant of counterfeit money, though easily persuaded to engage in the scheme of passing it upon others. True, the proposition to rob the Perkinpine sisters came from him, but in that sad affair also he was put forward as the chief agent, while his partner took good care to keep in the background. Bud saw the fearful precipice on whose margin he stood. His parents were almost heart-broken, and there could be no doubt of his anxiety to atone, so far as possible, for the evil he had done. Fortunately, the judge was not only just but merciful, and, anxious to save the youth, he discharged him under a "suspended sentence," as it was called, a most unusual proceeding under the circumstances, but which proved most beneficent, since the lad never gave any evidence of a desire to return to his evil ways. As for Master Fred Sheldon, I almost feel as though it is unnecessary to tell you anything more about him, for, with such a mother, with such natural inclinations, and with such training, happiness, success and prosperity are as sure to follow as the morning is to succeed the darkness of night. I tell you, boys, you may feel inclined to slight the old saying that honesty is the best policy, but no truer words were ever written, and you should carry them graven on your hearts to the last hours of your life. Fred grew into a strong, sturdy boy, who held the respect and esteem of the neighborhood. The sisters Perkinpine, as well as many others, took a deep interest in him and gave him help in many ways, and often when the boy was embarrassed by receiving it. The time at last came, when our "Young Hero" bade good-by to his loved mother, and went to the great city of New York to carve his fortune. There he was exposed to manifold more temptations than ever could be the case in his simple country home, but he was encased in the impenetrable armor of truthfulness, honesty, industry and right principles, and from this armor all the darts of the great adversary "rolled off like rustling rain." Fred is now a man engaged in a prosperous business in the metropolis of our country, married to a loving and helpful wife, who seems to hold the sweetest and tenderest place in his affection, surpassed by that of no one else, but equalled by her who has been his guardian angel from infancy--HIS MOTHER. THE WALNUT ROD. BY R. F. COLWELL. My father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of Philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. We played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the Juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of March. At the time of which I speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. Harry, Carl and Francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. I, Royal by name, a junior in a well-known New England college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds. We packed our bags, took our rods--for trout fishing was often good, even in early April, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture--and boarded the train. At the station the hired man met us with a pair of Morgan horses than which I do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with Aunt Celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. She was a widow, having lost her husband in the Mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern New York. She was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling Aunt Celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought. We had a cozy tea. The special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. This was Saturday evening. The next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that I remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "Henry's boys take after him for their good voices." Father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school. The next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. We fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. The next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty _Epigæa repens_, arbutus, or May flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. Their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since I have picked one. Carl and Francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. Harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "Don't be a coward, Harry!" "A girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. When I was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence I knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. A boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one. It was Saturday afternoon; we were to leave Monday morning, and I had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us Monday noon. Behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. The boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. Francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. He called to Carl to follow him. Carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "Fran, shall I strike all right?" dropped and was happy. Then they both called to Harry, "Come on, Hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. When they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted Harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than Carl and Francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once. Grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. Nothing more was said. I returned soon after. We had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. Grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. I occupied an antique chair I had found in the attic, and which I was to carry home for my own room. Carl and Francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while Aunt Celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and Harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck. We remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "Celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" We looked up in swift surprise. The walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at Bunker Hill and Yorktown. Often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." Now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "Oh, yes, Aunt Celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "I suppose they can learn its lesson now," began: "I was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. There were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. Your uncles, John, William, and Elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. Accordingly, Henry and I were much together. We studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' But your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and I knew better than they, that he was no coward. They called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. I'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." Here Francis and Carl felt their faces grow hot, but Aunt Celia said no more and went on. "It was one day in April, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick May flowers. Henry was nearly twelve years old--his birthday, as you know, is next month--and I was ten. It had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. Old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one. "We all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle Elijah said, as we were going along, 'I wonder what Hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, I guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but Henry said nothing, though I saw his lips quiver at the taunt. "We found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. We picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. I saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. All the boys started up, looking about eagerly. The bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. Then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'Jump, Celia, it's a rattlesnake!' "I could not move. I must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though I was but a child, I could not misunderstand my danger. Of course, what I am telling happened in a few seconds, but I remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet. "Harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick--the one you see on the antlers yonder--had saved me from a dreadful death. There he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. We walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. I shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how I wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad. "Nothing was ever said to the older boys. They had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. Your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the Latin _cor_, and down through the French _coeur_, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart. "The snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. There has never since been seen another in this locality." We sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on Harry's curls: "I seem to see my boy Henry again in his son, Harry. I hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward Francis and Carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. If the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you." HOW THE HATCHET WAS BURIED. BY OCTAVIA CARROLL. A feud, as fierce as that between the Montagues and Capulets, had for several years raged between the boys of Valleytown and the country lads living on the breezy hills just above the small village. Originating in a feeling of jealousy, it waxed hotter and more bitter with every game of ball and every examination at the "Academy" where they were forced to meet the rival factions, tauntingly dubbing each other "Lilies of the Valley" and "Ground Moles," while if a Lily chanced to whip a Mole in a fair fight all the town-bred youths immediately stood on their heads for joy, and if a Mole went above a Lily in class, the entire hill company crowed as loudly as the chanticleers of the barnyard. By general consent two boys had come to be considered the leaders of the respective factions; handsome, quick-witted Roy Hastings of the former, and stronger, bright Carl Duckworth of the latter; while it was an annoyance to each that their sisters had struck up a "bosom friendship" and stubbornly refused to share in their brothers' feud. "It is so absurd in Roy," said Helen Hastings, "to want me not to visit Maizie, whom I love so dearly, just because one of her family has beaten him at baseball and shot more pigeons this spring." "And Helen shall come to tea as often as she likes to put up with our plain fare," declared little Miss Duckworth, "even if Carl does look like a thunder-cloud all supper time and has hardly enough politeness to pass the butter." So matters stood when, one evening in early June, the commander of the heights' coterie summoned his followers to a meeting in the loft of an old barn on his father's estate, that was only used as a storehouse since a better one had been built. "Hello, fellows, what is this pow-wow about?" asked agile Mark Tripp, as he sprang up a rickety ladder and popped his head through the square opening in the attic floor. "Dun'no; some bee, Duckworth, here, has buzzing round in his bonnet," replied lazy Hugh Blossom from the hay, where he reclined. "It takes the captain to have 'happy thoughts,'" while, playfully pulling a refractory lock of hair sticking out from Carl's head, he gaily chanted: "And the duck with the feather curled over his back, He leads all the others, with his quack! quack! quack!" "Good enough! All right, Ducky, proceed with your quacking! Let's know what's up! Are the 'low-ly lil-is of the val-ly' once more on the war path? And to what do they challenge us--a spelling match or a swimming race?" "To neither. Those very superior posies are about to seek glory in another way. I have learned from a most reliable source that they are now hoarding all their pocket money in order to astonish the natives. In fact, fellers, they intend to fresco Valleytown a decided carmine on the 'Glorious Fourth,' and we have got to make the hills hum to quench 'em." "What form is their celebration to take?" asked little Peter Wheatly. "Fireworks, principally. Real stunners! Not just a few Roman candles and sky-rockets, but flower-pots throwing up colored balls that burst into stars, zigzagging serpents, and all sorts of things, such as have never been seen round here before. Why, our big bonfire and giant crackers will be nowhere." "Right you are there, Cap," said Hugh. "They will have all the country down on the Green patting them on the back for their public spirit, while we occupy a back seat. It's a pretty bright move for the Lilies, and I don't see how we can prevent it." "Get up a counter-attraction. Pyro--pyro--what do you call 'em will make a good deal finer show from Round Knob than down yonder in the dale." "Sure. But where are your pyrotechnics to come from?" "From the city, of course. See here, I wrote to a firm there as soon as I learned the Lilies' secret, and they sent me a price-list." Young Duckworth produced a very gay red and yellow circular, but the boys only looked at each other in blank amazement. The hillside farmers were nearly all land poor, gaining but a bare subsistence out of the rocky New England soil and seldom had a dime, much less dollars, to squander on mere amusement. "Guess you think we are Rothschilds or Vanderbilts," snickered small Peter. "Pennies always burn a hole in my pocket and drop right out," said Mark. "I might chip in a copper cent and a nickel with a dig in it," drawled Hugh, and there was no one else who could do better. "Well, I know you are an impecunious lot," continued Carl, "but next week the strawberries will be dead ripe. If you fellows will only be patriotic and pitch in and pick for the cause we can put Roy Hastings and his top-lofty crowd to the blush by getting up a really respectable show with a 'piece' as a topper off. I don't believe the Valleyites ever thought of a 'piece.'" "What sort of a piece?" asked Bud Perkins. "Why, a fancy piece of fireworks, of course. Just listen to what Powder & Co. offer!" and Carl read aloud: "'Realistic spectacle of Mother Goose, in peaked hat and scarlet cloak, with her gander by her side. The head of George Washington, the Father of his Country, surrounded by thirteen stars. Very fine. Superb figure of Christopher Columbus landing from his Spanish galleon upon the American shore. One of our most magnificent designs." "There, don't that sound prime? They're expensive, awfully expensive, but we can economize on the rockets and little things to come out strong, in a blaze of glory, at the end. I warrant a Mother Goose or, better yet, a Washington would shut up the Lilies' leaves in a jiffy." "Or Christopher Columbus--I vote for old Chris," shouted Mark. "Yes, yes, Chris and his galleon," chorused the others. "It is the dearest of them all," remarked Carl, somewhat dubiously. "No matter, 'Chris or nothing,' say we." So it was decided, and before the boys parted they had all agreed, if they could win their parents' consent, to hire out for the berry-picking and to contribute every cent thus earned toward the Fourth of July celebration. There is no spur like competition, and for the next three weeks the ambitious youths devoted themselves heart, and soul, and fingers to the cause; but the pickers had their reward, when, the berry harvest over, they found they could send a tolerably satisfactory order to Powder & Co., and when, on the third of July, a great box arrived by express, was unpacked, and its contents secretly, and under the cover of night, stored away in the lower part of Farmer Duckworth's discarded barn, their exuberant delight burst forth in sundry ecstatic somersaults and Indian-like dances. It may be, however, that their exultation might have been tempered with caution had they been aware of two figures gliding stealthily through the darkness without, and known that the case, bearing the name of the city firm, when it was taken from the train, had not escaped the sharp eyes of Roy Hastings and his chum Ed Spafford. "How do you suppose they ever raised the money to buy all those fireworks?" asked one shadow of another shadow, as they flitted down the hill. "I don't know, confound 'em! But I do know their show is better than ours, and something has got to be done!" "Yes, indeed, and surely, Roy, there must be some way!" "There always is where there is a will, and--and--_matches_!" Boom, boom, boom! Old Captain Stone's ancient cannon announced the advent of another Independence Day shortly after midnight, and Young America was quickly abroad with the Chinese cracker and torpedo. Helen Hastings disliked the deafening racket of the village and, therefore, early beat a retreat to the hills, determined to enjoy the day in her own fashion with Maizie, who welcomed her with open arms. "I am so glad you have come, Nell, dear, for I was feeling as blue as your sash, if it is the Fourth of July!" "Why, darling, what is the matter?" "Oh, I am so worried because pa is worried. He don't act a bit like his dear, jolly, old self, but goes round with a long face and can neither eat nor sleep. Ma says it is because a mortgage or something is coming due, and the crops have been so bad for several years that he is afraid he may have to sell the farm and move out West. It would just break my heart to leave this place." "So it would mine. But there, Maizie, it is foolish to be troubled about what may never happen. It is so warm let us find a nice cool spot and finish the book we commenced the other day." "There is a good current of air through the loft of the old barn. We will go there if you can scramble up the ladder." This, with some assistance, Helen succeeded in doing, and the two girls were soon nestling in the sweet, new-mown hay. "Eleven o'clock," announced Helen, consulting her little chatelaine watch as they finally laid down the entertaining story they had been reading, "and I am both sleepy and thirsty." "Well, my dear, lie back and take a nap and I will go and make lemonade for us both." "Really? Oh, that will be delicious!" and throwing herself back on the fragrant mow she closed her eyes as her blithe, hospitable friend skipped off toward the house. The twittering of the swallows in the eaves and the hum of the insects in the meadows without were curiously soothing, and the fair maid fell into a light doze from which, however, she was rudely awakened by a terrific explosion. She sprang to her feet in alarm to find the floor heaving like the deck of a ship at sea and feel the tumble-down building rocking as though shaken to its very foundation. "What has happened! Is it an earthquake?" she gasped, rushing to the ladder-way; but she started back in affright at sight of a mass of flame and flying, fiery objects below. "Oh, this is terrible!" Was she, Helen Hastings--her father's pride, her brothers' pet--to meet a violent death here in this lonely spot? Expecting every instant to have the boards give way beneath her, she flew to the window and, in her desperation, would have leaped out, regardless of a huge pile of stones beneath, had not the voice of Maizie at that moment reached her ear calling: "Don't jump, Helen; don't jump! You will be killed! Wait! courage! I am going for help." Even as she faltered hesitatingly, her strength failed, her senses reeled and she fell fainting to the ground. Across lots from Round Knob, where they had been preparing for the evening exhibition, came Carl Duckworth, Hugh Blossom and Bud Perkins. They were in high spirits, discussing with animation the anticipated fun, when Bud suddenly stopped short, asking, "Who are those fellows making tracks so fast down the road?" "Looks like Roy Hastings and Ed Spafford," replied Hugh. "Though what brings them this way on such a day as this puzzles me." "I hope they haven't got wind of our plans and been up to some mischief," said Carl, uneasily, instinctively quickening his footsteps. A moment later, as they entered the farm gate, the explosion that had awakened Helen made them also start and gaze at each other in dismay. Then a howl of mingled rage, grief and astonishment burst from the trio as through the open door of the old barn shot a confused medley of rockets, pin-wheels, snakes and grasshoppers, popping and fizzing madly in the garish sunlight; a howl that culminated in a shriek when whirling and spinning out whizzed the famous "piece," the Landing of Columbus, thrown by the concussion far upon the grass, where it went off in a highly erratic manner, poor Christopher appearing perfectly demoralized as he stood on his head in the brilliant galleon, with his feet waving amid a galaxy of stars. "All our three weeks' labor and all our money gone up in smoke!" groaned Bud, flinging himself down in an agony of despair. "And it is Roy Hastings' mean, dastardly work," growled Hugh; while Carl turned pale with wrath and shook his fist in a way that boded no good to his enemy. Indeed, at that instant, he felt that revenge, swift and telling, would be the sweetest thing in life. Truly, then, it seemed the very irony of fate, when, from amid the wreaths of smoke pouring from the upper loft window, emerged for a brief second a girlish, white-robed figure, with beseeching, outstretched hands, that paused, swayed, then fell back and disappeared, while Maizie rushed toward them crying, "Oh, Carl, Carl! The old barn is on fire, and Helen is in there!" "What! Roy Hastings' sister?" and Hugh actually laughed aloud. "Serves the mean rascal right, too, if she was killed, for he would have no one but himself to blame," said Bud Perkins, whose bark was always worse than his bite, and who was really as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived. "Oh, you bad, cruel boys!" exclaimed Maizie; "but Carl, I know, will not be so wicked," and she turned imploringly to her brother, in whose mind a fierce struggle was going on. In a flash, he saw his foe bowed and crushed with remorse, a "paying back" far beyond anything he could have dreamed of! Besides, the risk was tremendous, and why should he endanger his life? But the next moment humanity triumphed, and shouting, "We can't stand idle and see a girl perish before our eyes! So here goes," he sped off toward the burning building, stripping off his jacket, as he ran, which he plunged into a barrel of water and then wrapped closely about his head. Thus protected, he bravely dashed through the flames lapping at him with their fiery tongues. His breath came in short, quick pants, he was nearly suffocated, and falling rafters warned him that he had no time to spare. Valiantly, however, he struggled to the already charred ladder and groped his way up it, until, gasping and exhausted, he reached the window with the unconscious girl in his arms, as the fire was eating through the floor at his feet. To the anxious watchers outside, it appeared an eternity before the lad reached the window and deftly caught the rope they had ready to toss to him. With trembling fingers he knotted this about Helen's waist, gently let her down into the arms of Bud and Hugh and then prepared to descend himself, when a groan of horror from the onlookers rent the air; there was a quiver, a sudden giving way, a deafening crash and roar. The flooring had at length succumbed to the destroying element and gone down. Mrs. Duckworth sank on her knees sobbing. "Oh, my boy! my boy!" and Maizie hid her face. But, as the smoke cleared away, the groan changed to a joyous shout and all looked up to behold the youth clinging to the casement, which was still upheld by two feeble supports. Hugh sprang forward. "Carl, drop! Let yourself drop," he called. "We will catch you," and Carl, as a great darkness overwhelmed him, dropped like a dead weight and was borne, a begrimed and senseless burden, to his own little room in the cozy old homestead. Summer was over ere a mere wraith of sturdy, lively Carl Duckworth was able to creep down stairs to sit on the veranda and gaze listlessly out upon the mountain landscape in its early autumn dress. But, after weary weeks of pain and anxiety, he was on the mend, and there was something of the old merriment in his laugh when he caught sight of a row of urchins, perched on the fence like a motley flock of birds, singing with hearty good will, "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!" and he was surprised to recognize in the welcoming choristers many "Lilies" of Valleytown, as well as his own familiar friends. It was something of an astonishment, too, to have Roy Hastings hurry forward to offer his hand and say: "I can't tell you, Duckworth, how glad I am to see you out again and only wish you would give me a good sound kicking;" while surely there were tears in his eyes and a curious break in his voice. It was a boy's way of begging pardon, but, being a boy, Carl understood, while as he looked into the other's white worn face, so changed since he saw it last, he dimly comprehended that there might be "coals of fire" which burn more sharply even than the blisters and stings that had caused him such days and nights of agony. So the grasp he gave Roy was warm and cordial as he said, "Well, I'm not equal to much kicking yet, old fellow; but, for one, I am tired of this old feud and think it is time we buried the hatchet." "Oh, I am so glad!" cried a merry voice in the doorway, and out danced Helen with her hands full of flowers. "You dear, heroic Carl. I have come to thank you, too, though I never, never can, for rescuing me on that dreadful day, and, as some small return, they have let me be the first to tell you of the silver lining hidden behind that cloud of smoke." "What do you mean?" asked Carl, thoroughly mystified. "I mean that Christopher Columbus and his combustible companions did a pretty good turn after all. They plowed up the ground under the old barn so well that when the rubbish was cleared away there came to light what promises to be the finest paint mine in the whole country." "Paint mine!" "Yes, sir. Non-inflammable, mineral paint that will not only save the farm, but, perhaps, make all our fortunes." "It's true, Carl, every word true," laughed Maizie, who had stolen softly up. "Papa has had the ore analyzed, and is so happy he beams like a full moon. Judge Hastings, too, has been so kind, advancing funds, getting up a company and preparing to build a kiln. It has been quite the excitement of the summer in Valleytown." "Well, well! This is glorious news! Hip, hip, hooray!" a feeble cheer that was echoed and re-echoed by the faction on the fence. "Dear me, haven't you finished your revelations yet?" exclaimed Mark Tripp, suddenly tumbling up the steps. "For if you have the 'Lilies of the Valley' request the captain of the 'Ground Moles' and the young ladies to occupy the piazza chairs and witness a pyrotechnical display postponed from the Fourth of July, but now given in honor of the recovery of our esteemed citizen, Carl Duckworth, and of our Peace Jubilee." All laughed at Mark's pompous little speech and hastened to take their places. So at last in a shower of golden sparks they buried the hatchet and the feud between Valleytown and Hillside ended forever amid a generous display of fire-works. HANSCHEN AND THE HARES. FROM THE GERMAN, BY ELLEN T. SULLIVAN. Long ago, in a little house near a forest in Germany lived a shoemaker and his wife. They were poor but contented and happy; for they were willing to work and they had their snug little house and food enough for themselves and their little Hanschens. "Oh! if Hanschen would only grow like other boys, I should be the happiest woman in the land," the mother used to say. "He is six years old, yet he can stand on the palm of my hand." "Well, if he is not so big as some of our neighbors' boys, he is brighter than many of them," the father used to answer. Then the mother felt so glad she would dance around the room with Hans and say, "Yes, he is bright as a child can be and as spry too. When he runs around the room I can hardly catch him." One day she said to her husband, "I am going to the forest meadow to cut fodder for the goat. The grass there is so sweet and juicy that, if the goat eats it, we shall have the richest milk for Hanschen. That will make him grow faster. I will take him with me; he can sit in the grass and play with the flowers." "Very well," said the father; "take care that he does not stray away from you. Give him some clover blossoms to suck. We are too poor to buy candy for him." Out through the green forest went Hanschen and his mother. The boy was so happy that his mother could hardly hold him, as he laughed and jumped and clapped his hands. He thought the blue sky was playing hide-and-seek with him through the treetops; that the birds were singing a welcome to him, and that the bees, the butterflies, and great dragon-flies were all glad to see him. When they came to the meadow his mother put him down and gave him some clover blossoms. Then she began to cut the grass and soon she was quite a way from Hanschen, who was entirely hidden by the tall grass. While the mother was working Hanschen sat sucking his sweet clover blossoms. All at once he heard a rustling, and there, beside him were two little hares. He was not at all afraid. He nodded to them and said, "How do you do?" The little hares had never seen a child. They thought he was a hare, dressed up in a coat and having a different kind of face from their own. They stared at him a minute and then one said, "Hop! hop!" and sprang over a grass stalk. "Can you do that?" said they to Hanschen. "Yes, indeed!" said he, leaping quickly over a stalk, as he spoke. "Now," said the hares, "we shall have a fine time playing together." And a fine time they did have, leaping and racing until the sun was low in the west, and the little hares began to think of supper and bed. "Come home with us; our father and mother will be good to you;" they said to Hanschen. So he leaped away with the little hares toward the green bushes where they lived. Now there was another little hare, who had staid at home with his mother that day. His bright eyes were the first to see the three merry friends leaping toward the bushes. "Oh, mammy! mammy!" he cried: "Just look through the bushes. Did you ever see such a queer-looking hare as that little chap with my brothers?" "Bring me my spectacles, child," said Mrs. Hare. "It may be the poor thing has been hurt. That terrible hunter is around again. He chased your poor father yesterday. Then that wicked old fox is prowling about, too. It may be that one of them hurt the poor little stranger so that he does not look natural. If so, I'll soon cure him by good nursing." That was what kind Mrs. Hare said to her little son. He brought her spectacles, which she wiped and put on. Then she cried out, "Why bless me! this is no hare! This is a human child! He is lost and his parents will be wild with grief for him. My children, I fear you led him astray. Tell just where you found him and we will carry him back there in the morning. It is so late now he must stay with us to-night." "We thought he was a hare because he can spring and leap as well as we can. We found him in the forest meadow and we have had splendid fun together," said the little hares. Then good Mrs. Hare gave Hanschen some hares' bread for his supper, and soon after she tucked him snugly in bed with her sons. Before putting him to bed she drew over him, a soft silky hare coat. It fitted him nicely from the two furry ears to the little stubby tail. The three little hares were delighted and said, "He's a hare now, isn't he, mammy?" "Well, dears, he does look just like one of you; but you must all lie still now and go to sleep for we must get up with the sun, to-morrow," said Mrs. Hare. In the meantime Hanschen's mother had finished cutting the grass, and she looked for Hanschen and called him until it grew quite dark. Then she went home, weeping bitterly, and told her husband that their child was lost. Out ran the father then to look for his boy; but he could not find him. All that night the poor parents wept and moaned, while Hanschen was sleeping peacefully with the little hares. The Hare family got up at daylight, and all of them put on their Sunday clothes, for Mr. Hare had said to his wife, "I want folks to see that their child has been with good company; so please put on your very best cap and brush all our children's coats until they shine. I'll wear a high collar and my tall silk hat, and you must tie my cravat in a nice bow." When all were dressed they ate a good breakfast, locked up their green gate and started for the meadow. They had scarcely reached the edge of the forest, when they heard Hanschen's mother calling, "Hanschen! Hanschen! darling!" "Here I am, mother;" cried he. "I hear him! I hear him! Oh husband! don't you?" said the mother. "I do hear his voice but I can see nothing except a little brown hare." Hanschen laughed in delight--sprang forward and pulled off his furry coat. How surprised his father and mother were! By this time the Hare family had come up and Mr. Hare took off his hat and bowing very low, he said, "Mr. Man, this is my good wife and these youngsters are my three sons. Their mother and I try to teach them to do right, and they really are pretty good children. Two of them were playing around here yesterday, and invited your son to play with them, not knowing what sorrow and trouble they caused you by leading him astray. They brought him home with them last night. My good wife gave him plenty to eat; he slept with my sons and you see the fine suit of hare-clothes he has just taken off. I hope you will let him keep it to remember us by. It is a present from all of us. We are only hares but we have done by your child just what we should like you to do by one of our children if you should find one of them astray. And now, my dear sir, we will bid you farewell and go back to our home." "Not yet! not yet!" cried Hanschen's father and mother. "Tell us, do you have sorrows or troubles? One good turn deserves another. We should be so glad to do something for you." "Sorrows and troubles are plentiful in our lives," said Mr. Hare. "If you can stop that terrible hunter from chasing us; and if you can manage to trap that wicked Mr. Fox, will make us very happy. And good Mrs. Man, if you will just throw a few cabbage leaves out on the snow for us in the winter, when every green thing is dead or buried; then we shall not have to go to bed hungry." Hanschen's father and mother gladly promised to do all they could for the good Hare family; then the two happy families went home. One day soon after Hanschen's visit to the hares, his father got up very early, for he had two pairs of shoes to finish that day. He had scarcely begun his work when a very loud knock was heard at the door. "Who can it be so early as this?" thought the shoemaker. He opened the door and there stood--Mr. Fox! "Good morning, shoemaker," said he; "I want you to make me a pair of shoes and do it right off, too, or I'll kill every one of your hens to-night. I'm hare hunting, to-day. I know where a whole family of hares live, down near the forest. I mean to bag them all before they leave their house this morning. They run so fast it is hard to catch them when they are out. But, see one of my shoes is torn, so I must have a new pair before I can walk so far." The shoemaker bowed and invited the fox to come in and sit down. Then he said, "Mr. Fox, a great hunter like you ought to wear high boots; not low shoes like common folks." That pleased Mr. Fox, so he said, "Well, make high boots; but make them of the finest, softest leather, and do not make them tight." The shoemaker took the hardest, heaviest, leather he could find and soon finished the boots. He put a piece of sticky wax into each boot. He said to himself, "Mr. Fox thinks he is very sly but we'll see whether he can catch our friends, the hares, when he puts on these boots." Mr. Fox proudly drew on his boots but he said: "They seem stiff and tight. I fear I cannot run very fast in them." "Just wait till you have worn them a little while--new boots generally feel stiff," said the shoemaker. "Well, I will hurry off now; but I'll soon come back and bring you the hares' skins to pay for the boots," said Mr. Fox. A little while after the fox had gone the shoemaker's wife jumped up in alarm from her chair. A hare had leaped in through the window behind her. It was one of their friends--the father of the Hare family. "Save me! the hunter is after me," he cried. "Here, quick! jump into bed," said the shoemaker's wife. He did so, and she covered him up, then she dressed Hanschen in the suit that the hares had given him. She had scarcely done so when the hunter came in and said, "Give me the hare that I have been chasing. I saw him leap into your window. I must have him. There he is now, springing on your table." "There is my little Hanschen," said the shoemaker. "No wonder you think he is a hare, for he can run as fast and leap as well as any hare." "Yes," said Hanschen's mother, "and he often goes out to play in this hare-suit--see how nicely it fits him. But, Mr. Hunter, you must not shoot my Hanschen when you are out chasing hares." "Well," said the hunter, "if that isn't wonderful. But say, good people, how in the world am I to know whether I am chasing Hanschen or a hare?" "Oh, easily enough," said the shoemaker. "You have only to wait a minute and call out, 'Hanschen!' If the little creature sits up still and straight like a child, don't shoot, for that will be Hanschen." "I will remember and call out," said the hunter. "Well, then, to pay you for your kindness, I'll tell you that if you hurry toward the forest, now, you will be able to bag a fox that cannot be far away; for the rogue has on a pair of boots of my making, and he has hard work to move with them by this time, I'll be bound." "Thank you, Mr. Shoemaker," said the hunter; "I'll soon finish him and bring you his hide to prove it. Only last night he killed three of my hens." The hunter soon caught up with the fox, brought his hide to the shoemaker and went away. Then Hanschen's father told the hare to go home to his folks and tell them that the old fox would never trouble them again, and when they heard the hunter they were just to sit still and straight on their hind legs. Mr. Hare flew over the ground on his way home. His good news made him light-hearted and swift-footed. Oh, how happy the hares were! To this day hares often sit up like a child. Hanschen often spent a day with the hares, and learned to run so well, and spring forward so quickly, that all the people said when he grew up, "He is the best man to have for a postman for the villages around." So Hanschen became postman. He never forgot his friends, the hares, but always carried some cabbage leaves for them when snow and ice covered up or killed the green leaves. 'Tis said the hares used to watch for his coming, and sing this song when they caught sight of him: "Our good friend, Hans, Is a brave young man; hip, hurrah! He springs as well As the best hare can; hip, hurrah! Beneath his coat Is a good, warm heart; hip, hurrah! We may be sure He will take our part; hip, hurrah! We need not starve Though the world be white; hip, hurrah! Our good friend, Hans Will give us a bite; hip, hurrah! This is his time He is drawing near; hip, hurrah! Off with hats; now Cheer upon cheer; hip, hip, hurrah!" THE END. 
60209	----	THE BEAR FAMILY AT HOME [Illustration: What do you suppose that ant-bear did?] The Bear Family At Home AND HOW THE CIRCUS CAME TO VISIT THEM By CURTIS D. WILBUR Illustrated By W. R. LOHSE [Illustration: Decoration] INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1908, 1923 By Curtis D. Wilbur _Printed in the United States of America_ PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOK MANUFACTURERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. Dedicated to the Memory of RALPH GORDON WILBUR CONTENTS PAGE HOW THE LITTLE CUB BEAR GOT BACK INTO THE WOODS AGAIN 2 HOW THE MONKEY WENT TO SCHOOL 6 THE COMING OF THE GREAT BIG ANIMAL AND HOW HE HELPED THE BEAR FAMILY 12 THE "LITTLE-CUB-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" AND HOW HE TOOK AN UNEXPECTED BATH 22 HOW THE "LITTLE-CUB-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" WAS NEARLY DROWNED AMONG THE LOGS 29 THE "LITTLE-CUB-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" 36 THE STORY OF THE "LITTLE-SPLIT-NOSED-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT -MIND-HIS-PAPA" 42 THE "ONE-EARED-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" 48 THE LION'S STORY OF HIS NARROW ESCAPE 55 THE TRUE STORY OF HOW TEN MEN DID NOT KILL CLUB-FOOT 58 THE "CLUB-FOOT-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA"--A GREAT SMASH-UP 68 THE PARROT'S MOST NARROW ESCAPE 73 THE "LITTLE-CLUB-FOOT-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" AND THE DYNAMITE 80 THE COMING OF THE ANIMAL WITH THE LONG NOSE 89 THE MONKEY'S STORY OF HIS MOST NARROW ESCAPE 97 THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRD'S ESCAPE FROM THE ALLIGATOR 101 HOW THE RACCOON WAS CAUGHT 105 THE ANIMALS PLAN HOW THEY WILL DEFEND THEMSELVES AGAINST THE CIRCUS MEN 112 JIMMIE BEAR'S STORY 116 HOW THE CIRCUS CROSSED THE OCEAN 124 OUT ALL ALONE 131 THE PAPA BEAR'S LULLABY 139 THE BEAR FAMILY AT HOME And How the Circus Came to Visit Them Once a little cub bear was caught in a big log trap, and taken on a train to a circus. He lived in the circus a long, long while, and every day a great many people came to see the bear, and the lions, and the tigers, and the leopards, and the elephants, and the camels, and the other animals. Every night the animals would all be put in the wagons made for them, then the wagons would be rolled on the flat-cars of a railroad train. The train would go all night to another town, where a great many people would come to see the animals and the men and women in the circus. The Cub Bear saw a great many wonderful and strange things while he was in the circus and while traveling on the trains. Once he crossed the ocean in a great ship, and came back again in another ship. This story tells: HOW THE LITTLE CUB BEAR GOT BACK INTO THE WOODS AGAIN One night, after the wagons and the animals had all been put on board the cars, the fireman rang the bell, and the engineer started the train, and away it went, whistling and coughing down the track. The animals were so used to the train going rattle-te-bang, rattle-te-bang, all night long, that they all went to sleep, and remained asleep a long while. While the animals and every one on the train, except the engineer and the fireman, were asleep, the engineer looked ahead and suddenly saw a big rock on the track. He blew the whistle, "Toot-toot," to call the brakemen, and the brakemen ran as fast as they could and began to put on the brakes to stop the train, but the train came nearer and nearer to the big rock. The poor engineer couldn't stop the train, and the brakemen couldn't stop the train, so the engine ran into the rock, and was knocked off the track, and turned a somersault, and was smashed all to pieces, and all the cars ran off the track into a ditch, and the wagons were all broken, so that the animals got out of their cages and found they were free in the dark woods. They were all so glad to be free that they ran away as fast as they could and hid in the woods; all except the Cub Bear and a friend of his, a monkey named Jim. They ran a little way, and then the Cub Bear stopped and looked around. He saw a path, then he looked at the trees and the mountain and he thought he would wait there until morning. As soon as it was light the Cub Bear looked way up on the mountain side and saw a cave, and where do you suppose they were? In the very same forest where the Cub Bear was born. They walked a little way, and the Cub Bear said: "Why, here is the path where little brother Jimmie Bear lost his foot in a trap." They ran up that path as fast as they could to the cave in the mountains. The Cub Bear's heart was beating very fast, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, because he knew that this was his old home, and he wondered whether his Papa Bear and Mamma Bear and his little Susie Bear and little brother Jimmie Bear were still there. They went in very quietly, and found a great big brown bear asleep. When the big brown bear heard them come in, he jumped up quickly and looked at little Cub Bear, and little Cub Bear looked at him. It was the Papa Bear! He ran to the Cub Bear and put his arms around him and gave him a great bear hug. You know bears can hug awfully tight. Papa Bear hugged the Cub Bear, and the Cub Bear hugged the Papa Bear, and they were very, very glad to see each other. The Papa Bear woke up the Mamma Bear, and then the Mamma Bear gave the Cub Bear a great bear hug, because she was so glad to see him. Susie Bear waked up and gave the little Cub Bear a big bear hug. But Jimmie Bear was not there. Did you ever give your papa a bear hug? After the Papa Bear and the Mamma Bear had talked a little while to the Cub Bear, they said, "We have something to show you," and they took the Cub Bear away back into the back part of the cave and showed him the sweetest, cutest little baby bear you ever saw in your life, and the Papa Bear said: "We call this little baby bear 'Cub Bear' now. So we will have to call you 'Circus Bear' after this," for the little Cub Bear had told his papa and mamma that he had been in the circus while away. All this time the monkey Jim had been sitting off by himself in the cave, watching the big bears. They were so big and strong that he was frightened, so he climbed up to the top of the cave, and there he stayed until the little Cub Bear waked up; and the Circus Bear didn't know where he had gone. After a while the little wee Cub Bear waked up and saw the monkey, and said: "Oh, see that funny little man up there on the root. He has hair all over him, and he has a long tail, and he is making faces at me." He asked the Circus Bear what it was, and the Circus Bear said: "It is a monkey, named Jim, a very dear friend of mine. Would you like to shake hands with him?" And the little Cub Bear said, "Yes." So the Circus Bear told the monkey not to be afraid, and the monkey came down and shook hands with the little wee Cub Bear and they said they would always be good friends. The very first thing this little Cub Bear did was to ask the monkey to tell him a story, for he was the greatest bear for stories you ever saw. He was always teasing his papa and his mamma and everybody that came to the den, to tell him a story. The monkey said: "All right, I will tell you a story about the time that I went to school." So that morning when the Papa and the Mamma Bear and the Circus Bear and the little Cub Bear were sitting in the den, the monkey told his story. HOW THE MONKEY WENT TO SCHOOL "Now, little Cub Bear, I am going to tell you about the time I went to school, the only time in my whole life that I went to school." The little Cub Bear said he had never been to school in his life, and he would like to hear the story. The monkey Jim said: "Well, one night when we were riding on the train, going from one town where the circus had been, to another where they were going to give a show, I was riding in a wagon on one of the cars with a lot of other monkeys. The man who took care of the monkeys forgot and left a door open. A monkey named Joe and I climbed out through the open door and got on top of the wagon, and we just had a lot of fun, jumping around and playing with each other, and pulling each other's hair and climbing down on the car. "After we had played a long while, the train went into a covered bridge, and I said to Joe, 'Let's jump up and see if we can catch hold of one of those iron rods.' He said, 'All right,' and we gave a great jump, and we caught hold of an iron rod overhead. The train was going so fast that we almost missed the rod, but we hung on, and in a moment when we looked down, what do you suppose had happened? The train had run out from under us, and there was nothing under us except the railway track and ties, and, away down below them a deep, dark river. We were frightened, because it was very dark and very cold. We climbed down as fast as we could, and walked across the ties, until we came to the ground. "There were a lot of trees near the track, and we ran over as quickly as we could and climbed a tree, but it was very, very cold. We hugged each other very tight and tried to keep warm, but it grew colder, and colder, and colder, until it seemed as though we would freeze, for you know we had always lived in a very warm country, until we came to the circus. By and by, though, it commenced to get light, and when we looked over in the woods a little farther, we saw a little red school house. By and by a man, who took care of the little red school house, came and opened the door and went inside. Pretty soon we saw the smoke coming out of the chimney, for the man had built a fire. "Joe said to me, 'Let's go down as quickly as we can and run over there, and see if we can get warm by the fire.' So we climbed down the tree, and ran as fast as we could to the little red school house. There we found a window open a little way, and we climbed up and went inside the school house. The man wasn't looking, so we hurried over near the stove, and Joe climbed into one desk where a boy kept his books, and I climbed into another desk where a girl kept her books. The man looked around quickly, for he thought he heard something, but we kept so quiet that he didn't see us. By and by he closed the window, went out and shut the door, and there we were locked up in that little red school house! But the fire was so nice and warm that we were glad to be there. "Pretty soon Joe said, 'Let's go out and see if we can find something to eat;' so we got out and looked all over the building. We opened the drawer in the teacher's desk, and in it we found an apple that he had taken away from a little boy in school the day before, for you know that little boys are not allowed to have apples in school. I gave Joe the biggest part of the apple, and we ate it all up; and just as we had eaten it up, a great big boy came to the door and made such a noise that we scampered back and got into the desks. We stayed there very quietly. "Pretty soon another boy came, and then another, and then another, and then a girl came, and by and by all the scholars had come. Some of them were playing in the yard, and some of them in the room, and just then the teacher came. He rang the bell, 'Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong,' and the pupils came into the school room and took their seats. Then the teacher struck a small bell, and the pupils sat up very straight and sang a song. Just then I reached out and grabbed the ear of the boy who was sitting in my seat, and pulled it very hard. He screamed, 'Ouch, ouch!' And just then Joe reached out and pulled the hair of the girl that was sitting in his seat, and she screamed, 'Ouch, ouch!' The teacher pounded the desk and cried, 'Order, order!' The little boy thought it was the boy behind him that pulled his ear, and the little girl thought it was the girl behind her that pulled her hair. "When everything was still again, the teacher told the boys and girls to take out their books. The boy reached in to get his book and I bit his finger, and he yelled 'Ouch!' just as loud as he could, and jumped out of his seat. And the little girl reached in to get her book, and Joe bit her finger, and she yelled 'Ouch!' just as loud as she could, and jumped out. All the pupils looked over to see what was the trouble; but we kept very still, and the teacher came down quickly to find out what caused the trouble. He reached his hand into the desk quickly, and I grabbed hold of his hand and hung on. Then he jerked his hand out, and I came out with it, and I jumped on his shoulders and began to pull his hair; and Joe jumped out of his desk, and he jumped on the teacher's shoulders, and the teacher yelled and tried to hit us with a stick, and we jumped over on to the teacher's desk, and then we jumped over the pupils' heads. I jumped out of the window, and Joe ran out of the door, and as he ran out he took one of the boys' dinner pails with him. They all screamed and yelled and ran after us as fast as they could. "We ran over to a tree, and a couple of dogs saw us, and they barked and barked, and ran after us. The boys threw stones, but none of them could hit us, and pretty soon we got to a tree. We scampered up as fast as we could, and all the pupils, and the teacher, and the dogs, came to the foot of the tree, and the dogs barked, and the boys yelled and threw stones, and the girls danced and shouted. The teacher had something that looked like a gun, but I think it was only a stick, because he didn't shoot at all. Just then Joe reached into the dinner pail, and he found a soft boiled egg. He threw this down at the teacher and hit him right on top of his bald head. "Then we scampered out on the branches, and jumped into another tree, and then into another tree, and then into another tree, and pretty soon we had gone so far that they couldn't find us. Then we opened the dinner pail, and we found a fine dinner, some apples, and nuts, and bread and butter, and a piece of pie. When we had eaten everything there was in the pail, we left the pail up in the tree, and climbed down to the ground. Then we walked and we ran, until we came to a town, and there was the circus tent. For this was the _very_ town where the circus was going to show! We ran as fast as we could, and a lot of dogs got after us. They barked and barked, but we got away from all the dogs but one, because he could run faster than the others. He was a very little dog, and when he came close to us, Joe ran to one side of the road and I ran to the other, and just as he got between us, we grabbed the dog by his tail and his ears, and pulled so hard that he just yelled, 'Ki-yi, ki-yi, ki-yi!' and ran toward the tent as fast as he could; so we both jumped on his back and rode until we came to the tent. Then we jumped off and scampered into the tent under the canvas and found our wagon. The door was still open, and we got into the wagon, and there we went to sleep, for we had been up all night. "That is the way I went to school," said the monkey. And the little Cub Bear said, "I will be glad when I am big enough to go to school." THE COMING OF THE GREAT BIG ANIMAL AND HOW HE HELPED THE BEAR FAMILY After the monkey had finished his story, Papa Bear and Mamma Bear and the little Cub Bear were talking about the animals in the circus, and the little Cub Bear said, "I wonder where all those animals are?" And the Circus Bear said, "Why, I think they are somewhere in the woods." Then the little Cub Bear said, "Maybe these animals will come to see us. I think it would be fine if we had a nice large cave, big enough for all the animals." The Mamma Bear said, "I think that _would_ be nice," and the Papa Bear said, "That would be nice," and the little Circus Bear said, "I think that would be nice, too," and the Cub Bear said, "Maybe we can have a bigger cave, and have all the animals come and live with us." And just as he said it they heard a rustling sound, as though something was coming up the path. The little Cub Bear ran to the mouth of the cave and said: "There is a very strange looking animal coming up the path. It is the biggest animal I ever saw. It has a nose that reaches clear to the ground, and it has a thumb and finger on the end of its nose, and every once in a while it stops and picks up a piece of straw with the thumb and finger and puts it into its great mouth. It has teeth that are so long that they stick way out of its mouth. The teeth are as large as a small tree, and look like great sharp horns growing out of its mouth, and its legs are as big around as a large stump. Its ears are as large as the mouth of this cave. It can move its nose around and scratch its back with the thumb and finger on the end of its nose. It has no hair at all except on the end of its tail." Just then the animal made a tremendous noise, a sort of a blowing and trumpeting sound. The Circus Bear said, "I know who that is; it is Jumbo, the elephant from our show. Ask him to come into the cave." Jumbo came to the mouth of the cave, and the little Cub Bear said to him very politely, "Come in, Mr. Jumbo!" But of course Jumbo could not come into the cave; it was too small. Mr. Jumbo said: "I would like to come into the cave and see the Circus Bear, because he was very good to me when we were in the circus together." So the little Cub Bear said, "Try and see if you can not make the mouth of the cave larger." Mr. Jumbo said, "I will try." So Mr. Jumbo commenced to dig with his great tusks and pull with his great trunk at the dirt and stones and the roots that were in the way, until the mouth of the cave was ever so much larger than it had been, but it was still too small for the elephant to get in; so the Circus Bear came to the mouth of the cave and told Jumbo how glad he was to see him. Mr. Jumbo took hold of the Circus Bear's foot with his trunk and shook it, just like two people shaking hands. He was so glad to see the bear that had been so good to get things for him when he was in the circus, for there he was tied to a stake by a great chain. (That is the way they keep elephants with the circus, you know.) When Mr. Jumbo found that he could not get into the cave, he said to the Circus Bear and to all of the bears, "You know that the other animals are trying to find this cave, and as soon as they find it they will want to live here, and we ought to get the cave ready for them." Then the Papa Bear said, "What do you think that we ought to do? Do you think that we could make the cave larger for all of the animals?" Mr. Jumbo said, "Well, I think the first thing we ought to do is to go down to the wreck of the train and get some of the things that we want from the wreck, before the men come back and take everything away." All of the bears, and the monkey, thought that was the best thing they could do. They went down right away, and found that all of the animals had gone, but there were lots of things that they wanted to take up to the cave. Mr. Jumbo found the beautiful howdah that the circus man used to place on his back. A howdah, you know, is that big saddle they put on an elephant's back for the people to ride in. It was painted with red and yellow paint, and had beautiful red plush cushions in it. It had a top to keep the sun off of any one that was riding in the howdah, on the elephant's back. The bears said that they could put the howdah on the elephant's back, but that they could not fasten it there, for they had no hands to buckle the straps with. Then the monkey said, "I can fasten the buckles with my hands, for you know that I have fingers just like a man, and a man buckles the straps by using his fingers." The Papa Bear and the Mamma Bear, Susie Bear, the Circus Bear, and the little Cub Bear lifted as hard as they could, but of course they could not lift the heavy howdah way up on Mr. Jumbo's back, for they were not tall enough, so Mr. Jumbo said, "I will kneel down, and then you will not have to lift so far, and I can help you with my trunk." So he knelt, and the bears all lifted at once, and Mr. Jumbo helped them with his trunk, and finally they got the howdah in the right place on his back. Then the monkey buckled the straps, and everything was ready to take the howdah up to the cave, where the bears live. The Papa Bear said, "Let us fill the howdah with the things we want to take up to the cave." And they commenced to hunt for the things that they wanted, and what do you think they found? A great bass drum, so big that a little bear could get into it; and they also found a smaller drum, and a fife and some big brass horns that belonged to the band. Then they found some harness that was used for the beautiful black and white horses that ran the chariot races. They put all of these things into the howdah. When the howdah was nearly full, the little Cub Bear asked his papa if he couldn't ride in the howdah. Mr. Jumbo heard the little Cub Bear ask, and he said it would be all right, because he was very strong and could carry a great deal more than they had put on his back. When the little Cub Bear climbed into the howdah, Mr. Jumbo straightened out his front legs to get up, and the little Cub Bear nearly tipped out of the rear end of the howdah; and then he straightened his hind legs and stood up, and the little Cub Bear nearly fell out again. Just as they started up the hill, the monkey said, "You need a driver;" and he grasped Mr. Jumbo's tail and climbed up the tail just as if he were going up a tree; then he scampered along Mr. Jumbo's back, clear over the top of the howdah, until he sat right on top of Mr. Jumbo's head, just as the drivers do, when they drive elephants. Then the monkey asked Mr. Jumbo to hand him a stick with a sharp hook in the end of it, that the drivers used to guide the elephants with. Mr. Jumbo reached over with his long nose that had a thumb and finger on the end of it, and picked up the stick and handed it up to the monkey, for he knew the monkey was not strong enough to hurt him much. [Illustration: Mr. Jumbo reached over and picked up the stick.] The monkey said very proudly, "Get up, Mr. Jumbo," and away they went to the bears' cave. When they got there, Mr. Jumbo knelt down, and the little bear nearly tumbled out again, but he jumped out all right, and they took the howdah off Mr. Jumbo's back. The bears and monkey took everything out of the howdah and carried it into the cave. Then the animals all went back again to the place where the train was wrecked, to see if there was anything else they could get. This time they found a chariot, that had two wheels, and it was all covered with gilt and with angels made of gold, and it was very, very beautiful. Mr. Jumbo said that if the bears and the monkey could hitch him to the chariot, they could fill it with things and take them up to the den. So they looked and looked, and finally found a harness, that was used for the elephant. The monkey and the bears harnessed Mr. Jumbo to the chariot, and then they looked for things to put into the chariot. The monkey found the clothes that he used to wear in the circus--a pair of red trousers, with a green coat, and a little red hat with a black feather in it, and he put them in the chariot. Mr. Jumbo found a bale of hay, but they all said that would have to wait until the next time, because there would not be room in the chariot for this bale of hay and the other things they wanted to take up. They found the little drum that the monkey used to play on in the circus, and put that in the chariot. Then they found a lot of biscuits that the dog in the circus had to eat, and they put these in the chariot, too. And soon the chariot was full. The little Cub Bear thought there was just room enough for him to ride in the chariot, and he asked Mr. Jumbo if he could ride; and as soon as Mr. Jumbo said "Yes," he climbed in on top of the things in the chariot, and they all started up to the cave. They had not gone very far before the monkey got hold of Mr. Jumbo's tail and scampered up to his place on top of Mr. Jumbo's head. They soon reached the cave, and there they unhitched Mr. Jumbo and left the chariot and all the things in it, and went back to the train wreck, because they knew that there was another chariot there even more beautiful than this one; and when they reached the wreck again, Mr. Jumbo went over to where the big bale of hay was; and how do you suppose he carried the bale of hay? He knelt down, and he ran his great teeth, called tusks, under the bale of hay, then he wrapped his long nose, or trunk, as it is called, around the bale, and stood up and carried the hay over and put it in the chariot. Then he went for two more bales in the same way, and placed them in the chariot. The monkey then hitched Mr. Jumbo to the chariot, and they again started up the hill. In this way they hauled two or three loads of hay, and then they unhitched Mr. Jumbo and left the chariot up near the bears' cave. Then the bears, the monkey, and the elephant went back to the wreck, and each one carried everything he could. The bears got their arms full, and walked all the way up to the den on their hind legs. The monkey got his little arms full--of what do you suppose? Bags of roasted peanuts. The elephant carried up three great sacks filled with barley. They worked so hard that it took them nearly all day. That night as they were wondering whether any of the animals would find the cave in the dark, they suddenly heard the flapping of wings. The little Cub Bear ran at once to the mouth of the cave to see what it was. "Oh! Circus Bear," he said, "here is a great bird. He has great big eyes as large as marbles. He has the funniest pointed ears. He has a hook nose; he has great claws, and he is as big as half a dozen doves." The Circus Bear said, "That is Mr. Owl. Ask him to come in." So the little Cub Bear said to the owl very politely, "Come in, Mr. Owl," and the owl came into the den. He blinked his great eyes, and looked solemn and wise, and the little Cub Bear said, "Mr. Owl, we are going to build a house, so that all the animals can come to live with us if they want to, and we want to know if you can help us to build the house." And Mr. Owl said, very solemnly, "I would be very glad to help you, because when we lived in the circus, your brother was very good to me, and I should like to do anything I can to help you." The little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the owl said, "If you want me to I can be door-keeper, and when any one comes I can ask who he is, because, you know, I can say, 'Who-o-o? who-o-o?'" The little Cub Bear danced up and down, and said that would be very fine. And he said, "I am very glad that my brother was kind to you when you were in the circus." So the owl went out to the mouth of the den, and there was a great big tree, and away up near the top of the tree was a long limb sticking out like an arm, and the owl flew up to this limb and sat there, looking very solemn and very wise, as all owls do, blinking his great eyes. And there he sat day and night, winking and blinking his great eyes, so solemn and wise, keeping watch for the bears and the animals, just like a soldier sentry standing guard at the General's tent. Now the little Cub Bear, like all little cubs, was very fond of stories, and was always teasing the Papa Bear to tell him stories about little bears, and all sorts of things. The little bear liked the stories that his papa told him about the "Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa." That night after the owl had flown up to the limb of the dead tree, the little fellow said, "Papa, please tell me another story about the 'Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his papa.'" The Papa Bear said, "Little one, you are always asking me to tell you stories; it is hard for me to think of so many, but if you want me to do so, I will tell you of: THE "LITTLE-CUB-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" AND HOW HE TOOK AN UNEXPECTED BATH "This 'Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' was a tame little bear that lived with his papa near a great saw-mill. You know what a saw-mill is? It is a place where they take great pine trees that have been chopped down and cut up into logs, and saw the logs into boards, and shingles and lumber, to make houses for men to live in, with their little cubs, that they call 'boys' and 'girls' and their little wee cubs they call 'babies.' This saw-mill was on a great river, and near the saw-mill was a place where the water fell straight down from a place higher than this house, and of course the stream ran very swiftly above the falls and below the falls. These falls were not so large as the Niagara Falls, but they were so large that the water poured over with a great roaring sound, and the water whirled about, after it reached the bottom of the falls, and great waves dashed up against the banks of the river. "Above the falls, the water ran so swiftly that no one could swim in it. The Papa Bear knew this, but the 'Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' didn't know that the water ran so swiftly. The Papa Bear had told his little son many, many times not to go too near the river, and never to try to drink out of the river, above the falls. "But one day the little fellow was very, very thirsty, and he ran up to the bank of the river, and saw the beautiful, cool water, and thought how nice it would be to have a drink. He was so thirsty he didn't want to go away down below the falls, where he and his papa usually took a drink of water, so he thought he would see if he couldn't get a drink right where he was, there above the falls. He went down to the very edge and reached way over and began to lap up the water, and, oh! how good it was. Just then he heard a noise, and as he looked up quickly, his foot slipped, and into the river he went, _kersplash_! "Now, this little bear could swim. That is one reason he wasn't afraid to drink from the river, because he thought if he fell in, he could swim out very easily and very quickly, so he started to swim as hard as he could for the shore, but he soon found that the water was so swift, that instead of getting nearer the shore, he was getting farther and farther away all the time. And then he looked around to see where he was going. He found that he was going nearer and nearer to the falls, where the water went over with such a great roar, so he swam harder and harder and harder, and faster and faster and faster, but all the time he was going closer and closer to the terrible falls! Finally the little bear gave up trying to swim out, and just kept his nose out of the water, so that he could breathe, and down the stream he went faster than you could run. Sometimes great waves would cover him up completely, and when his nose would come up above the water, he would blow almost like a whale, to get the water out of his nose. Almost before you could think, that little bear came to the edge of the falls, and over he went! "Do you think that was the last of him? Well, if he had been a little boy, I suppose he would have been drowned; but this little Cub Bear was so light and so strong, that after a long, long while, he came up to the surface of the water, right in the middle of a great whirlpool. He went round and round and round in the water, and it seemed as though he never would stop. But finally, he found a big log that had come over the falls, and he got one foreleg over the log, and swam as hard as he could toward the bank, and finally succeeded in getting ashore. "There he lay on the grass, all wet and tired out, and all he could think was, 'I am so glad I wasn't drowned. I will never again disobey my papa.' And he thought this over and over in his mind. Soon the 'Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' went to sleep right where he was, for he was too tired to go home. "After a long while, his papa began to look for him, and finally found him lying there all wet, and sound asleep. His papa knew what had happened, but he felt so bad he didn't waken the little bear, but picked him up in his great arms and carried him back to the den and laid down close beside him to keep him warm. And the little fellow slept all that night, and all the next day, until four o'clock in the afternoon. "Then he wakened and put his arm around his papa and said, 'Oh, I had the most terrible dream in the whole world. I thought I was nearly drowned, and I was too tired to get home.' "And the Papa Bear said, 'I guess that wasn't a dream, but I am so glad that you are alive, that I am not going to scold you for disobeying me.'" When this story about the "Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa" was finished, _our_ little Cub Bear, who lived away up in the cave in the mountain, said, "I should think that every little bear ought to mind his papa and do just as he says, else they might get drowned, you know." Then the little bear went off to bed and to sleep. The next morning early the little Cub Bear got up and rubbed his eyes with his paws, instead of washing them as little boys do. Just then he heard a noise as if some animal was coming, and he ran to the mouth of the den and looked out, and said: "I see the queerest looking animal coming up the path. It has long ears and a great big mouth, and a queer looking tail, and looks something like a horse, but still it looks different from a horse." And just then the owl saw the animal and said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" and the animal answered, "Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw." And the Circus Bear said, "I know who that is. That is a mule. Her name is Jenny." Just then Jenny came to the mouth of the den, and the little Cub Bear said, very politely, "Come in, Mrs. Jenny." And she came into the den, and the little Cub Bear said, "Mrs. Jenny, we are going to try to build a house big enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us we will have a place for them to stay. Can you help us?" Then Mrs. Jenny said, "I would be very glad to, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And the little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And Jenny said, "I haven't worked for a long while, but I can kick like everything." The little Cub Bear said, "Well, here is a soft place in the rock. Perhaps if you will kick, it will fall down and make more room." And Jenny turned around and kicked the rock, and it fell down, and she kicked and she kicked, and more rocks fell down; and she kicked, and more rocks fell down; and she kept on kicking, and more rocks fell down, and the bears picked up the rocks and carried them out, and when she got through there was a nice large room. And the little Cub Bear said, "We will call this Jenny's room. I am very glad that my brother was good to Mrs. Jenny when she was in the circus, because if he hadn't been, maybe she would have kicked me instead of the rocks." That day the bears worked hard all day trying to find enough to eat for themselves and for all of the animals that were coming to see them from the circus. The Circus Bear told them just what things the animals liked to eat; so the Papa Bear and Susie Bear went one way and the Mamma Bear went another. The elephant looked all over the mountain, to see if he could find some grass to eat. That night, when the animals came to the cave, the elephant told them that he thought he had found a fine place for the animals that liked to eat grass. He said there were a great many horses where he found the grass, but that they said they were not going to come with him because they did not want to live in a cave. They said they wanted to live out in the open air; and that if any one came to take them back to the circus, they would run away as fast as they could. The bears were very tired that night, but the little Cub Bear teased his papa for a story about the "Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa." Finally the Papa Bear said that he would tell just one story, if the Cub Bear would promise that he would not ask for another one, and would go to bed as soon as the story was finished. So the little Cub Bear and Susie Bear came as close as they could to the Papa Bear, and he told this story: HOW "LITTLE-CUB-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" WAS NEARLY DROWNED AMONG THE LOGS "Just on the edge of the stream which flowed by the saw-mill where the 'Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' lived, there was a pond of still water, and in this pond there were a great many logs that floated down from the forest away up the river. These logs were in this pond waiting to be sawed up into boards and timber, to be used in building houses. Now, this was a very dangerous place for little boys, and for little bears. The Papa Bear had told his little son never to go out on the logs, and the little fellow had promised that he never would go out on the logs. But, day after day, the little Cub Bear saw men going out on the logs with long sticks that had big spikes in the end of them, and long sticks with hooks on the end of them; and they pushed the logs here and there, to bring them over to the saw-mill, where they were hoisted into the mills by great chains, and then were moved over in front of a great saw to be sawed into lumber. "As the little Cub Bear watched these men every day he would think how easy it was, and how nice it was to ride around on those logs, and to step from one log to another, and how foolish his papa was to tell him not to go down on the logs, when it was so easy. "One day after watching the men for a long while, the little Cub Bear thought he would go down very, very carefully and walk out on one of the logs, and this he did. There he waited for a long while, sitting on the log. It was great fun, and didn't hurt at all, so finally he stepped over on to another log, and then on to another. My! how he enjoyed it. The little bear felt sure that his papa had make a great mistake in telling him to keep off the logs. "Just then, as the little bear stepped from one log to another, both logs rolled, and down he went into the water. But he didn't mind that much because he could swim very well. The little bear swam to the surface as quickly as he could, but instead of getting his head out of the water, he bumped his head into the logs, for the surface of the water was all covered with floating logs. "Then the little bear saw why his papa had told him never to play on the logs, because if he once fell into the river, he was very apt to be drowned. The little Cub Bear didn't give up and drown like that. He began to swim as hard as he could, and held his breath as long as he could, and after he had swum just as far as he possibly could, he came up to the surface again, and this time his nose came out between two logs, and there was just room enough for his nose to get up out of the water, so he had a chance to breath again. And oh, how good it seemed. And he took such long, deep breaths, and it seemed as though he could never get enough air. Then he thought he would see if he couldn't find a way out, and he tried and tried, but there wasn't room between the logs for his head to come up out of the water. He couldn't even get his eyes above the surface of the water, and so he couldn't see where he was. Pretty soon the logs began to move closer and closer together, and then he knew if he stayed where he was he would surely be killed. So he took a long breath, just as deep a breath as he could. "Can you take a long, deep breath, little Cub Bear?" (And the little Cub Bear said, "Yes, papa," and he took a long, deep breath to show his papa how the little bear breathed when he just had his nose above the water.) "Then the little bear dropped down again under the water, and he swam as hard and fast as he could, hoping that the next time he came up he might possibly find another place where he could breathe. He knew that if he did not, he surely would be drowned and would never see his papa again. "When the little Cub Bear came up, he found a place just big enough for his nose, and again he took a very long breath, and waited until the logs began to come together again, then he dropped down and swam under the logs. And as he was swimming he could feel the logs scrape his back, and he knew that he was still underneath the great log raft. "Finally, just as he had to breathe anyway, whether he breathed water and drowned, or breathed air and lived, he saw a little light place under the water where the light shone down between the logs and he swam to the surface, and this time his whole head came out of the water, and he got a deep breath of fresh air, and another and another, but he couldn't get out. He stayed there, and pretty soon he found that the logs were moving apart just a little bit at a time, so that his head could come up farther and farther. And finally he got his whole back out of the water. Then the logs moved so that the little bear was able to crawl clear out of the water; and there he lay on the logs, tired out, and it was a long, long time before he could move or walk or do a thing. He was terribly frightened. But after a while, he managed to walk clear to the shore on the logs, and he was very careful not to fall in the water again. He walked home and lay down and went to sleep. His papa came home after a while with something to eat for supper. He shook the little bear, but the little bear was so tired he didn't wake up. And so his papa let him sleep all night." When the Papa Bear had finished telling his little cub the story about the "Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa," he said: "Little Cub Bear, what do you think of this story?" And _our_ little Cub Bear scratched his head, and thought quite a long while, and then he said, "I think it is best to try, try again, and not to give up too easily, or you might get drowned." The Papa Bear said, "I think so, too, little Cub Bear. Now, run to bed and go to sleep." So the little bear went to bed, and went to sleep. During the night he seemed to be dreaming. He moved his paws just as though he was swimming, and then he snorted like a whale, and took long, deep breaths, and then he moved his paws again, and then he breathed deep breaths again, and finally he sighed a great sigh, and slept quietly. The little bear was dreaming about something? Can you guess what it was? The next morning the little Cub Bear waked up early and wondered if any other animal would come from the circus. He rubbed his eyes and listened. Just then he heard a sound of small hoofs pattering along the path. The little Cub Bear ran to the mouth of the cave and looked down to see what it was, and he saw something white. He said: "I see something coming up the path. It looks something like a sheep, but has long, straight horns, and it has a beard, and long, straight hair." Just then the owl saw the animal, and said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" And the animal answered, "Ba-a-a, ba-a-a." And the Circus Bear said, "I know who that is; that is Billy the goat;" and just then the goat came to the mouth of the den, and the little Cub Bear said, very politely, "Come in, Mr. Goat," and the goat came in, and he looked around and saw the Circus Bear and the big bears. The little Cub Bear said to him, "Mr. Goat, we are going to try to build a house large enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us we will have a place for them to stay." And the goat said, "I will be very glad to help you in any way I can, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And the little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the goat said, "I don't know. I can butt like everything." And then the little Cub Bear said, "Well, there is a very soft place in the ground, perhaps you can knock some of the dirt and rocks down, so we can carry it out and make more room." And then the goat said, "All right;" and he butted, and he butted, and he butted, and knocked down more dirt, and they carried it out, and he kept on and butted and butted and butted, and when he got through butting, there was a fine large room. And the Cub Bear said, "Thank you. We will call this room Billy's room. I am very glad that my brother was good to Billy when he was in the circus, because if he hadn't been, maybe Billy would have butted me instead of the rocks." The animals worked hard all that day trying to make the cave bigger. They scratched and dug the dirt, and the rocks, and worked as hard as they possibly could, for they were sure that soon the animals would be there and the cave would not be large enough. At night they all sat down and rested, and just as soon as the Papa Bear was seated, the little Cub Bear ran over to him and asked for another story about the "Little-Cub-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa." The Papa Bear was very tired, but he loved the dear little cub, and so he began the story: THE "LITTLE-CUB-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" "A saw-mill, you know, is a very dangerous place for any little bear to play, because there are so many saws and knives and wheels, whirling around in every direction. This little bear, you remember, lived near a saw-mill, and belonged to his papa, who belonged to the man that owned the mill. "The Papa Bear told the little bear not to touch anything in the saw-mill, for if he did he would be sure to be hurt. The little bear said that he would not touch a single thing, for he didn't want to be hurt any more than his papa wanted him to be hurt. So the Papa Bear said that he would rather that his little bear would stay away from the mill; but the little bear teased so hard, that finally the Papa Bear told him he could go into the mill if he would be sure _not to touch a single thing_. The little bear said that he would be very careful, so Papa Bear let him go into the saw-mill, where all of the wheels were going around and around. My! How the little bear did enjoy the mill. "The great wheels and saws were going around so fast, with a whir-r-r-r, whir-r-r-r, and buz-z-z-z, buz-z-z-z. The great saws looked like shining wheels, and they went around so quickly that you could not see their teeth at all. A big log would come up to the saw on a sort of a carriage, and then buz-z-z-z, buz-z-z-z the saw would go clear through the big log from one end to the other, and before the little bear could think, the log would be made into boards. At first the little bear was very careful, for he remembered what his papa had told him, but after a while the little bear went close to the biggest saw in the whole mill and watched it go through the logs. "Now, you know that bears always smell of a thing when they want to know what it is, so this little bear said to himself, 'Papa didn't tell me not to smell of the saw; he told me not to _touch_ it. I think that I will smell of this wonderful thing that eats through the logs and makes them into boards.' He went closer and closer. He was a little afraid even to smell of the saw after all that his papa had told him, but he went closer and closer to the saw, until finally he reached out as far as he could with his nose to smell. Ouch! ouch! ouch!! The awfullest howling and squealing that you ever heard from a little bear. "The Papa Bear ran in as fast as he could, and what do you think he saw? The poor little bear's face was all covered with blood, and he was howling and screaming as hard as he could. You see, the little bear could not see the teeth of the great saw, for they were going around so fast, and he had put his nose too close, and the saw had sawed the end of his nose right in two. "Well, the poor Papa Bear was very, very sorry. He licked the blood off the little bear's face, and took him over to the house that the man had made for them. After a long time the little bear went to sleep. But his nose hurt so badly that he awoke in the night many times. "The next morning the little bear said to his papa, 'Papa, I am sorry that I didn't obey you; you knew best; you always do, and I'll try not to be a bad little bear again.' The Papa Bear said, 'That's right, my little one, I am sorry that you were so badly hurt; I will not scold you, for I am sure that you have learned it is really best to do what papa tells you to do, and not to do the things that your papa tells you not to do.' The little bear said, 'I have, papa.' What do you suppose they called the little bear after that. They called him the 'Split-Nosed Bear.'" When the Papa Bear had finished the story, he said to the Cub Bear, "What do you think of that story?" And the little Cub Bear answered, "I think that it is best to do what papa says." Then the Papa Bear said, "That is right. Now you must run back into the cave and go to sleep." That night the little Cub Bear dreamed a bad dream. I do not know what it was, but he spoke aloud in his sleep and said, "I am always going to mind my papa," and then he felt the end of his nose with his paw. Can you guess what he was dreaming about? The next morning the little Cub Bear wakened very early and rubbed his eyes and wondered whether any of the animals would come from the circus. He listened and listened. Pretty soon he heard a very faint little patter, as if made by very small feet, and the Cub Bear listened and listened, and then he went to the door and looked out, and he said: "I see a very strange animal coming. He has the shortest little legs. He is smaller than a very small dog, about as large as two cats, and he has a funny little sharp nose, and he has black and white stripes down his back." Just then the owl saw the animal, and he said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" but the animal didn't answer him. He came right along to the mouth of the den. Just as he reached there, the Circus Bear said, "I know who that is. That is Mr. Badger. Ask him to come in." So the little Cub Bear said very politely, "Come in, Mr. Badger;" and the badger came in. The Cub Bear said, "We are going to try to build a house large enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us we will have a place for them to stay. Can you help us?" And the badger said, "I would be very glad to help you if I could, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And the little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the badger said, "I can dig a round hole, just as big around as I am, and dig very fast." And the little Cub Bear said, "That is nice. Perhaps you can make us a chimney. Here is a place in the side of the den where there is nothing but earth and dirt." He took the badger over and showed him, and the badger said, "Yes, I can make you a fine chimney." So he commenced to scratch, and he scratched and he scratched very fast, digging up, instead of down; and he scratched and scratched, and the first thing you know, when the little Cub Bear looked, he didn't see any badger, but he saw the dirt falling out of the hole where the badger was; and the badger scratched and scratched, and more dirt came down. First thing you knew, no more dirt came down, but the little Cub Bear went and looked up the hole, and he could see clear out to the blue sky. Just then they heard a patter at the door, and there was Mr. Badger. He had made a hole clear out into the open air, a nice chimney, and he came in and sat down with the other animals. That day the animals all worked as hard as ever, and at night when the Papa Bear sat down to rest, the little Cub Bear ran over to him and said, "Papa, please tell me another story about the 'Little-Split-Nosed-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa.'" "All right," said the Papa Bear, "I will, if you will promise me to go to bed as soon as I have finished." The little Cub Bear said, "I will, papa." So the Papa Bear told: THE STORY OF THE "LITTLE-SPLIT-NOSED-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" "You remember that the little bear that had his nose split by the great circular saw lived with a man who owned a large saw-mill. For a long time after the little bear had his nose sawed in two, he kept away from the mill. "He said to himself, 'I will never go in that mill to be hurt again, and I will mind my papa.' For his papa had told him to keep out of the saw-mill. "But one day the little Split-Nosed Bear was playing with a dog that belonged to the man who owned the saw-mill. They were having a fine time, playing bear hunt. The little Split-Nosed Bear was playing the bear, and the little dog was playing that he was a big bloodhound dog running after the bear. The dog was really a very small dog, white, with brown ears, and a stub tail. You see he lived in a saw-mill, too. The little Split-Nosed Bear would growl, g-r-o-w-l, g-r-o-w-l, and the little dog would run away as if he was terribly frightened. Then the dog would run after the little Split-Nosed-Bear and bark, and he could bark very, very loud for so small a dog. Bow! wow! wow! Bow! wow! wow! Then the little Split-Nosed-Bear would run away just as if he was terribly frightened. Then the little Split-Nosed-Bear would hide, and it would take the dog a long time to find him. "They were having a splendid time jumping around and running in and out of the dark places, when the little Split-Nosed-Bear ran into the saw-mill, for he was playing so hard that he forgot all about the saw and what his papa had told him. The little dog was so close to the little Split-Nosed-Bear that the little bear ran as fast as he could, and jumped up on to an iron platform that looked just as if it were made on purpose for a little bear to jump up on, and there the little Split-Nosed-Bear stood looking down at the dog and g-r-o-w-l-i-n-g, g-r-o-w-l-i-n-g, at him. The little dog jumped up as far as he could and bit the Split-Nosed-Bear on his heel. Then the little Split-Nosed-Bear whirled around like a flash, and what do you suppose happened? "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! "And such growling and howling and squealing you never heard. The little dog ran away as fast as he could, for he was really frightened this time. 'K-i-yi! K-i-yi! K-i-yi!' he howled, as he ran out of the door. "The Papa Bear heard the noise. He was afraid that the Split-Nosed-Bear was really killed this time, so he ran as fast as he could to the little bear, and--what do you suppose he saw? There was the little Split-Nosed-Bear rolling about on the floor, and up on the iron platform where he had been playing was a little brown bear's ear. Oh! how sorry the Papa Bear felt to think his poor little bear had lost his ear, just because he had forgotten to do as his papa had told him to do. You see the little Split-Nosed-Bear had been standing on the iron platform of a band saw. What he thought was a strap whirling around two wheels was really a saw. When the Split-Nosed-Bear had turned around quickly, his ear had come against the saw, and it was sawed off quicker than you could think, with a zip-p-p and a buz-z-z. "The Papa Bear licked the stump of the ear and said, 'I am so sorry, dear little Split-Nosed-Bear, that you forgot and did not mind your papa.' "As soon as he could talk the little Split-Nosed-Bear said, 'I'll always mind my papa after this.' "The Papa Bear put him to bed, but his ear hurt so that he wakened several times in the night. After the little Split-Nosed-Bear got well they always called him the little 'One-Eared-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa.' "This is the end of my story about the little Split-Nosed-Bear," said the Papa Bear, as he finished. "Now, little Cub Bear, run to bed in the back of the cave, and go to sleep as quickly as you can." The little Cub Bear ran quickly to bed, and went to sleep in the dark alone, for he wanted to be a brave little bear. But after he had been sleeping a while, he talked in his sleep and said, "I am always going to mind my papa." Then he felt of his ear and m-o-a-n-e-d. Can you guess what the little Cub Bear was dreaming about? The next morning the little Cub Bear wakened very early, and as soon as he had rubbed his eyes, he wondered if any of the animals would come that day. He listened, the Circus Bear listened, and Susie Bear listened. Pretty soon they heard something coming up the path, and little Cub Bear rushed to the mouth of the den to see what it was, and he said: "I see a very strange animal coming up the path. It has the most beautiful fur I ever saw, ever so much finer than bear's fur, and the animal looks something like Mr. Badger, only its fur is all one color, and it has the funniest tail, almost as big as a shovel, flat and broad." Just then the owl saw the animal and said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" But the animal didn't answer at all, except he gave two slaps with his broad flat tail on the ground. And the Circus Bear said, "I know who that is. That is Mr. Beaver. Ask him to come in." Mr. Beaver came to the door, and the little Cub Bear said very politely, "Come in, Mr. Beaver." The beaver came in, and the little Cub Bear said, "We are going to try to build a house big enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us we will have a place for them to stay. Can you help us?" And the beaver said, "I will be very glad to, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." The little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the beaver said, "I can build dams across streams so as to make beautiful lakes, such as they have in parks, and I can build a nice, round house in the lake to live in and large enough for a little bear to live in, if he can only get inside without getting wet." And the Cub Bear said, "That would be fine, because we could have a park for the animals to play in, and some of the animals would rather live in the water, anyway, than live in a cave." So the beaver said, "All right; I will make you a dam and a beautiful lake." So they all went down to the stream, and the beaver went up to a tree, and he commenced to bite it. He bit, and he bit, and he bit, and the chips just flew, and he bit, and he bit, and he bit, and the chips just flew, and the first thing they knew, the tree fell over. Then he went to another tree, not a very large tree, only about so thick (three inches). Then he went to another tree, and he bit, and he bit, and bit, and the first thing they knew, that tree fell over. So he kept on until he had cut down a great many trees, and then he took them down and put them in the stream, and he put in leaves; and then the water began to rise higher and higher, and the beaver kept piling in and piling in leaves and trees, and soon he had a high dam clear across the stream. The next morning when they looked, the water had filled up above the dam and made a beautiful lake. Soon the beaver went to work, and made a house out of mud. He used his fore feet like hands, walking on his hind feet, and he used his flat tail to make a beautiful mud house, big enough to live in himself, and big enough for little Cub Bear to get in, if he could only get in without getting wet. Could you make so nice a mud house? And the little Cub Bear said, "Thank you, Mr. Beaver," very politely. "I am very glad my brother was good to Mr. Beaver in the circus." As soon as they had seen the dam built by the beaver, all of the animals began to work again as hard as they could work to make the cave larger, because it was much too small for the animals that were already there, and the elephant could not get in at all. At night they were all very tired, but as soon as the Papa Bear sat down, the little Cub Bear ran over and got as close as he could to his papa and asked him to tell another story about the "Little-One-Eared-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa." So although he was very tired, the Papa Bear began the story of: THE "ONE-EARED-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT MIND-HIS-PAPA" "You remember that the little bear had promised that he would not go into the saw-mill at all; but one day the little One-Eared-Bear was very lonesome. He wanted to go into the mill, but he remembered that his papa had told him again, that very morning, that he must be sure to keep away from the saw-mill. He thought a while, and then he said to himself, 'Papa didn't tell me to keep out of the _planing-mill_. I think that I will go in there.' "Now the planing-mill was just as bad a place for little bears as the saw-mill itself, and the little One-Eared-Bear knew this, but you see he _wanted_ to go in, and so he went in any way. What do you suppose happened to the One-Eared-Bear this time? "He played for a while, and had a very fine time. He enjoyed it so much that he said he would come again; he liked to see the wheels go round and round with a whiz-z-z-z-z-z and whir-r-r-r. Just then the little One-Eared-Bear saw a funny machine with a thing buzzing around that looked like a roller such as a cook uses to roll out cookies with. "The little bear said, 'I want to feel the wind that must be made by this roller going so fast, but I'll not get close enough to touch the thing, for I might get hurt, and I don't want to get hurt again.' "So the little One-Eared-Bear reached out his paw very carefully, closer and closer. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Such howling and squealing you never heard. What do you think had happened? The little One-Eared-Bear had touched the sharp knives or planes that whirl round and round in a planer. You see they go around so fast that you can not see them at all, for they look just like a solid roller. Well, the poor little One-Eared-Bear's foot was bleeding and looked terrible. "The Papa Bear heard the little One-Eared-Bear's howling, and ran in to the mill as fast as he could, and there he saw that the little one had lost all the toes of one foot. The Papa Bear licked the little one's foot, and did everything that he could to make his little bear feel better, but he could not put back those poor little toes. The little One-Eared-Bear was very, very sorry, too. Once he whimpered, and told his papa that he was ever so sorry that he had not done as his papa had told him to do, and said that he would never, never again do anything that his papa told him not to do. But that didn't make his toes grow again. "The little One-Eared-Bear went to bed that night, but he didn't sleep very well, because his foot hurt him so much. After a long while the foot healed, so that the little bear could walk around, but he always limped as long as he lived. He said that he could never again forget to do as his papa told him to do, because every step that he took he remembered that foot, and how he had lost all his toes by not doing as his papa told him. After that they didn't call the little bear the little One-Eared-Bear any more. They always called him--what do you suppose? The Club-foot Bear." When the little Cub Bear's papa had finished telling the story of the little One-Eared-Bear, the little Cub Bear said, "I think that it is best to do what papa says." And the Papa Bear said, "That's right, dear little cub. Now run back into the cave and go to sleep." The little Cub Bear ran quickly to the back part of the cave, where it was all dark, and went to bed on some roots and brush and was soon asleep. When he was fast asleep, he talked in his sleep and said, "I am always going to do what my papa tells me to do." And then he felt of one of his paws and moaned, m-o-a-n-e-d, a sad little moan. Can you guess what the little Cub Bear was dreaming about? The next morning the beaver and the owl and the monkey were talking together, and the beaver said: "I am going down to live in that beautiful mud house that I made yesterday in the lake. The house has several rooms inside, and the door is under the water. I can swim out there, and then dive under the water and come up inside the house. No one could find me in there. When I am swimming around in the lake, or working on the dam, if I see any one coming, I will jump into the water and hit the water two great slaps with my tail." And the monkey said, "Yes, I know how that sounds. That sounds just like a gun." The owl said as soon as he saw any one coming he would say, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" And the monkey said that he thought he would go out every morning and see if he couldn't find some of the animals and bring them up to the cave, and see if they would like to live there in the cave, if it could be made big enough for them. So the beaver went down to the dam to work, and the monkey went out to see if he could find any of the animals, and the old owl flew up into the tree, and sat out on the end of a dead limb and waited. Before very long the little Cub Bear heard, "Bang! Bang!" He knew the beaver had seen some animal coming, and had struck the water with his tail, so he ran to the mouth of the cave to see what it was. Soon he heard a rustling noise and looked down the path. "I see a large animal coming," he said. "He looks very fierce. He is as large as a large bear, but he is yellow all over, and has long, shaggy hair all over his head, and beautiful, large eyes, and a long tail, with a tassel on the end of it." Just then the owl saw this animal and said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" The animal opened his mouth and gave the most awful, "Roar!! Roar!! Roar!!! Roar!!!!" you ever heard. It frightened the little Cub Bear so that he didn't stop to hear what the Circus Bear said, or find out what kind of an animal it was at all, but he ran clear back in the very back of the cave, into Jenny's room, and there he waited, almost frightened to death. As soon as the little Cub Bear got over his fright, he noticed the air blowing through a crack. It seemed to come right out of the mountain. He did not understand, and thought he would ask his brother about it. Just then the Circus Bear said, "Come out, come out, little Cub Bear; don't be afraid; the animal is a lion, and he won't hurt you, because he is a tame lion, and is a very good friend of mine." So the little Cub Bear came out and went to the mouth of the cave, just in time to meet the lion and the monkey, and he said very politely, "Come in, Mr. Lion." And the lion came in, and the little Cub Bear said, "We are going to try to build a house big enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us, we will have a place for them to stay. Can you help us?" And the lion said, "I would be very glad to help you if I could, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the lion said, "I don't know. I never built a house, because I always lived in the jungle, where there are lots of trees and grass, and we found our houses already built, just like your den. But I will do anything you want me to. I can jump ever so far." And the little Cub Bear said, "That is nice. Let's see how far you can jump." Then the Papa Bear and the Mamma Bear, and the little Cub Bear, and the monkey all went out to see how far the lion could jump. The owl flapped his great wings and said, "To-whit! To-whit! To-whit!" The lion crept away, then he said: "Now, I will show you how I catch things to eat." And he pointed to a log of wood ten or fifteen feet away, and he said, "I will show you what I would do if that log were a deer." The lion crouched and lay as still as a little mouse, and the bears were all still, waiting to see what the lion would do. There was not a sound in the forest. Suddenly, little Cub Bear saw a yellow flash through the air and heard a thud. Then he looked at the log of wood, and there was the lion on the log with his claws stuck into it. And the little Cub Bear said, "My! I am glad I am not a deer, and that the lion does not want me for his dinner." The animals worked all morning, trying to make the cave larger, but the Papa Bear went off with little Susie Bear to see what they could find to eat. When dinner time came, the animals all rested for a while. As they were sitting there talking, little Cub Bear said to the lion, "Mr. Lion, I wish you would tell me a story about the most narrow escape you ever had in your life." THE LION'S STORY OF HIS MOST NARROW ESCAPE "Well," said the lion, "you know I used to live in Africa, and used to eat deer and other animals. You remember I showed you this morning how I would catch deer? "Well, one night it was very dark, and I climbed up on a bank, and there I waited. I could not hear a sound. Everything was just as still as could be. Suddenly, a long way off, I heard a sound as if an animal was moving. Below the bank there was a path that the animals took when they went to get water, and it seemed to me that this animal was coming along the path, and would soon be right under the place where I was waiting. I watched and watched, and the animal came nearer and nearer and nearer; but it was very dark, and I couldn't see a thing, and I was very sure, any way, that it was a deer, and that I could have him for my supper. The animal came nearer and nearer, and, finally, I gave a great leap; and what do you suppose I landed upon? The back of a rhinoceros. "You know a rhinoceros has a skin almost as hard as iron, and right on the end of his nose two horns, very sharp. If I had landed on those horns, it surely would have killed me. The rhinoceros was terribly frightened, and so was I. He snorted and roared almost like a locomotive. I tried to dig my claws into his back, but I couldn't get through his tough hide at all. It was just like trying to scratch a locomotive. He jumped and rolled over and hurt my foot, and I found I couldn't move, because he had one of his great feet on my claws." Then the lion pointed to his claw and showed how it was all bent and twisted and scarred, and said, "That is where the rhinoceros stepped on my foot. "Finally the rhinoceros grew so angry that he put his tongue out. I reached up and bit a hole clear through his tongue, and then he ran away as fast as he could, and I ran away as fast as I could, but I had to run on three feet. And that is the end of my story." The little Cub Bear looked at the lion, then he looked at the lion's lame foot, and then he scratched his head and said, "I think it is a good plan to 'look before you leap.'" And the lion said, "I wish somebody had told me that a long time ago." After the lion had finished his story, and the animals had eaten their dinner, they commenced to work again, and worked all afternoon. Late that night the Papa Bear came home with a lot of strawberries that he had found, and all of the bears had a fine supper. The elephant ate hay and grass and the other animals found something they liked to eat. After the lion had finished the story, the little Cub Bear commenced to tease his papa for a story about the "Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa," but the Papa Bear said that he was tired of telling stories about the "Little-bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa," but would tell a story about a club-foot grizzly bear, if the little Cub Bear wanted to hear it. The little Cub Bear said that he did, and snuggled up as close as he could to his papa, for grizzly bears are as large as four or five grown-up brown bears all put together, and they have great teeth and claws. They like to eat little pigs, and little calves, and such things instead of berries and honey. When the little Cub Bear had snuggled up as close to his papa as he could the Papa Bear commenced. THE TRUE STORY OF HOW TEN MEN DID NOT KILL CLUB-FOOT "When I was a little cub bear, long before I met your mother, and long before you were born, I lived in a small cave near a store, where men used to meet and talk about the bears that they had killed, and mountain lions that they had seen, and all sorts of stories of that kind. Well, I used to come down in the dark sometimes, and put my ear up to the crack between the logs, and listen to what the men said. "One evening, while the men were telling stories, one of them said, 'Did you ever hear of the big grizzly, called Club-Foot?' "And all the men said that they had heard of Club-Foot, except one of the men that had not lived there very long. He said that he had never heard of this grizzly. The men told this newcomer that Club-Foot was a very large bear, one of the largest that had ever been seen. The men said that a great many men had tried to kill this giant grizzly, because he would kill their little pigs and their little calves and colts. Then, too, they wanted to get his great skin to make a carriage robe. But they had never been able to get the bear. For even if they hit him with bullets from their guns, it did not seem to hurt him much, but made him very angry. This grizzly, instead of running away from a man with a gun, would run right up to him and knock the gun out of his hand. No one could kill this bear. "They said that the bear lived in the San Bernardino Mountains, and that his great tracks had often been seen, and that all of his toes were missing from one foot. That was the reason they called him 'Club-Foot.' Probably when he was a little bear he had been caught in a trap and lost his toes. They said that the bear made regular trips from Mount San Bernardino to the Antelope Valley, sixty miles away. He had made the trips so often, that he had made a sort of trail through the mountains. This trail, the men said, was only a mile or so back of the store. "While the men were talking, another man came in and said, 'Old Club-Foot has started from his den, in the side of Mount San Bernardino, and is coming this way. He ought to be along here some time to-night.' "Then one of the men that they called 'Alex' said, 'It is a fine moonlight night to-night. Let's all get our guns and go up to the old grizzly's trail, and see if we can't kill him. There is a pig-pen right near the trail, with little pigs in it, so that the grizzly will be sure to stop there long enough for us to shoot him.' "Then the man that came in last and told about the Club-Foot's coming, said, 'There are two Irishmen that live a little farther on along the trail that are going to do the same thing. They are going to watch near another pig-pen that is farther on, and they think that they will kill Club-Foot.' "'Well,' Alex said, 'there will be ten of us with guns of all sorts, and I think that those Irishmen will never see old Club-Foot, for he will never get as far as they are. We will have his skin by that time.' "All the men said, 'We'll do it. It will be lots of fun, and Club-Foot will not bother the farmer's little pigs and calves, and colts any more.' "All the men got their guns and rifles, and some lunch to eat while they were waiting for old Club-Foot to come along. I was very curious to see what the men would do and how they would kill the grizzly, and then, too, I wanted to see a great grizzly bear; so I followed the men, but I kept so far behind that they did not see me at all. As the men walked along they talked about how they would kill old Club-Foot, as they called the great grizzly bear. The men said they thought they would climb trees, and wait in the tops of them, where they would be safer, and where the bear could not get at them before they had had a chance to kill him. Two men, though, said that they were going to stay on the ground, and that the other men ought not to be afraid and climb in the tops of the trees; they ought to stay down on the ground and shoot the bear there, and they laughed at the men who said they were going to stay up in the trees. "Finally they came to the path that old Club-Foot usually traveled, and there was the pig-pen with the little pigs in it. All the men but two climbed up into the trees, and there they waited. I went around and hid behind a rock, to see what would happen. "Very soon there came a great crashing noise, and as I looked up along the path I saw old Club-Foot coming very fast. He didn't stop for anything. He went right through the bushes, and jumped over the tops of the small trees, and as he came out into the moonlight he seemed to be as big as Jumbo. I waited and thought I would hear the men shooting; but suddenly I heard the men who were on the ground crying out to the men who had gone up in the trees, 'Don't shoot; don't shoot. If you shoot the old Club-Foot and don't kill him, he will surely kill us.' "And they dropped their guns and ran as fast as they could and commenced to climb trees. They climbed up a little way, but they were so frightened, and so hurried, that they would slip back. "Old Club-Foot came right along, but he didn't notice the men at all, or pay any attention to them. He went right up to the pig-pen, and he hit it one blow and knocked it all to pieces. He took up two pigs, one in each of his two great forepaws, and off he went down the path, and not one of the men fired a single shot. "Pretty soon the men came down from the trees, and then they all began to scold one another. One man said to Alex, 'Why didn't you shoot?' "'Well,' he said, 'the old Club-Foot looked as big as an elephant, and I thought if I shot him and didn't kill him, that he would come and shake the tree down and eat me up.' "And the other men said that was the reason that they didn't shoot. Then they said to the brave fellows who stayed on the ground, 'Why didn't you shoot?' "'Well,' they said, 'we didn't know the bear was so big.' "After the men had got nearly home, they sat down and talked it all over, and one of them said, 'What will you say to the two Irishmen that were going to kill Club-Foot? You know we thought we would kill him, and he would never get as far as the Irishmen?' "And they all agreed that they would not say a thing about it to any one, but would wait and see what the Irishmen said when they came into the store the next evening. "Well, the next evening, I went down and hid behind the house to hear what the men would say. And sure enough, very soon in came the two Irishmen. One Irishmen was named Mike, and the other, Pat. The men all said, 'Hello, Mike,' and 'Hello, Pat.' But no one said anything about old Club-Foot. "After a while Alex said, 'Well, Mike, where is the bear skin you were going to bring us?' For Mike had said that he would have a bear skin for them that night. 'Didn't you see old Club-Foot?' "'Yes,' Mike said, 'we saw Club-Foot. He came right by us, and we were sitting on the roof of the pig-pen. He knocked the pig-pen right out from under us, and took a little pig and ran off with it.' "'Well,' Alex said, 'why didn't you shoot him?' "And Mike said, 'Well--well, we couldn't find our guns.' "And so that was the way that the ten men didn't kill old Club-Foot. And it is said that he is still living in the San Bernardino Mountains, and still goes over the same old trail every year. For some reason, no one has ever succeeded in getting him." After Papa Bear had finished the story, little Cub Bear said, "I wish I were a great big grizzly bear, so that I would not be afraid of a gun." But the Papa Bear said, "It is always a good thing to be afraid of a gun, no matter how big you may be." The little Cub Bear ran off to bed in the dark, and was soon fast asleep. In his sleep he reached out with his paw and gave a great slap, then a moment after he reached out again and gave another slap. Can you guess what he was dreaming about? The next morning the little Cub Bear woke up very early, and rubbed his eyes, and wondered if any animal would come that day. He listened and listened, but he heard nothing. Suddenly there was a loud "Bang! Bang!" and he knew that some animal was coming. The little Cub Bear ran to the mouth of the den, where he could hear a rustling sound. He looked down the path, but could see nothing. He looked again and this time he looked up among the branches of the trees, because he thought it might be a bird coming. And what do you think he saw? Away up among the branches of the trees he could see an animal's head. He said: "I see an animal's head moving among the trees. His head has large ears and very large eyes, and two horns different from any horns I ever saw. They are blunt on the end, and stick straight up, and seem to have hair on the end of the horns. I can't see the animal, but I see a long, long neck, covered with big yellow spots. As the animal comes nearer, I can see more of his neck. And now I can see his legs and his body. His body looks something like a horse, only the hind legs are much shorter than the front legs. If you tried to ride on his back you would slip off behind, because it is slanting, like a hill, and all covered with those yellow spots." Just then the owl saw this animal, and he said, "Who-o-o-o? who-o-o-o?" The animal did not answer a word, but came right along. Just as he got to the mouth of the den, the Circus Bear said, "I know who that is. That is Mr. Giraffe. Ask him to come in." So the little Cub Bear said very politely, "Come in, Mr. Giraffe." [Illustration: "Come in, Mr. Giraffe."] But, of course, the giraffe could not come in. Finally, he knelt down and stuck his long neck into the cave, and the Cub Bear said to him, "We are going to try to build a house big enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us we will have a place for them to stay. Can you help us?" And the giraffe said, "I would be very glad to help you if I could, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And the little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the giraffe answered, "I don't know. I never built a house in my life. I eat the leaves off the trees and live out-of-doors, just like horses and zebras and cows. I never had a home. But, I have the longest neck of any animal in the whole world, and if there is anything up in the air you want me to look for, or if there is anything a long way off that you would like to have me see, I think I can look for it for you." And the little Cub Bear suddenly thought of the hole way back in the back part of the cave where the wind came from, and he said, "I wish you would come in and see if you can put your head through a hole in the back part of the cave. Maybe you will find something." And the giraffe said, "I will be very glad to try." And so he wriggled, and twisted, and got into the den, and got away back in the back part, and he found a hole, and it was just large enough for his head and his long neck. He stuck his head farther and farther into the hole, and stayed there so long that the little Cub Bear was afraid something was wrong, so, he and the monkey took hold of the giraffe's tail and pulled just as hard as they could. The giraffe finally pulled his head out of the hole, and the Cub Bear said, "What did you see?" And the giraffe said, "I found it very dark, and I had to keep my head in a long time so that my eyes would get used to the darkness, but I could see that there was a large room--a large cave back of this cave. I couldn't see the end of it at all. I think if we could only get into this room, we would have a place large enough for all the animals in the circus, if they wanted to come here to live." And the little Cub Bear said, "My! Wouldn't that be nice? I wonder, if all the animals would help, if we couldn't break down the rock and get into this room?" That night, after all the animals had done all they could to get things to eat and to make the cave large enough, the lion and some of the other animals came into the cave. The giraffe was still out trying to get enough leaves to eat, and the elephant was eating the last of the baled hay that had been brought from the train wreck. "Papa, please tell me another story about the 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa'." The Papa Bear sighed a great sigh, because he was very tired, but he wanted to please the little fellow so he told the story of: THE "CLUB-FOOT-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA"--A GREAT SMASH-UP "After the 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' had had his nose split, had lost an ear, had nearly drowned three times, and all of the toes had been cut off of one foot, the Papa Bear thought he had better move away to some place where there were not so many things to hurt little bears. So he moved a long, long way to a place where there was a great coal mine. "There the men would go down in the ground and dig coal from away under the ground. The coal was to be burned in stoves to keep little boys and girls warm in the winter time, for they do not sleep all winter as little bears do. The coal was used also to cook what the little boys and girls and their papas and their mammas ate--bread, and meat, and pies, and cakes, and everything nice. The coal was used to make the railway monsters go back and forth on the tracks, hauling men, and circus trains, and freight trains. A railway monster could not go, 'T-o-o-t, t-o-o-t!' or 'C-h-u, c-h-u, c--h--u!' move, or do anything without coal or coal-oil. "The 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' thought that the coal mine was very fine. He liked to watch the men as they went down into the ground in the cages or elevators, and to watch them come up at night with their little coffee-pot-like lamps, hanging in the front of their caps to show them where to go in the dark. (You see that it was always dark way down in the mine.) "He liked to watch the engine as it went, 'Puff, puff, puff!' but this engine did not move back and forth, like a locomotive. It was called a stationary engine, because it stood in one place, and how do you suppose it moved the men? One part of the engine was called a drum, because it was round like a drum, and on this was a great steel rope, like a thread on a great spool. As the drum or spool turned around and round, the rope would be wound up or unwound, and the rope went up over a great wheel and then hung down in the hole and the cage with the men in it was on the end of the rope, and as the rope unwound, the cage went down into the hole in the ground, and as it wound up the cage came up to the top of the ground. But the man had to be very careful to stop in time, or the men and cage and all would be wound around the drum and smashed and killed. "Now the Papa Bear was very careful to tell the little bear never, never to touch the engine, or anything about it; but one day the 'Little Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' went into the engine room, when every one else had gone away to dinner. The engineer had just stepped out. It was a cold day, and the little bear enjoyed the warm room. The machinery was all so bright, some looked like gold, and some looked like silver, and some parts were a beautiful bright red, and others were a pretty green. After the 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' had been there a while, he saw a sort of handle, and before he stopped to think, he reached up and gave it a strong pull, to see if it would move. And what do you think happened? "The engine went 'Puff, puff, puff!' The wheels went around and around, and the drums commenced to wind the rope up very, very fast. My! how frightened the little Club-Foot-Bear was. He ran away as fast as he could run, but he was scarcely out of the door before the cage came to the top of the ground. But there was no one to stop the engine, and so the cage went on up to the wheel, and there was a great crash, and down came the wheel and cage. And on and on to the great drum, and then there was the greatest tearing, and smashing, and breaking you ever heard--'Bang! Bang! Smash! Smash! Crack! Crack! Crash! Crash!' and then the noise stopped, for the beautiful engine was broken all to pieces, and the 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' ran and ran, and he didn't go home that night, nor the next night, for he was ashamed to meet his papa. "And all the time he was saying, 'Oh, why didn't I mind my papa? The beautiful engine is all smashed, and the poor little donkeys that haul the coal cars way down in the mine will starve to death because no one can take them anything to eat.' But finally the 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' went home. He found his papa feeling very sad, because he thought his little cub was killed. The papa kissed him, and gave him a great bear hug, but he felt very sorry, and so did the little cub." When the Papa Bear had finished telling the story to his little cub, the little bear said very sweetly, "Good night, papa dear; I am always going to do just what you tell me to do." And the Papa Bear said, "I hope so, little cub." That night the little Cub Bear got up in his sleep and ran as fast as he could, but he soon ran against his papa, who was sleeping there in the cave. The Papa Bear saw that he had been running in his sleep, so he took him and put him back in his bed. He must have been dreaming. Can you guess what he was dreaming about? The next morning, after the animals had their breakfast, the little Cub Bear told them that the giraffe had said that there was a fine cave back of the one where the bears lived. So the animals all agreed that they would do the best they could, and all work together, to see if they could not succeed in making a hole large enough for all the animals to get through into the next cave, for you remember that the hole was only large enough for the long-necked giraffe to get his head through. They went to work to make the hole larger. The mule kicked down rocks; the goat butted down more rocks; the monkey, the bears, the Mamma Bear, the Papa Bear, Susie Bear, the Circus Bear, and the little Cub Bear all carried the rocks out of the cave. The elephant helped as well as he could with his trunk, but the mouth of the cave was so small that he could not get in to work. They all worked until they were tired, but they could not get through into the cave although the hole was made much larger. That night, before they went to sleep, the little Cub Bear teased his papa for a story about the "Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa," but the Papa Bear was so tired, that he asked if some of the animals would not be willing to tell the little Cub Bear a story. The parrot said that she had heard the story told by the lion about his most narrow escape, and that she would be willing to tell the story of her most narrow escape, if little Cub Bear would promise not to ask his papa for another story that night. Of course, the little Cub Bear promised, and so the parrot told the story of her most narrow escape from death. THE PARROT'S MOST NARROW ESCAPE "Well," said the parrot, "I lived in South America, where there were many beautiful trees and many strange animals, and some of the largest snakes in the whole world. The very largest snake that lives there is called the boa constrictor. He is so large that he can swallow a deer whole, and, of course, a poor little parrot, or a chicken, or a rabbit, would not make a meal for him. It would hardly make a dessert. "One day I was seated on the end of a long limb, nearly asleep, when suddenly I looked up and saw a man pointing a gun at me, and all ready to shoot me. I was so frightened that I could not move, and I expected him to shoot any minute, but I thought that before I was killed, I would take one last look at the blue sky that I was never to see again--and what do you think I saw? A great snake, a boa constrictor, coiled around the limb above me, and looking at me as though he wanted to eat me. I was more frightened than ever. It seemed that his look made me weak, sick and dizzy. Before I could move, the snake darted at me like a flash, seized me and began to swallow me. In a moment I was just like poor Jonah, only I was inside a snake instead of a whale. Everything was dark and I could not think, except that I knew I would die in a minute. "Suddenly I heard a great 'Bang! Bang!' and the old snake began to squirm and twist. Then in a moment I felt something cut through the snake, and I was out in the bright sunshine, and the sun almost blinded my eyes. You see, the man had shot the snake instead of shooting me, as he had intended. He took me out and put me in a bag that he had with him. "Then he sent me to the circus, and I was there until the wreck of the train. There I learned to talk like the men. I could say, 'Polly wants a cracker,' 'Come right in, ladies and gentlemen,' and many other things. I learned to sneeze like a man, 'Ker-chou-ou-ou, ker-chou-ou-ou,' and to snore like a man, 'Aw-hu, aw-h--u, a--w-h--u,' and to cough, 'H-u-h, h-u-h,' and to whistle so that I could call a dog, '---- --------,' and to cluck so that I could make the horses go, and I learned to ride on a dog's back without sticking my claws in so that it hurt him. But that is all my story." "My," said the little Cub Bear, "what a narrow escape. We should never lose hope. I'm glad that you escaped." After the parrot had finished the story, the little Cub Bear went to sleep. When he was sound asleep he suddenly began to breathe hard, as though he could not get enough air, and he twisted around and seemed to be smothering. Soon, though, he breathed a great, deep breath, and then he was still and quiet. I think that he must have been dreaming? Can you guess what he was dreaming about? The little Cub Bear slept very late next morning, and when he got up all of the animals were up, and were talking about the cave and wondering whether any more of the animals would come that day. While the animals were talking they heard two great noises, "Bang! bang!" and they knew that the beaver was telling them that some animal was coming. The Cub Bear rushed to the mouth of the cave to see who it was, and he said: "I see two rats coming up the path. They are perfectly white. With the two rats is a rat that is bigger than both of them. It has beautiful fur." Just then the Cub Bear looked up at the owl, to see why the owl did not say "Who-o-o? who-o-o-o?" and just as he looked, he saw the old owl start from his perch, with a great fluttering of wings, and pounce like a flash down on the rats, and he caught one of the white rats in his claws and flew back to his perch, and there he began to eat this poor little white rat. But the other white rat and the muskrat came into the cave. The little Cub Bear said very politely, "Come in, Mr. Rat." But the little white rat was trembling so that he couldn't say a thing. And the Cub Bear said, "I am very glad I am not a little rat, to be eaten up by a wicked old owl." But the Circus Bear said, "You know that owls eat rats, and mice, and little birds, and things of that kind; but this owl is a very good, kind owl, and I am surprised that he would harm one of the white rats from the circus; but I guess he is very hungry, because he has been sitting up there a long while with nothing to eat." Then the Cub Bear said, "We are going to try to build a house big enough for all the animals, so if they come to see us, we will have a place for them to stay. We think there is a large cave, large enough for us all, back of this cave, but we don't know. Can you help us?" Then the muskrat said, "I should be very glad to help you if I can, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And the little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" And the muskrat said, "I can climb through this round hole here and see what there is in there." So he scampered through the hole where the giraffe had looked, and was gone a long, long while, and they all waited and wondered why he didn't come back. Finally the muskrat did come back, but he was all wet, and all the animals wondered why. The little Cub Bear said, "What did you find?" The muskrat said: "I found the most beautiful cave in the whole world. It has a level, smooth floor, and is nice and clean, and there are beautiful columns that come down from the roof to the floor of the cave, just like the pillars in a great palace, and away back in the back part of the cave there is a beautiful stream of clear, cold water. I had a fine swim in it. This cave is large enough for all the animals in the circus. There is one place back in the cave that is big enough for all the circus tents of the circus we used to be in." And the Circus Bear said, "My! That is grand," because he knew how large the tents were. And the little Cub Bear said, "My! That is grand," because his brother had said the same thing, and he knew it must be so. Then the animals began to plan how they could get into this cave. Finally they all agreed that if they could make the opening of the den large enough for the elephant to get in, and if the rhinoceros should come with his great horn, and some more of the animals would come, that they surely could get into this cave. So that night the elephant worked as hard as he could with his tusks and his trunk, and all the bears worked carrying out rock and stones, and digging out roots with their claws; and the monkey scampered around and carried out small rocks, and pulled out small roots, and helped some; but he kept pulling the elephant's tail every once in a while, and was more bother than he was help; just like some boys that you know. But finally they got the mouth of the den large enough so the elephant could come in. He came in and sat down, and then there was hardly room enough for any other animal. The poor little Cub Bear and the Circus Bear were squeezed up tight against the wall, and Papa and Mamma Bear had to get way back, in the back part of the cave; and the monkey had to hang to a root way up on the top of the cave. But by turning around slowly, the elephant found that he could use his tusks and trunk to move some of the rocks. They all worked hard until they were tired, and were nearly through into the cave, and had made the room so much larger, that they all had room to sit down and talk. The next morning early the little Cub Bear heard the "Bang, bang!" of the beaver's tail, and rushed to the mouth of the cave, and there he saw a very large animal, with two horns on the end of his nose, and a funny looking skin, hard and horny. He knew at once that the animal was the rhinoceros the lion had told about the night before. The owl said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o-o?" and the animal answered with a terrible snort and r-o-a-r. Then the rhinoceros came to the mouth of the cave, and the little bear said: "I am very glad that you came, because we are trying to build a house that will be large enough to hold all of the animals that used to live in the circus, and the giraffe tells us that there is a large cave back of this cave, and if we can only break through, we will have a house that will be big enough for us all." Then the rhinoceros said, "What can I do? For I would like to help. Your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus, and I would be very glad to do anything that I can." The little Cub Bear said, "I think that with that great horn of yours you could help to tear out some of the dirt and rocks, and the monkeys and the bears could then carry them out. Perhaps the elephant could be hitched to the chariot, and we could carry out some of the dirt and rocks in it." The rhinoceros said that he would be very glad to do this. That night, after the animals were through with their work, the little Cub Bear, who was the greatest fellow for stories that you ever saw, began to tease his papa for another story about the "Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa." Finally, the Papa Bear said that he would tell a story, if the little Cub Bear would promise to go right to bed as soon as he was through with the story. Of course the little Cub Bear said that he would, so Papa Bear told him the story of: THE "LITTLE-CLUB-FOOT-BEAR-THAT-WOULD-NOT-MIND-HIS-PAPA" AND THE DYNAMITE "You know that little cub bears like to eat," said the Papa Bear to his little Cub Bear. "But the 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' once found a tallow candle, and he ate it all up, and it tasted as good to him as a stick of candy does to a little boy, and so always after that he was looking for tallow candles. "Not far from where the little bear lived, there was a mine, where miners were digging in the rock to see if they couldn't get out some gold; and the miners had candles to use, so that when they were away in the mine, where it was dark, they could light a candle and see to work. One time the little Club-Foot-Bear found a whole box of candles, and he took eight or ten candles out, and carried them home and ate them. And when his papa found it out, he told him not to go there any more, because he might get hurt. The 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' stayed away from the mine for a long time. "But one day, after he had eaten all the candles up, he thought he would like to go back again and see if he could not find some more. So he went and he found another box of candles, as he thought. They looked almost like the other candles, but they were not so white; they were yellow and covered with paper. If the little Club-Foot-Bear could have read as little boys can, he would have seen these letters on the box: 'D-y-n-a-m-i-t-e.' Just as he got his arms full of these candles, as he thought, he heard the men coming, and he ran over to a tree and climbed the tree as fast as he could, with his arms full of these yellow candles. He got nearly to the top of the tree on a big limb, and there he sat and waited. The men came out, but they went back into the mine. The little Club-Foot-Bear took a big bite, but the very first chew he took, he found that it did not taste right at all. So he spit it out, and then he thought he would throw the rest down, because he did not like them, and wanted to get home as fast as he could. So he threw the whole armful of yellow sticks right down on to a rock. And when it struck the rock, what do you suppose happened? "'Bang!' "A bigger noise than all the firecrackers in the world put together would make, and the rocks began to fly through the air, and the tree jumped right out of the ground and began to fall down, down, down, the side of the mountain. The bear hugged the tree as tightly as he could, but it kept falling. And finally it fell 'kersplash!' right into the river. "The little bear was terribly frightened, and was nearly drowned, but he scrambled out on to the tree as fast as he could and you never saw a little bear run so fast in your life. He could not have run faster, if all the dogs you ever saw had been running after him. And when he got home to his den, he ran to the very darkest part, and there he covered his eyes and his ears with his paws, but all the time he could hear a great ringing in his ears, and the terrible, 'Bang! bang! bang!' That night, after the little Club-Foot-Bear finally went to sleep, he suddenly made a great jump, and jumped clear over his Papa Bear, and pretty nearly out of the den. After that you never could get that 'Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa' to eat candles." After the Papa Bear had finished the story of the "Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa," he said, "Little Cub Bear, what do you think of that story?" And the little Cub Bear scratched his head and said, "I am glad the little bear wasn't killed." And the little Cub Bear ran off and went to sleep. During the night he dreamed, and several times he gave a jump, just as though he were going to jump out of bed. Can you guess what he was dreaming about? The next morning the little Cub Bear said to his papa that he had noticed a box marked just like the box from which the "Little-Club-Foot-Bear-that-would-not-mind-his-papa" had eaten the things that looked like candles. The box had been left by some miners away back in the woods, and had in big letters on it the word "D-y-n-a-m-i-t-e." When the Papa Bear heard this, he began to think and to scratch his head. He was thinking that if the stuff in the box had knocked the big tree down, perhaps it would help them to knock the rocks down, so that they could get into the beautiful cave. The Papa Bear was wondering about it, when he saw the old owl looking so solemn and wise. Then he said to himself, "I will ask the wise old owl. He can't help much digging into the cave, but as he is the wisest bird in the world, maybe he can tell me what to do with this stuff that knocks great trees down." So the Papa Bear said to little Susie Bear, "Run and tell the old owl that I want to ask him a question." So Susie Bear ran out as fast as she could and said to the owl, "Papa wants you to come into the cave, so that he can ask a question of you." And the old owl looked wise and said, "Who-o-o-o? who-o-o-o?" And Susie Bear said, "You-ou-ou-ou, you-ou-ou-ou-ou." The old owl solemnly winked his great eyes, and slowly flapped his great wings, and flew to the cave. "Well, we-l-l, w-e-l-l," said the owl; "I am very glad to come into the cave, for you know that the light hurts my eyes, and I usually go out only at night. What can I do for you?" The Papa Bear then told the owl what he had been thinking about. The owl said very wisely, "I am sure that the stuff will knock down the rocks, for I have seen miners use it, and it makes the rocks fly so that they have to run a great way off, to keep from getting hurt. I think if you could get some of the stuff, you would find you could soon get into the beautiful cave that we all want to see." The Papa Bear asked the elephant if he was willing to go with the little Cub Bear to find the box. The elephant Jumbo said that he would be glad to go, because the animals had all been so good to him in the circus. Jumbo got down on his knees, and the little Cub Bear climbed up on his back, and away they went to find the box that had in it such wonderful stuff. They went a long, long way, and finally the little Cub Bear saw the box and pointed it out to Jumbo, who carefully picked it up with his trunk and with his tusks, just as he had the bales of hay, and carried it back toward the den. When they were coming back, what do you suppose they saw? The funniest little animal that the little Cub Bear had ever seen. It was nearly as big as a pig, but it looked like a great mouse. Its front legs were very short, like small arms, while its hind legs were very long. Its tail was as large around as a man's arm. And then it had a pocket, only the pocket was in front, as the animal stood up, instead of on the sides as boys' pockets are. And what in the world do you suppose was in this pocket? Another little baby animal just like the big one. All you could see of the little fellow was his head peering out of the pocket. As they stopped to watch the animals, the little fellow hopped out of the pocket, and took two little hops, and then when he saw the elephant, scampered back as fast as he could. The elephant told the little Cub Bear that this animal was the greatest jumper in the whole world. And while the elephant was telling this to the little Cub Bear, the animal saw the elephant, and was so glad to see his old friend Jumbo, that with two great jumps it reached Jumbo, and with the third, jumped clear over the elephant, bear and all. Jumbo said, "How do you do, Madam Kangaroo and the little baby kangaroo?" And the kangaroo said, "Very well, thank you." Jumbo then told the kangaroo where they were going and what they were going to do. Madam Kangaroo said, "It is very fortunate that you found me, for when you drop a rock on the stuff to make it go off, you will want some one that can jump out of the way quicker than scat, and no one can jump as well or as fast as I can." They hurried back to the cave, and here they found all the animals waiting for them. While they were away the alligator had come, but he had gone down to the beaver's dam to stay, because he liked the water so well, and he had not had much to play and to live in while he was in the circus. The Papa Bear told the elephant to hurry up and put the stuff in the cave, where they were trying to knock the rocks down. The Circus Bear and the monkey rolled the box over and over to the place, and then the elephant reached in with his trunk and put the box just where it should be. Then they found that there was no way to drop a stone on the box so that it would go off and make the rocks come down. The badger said that he would dig a hole straight up and down like a well, right over the box, so that they could drop a stone straight down on the box and make it go off. So he scratched away just as he had scratched when he made the chimney, and before you knew it, the hole was dug and all was ready. The kangaroo took a great stone in her forepaws, and stood over the hole ready to drop it on the box. The owl told them all that they must get as far away as they could, for the rocks would be sure to fly, and might hurt them. Then he told the beaver that as soon as all were ready, he must strike the water with his tail, and the kangaroo would then drop the rock on the box. So the little Cub Bear hid behind a tree, and every one got ready. Then there was a "Bang! Bang!" The kangaroo dropped the rock on the box, and gave three great jumps out of the way; and there was the greatest "Bang!" you ever heard. It made more noise than all of the firecrackers you ever saw would make, if they should all go off together. My! how the little Cub Bear did jump! And when he looked around, there was the mule, Jenny, kicking and kicking and kicking. She had been hit by a rock. It did not hurt much, but, of course, she had to kick anyway. As soon as it was safe, all of the animals that were there ran down to the cave. The elephant went in, and instead of his tail sticking out of the cave as it had before the stuff went off, he disappeared entirely. The little Cub Bear then ran to the cave, for he thought that the elephant had fallen into a great hole. He could not see the elephant at all, so he called, "Jumbo, Jumbo, where are you?" "Here I am," said Jumbo, and his voice sounded far away, for the explosion had opened the way into the great cave, and the elephant was already far back in it. All of the animals came running up, and how glad they were to think they had such a beautiful home. The floor was almost as level as the floor is in your house. It was a long way up to the ceiling or roof. There were great pillars coming down from the roof to the floor, and everything was so clean and nice that almost any little boy or little girl would like to have lived there. Then there was ever so much room in the beautiful new cave. There was room for the great tent, that they all used to live in at the circus, to be put up without touching the roof. There was that little stream of water that the muskrat told them of, where all could drink. The animals went out to get their things, and when they had put them all in the cave, it was dark and time for little bears to go to sleep. The little Cub Bear soon went to sleep, and what do you think he dreamed about? I do not know. Perhaps it was about heaven, whose streets are paved with gold, and whose gates are of pearl. Perhaps, who can tell? THE COMING OF THE ANIMAL WITH THE LONG NOSE The next morning the animals got up early, and the elephant said he thought that they ought to go down where the circus train had been wrecked, and see if there was anything more that they could bring up and put in the cave, as they had plenty of room now. But while they were talking about the way they would do the work, they heard the beaver's tail go "B-a-n-g, b-a-n-g!" and they all looked up, and what do you think they saw? The queerest kind of an animal. He looked like a small bear, but he had very long hair on his back and hind legs, and his front legs were much shorter than his hind legs. But that was not the queerest thing. The little Cub Bear said, "Oh, see his nose! It looks as if he had caught the end of his nose in a trap, and had pulled and pulled until he had stretched his nose like a piece of taffy, and had made it as long as my leg. Did you ever see such a long nose in the whole world?" The elephant said that he had a very long nose. But the little Cub Bear said that he wasn't talking about trunks that had fingers and thumbs on the end of them, but that he was talking about real noses. Then the Papa Bear and Mamma Bear said they never, never in the world thought that any animal would have such a nose. The Papa Bear asked the Circus Bear what the animal was? The Circus Bear said, "That is a bear. He is called an ant-bear." "Oh!" said the Cub Bear, "I have two aunt-bears, and they don't look a bit like that." "Please don't interrupt me when I am talking," said the Circus Bear. "This is an 'a-n-t'-bear, not an 'a-u-n-t'-bear. He is called an ant-bear because he eats ants." "Oh, I want to see him eat some of these ants that got into the honey, that papa brought home the other day." As soon as the ant-bear came near, the little Cub Bear ran to him and asked him to show how he ate the ants. The ant-bear said that he would be very glad to do so, because he had not had a good meal of ants for the longest while. In the circus he said they fed him on meat. The ant-bear said that he liked the taste of ants ever so much better. I would not, would you? Well, the little Cub Bear showed the ant-bear where the ants lived in a hole in the ground. Then he saw why the ant-bear had such strong claws, for he dug into the ground very quickly. Then what do you suppose that ant-bear did? He ran the point of his long nose into the hole where the ants lived, and then stuck out the longest tongue you ever saw, way, way down in the hole, until it was covered with ants that had stuck to it. Then the little Cub Bear saw why the ant-bear had such a long nose, and a long tongue that looked like a pink rope. Do you see why? As soon as the ant-bear had eaten all of the ants, the little Cub Bear said, "The ants are such little things, I should think you would not get enough to eat." But the ant-bear said, "Down in South America, where I came from, the ants are larger; they are as big as the big red and black ants, and they live in houses that are as large as a haycock. I dig into these with my strong claws, and eat up bushels and bushels of ants at a time." While they were talking they heard the beaver go "B-a-n-g, b-a-n-g!" several times, and each time the solemn old owl would say, "W-h-o? w-h-o-o-o-o? w-h-o-o-o-o?" The little Cub Bear counted four times, and thought that there must be four animals coming, and sure enough, when they came to the den, there were four new animals. There was the raccoon with his striped tail. He was always washing his face. There was a great striped tiger almost as large as a lion, and quite as fierce looking. There was a leopard, that looked something like the tiger, but was not quite so large, and instead of stripes, he was covered with black spots. [Illustration: The raccoon was always washing his face.] Then, over in a corner, was a little thing that looked like a soft and beautiful round ball. It looked so nice that the little Cub Bear ran right over to play with it, and before the Circus Bear could stop him, the little Cub Bear had given the little ball quite a hard slap. "Ouch! Ouch!!" How the little bear did scream and cry. And his poor little foot was full of stickers. The Circus Bear scolded the Cub Bear. "Didn't you know that that was a porcupine, and that he was covered with quills, on purpose to stick into people that touched him? You ought to have known better." But the little Cub Bear did not see how he could have known better, for no one had ever told him before, and he had never seen a porcupine before, and it looked like a nice ball for little Cub Bear to play with. So the little Cub Bear thought to himself, "I hope my papa will tell me about all of the things that hurt little bears, so that I will not get hurt so badly again. I am afraid that papas sometimes forget to tell their little cubs about the things that hurt. How am I going to get these awful quills out, anyway? I've tried as hard as I can, and I can not get hold of the little slippery things with my clumsy claws." The Papa Bear came and tried, and he could not get the quills out. Then the Mamma Bear tried, and she worked ever so much longer than the Papa Bear, but she could not get the quills out of the little Cub Bear's foot. The Mamma Bear was very angry with the "miserable little porcupine," and wanted to give him a hard slap; but she knew that she would get her foot full of the quills, and that would be worse than ever. The porcupine did not care at all, for he said to himself, "If they don't want to get hurt, let them leave me alone." But I do not think that was right, do you? Of course, they did not want to get hurt. Not long after, the monkey came and said, "What is the matter?" The little Cub Bear then told the monkey how he had just touched that mean old porcupine and had got his foot full of quills, that no one in the whole world could ever get out. But the monkey said, "I can get them out all right, for you know that I have two hands with fingers on them, just like a little boy." So the monkey pulled out all of the quills, and after that the little Cub Bear could walk all right. But he said to himself, "After this I will let other people alone, until I get acquainted with them." I think that is a good rule, don't you? That evening, after dark, the little Cub Bear heard the beaver go "Bang, bang!" and he rushed to the mouth of the cave to see who was coming. He saw a very strange looking animal coming up the path. He said, "I see an animal that is about the size of a rhinoceros, only he has no horns on the end of his nose, and he has the biggest nose I ever saw. It is not a long nose, but it is a short, stubby nose, about the size of the seat of a chair; the two big nostrils in the nose are almost as big around as a base ball. I can't see why the nose is so big. Oh, yes, I can, too, for he has just yawned, and he has the longest and largest teeth of any animal in the whole world, I guess. They are as big around as the leg of a chair. His mouth is so large that a little bear could sit inside of it. His legs are almost as big around as an elephant's legs, only they are very short." Just then the owl said, "Who-o-o-o? who-o-o-o?" The animal did not say a thing, but he gave a great snort. The Circus Bear said, "I know who that is. That is Mr. Hippopotamus. In the circus they called him Sam." Just then the hippopotamus came up to the door of the cave, and the little Cub Bear said very politely, "Come in, Mr. Hittopotamus." You see, it was such a long word he could not pronounce it right. So Mr. Hippopotamus came into the cave, and as he did so, he gave a great yawn, which frightened the little Cub Bear so that he ran way back to the back part of the cave. The hippopotamus said, "Don't be afraid, little Cub Bear, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus, and I wouldn't hurt you for anything." So the little Cub Bear came back, and he looked the hippopotamus over, and saw that he did not have any hair on his body at all, and that he was about the color of an old slate, and that he had a very fierce looking mouth. After a little while the little Cub Bear plucked up courage, and he said: "Mr. Hittopotamus, we are going to fix up the cave for all the animals, and we want to know if you can help us?" The hippopotamus said, "I would be very glad to help you if I can, because your brother was very good to me when we were in the circus." And the little Cub Bear said, "What can you do?" "Well," he said, "I don't know. I can't dig in the dirt, because when I am at home I live in the water. Sometimes I stay all day in the water, with nothing but the end of my nose above the surface, and then I can stay under the water a long while without coming to the surface at all." The Cub Bear said, "That is just like the whale." And the hippopotamus said, "Yes, just like the whale; only when I come to the surface, I don't make such a big blowing sound as the whale does." Well, the little Cub Bear thought a long while, and he couldn't think of anything the hippopotamus could do. So he said to his papa, "Papa, can you tell me what the hittopotamus can do to help us in building our house?" And the Papa Bear said, "I don't know. I think if he would go down and live in the lake above the dam that the beaver built, that would be the best place for him, and he could help the beaver to make the dam higher, and then when the beaver went to sleep the hippopotamus could make some kind of a noise to warn us when people were coming." So the hippopotamus agreed that he would do this, and he went down to the lake. Just before he left he said, "I am very hungry, and I would like something to eat." The little Cub Bear said, "We have plenty of meat here, if you would like some meat." The hippopotamus said, "I don't eat meat. I eat grass like a horse, only the grass I eat I get way down under the water." The little Cub Bear said, "Then you will find plenty to eat down in the lake." And the hippopotamus went away to the lake, where he got acquainted with the beaver, and planned to live there as long as the animals were living in the forest. THE MONKEY'S STORY OF HIS MOST NARROW ESCAPE The next evening the Cub Bear and all the animals were sitting in the cave, just before the little Cub Bear was to go to bed, and the little Cub Bear teased his papa for a story, but his papa said he was too tired to tell a story, for he had hunted all day, trying to find a honey tree, and had not found one. The little Cub Bear kept on teasing for a story, but his papa said he was so tired he could not think of a story to tell. Then the monkey said, "I will tell you a story, little Cub Bear, if you wish me to." And the Cub Bear said, "Yes, tell me a story of your most narrow escape from death." "Well," said the monkey, "I once belonged to a man who owned a drug store, in a large city. He had another monkey, named Jim, and a parrot. The parrot was a large, green bird, and he had learned to talk like a man. He could say, 'Good-by,' 'Good-day,' 'Good-night,' 'Polly wants a cracker,' and 'See what you did.' "One day Jim and the parrot and I were all down in the cellar, and the druggist forgot and shut the door, so that we had to stay down there. But we had a fine time, running about and jumping over everything that came in the way. We jumped up to the ceiling, and jumped from one beam to another, and then down to the floor. I pulled Jim's tail and ran away. He would run after me and pull mine, and jump away quickly. And once or twice the parrot got hold of us, but he really hurt us with his great bill and his claws, so that we kept out of his way most of the time. In fact, he hurt me so badly once, that I pulled a couple of his tail feathers out, just to show him how it felt. "Jim and I were scampering across the floor, when we struck a great carboy--a great bottle--larger than a pail, and knocked it over on the cement floor, where it broke. The stuff that was in it ran out on the floor. And the parrot said, 'See what you did! See what you did!' "This big bottle had on it in large letters 'S-u-l-p-h-u-r-i-c A-c-i-d.' We were sorry that we had tipped over the bottle, but we didn't feel very bad until Jim found that he had some of the stuff on the end of his tail, and it was burning him terribly. It burned so much that he tried to run away from the end of his tail. But he was so careless in jumping about, that he struck another big carboy sitting on the floor, and he knocked that over, too, and spilled the stuff that was in it. "And the parrot said, 'See what you did! See what you did!' "This bottle had on it in big letters, 'N-i-t-r-i-c A-c-i-d.' This stuff ran out all over the floor, and ran into a hole in the center of the floor, that was shaped something like a bowl. I got some of it on my foot, and it didn't feel very good. So I commenced to run around, too, and jump up to the ceiling, and thought I would keep off the floor. "There we found a great big can filled with glycerine. Do you know what glycerine is? It tastes sweet, like honey. I dipped my foot in the glycerine, to see if it would stop the smarting, and Jim put the end of his tail in it, too. But we were so excited, that the first thing we knew, we tipped over the entire can of glycerine on the floor, and that went into the same hole where the other stuff was. "And the parrot said, 'See what you did! See what you did!!' "After we tipped over the glycerine, we noticed a horrible smell, so Jim and I and the parrot all went back in the corner, as far away as we could get, and stayed there about two hours. But after a while, Jim's tail hurt him so badly, and the smell was so awful, that he commenced to run around in the most reckless way. He jumped all over the cellar, and finally, just as he was over this hole, where all the stuff had been spilled, he knocked down a great stone jug, and that dropped right into the stuff, and there was the most awful explosion that you can imagine. The drug store and everything in it was blown away up into the air, and poor Jim flew up so high that we never saw him again. "The parrot was terribly frightened, but when he looked up and saw Jim go up out of sight in the air, he said, 'Good-by, good-by.' And then he looked over at me, and saw that nearly all of my hair was burned off, and he looked at himself, and saw that his feathers were nearly all gone. He said: 'See what you did! See what you did! See what you did!'" When the monkey had finished his story, the little Cub Bear said: "Well, what was it that made such a terrible explosion?" The monkey said, "I don't know; but afterward I saw some men walking around the ruins of the drug store, and they saw a broken carboy and an empty can of glycerine, and they said the stuff must have become mixed, and made nitro-glycerine." Then the little Cub Bear said, "That stuff must be a good deal like the stuff we found in the box that opened the way into the beautiful cave for us." And the monkey said, "Yes, I heard one man say that nitro-glycerine and dynamite were the same; that dynamite was just nitro-glycerine mixed with a kind of clay." The next night, just before bedtime, little Cub Bear said he wanted to hear the story the little bird had promised to tell them. All of the animals said they wanted to hear it, too, so the little bird began: THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRD'S ESCAPE FROM THE ALLIGATOR "You see, I am a very small bird, and I live in a very peculiar way. Almost all day I spend my time in the open mouth of the great alligators as they lie on the shore of the river, basking in the sun. You see, they keep their mouths open for me, so that I can pick up the little flies and bugs that torment them very much. These I eat, and so both the alligator and I are pleased. The alligator is very careful not to hurt me, for, you see, if he should close that great mouth it would kill me. "Well, one day the alligator went to sleep as I was hopping about on his great tongue, and he dreamed that he was in the water swimming after a big fish. In his dream he thought he was near the fish and just going to catch it, and 'Snap!' down came his great upper jaw right on top of the poor little bird in his mouth. I expect you wonder why I was not killed. Well, the alligator had a hole in the roof of his mouth just large enough for me to get through, and it happened that I was right under it, when his mouth closed, so I got out through the hole." "How did he happen to have such a hole in his mouth? Do all alligators have such holes in the roof of their mouths?" said the little Cub Bear. "No," replied the bird, "but a man once tried to catch this alligator. He took a stick that was sharp at both ends, and nearly as big around and as long as his forearm, and when the great alligator swam after him to catch and eat him up, the man turned around and thrust his arm with the pointed stick into the alligator's mouth. As the alligator's jaws came together with a snap, the stick went clear through his upper jaw, and although the alligator got away, and got the stick out, the hole was always there, and that hole saved my life." "Well," said the Cub Bear, "I think I'd rather live in a safer place than an alligator's mouth." That night the little Cub Bear slept very soundly, and was out early next morning, wondering whether any more animals would come. Soon he heard a noise, as if some kind of an animal was coming up the path, but he could not see what it was. Suddenly he said, "I see the strangest thing; it looks like a bird's head on a long pole. The eyes are as big as large marbles; the long pole-like neck seems to have hair on it. The bill is much bigger than a goose's bill." Just then its body came into sight. "It has a beautiful tail of black and white feathers, and small wings with beautiful feathers. Its neck is as long as a yard stick, and its legs are covered with great scales, and are as long as its neck." Just then this strange bird or animal saw an ear of corn lying in the path, and lowered its queer head to the ground, and began to swallow it. The ear of corn was larger around than the animal's neck, but it swallowed the ear whole without chewing it. The little Cub Bear was too much surprised to say anything, so he watched and could see the ear of corn going down the throat of this queer animal. The skin of the neck stretched so that the ear of corn could go down. It started down in the front of the neck, and then twisted around to the back of the neck and disappeared into the top of its body. The owl called out, "Who-o-o-o? who-o-o-o?" but this strange animal did not reply. The little Cub Bear told the Circus Bear about the corn, and he said: "Oh, I know who that is; that is the ostrich." So the little Cub Bear said to him very politely, "Come in, Mr. Ostrich. We have a beautiful cave, and we would like to have you live with us." But the ostrich said that he would stay a while, but that he liked to lie out-of-doors, and that if any one came to capture him he would hide his head behind a bush, or in the sand, and he would be all right. "But," said the little Cub Bear, "they could see your great body, and so could capture you." But the ostrich said, "Never mind; that's my way." So the ostrich stayed many days. There was not corn enough for him to eat, but the bears found that he could eat apples, or oranges, or hay, or grass; in fact, one day the little Cub Bear found the ostrich at the scene of the train wreck, picking up all sorts of things to eat, and, strange to say, eating broken window glass and pieces of iron and stone. What a strange dinner that was! When the little Cub Bear returned to the cave that night, he noticed the striped tail of the raccoon, and at once asked the raccoon to tell how he was caught and put into the circus. So the raccoon stopped washing his face long enough to tell the true story of: HOW THE RACCOON WAS CAUGHT "Well," said the raccoon, "I don't remember when I lived in the forest, or any time before I was caught. When I opened my eyes, I found that I was living in a house where there were a man and woman, several little girls, and a boy named Ray; and the only thing I know about the way I was caught is what I heard the boy say. "The boy said that one time he was hunting through the woods, and he saw a nest, way up on the top of a tree. He climbed up the tree, and there he found two little coons, myself and my little brother. We had just been born, and neither of us had opened our eyes yet. He carried us home to his house; and we were crying for something to eat. We cried and cried and cried. And the little boy didn't know what to do with us or how to feed us. But, finally, he left us with an old cat that had just had some little kittens. Very soon we found that the old cat was willing to give us something to eat, and she nursed us, just as she did her own little baby kittens. The first thing I saw, when I opened my eyes, was this dear old cat who had been a mother to me and to my little brother. But we grew so fast that we were soon nearly as big as the cat. "I remember one time my brother ran after the old cat for his breakfast, and she didn't want him to have any, but he was so big and strong that he rolled her over and thought he was surely going to get his breakfast. The old cat began to spit and scratch and bite at him, and my brother ran away as fast as he could. "After that neither one of us ever got another meal from that old cat, because when we came near her, she would box our ears, and if we tried to get anything to eat, she would scratch and bite us. After that we got very hungry, but finally the boy bought a rubber nipple at the store and put it on an old bottle he found in the house; then he filled the bottle with milk and gave it to my brother; and you would have laughed to see that little coon sit up, just like a little boy, and hold the bottle up to his mouth and suck, and suck, and suck, until all the milk in the bottle was gone. And then when the bottle was empty, the boy Ray filled it again and gave it to me, and I did the same thing. After that, two or three times every day, this boy would give us a bottle of milk, just as he would feed a little baby. And we ate and ate and grew and grew, until the first thing we knew, we were full grown, almost as large as a dog. "One day, my brother and I saw some chickens out in the back yard. We never had eaten anything in our lives but milk, but the first thing we knew, we found ourselves running after a chicken, and we caught it and killed it, and ate it all up, and the boy came out and found us all covered with feathers. He scolded us like everything. He said that that was his little pet chicken that he wanted to keep always--a beautiful white bantam. And after that, he put us in a cage until he got a chain, and ever since that time, we have either been in a cage or had a chain around us, to keep us from killing chickens, or doing things that people did not want us to do. "Finally, a man came along and saw us and said he wanted to put us in the circus. And the boy sold us to the man, and that is how we got acquainted with all the other animals. We have been very happy and contented all our lives, because men have always given us all we wanted to eat, and taken good care of us, and while we are glad now that we can climb trees and run around in the woods, still we remember that the men were very kind to us." As the little Cub Bear went off to bed he said, "Well, I guess that is the best way, to be caught before you are big enough to know anything about the woods and the mountains and the hills;" and the coon said, "That is true." The next day the monkey was telling the little Cub Bear about the chariot races they had in the circus--how the men would hitch up four beautiful snow-white horses to one chariot, and four coal-black horses to another chariot, and then race around and around the track in the circus; and how everybody in the circus would be as excited as could be. The little Cub Bear said, "Why can't we have a race? You know the four beautiful black horses are down at the foot of the mountain, in a little valley, and the four snow-white horses are down at the foot of the mountain, in another valley. Perhaps we can get them up here and run a race. I will drive one chariot." And then the monkey said, "You never learned how to drive horses. I learned how in the circus." But the little Cub Bear was a very brave little bear, and he said he would try anyway. So the next morning, they went down to see if they could get the horses to come up and run the chariot race. Jumbo saw them, and asked where they were going. The monkey told him, and Jumbo said that was fine. He would be very glad to act as judge of the race, and that he would go half way down the mountain and draw a line, and that the first one to get over the line would win the race. So the monkey went down and told the black horses and the white horses what they wanted, and they all agreed that it would be great fun to come up and run a race, just as they used to in the circus. So they all came up to the den; and they were the most beautiful horses you ever saw. It took the monkey a long while to hitch up the horses. The bears helped him all they could. All four of the white horses were hitched to one of the red and gold chariots, and the four black horses were hitched to the other red and gold chariot; and the monkey chose the white horses, and the little bear chose the black horses. The monkey got into his chariot and took the reins, and little Cub Bear climbed into his chariot and took the reins, and looked over to see how the monkey held them, and he tried to hold them the same way. Then the monkey said, "How are we going to know how to start, so we can both start together?" And the Circus Bear said, "I will tell you what to do. We will get the beaver to slap his tail on the water, and that will be just as good as firing a pistol. When you hear the noise, you both start at the same time." So the muskrat ran down and told the beaver what to do. And little Cub Bear and the monkey waited, all ready to start the moment they heard the noise. Soon there was a sharp "Bang!" and the horses all started, just as though they had been shot out of a gun. The Cub Bear let go the reins the very first thing, and just hung on to the chariot for dear life. The monkey looked over and laughed. The black horses were getting ahead of the white ones, for they were running down hill at a terrible rate. Papa Bear came out of the cave just then, and he was dreadfully frightened, because he felt that his little Cub Bear would surely be killed. But the horses had run so many times that they were not afraid at all. They were going like the wind. First the white horses would be a little ahead, and then the black horses would be a little ahead. The little Cub Bear hung on as tight as he could, and he looked straight ahead of him. Suddenly he saw a stump right in the way ahead. The horses saw it at the same time, and two of the horses went on one side of the stump and two on the other, and the chariot ran right into the stump with a terrible smash and crash, and broke the chariot all to pieces. One wheel rolled down hill one way, and the other wheel rolled down the hill the other way, and two of the black horses went in one direction and two of the black horses went in the other direction, and the bear went right up in the air. When his papa looked to see what had happened, he saw him come down just like a rubber ball, all rolled up; and he rolled on down the hill. And just when the monkey thought he surely would win the race, he saw a great stone ahead of him, and two white horses went on one side of the stone and two white horses on the other, and the chariot ran "Smash!" right into the stone, and two white horses ran in one direction and two white horses ran in the other direction, and one chariot wheel rolled down the mountain one way and the other chariot wheel rolled down the mountain the other way, and the monkey went right up in the air, just as though he had been shot out of a gun. The elephant was standing at the line, and just as the monkey flew past him in the air, he reached out and caught hold of the monkey's tail with the thumb and finger on the end of his trunk, and swung him on top of his back. And just as he caught the monkey by the tail, the bear rolled across the line like a great big rubber ball. And that was the end of the race. The elephant never could make up his mind which won the race, the monkey or the bear. Which one do you think won the race? THE ANIMALS PLAN HOW THEY WILL DEFEND THEMSELVES AGAINST THE CIRCUS MEN One night the animals were all seated around in the beautiful cave, wondering why the men had not come to take them back to the circus. And they all said that if the men came they never would go. And the lion said that if a man came to get him, he would just hit him one terrible blow with his paw, and if that didn't kill him, he would just take the man's head in his mouth and bite as hard as he could, and that would be the end of the man. And then the tiger said that he would hide in the old dead tree where the owl sat, and when the man came, he would jump on him, and bite him, and scratch him until there was nothing left of him. And then the leopard said that if the man came, he would hide in another tree farther down, and he would wait and wait, and when the man got right under the limb, he would jump on him and bite him, and scratch him until nothing was left of him. Then the kangaroo spoke up and said, "If the man gets after me, I will run as fast as I can, and if he is on horseback, and gets near to me, I will take my little kangaroo by the tail and throw him away out in the weeds, where they can't find him at all. And then I will go faster and faster." The little Cub Bear said, "Suppose he should catch you in a corner, where you couldn't get away, what would you do?" The kangaroo said, "I would stand on my hind legs, and I would wait until he came right up close, and when he got close to me, I would just strike out with my sharp three-cornered claws, and if he got too near they would cut him just like a knife, and I guess that man would think that he didn't want any more kangaroo." Then the rhinoceros said that if he saw a man coming, and couldn't run away, he would get right up close to him and stamp on him and bite him, and that he might use that long horn on the end of his nose to toss him up in the air. Old Jumbo said, "I would just take that man by one leg and throw him up in the air so high that when he came down there wouldn't be anything left of him; and if there was anything left, I would step on him and run my tusks into him, and I guess he wouldn't want any more elephant." Then the beaver said he would swim under the water so that nobody could see him, and he would get right under his house, and come up through the little hole that was in the bottom of his house under the water, and hide, and they wouldn't know where he was. And the badger said he would get in a hole and hide. And all the other animals told what terrible things they would do to this man, when he came to try to take them back to the circus, because they all said they would rather live out in the open air under the trees, and in the beautiful cave, than to be taken back to the circus. And when they had all finished, the little bear said, "Well, I am glad I am not the man, because I wouldn't want to be killed in so many different ways." While they were talking, they heard a "Bang! Bang!" and the little Cub Bear ran to the mouth of the cave; and what do you think he saw? A three-legged bear. He called the Papa Bear, and when he came to the mouth of the cave, he saw that the poor bear looked tired out and very thin, but soon he saw that it was Jimmie Bear, his own son that had been away for so long a time from home. So he called the Mamma Bear and the Circus Bear and said: "Come quick! Come quick! Here is little Jimmie Bear, and he is coming back home." The old owl said, "Who-o-o? who-o-o?" just as if he had not heard that it was little Jimmie Bear, but no one paid the slightest attention to the owl, they were all so glad that Jimmie Bear was home again. As soon as he came to the mouth of the cave, the Papa Bear gave him a great big bear hug, and the Mamma Bear gave him a great big bear hug, and the dear little Cub Bear gave him a great big bear hug, at least as big a hug as a little bear could give, and that was much harder than you can hug, you know. Of course, the Papa Bear wanted to know all about Jimmie Bear, and Jimmie said that he would tell him how he happened to go away from home and to be gone so long. JIMMIE BEAR'S STORY "You remember that when I was a little bear, one day I disobeyed my papa. Papa told me that he did not want me to go far away from home that day, because there were some great grizzly bears coming, and they might want to take a little brown bear away with them, if they should happen to see him playing away from his home. I thought that I would be very careful, for I loved my papa and my mamma very much, and I did not want to be taken away by a great grizzly bear. But I was interested in running around, and I thought I would try to see how far I could run without getting tired, so I ran and ran, on and on, for a long time, and before I knew it I was several miles from home, and I began to grow tired. "Of course, I remembered at once what my papa had told me, and so started home without waiting for anything. Before I had gone very far I looked at the ground, and I saw that some very large animal had come that way. The tracks looked like great bear tracks, and though I had never seen the tracks of a grizzly bear, I thought that these had been made by the great grizzly that papa had told me about. Of course I was sorry that I had been so careless and forgetful. I wanted to get home without seeing the great grizzly, and just as quickly as I could. I went another way; but before I had gone far, I heard a sound that made my heart go pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, for it sounded like a great grizzly bear, and before I could think what to do, the grizzly had caught me and told me that he was going to take me a long, long way into the woods. I asked him to let me go back to the cave to say good-by to papa and mamma, but the grizzly said that he had not time to let me go, and besides that, if both the Papa Bear and the Mamma Bear should try to keep me, he might have trouble in getting me, even if he were bigger than both of the bears put together. "So he took me into the far-away land that I am going to tell you about. It is a beautiful land, and there are the most beautiful trees there, and many, many caves where bears could live. I learned to love the land very much, and when I grew up, I married the most beautiful brown bear in the whole world. And we have four of the dearest cubs that you ever saw; but I always wanted to see Papa Bear, and Mamma Bear, and little Cub Bear, and Johnnie Bear, so I have come back, and it is a dreadful journey across a desert. There is no water to drink, and nothing to eat, and, as you see, I nearly died." The animals all wanted to go and see the beautiful land that the three-legged Jimmie Bear told them of, but they were afraid to go for fear that they might die of thirst. While they were wondering how they would cross the desert, they suddenly heard a loud "Bang! Bang!" and the little Cub Bear ran to the mouth of the cave. He said, "I see some very strange animals. They have the funniest necks--almost as long as the giraffe's, but curved instead of straight, and their heads are very different from the giraffe. The animals have long hair on their necks, and on their backs they have two hills--small ones of course; and they walk very quietly; you can scarcely hear the animals when they place their feet on the ground." Just then the old owl said, "Who-o-o-o? who-o-o?" But the animals did not answer. The Circus Bear said that he knew what the animals were; they were camels. "How many of them are there?" asked the Circus Bear. And the little Cub Bear began to count, "One, two, three, four," and so on, until he had counted twelve camels. When the camels came to the cave, the Circus Bear told the little Cub Bear to tell them to come in. The camels came in, but they said they were not in the habit of living in caves. They lived on the desert. "How can you live on the desert, when there is no water to drink, and nothing to eat there?" asked the little Cub Bear. The oldest of the camels replied that the camel was a very strange and peculiar animal, and they were made so that they could live on the desert, where there was nothing to drink and nothing to eat. Of course, the little Cub Bear wanted to know how it was possible for an animal to live without anything to eat, and with nothing to drink. But the camel told him that they had a place to carry water and a place to carry food. He had ten stomachs for water, and four stomachs for food. The little Cub Bear thought a while, and then said that it seemed to him that if the camels could live so long on the desert, it would be easy for them to get to that new place where the Jimmie Bear lived. The old camel said that it would be very easy, and that the camels could take not only themselves, but that they could carry some of the other animals, for they were used to carrying big loads. That was why the men wanted them. They used the camels instead of the freight trains. So it was agreed that the little Cub Bear, and some of the other animals, should ride on the camels' backs, and that they would take turns riding. They would start at once, as soon as the camels had a good chance to take a big drink of water, and fill all four of their stomachs with food. But the camels said, "You must be sure that you do not stick your sharp claws into our backs." The bears all agreed with the animals that they would be very careful, and not dig their claws into the camels. So they soon started. All of the animals ate and drank all that they could hold. The little Cub Bear was to ride all of the time, for he was so small and so weak. The three-legged bear, too, was to have a ride most of the way, for he was very tired, and had come so long a journey with only three legs. The lion said that he thought he could walk most of the way. He was used to the desert. And the camel said he was very glad that the lion was going to walk, for his claws were very sharp, and he was afraid that the lion might forget and stick his sharp claws into his back. Well, you would have laughed to see the little Cub Bear try to get on the camel. The sly old camel knew that the little Cub Bear could not climb up, but the little fellow was in such a hurry to start, that the camel let him try to get on the best way he could. Finally, the little fellow said, "Dear old camel, please tell me how to get on your back." Then the camel said, "Why didn't you ask me before? There is only one way that you can get on the back of a camel. I will kneel down and show you." But as soon as the camel knelt down, the little bear saw at once that he could get on his back, and he scrambled up and said: "Get up, get up, Mr. Camel." The camel got up, but it was a very funny way that he did it. When the camel straightened out his hind legs, the little Cub Bear nearly fell off; then the camel gave his hind legs another hump, to get them real straight, and what do you suppose happened to the Cub Bear? He fell off, and got a great bump on the ground, but it did not hurt him very much, and the camel tried it again. This time the little Cub Bear managed to stick on. The tiger, the kangaroo, the two rats, the ant-bear, and the leopard all got on the camels. The hippopotamus tried to get on a camel, and he looked so odd that all of the animals laughed, and told him that he would have to walk anyway, because he was too big to ride on the back of a camel. The hippopotamus said that he thought he would stay in the lake the beaver had made; that he could not go far from water, for he liked to live in the water all of the time. The beaver said that he was going to stay, too, and that if any of the men came, the hippopotamus could hide under the water, and he could go into his little house and stay there out of sight until the men had gone away. So they had to leave the beaver and the hippopotamus behind. But they all said that some time they would come again, to see the hippopotamus and the beaver. The badger, the giraffe, and all of the other animals started on their long journey to that land where the wife and the little cubs of Jimmie Bear lived. That night they were all very tired, and they had to lie down to sleep without anything to eat or any water to drink. All except the little Cub Bear, who had some berries in a pail that he had carried on the camel's back. Little Cub Bear wanted them all, but he thought, "Poor papa has walked all day, and has had nothing to eat or to drink, and the way was very hard." The little Cub Bear was very hungry and very thirsty--hungrier and thirstier than you have ever been; but he said, very sweetly and very politely, "Papa, you may have some of my berries." But the Papa Bear said that he would not take any of them. Then the little Cub Bear offered some of the berries to the Mamma Bear, but she would not take any of the berries. He offered some to the Circus Bear, and the Circus Bear would not take any. Then he offered some to Jimmie Bear, and Jimmie Bear took just one. Then the little Cub Bear offered some to all of the animals, but no one would take any, except the baby kangaroo. I rather think that the baby kangaroo would have taken all of them, but his mamma would let him have only three. So the little Cub Bear had all the rest of the berries, and they tasted ever so much better than they would have tasted if he had not been willing to share them with the other animals. Don't you think they did? The next morning the animals started and traveled all day. That night, just as it was getting dark, they came to the edge of the terrible desert, and they saw a little stream of water and plenty of things to eat, and there they stayed that night. In the morning they started again, and soon came to the most beautiful trees, and grass, and flowers that they had ever seen, and Jimmie Bear pointed up to a cave on the mountain side where his wife and little bears were. And right there were three of the cutest little bears that you ever saw playing in the sun. What a noise they made when they saw their papa and all of the other animals. The Mamma Bear ran to the mouth of the cave, and how happy she was to see Jimmie. The animals were all as happy as could be in the beautiful forest, and what do you think the little bears of Jimmie Bear called the little Cub Bear? They called him "Uncle Cub." That night the Cub Bear teased the Circus Bear to tell him stories. "I want you to tell me a story about the time you took a ride in a great boat." And the Circus Bear said, "I will tell you a story about the time we crossed the great ocean and went over to another land." HOW THE CIRCUS CROSSED THE OCEAN "You may not believe it, little Cub Bear, because there is so much land, so many trees and rocks, and so little water where we are, but three-fourths of the whole world is covered with water; and I am going to tell you about the time that I crossed the ocean. "The circus was in a great city. The men said it was New York. And one day, without our knowing anything about it, they rolled the big wagons down on the wharf where there was a great ship lying. This ship was as large as a dozen houses all put together--as large as the circus tents all put together, but a different shape, of course. And then we saw that all the men that belonged to the circus were on board the ship. They began to wheel the wagons on board, and took the animals out, one at a time, and put them in great cages on board the ship. "When it came time to put Jumbo on the ship, he didn't want to go. And how do you suppose they got him on board? They put great straps under him, and then they lowered a great rope from one of the masts and fastened it into the strap, and they started the engine going, and the first thing Jumbo knew, he was hanging in the air like a little toy elephant, and he waved his trunk around wildly and kicked his legs, but it didn't do him a bit of good. And then they hoisted him way up in the air as high as a house, and then they swung him right over, and lowered him clear through two or three decks, way down to the bottom of the ship. And there they found a place for him. "Then they brought back the straps, and put them around the hippopotamus, and lifted him way up in the air and swung him over, and lowered him way down into the bottom of the ship. And then they raised the camel and the rhinoceros, in the same way. But the lions they brought aboard, cages and all. After all the animals were on board, and all the people belonging to the circus were on board, we heard a great gong ring, and then the big engines began to turn, and the ship began to move. The engine didn't go, 'Chu-chu,' like a locomotive, and there was no sound, except, 'Throb! throb! throb! throb!' which kept up until we were clear across the ocean, all day and all night, and the great ship quivered as the engine throbbed. "But this wasn't the worst of it. We hadn't gone very far, until everything began to move. The cages went up and down, and up and down, and up and down, until I got dizzy, and all the other animals seemed to be dizzy. Then I felt so dreadfully, dreadfully sick, that I didn't want to move or say anything to anybody, or look at anybody, or think of anything. "Once I opened one eye and looked out, and I saw that the men were lying around just in the same way that the animals were, and they looked awfully white and sick, and they didn't say anything to anybody, and they didn't want anything to eat, and we didn't want anything to eat, and I spent all my time wishing that the old boat would stop rocking, and pitching, and turning, and twisting all the time. And the old ship would go down, down, down, and just as soon as we would get used to its going down, down, down, it would turn and go up, up, up, and just as soon as we got used to its going up, up, up, it would turn and go down, down, down again. And when the ship started up, my stomach wanted to stay down, and when the ship would start down, it seemed as though my stomach wanted to stay up. And so I got terribly sore on the inside, and all the other animals seemed to be terribly sore. I hugged myself as hard as I could to keep from coming to pieces. And I saw all of the other bears hugging themselves. All the animals were lying down looking sleepy. Everybody seemed to be sleepy, except some of the men who were dressed in blue. "They ran about, and whistled, and sang, and blew tobacco smoke in our faces, and this made us feel terribly sick. But they seemed to be having a splendid time. After a while I learned that these were the sailors, and that they didn't mind the ship going up and down, and up and down, all the time. "After a while we all got so that we didn't mind it much. And then we began to eat. It seemed as though we never would get enough. We ate, and ate, and ate. We ate more than enough to make up for all the time when we didn't eat anything. And some people who looked so pale, and so sick, and so weak, seemed to eat and eat and eat, and some of them got so fat, before we got to the other side of the water, that you would hardly have known them. "One day the ship pitched and tossed and rolled worse than it ever had, and for some reason the engine stopped. I heard a man say that something was broken, and as soon as the engine stopped, it just seemed as though that old ship would go to pieces. She rose higher and went lower. And one time there was a great splash, and the biggest lot of water you ever saw came right down where the animals were. "The hippopotamus thought it was fine, until he tasted the water, and then he made up the most awful face that you ever saw; and you can imagine what kind of a face it was, for he is homely enough anyway. His nose is bigger than his face, and his mouth is right on the end of his nose. I asked him what the trouble was, and he said it wasn't the kind of water he liked; it tasted of salt and was bitter. It made him feel as though he never wanted to eat anything again as long as he lived. "I noticed, though, that the seal and the walrus seemed to enjoy it ever so much. I asked them why, and they said that was the kind of water they liked; that was the kind of water they had always lived in--salt water. "It seemed a long time, but after a while the engine started up again. Then the ship was more quiet, but it kept going up and down, and up and down, until we got clear across the water, and then we noticed that the deck we were on became as quiet and steady as a floor. I heard one of the sailor men say that we were coming into a harbor. And sure enough, we soon stopped, and the men began to take the animals out again. "They hung the elephant on the end of a long rope, with straps around him, just as they had before, and the camel, and the hippopotamus, and the rhinoceros, and they took us all out and put us on a train. Everything looked so green and nice. How glad we were to be on shore! But we couldn't understand anything the men said, because they all talked a different language. It sounded like, 'Jabber, jabber, jabber, mum-mum-mum.' "I asked the lion, who had been in the circus longest, what it meant. He said we were in a new country, where everybody talked a different language, and that there were lots of other countries, where they talked other languages. "We stayed in this new country a long while, but finally came back. And that is the end of my story." The little Cub Bear said, "I would like to see the ocean, but I don't think I would ride on a ship, if it makes you feel so terribly bad inside." And the Circus Bear said, "You would soon forget all about that and just remember the beautiful things there are to see. I am glad I went across." Then the little Cub Bear went to bed and went to sleep, and that night he dreamed so hard that--what do you think happened to him? He rolled clear out of bed and fell into a stream in the cave--_kersplash!_ The Papa Bear asked him what the trouble was, and he said he dreamed that he was on board ship and was nearly drowned. Some dreams, you see, come true. When morning came, the Papa Bear called the little Cub Bear to him and said: "Now, my little cub, it is time for you to go out alone, to see if you can not find something to eat for yourself. I think if you go and search carefully, you will be able to find some strawberries, and if you can not find strawberries, you may be able to find some blackberries. Don't try to eat any of the gooseberries that you will see, because the wild gooseberries you will find are all covered with stickers, and they will stick in your tongue. If you find a tree filled with honey, come back and tell Papa Bear, because I think you had better not try yet to get the honey out of the tree, for the bees might sting you. And if you find any bumble-bees, be sure to let them alone, for they have holes in the ground, where they make their honey, and they have very long stingers, and they would sting you very hard, so you better come home at once and tell papa. But if you find the berries, you can eat all you want. And if you find a _big_ patch of berries, you better come home and tell Mamma Bear, and then we will all go and get all the berries we want to eat." OUT ALL ALONE So the little Cub Bear started out for the very first time in his life all alone, and he did enjoy everything so much. He finally found a patch of berries, and there he ate all he wanted, and then he went over behind a log and lay down and went to sleep. When he awoke, it was nearly dark, and he knew that he must hurry home. He started, but had gone only a few steps when a little animal scampered across the path and ran up a tree. The Cub Bear thought he would like to see this animal, and so he climbed up the tree after it, and there he found a strange looking animal. It had a tail something like a rat, but it was a great deal bigger than a rat, and bigger than a cat. It had long soft fur; but as soon as the little Cub Bear touched it, it rolled itself into a ball, and fell to the ground. Cub Bear clambered down the tree as fast as he could, and there at the foot of the tree he found this strange animal all rolled up like a ball. The Cub Bear smelt of it, and rolled it over very carefully, and looked it all over, but it seemed to be dead, and he felt so sorry to think that this little animal was dead. And when he went home, the first thing he told his papa was, "Papa Bear, I saw the strangest little animal to-day, and I am very sorry that I killed it." [Illustration: "I saw the strangest little animal to-day."] Then he told the Papa Bear how the little animal scampered up the tree, and how it rolled up into a furry ball, and how it dropped from the tree and seemed to be dead. The Papa Bear said: "My dear little Cub Bear, the animal was not dead at all. That was just his way of fooling you, and making you think that he was dead, so that you would not bother him any more. The animal was an opossum. That is the way they always do when they are frightened, or when they think some one is going to take them and hurt them." Then the little Cub Bear told his papa what a fine time he had had, and how he had found the berries and had eaten all he could, and that he was nearly ready to go to sleep. Next morning, bright and early, the Papa Bear called the little Cub Bear again, for he wanted to teach him that he must work for himself, and find his own living, and he said: "Little Cub Bear, do you want to go again into the woods to-day, and see if you can find some more berries?" And the little Cub Bear said, "Yes, papa, I want to go, because I want to learn to work for myself, and take care of myself." So the Papa Bear again told him to be very careful, and if he saw any men or any large animals, he was to come home as quickly as possible. The little Cub Bear said that he would do this, and then he started out joyously in the early morning light, while dew was on the ground, to see if he could not find another berry patch. And sure enough, before he had gone very far, he found a patch full of beautiful blackberries. He ate all he could of these, but he got scratched many times on his nose and on his paws. It did not hurt him any on his paws, because they were thick, but on the end of his nose, where the skin was very thin, sometimes the little Cub Bear was so badly scratched that he felt like crying. But he was a brave little fellow, and did not cry, and thought that as soon as he had enough to eat, he would go back and tell the Papa and Mamma Bear where they could find all they wanted to eat. Pretty soon he left the berry patch, thinking he would go home a new way, and so he started, and very soon came to a beautiful lake, larger than the lake that the beaver had made near the den where they used to live. It was so wide at some places that he could hardly see across the lake. It was one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, and the most beautiful lake that this little Cub Bear had ever seen. The little Cub Bear sat down near a log to look at this lake, for it made him very happy and contented to see such a beautiful sight. While he was waiting, he saw in the air a very large bird, larger than a hawk and larger than an eagle. This bird seemed to be flying about over the water, and around, and around; and the little Cub Bear wondered what this bird was trying to do. The most peculiar thing he noticed about the bird was that he had such a long bill. The bill was over a foot long, much larger than the bill of the ostrich, and larger than the bill of a goose, or any bird that the little Cub Bear had ever seen. All of a sudden, this peculiar bird turned a sort of somersault and fell head downward into the water. While falling, the bird's wings were outstretched, and when it struck the water, there was a great splash and the bird disappeared, but soon reappeared floating on the surface, and shaking his head in a most peculiar way. The little Cub Bear wondered and wondered what the bird was doing. He waited until this strange bird began flying again, and then he noticed that there were a number of other birds which looked just like this one, and that they were flying about, and every once in a while one of these birds would turn a sort of a somersault and fall with outstretched wings into the water with a great splash, and then come up, and always bob his head in just that peculiar way, as though he were nodding at some one. The little Cub Bear thought that when he got home he would tell the Papa Bear about it, and try to find out what kind of a bird it was. So he hurried and got home just as the sun set. And when his papa asked him how he got along that day, he told him about the blackberry patch, and said that he hoped they would all go the next day and get something to eat, for there were plenty of berries for all the bears, and for any of the other animals who wanted to eat the berries. The lion and the tiger both said that they did not care for berries, and the hippopotamus, too, said that he did not want any berries; the rhinoceros did not care for berries, but all the birds and the monkey thought it would be fine to go and get some of the berries the next day. Then the little Cub Bear said: "Oh, papa, I almost forgot. I want to tell you about the strange bird that I saw to-day, at a big lake in the mountains; it was bigger than a hawk, or an eagle. The bird had a long bill, and circled around, and around, and then turned a somersault, and fell with outstretched wings _ker-splash_ into the water; and then the bird came up and shook his head as though he were nodding to a friend." The Papa Bear said, "Why, I know what that was; that was a pelican, and if you had been nearer to him, you would have seen a strange bag under his bill." The little Cub Bear said, "Well, what was he nodding his head about when he came up out of the water?" And the Papa Bear said, "You see, the pelican dived into the water to get a fish, which he saw when he was flying about above the water, and he dove down into the water so straight, that he caught the little fish in his bill; and put it in the pouch under the bill, before the little fish could get away. And then when he came to the surface, he was nodding his head, so he could throw his bill up into the air, and try to get the fish down his throat." Then the Papa Bear said that one time he saw a pelican swallow the head of a fish that he had found on the beach at the seashore, and this head was larger than two baseballs, and when the pelican got the head half way down his throat, it stuck there, and the poor pelican was in great distress, for he could not get the fish's head up or down. The Papa Bear said he did not know what happened to the pelican, for at that time two men came up, and the Papa Bear had to leave as fast as he could; but he thought perhaps these men might have helped the pelican to get the fish's head in his throat either up or down. The little Cub Bear said, "I think it was very foolish of the pelican to try to swallow something so big without knowing whether he could get it down or not." The Papa Bear said, "You see, we never can tell what we can do, until we try, and that is a good way to learn, if we are careful enough about our trying." Again, the next morning, the Papa Bear called the little Cub Bear very early, and told him that he would like to have him go out again that day, and that if he would be very careful he could go farther than he had ever gone before. So this time the little Cub Bear went a long, long way, and came to a place he had never been before, either with his papa or without him, and there was a great oak tree, and he saw high up in this tree little squirrels running about on the limbs of the trees, with their bushy tails over their backs. And the little Cub Bear, after he had found something to eat, came back and watched the squirrels, and he saw that they were gathering nuts and carrying them in their little paws into holes in the top of the tree. He noticed, too, that sometimes these little squirrels would sit on the end of the limb, just as the 'coon did, and take in their little forepaws a nut and bite through the shell of the nut very quickly, and get out the meat and eat it. He thought this was very, very nice, but he wondered why they did not eat all the nuts, and why they took some of them in the hole of the tree. So that night, when he returned home, he talked to his papa about the little squirrels he had seen that day, with their beautiful bushy tails curling up over their backs, and their bright little eyes, and their sharp little teeth and soft fur; then he said: "Papa, why do the little squirrels take some of the nuts into the hole in the tree?" Papa Bear told him that it was because they were saving the nuts for the winter, when the snow was on the ground and there were no nuts to be had, and that the little squirrels spent all the winter time inside the tree, where it was warm and cozy; and that whenever they were hungry, they had this store of nuts to eat, and that the little squirrels seemed to know whether it was going to be a long, hard winter, or whether the winter was going to be mild, and that they knew just how many nuts to put away for the winter, whether it was short or long. When it was night time, the little Cub Bear cuddled up in a ball and said: "Papa, I want you to tell me a story before I go to sleep, about the inside of a nice warm tree, where the squirrels live." And so the Papa Bear told this story: THE PAPA BEAR'S LULLABY "Once there was a big black papa bear, and he had a little black cub bear. They lived in the woods a long way from any one. The mamma bear had gone to the bear heaven, and so they lived alone. "One night, as it was getting very, very cold, the papa bear went a long, long way to find something to eat for the little bear, and he walked and walked until he was very tired; but he could not find anything to eat, for the snow had come and covered the ground, and all the berries were gone. "The papa bear grew more and more tired; he was so tired that as he walked his eyes would close, and he could not keep them open, and his head would nod so sleepily, but he kept on, hoping that he would soon find something to eat for his little cub bear. "So he walked and he walked. His eyes closed--he was so sleepy, sleepy, sleepy. Soon he started home, and walked, and walked, and walked, until he met the little cub bear, who had come out to meet him; and he said: "'Dear little cub bear, I am so sleepy that I can not keep my eyes open at all.' "And the little cub bear said, 'I am so sleepy that I can not keep my eyes open at all.' "Then the papa bear said, 'I am going to find you a nice place to sleep.' "So they walked, and walked, and got sleepier, and sleepier, until they came to a great hollow tree. Way up at the top of the tree was a hole large enough for the little cub bear to get in. The papa bear told the little cub to climb up the tree and go in the hole, and see if there was a good place in the tree to sleep. "The little cub did as his papa told him to; he climbed up and up until he came to the hole in the top of the tree, and then he looked into the hole to see if there was a good place in the tree for him to climb down on the inside. The little cub bear turned around and backed into the hole, and soon the papa bear could see nothing of the little cub bear, for he was inside the tree. But he could hear him scratch as he slid down on the inside of the tree. "The papa bear listened, as he stood outside of the tree on the ground, and he could hear the little cub's claws scratch, scratch, scratch. And he listened again, and he could hear the little cub bear's claws scratch, scratch, scratch. And he listened again, but he couldn't hear anything. And he listened, and he couldn't hear anything. And he wondered, and wondered, where the little cub was. "So he listened again. This time he heard a faint sound, just inside the tree, and he knew that the little cub bear was clear down inside the tree at the bottom. "The papa bear said, 'Go to sleep, dear little cub.' "The little cub lay down in the bottom of the hollow tree, and curled up into a little ball and closed his eyes. It was a nice, warm, soft, sleepy place. And the papa on the outside heard the little bear lie down, and so he listened and listened. And soon he heard the softest little snore. Just the softest snore. "And then the papa bear went a little farther, and found another hollow tree, and he climbed up, and up, until he came to a big hole in the top of the big tree, and he backed into the hole and scratched his way down and down inside the hollow tree, until he came to the bottom, and then he rolled himself up into a big, black ball, so snug and warm, and went to sleep. "He snored so quietly, and the little cub bear and the papa bear slept all winter long in the cozy warm hollow trees, but once in a while the papa bear would climb up, and up, out of the tree and go over to the little cub's tree, and listen, and he would hear the faintest little snore, so gentle. "And then the papa bear would say, 'Dear little cub, I love you,' and pat the tree. "Then he would go back to his own hollow tree, up and up he would climb outside, and down and down inside, until he came to the nice warm place where his bed was. "There he would curl up into a ball, and shut his eyes, and go to sleep, and snore and snore and snore all night, and all day, and all night, and all day, the whole winter long." And the little cub was asleep before the story was ended, for, you see, the story has no end. Afterward many wonderful stories were told in the cave of Jimmie Bear, and many wonderful things happened to the animals there; but I think that we must say "Good-by" now to the dear little cub and to all of the animals. THE END 
7938	----	VIRGILIA _or_ OUT OF THE LION'S MOUTH _By_ FELICIA BUTTZ CLARK 1917 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A confession of faith CHAPTER II. The "Little Fish" CHAPTER III. The hymn of the water-carrier CHAPTER IV. The inner shrine of Jupiter CHAPTER V. The Old One speaks CHAPTER VI. The Feast of Grapes CHAPTER VII. Enter, Lycias, the gladiator CHAPTER VIII. The symbol of the lizard I. A CONFESSION OF FAITH. The Circus in Rome was thronged with an enormous crowd of persons on a day in June, about two thousand years ago. One hundred thousand men and women sat on its tiers of white marble seats, under the open sky and witnessed a gladiatorial contest in the arena, beneath. At the western end of the oval amphitheatre was the Emperor's box, flanked with tall Corinthian pillars, on which were hung the coat-of-arms of the Roman people. Here sat one of the most cruel emperors Rome has ever suffered under. His cloak was royal purple, and was thrown carelessly back, on this warm June afternoon, to disclose a white tunic, embroidered in scarlet. Beside him were several ladies, elaborately gowned in the manner of the day, with hair dressed high, studded with jewels brought from Oriental lands, while their necks and arms were loaded with strings of pearls and emeralds, armlets of tawny gold in Etruscan designs, in which were set cameos of extraordinary delicacy and diamonds, only partially polished, as large as the half of a hen's egg. To every class of Romans, the gladiatorial show was open. Senators and Patricians, artists and mechanics, poets and artisans, women of every rank, from the highest lady of the land to the humblest washerwoman who beat her clothes on the rounded stones of the River Tiber, were here to gloat over the hideous contest in the arena. In the third row, about half way in the long side of the oval amphitheatre sat two women and a man. The women were unusually beautiful. They were mother and daughter. The man was plainly the father, a stalwart Roman, a lawyer, who had his office in the courts of the Forum, where business houses flanked the splendid temples of white marble, where the people worshipped their gods, Jupiter and Saturn, Diana and Cybele. "See," said Claudia, pointing a finger on which blazed on enormous emerald, "the Vestals are giving the signal. Their thumbs are reversed. The Emperor, also, is signalling for a cessation of the fight. How proud Lycias, the gladiator, is to-day, for he won the victory. Well, we must go. Come, Virgilia." The young girl arose, obediently, but her father noticed that her eyes were full of tears and that she shivered slightly in spite of the warm, scented June air. As the three mingled with the thousands who were in a very leisurely manner wending their way down the steps to the ground, Aurelius Lucanus drew her frail hand through his arm and said, gently: "What hast thou, dearest? Art thou not well?" "I am quite well, father dear," and as she spoke, she drew over her face a light, filmy veil, effectually shielding her from the too curious gaze of the laughing throng of merry-makers. "Why, then, dost thou cry, my daughter?" Virgilia glanced at her mother and noticing that she was out of hearing, whispered in his ear: "I hate it, father. Do not bring me again." He looked at her with surprise, then, remembering that girls have strange fancies, he was silent, and guided her safely out into the blazing sunshine. The sun was still an hour above the horizon; the pine-trees on the Palatine Hills, where Caesar's palaces were, stood up like giant sentinels against a sky of limpid blue. Aurelius Lucanus led the way through the Forum, where his wife, an ardent worshipper of the gods, stopped to lay a bunch of roses on the base of a large statue of Ceres, standing near the Temple and a building dedicated to the use of the Vestal Virgins. The Chief Virgin was being carried to the entrance in her chair, borne by four bearers, while in front of her walked the two men who held high the symbols of her priestly office. Claudia fell upon her knees as the holy vestal went by, until her chair had been carried through the iron gates. Virgilia watched her mother, with an anxious look on her young face. "Why didst thou not also kneel before the holy one?" her mother said, in a stern tone. "Dost not know that in her hands she holds such power that even the emperor himself trembles before her and does her bidding, lest the gods send upon him disaster and ruin?" Virgilia made no reply, but walked quietly by her mother's side through the Forum, beneath the great arches, up over the Capitoline Hill where Jupiter's Temple arose in grandeur, its ivory-tinted marbles beginning to turn a dull rose in the rays of the fast-lowering sun. They descended on the other side and entered a labyrinth of narrow streets, winding in and out between rows of houses, most of them showing a plain, windowless front, the only decoration being over and around the door. With a quick double-knock at one of these doors, the lawyer summoned a servant, who bowed deeply as the two ladies and his master entered. Aurelius Lucanus lingered a moment, while his wife passed on into the atrium, but here, it was hot, so she went further, into a court, transformed into a beautiful garden. Around the fountain, which cooled the air, bloomed literally hundreds of calla lilies, masses of stately blossoms with snowy chalices and hearts of gold. Around the pillars twined the June roses, pink and yellow, and mixed with them were vines, of starry jessamine, shedding forth a faint, delicious odor, akin to that of orange-blossoms. Here were chairs of rare woods inlaid with ivory, and couches, gracefully formed, covered with soft silks and cushions embroidered in gold. Claudia sank down, as if she were weary, and a slave sprang forward to remove the white outer garment, worn upon the street to cover the costly silk one, and the jewels which she had worn in the amphitheatre. Aurelius was conversing with the dark-skinned porter. "Has Martius returned?" he asked. "Yes, master. He came in about two hours after noon, but went out again almost immediately." "Leaving no word?" "No, master." The porter stood watching his master as he walked away. There was a strange expression on his strongly marked face. He was pitted with small-pox, and over one eye was a deep scar. He had never forgotten how he got that scar, how he had fallen beneath a blow struck by that man's hand, the man who owned his body, but not his soul. In falling, he had struck his head against the corner of the marble pedestal supporting the statue of the god who ruled in this household, and had been carried away unconscious. Ah, no, he had not forgotten! Aurelius entered the court just in time to hear his wife saying To Virgilia in her severest tone: "Thou art exactly like thy step-brother, Martius, self-willed and foolish. Why else has he been exiled from Rome by thy father? He has worshipped strange gods, has followed after a man named Christus, a malefactor, a thief, crucified with thieves--" "Mother!" exclaimed Virgilia, and there was that in her voice which stopped the stream of language, and made Claudia sit up straight and grasp the griffin-heads on the arms of her chair. "Wilt tell me that thou, too, art mad over the dead Christus?" she shrieked. "Then art thou no daughter of mine! Thou shall go forth from here, homeless, an outcast. Join thyself with the beggarly band of men and women who hide in the dark places of the earth that they may work their spells--" "Claudia, cease thy talking," exclaimed Aurelius, taking his daughter in his arms. "Canst thou not see that the child is fainting? She is ill. I saw it but now in the Circus. Hast thou no heart?" "What, thou, too, Aurelius! Thou art but half a man, and worshipeth the gods only in form. Long have I suspected that Virgilia had been infected by this poisonous virus, this doctrine of a malefactor. Thy son taught it to her, thy son, Martius, who is, thanks to Jupiter, far away from here." "Not so, dear mother," said a cheerful voice, "Martius has returned to his father's house, and to thee and Virgilia." A tall youth, about nineteen years of age, full of manly vigor speaking in a rich voice, vibrant with feeling, sprang forward, knelt at Claudia's feet and kissed her hand, then he embraced his father and sister. Claudia's expression relaxed. Had it not been for his absurd belief in the Jew, who seemed to have set the world mad, she could have loved this fine-looking young man, whose auburn curls fell over a white forehead, whose brown eyes gleamed with a mixture of earnestness and merriment. He was, indeed, a lovable youth. "Hast thou come back cured, Martius? Then art thou indeed welcome." "Cured of what, mother?" "Of thy mistaken worship of Christus." "No, mother," came the firm reply. Aurelius saw his son's face pale, saw him straighten up as though he expected a blow on those broad shoulders, saw his hand clench as if he were in pain. And Aurelius was sorrowful. He loved Martius for himself and for his mother, whom he resembled. The lawyer was also, only too well aware of the danger run by all those who called themselves followers of Christus. The worst had not yet come. There were only threats now against the members of this sect who were growing daily more numerous, and more menacing to the priests and the pagan religion. No one could tell what might happen by to-morrow, the storm would break suddenly. He knew Claudia and her blind bigotry. She would not hesitate to sacrifice Martius if she thought that her soul's salvation depended on it; Claudia's soul was her chief thought. But would she sacrifice her own daughter, if her religion should prove to be the same as that of her brother? The sister had slipped her hand into that of Martius. She stood beside him shoulder to shoulder. Virgilia was unusually tall. She had inherited the fine, cameo-like profile of her mother, but her hair was fair and very abundant. It was bound around her head in heavy braids and was not decorated by any jewel. Her white draperies had fallen from her arm, disclosing its pure whiteness and delicate outline. Virgilia looked straight at her mother and spoke, breaking sharply the silence following the two words of Martius. The sun had now set. It was almost dark in the garden. The lilies gleamed ghostly white among their long green leaves. The odor of the jessamine was heavy on the evening air, overpowering in its sweetness. A servant entered and lighted torches in iron rings fastened on the fluted pillows. He lit, also, the wicks in huge bronze lamps placed here and there, and in a three-tapered silver lamp on a table by Claudia's side. The soft radiance lit up the strange scene, the Roman matron, seated in her chair, jewels gleaming in her dark hair and on her bosom, her face set and stern. It shone upon the young Virgilia and Martius, standing before her, and upon the heavier figure of the lawyer, Aurelius Lucanus, just behind them. Then Virgilia spoke, and her voice was as clear as the sun-down bell which had just rung out its warning from Caesar's Hill. "I, too, am a Christian." With a sharp outcry, Claudia, dragging her white draperies on the ground, disappeared in her small room, opening by a long window from the gallery bordering on the garden. She was seen no more that night. Silently, the lawyer and his son and daughter ate their evening meal, reclining on the triclinium in the long room tinted in Pompeian red, a frieze three feet in width ran around the walls. Small, chubby cherubs, or cupids doing the work of men, weaving draperies, preparing food, chopping meat, plucking grapes and carrying them away in miniature wheelbarrows, were faithfully portrayed in rich colors. Some of these frescoes, tints as vivid as when they were laid on by the artists of twenty centuries ago, remain to this day on the walls of ancient Roman dwellings, and enable us to know how people lived in those far-off times. A servant, assisted by the porter, Alyrus, brought the food in on huge trays, roast kid and vegetables, green salad fresh from the market in the Forum Boarium, dressed with oil from the groves of Lucca and vinegar made of sour red wine. Then came a delicious pudding, made from honey brought from Hymetus in Greece to add luxury to the food of the already too luxurious Romans, and fruit strawberries, dipped in fine sugar and sprinkled with lemon. Virgilia ate little; the main portions of the food she sent away untouched. The salad and fruit were more to her liking. She was very pale. The scene in the Circus, followed by the sudden confession of her faith, had taxed her strength. This, her anxiety for her mother and the unusual heat of the evening caused her to feel faint, so that she excused herself and went away, climbing a narrow staircase to the flat, tiled roof. Here were many plants, blossoming vines and the gurgling of cool water, as it passed through the mouth of a hideous gorgan mask and fell into a basin where soft green mosses clung and ferns waved their feathery fronds. Seating herself on a granite bench, supported by two carved lions, Virgilia fell into deep thought. It was the everlasting problem, old as human life. Ought she to obey her mother, or God? To do the former, meant to stifle her conscience and destroy her inner life. Worship the gods she could not since this new, this pure love for the meek and lovely Jesus had entered into her very being. She clasped and unclasped her slender white hands in her agitation. What should she do? If God would only show her where duty lay. Glorified in the silvery whiteness of the moonlight, arose the splendid palaces of the Caesars. Virgilia could see them plainly if she lifted her eyes, for they stood high, on the Palatine Hill. There was revelry yonder. The notes of flutes and harps came faintly to her ears. Below, wound the Tiber, back and forth, like the coils of a huge, glistening serpent. Many boating parties were enjoying the river and its coolness, while the moon rode high in the heavens and shone upon the sheeny garments and fair faces of the women. Up the river, from the port of Ostia, came a big merchant vessel bringing from Constantinople and Egypt, carpets and costly stuffs, richly wrought in gold, filmy tissue and rare embroideries for Roman ladies and papyrus volumes for the learned Senators. Far out on the Campagna, Virgilia knew that the Christians were gathering to-night, coming from all parts of the city. Some were freedmen and others were slaves; among the figures gliding out on the cobble-stoned Appian Way were members of Caesar's household, and one or two tall Praetorian guards. The religion of Christ had found converts among all classes. Rome was full of Christians, many of whom feared to openly confess their faith, though later, they dared to do so, even in the face of a cruel death. Virgilia was so intent on her thoughts that she did not observe the cat-like approach of her mother's personal slave, the daughter of Alyrus, the porter. She and her father had been brought to Rome as prisoners of war after a victorious conquest by the Romans in North Africa. They were by descent, Moors, having dark skins but very regular, even classical features. Sahira, the slave, walked like a queen and was so proud that she would not mingle with the other servants. Her father, Alyrus, chief of hundreds in the desert-land of his own country, was but a door-keeper in the house of Aurelius Lucanus, and he was, very bitter in spirit. "Your mother has need of you," said Sahira, in her velvet voice. "I think that the Lady Claudia is very ill." "I will come at once." The Lady Claudia was indeed very ill and continued so for several weeks. The summer waxed and waned. The cool winds of September blew strongly from the West and the calla lilies and jessamine had long since withered in the garden before Claudia was able once again to sit in the chair under the late tea-rose vines and listen to the rippling water of the fountain. The old, proud Claudia seemed to have disappeared and in her place was a feeble woman, with trembling hands, whose glance followed every move her daughter made, who seemed to be happy only when Virgilia was near. She ignored the ministrations of the slave Sahira, whose heart warmed to only one person except her father, and that was her beautiful mistress. Sahira cast angry looks at Virgilia's fair head, bending over her embroidery while she talked cheerfully to her mother. The slave went away and cried, for she was of a deep, passionate nature, loving few and ready to lay down her life for those whom she adored. Alyrus, her father, found her crying one night in her tiny room in the section of the house assigned to the servants. He succeeded in finding out the thing that caused her sorrow. When he went away there was a resolution formed in his soul which boded ill to Virgilia. He would bide his time--and then-- The young Christian wondered often whether her mother had forgotten that scene on the day she was taken so ill, had forgotten that she, as well as Martius, was one of the despised sect. Up to the present, Virgilia had never refused to twine the garlands to be laid on the altars of the household gods or at the feet of the special god which Claudia worshipped in her own room. She had not refused because she felt that it would agitate her mother too much, and the man who came from the School of Esculapsius on the Island in the Tiber where the Temple was, had warned them against exciting the invalid. It might cause her death, he said. Virgilia knew, however, that the time must come soon when, if she was loyal to her faith, she must refuse to offer outward homage to the pagan gods. In spite of her belief in Christ and her desire to serve him, her heart grew cold within her and her limbs trembled at the thought of that dread time, for she was very delicate and her mother's will was strong. How could she defy her mother? It was an awful crime in pagan Rome to refuse to offer libations and flowers before the shrines of the family gods, a crime punishable by death. Had she strength to stand firm? II. THE "LITTLE FISH." In the meantime, Martius was still under the roof of his father's house. It looked now as if he would be allowed to stay there, for his step-mother's illness and the quiet condition of her mind during her convalescence, gave rise to the hope that when completely recovered, she would be no longer so intolerant and would permit the religious differences to be forgotten. Aurelius Lucanus was a broad-minded man. In his business as a lawyer and pleader of cases in the Law Courts of the Forum, he had come into personal contact with several of the Christians, finding them to be men and women of the strictest rectitude and following stern moral codes, such as were notably unobserved by the Roman of that day. One of his clients was a widow, Octavia, wife of Aureus Cantus, the Senator, a woman of rare mental gifts and a personality which was at once gracious and commanding. She had two children, a boy and girl, a little older than Martius and Virgilia, and the lawyer, while saying nothing, had noticed that his son was not averse to lingering in the office when the sweet Hermione came with her mother to consult him on some subjects dealing with her husband's will and the large property interests now coming under the widow's control. Octavia did not live in the handsome house formerly occupied when her husband was living on the same street where Aurelius Lucanus dwelt, preferring to leave it in charge of her freedman and his wife, who had served her family for many years. She occupied a villa about two miles from the city gates, where there were immense vineyards, festooned between mulberry trees. The vines were now hung with great purple clusters of grapes, promises of luscious fruits a little later, when the time of the Vendemmia should come in October. Then, there would be feasting and merriment among the servants, but no dancing or drinking, as was the custom on other grape plantations, so numerous on the broad Campagna around Rome. Before Martius had been sent away from home, by his step-mother's orders, in the main hope that the poison of Christian belief would be drawn from his mind, he had been a student in his father's office, going with him daily at nine o'clock and returning at two for the family dinner. Now, he resumed his studies for the legal profession, and once more walked proudly by his father's side through the crowded passageways of the city and the broad, handsome streets of the Forum. Martius was a little taller than his father. Aurelius Lucanus was, like many another pagan, no great believer in the gods, although, partly from regard to prevailing sentiment, partly because of his business relations, he outwardly gave attention to the formal customs of the day. This morning, as father and son entered the Forum, passing by the great statue of Jupiter standing in front of the temple dedicated to his worship, Aurelius bowed profoundly, and muttered a prayer, but Martius, his proud young head held high, passed by, without making his obeisance. The two were followed, as usual, by a servant, who happened this morning to be Alyrus, the Moor. He closely observed Martius and a faint smile or sneer added to the ugliness of his disfigured face. Alyrus had a fine face, so far as form and feature went, but his expression was full of cunning and revenge. In his ears he wore two huge gold rings, chased in cabalistic characters of strange design. They were the emblem of his chieftain power in that land bordering on the desert, from which he had been so rudely carried away. It was not strange that Alyrus, a barbarian, should bear in his heart a bitter hatred for the Romans and all that belonged to them. A slave, he was, and Sahira, too, but they loathed their bonds. It did not occur to Alyrus to be grateful that when they were placed on a platform down yonder at the lower end of the Forum, to be sold to the highest bidder, Aurelius Lucanus, who had bought him first, being moved by pity, had also purchased Sahira, his daughter, paying for her many sesterces of gold, because she was very beautiful and could bring a high price. Thus, father, and daughter, (who was somewhat superfluous in a house already well-supplied with women-slaves) were able to dwell together, and Sahira was spared many humiliations and dangers to which a beautiful young slave was inevitably subjected in these degenerate days of ancient Rome. Alyrus was not the only person who observed the "irreverence" of Martius. A priest of Jupiter, coming out of the Temple, saw the whole thing and made his own comments. He knew Aurelius Lucanus, the Advocate, slightly, but not the young man with him. He stepped quickly to the side of Alyrus, who had been very profound in his reverence to the god, although he hated Rome's gods as he hated her people. "Who is that young man?" inquired the priest. "The son of my master, Aurelius Lucanus." "And thou?" "I am a humble porter," responded Alyrus, with such bitterness that it attracted the priest's attention. Being a man who understood character at a glance, he seized the opportunity. Anything which could in any way enable the pagans to hunt down the hated, despised followers of that Christus who had made them so much trouble, was worth following up. The priests knew that there were thousands of men in Rome who had no faith at all in the gods, but there were few who would dare neglect an outward observance. When a man did that, in the public Forum, he was certainly possessed of that strange courage typical of the Christians. "Thou art a slave." Alyrus bowed, keeping his eyes on his master and son, now approaching the splendid white marble law-courts. "What is thy country?" "Beyond the seas, your reverence." Alyrus turned a pair of black eyes on the questioner. In them smouldered hidden passions. "Your young master does not bow before Jupiter." "No." "And why, may I ask? His father is, I know, a faithful follower of our gods. Why not his son, also?" The portico, surmounted by a marvelous relief in marble, a copy of an allegorical representation of jurisprudence, brought from Greece, was in front of the slave and the priest. The lawyer and Martius had already vanished in the cool shadows of the interior. For one moment, Alyrus hesitated. It was an awful thing for a slave to betray his master's son. He gave one backward thought to those days when hundreds of horsemen acknowledged him chief, and date-palms waved their feathery arms over his tent; he remembered that he was a slave, bought with a price, and his master had struck him. And he remembered Sahira and her tears. "Because Martius, son of Aurelius, is a Christian," he replied, and in his heart was a fearsome glee. He was walking up the broad steps, now, while the priest, laying a detaining hand on his arm, said: "I see that thou art a man to be trusted. I am interested in these Christians. I would hear more. Come to me tomorrow, at the Temple, after sundown. There is a little back entrance in the alleyway. Ask for Lycidon, the priest of Jupiter, and show the porter this symbol. It will admit thee." The priest was gone, and Alyrus, half-dazed, stood under the arch between two tall columns and gazed down at the bronze lizard he held in his hand. The lizard leered at him, he thought. Just at that moment a cry was heard, which drove the crowds of people aside. "Way! Way for the noble Lady, Octavia, widow of Aureus Cantus, Senator of the Roman Empire. Way! I say." Through the ranks of people was borne a large chair, gilded and wrought in graceful form, adapted to such a woman as Octavia, reported to be possessed of enormous wealth. The embroidered curtains were tightly drawn, so that the passerby could not look in, but so curious were they to see the lady whose name was familiar to all, owing to the valuable services rendered by her illustrious husband to the State, that the people crowded the steps of the Law Courts to watch Octavia and her daughter Hermione descend. They drew their veils closely, but a murmur of admiration arose as Hermione's veil slipped aside and revealed cheeks of cream and rose, eyes inherited from some northern hero, of deep violet blue, and hair, arranged in ringlets, in the style of the age, of a red-brown tint. Hastily, the two ladies passed into the dark corridors of the court, and were soon admitted to the private office of Aurelius Lucanus. Two attendants, who had walked behind the chair all the way from the Villa to guard their mistress and her daughter, waited in the ante-chamber with Alyrus, whose duty it was to remain here until the lawyer's day of work was over. The Roman welcomed Octavia with much ceremony. He bowed to Hermione, who threw back her veil and greeted Martius as an old friend. While her mother explained the matter of business to her trusted lawyer, Hermione and Martius withdrew to the other side of the room and sat down side by side on an ivory and ebony bench in the window. High above them was Caesar's Palace, white and glistening in the September sunshine. Sweet scents from the imperial gardens came to them, but sweeter yet, in its innocence and freshness was the face of the young girl. "Thou hast been long absent, Martius?" she said, while she twirled in her fingers a tea-rose, large and fragrant. "Half a year, Hermione." "And hast never wanted to see Rome? Was it so lovely in those far-off Eastern lands that thou couldst forget thy home and thy friends?" "Not so. But it was not possible for me to return. My heart yearned for Rome. There is no place like her in all the world, in the whole Roman Empire," he said, proudly. "Was it thy business kept thee?" Then fearing lest she might be asking too much, Hermione blushed. Martius thought that the rich color flooding her cheek was in tint like that of a wondrous rose he had seen on the Isle of Cyprus, where his ship had touched in the journey toward Asia Minor. "Do not answer if it is not my right to know," she added, hastily. "I thought,--we are old friends--" Martius was silent. He had heard that Octavia was a Christian, while her husband was not. He did not know whether Hermione followed the religion of her father or her mother. They had never talked on these matters. Christians, while exceedingly courageous where their principles were involved, did not run useless risks. There was always danger. He drew from his tunic a small wax-tablet, and with the ivory stylus, began, carelessly, to scribble on it, as if he had not noticed her question, or as she might readily infer, did not wish to reply. Hermione, slightly embarrassed and annoyed, watched him idly drawing. Then her breath came quickly and her face glowed. He was drawing, in the midst of other designs, a fish; little by little, it became plain. Under her breath, she said: "I, too, am a Little Fish." There was a sudden clasping of hands, as Martius looked frankly into her eyes. "I was sent away," he explained, after assuring himself that his father and Octavia were still busy discussing the case. "Sent away because I learned to believe in Christ. My step-mother would not have me at home. She hates the Christians, and my father yielded to her, though, personally, he is indifferent and says that everyone has a right to believe what he pleases." "Why didst thou return? Is thy step-mother satisfied?" Hermione asked eagerly. "Only a few weeks ago. My father's wife has been very ill. She is only now convalescing. All depends on the attitude she takes. I must wait. And in the meantime, I am preparing to be a lawyer, like my father. If I can stay in Rome, I shall be very happy. If not, I shall go to one of the distant provinces." "O, I hope not!" she exclaimed. Martius smiled at her. "I hope not, too," he replied. "There is another complication," Martius continued, after a pause. "The real cause of my stepmother's illness was Virgilia's declaration that she, too, has adopted the Christian faith. Where she heard about it, further than the things I taught her, I do not know. Thou seest, that the matter is very complicated." "And dangerous. Dost thou not know that there has been talk in the Senate about the constantly increasing number of Christians in Rome and in the Empire? It is growing, this religion of Jesus Christ." "Thanks be to His name," said Martius. "Amen. But with the growth comes peril and perhaps death. We may have to bear witness for our faith before very long. My mother has been warned but feels no fear. She says that where other martyrs have gone, we can go. She is very brave." "He giveth strength in time of need. We must wait and trust." Hermione stretched out her hand to him and he grasped it warmly in his strong one. They were destined to be firm, true friends, these two young Christians who faced an unknown and dangerous future. Octavia arose. "Come, Hermione," she said, "we must be going." The lawyer rang a small silver bell on his desk, and Alyrus appeared at the door. "See that the Lady Octavia's chair is ready." The Moor vanished. "And now, my lady, I trust that you will not be at all anxious about this matter. I will attend to it." "I thank you. Greetings to your wife, and we hope to see you both soon at our Villa. The grapes are almost ready for the gathering. My children are counting much on the festivities for the Vendemmia. Can you not come at that time, you and Claudia, with your son and daughter. It will delight Hermione and Marcus. I will send a messenger to remind you again before the Feast of the Grapes." "Claudia has been very ill, my lady. I fear that she could not bear the motion of the chair so soon. But I will tell her of your gentle bidding to the feast, when the God Bacchus is adored with so much mirth." A cloud crossed Octavia's face. "The God Bacchus--" she began, but stopped. The warning she had received but a few days before from a Christian high in the service of the Emperor, rang in her ears. "We must be courageous, Octavia," he had said, "but we must not be foolish." "If you permit, we will send Martius and Virgilia to represent us at the feast," added Aurelius. "With pleasure. I will send a messenger before the day." The lawyer and Martius bowed low, and the two ladies, who were carefully veiled went out on the portico. Aurelius Lucanus assisted them into the luxurious chair and he and Martius stood watching them as the four tall bearers carried them away, followed by two stalwart men. It had been a marvel to certain circles of Roman society that Octavia had freed all her slaves, men and women, after the death of Aureus. It was some business connected with this unusual matter that had brought her to the lawyer's office today. Some had said that she was crazy to free hundreds of slaves. Others had whispered behind their hands that there were other reasons, Octavia followed Christus, and the Christians did not own slaves. But they dared not say this aloud, for Octavia was very rich and had powerful friends, even in Caesar's Palace. III. THE HYMN OF THE WATER-CARRIER. As the lawyer and his children reclined at the triclinium in the cool arcade opening on the garden, Martius narrated to Virgilia his conversation with Hermione that morning in his father's office. It was the custom, in the summer months, for the family to take their meals out of doors, in the shadowed corridor, where there was almost always a pleasant breeze, even when the sun scorched the bricks and square stones of the street in front of their house. Occasionally, a man would pass through the streets, carrying a sheepskin filled with water. He sang a strange, low song as he sprinkled the red bricks from which a thick steam arose at once, so scorching hot were they. He was singing now; the weird melody penetrated even to the corridor. "What a strange song!" said Aurelius Lucanus, cutting a piece of tender chicken, roasted on a spit before an open fire in the kitchen so tiny that there was scarcely room for the cook and his attendants to move about. Yet here, they prepared the elaborate dinners, served with the utmost nicety, in which Romans delighted. "It is different from anything I ever heard." Two men were carrying around the table huge platters of food. One was Alyrus, the Moor, who was not only a porter, but a general factotum. His duties were many and various, from sweeping the floors and keeping their highly-colored mosaics clear and shining, to accompanying his master to business, as he had done this morning, and assisting the man who served at table. He was sent, also, with Virgilia when she went to pay a visit to some of her friends, or when, in former times, she went to see one of the Vestal Virgins, and worshipped at the shrine. There had been some talk of her taking the vows of the Vestals, who held a very high position in Rome, but both her father and mother felt that, as an only daughter, she could not be spared from home, Marcella, one of her companions, had always entered as a novice. In all her seventeen years of life, Virgilia had never been alone outside of her father's house. It was not the custom for young girls to go upon the streets unaccompanied. Even when she paid a visit, Alyrus or one of the other slaves was waiting in the ante-chamber, to obey her lightest call. The other slave, who followed Alyrus with a glass carafe of iced water, was named Alexis. He was a Greek, from near Ephesus, seized as prisoner by one of the victorious generals, sold to Aurelius as Alyrus and Sahira had been. He was unusually handsome, very tall, with broad, well-formed shoulders and a face and head like one of the ancient pagan gods, whose statues have come down to us from the chisel of Phidias, the Greek sculptor. His skin was fair and his hair yellow as gold. Between him and the dark Moor who walked near him, there was the difference between light and darkness. It was not a difference in physical beauty, altogether, although Alyrus bore not only the disfiguring scar on his face, but smallpox scars, he was not altogether unpleasing in appearance. The difference lay chiefly in the expression of eyes and mouth. Alyrus was satirical, sneering, critical; Alexis was gentle, yet commanding; benign, yet firm. Both slaves became alert, as the Master had been, listening to the song of the water-carrier, now becoming less and less distinct. Alexis's eyes shown, but Alyrus cast a malignant glance at Martius, whose face was flushed. "What a strange song!" repeated the lawyer. "It seems to be religious in its type, yet I never heard it at our functions or in the temples. Who was that man, Alyrus? Thou, who sittest ever at the doorway and hast an insatiable curiosity about our neighbors, wilt surely know." Alyrus frowned at the implied reproof which was, after all, for the Moor kept closely to himself, except when information could serve some end. "It is Lucius, the water-carrier," he said, as shortly as he dared speak to his master. "It is a Christian song that he is singing." "Ah!" Aurelius selected a large, rosy peach, covered with burnished down and deliciously cold, from the dish presented to him by Alexis. The figs, grapes and peaches were laid in snow and cracked ice, brought from distant lands and preserved in this tropical clime by some process known to the Romans. If Aurelius Lucanus had not been one of the most prominent advocates in the city, receiving a large pension from the Emperor himself, he could not have afforded these luxuries. There was a scowl on his forehead as he pared the peach daintily with a sharp silver knife. These Christians were beginning to make him nervous. There was the Lady Octavia, for instance, who must needs be so foolish as to release all her slaves just because of a silly fancy that Christians should not possess human beings as property. She would lose half her income by this freak, and a good share of her principal invested in these slaves. What would Aureus Cantus have said to such a wild thing as this? He should have tied up his affairs in a way which would have prevented the widow from having the rights to do it. She was now in for trouble and he did not know how to get her out of it. His own reputation would suffer if he lost her case. And then, he had to deal with Martius and Virgilia. That was even more difficult, for he loved them both very dearly, and hated to be severe with them. The illness of Claudia could be traced to the same cause, the singular fanaticism of the members of this new sect. "The Lady Octavia has invited us to come to enjoy the festivities of the grape-gathering," Martius was saying. "It was very good of her and we shall have a splendid time. Everything at the villa is so beautiful. I wish that father would buy a home out on the Campagna. But he says that he cannot afford to keep up two establishments and he must remain in Rome on account of the Emperor and the Law Courts." "Father says, though, that when the Emperor goes to his villa at Antium, we shall all go, too. The Emperor wants father near at hand. Thou knowest that his magnificent villa is finished now. The house is enormous, and there is room for us and many others." "Hast thou seen Octavia's place?" "Very often. During thy absence, I have been carried frequently out of the gates and along the Ostian Way. Mother never wished to go. She dislikes the Lady Octavia. Alyrus, and sometimes Alexis, was with me." The lawyer had now left the table, retiring to his wife's room. Martius cast a cautious look around and, seeing no one, said, under his breath: "I do not wonder that mother does not desire to go there. Thou knowest, that they, too, are of the faith? Today, Hermione told me: 'I too, am a little Fish.'" A smile lit up Virgilia's sweet face. "Who should know it better than I? For from Hermione I have heard much of Christ. With her, I went to the meetings of the Christians, of our brothers and sisters, and heard the Truth." "What will be the outcome of it all, Virgilia?" Martius spoke earnestly in her ear. "When mother is well, what will happen? Thou dost remember what she said, that we must both leave this roof? I try to forget those cruel words, I try to believe that I shall stay here, to work in my father's office, to take up his profession, to be in that dearest place of all--home. It is hard to be exiled, Virgilia, hard never to see Rome again, Rome, the centre of the world. But if it should be hard for me, what will it be for thee, so tenderly matured, so lovingly cared for? It cannot be possible that Claudia will thrust thee, her own daughter, forth from her door, simply because thou hast become a follower of Christus. No. It is only a bad dream." That Martius was deeply in earnest could be seen from his clenched hands, where the nails sank into the flesh, from the pallor of his cheeks and the sorrow in his eyes. "Neither can I believe it. Martius, by nature, mother is not cruel. It is only our religion that she hates, not us. But when the moment comes that she asks me to give up Christ, I will face hunger and privation, even death, itself, for His sweet sake." The light of that exaltation which filled the martyrs of ancient days with strength to face a shameful and awful death was on Virgilia's face, it was the look of a saint. Martius was thrilled by her enthusiasm. "And I, too, dear sister, will never deny my Saviour. We will go forth together, if need be. Let us hope for better things, however. God can do all things. "Amen," responded Virgilia. "But, Martius, things cannot continue as they are now. Each morning, to please my mother, I weave the garlands for the statues of the gods, I offer sweet oils and spices and libations at the altar. I could not do otherwise while she was so ill. Now, she is getting better. Tomorrow, or the next day, I must refuse to do this. What will happen then?" They had left the triclinium, and were walking slowly in the garden. So tall was she that Virgilia's head was almost on a level with that of her stalwart brother. Alyrus and Alexis had cleared the table, watching with keen gaze the young people walking in the Pergola, beneath the heavy grape vine, whose leaves, pierced by the sun, cast queer shadows over Virgilia's white draperies and on her abundant hair, which threw back glints of copper tints to mock the shifting lights. Alyrus watched them because he hated them and longed for the moment when he could wreak his revenge. Alexis looked at them in love, for he, too, was a Christian, and the reason for the scene which Claudia had made in the garden on the day when Martius returned from exile, was well known to all the servants. In the dark corners of their miserable quarters, they discussed the situation, wondering what would happen. In these early days of Christianity, men and women often worked side by side, never daring to make known that they were Christians, for fear that the other might prove traitor. In this household of Aurelius Lucanus and Claudia, there were three slaves who were Christians, and one was Alexis, the Greek, but the others were unaware of it. He waited now in silence, hoping to be able to help the young son and daughter of his master. He, too, saw the shadow of suspicion creeping nearer, growing larger. Some day the Christians of Rome would be enveloped in the darkness and then would come death, as it had come in other times to other martyrs of the Cross. Martius had only time to seize his sister's had and press it warmly, when his father's voice was heard behind them. "Virgilia, thy mother needs thee. Go to her. She seems to be very weak. Do nothing to agitate or excite her. Sacrifice thine own wishes to hers." He was gone, and the girl looked in bewilderment at Martius. "Dost think that he heard what I said?" She whispered. Martius shrugged his shoulders. "I know not. But he is right, Virgilia. Thou must wait. For a time, we must worship in secret. Some day, all will be open to the light and we must suffer what comes. Christ will help us." "Yes, Christ will give us strength." All that afternoon, Virgilia sat patiently by her mother's couch. The change in the proud woman during these weeks of illness was only too apparent. It seemed as if the ardor of her hatred had burned out her strength. Her lovely eyes were lustreless. The neck on which Sahira had hung a splendid cord of sapphires from Persia, linked together with milky pearls from India, was thin and haggard. Her skin, fair and beautiful on that day when she sat so proudly by her husband and daughter in the Circus, watching the gladiatorial contest, was yellow and drawn. The jewels were a mockery in the shadow of threatened death. It was nearing sundown when Virgilia, very tired from the hours passed in gently soothing her mother's querulous complaints, giving her cooling drinks and telling her old Grecian legends to amuse her, entered her own little cubicleum, her sleeping-chamber. In Roman houses, the sleeping quarters were the smallest, the worst ventilated of all. It is a superstition, come down to modern times, that night air is injurious. Many ancient Roman dwellings show that rooms used for sleeping sometimes had no windows at all, the sole means of ventilation being provided by the doorway, which was curtained, opening into a larger room, or by a small trap door in the ceiling. The furniture in Virgilia's room was very simple. The bed was a couch, covered with white, with head and foot-board of ebony, curved in form and inlaid with quaint flower designs in mother-of-pearl. There was one chair, with slender arms, also in ebony and mother-of-pearl, and a stand, with ewer and basin of beaten brass. The floor was laid in red brick, and on it, at the bedside, lay a tiger-skin, brought from the East. Its tawny tints, varied by bright yellow, were the only colors in the room. Virgilia was fond of fresh air. She pushed up the trap door in the roof, reaching it easily, as the ceiling was so low, and let in a flood of glorious evening light. Through the aperture she could see a patch of brilliant blue sky. The swallows, dipping and circling, were swirling about in the heavens, black specks against the golden light of the departing sun. Virgilia drew a long breath and then another. It had been very hot and very fatiguing in her mother's room. She had refused to have any sun or light except that coming out of the large living-room, from which four sleeping chambers opened. The girl stretched out her arms, in graceful languor, then, throwing herself on the couch, she closed her eyes, but she was not sleeping. A panorama of thoughts and visions passed rapidly through her mind. She saw herself as she had been, a pagan, a worshipper of the gods, with no thought above the arranging of her hair or the flowers she would wear at the banquets. She recalled the visits to Hermione and the quiet meetings of the Christians in their hiding-places in the catacombs, surrounded by the graves of many martyrs to the Christian faith. One scene she would never forget. It was one afternoon when she and Hermione accompanied by Marcus leaving Alyrus sleeping in the antechamber, had slipped out by a side entrance, joining the other Christians in the shadowy passageways of the underground cemeteries. An old man, with snowy beard and piercing eyes was reading aloud a letter, a letter from the Apostle Paul to those who were at Rome. The light from torches stuck into the rough walls of the cubiculum shone on an hundred upturned faces of brave followers of Christ who knew not on what day, or in what hour they would be arrested and thrown into prison. They listened to the words of their fellow Christian, Paul, who had seen the Lord on the way to Damascus. "To all that be in Rome," he wrote, "beloved of God, called to be saints: Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ * * * Your faith is spoken of throughout the whole world * * * I long to see you * * * I am debtor both to the Greeks and to the Barbarians * * * So, as much as in me is, I am ready to preach the Gospel to you that are at Rome also." Then the elder told them that a report had been brought by brethren arrived from Antioch, that the Apostle, who had for some time been confined at Caesarea, had finally appealed to Caesar, and would be brought to Rome to be tried. He might come at any time, and perhaps they would be privileged to see him face to face. Marcus and Hermione had said also on the way back to the villa, that their mother thought that some day the Apostle would come to Rome, it might be soon, and would bring them news of the Lord Christ, for he had seen him with his own eyes. The darkness settled down over Rome and still Virgilia dreamed on, but the dreams were not prophetic; in the visions which she had there were no forebodings of that which was to come. IV. THE INNER SHRINE OF JUPITER. Alyrus crept out of the rear door of the house about sundown, while Virgilia, her head pillowed on a cushion of soft down, was dreaming of things past. He told Alexis to guard the entrance and if the master inquired for him to tell him that a pair of sandals needed repairing and he was carrying them to the shoemaker. In fact, he had the sandals, of yellow Persian leather, wrapped up in an old handkerchief, and showed them to the Greek. While Alexis seated himself on the porter's marble bench just inside the front door, left open that the evening breeze blowing fresh and cool from the sea might pass through the heated rooms, Alyrus went into the narrow alley at the rear. Just outside, a man crouched against the brick wall. It was Lucius, the water-carrier, who had sung the Christian hymn so boldly on the streets where pagan gods were worshipped. His goat-skin water-bag was empty and lay, wrinkled and collapsed, beside him. Lucius, himself, was a strange sight in the midst of the luxurious people of Rome. A peasant he was, dwelling in a cave far out on the Roman Campagna, remote from the splendid villas and gardens lining the wide ways leading out of the city to North and South and West. This cave was in a mass of tufa rock rising abruptly from the flat, green fields, and not far from the aqueduct, three tiers of brick arches, one above the other, joined by massive masonry, through which fresh water was brought in big leaden pipes to the city. Hundreds of long-horned cattle, white and clean and strong, were grazing in the fields. It was such as these that Cincinnatus guided, ploughing the fields, when the messenger rode swiftly from Rome to call him to come and save her by becoming Dictator. Lucius was a tiller of the fields, but, also, a water-carrier. He was resting now, after his labors in the scorching sunshine, half-asleep. The Moor roused him into wide wakefulness, by giving him a sturdy kick. "What art thou doing here, lazybones? Get thou to thy kennel, wherever it may be, dog of a Christian, and do not dare to show thy face here again." "Dog of a Christian!" murmured Lucius, scrambling to his feet. "How did you know?" Alyrus caught the words. "How did I know? When a creature such as thou singest thy wicked songs in broad daylight, he must expect to be heard. A little more and thou, too, wilt go to feed the lions and offer entertainment to the thousands who are weary of other amusements and seek something new. Turn pale, scarecrow, and tremble. Thy day will come, the day when those and others--shall suffer. Ha! ha! it strikes home, doesn't it? Thou fearest, eh? So much the better." Lucius stood before him, a pitiable figure. His body, brown as an Indian's, was bare almost to the waist. He wore only one garment, a sort of a shirt, made from the skin of one of his own sheep. His legs and feet were as brown as the rest of his body, and as tough as those of an animal. His hair was black and long, a lock hung over his forehead and hid his black eyes. A long beard fell from cheeks and chin on to his hairy breast. There was nothing attractive about his appearance, it was thoroughly animal. "I am not afraid," he replied, with such dignity that Alyrus stared at him. "When my time comes, I can die, trusting to a God whom thou knowest not, Alyrus, the Moor, doorkeeper in the house of Aurelius Lucanus." "Thou knowest me, then?" "I know thee well." His manner became cringing and servile. "I did but wait here a moment to rest, and fell asleep. I will go on my way." Alyrus nodded and walked on, going first to the shoemaker's, a tiny shop where a man worked all day and slept at night. Having accomplished this business, and saved himself from having left a lying message for the lawyer, the porter went on his way to the Forum, where all was still now, for the business of the day was over. A few men were passing, but they paid no attention to the Moor. It was quite dark, heavy clouds from the west were encircling rapidly toward Rome and the wind had increased to a gale. There were sharp flashes of copper-blue lightning and a roar of thunder like booming cannon, echoing against the Alban and Salbine Hills encircling the city. So dark was it that Alyrus did not observe that he was followed; did not see a strange figure with a sheep-skin flung over his back not far behind him, slipping from one doorway to another, hiding behind pillars, keeping the Moor ever in view. Lucius the shepherd knew only one thing, intelligently, and that was the knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ. Even the most ignorant can learn this. The knowledge had been obtained one day, when, seeing a company of men and women crossing the Campagna, he had, out of curiosity, followed them to their gathering-place, where he had learned the truth about Jesus. Outside of this Lucius was absolutely unlearned, and almost as stupid as his own sheep. He had not wit enough to know that when he sang a Christian hymn where any and all could hear it his life was in the greatest danger. He was stupid, downright stupid, but he had a keen eye, knew whom to trust and was possessed of an insatiable curiosity. Because, by instinct, he knew that Alyrus was up to some mischief, he followed him to see where he went. There was another reason. In the house of Aurelius Lucanus dwelt a small scullery maid, who assisted the slaves in the kitchen, doing all the dirty work and being struck and sworn at for any mistake. She earned a few cents a day. Lucius was waiting outside in the alley-way, as was his daily custom after finishing his work, to exchange a word with his daughter, whom he dearly loved. I have said that in the lawyer's household were three Christians, one was Alexis, the Greek, and another was Lidia, the scullery-maid, who had been baptized by the white-haired elder in the Catacomb, beside her father. Through her Lucius had learned that Martius and Virgilia were, also, Christians and, with his usual genius for following people, he had gone behind them to the Christian meeting place. He knew how wicked Alyrus was, how ill the Lady Claudia had been and for what reason. Lidia had poured out the whole story to him. Lucius crouched down near the temple door at the side of the huge white building with its many columns, after he had heard the knock Alyrus gave at the small portal, and had heard the door clang behind the porter. No good could come from that temple and its priests. Even though they bowed before the statue of the god and burned incense, the Romans did not trust the priests. They regarded them as intriguers, trying to get their hands on everything, ready to worm out secrets for their own profit and obtain private and political power whenever possible. The great black cloud enveloped Rome. It belched out lightning and thunder, the flashes revealing the groups of stately buildings in the Forum and Caesar's palace on the Palatine Hill. The rain poured in torrents and it hailed, the ground was white with stones, some as large as pigeon eggs. Still, Lucius waited, calmly. He was accustomed to all sorts of weather and his finery could not be spoiled. He drew his bare legs up under him, threw the skin water bag over his head and shoulders and waited. Neither did Alyrus trust the priests. After all, these were not his gods, nor his priests. He worshipped Baal, a greater god than Jupiter. As a matter of personal safety, however, he bowed the knee to those strange and worthless gods of Rome. He kept his eyes well open, having been admitted to the temple by a young priest, who, carrying a taper, led him through several winding passages. A man could get into this gruesome building and never find his way out, thought Alyrus, and though a brave chieftain in his own country, he shivered here in the black corridors, echoing with every footfall. The priest conducted him to a large square room, with very high ceiling, lighted only by a single silver lamp having five branches, each of which contained a taper. Evidently this was an internal room, having no windows. Alyrus judged that it was lighted by day from an opening in the roof, covered with transparent material which withstood water. The rain began to beat upon it, and later, hailstones clattered by the thousands. Around the table sat six priests, ghostly in their white robes. Their faces were stern and gloomy. The Moor began to feel a misgiving about his errand here. Perhaps after all, it would have been wiser to stay at home. "Hast thou the token I gave thee?" asked Lycidon, the priest, who sat at the head of the table. Alyrus saw that he was higher in position than the others. Around his forehead was bound a golden circlet, bearing a lizard covered with jewels. Its eyes were two emeralds and its body blazed with diamonds and rubies. "I have." The porter held up the bronze lizard, similar in form to that on the priest's forehead. "It is well. Come forward to the light, and relate to me and these my brethren, all that thou knowest of thy master." The spirit of recklessness which makes men daring possessed Alyrus at this moment. He felt approaching the glad hour of his revenge on those whom he despised. But he had not lost all caution. "What do I get as a reward for this knowledge which you so much desire?" The priest rose to his full height. His eyes blazed with anger and he raised his arm to strike Alyrus, who did not cringe but faced him boldly, though his dark cheeks grew livid. An aged priest on the superior's right, laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Is it wise?" he asked, gently. "If thou frightenest the slave, he will not give thee correct information." "Thou art late to-night, father," said Lidia, reaching up her hardened little hands to caress affectionately his weatherworn cheek. "I was just going to bed." "I was late because I was watching _him_," Lucius nodded his head toward the door. "Who? the master? Surely thou wouldst not." "Be not so hasty, Lidia. It was not the master, but Alyrus." "Oh! he is worth watching," responded wise and observant Lidia. She was little thing, in spite of her twenty years, with a small face, old in anxiety, but sparkling with vivacity. Lucius had said sometimes that her eyes talked, they varied so with her different moods. She petted and humored her father in an amusingly maternal way, and carried the cares of his poor home in her heart. "I believe it. To-night, he has been for an hour at the temple in the Forum, and it bodes little good. What has he to do with the priests of Jupiter? I trust not one of them, not one. It means some evil to this dwelling." Lidia's eyes grew anxious. "I fear," she began then paused. She had learned that while her father was apt in tracing information, he was not to be relied on in moments when delicate problems were to be solved. Her own brain was much more clear. "I will watch," she added. "Go home now, dear father and get thy rest, for our God is ever near us. No harm can really destroy us. It can only touch our bodies, not our souls, as the Great Teacher saith." "And thou, Lidia," the shepherd drew her close to him and turned the determined little face so that he could see her. "Art thou happy here? Remember thou art no slave, though thou hast chosen to be a menial. Thy father wears no iron ring of bondage around his neck. He is a free man." "I wash the kettles clean," replied Lidia, laughing, while her expressive eyes danced, "and that is something. What said our Teacher? He who does the meanest work faithfully and well, has the Lord Christ by his side. I am happy. And though I am only a kitchen maid, I can see sometimes sweet Lady Virgilia whom I love. She is in danger, father. Perhaps--perhaps, the little unknown maid in the kitchen may save her. Who knows?" "As thou wilt, child, as thou wilt. But it is lonely without thee in the cave on the Campagna." He started on his long walk homeward and Lidia watched his strange, wild-looking figure until it was out of sight. "Our God protect thee," she said in her heart and going inside, closed and barred the door. Before she went to bed she sought out a woman called _The Old One_. What her real name was, or whence she had come, even Aurelius himself did not know. She had come into his possession as a legacy from his father, who had said: "Guard and care for her well, for she has view of the future beyond that of human kind." Now, she was very aged, her form was bowed and her face covered with tiny wrinkles. Some said that she had passed the century limits; but no one knew, and her secrets were buried in her own heart. The Old One was reputed to be very wise. Her expression was almost queenly in its dignity, and placid and kindly. To her, Lidia poured out the news brought her by Lucius, adding to these some things that her father did not know, which bore light upon the designs of Alyrus and his daughter, Sahira. The Old One listened, quietly. Then she laid her withered hand on Lidia's head, very gently. "Lie down and sleep, my child, and be at peace. The Lord is with thee. What the future holds we fear not." There were three Christians in the servants' quarters of the lawyer's home, one was Alexis, the Greek, one was Lidia, the scullery-maid. And the third was the Old One, whose age no man knew, or whence she came. V. THE OLD ONE SPEAKS. Aurelius, the lawyer, found his wife crying when he returned from business a fortnight later. It was one of those rainy days, coming early in October, when it seems as though the skies opened to let down streams of water, washing trees and bushes, drenching the heavy dust, which, during a long summer drouth had accumulated so much in the cracks of the stones on the streets, on the roofs and ledges of the houses and on the leaves of vines and flowers that even the thunder-storm on that night when Alyrus made his visit to the temple had not had force enough to remove it. It was a desolate day. In Rome when it rains the whole aspect changes, it becomes dreary and depressing. Even people are affected by the gloom, nerves are set on edge, and Aurelius, having had a trying morning, was a little irritated to find his wife in this condition. Remembering her weakness, he sat down beside her, took her cold hand in his and said, gently: "What is the matter, dear one? What has happened to annoy thee?" "It is that miserable sect of Christians. I cannot bear them. Here is thy son, Martius, acting the fool, stubborn, wilful, and now Virgilia must show the same traits. It is past endurance. Something must be done to break this charm whatever it is, that controls them so. I wish that every Christian in the land would be destroyed by Jupiter. He can do it if he wishes." The lawyer's face grew stern. One of his troubles that morning had been that everlasting affair of the Lady Octavia, who insisted on freeing her slaves, and by this had succeeded in involving herself in a law-suit which threatened disaster, because of a prior claim to a certain slave who was very valuable. "What has Virgilia done?" he asked, and his tone boded no good to his daughter. "She has refused," sobbed his wife, "refused to make the garlands for the gods or offer them the customary libations. Says that she cannot; it is contrary to the law of Christ--as if that mattered! Her disobedience is bad enough in itself, but the worst for us are the punishment and misfortunes which are certain to come upon us if the gods are not placated." Aurelius grew pale. This was to him, in spite of his general unbelief, a real difficulty. Who knew what might happen? "Dost thou mean that the gods have been neglected all the day? It must be attended to at once!" He sprang up, but Claudia held his hand tight in hers. "It has been attended to. Sahira wove the garlands, a slave, not my own daughter. The gods will be wrathful, of course, but perhaps we can placate them by costly offerings of gold and spices at the temple. It is of Virgilia that I would speak. What is to be done with such an undutiful child? She must be married, or sent away to some lonely place. Perhaps marriage would be better. Then her husband would control her. The Senator Adrian Soderus has asked for her hand, but thou didst send him away. Recall him." "He is seventy years old and as ugly as night. While Virgilia is so young and sweet." "So stubborn and rebellious. He is old, but very rich. She will forget this foolishness when she is surrounded by such luxury as he can give her. Send for him." "Where is Virgilia now?" "In her room, where I sent her to think over her sins and repent." Aurelius thought of the small, dark cubiculum where his daughter sat alone on this day when the floods descended, and his heart warmed to the culprit. "I will talk with Virgilia," he said, rising. "And thou wilt send for the Senator?" "We shall see." During the silent meal, eaten by the father and son under the torch-light, so dark was the room, Aurelius did think seriously. Of the two evils, marriage for Virgilia was, probably the one which would cause her the least suffering. To send her away to a lonely mountain place, to the holy women who dwelt apart, might break her will, but it would ruin her health. Yes, marriage would open out a new life and in the splendid home to which the Senator would be only too happy to welcome her, she would forget this new and detestable religion. He summoned Virgilia to him in his own private room, the most comfortable in the house, because it opened upon the street, had light and air, was hung with rich silks in green and white and provided with chairs and couches, having soft cushions. On the floor were rugs, the work of the Old One's hands, during these long years. Day by day, hour by hour, the woman had drawn the threads through the warp, inventing the designs, forming beautiful figures with tints that harmonized. Here were the faints-colors of the ever-varying opal; the bright blue of the turquoise, the rose hues of the blossoms on the tea-rose, the aqua-marine tints of the Mediterranean Sea. Truly oriental they were, giving a hint of the Eastern origin of the Old One. Like some godmother in the fairy tale, like some ancient wife of mythological times, the Old One had wrought into these designs her own life. And what had been her thoughts during those long hours and days and years? Virgilia's face was not streaming with tears, as her father had expected to see her. In fact, her eyes glowed with softness and beauty. Yet there was a set look about her mouth which the lawyer knew by past experience meant wilfulness. The sympathy which had caused his heart to grow tender, vanished at sight of this radiant young being as beautiful as a goddess who bathes her face in the early morning dew, with the stubborn mouth. Claudia was right. Something effectual must be done to bring this lovely culprit to her senses. "Thou hast grieved thy mother very much by thy disobedience and irreverence," he said, coldly. "I am truly sorry, dear father. For that I am truly sorry. But, thou seest, I could not help it. It is wrong to offer flowers and prayers to the gods." "To whom then wouldst thou offer them?" "We should bow only to the true God." "And he? Who is he? Where is he?" "He is the one invisible and mighty, the God of Heaven and of all men." "That is Jupiter, the all-powerful." "It is not Jupiter, it is our God, as revealed in the Lord Jesus Christ." "A malefactor." Virgilia smiled. "Crucified for us," she murmured, "that we might have eternal life. He sitteth now on the right hand of God.". Her father gazed at her in astonishment. The girl was certainly out of her mind? But, if she were then so was the Lady Octavia and her son and daughter, and Martius, and hundreds, perhaps even thousands of others, if rumor spoke truly. It was a dangerous heresy, and must be destroyed. It was no use to argue with a person who was really scarcely responsible, as Virgilia now appeared to him to be. He must deal very gently with her. "Sit down here by me, dearest, I want to talk with thee a little." So Virgilia sat down on a little stool at her father's feet and leaned her arm on his knee, and while he stroked her soft hair, bound with fillets of chased gold, set with large turquoises, he strove to calm her and distract her mind from its vagaries. When he sent her away, he was fully determined on a line of action. He drew the tablets to him, and wrote a note to the most honorable Senator Adrian Soderus, asking him to make an appointment. Calling Alexis, he ordered him to carry the message to the house of the Senator and bring him the answer. The Greek returned, promptly. If it stopped raining, the Senator would come to the house of the lawyer Aurelius Lucanus that evening, after sundown, accompanied by the notary. Then he summoned Sahira. "Thou wilt clothe the Lady Virgilia in her most costly garments. Thou wilt bind jewels in her hair and hang strings of pearls about her neck. Her fingers, too, shall be laden with rings. Tell Alexis to decorate the whole house with flowers and make it beautiful for a feast." Sahira went away, wondering what new turn affairs were taking, but she did as she was bid, and at sundown in all Rome no more lovely maiden could have been found than Virgilia, in her costly robes and flashing jewels. But more beautiful than all, was the white, pure soul which no man could see. "Is it for a feast, Sahira?" asked Virgilia, looking at herself in the long metal mirror, and smiling at the reflection. Virgilia was human. "For a feast, your father said," replied the slave, leaving Virgilia in her splendor, sitting in the fast-darkening room, alone. The Senator Adrian Soderus, indeed, lost no time. He arrived at the lawyer's house just at the hour of sundown, when the heavy clouds were scattering and the sun sent shafts of golden light to turn the mists overhanging the towers and pinnacles of Rome's palaces and temples into filmy veils. It looked like a wraith-city, hung with yellow gauze. The chair stopped at the door and the noted man alighted with much difficulty, for he was very stout from too much indulgence in the good things of the world, and half-crippled with rheumatism, besides. It took two strong slaves to lift him out and support him until he sank, with a groan, on the largest and strongest seat possessed by Aurelius Lucanus. Claudia was given new life by the prospect of her daughter's marriage to one of the wealthiest men in Rome, a thing which she had tried to bring to pass some months before, but failed because of her husband's opposition. He had said that it was wicked to give so fair a maiden as Virgilia to this old and feeble man. Now, Claudia thanked the gods, the objection had been removed by Virgilia's own fault. She arrayed herself to receive the Senator with as much care as if she were going to be a guest at Caesar's table. This marriage of Virgilia's would bring her and her husband into the first rank of society, a thing for which her soul had longed for many a year. A lawyer, though a man highly honored and received at the palace, was nevertheless, considered of medium rank. The mother of a Senator took a different position. And all this had been caused merely by a chance meeting with Adrian Soderus, when he had been charmed by Virgilia's lovely face. Well, she was lovely, Claudia acknowledged, in the intervals of scolding her waiting-woman because she did not arrange the curls on her forehead to her satisfaction; no lovelier could be found in the whole province, even the emperor himself had smiled upon her one day, when she had gone with her father and mother to the palace. Emperor's smiles, however, had little value, whereas the Senator's riches were practical. Claudia greeted the ponderous guest with deepest courtesies, and soon she and the lawyer, with the notary, a little dried-up man who took snuff freely from a golden, bejeweled box, and sneezed so violently thereafter that Virgilia, sitting alone in her room, heard him and laughed outright, had arranged the whole affair. Virgilia was only a child and did not dream that in another part of the house, she was being discussed as if she were a package of merchandise, bargained over as coolly as though the affair concerned the sale of a slave. This was no unusual thing in ancient Rome. A girl was her father's property, to be disposed of as he saw fit and to his advantage. Neither Aurelius nor Claudia intended to be cruel to Virgilia. It was the custom of the times and her mother, at least, was thoroughly frightened over the fact that Virgilia had been led away by strange doctrines, taught by what she considered a very low class of persons. She actually believed that this disposal of the daughter whom she truly loved, would be in the end for her happiness. The Senator had a kind face. He would be good to Virgilia. Her father was not, however, so convinced of the right, moral right, of what they were doing. He knew that he was fully within the civil right. He felt very uncomfortable and inclined to throw the whole thing up, if it were possible. It was too late now, he feared. Claudia had set her heart on this--had been urging it for a long time. She looked brighter this evening, more like herself. Perhaps on the whole, Virgilia would not be any more unhappy in the home which this old man could give her, than she would be married to some young man whom they would choose. The Senator provided very handsomely for Virgilia, according to the legal document already drawn up by the notary, and this was finally signed by all three contracting parties and by two freedmen brought by the notary to be witnesses. Then, the little man, after many profound bows and a parting series of sneezes just outside the curtained door, went away. Martius was called and told to bring Virgilia. A feast was not unusual in the house of Aurelius, and Virgilia anticipated it with pleasure. The memory of her disobedience and daring in the morning had faded from her mind for the moment. Very gaily she took Martius' hand and walked by his side. "Thou art very beautiful to-night, sister mine," he said, with a boy's admiration for her finery. Virgilia's laugh rang out and the group waiting silently for her arrival, heard it. The Senator smiled, Claudia drew her draperies around her with a hand that trembled a little. Aurelius frowned. He wished with all his heart that he had never signed that document which bound her to this man. "It is my fine clothes," replied Virgilia. "A peacock would be nothing without his gay feathers. What is the feast to-night, Martius?" "I know not. Perhaps some friends of father's have come to eat and drink with us." The Senator rose with difficulty as the radiant girl entered, led by Martius. Amazed, Virgilia looked at her mother. "I was called," she said, and she grew very pale. Some time before, her mother had informed her that the great Senator had asked her hand, but, after a conversation with her father she had been assured that negotiations would be dropped. This man, the meaning of the decoration of the rooms with gay Autumn blossoms of yellow and purple; this was to be her betrothal and she had not been told. In a flash, it was revealed to her that it was a result of her refusal to do homage to the gods that morning. Very well, she would suffer the consequences bravely. But, in the house to which she was to go, she would never bow down to the idols, no matter what the result might be. She signed the contract, submitted to the Senator her hand, and sat by his side at the table, decorated his head with the marriage garland and received from him another wreath of fine white orange-blooms. Her father saw, with sorrow, that her face was deathly white. There was eating and drinking and merriment, in which Virgilia, in spite of her sadness, tried to join. It did not occur to her to protest or question her father's judgment. A daughter must accept the husband chosen for her; but she wished with all her heart that it might have been Marcus, the son of Octavia, who was sitting by her side, wearing the bridal garland, rather than this feeble old man. Yet, even the thought was disloyal and unmaidenly. She dismissed it. The merriment was at its height, and Aurelius began to feel that Virgilia would not suffer much from this necessary solution of a difficult problem, when the curtain of Persian silk at the door was suddenly torn aside and the Old One entered. Very slowly, leaning on her staff, bowed half over, and with white hair streaming down to her shoulders, she approached the table. Claudia screamed when she saw her and the Senator trembled. People were very superstitious in those days, and the Old One was known to be a prophetess. Aurelius left his place. "What dost thou desire, Mother?" he asked. She lifted to him eyes filled with a strange light. The gray mantle she wore fell away from her skinny arm as she raised it high. "Woe! woe to the house of Lucanus!" she cried shrilly. "Your feasting shall be turned into sorrow, your rejoicing shall be changed into mourning and the voice of weeping shall be heard, a mother weeping for her daughter, a father bemoaning the loss of his children, a bridegroom grieving over a lost bride. Woe! Woe!" Virgilia and her mother were clinging to each other. The Senator was pallid and shaking with fear. "Woe! woe to the house of Lucanus!" wailed the aged woman, and would have fallen if Martius had not caught her in his strong arms. The slaves, frightened, had gathered in the doorway. At a sign from Aurelius, they carried her away, while Sahira tried to assist Virgilia to calm her mother. "She is very aged," explained the lawyer. "She must be crazy," energetically remarked the Senator, demanding his chair. When he had gone away, and Claudia was in bed, with Virgilia, by her side, the lawyer sat a long time in his little room and thought. What was this woe that the Old One had prophesied for him and his household? As the light of a rosy dawn bathed the world in the beauty of a promised day, he arose. "She must be crazy," he said, repeating the Senator's words. But he did not forget. VI. THE FEAST OF THE GRAPES. Sunshine and laughter came after clouds and sadness. It was natural that the effects of the Old One's strange words should pass away and be almost forgotten, except by the lawyer, who feared disaster. He did what for him was a novel thing. He made an offering to Jupiter. After all, there might be something in this worship of the gods; it was safer to be on the right side. It was a gift of money that he made, a large gift, for Lucanus was prosperous and received many sesterces of gold from the imperial treasury, besides having a lucrative practice. Being so large a gift, he decided to present it in person and get full credit for his piety and devotion to the gods. So, on a morning, a week later, accompanied by Alexis, the Greek slave, who followed Christus--though this was not known--he went to the main door of the temple in the Forum and boldly asked for the Lycidon, chief priest of Jupiter. "Wait thou here," he commanded, and Alexis seated himself on the steps, watching the busy crowds passing by. It was a feast-day, and a white bull, hung with flowers was being led through the Sacred Way to a shrine where the people would worship him as possessing the spirit of a great god. Everything was a god to the Romans, even trees and animals were possessed of spirit. Alexis looked at the bull and the procession of priests following it; at the dancing girls and the motley crowd of men and women. He prayed to Almighty God that he might show these poor deluded beings the better way to Eternal Life. The tall superior was more gracious to the lawyer who brought rich gifts than he had been to the slave Alyrus. When he learned the name of the donor, he was still more suave and his eyes were very keen. "Thy name shall go down to all generations as a faithful follower of the gods," he said, laying aside the golden chalice and purse of gold pieces. "In these days when Rome is filled with new doctrines and heretics are found on every side, it is cheering to know that the learned lawyer Aurelius Lucanus gives richly to the gods." But when Lucanus had gone away, flattered, yet relieved to get out of those dismal corridors into the brilliant October sunshine, the priest smiled, a cruel smile of one who meditates evil. Alexis rose from his seat on the steps and followed his master to his office. Claudia, in the excitement of preparing a handsome outfit for Virgilia, forgot the Old One's words entirely and recovered her health marvellously. She was very affectionate to Virgilia and her offense was no more mentioned, nor was she required to worship the gods. Her mother left this fever to run its course and be healed by new scenes and costly jewels. Even Virgilia, herself, grew interested in the preparations for her departure to her husband's house, which had been fixed for a day in November, when the religious ceremony should take place. There were cedar chests to be filled with piles of linen, woven by the slaves. One very handsome oak marriage chest was full of silks and gauzes of much price, brought on the ships which sailed up the Tiber from the port of Ostia, on their return from Egypt. A copper box held jewels, set in Etruscan gold, exquisitely chased by the cunning hands of workers in the Way of the Goldsmiths. There were opals, shimmering in the sunrays, alive with inner fires of flame-color. There were diamonds, half-cut, and pearls found in the Ganges, with emeralds and sapphires, rubies and garnets, many of them gifts from friends to whom announcements of the betrothal had been sent on ivory tablets engraved in blue. Claudia lifted out the diadem which the emperor, himself, had caused to be brought to their door by a train of slaves, thus calling attention to their high social standing in the eyes of all the neighbors. When the Senator gave Virgilia a necklace of diamonds to match those in the diadem sent by Caesar, Claudia felt that her cup was full of happiness. Even Virgilia was pleased and for the moment, being young and fond of pretty things, forgot that the Christian maiden should be unadorned save by her own modesty. Martius was the gravest of the family. Now that Virgilia was so occupied that she could not go to the meetings of the Christians, although this had always been difficult for her, he went alone, or joined Hermione and Marcus. From them and other Christians he heard news which greatly alarmed him. There were rumors of an uprising against the followers of Christ. It was said that the priests of Jupiter were arousing the senators and even the emperor to a sense of the danger in which the government would find itself if these heretics were allowed to increase as they were doing at the present time. The Senator Adrian Soderus, who visited the lawyer and his wife frequently and in view of the coming marriage was permitted to see Virgilia, confirmed the news, entirely unaware of the fact that both his betrothed and her brother Martius belonged to the despised people. "They multiply like rats," he said, sipping from a silver goblet the sweet orange juice Sahira prepared. "And like rats they live in holes in the ground. There they hold their wicked meetings and form their impious designs. They are a menace to Rome and must be destroyed." "Ought I to tell him?" Virgilia asked her brother after one of these conversations. "How do I know, dearest? It is for father to speak, and he does not. I fear--I fear. Yet, if thou art once married to him, he is bound to protect thee. Thou wilt surely be safe." "But thou--and Hermione--and--Marcus?" "God is all-powerful. We are in his hands." There came the messenger from the Lady Octavia bearing a pearl anklet as a wedding gift to Virgilia with many greetings and good wishes. And if it were possible, would they all come "to celebrate the Feast of the Grapes, in five days?" "I will not go," said Claudia. "The Lady Octavia is not to my liking." "Nor I," added Aurelius, "but we must not be discourteous, she is a good client. It will be an enjoyable feast in this fine weather. Virgilia's cheeks are too pale. She and Martius shall go." On the day of the Feast, Virgilia was glad to go out into the fresh air, to leave the seamstresses busy sewing in the inner courtyard. They were embroidering fine garments of silk so soft that it could be drawn through a ring. They were hemming and drawing threads, draping and cutting the rich material from Tyre which was to form part of Virgilia's wedding outfit. The young girl was sad on this beautiful October day when the air was spicy with the whiffs of ripe grapes and pomegranates in the gardens and vineyards. She was thinking of what it would mean to go away from her home, to leave her parents and Martius, to take up another life, and be obedient to the old Senator, who, kind and indulgent as he might be, was, nevertheless, little more than her master, or she, little better than one of her own slaves. Not once, however, did the thought enter her mind that she was a free being, at liberty to rebel and decline this marriage so suddenly arranged for her. It was for her parents to decide what her future should be, and for her to obey. Early in the morning of the day which they were to pass in the lovely gardens of Octavia, Virgilia ascended a narrow steep staircase and went out upon the flat roof. It was like a garden up here, with trellises and vines. Some late tea-roses were in bloom. The girl broke off one and placed it in the folds of her gown. She could breathe in its sweetness. Over at one end of the roof--or terrace, as it is called--sat the Old One, making a carpet. Above her head was a gay scarlet and blue awning, to protect her from the sun, still hot, even in cool October. The slave looked up and smiled when Virgilia came near, motioning to a pile of cushions. "Ever busy, Mother?" said the young girl, examining the work. The rug was very handsome. It had five borders wrought in dull blues, white and yellow, covered with conventional designs, and the centre was exquisite, a white ground on which loose flowers were thrown negligently, carelessly, without regular form, yet the whole was perfect. "It is almost finished, my child, and when it is done, it shall be for thee, to adorn thy home." "For me?" "My wedding gift to thee. On the day that thou wast born, I began it, and all through these seventeen years I have worked at it, thinking that on the day when thou shouldst go away to thy husband, the rug would go with thy household goods to remind thee of the aged woman whose gnarled and withered hands wrought it for thee." "I shall ever hold it precious." Virgilia sank down on the cushions, listlessly. Far away she could see the blue lines of mountains, bordering the fields where Lucius the Water-Carrier lived, where were the marvellous tombs of the great on the Appian Way; where stately homes bordered the fashionable Ostian Way, and where were the Catacombs where the Christians buried their dead and gathered for worship. She looked with some curiosity at the placid, gentle face of the old woman. That night, when she had burst in upon the betrothal feast with her dire prophecies, she had been transformed, a creature of whom they were afraid. Had she been conscious of what she said then? Virgilia thought not. "Mother," she said, "thy many years of life have brought to thee wisdom. Should one tell everything to one's husband? Even when it may be dangerous?" The Old One held a yellow thread suspended from her ivory hook and looked keenly at Virgilia. "Thou hast a secret, my child?" "Yes, mother." "One of which thou art ashamed?" "No, no. But it involves others." The bricks were sprinkled with sand. Virgilia stopped and drew a fish in the sand. She had for some time suspected that the Old One was a Christian. If she were, she would recognize the symbol of Christ, the "Icthus." If she were not, it would do no harm. "And thou, too, art a little fish," murmured the Old One. "Thanks be to His holy name, when the Lord Christ was born, I was a Princess in the court of Herod, the King, who was sore afraid, because it was told him that a new King had come to reign over Israel. The angels sang at His birth and the kings from the East brought presents of frankincense and myrrh. I fell into the hands of the Romans, and here I am, a slave. But it was a plan of God. In Rome, I learned to know Christ." "Virgilia! Virgilia!" Martius called. "It is time to go. Hurry! The chair is at the door." "If the time comes when for conscience' sake thou must disclose that thou art a follower of Christ, do so. If not, keep silence and worship Him in thine heart lest evil come upon the thousands who love Him," said the Old One. Her eyes grew filmy and she stretched out her hands, tremblingly. "I see--I see--a shadow of death--approaching. But in the shadow--shines the face--of our--Risen Lord." "Mother, Mother!" said Virgilia, alarmed. "Was I speaking? What did I say? This work must be finished soon, for the marriage." "Virgilia!" came Martius' peremptory summons. "Yes, I am coming." Stopping only to call Sahira to bring the Old One a refreshing drink, Virgilia veiled herself, entered her chair, and with Martius walking by her side, was borne out of the city gate guarded by men in full uniform, armed with staves and knives, and through the road leading to the Lady Octavia's house. What a day that was! The vines, festooned gracefully between dwarf mulberry trees, were loaded with huge bunches of purple and white grapes. The men and women slaves were gathering them and heaping them up in baskets. The red juice escaped and ran in streams over the yellow earth. Laughing and merry the four young people passed among the servants eating grapes to their heart's content, telling stories of other days, leaving the future to unfold for itself. They did not try to foresee it. At noon, they went to the cool, shady room overlooking the garden and ate the cold meats and fresh green salad, luscious fruit and white goat's cheese, finishing the meal with sweet cakes and a delicious drink made from the fresh juice of the grapes just gathered. Before they ate, the freedmen stood, respectfully waiting, while Octavia, in a low voice, offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the food so bountifully provided. Only a small part of the servants, formerly slaves, were Christians, and Octavia had often been warned that her life and that of her children was in danger through her open defiance of the priests and declaration of her own Christian faith. "I trust in God," was all that she would say. In her house were no gods, no images. Flowers there were, in abundance, the rooms were bowers of beauty, the table, with its spotless cloth of fine white linen, bore silver vases filled with roses and autumn blossoms, but there were no shrines and no statutes. On this Feast of the Grapes around Rome Bacchus was worshipped and much wine was drunk, until the people lost their senses and became brutes. In Octavia's home, the feast was observed with games and songs and merriment, but all was done decently and in order. It was because her views were not theirs that many of the friends who had visited them when the Senator was alive--now refused to associate with the Lady Octavia, although they could not openly ignore her on account of her great wealth. It drew toward evening. The days were still long, and Martius planned to return home by moonlight. At seven o'clock, they were eating supper in an arbor at the side of the Villa. The big, round moon was rising over the Alban Hills, soon it would be a great lamp in the sky. All over the Campagna the Feast of the Grapes had been celebrated that day. The sounds of boisterous laughter, of loud singing, came to their ears from the crowds who were passing outside the high walls surrounding the entire estate. "There is more noise than usual," remarked Octavia. The sounds had changed. They grew menacing. People were quarreling with each other. "It is nothing," replied Marcus. "Always on this Feast, there is much drunkenness and revelry." But his mother was uneasy. "It is wiser for thee to return home at once, Martius," she said. "I will carry thy chair, Virgilia. The bearers have been resting long." "I have a strong stick," Martius said, laughing, "and Alexis is armed. We can easily protect Virgilia." "Is it not better for you to remain here," suggested Marcus. "We will send a messenger to thy father." "Nonsense. There is no danger. But it is wiser that we should start at once. Later, there will be thousands returning home." At that moment, the porter from the gate came running toward the arbor. He was, plainly, very much excited. With him was a man of dark swarthy skin, and a scar across his forehead. "Thou, Alyrus?" exclaimed Martius, surprised to see the Moor here. "I have a message for you, my young master." Martius failed to observe the bitterness in which he spoke the last words, or the glow of his dark eyes, resting by turns on each member of the group. "You and the Lady Virgilia are to return home at once. Your father desired me to tell you that the people are enraged at an insult offered by some Christians to one of the holy gods." "Go, go!" said Octavia. Martius stopped a moment to speak to Hermione, while Marcus assisted Virgilia into her chair. "Is it safe for thee?" he asked. "We cannot tell what may happen." She smiled at him. "God is with us, Martius, my friend." "I would that I had thy great faith, Hermione. We part but to meet again." "If God will?" The chair, carried by four men, passed out of the iron gate, which swung shut behind them. The heavy bolts were shot quickly into place by the frightened porter. Riots were not unknown in Rome, but riots which were against Christians were very serious matters. If glances full of meaning were exchanged between Alyrus and the bearers, neither Martius nor Alexis noticed them. The crowd in front of Octavia's gate was now very menacing. The men were throwing stones over the wall and crying: "Down with the Christians!" "Way! Way for the daughter of Aurelius Lucanus, worshipper of the gods," cried Alyrus, and the crowd parted to let them through. VII. ENTER, LYCIAS, THE GLADIATOR. Lidia, the scullery maid, stole out of the back door of her master's house. Bare-foot she was and her black hair streamed out behind her as she ran swiftly through the streets of Rome. Few noticed her, for the people were still excited from the doings of the night before. Groups stood at the places where roads crossed, or in the shadows of the columns and discussed what had occurred. When such important matters as the arrest of a few hundreds of Christians were concerned, the little maid with frightened eyes and ragged clothes was not of any moment. "It is the priests who stirred up this trouble," said one man looking up at the grim grayish-white walls of Jupiter's temple. "I am no follower of Christus, but I employed a man who was, and he was ever industrious and sober. They are not such a bad lot. It is a pity--" "Whist!" exclaimed another man. "Speak not so loud. Even the walls of yonder temple have ears. They say that there are speaking tubes hidden in every room so that the Superior may know just what goes on. I'll tell you the one thing, my friend, if the priests are in it there's gold somewhere. They don't do things for nothing." "That they do not. Didst hear that the splendid villa of Octavia, widow of Aureus Cantus, the Senator, was raided by a mob last night? The freedmen are scattered or seized again as slaves and the family, the lady and two children have entirely disappeared. Her home and all its treasures have already been confiscated, as belonging to a traitor and I'll venture that the priests in yonder get a good share of the wealth." "She was an honorable woman. It is a shame." "Shame, yes, but it pleases the people and gratifies the priests, two things very essential to him who sits upon the throne." "Dost think--" "Aye, I think much that I do not say. Hundreds of Christians have been herded into the prisons, the uprising of the multitude yesterday was but part of the game. It was all planned. They say, too, that a dark man, with great gold rings in his ears and a scar on his face, has been tracking these Christians for weeks. No doubt he was an emissary of the priests." "I have seen him myself. There he goes, now." Alyrus walked through the crowd like a king, as if he expected them to bow before him. "I've seen him before," said the first man. "Where was it? I remember now. It was he who sat in the ante-chamber of Aurelius Lucanus' office. He is his slave." "And is the honorable lawyer mixed up in this business?" "Who knows? One thing is certain. The people will be amused and forget the cruelties of the Emperor, for there will be a grand show in the amphitheatre, far grander than any gladiatorial show." "Thou meanest--" "That these Christians must be disposed of, or they will rebel. The lions are even now growling in the underground cages." Lidia sped on, though her feet grew very weary before she reached the cave where Lucius dwelt. He was standing in front of it, blowing into a flame some charcoal in a small iron brazier. She approached him unseen. He looked up, startled when he heard her calling him. "Ah, Lidia, is it thou? Hast come to have supper with thy father? Thou art welcome. There is a tender kid roasted and I have gathered some fresh greens in the field. I will make thee a salad." "Please do, dear father. I am very weary and have tasted no food since morning." Sitting down on the grass, they gave thanks and ate. The shepherd gave her a large plantain leaf for a plate. Their food was such as Jacob ate in days of old, long before Rome was built. "Thou art very weary, my child." "And heart-sick. Thou hast not been in the city for two days." "No. The rains have been so heavy that the sprinkling from my sheepskin bag was not needed. So I stayed here to care for the herds." "Then thou dost not know what has happened. Father, my master and the Lady Claudia are in deep distress. Martius and the Lady Virgilia went to visit the widow of Cantus outside the gate, on the day when the Feast of the Grapes was celebrated. They have never returned. Nor has Alyrus, who was sent on an errand by Aurelius that afternoon, nor Alexis, the Greek. Not one has come back to tell of their fate. This morning, Sahira, my Lady Claudia's waiting-maid disappeared and the mistress lies there moaning and crying. It is pitiful. Everyone is in disorder of spirit. I, even though I am but a scullery-maid, did creep into my Lady's room and put cold cloths on her head and fanned her face. No one else thought of her. The servants go here and there, without a head; the whole house is in confusion. Some of the slaves have already run away. It is rumored, father, that many Christians have been arrested. No doubt Martius and Virgilia are among them." "But thou?" "I am safe. Who cares for so humble a person as I? The Old One is very ill. I think she is going to die. No one cares for her but me. But I am safe. No one notices me, for I am little and ugly, thank God. I soothe the Old One, who moans and cries: 'Woe. Woe! to this household,' I must go back now. It is but four and twenty hours, father, since the home of Aurelius was full of joy and gladness. Now it is desolate." The shepherd rose and picked up his staff. "Lidia, it is Alyrus who has wrought all this. He and the priests of Jupiter. I will seek out Lycias, the gladiator. He will know what to do." A warm red shone in Lidia's thin, sallow cheeks. "Thou wilt greet him from me, father?" He nodded, and walked rapidly away, while Lidia, taking another path, ran toward the gates of Rome. Inside the walls, she almost collided with Alyrus, the Moor, who strode by not recognizing her. Slipping along in the shadows, she followed him eagerly, as intently as her father would have done, through the streets, into the Forum to the Temple of Jupiter, and saw him enter the side door. Then she hastened back to her duties, going into the house which was very still and deserted. Only a few of the many slaves owned by Aurelius the lawyer, remained to guard his interests. When the displeasure of an emperor falls on a man, it means disaster. She looked in at her mistress' door and found her sleeping, moaning as she slept. She went to the servant's quarters. On her humble couch lay the Old One, who had been a Princess in the court of Herod sixty years before, beautiful, admired. Her face was very quiet and the expression was sweet. Death had touched her lightly when he bore her into the presence of the Lord whom she had loved. The finished rug which she had made for Virgilia's wedding present lay under the scarlet and white awning on the Terrace. Alyrus had come into his reward. He was free, and Sahira his daughter was free, a purse of gold was in his hand and a ship lay waiting in the harbor, to carry them away to their home by the desert. Alyrus was not ready to go, yet. He wanted first to see all the amusement which there would be in Rome. He could not miss the climax of what he had intrigued for. He knew nothing of that Judas who had sold his Lord for thirty pieces of silver, or he might have likened himself to this traitor. No, he would not leave until the games were over. The scheme had worked well. There had not been the slightest hitch from the moment that they left the gate of Octavia's villa, until the bearers, who were in the plot, carried Virgilia into the Temple of Jupiter, and Martius and Alexis, little noticed in the unusual excitement stirred up by the priests, were easily overpowered and cast into one of the lowest dungeons. Yes, it had been most successful. Alyrus returned to the temple now to see Sahira who was in charge of the holy women and sallied forth again to sit in one of the shops and drink a glass of grape juice. He was a thoroughly temperate man, knowing that wine muddles the brain and perverts the judgment. It was now late in the evening. Proclamations were already on the walls announcing that on the fourth day, there would be grand games in the Circus. Gladiatorial contests would be the first thing on the program, followed by the lions and Christians. The learned ones were reading this notice aloud to the ignorant and the women, and all seemed to be much pleased. Alyrus sat down and ordered his cup of fresh grape juice, with snow from Mt. Hermon to cool it in. As he sipped it, he saw the great gladiator, Lycias, come into the circle of light from the flaring torches, but he did not perceive the shepherd, who remained outside, in the shadow. Now, Lycias was a great man in the eyes of the Romans. He had been a poor boy, but by reason of his strength had risen to be the first gladiator. He and Lidia the kitchen-maid, had grown up together in the cave of Lucius, for Lycias had been found, a tiny baby, lying at the door of the sheepfold. For the love and care bestowed upon him, Lycias had always been grateful. Therefore, at the request of Lucius, was he here. At the entrance of the famous gladiator, a shout arose from the men seated at the small tables. "Hail, Lycias! Hail, Lycias!" came from every side. The tall man bowed to one friend and then another, smiled and walked through the room, seeking a place to sit. With a smile, he declined proffered seats with groups of men, and finally took a place near Alyrus, the Moor. "If it does not inconvenience you," he said. "Not in the least," replied Alyrus, flattered at the attention thus drawn to him. The gladiator laid aside his silver helmet, unloosed his short sword and ordered light refreshment from the proprietor who came himself to serve so noted a guest. Had some great philosopher entered, he would have been greeted with respect but would not have aroused anything like so much interest or enthusiasm as did the victorious gladiator. Even the boys in the streets knew his name and tried to imitate him. For some time, while he had satisfied a very hearty appetite, Lycias did not open a conversation, and Alyrus, a little awed, had hesitated to speak. Apparently for the first time, the gladiator examined the Moor's face. Springing to his feet, he saluted in a military fashion. "Your pardon, my lord, I knew not that I had ventured to presume upon the kindness of Claudius Auranus, governor of Carthage." Alyrus stammered. "Be seated, sir, I--I am not his excellency the governor of Carthage. I am a much humbler man, a chieftain of Tripoli." "Ah! I knew that you were some distinguished person, from your bearing and dress." When Alyrus smiled, he was uglier than ever. "A brute!" muttered Lycias, under his breath. Then aloud: "Are you on some mission to the Emperor?" "Ahem. Not so. But very high in the secrets of the chief priest of Jupiter." "One might call him the power behind the throne." "Thou hast said truly." "And it is really true that thou art admitted to those holy precincts?" "Behold!" Alyrus drew from the folds of his garment the bronze lizard. "Not only does this admit me to the temple itself but to any place in the city of Rome. Thou seest. It is the symbol of the priests of Jupiter." "I see," Lycias' eyes gleamed, as he watched Alyrus placing the precious symbol in a safe place. Then, Alyrus, intoxicated by the events of the past few moments, by his sudden transition from slavery to freedom, at the prospect opening before him of a speedy return to the home he loved, flattered at the homage shown him by the gladiator, poured out the whole story into ears only too willing to hear. He narrated everything except that he had been a slave, representing himself as a client of Aurelius Lucanus, who had been grievously wronged by him. He told how he had discovered, one day in the public Forum, that the son and daughter of the lawyer were Christians, and Aurelius sympathized with them; how, by the chief priest's desire, he had assisted in tracking many more of the despised sect, of whom several hundred were now languishing in prison, among them, Octavia the widow of the proud Senator Aureus Cantus, and her son and daughter. Lycias passed his big hand over his smoothly shaven face to hide his expression of disgust. He rose. "If you permit, honored sir, I will now retire, with the hope that we shall meet again." "Willingly will I continue the conversation. Perhaps--" Alyrus was swelling with importance, "it would interest you to visit the prisons and see these Christians before they are thrown into the arena. I understand that you are first on the program." "Yes. I had thought of asking such a privilege as a visit to these prisoners. By the way, where is the daughter of Aurelius?" Alyrus shot a keen glance at him, but the face of Lycias was guileless as that of a child. "She is well guarded. I can tell you that, and her brother Martius, with Alexis the Greek slave--who ever looked down upon me," he added, unguardedly, continuing in haste, as he perceived his mistake, "I should have said, who was impertinent to me one day, lie in a dungeon far in the earth below the temple. From there, is a private underground passageway to the Circus. They will never see the light of day again." "A faithless friend, a bitter enemy," was Lycias' thought as striding forth from the room, he joined Lucius. "It is worse than I feared," Lucius said. "There is little hope." "We shall see," responded the gladiator, thoughtfully. "Art thou willing to take great risks to save the son and daughter of Aurelius?" "For the sake of Lidia, who loves them, I am." "Await my instructions, then," and they parted. The next afternoon, Alyrus let Lycias through the dark prisons in which the Christians were herded like beasts. The guards opened every door at the sight of the symbol of priestly authority, the bronze lizard. Lycias, brave and strong man, grew sick at the dreadful suffering of delicate women, frail young girls accustomed to luxury, who were so suddenly thrown into surroundings and as they had never dreamed of. All because of their faith? Lycias began to wonder what the power was which enabled these feeble creatures to face death with calmness and courage. "There must be something in this religion of Jesus Christ which makes them forget themselves," he thought. "I will ask Lidia to tell me the secret." In one corner of a dark, damp cell, several persons were kneeling in prayer. The voice of an old man could be heard, petitioning God, for Christ's sake, to lead them through this valley of the shadow of death and bring them to the holy city in its beauty and into the presence of their Lord and Master. "There, that is Virgilia, the fair one, yonder, with face upraised," said Alyrus. Lycias took a long look at the young girl, so that he would know her again. "Next to her is Hermione, and Octavia, widow of Aureus Cantus and her son. All three are there!" The laugh of the Moor was hideous in its coarseness. The young girls shivered and drew closer to Octavia. "Fear not," Octavia whispered, smiling at them. God had given her great courage. It was on this day that Alyrus, growing more confidential, told Lycias of the vessel lying in the River Tiber, ready to set sail as soon as he and Sahira went on board. "I have only to show them the symbol," he quoted, "and the sailors and officers are subject to my orders." That evening, the gladiator went to the cave, and finding Lidia with her father, ate the supper of coarse bread and goat's cheese with them. "Thou art accounted of much wisdom," he said to Lidia, "thy little head hath been ever steady on thy shoulders. Tell us what to do." "I am only a kitchen-maid," Lidia replied, blushing at the compliment, "but I should think that we might do thus." And a plan was made to their satisfaction, a very difficult plan involving great danger for all of them, perhaps death to Lycias and Lucius. It hung to a large degree on one thing which seemed to be unattainable. "With God, all things are possible," said wise little Lidia. "Let us pray," said the shepherd, and he and Lidia fell upon their knees on the grass in front of the cave, where even now in late Autumn, some tiny pink-tipped daisies were blooming. After a moment's hesitation, Lycias, who had never knelt to any but heathen gods, bent his knee also and uncovered his head in the presence of the unseen but powerful Ruler of the Universe. He and Lidia walked back to Rome together. As they parted, the big gladiator looked down into her earnest little face, with the clear, honest eyes. "I should like to learn about Christ," he said. "I will teach thee, Lycias, though I am but a weak follower of my Master." The next day, the one before the games were to take place in the Circus, two things happened. Alyrus, met again by Lycias, took him to the marble quarry by the Tiber, where, on the slowly flowing river, were moored great ships. There was a veritable forest of masts, cut from the strong cedars of Lebanon, and the groves of Mt. Hermon. "That is my ship, yonder," he said. As they emerged from the wharf, Alyrus was suddenly jostled by a rough-looking shepherd. Lycias caught the Moor in his arms to prevent his falling. The draperies Alyrus wore were disarranged and a small object fell, unnoticed by him, to the ground. Lycias placed his big, sandaled foot over this object. "Dog of a shepherd!" raved Alyrus, running after the man. Lycias stooped, picked up the small object and thrust it into his gown and soon reached the Moor by a few long strides. "Let him go!" he advised. "See, he is already almost out of sight." VIII. THE SYMBOL OF THE LIZARD. The games in the amphitheatre on this, the first day of November attracted an unusual number of persons. The emperor was there, with all his court, and the Vestals honored the games with their presence. Alyrus sat in a prominent place, with Sahira, former slave of Aurelius Lucanus and maid to Claudia, beside him. The dark-faced girl attracted much attention, so great was her beauty. Freed by special decree of Caesar, at the request of Lycidon, the priest, she had, by her father's desire been dressed like a fashionable girl of the period. "Dost see them coming?" asked Alyrus, eagerly. "Thine eyes are younger than mine. Dost see them yet?" "No, father. It is only the gladiators. Ah! that Lycias is a king among men! how strong! how noble!" A shade passed over the face of Alyrus the Moor. "Yes. A fine youth, yet--I wish that I had not lost that bronze lizard, Sahira. It bodes misfortune. Rome is not a safe place for us, in spite of the favor of Lycidon. We must go as soon as the games are over. Could it be possible that Lycias--" "Look, father, see Lycias, the conqueror. The emperor smiles upon him; a lady has thrown him a jewel. He bows. He is gone. How proud he must be!" "And now, they will come! See, yonder, Sahira, that group of white-robed men and women. Ha! hear the wild beasts, how they growl in their cages, pawing the bars, pleading to be let loose." Alyrus, wild with gratified hatred, his face as evil as that of a demon, leaned far over that he might lose nothing of the pitiful drama about to be enacted in the arena. The Christians came forward slowly, the women clinging together in their physical weakness, though their souls were strong in the strength of their faith. There was Octavia, leading Hermione and Virgilia. The widow's face was bright with a great light. There was Martius almost blinded by the contrast between the terrible darkness of the dungeon beneath Jupiter's temple, where he had spent four days and nights of misery, frantic when he thought of Virgilia and what her fate might be. He and Alexis had only a half hour before been brought through the underground passage-way to the cells where the Christians were waiting. He and Virgilia met here, on the sanded arena, where thousands of persons were gazing at them. Martius stepped to his sister's side, and put his arm around her. He stretched out his hand to clasp that of Hermione. "We shall meet again, yonder," he whispered, glancing upward. Now, just as they were being pushed into the arena, a strange thing had happened. A tall man, whom Martius had not recognized as Lycias, the gladiator, approached him and said: "In the arena, I will be near you, standing by one of the gates. If you can be calm enough in the moment of excitement, note where I am. When I give the signal, take your sister in your arms and follow me." He had said the same to Marcus, telling him to assist Octavia and Hermione and bear them forth. "Fear not," the stranger had said. "If your God has power, he will save you all out of the lion's mouth." Opening from the arena were several iron gates. Some of these served as entrances to the prisons or cells, where the Christians had been kept until the moment when they were commanded to come forth and perform their part in amusing the wicked emperor and his impious people. Others, four in number, were the entrances to passageways leading to the open air. There were used by the gladiators and by the employees whose duty it was to arrange the "scenery." Each gate was guarded, in the arena and at the outer exit, by a soldier, well armed. It was by one of these open gates that Martius and Marcus obeying the words of the gladiator, eager to seize any chance of escape, kept the women. The shouts of the multitude arose. "The Christians! The Christians! To the lions!" It was then that Alyrus shrank back and a deadly fear seized him. What had he done? What had he done? He remembered past kindnesses. He remembered how Sahira had been saved from a life of sorrow and shame by Aurelius Lucanus. How had he repaid him? By treachery and evil. For the first time in his life, Alyrus was conscious of sin. The Christian's God! Who was He? Could he avenge? A horrible coldness enveloped him. He could not move. Then he knew nothing more. But Sahira, not noticing that her father was ill, was looking down at the white group, now kneeling on the ground, while the white-haired elder prayed, with arms up-raised. There was another shout. Martius who had never felt cooler in his life, saw Lycias and touched Marcus on the arm. "Come," he said. "We are not far from the entrance. Quick!" Martius seized Virgilia in his arms; Marcus led his mother and Hermione. It was but a step, a moment and they were by the side of Lycias. Hermione was fainting. The gladiator lifted her as easily as if she were a child. "Follow me," said Lycias, striding before them. Dazed, scarcely knowing where they were or what they were doing, the women, clinging to the men; walked along the narrow way. In the circus, there were more shouts and cries. Hermione trembled in the strong arms of Lycias. He soothed her gently. "Pray to your God," he said, "that He may bring us safely through." "Who are you?" "I am Lycias, a friend of Christians, and I, too would learn of the faith." One great danger lay before them. It was the guard at the outer doorway, which opened on the street. He opposed their exit. "No one passes here," he said. "No one except me and my friends," responded the gladiator, boldly. "Dare you say to Lycias that he may not pass?" The soldier's face relaxed, but still he stood in the path. "To-day, I have specially strict orders lest some of the Christians escape. For my part, I would willingly let some of those poor creatures flee, but I value my head." "Perhaps thou wilt not gainsay me when thou seest my pass." Lycias held up the bronze lizard. Really, the big gladiator himself doubted the power of this symbol. He began to fear that they would all be forced back into the arena, which was sure death, not only for those whom he wished to save, but for himself, also. He would receive no mercy, even though he had been the idol of the people but an hour before and the air had rung with his praises. It would count him little, if he were caught helping the victims to escape. The soldier looked at him with staring eyes. "The symbol of the chief-priest," he whispered. "In the name of Jupiter, go by in peace, and may his wrath not fall upon me and mine." A few paces more, and the light of air of the blessed day bathed them in warmth and gave them courage. The gladiator set Hermione on her feet and wiped his dripping forehead. "Barely escaped," he muttered. No one was in this part of the street by the amphitheatre. All the interest was in the interior. So great had been the number of Christians that Octavia and the others in this little group had not been missed. Where they were going, they knew not; but that, for the moment, they were safe, they all thankfully realized and that they owed it to this big stranger with the honest face. "Let us, for one moment, thank God for our deliverance," said Octavia. Not daring to kneel, they turned their faces toward Heaven while Octavia breathed forth a fervent prayer. "We must hurry," said Lycias, leading the way to the Forum, to-day deserted for the greater amusements of the games, in which the Christians were the chief attraction. It was a long, hard walk to the marble wharf where the ship lay on which Alyrus and his daughter were soon to set sail, as Lycias well knew. His great fear was lest the Moor might have decided to go earlier and not wait for the conclusion of the games. Suppose they arrived at the wharf and found the ship gone? What should they do? Lycias' brain studied this problem. All these people were homeless, except the shepherd. Ah! that was it! If the ship had sailed, he would take these delicately nurtured women to the cave on the Campagna. It grew necessary for the men to help the women, who were very weary and weak from excitement; although Lycias did not wish to call any more attention to them than was necessary, for fear that the ladies, especially Octavia, who was well known, might be recognized. All the Romans had not gone to the Circus, some were sitting in the eating-places, and women were knitting in the doorways. Fortunately, it was getting toward evening, but that would be a signal for the thousands to leave the amphitheatre and scatter to their homes. There was need for haste. They approached the shores of the Tiber, turned into gold by the sunlight from the setting sun. The masts were visible now. Lycias gave a sigh of satisfaction as he saw, sitting on a grassy bank a man and a woman, who was heavily veiled. Standing beside them was a slender girl. It was Lidia, the daughter of the shepherd, who sprang forward and put her arms around her father's neck, while great tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks. "At last! at last! thou art come. Thanks be to our God." It had not been a difficult matter for the little scullery-maid to persuade the lawyer to venture upon a scheme as bold as it was doubtful in its outcome. Aurelius Lucanus was a broken man. He had lost his children. He had not known how dear they were to him until they disappeared. What mattered it if they were followers of Christians, members of a despised sect? They were his own, and he loved them. His business was ruined, his home deserted, the emperor no longer looked on him with favor. All was gone. In the room near by, Claudia lay weeping. She, too, was broken-hearted. Her daughter, her ambitions, all those things which formed her life had vanished as suddenly as the dew dries upon the green grass in midsummer. The lawyer was sitting in the garden. Bright yellow and scarlet dahlias bloomed around him; plumy lavender and rose colored asters nodded cheerfully in the chill breeze of this first of November. The water in the fountain rippled as musically as in those happy days, now gone. That morning early, Aurelius had gone again to the Senator Adrian Soderus, to whom Virgilia had so cruelly been betrothed. It was a sign that no longer was the lawyer held in high esteem, when he was kept waiting in the outer chamber, and a message was brought him by a young slave that the Senator could no longer receive him. He would have no dealings with the parents of Christians. Then he, too, knew their disgrace. It must have been noised--abroad in the city. Aurelius hurried home and sitting down where Claudia had rested, looking so beautiful, on her return from the amphitheatre on the Spring day which seemed so long ago, he buried his face in his hands. An awful fear haunted him. To-day had been fixed for the games. Could it be possible that Virgilia, so fair, so delicate, shielded all her life from the rough and hard things, protected and loved, was among those Christians whom Caesar had, in his cruelty, doomed to death? And Martius, where was he? He felt a light touch on his shoulder and looked up with dull eyes, clouded with misery and loneliness, into the dark, sallow face of the kitchen-maid, whom he had never noticed before until he saw her tenderly ministering to his wife. In a few concise sentences, she told him all. Virgilia and Martius were to be sacrificed, with hundreds of other Christians that afternoon. It was known that Octavia, and her children were also condemned. Lycias, the gladiator, would try to save them. Perhaps he could succeed; there was a little hope. In any case, he would try. Aurelius and Claudia, with herself, would go to a quiet place near the marble quarry, and wait for them. If they did not come, all was lost, and there remained nothing but to return to this house. If they came, there was a chance of escape for them all. She told him of the ship belonging to Alyrus, his porter, now a freedman. It was he who had wrought the mischief. If possible--God only knew!--they would all sail away together. Whither, who could tell? Away from Rome, away from all this trouble and sorrow. Lidia possessed a lovely voice, thrilling sweet. As she talked, the lawyer's brain cleared. He was more himself than he had been since the children had disappeared. Now, he knew the worst. Sometimes certainty, even though bad, is better than the agony of suspense. There was a chance, and if they escaped--a thought came to him. "Thou wilt dress thy Lady." Lidia nodded. "And gather together the jewels. Bring the diadem sent by the emperor to Virgilia and the necklace, the gift of Adrian." Even in his anguish of soul, the lawyer smiled, grimly. When the Senator sent to reclaim his valuable gift, he would not find it. At least, he would have contributed that much to Virgilia's future happiness. His wealth was so great that he would not miss the game. "I will gather together all the jewels, my master, also those of the Lady Claudia, and will hide them in my bosom. No one will imagine that the kitchen-maid carries such treasures." "A quick-witted girl," muttered Aurelius, "and now for my part. If the gods please, they will escape, and we shall be happy again. If not--then we will never return to this house." It took him until noon to examine the papers in his strong-box. Three of the documents he placed in his toga. The others, he burned. It was a long and difficult matter to bring the Lady Claudia, in her weakness, to the place agreed upon. Here, they waited, while the sun, burning hot in Rome even in October, beat upon them pitilessly, for there was no shade here. The whole story had not been told Claudia, who was saved that suffering. She knew, only, that they were to set sail in a ship and leave this city where she had been so happy. She was utterly apathetic, caring nothing where they went. Losing hope, as time passed, Aurelius grew more and more silent. Even Lidia began to fear that the worst had happened. The sun sank and the vessels were shrouded in shadow. No sound was heard save the monotonous singing of a sailor, or the creaking of a sail. Then around the corner came the forlorn little group, and Lidia threw herself in her father's arms, while her eyes sought Lycias, who smiled at her. The rest was easy. The bronze lizard worked like magic. No one inquired where was the dark man with the gold rings in his ears. The vessel had been chartered and paid for by the priest of Jupiter. The orders were to sail, when the symbol was shown them. As the tide was high and the wind fresh, the sails were raised and just as the people were swarming out of the Circus, just when the Emperor in his golden chair, was being carried to his marble palace, the fugitives, scarcely knowing where they were and not caring whither they should go, sat on the deck, breathed in the cool air of life, watched the stars come out, one by one, and thanked God for delivering them out of the mouth of the lion. Day after day they sailed over a blue sea, where the waves danced and broke into froth, which in its turn, dissolved into a million jewel-points of colors as brilliant as those flashed by the diamonds in Virgilia's diadem, the gift of the emperor. Among the papers brought away by the lawyer was the deed of a small villa on the Island of Cyprus. It had belonged to his father and a revenue was received each year from the steward who cultivated the vineyard. To Cyprus, the vessel went, landing there a fortnight later, for the winds had been favorable, and they had made a quick voyage. On the broad terraces, commanding a view of the sea, with passing vessels, Claudia lay on a couch, daily gaining strength. She held Virgilia's hand as if she could never let it go, while the young girl told her of Jesus and His love, and read to her the precious letter of Paul, the Apostle, a copy of which Martius had made in the days of his exile. Here, they heard of the martyrdom of the Apostle, and his burial in the vineyard of Lucia, the Roman matron. He had "finished his course" and "kept the faith," and had gone to receive his "crown of righteousness." As the days passed, peace and happiness came to them all. The gladiator, forgetting his prowess in the arena, worked diligently in the vineyard, while Lucius guarded the flocks of sheep, grazing beneath the light-green olive-trees. And Lidia cooked for them in a small stone cottage, singing as she worked. Martius and Marcus, grown to be men, worked also, and when the labors of the day were over, sat on the terrace in the moonlight, while Hermione and Virgilia talked with them, and Claudia and Octavia smiled at their happiness. One thing, they did not know; that Alyrus, the Moor, justly punished for his misdeeds, never spoke again after the games in the Circus. He died soon afterward. Sahira, robbed of her freedom by the jealousy of a woman high in favor in the imperial court, who envied her beauty and the favor of the emperor, sank again into slavery, and as the years passed, became a drudge in the palace. When the sun crept lower to the waves of the sea, and as the darkness shrouded all nature, young and old knelt on the terrace and prayed that God would keep them safe. And Aurelius, the lawyer, with Claudia, his wife, knelt also, for there were no statues of the gods in this home set among the trailing festoons of the vineyard on the Island of Cyprus. [FINIS.] 
6118	----	[Illustration: His audience was fairly hanging on his words] THE ROSE IN THE RING By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY A. I. KELLER CONTENTS BOOK ONE I THE FUGITIVE II IN THE DRESSING TENT III DAVID ENTERS THE SAWDUST RING IV A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE V SOMETHING ABOUT THE BRADDOCKS VI DAVID JENISON'S STORY VII THE BROTHERS CRONK VIII AN INVITATION TO SUPPER IX A THIEF IN THE NIGHT X LOVE WINGS A TIMID DART XI ARTFUL DICK GOES VISITING XII IN WHICH MANY THINGS HAPPEN XIII THE SALE BOOK TWO I THE DAUGHTER OF COLONEL GRAND II THE STRANGER AT THE HALL III THE MAN WHO SERVED HIS TIME IV THE DELIVERY OF A TELEGRAM V THE LOVE THAT WAS STAUNCH VI DOOR-STEPS VII TOM BRADDOCK'S PROMISE VIII COLONEL GRAND AND THE CLONKS IX IN THE LITTLE TRIANGULAR "SQUARE" X THE BLACK HEADLINES ILLUSTRATIONS His audience was fairly hanging on his words.. _Frontispiece_ "It is my money!" cried David Her lips parted in amazement, tremulously struggling into a smile of wonder and unbelief. "This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life." BOOK ONE CHAPTER I THE FUGITIVE The gaunt man led the way. At his heels, doggedly, came the two short ones, fagged, yet uncomplaining; all of them drenched to the skin by the chill rain that swirled through the Gap, down into the night-ridden valley below. Sky was never so black. Days of incessant storm had left it impenetrably overcast. These men trudged--or stumbled--along the slippery road which skirted the mountain's base. Soggy, unseen farm lands and gardens to their left, Stygian forests above and to their right. Ahead, the far-distant will-o-the-wisp flicker of many lights, blinking in the foggy shroud. Three or four miles lay between the sullen travelers and the town that cradled itself in the lower end of the valley. Night had stolen early upon the dour spring day. The tall man who led carried a rickety, ill-smelling lantern that sent its feeble rays no farther ahead than a dozen paces; it served best to reveal the face of the huge silver watch which frequently was drawn from its owner's coat pocket. Eight o'clock,--no more,--and yet it seemed to these men that they had plowed forever through the blackness of this evil night, through a hundred villainous shadows by unpointed paths. Mile after mile, they had traversed almost impassable roads, unwavering persistence in command of their strength, heavy stoicism their burden. Few were the words that had passed between them during all those weary miles. An occasional oath, muffled but impressive, fell from the lips of one or the other of those who followed close behind the silent, imperturbable leader. The tall man was as silent as the unspeakable night itself. It was impossible to distinguish the faces of these dogged night-farers. The collars of their coats were turned up, their throats were muffled, and the broad rims of their rain-soaked hats were far down over the eyes. There was that about them which suggested the unresented pressure of firearms inside the dry breast-pockets of long coats. This was an evening in the spring of 1875, and these men were forging their way along a treacherous mountain road in Southwestern Virginia. A word in passing may explain the exigency which forced the travelers to the present undertaking. The washing away of a bridge ten miles farther down the valley had put an end to all thought of progress by rail, for the night, at least. Rigid necessity compelled them to proceed in the face of the direst hardships. Their mission was one which could not be stayed so long as they possessed legs and stout hearts. Checked by the misfortune at the bridge, there was nothing left for them but to make the best of the situation: they set forth on foot across the mountain, following the short but more arduous route from the lower to the upper valley. Since three o'clock in the afternoon they had been struggling along their way, at times by narrow wagon roads, not infrequently by trails and foot paths that made for economy in distance. The tall man strode onward with never decreasing strength and confidence; his companions, on the contrary, were faint and sore and scowling. They were not to the mountains born; they came from the gentle lowlands by the sea,--from broad plantations and pleasant byways, from the tidewater country. He was the leader on this ugly night, and yet they were the masters; they followed, but he led at their bidding. They had known him for less than six hours, and yet they put their lives in his hands; another sunrise would doubtless see him pass out of their thoughts forever. He served the purpose of a single night. They did not know his name--nor he theirs, for that matter; they took him on faith and for what he was worth--five dollars. "Are those the lights of the town?" panted one of the masters, a throb of hope in his breast. The tall man paused; the others came up beside him. He stretched a long arm in the direction of the twinkling lights, far ahead. "Yas, 'r," was all that he said. "How far?" demanded the other laboriously. "'Bout fo'h mile." "Road get any better?" "Yas, 'r." "Can we make it by nine, think?" "Yas, 'r." "We'd better be moving along. It's half-past seven now." "Yas, 'r." Once more they set forward, descending the slope into the less hazardous road that wound its way into the town of S----, then, as now, a thriving place in the uplands. The ending of a deadly war not more than ten years prior to the opening of this tale had left this part of fair Virginia gasping for breath, yet too proud to cry for help. Virginia, the richest and fairest and proudest of all the seceding states, was but now finding her first moments of real hope and relief. Her fortunes had gone for the cause; her hopes had sunk with it. Both were now rising together from the slough into which they had been driven by the ruthless Juggernaut of Conquest. The panic of '73 meant little to the people of this fair commonwealth; they had so little then to lose, and they had lost so much. The town of S---, toward which these weary travelers turned their steps, was stretching out its hands to clasp Opportunity and Prosperity as those fickle commodities rebounded from the vain-glorious North; the smile was creeping back into the haggard face of the Southland; the dollars were jingling now because they were no longer lonely. The bitterness of life was not so bitter; an ancient sweetness was providing the leaven. The Northern brother was relaxing; he was even washing the blood from his hands and extending them to raise the sister he had ravished. There was forgiveness in the heart of fair Virginia--but not yet the desire to forget. The South was coming into its own once more--not the old South, but a new one that realized. Intermittent strains of music came dancing up into the hills from the heart of S--. The wayfarers looked at each other in the darkness and listened in wonder to these sounds that rose above the swish of the restless rain. "It's a band," murmured one of the two behind. "Yas, 'r; a circus band," vouchsafed the guide, a sudden eagerness in his voice. "Van Slye's Great and Only Mammoth Shows--" "A circus?" interrupted one of the men gruffly. "Then the whole town is full of strangers. That's bad for us, Blake." "I don't see why. He's more than likely to be where the excitement's highest, ain't he? He's not too old for that. We'll find him in that circus tent, Tom, if he's in the town at all." "First circus they've had in S---- in a dawg's age," ventured the guide, with the irrelevancy of an excited boy. "Rice's was there once, I can't remember jest when, an' they was some talk of Barnum las' yeah, they say, but he done pass us by. He's got a Holy Beheemoth that sweats blood this yeah, they say. Doggone, I'd like to see one." The guide had not ventured so much as this, all told, in the six hours of their acquaintanceship. "Well, let's be moving on. I'm wet clear through," shivered Blake. Silence fell upon them once more. No word was spoken after that, except in relation to an oath of exasperation; they swung forward into the lower road, their sullen eyes set on the lights ahead. Heavy feet, dragging like hundredweights, carried them over the last weary mile. Into the outskirts of the little town they slunk. The streets were deserted, muddy, and lighted but meagerly from widely separated oil lamps set at the tops of as many unstable posts. Some distance ahead there was a vast glow of light, lifting itself above the housetops and pressing against the black dome that hung low over the earth. The rollicking quickstep of a circus band came dancing over the night to meet the footsore men. There were no pedestrians to keep them company. The inhabitants of S---- were inside the tents beyond, or loitering near the sidewalls with singular disregard for the drizzling rain that sifted down upon their unmindful backs or blew softly into the faces of the few who enjoyed the luxury of "umberells." Despite the apparent solitude that kept pace with them down the narrow street,--little more than a country lane, on the verge of graduating into a thoroughfare,--the three travelers were keenly alert; their squinting, eager eyes searched the shadows beside and before them; their feet no longer dragged through the slippery, glistening bed of the road; every movement, every glance signified extreme caution. Slowly they approached the vacant lots beyond the business section of the town, known year in and year out to the youth of S---- as "the show grounds." Now they began to encounter straggling, envious atoms of the populace, wanderers who could not produce the admission fee and who were not permitted by the rough canvasmen to venture inside the charmed circle laid down by the "guy-ropes." At the corner of the tented common stood the "ticket wagon," the muddy plaza in front of it torn by the footprints of many human beings and lighted by a great gasoline lamp swung from a pole hard by. Beyond was the main entrance of the animal tent, presided over by uniformed ticket takers. Here and there, in the gloomy background, stood the canvas and pole wagons, shining in their wetness against the feeble light that oozed through the opening between the sidewall and the edge of the flapping main top, or glistening with sudden brightness in response to the passing lantern or torch in the hand of a rubber-coated minion who "belonged to the circus,"--a vast honor, no matter how lowly his position may have been. Costume and baggage wagons, their white and gold glory swallowed up in the maw of the night, stood backed up against the dressing-tent off to the right. The horse tent beyond was even now being lowered by shadowy, mystic figures who swore and shouted to each other across spaces wide and spaces small without regulating the voice to either effort. Horses, with their clanking trace-chains, in twos and fours, slipped in and out of the shadows, drawing great vehicles which rumbled and jarred with the noise peculiar to circus wagons: tired, underfed horses that paid little heed to the curses or the blows of the men who handled them, so accustomed were they to the proddings of life. And inside the big tent the band played merrily, as only a circus band can play, jangling an accompaniment to the laughter and the shouts of the delighted multitude sitting in the blue-boarded tiers about the single ring with its earthen circumference, its sawdust carpet and its dripping lights. The smell of the thing! Who has ever forgotten it? The smell of the sawdust, the smell of the gleaming lights, the smell of animals and the smell of the canvas top! The smell of the damp handbills, the programs and the bags of roasted peanuts! Incense! Never-to-be-forgotten incense of our beautiful days! Warm and dry and bright under the spreading top with its two "center poles" and its row of "quarters"; cold, dreary and sordid outside in the real world where man and beast worked while others seemed to play. Groups of canvasmen now began to tear down the animal tent--the "menagerie," as it has always been known to the man who pays admission. An hour later, when the big show is over, the spectators will stream forth, even as their own blue seats begin to clatter to earth behind them, and they will blink with amazement to find themselves in the open air, instead of in the menagerie tent. As if by magic it has disappeared, and with it the sideshow and its banners, the Punch and Judy show, the horse tent, the cook tent, the blacksmith shop. Where once stood a dripping white city, now stretches a barren, ugly waste of unhallowed, unfamiliar ground, flanked by the solitary temple of tinsel and sawdust which they have just left behind, and which even now is being desolated by scowling men in overalls. The crowd oozes forth, to find itself completely lost in the night, all points of the compass at odds, no man knowing east from west or north from south in the strange surroundings. The "lot" they have known so well and crossed so often has been transformed into a trackless wilderness, through which strange objects rumble and creak, over which queer, ghastly lights play for the benefit of grumbling men from another world. Blake and his companion, standing apart from the lank, wide-eyed guide, were conversing in low tones. "We'd better make the circuit of the tents," said Blake, evidently the leader. "You go to the right and I'll take the other way round. We'll meet here. Keep your eye peeled. He may be hiding under the wagons where it's dry. Look out for these circus toughs. They're a nasty crowd." Then he turned to the guide. "We won't need you any longer," he said. "This is as far as we go. Here is your pay. If I were you, I'd buy a ticket and go inside." "Yas, 'r," said the smileless guide, accepting the greenback with no word of thanks. A brief "good night" to his employers, and the lean mountaineer strolled over to the ticket wagon. He purchased a ticket and hurried into the tent. We do not see him again. He has served his purpose. His late employers made off on their circuit of the tents, sharp-eyed but casual, doing nothing that might lead the circus men to suspect that they were searching for one among them. In the good old days of the road circus there were thieves as well as giants; if a man was not a thief himself, he at least had a friend who was. There was honor among them. A scant hour before the three men came to the "showgrounds" their quarry arrived there. That Blake and his companion were man-hunters goes without saying, but that the person for whom they searched should be a hungry, wan-faced, terrified boy of eighteen seems hardly in keeping with the relentless nature of the chase. The ring performance in the main tent had been in progress for fifteen or twenty minutes when the fugitive, exhausted, drenched and shivering, crept into the protected nook which marks the junction of the circus and dressing tops. Here it was comparatively dry; the wind did not send its thin mist into this canvas cranny. Not so dark as he may have desired, if one were to judge by the expression in his feverish eyes as he peered back at the darkness out of which he had slunk, but so cramped in shadow that only the eye of a ferret could have distinguished the figure huddled there. Chilled to the bone, wet through and through, this white-faced lad, with drooping lip and quickened breath, crouched there and waited for the heavy footstep and the brutal command of the canvasman who was to drive him forth into the darkness once more. He had watched his chance to creep into this coveted spot. When the men were called to work at the horse tent he found his chance. It looked warm in this corner; a pleasant light on the inside of the two tents glowed against the damp sidewalls: here and there it glimmered invitingly under the bottom of the canvas. He knew that his tenancy must end in an hour or two: the big top would be leveled to the ground, rolled up and spirited away into the stretches that lay between this city and the next one, twenty miles away. But an hour or two in this friendly corner, close to the glare of the circus lights, almost in touch with the joyous, bespangled world of his ambitions, even though he was a hated and hunted creature, was better than the sopping roadside or the fields. He knew that he was being hounded and that those who sought him were close behind. Once in the forest, far back in the hills, he had heard them, he had seen them. Off in other parts of the country men were looking for him. In the cities throughout Virginia and the adjoining states there were placards describing him ere this, and rewards were mentioned. Resting in the bushes above the trail, late in the afternoon, he had seen Blake and his men. They had stopped to rest, and he could hear their conversation plainly. With all the wiliness of a hunted thing, he had slipped off into the forest, terrified to find that his pursuers were so close upon him. He had learned that they were making for S---- and it was easy to see that their progress was slow and grueling. His feet were light, his legs strong; peril gave wings to his courage. Something told him that he must beat them by many miles into the town of S----. Once, when he was much younger, he had gone to S---- with his grandfather to see the soldiers encamped there. He remembered the railroad. It was imperative that he should reach the railway as far in advance of his pursuers as legs and a stout heart could carry him. A wide _detour_ through the sombre forest brought him to the road once more, fully a mile below his pursuers. He forgot his hunger and his fatigue. For miles he ran with the fleetness of a scared thing, guided by the crude sign-boards which pointed the way and told the distance to S----. Night fell, but he ran on, stumbling and faint with dread, tears rolling down his thin cheeks, sobs in his throat. Darkness hid the sign-boards from view; he reeled from one side of the narrow, Stygian lane to the other, sustaining many falls and bruises, but always coming to his feet with the unflagging determination to fight his way onward. Half-dazed, gasping for breath and ready to drop in his tracks, he came at last to the open valley. Far ahead and below were the lights of a town--he could only hope that it was S----. Tortured by the vast oppressiveness of the solitude which lay behind him, peopled by a thousand ghosts whose persistent footsteps had haunted him through every mile of his flight, he cried aloud as he stumbled down the rain-washed hill,--cried with the terror of one who sees collapse after human valor has been done to death. He was never to know how he came, in the course of an hour, to the outskirts of the town. His mind, distracted by the terror of pursuit, refused to record the physical exertions of that last bitter hour; his body labored mechanically, without cognizance of the strain put upon it. He had traversed fifteen miles of the blackest of forests and by way of the most tortuous of roads. A subconscious triumph now inspired him, born of the certainty that he had left his enemies far behind. It was this oddly jubilant spur that drove him safely, almost instinctively, into the heart of S----. The music of a band both attracted and bewildered him. It was some time before he could grasp the fact that a circus was holding forth in the lower end of the town. The subtle cunning that had become part of his nature within the past forty-eight hours forbade an incautious approach to the circus grounds. There, of all places, he might expect to encounter peril. To his bewildered mind every man who breathed of life was a sleuth sent forth to lay hold of him. He gave the circus--loved thing of tenderer days--a wide berth, finding his way to the railway station by outlying streets. His first thought was to board an outbound train, to secrete himself in one of the freight cars. The sudden, overpowering pangs of hunger drove this plan from his mind, combined with the discovery that no train would pass through the town before midnight. Disheartened, sick with despair, he slunk off through the railway yards, taking a roundabout way to the circus grounds. There was money in his purse,--plenty of it; but he was afraid to enter an eating-house, or to even approach the "snack-stand" on the edge of the circus lot. For a long time he stood afar off in the darkness, his legs trembling, his mouth twitching, his eyes bent with pathetic intentness upon the single pie and hot sandwich stand that remained near the sideshow tent, presided over by a kind-faced, sleepy old man in spectacles. A huge placard tacked to the board fence back of this stand attracted his attention. Impelled by a strange curiosity, he ventured into the circle of light, knowing full well, before he was near enough to distinguish more than the bold word "Reward," that this sinister bill had to do with him and no other. Held by the same mysterious power that a serpent exercises in charming its victim, the lad stared at the face of this ominous thing that proclaimed him a fugitive for whom five hundred dollars would be paid, dead or alive. Stricken to the soul, he read and re-read the black words, unable, for a long time, to tear himself away from the spot. A quick alarm seized him. He slunk back into the shadows, his hunger forgotten. For many minutes he stood in the grisly darkness, staring at the white patch on the fence. Curses rose to his lips--lips that had never known an oath before; prayers and pleadings were forgotten in that bitter arraignment of fate. Then came the sudden revival of youthful spirits, carrying with them the reckless bravado that all boys possess to the verge of folly. The band was playing, the show had begun. In his mind's eye he could see the "_grand entree._" A fierce desire to brave detection and boldly enter the charmed pavilion took possession of him. First, he would buy of the pieman's wares; then he would calmly present himself before the ticket wagon window, after which--But he got no farther in his dream of audacity. The placard on the fence seemed to smite him in the face. He drew farther back into the darkness, shuddering. With his arms clasped tightly across his chest, shivering in the chill that had returned triumphant, he dragged himself wearily away from the place of temptation. Circling the dressing-tent, he came upon men at work. They were drawing stakes with the old-fashioned chains. For a while he dully watched them. They passed on. He crept from his place of hiding and, attracted by the lights as a moth is drawn by the candle, made his way to the sheltered spot at the joining of the tents. After a few moments of restless vigil an overpowering sense of lassitude fell upon him. His eyes closed in abrupt surrender to exhaustion. The rhythmic beat of the quickstep leaped off into great distances; the champing and snorting of horses in the dressing-tent died away as if by magic; the subdued voices of the men and women who waited their turn to bound into the merry ring faded into indistinguishable whispers; the crack of the ring master's whip and the responsive yelp of the clown trailed off into silence. His head fell back, his body relaxed, and he slipped off into sweet unconsciousness. A man in motley garb, with a face of scarlet and white, sitting on a blue half-barrel near the flap which indicated the entrance to the men's section of the dressing-tent, caught sight of an arm and hand lying limp under the edge of the canvas. He stared hard for a moment and then, attracted by the slim, unfamiliar member, arose and advanced to the spot. As he stood there, looking down at the hand, a woman and a young girl approached. "Drunk," observed the clown, with a grimace. They stopped beside him, looking down. The woman spoke. "How long and fine the fingers are. A boy's hand, not a man's. See who is there, Joey, do." And so it was that the fugitive was taken. The clown lifted the sidewall and bent over the form of the lad, peering into the white, mud-streaked face. "He's not drunk," he said quickly. "He looks ill, poor fellow. How wet he is,--and _so_ muddy. Is he asleep? It isn't--it isn't something else?" She drew back in sudden dread. "He's alive, right enough. I say, Mrs. Braddock, there's something queer about this. He can't belong in this 'ere town, else he wouldn't be sleepin' 'ere in the mud. He's plain pegged out, ma'am. Like enough 'e's some poor fool as wants to join the circus. Run away from 'ome, I daresay. We've 'ad lots of 'em follow us up lately, you know. Only this 'un looks different. Shall I call Peterson? He'll wake 'im up right enough and conwince 'im that the show business is a good thing to stay out of while he can." "Don't call Peterson. He is a brute. Rouse him yourself, and tell him to come inside the tent. Poor boy, he's half drowned. Come, dearie," to the girl, "go into the dressing-room. You must not see--" "He is so white and ill-looking, mother," said the girl, in pitying tones, her gaze fastened upon the face of the sleeper. The mother drew the child aside, an arm about her shoulder. Together they watched the clown's efforts to arouse the boy. "He may be another Artful Dick, my child," ventured the mother. "Your father says the pickpockets are uncommonly numerous this spring." "I'm sure he isn't a thief--I'm sure of it," said the girl eagerly. She was a pretty, brown-haired creature, whose large, serious eyes seemed unnaturally dark and brilliant against the vivid coloring of her cheeks and forehead. The blacks, whites and carmines of the make-up box had beautified her for the ring but not for closer observation. One who understood the secrets of the "make-up" could have told at a glance that underneath the thick layer of powder and paint there was a soft, white skin; even the rough, careless application of harmless cosmetics could not, in any sense, deceive one as to the delicacy of her features. The mouth, red with the carmine grease, was gentle, even tremulous; her nose, though streaked with a thin, white line, was straight and pure patrician in its modeling, with fine, quivering nostrils, now gently distended by sharp exercise in the ring; her ears were small, her throat round and slim; right proudly her head rode the firm, white neck; the warm, brown hair swept down in caresses for the bare shoulders. A long, red Shaker cloak enveloped the slim, straight body. Dainty golden slippers, protected by the ungainly ground shoes of the circus performer, peeped from beneath the hem of the robe. A small, visorless cap of red velvet fitted snugly over the crown of her head. Now the lips were parted and the eyes narrowed by interest in the stranger who slept against their walls. The mother was still a young woman; a pretty one, despite the careworn expression in her eyes and the tired lines in her face. She was dressed in the ordinary garments of the street, in no way suggestive of the circus. There was an unmistakable air of gentle breeding about her, patient under the strain of adverse circumstances, but strong and resolute in the power to meet them without flinching. This woman, you could see at a glance, was not born to the circus and its hardships; she came of another world. Tall and slender and proud she was, endowed with the poise of a thorough gentlewoman. Hers was a fine, brilliant face, crowned by dark hair that grew low and waved about her temples. Deep, tender brown eyes met yours steadily and with unwavering candor. There was strength and loyalty and purity in their depths. No hardness, no callousness, no guile, no rancor there: only the clear, sweet eyes of a woman whose soul is white. There was an infinite pity in them now. The clown had shaken the boy into partial wakefulness. He was sitting up, leaning forward on his hands, his eyes blinking in the contest between sleep and amazement. "Get up," said Grinaldi, the clown, shaking him by the shoulder. "What are you doing here, boy?" The lad came quickly to his feet and would have rushed away into the darkness behind him had it not been for the restraining grip on his arm. He felt himself being dragged into the stuffy, mysterious vestibule of the tent, into plain view of a half-dozen vividly attired persons, almost under the feet of stolid, gayly caparisoned horses wearing the great back-pads. And this creature who led him there--this grotesque object with the chalky face and coal-black eyebrows that ran up in tall triangles to meet a still chalkier pate--this figure with the red and black crescents on his cheeks and the baggy, spotted suit of red and white and blue and the conical hat--who and what was he? The clown! He was not dreaming--he was in the dressing-tent of the circus, enveloped by the dull, magic atmosphere that comes in the smoke of burning oils,--an atmosphere that is never to be found outside the low walls of a dressing-tent. He experienced a sudden feeling of suffocation. The whole world seemed to have closed in upon him; a drab sky almost touched his head; the horizon seemed to have rushed up to within ten feet of where he stood. His bewildered gaze took in the horses, the boxes, the trunks, the ring paraphernalia, the "properties," the discarded uniforms of attendants--cast in apparent confusion here, there and everywhere. Somehow, as he stared, this conglomerate mass of unfamiliar things seemed to creep away into the black shadows he had not perceived before; the drab dome of the tent began to swirl above his head, like a merry-go-round; the lights danced and then went out. Grinaldi, the clown, caught him in his arms as he slipped forward in a dead faint. CHAPTER II IN THE DRESSING-TENT When he regained consciousness, he was lying on a thick, dusty mattress, his head pillowed on a bundle of cloth that smelled of cotton and dyestuffs. Faces emerged from the gloom around him. Some one was holding a torch over his strange couch. That odd face in bismuth and lampblack was bending over him. "He's come 'round, Mrs. Braddock," he heard this creature say, in a far-off voice. "Only a faint, nothing more. Poor lad, he looks ill and hungry." Then other figures, all gaudy and bright and glittering, crowded into his vision. He tried to raise himself to his elbow, a fierce wave of embarrassment rushing over him. Some one supported him from behind. As he came to a sitting position, he turned his head to thank this person. It was with difficulty that he repressed a cry of alarm. The being who braced him with friendly arms was a glittering, shiny thing of green, with a human face that leered upon him. Observing the youth's bewilderment and uncertainty, Grinaldi laughed. "He's not a boa-constrictor, lad. He's the boneless wonder. He's as gentle as a spring lamb, and not hardly as tough. Signer Anaconda, the Human Snake, that's what he's called on the bills. Ed Casey is his real name." "Aw, cheese it, Joey," growled the amiable Signer. "Say, young feller, what's ailing you? Where'd you come from?" The stranger in this curious world managed to turn his body so that his legs hung over the side of the vaulter's mattress; he faced his audience, a sudden wariness in his eyes. Before venturing a word of explanation, he allowed his gaze to sweep the entire group. They mistook his deliberateness for stupefaction. He saw perhaps a dozen people in the group before him. The colors of the rainbow were represented in the staring, curious company. There were men in tights and women in tights--in pink and red and green and blue--some of them still panting and breathless after their perilous work in the ring. He took them all in at a glance, but his eyes rested at last on the one figure that seemed out-of-place in this motley crowd: the tall, graceful figure of the woman in street clothes. He looked long at the sweet, gentle, unpainted face of this woman, and drew his first deep breath of relief and hope when she smiled. She moved quickly through the crowd of acrobats and riders, followed close behind by the slim, wide-eyed girl in the long red cloak. An instant later she was sitting beside him on the mattress, smiling with friendly encouragement as she laid her hand upon his arm. The girl stood at her knee. For the first time the fugitive noticed the face of this slender girl--no, it was the eyes alone that he saw, for the face was grossly covered with pigments. "What has happened?" asked the tall woman gently. "Have you--have you run away from home, my boy?" "How long have I been here?" There was a suggestion of alarm in the abrupt question. His voice, querulous through excitement, was quite strong and musical. The tone and his manner of addressing the questioner proved beyond contradiction that he was no ordinary tramp, or show-follower, such as they were in the habit of seeing in their travels. A dozen fine old Virginia gentlemen, perhaps, one after another, had lived and died before him; down that precious line of blood had come the strain that makes for the finished thoroughbred--the real Virginia aristocrat. Six words, spoken with the mild drawl of the cultured Southerner, were sufficient to prove his title. No amount of mud or tatters or physical distress could take away the inborn charm of blood. No haggardness or pain could detract from the fine, clean movement of the lips, or sully the deep intelligence of the eyes. His audience at once found a new interest in him. He was not what they had expected him to be; this boy was no scatter-brained country lout, with the dream of the circus at the back of his folly. He, of course, could not have known that during the ten minutes in which he lay unconscious on the huge pad a score of these curious, sympathetic strollers, partially or wholly dressed, had come out to gaze upon him, each delivering a characteristic opinion as to his purpose, but all of them roughly compassionate. Without exception, they looked upon him as one of the show-sick youths who, in those days, as now, succumb too readily to the lure of sawdust and spangles. More than one scoffing jest was uttered over his unconscious head. Now they realized that he was not what they had thought him to be. A deeper tragedy than this seemed to be stamped in his wan face. "You fainted ten minutes ago. Are you feeling better now? Give him some brandy, one of you. We will put you on your feet again in a few minutes, and then you may get on to the hotel. How wet you are! You must have come far." He watched her face all the time she was speaking. No sign of trust or confidence came into his own as the result of her kindliness. Instead, the wariness grew. "Only across the mountain," he said succinctly. A half smile, quizzical and almost grotesque by reason of the mud on his chin, came to his lips. "I've been out in the rain, ma'am," he vouchsafed. "I should say you had," said the contortionist. "You're soppin' wet. By gum, I'll bet the green runs in these tights of mine, too." The wet body had drenched them thoroughly. Whereupon the newcomer undertook to support himself, not without a word of thanks to the acrobat. Once more he surveyed the mystic circle of figures. He had never been so close to men and women in tights before. Somehow they were not so alluring as when viewed from the blue seats of the circus tent. The fluffy, abbreviated tarletan skirts of two women bareback riders who stood not more than two yards away seemed tawdry and flimsy at close range; the pink fleshings of the world's greatest somersault artist looked rumpled and fuzzy; the zouave costume of the lady rope-walker lost its satiny sheen through propinquity; the clown was dusty and greasy and stuffy. An illusion was being shattered in the flash of an eye. "I must be moving along," he said, in quick return to apprehension. "Thank you for looking out for me. It was very kind of--" He swayed as he tried to arise. The genial contortionist caught him. "He's hungry!" cried one of the bareback queens. He made a heroic effort to pull himself together. The innate modesty of a gentleman reproved him even as things went hazy: he was conscious that he was staring at the surprisingly large kneecaps of the speaker. He was vaguely troubled because they were dirty. A flask of brandy was pressed to his lips. He gasped, caught his breath, and, as the tears came to his eyes, smiled apologetically. "It's pretty strong," he choked out. "Puts snap and ginger into you," said the clown, standing back to watch the effect of his ministrations. "It strikes me you're not a common tramp. Wot were you doing 'angin' round this tent, son? Don't you know you might 'ave got clubbed to death by one of the canvasmen out there? They're never 'appy unless they're kickin' some poor rube over the guy-ropes. You wasn't trying to peep into the dressing-tent, was you?" A hot flush mounted to the boy's forehead. He arose unsteadily. "No," he said quickly. "I was trying to find a dry spot. I was tired out. Let me go now, please. I'm all right." He started toward a flap in the tent wall. "Better not go that-a-way," said the clown. "You'll go plump into the ring. Wait a minute. Are you 'ungry?" "No," said the boy, but they knew he was not speaking the truth. The girl in the long red cloak, she of the wonderful eyes, stood before him. "Please wait, won't you?" she said, half timidly, half imperatively. "I will get something for you to eat. It's--it's right over there in my corner. The cook always brings my father's supper here after the show begins. He won't mind if I give it to you. He can get more. My father owns the show." "No, no," he cried. "I can't take his supper. I am not hungry." But she smiled and flew away, disappearing behind the flap at his left: a fluttering red fairy she might have been. He never forgot that first radiant, enveloping smile. "It is all right, my boy," said the girl's mother, also smiling. "You _are_ hungry. We know what it is to be hungry--sometimes." "That we do," said the contortionist, rubbing his narrow abdomen and drawing a lugubrious mouth. "You must be quite frozen in those wet clothes," observed Mrs. Braddock pityingly. "I can't stay here, ma'am," he said abruptly. The hunted look came back into his eyes. "He's no regular bum," said the "strong man," in the background, addressing the pink-limbed "lady juggler." "He's got a 'istory, that boy 'as," said the lady addressed, deeply interested. "Makes me think o' that boy Dickens wrote about. What was his name?" "How should I know?" demanded the strong man. "You Britishers are always workin' off riddles about something somebody wrote." "What is your name?" asked the gentle-voiced woman at the boy's side. "Where do you come from?" He hesitated, still uncertain of his standing among these strange, apparently friendly people. "I can't tell you my name," he said in a low voice. "I hoped you wouldn't ask me. I have no home now--not since--Oh, a long time ago, it seems. More than a week, I reckon, ma'am." "You have been wandering about like this for a week?" she asked in surprise. He gulped. "Yes, ma'am. Since the eleventh of May." He wanted to tell her that he had been hunted from county to county for over a week, but something held his tongue. He felt that she would understand and sympathize, but he was not so sure of the others. Perhaps she suspected what was going on in that troubled brain, for she laid her hand gently upon his arm and said: "Never mind, then. When you are stronger, you may go. I am sure you are a good boy." He thanked her with a look of mute gratitude. The girl with the long red cloak came tripping back with a tray. She placed it on his knees; then she whisked away the napkin which covered it. All he knew was that he smiled up into her eyes through his tears, and that the smell of warm food assailed his nostrils. As she straightened up, the neglected cloak slipped from her shoulders. She caught it on her arm, but did not attempt to replace it. He lowered his eyes, singularly abashed. A trim, clean figure in red tights stood before him, absolutely without fear or shame or in the least conscious of her attire. He was in her world, that was all. In his, outside that canvas crucible and between performances, she would have died of mortification if, by chance, there had been one-tenth of the exposure. Here, she was as fully dressed and as modestly as she would be an hour later, clothed from head to foot in the conventional garments of her sex, rigidly observing the strictest laws of delicacy. A trim, straight figure she was, just rounding into young womanhood; turning fifteen, in truth. Lithe and graceful, with the sinuous development of a perfectly healthy young girl who has gone through the expanding process without pausing at the awkward stage, due no doubt to her life and training. Firm, well-rounded hips; a small waist, full chest and perfect shoulders, straight, exquisitely modeled limbs and high, arched insteps: perfect in girlhood, with promise of the divine at the height of full womanhood. The mother arose at once. She remembered that he was in their world. "Come," she said to her daughter. They withdrew to the women's half of the dressing-tent, leaving him to devour his feast alone. Slowly the others, taking their cue, edged away. When next the clown approached him, fresh from a merry whirl in the ring, the tray was on the mattress at his side, every particle of food gone. The boy's face was in his hands, his elbows on his knees. "Well, you _was_ 'ungry," said the kindly voice. The boy looked up, his eyelids heavy. "I reckon I was almost asleep," he said. "I haven't slept much of late." Suddenly it dawned on him that the clown was staring intently at his face. With quick understanding he shrank back, but did not withdraw his gaze from the eyes of the other. "By jingo!" muttered the motley one. "You--you are the one they're 'unting for--all over the state. The reward bills! I remember now!" The lad had risen. A look of abject misery and dread leaped in his eyes. "Let me go!" he said, almost in a whisper, fiercely intense. "I'll get out. I haven't done any harm to you. Don't keep me here a minute--" "Then you _are_ the Jenison boy!" in open-mouthed wonder. "Well, I'll be jiggered! Here! Don't bolt like that!" "Let go of me!" cried the boy, striking at the hand that clutched his arm. "I won't let them catch me! Let me go!" "Keep your shirt on, my son," said the clown coolly. "Nobody's going to 'urt you 'ere. Just you remember that. I am not going to give you up--leastwise, not just yet. So you murdered your grandfather, did you? Well, I wouldn't 'ave took you to be that kind--" "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" There was piteous appeal in his wide eyes. "I swear I didn't. They're trying to put it on me to save some one else. Oh, please, don't keep me here. They--they are--they must be here by this time, looking for me. Oh, if you knew how I've tried to dodge them. They had bloodhounds last Saturday. Oh!" He covered his face with his hands and shuddered as with a mighty chill. Grinaldi eyed him speculatively. "You say they're 'ere now? So close as that?" he demanded in a low voice. "I passed them on the mountain. I tried to make the railroad ahead of them. There was a bridge down back there. There were two of them, officers from the county seat. They won't have any mercy if they find me. They'll take me back and I'll be hung. I can't prove anything--I can't escape." He had dropped helplessly to the edge of the mattress, and was staring hard at the sidewall beyond as if expecting his pursuers to burst in upon him at any moment. "And you didn't do it?" the clown asked, something like awe in his voice. "Before God, I did not. I--I loved my grandfather. I _couldn't_ have done it. Why, he was the only father I had--the only mother. He was everything to me. It was--" He caught himself up quickly in his wild declaration. "I know the man who did it. I heard them talking it over before it happened, but I didn't know what they were talking about." His eyes grew almost glassy with the horror that surged up from behind them. "Then why don't you tell your story?" demanded the clown. "Let the other chap clear 'imself." "They've got the evidence against me. Oh, you don't know! You can't know how it looked to the world. There's a man who says he saw me with a gun at my grandfather's window. He did see me there and I had a gun, but not to kill poor old granddaddy. No, no! I heard some one walking on the gallery--a thief, I thought. I crawled out of my window with my shotgun. I--but I oughtn't to tell you this. You must let me go. I'll never tell on you, I swear--" "Wait a minute," interrupted the clown, laying his arm over the boy's shoulder. "We'll talk it over with Mrs. Braddock. She can tell by lookin' in your eyes whether you're good or bad. As far as I'm concerned, I don't believe you did it. Yes, yes, that's all right! Don't hug me, sonny. Here she is. She's the wife of the man wot owns the show." Mrs. Braddock crossed over to them, smiling. It was not until she opened her lips to speak of the compliment his appetite had paid to the cook tent that she perceived the look in his eyes. Then she glanced at the serious face of the clown. "This 'ere chap, ma'am," said Grinaldi, in low, level tones, "is David Jenison, the boy wanted for that murder near Richmond last week. You've seen the reward bills. His grandfather, you remember--" She drew back; her eyes dilated, her lips stiff. "You are the Jenison boy?" she said slowly, even unbelievingly. "The one who killed his grandfa--" "But I didn't do it!" he almost wailed. "You--_you_ must believe me, ma'am. I didn't do it!" He stood before her, looking straight into her eyes. "No, Mrs. Braddock," said Grinaldi, "he didn't do it." "How do you know, Grinaldi? How can you--" "Because he says another person did it," said Grinaldi calmly. The woman turned to the boy once more. She seemed to be searching his soul with her intense gaze. "No," she murmured, after a moment, breathing deeply, "I am sure you did _not_ commit murder. You poor, poor boy!" He would have dropped to his knees before her, had not the clown checked him by means of a warning hiss. "Brace up!" he said sharply. Then to Mrs. Bradock: "We've got to find a way to 'ide 'im. The officers are right on his 'eels." She hesitated for a moment. Swift glances passed between her and the clown. "You must keep very quiet and do what we tell you to do," she said to the boy, who nodded his head eagerly. "You will be safe here. A circus is the safest harbor in all the world for the thief and the lawbreaker. Why should it not be so for one who is innocent?" "Let me tell you all about it, madam," began David Jenison, the hunted. She stopped him. "Not now. There is no time for that. We will take you on faith and we will help you. My boy, I knew in the beginning that you were of gentle birth--I saw it in your face, in the way you held yourself. But that you should be one of the Jenisons of Virginia--why, Grinaldi, the Jenisons are the bluest--But, there, we'll talk of that another time, too. Sam!" She called to a ring attendant who stood near the entrance. The burly, rough-looking young man came up at once, respectful to a degree. "Go out in front and tell Mr. Braddock to hurry back here as soon as he is through with the tickets!" The man slid out between the flapping walls. "Now, Grinaldi, you must make it your business to tell every one who this boy is, and what must be done for him. Don't be alarmed, David Jenison," she said with a smile. He had opened his lips to protest. "There isn't a soul in all this company, from feed-boy to proprietor, who will betray you to the officers of the law. We stand together--the innocent and the guilty. If you are vouched for by Joey Grinaldi and--me, or by any other in our little universe, that is the end of it. Even the basest ruffian in the canvas gang, even the vilest of the hostlers, will stand by you through thick and thin. And there are real murderers among them, too. You must have faith in us." "I have faith in YOU" he said simply. Then, true Virginian that he was, this tired, harassed boy bent low and lifted her hand to his gallant lips. "I will give my life up for you any day, madam. It is yours." "Spoken like a gentleman," said the clown, his eyes twinkling. A couple of horses came clattering into the tent from the ring. At the entrance they were seized by waiting attendants; one of the mysteries that had always puzzled the boy was solved. He had wondered where the plunging steeds raced to after their whirlwind exit from the ring. A moment later, a swarm of men came rushing in with hoops, balloons and banners and hurdle-poles, followed by the "Greatest Living Bareback Rider of the Globe, the One and Only Mellburg." After him came a tired ringmaster, lanky and not half so proud as he looked to be in his spike-tailed coat. Some one in the big tent was making an announcement in stentorian tones. "It's time for me to go in," said the clown. "My song comes now. Just you go along with Casey 'ere, into the dressing-room. He'll get you something dry to wear out of my box. Don't forget one thing: we're all as thick as thieves 'ere, whether we're honest men or not. You'll find every man, woman and child wot appears in the ring to be absolutely square and honest. They've got to be. The bad men are not the performers. You'd find that out if you was with 'em a bit. I don't mind tellin' of it to you, as a consolation, that there is two real murderers among the canvasmen and a dozen or more pussons which are wanted for desp'rit things. Nobody peaches on 'em, mind you, and that's the way it goes. We've just _got_ to stand together. Hi! Hi!" He was off with a rush. A few minutes later he was heard singing his lay in the ring, the then popular and familiar ditty, "Whoa, Emma!" with a crude but vociferous chorus of male voices to "join in the refrain." Casey, without further instructions, and asking no questions, led the youth into the men's section. Here all was confusion. A dozen men were stripping themselves of one set of tights to don another, for in those days the ordinary acrobat did many turns in the process of earning his daily bread. By the time Grinaldi returned, young Jenison was completely arrayed in an extra costume of the clown's, a creation in red and white stripes, much too baggy in all directions, but dry as toast. The owner of the costume put his hands to his sides and roared with laughter. "Casey, you serpent," he gasped, "I didn't mean that kind of a suit. I meant my Sunday togs--the ones I go to church in, when I goes. Which I doesn't. 'Ere, boys, step right up and listen to an announcement." The crowd gave attention. "This 'ere chap is wanted. There's a big reward for 'im. You've all seen the posters. He's the Jenison boy. Well, he ain't guilty. Get the notion? We 've got to 'elp 'im out of the country. Mum's the word, lads. Say!" He stood back to inspect his charge. "If you're going to wear them togs, you've got to 'ave your face done over to match." Whereupon he began to apply grease and bismuth to the countenance of the amazed young patrician. The others looked on and laughed good-naturedly. To his surprise, no one seemed to mind the fact that he was a fugitive and an alleged slayer. They had stared at him curiously for a moment; two or three of them exchanged whispers, that was all. In a twinkling he was transformed into a real scaramouch. A conical hat adorned the knit skullpiece that covered his black hair. "Don't peep in the lookin'-glass," said Signor Anaconda, now in the pale blue tights of a "ground and lofty" tumbler. "You'll keel over again, plumb dead." The flap at the entrance was jerked aside and a tall, black-mustached man peered in upon the group. "Where's the kid?" he demanded sharply. "My wife said he was with you, Joey. Say, I don't like this business. They're out in front now, looking for him. Two of 'em. Have you let him get away?" David, peering from behind the real clown, experienced an instantaneous feeling of aversion for Braddock, the proprietor. Even as he quailed beneath the new peril that asserted itself in no vague manner, he found himself wondering how this man could have come to be the husband of his lovely benefactress. "He's here, Tom," announced Grinaldi, shoving the boy forward. "What's he doing in that costume?" demanded the owner, dropping the flap and staring hard at the boy. "His clothes were wet. Besides, if they come botherin' around back 'ere, Tom, they won't be so likely to reckernise him in these--" "Say, do you suppose I'm going to get into a muss with these people by hiding a murderer?" snapped Braddock. "Bring him out here. Come along, bub." "You're getting blamed virtuous all of a sudden, Braddock," said the clown angrily. "'Ow about these dogs you are protectin' all the time? What's more, this 'ere kid's innocent." "There's five hundred dollars reward for this fellow," said Braddock, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. "That doesn't sound like he's innocent, does it? Besides, the officers are plumb certain he's hanging around this show some place. I'm not going to be pestered with constables and detectives from here to Indiana, let me tell you that. It's bad business, monkeying with stray boys, ever since the Charley Ross kidnapping job last year. So you lummixes have decided to protect him, have you? Why, the whole pack of you ought to be in jail for even thinkin' of it. Come out here, boy!" Without a word, the boy shook himself free of Grinaldi's protecting grasp, and stepped forward. "I'm not willing to see these men get into trouble," he said steadily, addressing the boss. "Give me time to change my clothes again, and then you can call in the officers." "Don't be a fool," exclaimed the clown. A murmur of protest arose from the others. "Thomas!" A woman's voice was calling from the other side of the low canvas partition. "That's my wife," growled Braddock. "I suppose she'll be beggin' for you, too. What do you want?" The question was roared through the canvas. "Come here, please. I must speak with you." "Change your clothes, boy," he said, after a moment of indecision. "See that he don't get away, you fellows. If he gives you the slip, I'll have blood, and don't you forget it." The man had been drinking. His eyes were bloodshot and unsteady. His face was bloated from the effects of long and continued use of alcohol. Once on a time he had been a dashing, boldly handsome fellow; there could be no doubt of that; the sort of youth that any romantic girl might have fallen in love with. He was tall and straight and powerful, despite the evidences of dissipation that his face presented. A wonderfully vital constitution had protected his body from the ravages of self-indulgence; the constitution of a great, splendid human animal, in whom not the faintest sign of a once attractive personality remained. There was no refinement there, no mark of good breeding; all of the mirage-like glamour that may have bewildered and deceived _her_, long years ago, was gone. What she had evidently mistaken for the nobility of true manhood, in her innocence and folly, was no more than the arrogance of splendid health. This man had been beautiful in his day, and frankly pleasing. That was long before the thing that was in his blood, and in the blood of his fathers, perhaps, had claimed dominion: the mysterious thing which inevitably registers the curse of the base-born, so that no man may be deceived. Blood always tells, but usually it tells too late. But of the Braddocks and their hateful history, more anon. Let us look at this man as he now is, just as we have looked, perhaps too casually, at the woman who called him husband. A heavy black mustache, lightly touched with gray, shaded a coarse, rather sinister mouth, from the corner of which protruded an unlighted but thoroughly-chewed cigar. His hair and eyebrows were thick and black. Thin red lines formed a network in his cheeks, telling of the habits that had put them there; on his forehead there was a perpetual scowl, a line slashed between the eyes as if laid there by a knife. The features were not irregular, but they were of the strength that denotes cultivated weaknesses. His chin was square and strong, heavily stubbled with a two days' growth of beard. Eyes that were black and sullen, stood well out in their sockets; the lids were red and thick, and there were narrow pouches below them; the whites were bloodshot and indefinite. He was flashily dressed in the mode of the day, typical of his calling. A silk hat tilted rakishly over his brow. His waistcoat was a loud brocade, his necktie a single black band, knotted once. There was a great paste diamond in his soiled shirt-front. A long checked coat, with tails and sidepockets, trousers of the same material, completed his ordinary makeup. Tonight, on account of the rain, he wore high gum boots outside of the trouser-legs. You could hardly have mistaken his calling in those days, unless you might have suspected him of being a gambler. In which you would not have been wrong. The line between his eyes seemed to deepen as he turned from the group to join his wife in the "green room" of the tent. As the flap dropped behind him, Grinaldi turned to the boy, who had started to unlace the striped overshirt. "Wait a minute," he said quickly. "Mebbe we can fix it with 'im. She'll put in a plea for you and so will Little Starbright,--that's what 'is daughter is called on the bills--if she gets a chance. Stay right 'ere, youngster. I've got to go in for my girl's act now. I wish you could see my girl. She's the queen of the air, and don't you forget it. Ain't she, boys?" There was a combined--apparently customary--chorus of approval. Outside, Braddock was glowering upon his wife, who faced him resolutely. There never had been a time when she was afraid of this man; even though he had mistreated her shamefully, he had never found the courage to exercise his physical supremacy. As so often is the case--almost invariably, it may be affirmed--with men of his type and origin, Braddock recognized and respected the qualities that put her so far above him. Not that he admitted them, even to himself: that would have been fatal to his own sense of justice. He merely felt them; he could not evade the conditions for the reason that he was powerless to analyze the force which produced them. He only knew that somehow he merited the scorn in which she held him. There were times when he hated her for the very beauty of her character. Then he cursed her in bleak, despairing rage, more against himself than against her; but never without afterward cringing in morbid contemplation of the shudder it brought to her sensitive face. If any one had been so bold as to accuse him of not loving her, he would have been crushed to earth by the brute that was in him. On the other hand, if he were timorously charged with loving her, it would have been like him to call the venturesome one a liar--and mean it, too, in his heart. "But five hundred is five hundred," he was repeating doggedly in opposition to her argument in behalf of the boy. "You don't know whether he's guilty or not, Mary. So what's the use of all this gabble? It makes me sick. Business is bad. We need every dollar we can scrape up. I won't be a party to--" "You harbor pickpockets and thieves and--yes, murderers, I'm told, Tom. It is a shameful fact that more sneak thieves follow this show and share with its owner than any other concern in the business. Oh, I know all about it! Don't try to deny it. They pay a regular tribute to you for privileges and protection. Artful Dick Cronk gave you half of the hundred he filched from the old man at Charlottesville last week. I--" "Here, here!" he said in an angry whisper. "Don't talk so damned loud. Next thing you'll be telling that sort of stuff to the girl. That'd be a nice thing for her to think, wouldn't it? Say, don't you ever let me hear of you breathin' a word of that kind to her. I'd--I'd beat your brains out. Understand?" "Oh, I'm not likely to tell her what kind of a man her father is," said his wife bitterly. "Take care, Tom, that she doesn't find it out for herself. Be quiet! She is coming." The girl, cleansed of her paint and powder, her lithe body clad in a prim, navy blue frock, the skirt of which came below the tops of her high-laced boots, approached hastily from the women's section. She was tying the strings of her quaint poke-bonnet under her chin, and her eyes were gleaming with excitement. "Where is that boy?" she asked, looking about in some anxiety. "Father, you should see him. He is so different from the boys who follow--" "We were just talking about him," interrupted her father shortly. "He's wanted by the police, so you see he ain't so different from the rest after all. He's a--" "Don't, Tom," cried his wife. "--a murderer," completed Braddock, rolling his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. The girl stared at him for a moment, dumbly, uncomprehendingly. Her lips parted and her eyes grew very wide. "Oh, father," she cried, in low, hushed tones. Then she turned to her mother, almost imploringly. "Is--is it true, mother?" "Well, see here," broke in Braddock angrily. "Don't you believe me? Haven't I said so?" "He is the Jenison boy we were talking about last night, dearie," said Mrs. Braddock. "I don't believe he committed that horrid crime. I can't believe it." "I am sure he didn't--I am sure he didn't," cried the girl impulsively. "He is a gentleman, father. He couldn't--" Braddock took instant offense. He hated to hear any one spoken of as a gentleman. "What's that got to do with it?" he demanded. "Gentleman, eh? You two seem to think that these pretty gentlemen can't do anything wrong. Why, they're rottener than nine-tenths of the blokes that follow this show--every mother's son of 'em. I'm sick of having this gentleman business thrown up to me. That's all you two talk about. I suppose you think you're better than the company you live with. Let me tell you this, you're show people and nothin' more. I don't give a damn who your people are; you're my wife and my daughter, and that's all there is to it. I won't stand this sort of--" "Tom, you _must_ keep still," said his wife firmly. He was intoxicated; she knew better than to argue with him, or to agree with him. "All this has nothing to do with the boy. We must give him a chance, the same as--you understand?" He glared at her warningly. "I don't protect thieves and murderers," he said quickly. Then he whirled about and snatched aside the flap, calling to the group of acrobats. "Come out here, you! Step lively. I want to ask a few questions. Where the dev--Say, haven't you got out of that suit yet? Why, you little scuttle, I'll rip it off your back if you're not out of it in two minutes. Hold on! Come out here first." As Jenison walked past him the proprietor gave him a violent cuff on the side of the head. The boy, weak and faint, reeled away and would have fallen but for the tent pole which he managed to clutch. His face was convulsed by sudden rage. Even while his head swam, he pulled himself together for a leap at the man who had struck the wanton, unexpected blow. Braddock was huge enough and strong enough to crush the infuriated lad, but drink had made him a coward at heart. He stooped over and picked up an iron-ringed stake from the ground. With a little cry of terror his daughter, recovering from her sudden stupefaction, sprang forward and frantically clutched the man's arm. Her mother was no less active in putting herself in front of the boy, staying him with resolute hands. The performers who had followed David from the room leaped in with clenched fists, glaring hatefully at their employer. Others, in remote parts of the enclosure, hurried up, aroused from drowsy meditation by the sharp excitement. "Don't, father!" cried the girl in the agony of dread. "Damn him, he may have a gun," exclaimed Braddock. "He's used one before." "Why did you strike me?" cried David hoarsely, his lips twitching, his eyes glowing like coals. "Aw, none o' that, now, none o' that," snarled Braddock, taking a step forward. "Why did you strike me?" repeated the boy dully. "Calm yourself, my boy," Mrs. Braddock kept repeating insistently, without raising her voice, always low, tense, impelling. The tears sprang to his eyes--tears of rage and helplessness. With a sob he turned away and leaned his head against the pole. "Poor boy," she whispered. "Don't you call me a brute, Casey," roared Braddock, turning upon the contortionist in a fury. Casey had not uttered a word, but Braddock instinctively anticipated the charge. The contortionist was afraid of him. He drew back with a scared look in his eyes. Mrs. Braddock was speaking quietly, compassionately to the suffering boy. "We must be careful," she said, "not to oppose him too strongly. Those men are out in front. He will turn you over to them if you resort to violence. Calm yourself, do. There is still the chance that he may change his mind. He is not really heartless. It is only his way." "Why did he strike me?" again fell from the lips of the fugitive. At this moment Grinaldi came hurrying in from the ring. He took in the situation at a glance. Behind him, peering over his shoulder, was a black-haired young woman in pink tights and spangled trunks. David was afterward to know this handsome, black-haired girl as Ruby Noakes, the daughter of Grinaldi, otherwise Joey Noakes, and known to the gaping world as Mademoiselle Roxane, the Flying Queen of the Air. CHAPTER III DAVID ENTERS THE SAWDUST RING Braddock saw at once that the old clown was against him. With an ugly imprecation he directed one of the attendants to go to the main entrance with instructions to bring Mr. Blake and his friend back to the dressing-tent. "We'll see who's running this show," he declared, taking a fresh grip on the stake, and rolling the dangling cigar over and over between his teeth. "Hold on, Camp," said Grinaldi, checking the attendant with a gesture. "See 'ere, Tom," he went on earnestly, "wot's the reason you won't give this one an even chance with the others?" "Stand aside, Christie," Braddock said to his trembling daughter. "Don't get in the way. Oh, I'm not going to smash the cub, so don't worry. Here! Come away from him, I say. Both of you. I won't stand for any petting of a rascal like him. Well, I'll tell you, Joey Noakes," he went on, turning to the clown, "I don't mind saying I need the money. This kid's going to be caught by somebody before long, and the man that does it gets five hundred. It might as well be me. Business is business, and just now business is bad. You people all know what this infernal weather has done for us. We haven't had a paying day since we opened, and here it is the middle of May--nearly six weeks, that's what it is. There's a lousy three hundred dollars in the big top to-night and half as much this afternoon. I tell you if these rains keep up I'll have to close. It takes more than five hundred dollars a day to run this show. I owe back salaries--all of you have got something coming to you. Five hundred dollars velvet, that's what this boy means to me--not for myself, mind you, but for the treasury. That's why I'm going to turn him over, if you want to know." "But he ain't guilty," said Grinaldi sharply. "How do you know?" snarled Braddock. "Go and do what I told you," to the wavering attendant. Mrs. Braddock and Christine were standing beside the dejected boy, the former looking steadily at the face of her husband, whose bloodshot eyes would not meet her gaze. Christine's eyes were wide with the bewildered stare of an intelligence that has suddenly been aroused to new aspects: she was having a glimpse of a side to her father's character that had never been revealed to her before. She put forth a hand and drew Ruby Noakes close beside her, pressing her hand tightly in actual alarm. The Noakes girl's arm went around the slender figure, but she continued to stare curiously at the face of the stranger in their midst. She was half a head taller than Christine, and at least three years her senior. "We ought to have a new clown to help out dad, Mr. Braddock," ventured Miss Noakes coolly. Braddock stared at her. He was not in the habit of accepting feminine advice. "What's that?" he barked. "Keep still, Ruby," cautioned her father nervously. Ruby's lips parted quickly, and then, thinking better of it, she closed them. David's face took on a queer, uncertain expression while Braddock was advancing his dire need of money as an excuse for turning him over. The proprietor resumed his bitter harangue against the weather, prophesying bankruptcy and sheriff's sales. The boy's face began to clear. An eager, excited gleam came into his eyes. He looked about him as if searching for some sign of corroboration in the faces of the performers. A certain evidence of dejection had crept into more than one countenance. It began to dawn on him that the man was more or less sincere in his argument; even the words of others, in conflict with his purpose, served to convince him that the money was needed, very seriously needed. "If he's innocent, he can prove it," argued Braddock stubbornly. "The county pays the five hundred. It's nothing out of his pocket. Why the devil shouldn't I get it?" David had opened his lips two or three times to utter the words that surged up from his anxious, despairing heart. A sense of guilt and shame had checked them on each occasion. Whatever it was that he felt impelled to say, his honest pride rebelled against the impulse. Now he lifted his head resolutely, and addressed the proprietor, whose stand appeared to be immovable. "I will pay you the five hundred dollars," said David clearly. Every eye was turned upon him, every tongue was stilled. The tumblers who had started for the ring stopped in their tracks to gaze in open-mouthed wonder at the straight, grotesque figure that faced Braddock. The proprietor blinked unbelievingly. Then he gave vent to a short, derisive laugh. "You will, will you?" David felt a hot wave of blood rush to his head. His offer had met with the rebuke it deserved! "I thought that if it was only the money, I could let you have it. I didn't mean to try to buy you off," he explained hastily. "Are you in earnest?" demanded Braddock, depositing the stake on the ground, a curious glitter swimming across his eyes. "About the money?" "Certainly. Where are you going to get it?" "I've got it with me," said David, feeling at his side. A look of dismay spread over his face. It was quickly dispelled by the recollection that his own clothes were lying in the men's dressing-room. "It's in my vest." No one thought to oppose him as he passed hastily under the flap. He was back in a moment, carrying his rain-soaked waistcoat. With nervous fingers he drew a heavy pin from the mouth of the inside pocket, and extracted a long leather purse therefrom. It was tied up with a heavy piece of string. "Do you mean to tell me that you've got five hundred dollars in there?" demanded Braddock incredulously. David felt without seeing the look that went through the crowd. He knew, by some strange mental process, that they were condemning him, that they were drawing away from him. He was bewildered. Then suddenly he understood. It came like a blow. Something rushed up into his throat and choked him. They took this money to be the profits of murder! The spoils of a dreadful sin! Speechless, he turned to Mrs. Braddock. There was no mistaking the look of pain and distress in her dark eyes. There were doubt and wonder there, too. It seemed to him that she shrank back a step; although, as a matter of fact, she remained as motionless as a statue. Christine was glowing upon him in grateful amazement, unutterable relief in her gaze. To her, it meant only that he was rich and could save himself. It did not occur to her that he had come by the riches dishonestly, nor was she at once conscious of a feeling that her father would do wrong to accept the tribute. It was not until later that she felt the shock of revulsion. "It is my money!" cried David, speaking to Mrs. Braddock. "Every cent of it! I--I know what you are thinking. You think I stole it." His eyes were flashing and his chin was held high now. "I'll kill any one who says I steal. I'd sooner commit murder a thousand times than to steal." "How did you--come by all that money?" asked Mrs. Braddock, more than half convinced by his fervor. "That's what I'd like to know," added her husband. "Here! Lemme take that pocket-book." David jerked his hand loose and abruptly thrust the purse into the hand of the astonished Mrs. Braddock. "Look at it," he cried passionately. "Open the purse. It's still in the sealed envelope, just as my father left it when he went off to the war the second time--after he was wounded. He left it with my mother for me. No one has ever opened the package. It was in my mother's trunk until she died. She wouldn't put it in a bank. My uncle Frank never knew that she had it; he doesn't know that I have it now. But it is mine. My father gave it to me when I was six years old. See what it says on the envelope. It's his own writing. 'For my son David. To be used in the acquiring of an education if I should fall in this dear, beloved cause, which now seems lost. God defend us all!' See! 'Arthur Brodalbin Jenison.' My father's signature. Here is the seal of his ring. It is my money." Even Thomas Braddock was swayed, convinced by the eloquence of that fierce appeal. He stared at the boy, his lips apart, his cigar hanging limply from one corner of his mouth. "By thunder!" he murmured, frankly surprised in himself. "I believe the tale, hang me if I don't!" But David was waiting only for the verdict of the woman. Mrs. Braddock had not glanced at the envelope that she now clutched in her tense fingers; her eyes were only for the eager, chalk-colored face of the boy. Tears welled up in her warm eyes as he paused for breath. "I believe you, too--yes, yes, my boy, we all believe you," she cried, putting out her hand to him. He snatched it up and kissed it. At that instant the ringmaster, white with rage, dashed in from the big tent. "Say, what's the matter with you loafers?" The crowd of tumblers jumped out of the trance as if shot. "The show's been held up for ten minutes! Get in there all of you!" Here followed a violent explosion of appropriate profanity. "The audience is gettin' wild. They'll be wantin' their money back unless the performance goes on purty blamed--" Braddock reached the man's side in three steps. He delivered a resounding slap on the ringmaster's cheek, almost knocking him down. The tall hat went spinning away on the ground. Tears of pain and terror flew to the fellow's eyes. He began to blubber. "Don't you swear in the presence of my wife and daughter,--you!" snarled Braddock, his own blasphemy ten times as venomous as the other's. "I--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Braddock," stammered the ringmaster in great haste. If the gaping, respectful hundreds could see the despot of the ring now! Braddock's daughter uttered a low moan of horror and amazement. Her heart swelled with pity for the poor wretch who dared not to defend himself. Ruby Noakes felt the quiver that ran through the girl's body. She promptly led her away from the spot. "Come with me while I change," she said quickly. Together they passed into the women's dressing-room. Christine's look of mute surprise and shame rested on David's face as the flap dropped behind her. A minute later, the humiliated ringmaster, Briggs by name, was cracking his whip in the middle of the ring, mighty lord of all he surveyed, although, to his chagrin, there was no clown present to receive the attention. In those good old days the circus carried but one clown. He was the most overworked man in the ring, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was the solitary idol of thousands. Grinaldi did not accompany the tumblers to the ring. The lone elephant that graced the show and the horses had been led out for the "lofty somersault men" to vault over after the run down the "spring board"; that part of the dressing-tent in which Braddock stood was now clear of humanity, except for his wife, the clown and David Jenison. "Well, he knows I don't permit swearing in front of my daughter," said Braddock, resenting the unspoken scorn in his wife's face. "Let's see that envelope," he added roughly. She held the coveted package behind her back, shaking her head resolutely. "How do I know there's five hundred in it?" he demanded. "There's more than that," said David nervously. "How do you know? It's never been opened." Mrs. Braddock glanced at the writing on the face of the staunch, yellow envelope. She started violently. In plain figures, in one corner, she saw: "$3,000." She realized, with a flash of shame, that it would be fatal to the boy's interests if her husband should come to know of the actual value of the package. She opened her lips to utter a word of caution to David, but he was too eager and too quick for her. "There's three thousand dollars in it," he said. Braddock started. For the first time he removed the chewed cigar from his lips, all the while fixedly regarding the youth with narrowing eyes. He was thinking fast and hard. Three thousand dollars! "You are not to break this seal, David Jenison," said Mrs. Braddock firmly, her face very white. "Take it and go. It is your money, not ours." "Hold on there," objected her husband. His befuddled brain was solving a certain problem to his own eminent satisfaction. "These officers have got to be convinced that you are not with this show. I can't afford to lie to 'em. There's only one way out of it. I can hire you under another name and you can travel with us till we get out of this part of the country. Five hundred is the reward. If I get it from you, most of it can be paid back in wages. If I turn you over to them and take their coin, I'd be doing the best thing for myself, but I'm willing to run the risk of--" "Thomas Braddock, you are _not_ to take this boy's money," cried his wife. "It would be infamous!" "Now, you keep out of this," he growled, fearful for his plans. "It's one or the other, Mary. Either he antes up or they do." "I will not allow it!" David broke in, with a rare show of dignity. "I said I would pay it, Mrs. Braddock. I can't break my word. If Mr. Braddock will send them away, I will pay the amount they offer." "Give him the envelope, Mary," commanded Braddock. She looked about her as if seeking means of escape with the precious package. Then, with a deep sigh, and a look of unutterable scorn for the man, she handed the envelope to David. He broke the seal. "Maybe it's Confederate money," said Braddock, a sudden chill in his heart. But it was not Confederate money. There was exposed to view a neat package of United States treasury notes of large denomination, brand-new and uncrumpled, just as they had come from the treasury department. Without hesitation, young Jenison counted off five hundred dollars. Mrs. Braddock closed her eyes in pain as he laid the notes in her husband's hand. Grinaldi turned away, suppressing the bitter imprecation that rose to his lips. "I'll tell those scoundrels that you haven't been near the show." He did not count the money. He had counted it with greedy eyes as David told off the bills in his nervous, clumsy fingers. "Now, you lay low. Stick close to me. Don't let anybody see much of you till we're over in Ohio. I'll guarantee to get you off safe. Don't you worry. Just lay low. I'll find work for you to do. We're headed for Indiana and Illinois. They'll never get you out there. By thunder! I've got an idea, Joey, that girl of yours is right. You _do_ need a bit of help. We'll make a clown of him. We'll have two clowns. How is that, Mary?" She did not reply. He looked away hastily. "I couldn't be a clown," began David in consternation. "Sure you can," interrupted the boss. "It's as easy as fallin' off a log. Joey can tell you all the tricks. He's the best in the world, Joey Grinaldi is. That's what I've got him for. We've got the best show in the world, too. Barnum ain't in the same class with us. Forepaugh and Van Amberg? They are second rate aggre--But, say, I'd better go out and steer those fellows away." He started off, but stopped suddenly as if struck by a serious doubt. "Perhaps you'd better let me take the rest of that money and put it in the safe in the ticket-wagon," he said encouragingly. "It's likely to be nipped by some of these crooks that follow the show. 'T ain't safe with you, let me tell you that." "No!" cried his wife, her voice shrill with decision. Braddock did not insist. He was too wise for that. "Well, if it's stolen, don't blame me," he said. "Remember, I told you so. I don't give a damn personally. It's your money, kid." "I reckon I'll keep it," said David, suddenly acute. He began wrapping the string around the broken package, which he had kept sacredly inviolate for so long. "I'll stay with the show and do anything I can, if you'll only help me to get away. I--I don't want to be taken back there. Some day, I expect to go back, but not right now. I'm not afraid. But I can't go back until I've found the man that _knows_." "There _is_ a man who--knows?" murmured Mrs. Braddock. "Yes. I must find him. He--he doesn't want to be found. That's why it is going to be so hard. But I will find him!" His eyes were flashing, his teeth were set. "So much the better," said Braddock. "You can throw 'em off the track for awhile, then take your money and go to New York. You'll find him there, all right. They all go there." "He is a nigger," said David. "Umph!" grunted Braddock. "That's bad. You mustn't expect any jury in Virginia to believe a nigger in these days." "Oh, yes, they will. They'll have to," declared David firmly. "Say," said the proprietor, his voice sinking to tones of caution. He addressed the three of them. "Better keep this quiet about the five hundred. It won't help any of us if it gets out that you've been bribing me, boy. I'll just say that I refused to take the wad. That will go, too. Don't let _anybody_ know. Understand, Mary?" He looked at her with lowering eyes. "I will not tell Christine, Tom," she said evenly, meeting the look with a gaze so steady that he bristled for a moment, but gave way before it. He felt the scorn and laughed shortly in his attempt to convince himself, at least, that he did not deserve it. "And just to show you that I'm honest in this business," he went on hurriedly, "I'm going to begin by paying you the fifty I still owe on your salary, Joey. That's the kind of a man I am. I do what I say I'll do. Here's your fifty, Joey." "Not that kind of money for me, thank you," said Grinaldi, with a scowl that brought his painted eyebrows together. He turned on his heel and hurried into the dressing-room, unable to restrain the words that would have cut the heart of the man's wife to shreds. An attendant came in from the circus tent just as Christine Braddock emerged from the dressing-room alone. David was stuffing the purse inside the loose shirt that he wore. The girl hurried to her mother's side. "Are they going to--to take him?" she whispered fearfully. David saw the sweet, clean lips tremble. Her eyes were wide and dry with trouble. Somehow his heart swelled with a strange new emotion: he could not have ascribed it to joy, or to self-pity, or to gratitude. It was something new and pleasant and warm; a glow, a light, an uplifting. This sweet, wonderfully pretty girl was his friend! She believed in him. "No, dear," replied Mrs. Braddock, lowering her eyes in sudden humiliation. The attendant was speaking. "Mr. Braddock, that feller out at the door has got tired waitin'. He says he's comin' back yere to see you. What'll I say to 'im? He's got a warrant an' he's got some of the town marshal's men with 'im now." "I'll go out and see him right away. The boy ain't with this show." With a slow, meaning look at his wife, he turned to follow the man. Over his shoulder he called to David: "Go in there with Joey. He'll tell you where to hide if you have to. Be quick about it." He was gone. The tumblers began to pour in from the main tent. Christine clutched her mother's arm in the agony of desperation. "Did--did he take the money from--_him_?" she demanded tremulously. Mrs. Braddock looked at David, an abject appeal in her eyes. He smiled blandly and lied nobly, like a true Virginia gentleman. "No, Miss Braddock. Instead of that, he has hired me to go with the show." "Oh, I am so glad," she cried. "I knew he would not take your money." David swallowed hard; and then, fearing to speak again or to meet her radiant eyes, he hastened after Grinaldi. A moment later he was in the center of an excited, whispering group of performers, in various conditions of attire, but singularly alike in their state of mind. They were softly but impressively consigning Thomas Braddock to the most remote corner in purgatory. They plied David with questions. He reported the impatience of the officers, and Braddock's decision to protect him for the time being. "I saw them chaps out there, standin' by the menagerie doors," said the contortionist. "Spotted 'em right away, I did." A bareback rider looked in. His horse already had started for the ring. "Lay low!" he whispered. "One of the boys says they won't be put off by Brad. They're going to search the tent with the town marshal." Grinaldi, who had been deep in thought, suddenly slapped his knee and uttered a cackle of satisfaction. "I've got it! We'll pull the wool over their eyes, by Jinks! Follow me, boy, and do just wot I tells you. I'm--I'm going to take you into the ring with me. By Jupiter, they won't think of looking for you there." Attended by a chorus of approval, he shoved the stupefied David out before him and hustled him across the space that lay between them and the main top, all the while whispering eager instructions in his ear. "You just follow behind me, keeping step all the time--about three steps behind me. Don't look to right or left. Keep your eyes on the middle of my back. Nobody knows you, so don't go into a funk, my lad. It's life or death for you, mebby. I'll get a word to Briggs, the ringmaster. He'll help you out, too. Just follow me around the ring, three steps behind. Stop when I stop, walk when I do. Look silly, that's all. I'll think of something else to tell you to do after we're out there. And _we'll stay out there till the show's over_." Trembling in every joint, David paused at the entrance. Mrs. Braddock came running up from behind. "I've just heard," she whispered. "Do as Joey tells you. Don't be afraid." "I'll try," chattered David, pathetic figure of Momus. "Wait," she whispered, as much to Joey Grinaldi as to the novice. "David, will you trust me to take care of your money until to-morrow?" Without a word he slipped his hand into his shirt front and produced the flat purse. He handed it to her. "Good!" exclaimed Joey Grinaldi. The next instant David Jenison, aristocrat, was trudging dizzily toward the sawdust ring, his heart beating like mad, his knees trembling. Thomas Braddock, detaining the officers on the opposite side of the ring, saw the strange figure and for a moment was near to losing his composure. Then he grasped the situation and exulted. He boldly escorted Blake and the town authorities to the dressing-tent, where he assisted in the search and the questioning. Before the expiration of half an hour's time every man, woman and child connected with Van Slye's Great and Only Mammoth Shows knew that David Jenison, the murderer, was among them and that he was to be protected. The word went slyly, by whisper, from car to ear, down to the lowliest canvasman. It spread to the throng of crooks, pickpockets and fakirs that followed the show; it reached to the freaks in the sideshow. And not one among them all would have betrayed him by sign or deed. They stuck together like leeches, these good and bad nomads, and they asked few questions. And so it was that David Jenison made his first appearance as a clown in the sawdust ring. CHAPTER IV A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE An hour after the conclusion of the performance David was on the road once more; not, as before, afoot and weary, but safely ensconced in one of the huge, lumbering "tableau" wagons used for the transportation of canvas and perishable properties. The boss canvasman, not the hardened brute that he appeared to be, had stored him away in the damp interior of the ponderous wagon, first providing him with dry blankets on which he could sleep with some security and no comfort. There was little space between his mountainous, shifting bed and the roof of the van; and there would have been no air had not the driver of the four-horse team obligingly opened a narrow window beneath the seat on which he rode. With considerable caution the fugitive had been smuggled into the van, under the very noses of his pursuers, so to speak. Somewhat dazed and half sick with anxiety, he obeyed every instruction of his friend the clown. Blake and his men had watched the tearing down of the tent, the loading of the entire concern and its subsequent departure down the night-shrouded country pike. That Blake was not fully satisfied with the story told to him by Thomas Braddock, and somewhat doubtfully supported by his own investigations, is proved by the fact that he decided to follow the show until he was positively assured that his quarry was not being shielded by the circus people. With no little astuteness he and his companion resolved that they could accomplish nothing by working openly: their only chance lay in the ability to keep the circus people from knowing that they were following them. In this they counted without their hosts. At no time during the next three days were their movements unknown to the clever band of rascals who followed the show for evil purposes, and who, with perfect integrity, kept the proprietor advised of every step taken and of every disguise affected. Blake was not the first nor the last confident officer of the law to more than meet his match in the effort to outwit an old-time road circus. He was butting his head against a stone wall. Consummate rascality on one hand, unwavering loyalty on the other: he had but little chance against the combination. The lowliest peanut-vender was laughing in his sleeve at the sleuth; and the lowliest peanut-vender kept the vigil as resolutely as any one else. Despite his uncomfortable position and the natural thrills of excitement and peril, David was sound asleep before the wagon was fairly under way. Complete exhaustion surmounted all other conditions. He was vaguely conscious of the sombre rumbling of the huge wagon and of the regular clicking of the wheel-hubs, so characteristic of the circus caravan and so dear to the heart of every boy. His bones ached, his stomach was crying out for food, and his body was chilled; but none of these could withstand the assault of slumber. He would have slept if Blake's hand had been on his shoulder. Out into the country rolled the big wagon, at two o'clock in the morning, following as closely as possible the flickering rear lantern of the vehicle ahead. The rain had ceased falling, but there was a mist in the air, blown from the trees that lined the road. Those of the circus men who were compelled to ride outside the wagons were clothed in their rubber coats; their more fortunate companions slept under cover on the pole wagons, on top of the seat wagons, or in stretchers swung beneath the property wagons or cages. Others, still more fortunate, slept in property or trunk vans, or in the band chariots. The leading performers and officials, including all of the women, traveled by train. The gamblers, pickpockets and fakirs got along as best they could from town to town by stealing passage on the freight trains. Times there were, however, when the entire aggregation traveled with the caravan. On such occasions the luckless roustabout gave up his precarious bedroom to the "ladies" and sat all night in dubious solitude atop of his lodging house. These emergencies were infrequent: they arose only when railroad facilities were not to be had, or--alas! when the exchequer was depleted. On this murky night the performers remained over in S--, to take an early train for the next stand. The railroad show was then an untried experiment. Barnum and Coup and others were planning the great innovation, but there was a grave question as to its practicability. Later on Coup made the venture, transporting his show by rail. Such men as Yankee Robinson, Cole and even P. T. Barnum traveled by wagon road until that brave attempt was made. The railroad was soon to solve the "bad roads" problem for all of them. Short jumps would no longer be necessary; profitable cities could be substituted for the small towns that every circus had to make on account of the distances and the laborious mode of transportation. Still, if you were to chat awhile with an old-time showman, you would soon discover that the "road circus" of early days was the real one, and that the scientifically handled concern of to-day is as utterly devoid of the true flavor as the night is without sunshine. Three times during the long, dark hours before dawn the chariot was stalled in the mud of the mountain road; as many times it was moved by the united efforts of five or six teams and the combined blasphemy of a dozen drivers. Through all of this, David slept as if drugged. Daybreak came; the ghostly wagon train slipped from darkness into the misty light of a new "day." Cocks were crowing afar and near, and birds were chirping in the bushes at the roadside. Out of the sombre, crinkling night rolled the red, and white, and golden juggernauts, gradually taking shape in the gray dawn, crawling with sardonic indifference past toll-gate and farmhouse, creaking and groaning and snapping in weird, uncanny chorus. Early risers were up to see the "circus" pass. It was something of an epoch in the lives of those who dwelt afar from the madding crowd. The elephant, the cages of wild beasts, the horses, the towering chariots, the amazing pole wagons--all slipped down the road and over the hill, strange, unusual objects that came but once a year and seemed to leave the countryside smaller and more narrow than it had been before. Hunched-up drivers, sleepily handling a half-dozen reins, looked neither to right nor left, but swore mechanically for the benefit of the tired horses, and without compunction in the presence of roadside spectators, male or female. Wet, sour, unfriendly minions were they, but they sent up no lamentations; their lives may have been hard and unpromising, but lightly in their hearts swam the blissful conviction that they were superior to the envious yokels who gaped at them from fence corners and barnyards since the first dreary streak of dawn crept into the skies. A shadowy, ungainly, mysterious caravan of secrets, cherished but unblest, it straggled through the dawn, resolute in its promise of splendor at midday. Wild beasts were abroad in the land, and mighty serpents, too; but they slept and were scorned by the men who slumbered above or below them. The country people looked on and wondered, and shuddered at the thought of the terrific creatures at their very door-yards. Then they hitched up their teams and flocked to town in the wake of the peril, there to marvel and delight in the very things that had awed them in their own province. And all through the land people locked their doors and put away their treasures. The circus had come to town! It was eight o'clock before David was routed from his strange bed by the boss canvasman. They were in a new town. He rubbed his eyes as he stood beside the wagon wheel and looked upon the amazing scene before him. Dozens of huge wagons were spread over the show-grounds; a multitude of men and horses swarmed in and about them; curious crowds of early risers stood afar off and gazed. The rhythmic pounding of iron stakes, driven down by four precise sledge-men came to his ears from all sides; the jangling of trace-chains; the creaking of wagons and the whine of pulleys. Here, there, everywhere were signs of a mighty activity, systematic in its every phase. Men toiled and swore and were cursed with the regularity of a single well-balanced mind. Already the horse tent and the cook tent were up. A blacksmith shop was clanging out its busy greetings. For a moment David forgot his own predicament. He stared in utter bewilderment, vastly interested in the great transformation. Under his very eyes a city of white was about to spring into existence. Some one touched his shoulder, not ungently. He started in sudden alarm. A rough-looking fellow in a soiled red undershirt was standing at his elbow. "The boss says you'd better come to the cook-top and get somethin' to eat, young feller." That was all. He jerked his head in the direction of the long, low tent in the corner of the lot and started off. David followed, sharply conscious of a revived hunger. A score of men were seated at the long tables, gulping hot coffee and bolting their food. From the kitchen beyond came the crackling of fats, the odor of frying things and the aroma of strong coffee. The clatter of tin pans and cups, the rattle of pewter knives and forks and the commands of hungry men to the surly lads who served them assailed the refined ears of the young Virginian as he stopped irresolutely at the mouth of the tent. "Set down here, kid," said his escort, pointing to a place on the plank, stepping over it himself to take his seat at the board. If the stranger expected a greeting or comment on his appearance among these men, he was happily disappointed. They looked at him with sullen, indifferent eyes and went on bolting the breakfast. Some of them were half naked; all of them were dirty and reeking with perspiration. There was no effort at general conversation. David had the feeling that they hated each other and were ready to hurl things at the slightest provocation, such as the passing of the time of day. A half-grown boy placed a huge tin cup full of steaming coffee on to the table and said in a husky, consumptive voice: "'Ere's your slop, kid." Another boy jammed a panful of bacon and corn-bread across his shoulder and advised him to hurry up and "grab it, you." David ate in shocked silence. The man at his left laughed at his genteel use of the knife and fork and the dainty handling of the bacon. Sugar and cream were not served. He was hungry. The coarse but well-cooked food pleased his palate more than he could have believed. He ate his fill of the "chuck," as his neighbor called it. Then he was hurried back to the wagon in which he had slept. It was empty now, cavernous and reeking with the odor of damp canvas lately removed. "Git in there, kid," said his guide briskly. "You gotta keep under cover fer a spell. Stay in there 'tel Joey Grinaldi says the word. Them's Braddock's orders." David hesitated a moment. "Where is Mrs. Braddock?" he asked. "Train ain't in yet. You don't suppose the highlights travel this away, do you? Well, nix, I should say not. Say, are you goin' to learn the business? If you are, I got some fishworm oil that's jest the thing to limber up yer joints. In two weeks, if you rub this oil of mine all over you reg'lar, you c'n bend double three ways." It was an old game. David stared but shook his head. "I'm not going to be a performer," he said, with a wry smile at the thought of "fishworm oil." "Well, that bein' the case, have you got any chewin' about yer clothes?" "Chewing?" murmured David. "Fine cut er plug, I don't care." "I don't chew tobacco," said David stiffly. "Oh," said the man in amaze. "A reg'lar little Robert Reed, eh? Well, hop inside there. I gotta shut the door. Don't you cry if it's dark, kid." David crawled into the chariot and the door was closed after him. A thin stream of daylight came down through the narrow slit beneath the driver's seat. For a while he sat with his back against the wall, pondering the situation. Then, almost without warning, sleep returned to claim his senses. He slipped over on his side, mechanically stretched out his legs and forgot his doubts and troubles. He was aroused by the jostling and bouncing of the huge, empty wagon. With a start of alarm he leaped to his feet, striking his head against the roof of his abiding place, and hurried to the end of the wagon to peer out through the slit. Bands were playing, whips were cracking and children were shrieking joyously. It was a long time before he grasped the situation. The "Grand free street parade" was in progress; he was riding, like a caged beast, through the principal streets of the town! From the security of his position he could look out upon the throng that lined the sidewalks, without danger of being seen in return. After the first great wave of mortification and shame, he was able to consider his situation to be quite as amusing as it was fortunate. He found himself laughing at the country people and their scarcely more sophisticated city brethren with something of the worldly scorn that dominated the "profession." Even the horses that drew the "Gorgeous chariots of gold" eyed the gaping crowds with profound pity. There is nothing in all this world so incredibly haughty as a circus, from tent-peg to proprietor. Perhaps you who read this have felt your own insignificance while gazing at an imperial tent-peg that happened to lie in your path as you wandered about the grounds; or you have certainly felt mean and lowly in the presence of a program-peddler, and positively servile in contact with a boss canvasman. It is in the air; and the very air is the property of the circus. In time the twenty wagons, with their double and quadruple teams, attended fore and aft by cavaliers and court-ladies, _papier mache_ grotesques, trick mules and "calico ponies," came once more to the grounds, still pursued by the excited crowd. Far ahead of the parade a loud-voiced "barker" rode, warning all people to look out for their horses: "The elephant is coming!" Just to show their utter lack of poise, at least fifty farm nags, in super-equine terror, leaped out of their harness and into their own vehicles when "Goliath," the decrepit old elephant, shuffled by, too tired to lift his proboscis, thus exemplifying the vast distinction between themselves and the circus horses which only noticed Goliath when he got in the way. David had a long wait in the dark, stuffy chariot. Finally the door was opened and Braddock looked in. Directly behind the proprietor was the dirty sidewall of a tent. David blinked afresh in the light of day,--although, alas, the sun was not shining. "Hello," said Braddock shortly. His cigar bobbed up and down with the movement of his lips. "Come out. You can duck under the canvas right here. Lift it up, Bill." The boy slid from the chariot to the ground and made haste to pass under the wall which had been raised by a canvasman. Braddock followed him into the huge tent. A small army of men were erecting the seats for the afternoon performance. David realized that he was in the "main top." A stocky, bow-legged man, his hands in his pockets and a short briar pipe in his lips, advanced to meet them. "Well, 'ow are you?" asked this merry-eyed stranger, his face going into a hundred wrinkles by way of friendly greeting. "Oh, I say, David, don't you know your old pal and playmate? Hi, there! 'Ere we are!" David stared in astonishment. It was Grinaldi, the clown, without his make-up or his wig! Never was there such a change in human face. They clasped hands, David laughing outright in the ecstasy of relief at finding this whilom friend. "Keep shady, you," said Braddock, finding no pleasure in the boy's change of manner. "Those pinchers came over on the train with us. And say, we might just as well settle what's to be done about you. I've thought it over seriously. I'm taking a risk in havin' you around, understand that. But if you want a job with the show, I'll give you one. Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you two and a half a week and your board. That's good pay for a beginner. You to do clown work and--" "But I can't be a clown--" began David. "Well, what do you want?" roared Braddock, apparently aghast. "Do you expect to ride around in carriages and live on goose liver? Say, where do you think you are? In society? Well, you can get that out of your head, lemme tell you that, you--" "'Ere, 'ere, Brad," put in Joey sharply, noting the look in the boy's pale face. "Don't talk like that. 'E's not used to that sort o' gaff. Let me talk it over with 'im." "Well, the offer don't stand long. He either takes it or he don't. If he don't, out he goes. Say, you, where's all that money you had last night? I'm not going to have anybody carryin' a wad around like that and gettin' it nabbed and then settin' up a roar against the show, gettin' us pulled or something worse. I insist on taking care of that stuff, for my own protection, just so long as you stay with this show." David looked helplessly to Joey Noakes for succor. "I'll talk that over with 'im, too, Brad," announced the clown briefly. "And let me add something else," resumed Braddock, with an unnecessary oath. "I'm not going to have you hangin' around my wife and daughter if you _do_ stay with us. Remember one thing: you're a cheap clown, and you've got to know your place. My daughter's a decent girl. She's got good blood in her, understand that. _Damn' fine blood._ I'm not going to have her associatin' with a--" "'Old on, Brad!" interrupted the old clown, glaring at him. "Cheese it, will you? I won't stand for it. You got five 'undred from this boy and you ought to treat 'im decent. He's got just as good blood in 'im as Christie's got--and better, blow me, because it's probably good on both sides--which is more than you can say for her, poor girl. Thank God, she don't show that she's got your blood in 'er veins." "Here! Do you mean to insinuate that she's not _mine_?" gasped Braddock, suddenly a-tremble. Much as he trusted to the virtue of his wife, he was never able to comprehend the miracle that gave him Christine for a daughter. There was no trace of him to be seen in her. "You know better than that," said the clown coldly. "Well," said Braddock, nervously shifting his cigar and lowering his gaze. If he had intended to say more, he changed his mind and walked off toward the center of the tent where men were throwing up a circular bank about the ring. "He's a drunken dog," said the clown, glaring after him. "She's the finest woman in the world. And to think of 'er bein' the wife of that bounder." David had been thinking of it and puzzling his tired brain for hours. "How did she happen to marry--" "No time for that now," said Grinaldi briskly. "Mebby I'll tell you about her some other time, not now. You'd better keep away from her and Christine for a couple of days. Brad will forget it in no time, 'specially if he thinks he can scrape some more o' that money out of you. Oh, he's a slick one. He's got 'is eye on that wad. Now, let's get down to business. I advise you to stick to the show for awhile--at least until we're a good ways off. Take up 'is offer. It ain't bad. You can 'ave chuck with me and Ruby. I'll look out for that. You just do wot I tell you, and you'll be a clown. Not a real one, but good enough to earn two and a 'arf. I'm not doin' this for you, my boy, because I think I need an assistant. Joey Grinaldi has been a fav'rit clown in two hemispheres for forty years. Some day I'll show you the medals I got in London and Paris and--but never mind now. You start right in this afternoon, doin' just wot I tells you. You'll be all right and them blokes as is 'untin' for you won't be able to twig you from sole leather. Wot say?" "I'll do just as you say," said David simply. "Good! Now come over 'ere by the band section and I'll tell how we'll work it out. Of course, we'll improve it every day. All you needs is confidence. We 'ave dinner at twelve-thirty in the performer's end of the cook-tent. It's all right there. I'll fetch yours into the dressin'-tent for you, so's you won't be seen. There's my daughter over there. Ain't she a stunner? Say, she's a gal as is a gal. Best trapeze worker in the business, if I do say it myself. And 'er mother was the best columbine that ever appeared in a Drury Lane pantomime, poor lass." He abruptly passed his hand across his eyes. "The columbine?" said David, his eyes beaming. "I remember the columbine and the harlequin and the pantaloon in Drury Lane one boxing week when I was in London with my grandfather. Was a columbine really your wife?" "She was," said Joey proudly. "But," he added hastily, "it ain't likely you saw _her_. She died when Ruby was born." That afternoon David appeared in the ring, once more clad in the striped suit and besmeared with bismuth. He was even more frightened than at his first appearance, when he was driven by another fear. Ruby Noakes, black-eyed and dashing, winked at him saucily from her perch on the high trapeze, having caught his eye. When she slid down the stout lacing and wafted kisses to the multitude, he was near enough to catch her merry undertone: "You have no idea how funny you are," she said, passing him by with a skip. "There's your friend, the detective," remarked Joey, later on, jerking his head in the direction of the animal tent. Sure enough, Blake was standing at the end of the tier of seats, talking with Thomas Braddock. "But he doesn't reckernize you, David, so don't turn any paler than you are already." The new clown, wretchedly unsuited to his new occupation, managed to get through the performance without mishap. He followed instructions blindly but faithfully, barking his shins twice and tripping over an equestrian banner once with almost direful results. The audience laughed with glee, and Grinaldi congratulated him on the hit he was making. "Hit?" moaned David, rubbing his elbow in earnest. "Good heaven! Was that a hit?" "My boy, they'd laugh if you were to break your neck," said the clown gravely. Christine Braddock came on for her turn early in the program. David was told that her mother, who persistently though vainly opposed a ring career for her loved one, compromised with Braddock on the condition that she was to appear early in the performance. "Brad was a circus rider in his younger days, before he took to drink," explained Joey, as he and David sat together at the edge of the ring while Briggs, the ringmaster, announced the approach of "the world-famed child marvel, Little Starbright, and Monseer Dupont, in the great-est eques-trian feats evah attempted by mor-tal crea-tuah!" "When Christie was a wee bit of a thing he took 'er into the ring with 'im. She sat on 'is shoulder and the crowd thought it wonnerful. Arter that he took 'er in reg'lar. Mrs. Braddock almos' lost 'er mind, but Brad coaxed 'er into seein' it 'is way. It was before he took to drinking steady. That gal 'as no more business being a circus rider than nothink. But you can't make Brad see it that way now. He says she's got to earn 'er bread and keep, and that she's no better than wot 'er father is. If circus riding is good enough for 'im, it's good enough for 'is offspring, says he. Her mother just had to give in to 'im. Well, when she was about ten, Brad took to drinking. That was before he bought old Van Slye out. One day he fell off the 'oss with 'er and broke 'is arm. Fort'nitly, the younker wasn't 'urt. So, then he had sense enough to listen to 'is wife. He quit riding 'isself, but he put big Tom Sacks into the act in 'is place. Tom is the present Mons. Dupont--a fine feller and as steady as can be. He's powerful strong and a fairish sort of rider--but nothink like wot Brad used to be in his best day. Christine's getting a bit biggish for 'im to 'andle; I daresay this is the last season for their double act. But for four seasons she's been doing amazing fine work with old Tom. She seems to like it, and she's as daring as the very old Nick. Don't know wot fear is, I might say. She's so fairy-like and so purty that the crowds just naterally love 'er to death. She's going to be a wonnerful 'ansome woman, David, that gal is, take it from me. 'Ere she is!" "She's like a rose," said David, following the slim, scarlet creature with his eyes. "And a rose she is, my heartie," said Joey. "When I was a lad at 'ome, there was a chap named Thackeray writing wonderful clever tales. I remembers one of them particular. It was called 'The Rose and the Ring.' I never see Christine in them togs without thinking of the name of that book--The Rose and the Ring, d' ye get my idea? Mr. Thackeray was a well-known writer when I was a boy. That was thirty year ago. I daresay he's dead and forgotten now." David smiled. "He'll never die, Mr. Noakes. He's more alive now than ever. 'The Rose and the Ring.' Why not 'The Rose _in_ the Ring'?" "Hi! Hi!" cried Joey approvingly, "Right you are." During the entire act of Little Starbright and Monsieur Dupont David gazed entranced. He followed Grinaldi, but his eyes were not always leveled against the spotted back of his mentor; they were for the lithe, graceful figure in scarlet riding atop of the sturdy Tom Sacks, sometimes standing upright on his shoulders, again leaning far out from his thigh, or even more daringly dancing on his broad back while he squatted on the pad. First on one foot, then the other, then clear of his back with both of them twinkling in merry time to the quickstep of the band, her dark hair fluttering from beneath the saucy cap, her hands waving and her eyes sparkling. Kisses went wafting to every section of the tent, and with them smiles such as David had never seen before. He was standing near when she leaped from the horse's back and skipped to the center of the ring to blow her final kisses to the multitude. It occurred to him all at once that he was staring at this wonderfully graceful, fairy-like little creature with the eyes of a delighted spectator and not as a clown. He guiltily looked for a reprimand from Grinaldi. To his surprise and disappointment she passed him by without a sign of recognition, slipping her tiny feet into the ground shoes and shuffling off to the dressing-tent with the stride peculiar to ring performers. For a moment he felt as if she had struck him in the face, so quick was his pride to resent the slight. "This ain't a parlor, my lad," said Joey, shrewdly analyzing the feelings of his _protege_. "You mustn't expect the ladies to stop and chat with you in the ring. It ain't reg'lar. She didn't mean nothink--nothink at all, bless 'er 'eart." When the performance was over, David was whisked into the men's section of the dressing-tent and told to stay there until further orders. He changed his clothes and "washed up," listening meanwhile to the congratulations and the good-natured chaffing of the performers who were there with him. Despite their ribald scoffing, he knew they were his friends: there was something about these careless, inconsequent knights of the sawdust ring, in spangles or out, that warmed the cockles of his sore, despairing heart. He came before long to laugh with them and to take their jibes as they were meant--good-naturedly. Joey Grinaldi beamed with congratulation. He laid himself out to make the going easy for his "gentleman pardner," appreciating the vast distinction that lay between these men and the kind David had known all of his life. And David saw that he was trying to make it easy for him. His heart swelled with a strange gratitude; he unbent suddenly and met the rough kindnesses more than half way. They were not the kind of men he was used to,--they were not gentlemen; but they stood ready to be his friends, and something told him that they would ring true to the very end if he met them half way. They had their own undeviating regard for what they called honor: honor meant loyalty and fairness, nothing more. Simple, genial, unpolished braggarts were they, but their word was as good or better than a gentleman's bond. David was soon to fall under the spell of this bland comradeship: he was to see these men in a light so bright that it blinded him to their vulgarities, their quaint blasphemy and their prodigious lack of veracity as applied to personal achievements. He was to find in them a splendid chivalry, almost unbelievable at first: their regard for the women in the troupe was in the nature of a revelation to him, who came from the land of gallantry itself. "Say, kid," said Signor Anaconda, "the human snake," suddenly adopting a serious mien,--which did not become him,--"you gotta change your name. What'll we call him, fellers? Now, le' 's give him a reg'lar story-book name. Prince Something-or-other. What say to--" "That's all settled," said old Joey, his eyes full of soap and water and squeezed so tightly together that they looked like wrinkles. "Christine Braddock named 'im this morning. I forgot to tell you, David. Your name is Snipe--Jack Snipe." David flushed. "Why did she call me _that_?" he asked. "Because you were lonesome, and there is nothink so lonesome as a jack-snipe. Leastwise, that's wot she says. She asked me if I'd ever seen a jack-snipe on a wet, dreary day, a-standing on a sandbar, all alone like and forlorn. She said she always felt so sorry for the poor little cuss--no, she didn't say cuss either. What was it she said, Casey? You was there." "She said 'thing,'" said Casey briefly. "Right, my lad. Thing it was. Well, wot she says goes in this 'ere aggergation, so from now on you are just Jack Snipe." He lowered his voice. "There won't nobody call you David or Jenison after this, my boy. It's too dangerous." David was thoughtful. "Do you mean to say," he said, after a pause, "that every person in this show knows who I really am?" "You bet your life they do," said Casey. "And what I am wanted for?" "Certain. Wot's that got to do with it?" "Do they think I'm--I'm guilty?" "Well, I reckon most of 'em do," said the contortionist blandly. "But," he added in some haste, "they don't give a dang for a little thing like that." "But," said David fiercely, "I don't want them to think I am guilty. I can't bear to think that every one is looking upon me as a criminal. Why--why, what must the ladies of the--of the show think of me? I--I--" Joey Grinaldi put his hand on the young fellow's shoulder: "They don't think you done it, Jack--not one of 'em. I heard 'em speaking of you last night as if you was a reg'lar angel. For the fust time since I've knowed all of them women, they are all agreed on one thing: they _all_ agree that you are the sweetest kid they've ever seen and that you never done anything naughty in your life. Come on, now. Mrs. Braddock wants to see you a minute." David's heart leaped. He followed the old clown into the open tent, his eyes bright with the eagerness to look once more upon the strange, lovely friend of the night before,--his true guardian angel. She was standing near the entrance to the main tent, talking with half a dozen of the women performers, all of whom were in street attire. As soon as she saw him she smiled and motioned for him to join the group. He was not slow to obey the summons. To the amazement of the interested group the young Virginian lifted her hand to his lips. Mrs. Braddock flushed warmly, an exquisite smile of appreciation leaping to her rather sombre eyes. "You must let me introduce you to these ladies," she said, after a few low words of greeting. "This is Jack Snipe, our new clown," she said, naming for his benefit the riders, the ropewalker, the snake-charmer and the boneless wonder. David was profoundly polite, almost old-fashioned in his acknowledgment of the introduction. The women were suddenly conscious of a new-found glory in themselves. The "boneless wonder" talked of his elegance for weeks, and always without resorting to slang. "Where is Miss Christine?" asked David, turning to Mrs. Braddock with a shy smile. She did not answer at once. When she did, it was with palpable uneasiness. "My daughter usually takes her sleep at this time, Dav--Jack." David's cheek slowly turned red. He remembered what Braddock had said to him. "You are all very good to me," he murmured, for want of anything better to say. His sensitive heart was thumping quickly, driven by humiliation. She looked steadily into his eyes without speaking and then walked away from the group, directing him to follow. They sat down upon the tumbler's pad, just where they had been seated the night before. "My husband is hard sometimes, David," she said gently. "It will last for a few days, that is all. We must not aggravate him now. In a little while he will forget that he has--has said certain things. Then, I hope that you and Christine will be good friends. I--I want her to know you well, David. I want her to be with--with some one who is different from the people here. You understand, don't you?" "Yes," said David, suddenly enlightened. "I know what you mean. I shall be very happy, too." "Ah, how gently you did that," she cried, a wistful gleam in her dark eyes. "How the blood tells its story! Yes, David, I want her to know you; I want her to--to be with her own kind." Her face flamed with sudden fervor; he was struck by the almost pathetic eagerness that leaped into her eyes, transfiguring them. "I have tried so hard to give her something of what I had myself, David, when I was a girl. Everything depends on the next year or two. She is thinking for herself now. It is the turning-point. You must know, David, you must see that she is not like the others here." "She is like you," he said, very simply. The blood surged once more to her cheeks; her lips parted with the quick breath of joy and gratitude. She thanked him very gently, very gravely. No word was uttered against the man who was Christine's father. "I prayed last night, David, that you might stay with the show until the end of this season. I am determined that it shall be her last, no matter what it may cost both of us." "Cost both of us," thought he, and at once knew what she meant. The cost, if necessary, would be the husband and father. Then she told him, in hurried sentences, that she had watched him in the ring, and that her daughter had come back to her with glowing reports of his composure and cleverness. David's pride, at least, was appeased. She _had_ looked at him, after all, and was interested. He was struck by the sudden, curious change that came over Mrs. Braddock's face. She was looking past him toward the entrance to the circus tent. All the color, all the eagerness left her face in a flash; the warmth died out in her big brown eyes and in its stead appeared a look of positive dread and uneasiness--it might have been repugnance. Her lips grew tense, and he could see that she started ever so slightly, as if in surprise. He glanced over his shoulder. Thomas Braddock was approaching, his face red with anger and drink. At his side walked a tall, exceedingly well-dressed stranger, who carried his silk hat in his hand and was smiling blandly upon the proprietor's wife. "Oh, that man again!" he heard her say between her stiff lips. There was a world of loathing in the half-whispered sentence, which was so low that it barely reached his ears. He looked up quickly, and saw her face go darkly red again--the red of humiliation, he could have sworn. "Go!" she said to David, quietly but firmly. He turned away, vaguely conscious that the newcomer was more to be feared than Thomas Braddock himself. Instinctively the boy experienced a singular, instantaneous aversion to this immaculate intruder. "Get out!" he heard Braddock roar after him as he paused at the partition to look once more at the stranger. The man was bowing low before the straight, motionless figure of Mary Braddock. Her chin was high in the air, and David could almost have sworn that he saw her nostrils dilate. From a place beyond the flap in the partition he surveyed this disturbing visitor. CHAPTER V SOMETHING ABOUT THE BRADDOCKS He was not long in supplying a reason for the sudden antipathy he felt toward this man whom he had never seen before. A somewhat prolonged study from the security of the dressing-room had the effect of settling the aversion more firmly in his mind. In the first place, the man's face was a peculiarly evil one. His dark eyes were set quite close together under a bulging forehead. His eyebrows were straw-colored, and so thin that they were almost invisible. A broad, flat nose, with spreading nostrils, not unlike that of an Ethiopian, gave to the upper part of his face a sheep-like expression. His lower lip, thick and blue and loose, protruded with flabby insistence beyond its mate, which was short and straight. The chin receded, but was of surprising length and breadth. His ears sat very low on his head and were ludicrously small. Above them rose a massive dome, covered with thick, well-brushed hair of a yellowish hue, parted exactly in the middle. His cheeks were white and flaccid, and there was a fullness in front of the jaw-point that suggested approaching bagginess. He smiled with his lips closed, and broadly at that. The picture was even less alluring than when his face was in repose. In the subdued, gray light of the tent his complexion was singularly colorless; David thought of a very sick man he had once seen. But this man was apparently in the best of health. He was spare, and his sloping shoulders did not suggest breadth or strength; yet there was that about him which made for force and virility. His hands were long and slim and very white. A huge diamond glittered on one of the fingers of the left hand; another quite as large adorned the bosom of his shirt. It required no clever mind to see that he was not an out-of-doors man. One would say, guessing, that he was thirty six or eight years of age. As a matter of fact, he was fifty-five. David noticed that he never allowed his gaze to leave the face of Mary Braddock, except to occasionally traverse her figure from crown to foot. The boy's dislike grew to actual resentment. He experienced a fierce desire to rush out and strike the man across the eyes. He could not hear what they were talking about. Broddock, tipsy as usual, was urging something on her in low, insistent tones. His manner was that of one who espouses a forlorn hope; he argued with the insinuating, doubting earnestness so characteristic of the man who knows that he is operating against his own best interests in the face of one who fully understands the weakness that impels him. Mrs. Braddock stood before him, cold, passive, unconvinced. Her greeting for the newcomer had been most unfriendly. She deliberately turned her back on him, after the first short "good afternoon." As for the stranger, he did not take part in the conversation. He stood close to her elbow, the trace of a smile on his lips. Suddenly her tense body relaxed. Her chin dropped forward and she nodded her head dejectedly. Braddock's next remark, uttered with considerable gusto, came to David's ears. "Good!" he said, biting his cigar with approving energy. "We can talk it over there. I think you will see it my way, Mary. You'll see if I'm not right! Come on, Bob. This is no place to talk." She preceded them without another word, an air of utter weariness characterizing her movements. The stranger smiled his bland, hateful smile. When Braddock, in genial relief, essayed to take his arm, the tall man coldly withdrew himself from the contact, displaying a far from mild aversion to the advances of the tipsy showman. Braddock dropped back, like a cowed dog, permitting the other to pass through the sidewall ahead of him, a step or two behind the unhappy Mary Braddock on whose back his steady gaze was leveled with unswerving intentness. David hurried to a rent in the canvas and peered out into the sunlight of the waning day. The stranger had come up beside Mrs. Braddock, talking to her as they crossed the lot in the direction of the street. She apparently paid no heed to his remarks. Braddock made no effort to keep up with them, but loafed behind, simulating interest in the most conveniently propinquitous of his possessions, with now and then a furtive glance at the couple a half-dozen paces ahead. David was sorely puzzled and distressed. He knew that something was going cruelly wrong with his friend and supporter, but what it was he could not even venture a guess, knowing so little about the people and conditions attached to his new world. "So, he's 'ere again, is he?" He whirled quickly to find Grinaldi peering over his shoulder, his erstwhile merry face as black as a thunder cloud. "Who is he?" demanded David. The clown did not answer at once. His eyes were glittering. It was not until the trio passed from view beyond a "snack-stand" that he sighed mightily and jammed his hands into his coat pockets, still clenched. Even then, he stared long at David before replying. "That man?" he said harshly. "That's Colonel Bob Grand." "What has he got to do with the show, Mr. Noakes?" "Call me Joey. Everybody does, my lad." He looked around cautiously. No one was near them. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice. "That's just wot all of us would like to know ourselves, Jacky. He's a race-horse man and a gambler. Oh, don't you get it into your 'ead that he follows the show in _them_ capacities. Not he. He's too big a guy for that. No, sirree. He pinches the dollars by the thousands, that chap does. No ten-dollar rube games for 'im. But I'll tell you all about 'im at supper. There's Ruby waiting for us at the door. I'm 'aving supper brought over 'ere for us three and Casey. He's a nice chap, Casey is. Brad says you are not to go to the cook-top until we're out of the woods." Before starting off to join his daughter, Grinaldi looked again through the hole in the canvas, muttering a dejected oath. Ruby Noakes, very pretty and quite demure in a simple frock of brown, without the prevailing bustle and paniers, was directing the contortionist in his efforts to construct a table out of three "blue seats" and a couple of property trunks, or "keesters," as they were called. "I insist on having a table that I can put my legs under," she said when he argued that the trunks alone would make an "elegant" table. "We can sit on the boxes. Here, dad, you and Jack get the boxes up. The boys will be here with supper in a minute or two. Oh, I say, isn't it going to be fun? Just like a supper party in Delmonico's--only I've never been to one there. Goodness, how I'd love to eat at Delmonico's!" "You wouldn't like it a bit, Ruby," announced Casey. "You got to understand French to eat what they have there. If you can't understand French, you're sure to eat something that won't agree with you, not bein' able to tell soup from pickled pigs' feet." "How do you know? You've never been there." Casey gave her a cool stare. "I haven't, eh? My dear, I'd have you to know that I've et there a hundred times." Her eyes popped wide open. "Of course," he explained, "I allus had to wake up and find I'd been dreamin'. But, by ginger, them was great dreams. I allus had 'em after my wife's cousin had been up to our shack of a Sunday to get a good square meal. He was a waiter at Delmonico's. He was allus tellin' what gorgeous things he had to eat at Del's, and then, blow me, I'd dream about 'em the livelong night." Presently the food came in from the cook-tent. The four sat down, David beside the girl, who generously took him in hand at this unusual banquet. In the menagerie tent beyond wild beasts were growling and roaring and snarling a weird interlude for the benefit of the banqueters, sounds so strange and menacing that David looked often with uneasy interest in the direction from which they came. "I like this, don't you, dad? I wish we could have a runaway boy with us every night or so." She gave David a warm, enveloping smile. But Joey was not listening to the idle chatter of his daughter. He ate in silence, his brow corrugated with the intensity of his thoughts. "Say, Casey, 'ave you seen 'im?" he asked at last, interrupting a tale that Ruby was telling for David's especial benefit. "I like that!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Seen who?" from Casey, also ignoring her. "Grand." "Is that skunk here again?" "Big as life, dang 'is bloody 'eart. He's bothering 'er, too. Makes love to 'er right afore 'er 'us-band's eyes. It's--it's _out-rage-ious_." Miss Noakes forgot her story and her resentment. She leaned forward, her black eyes fairly snapping, her fingers clenched. David recalled the muscular bare arms he had seen during the trapeze act, and wondered how so slight a person as she now seemed to be could be so powerfully developed. "I _knew_ something awful was going to happen," she said. "I saw a cross-eyed man in the blues to-day. It never fails." Circus people, from the beginning of history, have been superstitious. Not one, but all of them, carry charms, amulets or lucky pieces, and they recognize more signs than the sailors themselves. "Some of these fine days I'm going to paste that guy on the nose," said the contortionist heatedly. "You'll get a bullet in your gizzard if you do," said the clown gloomily. "He carries a gun, and he'll use it, too. And if he didn't, Tom Braddock would beat you to jelly for insulting 'is best friend." "Do you mean that Mrs. Braddock is in love with that man?" demanded David, his heart sinking. The three of them glared at him--positively glared. "Nobody said that, sir," said old Joey angrily. "She despises 'im. I said as 'ow he was in love with 'er. There's a big difference in that, my friend." "I knew she wasn't that kind of a woman," cried David joyously. "What do you know about women?" demanded Casey "I'll tell you about 'im and 'er and all of them," said Joey, looking about to see that they were quite alone in their corner. "You can tell by looking at 'er, Jacky, that she ain't no common pusson. She's quality, as you Virginians would say. And for that matter, so is Colonel Grand, after a fashion. That is to say, he comes of a very good old New Orleans family. He spoilt it all by being a colonel in the Union army during the war. He wasn't for the North because he was patriotic, but because he knowed the North would win and he saw 'is chance to get rich. He's just a nateral-born gambler. Of course, he ain't been back to New Orleans since the war. I understand 'is own brothers intend to shoot 'im if he does go back. He went to Washington to live, and he made a pile of money promoting carpet-bagging schemes through the south. He's got a big gambling-house in Baltimore at present, and an interest in one in New York, besides 'aving a string o' race-horses. "Well, Tom Braddock comes from Baltimore. His father was a hoss trainer and trader there for a good many years afore he died--w'ich was about two years ago. I've 'eard it said by them as knows, that he sometimes traded hosses in the dead of night and forgot to leave one in exchange for the one he took away. However that may be, he never got caught at it and so died an honest man. It seems that he borrowed one of Colonel Grand's riding hosses to go after a doctor one night, some years ago, and didn't return it for nearly eighteen months. He wouldn't 'ave returned it then if the Colonel 'adn't seen 'im riding it in Van Slye's street parade out in a little Indiana town during county fair week. I was with the show at the time, w'ich was afore old Van Slye sold out to Tom Braddock. Well, Tom and Mrs. Braddock begged so 'ard for the old scamp that the Colonel not only let 'im off but took 'im back to Baltimore to train hosses for him. That was about five seasons ago, and it was the first time any of us ever laid eyes on the Colonel. "Tom Braddock and 'is wife lived in Baltimore in the winter time, where she kept little Christine in school from November to March. The rest of the year she teaches 'er 'erself. I might say that Christine is a specially well-edicated child and well brought up. You can see that for yourself. Tom wanted 'er to learn 'ow to sing and dance so's she could be earning money all winter, but 'er mother said nix to that, very proper like. In course o' time, Tom's father worked it so's Tom could practice 'is bareback acts at Colonel Grand's stables. He was the best rider in the country at that time. The Colonel got 'im to drinking and gambling. That was the beginning. The poor cuss 'adn't been such a bad lot up to that time. Him and Mary had always got on fairly well until he got to drinking. It wasn't long afore the Colonel took a notion to Tom's wife. He 'as a wife of 'is own, but that didn't stop 'im. He just went plumb crazy about Mary Braddock, who was the purtiest, loveliest woman he'd ever seen--or any of us, for that matter. I'll never forget how nice she's allus been to my gal 'ere, and to every gal in the show, for that matter. She's an angel if there ever was one. Don't interrupt, Casey. I've said it. You keep still, too, Ruby--and don't sniffle like that, either. "I won't go into the 'istory of 'ow the Colonel tried to get 'er away from Tom. I daresay that's the very thing that makes 'er stick to Tom so loyal-like in spite of wot he is now. Just principle, that's all. Well, for more 'n two year the Colonel 'as been pestering 'er almost to death, and she 'as to stand it because he's got such a terrible 'old on 'er 'usband. You see, the Colonel lent Tom a good bit of money when he bought old Van Slye out season afore last. I will say this for Tom, he paid 'im back dollar for dollar. We 'ad a good season and he got the show cheap. Tom give up riding because he was tight all the time, nearly killing Christine once or twice. Every once in awhile, come so the Colonel would turn up and travel with the show for a week or so, inducing Tom to play poker and drink. Tom allus lost and then the Colonel'd stake 'im for a month or so to run the show on. This 'as gone on for two years, Tom getting wuss all the time and the Colonel more persistent. Tom 'as lost all sense of honor and decency. He knows the Colonel is trying to get 'is wife away from 'im, and he ain't got spunk enough left to object to it. He don't even try to protect 'er from the old villain. They say Grand 'as promised 'er a fine 'ome in Washington and will edicate Christine abroad, besides offering enough diamonds to fill a 'at. But she just despises 'im more and more every week. He'll never get 'er--no sirree! Why, she just _couldn't_ do it! 'T ain't in 'er! "Early this season he lent Tom five or six thousand, and Tom can't pay it back, I know, business 'as been so bad. He's come on this time, I daresay, to bulldoze 'em into 'is way of thinking. He's wonderful persistent. Like as not he'll help Tom out some more afore he leaves, just to draw the web closer. He'll stay a few days, 'anging around 'er like a vulture, paying no attention to 'er rebukes, and then he'll go off to return another day. He's wrecked Tom Braddock, just as a stepping-stone. Some day he'll be through with Tom for good and all, and you'll see what 'appens to Thomas." Grinaldi's voice was hoarse with emotion; his brow was damp with perspiration. Casey was the only one who ate; he ate sullenly. "What beasts!" cried David, his fine nature in revolt. "Brad 'as got to this point in 'is love for drink and cards," said Joey. "He'll sacrifice anything for whiskey. He's got to have it. We've all talked to 'im. No good. I--I don't like to say it, Dav--Jacky, but he's slapped 'is wife more 'n once when she's tried to plead with--" David sprang to his feet, his face quivering with rage and horror. "I'll kill him!" he cried shrilly. "If the rest of you are afraid to stand up for her, I will show you how a Virginia gentleman acts in such matters. I'll--" "My boy," said Joey, very much gratified by his _protege's_ attitude. "I like to hear you talk that way. But don't you go 'round gabbing about killing people. A word to the wise, my lad. You see wot I mean?" David turned perfectly livid and then sank back to his seat with a groan of despair. "You mean that my--that I've got a bad name already?" "So far as the law is concerned, yes," said Joey gently. "You see, you are David Jenison and--well, it's a fine old name, my 'eartie, but these ain't very gallant days. It's too soon after the war, I take it." The boy looked from one to the other, his eyes dark with the pain of understanding. "But," he said bravely, "he must not be allowed to strike her. Why doesn't she leave him? Why not get a divorce? No woman should live with a man who strikes her. God doesn't intend that to be. He--" "God put us all into the world and he'll take us all out of it," said the clown, philosophizing. "That's about all we ought to expect 'im to do. I don't think God 'as anything to do with matrimony. He says, 'you takes your choice and you trusts to luck, not to me. If it turns out all right,' says he, 'you can thank me, but if it goes wrong, don't blame me.' So there you are. It strikes me that God don't intend a good many things, but they 'appen just the same. As for 'er getting a divorce, she's too proud. She made 'er bed, as the feller says, and she's going to lie in it as long as there's room. She made 'er bed sixteen years ago, she did, against 'er father's wishes, and she ain't the kind to go back and say it's too 'ard for 'er to sleep in and she'd like to come 'ome and sleep in one of 'is for a change. No sirree, my lad." "How did she come to marry such a beast as Braddock?" "Well, that's another story. I 'ope, Casey, I'm not boring you." "I wasn't gaping," said Casey testily. "I was coolin' my mouth. Try that coffee yourself if you don't think it's hot." "I wish she would leave him," said Ruby, more to herself than to the others. "She's got some of 'er own money in the show--all of it, I daresay. Money 'er grandmother left 'er a couple of years ago. Brad promised he'd buy 'er share in a year or two and let 'er put the money away for Christine. But he'll never do it, not 'im. You see, Da--Jacky, it all 'appened this way. She was going to a young ladies' boarding-school up in Connecticut w'en she fust saw Tom Braddock. Her father lived in New York City and he was a very wealthy guy. She was 'is only child and 'er mother was dead. The old man, whose name was Portman,--Albert Portman, the banker,--was considering a second venture into matrimony at the time. Mary was eighteen and she didn't want a stepmother. She raised such a row that he sent 'er off to school so as he could do 'is courting in peace and plenty. She was a wayward gal,--leastwise she says so 'erself--and very impetuous-like. One day a circus comes to the town where she was attending school. The young ladies were took to the afternoon performance by the--er--school-ma'ams. They all perceeded to fall in love at first sight with a 'andsome young equestrian. He was very good-looking, I can tell you that, and he 'ad a fine figger. As clean a looking young chap as ever you see. Well do I remember Tommy Braddock in them days. He was twenty-two and he rode like a A-_rab_. Well, wot should 'appen but 'is hoss, a green one, must bolt suddenlike, scairt by one of the balloons that 'it 'im on the nose. Brad fell off as the brute leaped out of the ring, terrified by the shouts of the ring-men. The hoss started right for the seats where the school misses was setting. Up jumps Brad and sails after 'im. The hoss got tangled in some ropes and stumbled, just as he was about to leap into the place where Mary Portman sat. Brad grabs 'im by the bit and jerks 'im around, but in the plunging that followed, the hoss fell over on 'im, breaking 'is leg--I mean Brad's. Of course, there was a great stew about it. He was took to a 'ospital and the papers was full of 'ow he saved the life of the rich Miss Portman. Well, she used to go to see 'im a lot. When he got so's he could 'obble around, she took 'im out driving and so on. He was a fair-spoken chap in them days and he 'ad a good face. So she fell desperit in love with 'im. He was an 'ero. She told 'er father she was going to marry 'im. As the old gentleman was about to be married 'imself, he 'ated to share the prominence with 'er. So he said he'd disown 'er if she even thought of marrying a low-down circus rider. That was enough for Mary. She up and run off with Tom and got married to 'im in a jiffy, beating 'er father to the altar by about two weeks. "As soon as Tom was able to ride again, they joined the show. Her father disowned 'er, as he said he would. He said he'd 'ave the butler shut the door in 'er face if she ever come to the 'ouse. They went up to ask for forgiveness, and the butler _did_ shut the door in 'er face. So she turned 'er back on 'er father's 'ome and went to the little one Tom made for 'er in Baltimore. She never even wrote to 'er father after that, and she won't ever go back, no matter wot 'appens. Not even if he sends for and forgives 'er, I believe. She's stood it this long, she'll stick it out. Mr. Portman got married right enough and I understand he's 'ad a 'ell of a time of it ever since. Married a reg'lar tartar, thank God. "Well, in a year Christine came. After a couple of years they went to England and the Continent, where Brad rode for several seasons very successful. When Christine was seven, he insisted that she should work with 'im in the ring. He 'ad 'is way. They made a sensation with Van Slye's show and stuck to 'im for six years straight, allus drawing good pay. Mary went with them everywhere, never missing a performance, allus scairt to death on account of the gal. I think nearly all of the last five years of her life 'ave been spent in wishing that Tom would fall off and break 'is own neck, but he couldn't do it very well without breakin' the kid's, too, so she didn't know wot to do. Then he got to drinking so 'ard that he did fall off, 'urting 'imself purty bad. After that he give it up, buying a share in Van Slye's show, and letting Christine do 'er work with Tom Sacks. Mrs. Braddock would give anything she's got in the world if she could get Christine out of the business and settled down in their own 'ome in Baltimore. Just to show you wot drink does for Brad, he pays Christine a good salary every week for riding and then insists on taking it back so's he can put it in the savings bank for 'er. He spends every penny of it for drink and he--" "Sh!" came in a warning hiss from Ruby Noakes, whose quick, black eyes had caught sight of a figure approaching from the big top. "Mrs. Braddock is coming, dad. My, how white she is." The proprietor's wife moved slowly, even listlessly. Something vital had gone out of her face, it seemed to David, who knew her only as a strong, courageous defender. A wan smile crept into her tired eyes as she carne up to them and asked if she might sit down at their board. The hand she laid caressingly on Ruby's shoulder shook as if with ague. "Jerk up a keester for Mrs. Braddock, Casey," cried old Joey with alacrity. The contortionist found a small trunk and placed it between Ruby Noakes and David. Mrs. Braddock thanked him and sat down. "Have you had your supper, Mrs. Braddock?" asked Ruby. "I am not hungry," said the other quietly. "A cup of coffee, though, if you have enough for me without robbing yourselves. You work so hard, you know, my dears, while I am utterly without an occupation. I don't need much, do I?" "You need a snifter of brandy," announced Joey conclusively. He went off to get it. Ruby rinsed her own tin-cup and poured out some hot coffee. Casey called up a boy and sent off to the performer's cook top for a pitcher of soup, some corned beef and potatoes, ignoring her protests. "And how is the new clown faring?" she asked, turning to the silent David with a smile. "Very well, thank you," he replied. "I have been very hungry, you know. I have never known food to taste so good." "The hotels in these towns are atrocious. I can't eat the food," she explained listlessly. Joey handed her a drink from his flask. She swallowed it obediently but with evident distaste. There was a long, somewhat painful silence. "I think it's started to sprinkle again," ventured the contortionist, looking at the top with uneasy eyes. "Yes," she said appreciatively, "it means another wretched night for us." She toyed with the tin-cup with nervous fingers for a moment and then turned to the expectant Grinaldi. "We have been obliged to borrow more money, Joey." "So?" he said, nodding his head dumbly. "Five thousand dollars. I--I signed the note with Tom. Oh, if we could only have a spell of good weather!" It was an actual wail of despair. "It's bound to come," said the clown. "It can't rain allus, Mrs. Braddock." Again there was silence. The three performers were absolutely dumb in the presence of her unspoken misery. "Would my money be of any service to you?" asked David at last, timidly. "You dear boy, no!" she cried warmly. "You do not understand. This is our affair, David. You are very, very good, but--" She checked the words resolutely. "We can lift the notes handily if the weather helps us just a little bit." "I don't like that man," announced the boy, his dark eyes gleaming. The others coughed uncomfortably. Mrs. Braddock hesitated for a second, and then laid her hand on his. "He is a very bad man, David," was all that she said. He would have blurted out an additional expression of hatred had she not lifted her finger imperatively. "You must not say indiscreet things, my friend." It was a warning and he understood. "Come on, Jacky," put in Grinaldi hastily. "I've got to rehearse you a bit. You've got to learn 'ow to tumble and you've got to--" "Just a moment, Joey," said Mrs. Braddock nervously. "David, I can't keep your money for you. Do you object to Mr. Noakes taking it for awhile? Until we can get to a town where you can deposit it in a bank. It isn't safe with me. I--" "It _is_ safe with you," he cried eagerly. "No! If anything were to happen to me you would never see it again." He was struck by the increased pallor of her face. "It's quite safe with Joey." He waited a moment before replying. "I know that, Mrs. Braddock. You may give it to him. But--but I want you to know that if _you_ ever need any of it, or all of it--_for yourself or Christine_, you are more than welcome to it." Her eyes were flooded. "Thank you, David," she said softly. Then she quickly withdrew the flat purse from the bosom of her dress and handed it to Joey, not without a cautious look in all directions. The clown put it in his inside coat pocket without a word. "You must deposit it in a bank at N--," she went on hurriedly. "All but an amount sufficient to help you if you are obliged to suddenly fly from arrest. You understand. Joey will attend to it for you. You may depend on him and Casey to stand by you. In a few days we will be in Ohio. The danger will be small after that, Dav--I mean, Jack Snipe. I--I have worried about this money ever since--well, ever since last night. You _must_ not have it about you, nor is it safe with me. It is too large a sum to be placed in jeopardy. Perhaps, my boy, it is your entire fortune, who knows. The Jenison estate seems lost to you, cruelly enough. I am so very sorry." "I only want to think that none of you believe I committed the crime I am accused of," said David simply. "The money isn't anything." "We are not accusers," she said gravely. "Where is Brad?" demanded Grinaldi, his patience and diplomacy exhausted. "He is up in Colonel Grand's room at the hotel," she answered, as if that explained everything. "Talking business, I suppose," he said sarcastically. "Yes, they are settling certain details." She spoke in such a way that Joey looked up in alarm. "You don't mean to say you are--you are going to--" "No, not that, my friend," she said, quite calmly. "I didn't think so," said Joey fervently. Mrs. Braddock arose abruptly. "I must go to Christine. Will you come, Ruby?" Ruby followed her out of the tent, exchanging a quick glance with her father as she left the improvised table. "Come on, Jacky," said Joey. "Strip them clothes off and get to work. You've got a lot to learn. Ta, ta, Casey. Don't stay out in the rain. You'll melt your bones, if you've got any." David, somewhat depressed and very thoughtful, got into a portion of his clown's dress under the direction of his instructor, who was unusually cross and taciturn. As they started for the deserted ring, Joey took the boy's arm and said, with a diffidence that was almost pathetic: "Jacky, I--I want you to be nice to my gal. She's never 'ad no chance to associate with a real toff. It ain't 'er fault, poor gal; it's the life we leads. These 'ere circus people are as good as gold, Jacky; I'm not complaining about that. But they ain't just exactly wot I want my gal to grow up like. Not but wot she's growed up already so far as size is concerned. But she's not quite eighteen. She's been in the show business since she was two. Her mother and 'er grandmother afore 'er, too. But the business ain't wot it used to be. I want 'er to get out of it. I don't want 'er marrying some wuthless 'Kinker' or even a decent 'Joy.' Mrs. Braddock 'as done worlds for 'er, mind you, but it's the men she's associated with that I objects to. They're--they're too much like me. That's wot I mean, Jacky. Would you mind just conversing with 'er friendly like from time to time? Just give 'er a touch of wot a real gentleman is, sir. It ain't asking too much of you, is it, Dav--Jacky? I ain't ashamed to ask it of you, and I--I kind of hoped you wouldn't be ashamed to 'elp tone 'er up a bit, in a way. She's more like 'er mother than she is like me. And 'er mother was as fine a columbine as ever lived, she was that refined and steadfast." David gave his promise, strangely touched by this second appeal to the birthright that placed him, though helpless and dependent, on a plane so far above that of his present associates that even the most scornful of them felt the distinction. He recalled the profane respectfulness of the boss canvasman earlier in the day--a condition which would have astonished that worthy beyond description if he had had the least idea that he _was_ respectful. CHAPTER VI DAVID JENISON'S STORY David's first week with the show was a trying one. In the first place, he was kept so carefully under cover, literally as well as figuratively, that he seldom saw the light of day except at dawn or through the space between sidewall and top. At night he rode over rough, muddy roads in the tableau wagon, stiff and sore from the violent exercise of the day,--for he was training in earnest to become a clown. He was learning the clown's songs, and singing with the chorus in such pieces as "I'll never Kiss my Love again behind the Kitchen Door," "Paddle your own Canoe," and others in Joey's repertory. Throughout the forlorn, disquieting days he stayed close to the dressing-tent, always in dread of the moment when Blake or some other minion of the law would clap him on the shoulder and end the agony of suspense. Blake, as a matter of fact, more than once came near to finding his quarry. Twice, at least, David was smuggled out of sight just in time to avoid an encounter with his stubborn pursuer. At last, after five days, Blake gave it up and turned back to Virginia, hastened somewhat by the cleverly exploited newspaper strategy of George Simms, the show's press agent. Simms managed it so that a press dispatch came out of Richmond in which it was said on excellent authority that the boy had been seen in the neighborhood of his old home within the week, and that posses were now engaged in a neighborhood hunt for him. Blake was fooled by it. After it became definitely known to Simms that Blake was back in Richmond with his assistant, David was permitted to emerge gradually from his seclusion. The first thing he did was to go with Joey Grinaldi to a savings bank where, under the name of John Snipe, he deposited two thousand dollars, retaining five hundred for emergencies. Part of this he turned over to the clown, part to Ruby and the rest to the trusty contortionist. Twice during the week Braddock bullied him into giving up twenty-five dollars to "fix it" with town officials. At least once a day he was importuned to deliver the "leather" into the safe keeping of the proprietor, who solemnly promised that it would be returned. Moreover, in drunken magnanimity, he guaranteed to pay three per cent interest while the money was in his ticket-wagon safe, sealed and inviolate if needs be. On the subtle advice of Joey Noakes David did not tell Braddock that he had deposited the money; it would have been like the "boss" to fly into a rage and deliver him up to the authorities. Braddock drank hard during the days following the departure of Colonel Grand, who stayed with the show no longer than twenty-four hours--an unusually brief visit, according to Joey. The rainy weather continued and business got worse and worse. There was an air of downright gloom about the circus. Men, women and children were in the "dumps," a most unnatural condition to exist among these whilom, light-hearted adventurers. When they lifted up their heads, it was to deliver continuous anathemas to the leaden skies; when they allowed them to droop, it was to curse the soggy earth. The new clown saw but little of Mrs. Braddock and Christine. Braddock's failure to extract money from him made that worthy so disagreeable that his wife and daughter were in mortal terror of his threats to turn the boy adrift if he caught them "coddling" him. David's close associates were the Noakeses, the contortionist and two or three rather engaging acrobats. As for the women of the company, he had but little to do with them, except in the most perfunctory way. He was always polite, gallant and agreeable, and they made much over him when the opportunity presented itself. They were warm-hearted and demonstrative, sometimes to such an exaggerated degree that he was embarrassed. He was some time in getting accustomed to their effusive friendliness; it dawned on him at last that they were not graceless, flippant creatures, but big-hearted, honest women, in whom tradition had planted the value of virtue. He was not long in forming an unqualified respect for them; it was not necessary for Joey Grinaldi to tell him over and over again that they were good women. If Christine saw him while she was in the ring, David was never able to determine the fact for himself. He tried to catch her eye a hundred times a day; he looked for a single smile that he might have claimed for his own. Once he caught her in his arms when she stumbled after leaping from the horse at the end of her act. It was very gracefully done on his part. She whispered "Thank you," but did not smile, and therein he was exalted. There was no day in which he failed to perform some simple act of gallantry for her and Mrs. Braddock, always with an unobtrusive modesty that pleased them. Sometimes he left spring flowers for them; on other occasions he bought sweetmeats and pastry in the towns and smuggled them into their hands, not without a conscious glow of embarrassment and guilt. He was ever ready to seize upon the slightest excuse to be of service to them, despite the fact that they resolutely held aloof from him. The entire company of performers understood the situation and cultivated a rather malicious delight in abetting his clandestine courtesies. It was no other than the queen of equestrians, Mademoiselle Denise (in reality an Irish woman with three children who attended school and a husband who never had attended one, although he was an exceptionally brilliant man when it came to head balancing)--it was Denise who, one rainy evening, brought Christine and David together between performances in a most satisfying manner by taking the former to visit a fortune-teller whose home was quite a distance from the show lot, first having sent David there on a perfectly plausible pretext. The young people met on the sidewalk in front of the house bearing the number Mademoiselle Denise had given to David. To say that he was surprised at seeing Christine under the same umbrella with the older woman would be putting it very tamely; to add that both of them were shy and uneasy is certainly superfluous. Moreover, when I say that David was obliged to inform Mademoiselle Denise that she had given him the wrong number; that a hod-carrier instead of a sorceress dwelt within,--when I say this, you may have an idea that there was no fortune-teller in the beginning. And then, when the head-balancing husband suddenly appeared and walked off with Denise, leaving the embarrassed youngsters to follow at any pace they chose, you may be quite certain that there was a conspiracy afoot. Christine walked demurely beside David, under a rigid umbrella. They were seven blocks from the circus lot; it was quite dark and drizzly. For the first two blocks they had nothing to say to each other, except to venture the information that it was raining. In the second block, a very lonely stretch indeed, David, whose eyes had not left the backs of the wily couple ahead, regained his composure and with it his natural gallantry. "Perhaps you had better take my arm, Miss--Miss Christine," he said stiffly. She took it, rather awkwardly perhaps but very resolutely. "I thought I heard something in the bushes back there," she said in extenuation. "It was the wind," he vouchsafed, but his thoughts went at once to Blake. Involuntarily he looked over his shoulder and quickened his pace. She felt his arm stiffen. "I'm quite sure it was a cow," she said. "Are you afraid of cows?" "Dreadfully." "And you're not afraid of elephants or camels?" "Oh, dear, no; they're tame." She seemed in doubt as to the wisdom of expressing aloud the thoughts that troubled her. Twice she peered up into the face of her companion. Then she resolutely delivered herself. "I _do_ hope father won't see us, David." "You poor girl," he cried gently. "I'm sorry if this gets you into trouble. Denise didn't tell me. She--" "Oh, Denise did it on purpose," she said, quite glibly. "I suppose she thinks we're going to fall in love with each other." David was grateful to the darkness. It hid his blush of confusion. "But that's perfectly silly," went on the soft voice at his elbow. "I just want to be your friend, David. My mother adores you. So do I, but in just the same way that she does. I--I couldn't think of being so ridiculous as to fall in love with you." He resented this. "I don't see why you say that," he said, rather stiffly. "But," very hastily, "I'm not asking you to do it. Please don't misunderstand me. I--" "Mother and I are so sorry for you, David," she went on earnestly. "We--we don't believe a word of--of--well, you know." She was suddenly distressed. "How do you know that I'm not guilty?" he cried bitterly. "You have only my word for it. Of course, I'd deny it. Anybody would, even if he was as guilty as sin. I--I might have done it, for all you know." "Oh, don't--don't talk like that, David!" "Nearly every one with the show thinks I did it. It doesn't matter to them, either. They like me just as well. It's--it's as if I were a friendless, homeless dog. They're tender-hearted. They'd do as much for the dog, every time. I like them for it. I'll not forget everybody's kindness to me and--and their indifference." "Indifference, David?" "Yes. That's the word. It doesn't make any difference what I am, they just say it's all right and--and--that's all." She caught the intensely bitter note in his voice. Christine was young, but she had fine perceptions. Her lip trembled. "_Nobody_ thinks you did it," she cried in a vehement undertone. "Even father--" She stopped abruptly, a quick catch of compunction in her breath. "If he thinks I'm innocent, why is he so set on keeping me from talking to you or your mother?" he demanded quickly, a sudden fire entering his brain. "That doesn't look as if he thinks I'm all right, does it? I'm--I'm not a low-down person. If I was, I could see a reason. But I'm a gentleman. Every man in my family has been a gentleman since--oh, you'll think I'm boasting. I didn't mean to say this to you. It sounds snobbish. No, Christine, your father thinks I'm guilty." "He does not!" she whispered. "I know he doesn't. I've heard him argue with mother about you. He has told her that he does not believe that you killed your grandfather. I've heard him say it, David. He--he is only thinking of--must I say it? Of the disgrace to us if you should be caught and it came out we were your friends. That's it. He's thinking of us, David. It is so foolish of him. We both have told him so. But--but you don't know my father." There was a world of meaning in that declaration--and it was not disrespectful, either. David was discreetly silent. He was quelling the rage that always rose in his heart when he thought of Thomas Braddock's attitude, not only toward him but toward his wife. "I wish he wouldn't look at it in that way, David," she resumed plaintively. "We--we would be so happy if you could be with us,--that is, more than you are." She was stammering, but not from embarrassment. It was in the fear of saying something that might touch his sensitive pride. "I--I love your mother," he cried intensely. "She's the best woman I've ever known--except my own mother. She's better than my aunts--yes, she is! Better than all of them. I could die for her." She clutched his arm tightly but said nothing. The words could not break through the sobs that were in her throat. Neither spoke for a matter of a hundred feet or more. Then he said to her, rather drearily: "Did you read what the papers said about the--the murder, and about me?" "No. Mother will not let me read the things about crime. But," she said quickly, "she has told me all about it since you came." "They made me out to be a vicious degenerate and an ingrate," he said. "Oh, it was horrible,--the things they said about me. Just as if they knew I was guilty. But, Christine, I am going to make them take it all back. I'm going to make them apologize some day, see if I don't." The fierce agony in his voice moved her greatly. "Oh, if I could help you!" she cried tremulously. He apparently did not hear the eager words. "It all looked so black against me," he went on, looking straight ahead unseeingly. "Perhaps I shouldn't blame them. I have thought it all out, lots of times, Christine, and I've tried to put myself in their place. Sometimes I think that if I were not myself I should certainly believe myself guilty. It _did_ point to me, every bit of it, Christine. And I am as innocent as a little baby. If--if they catch me they'll hang me!" "No, no!" she shuddered. "Doesn't it look to you as if I really had done it?" he demanded. "Tell the truth, Christine. From what you have heard, wouldn't you say it _looked_ as if I were guilty?" She hesitated, frightened, distressed. "The papers did not tell the truth, David," she said loyally. "They hunted for me with bloodhounds," he went on vaguely. "If they had caught me then, I would have been strung up and shot to pieces. You see," turning to her with a gentle note in his voice, "my grandfather was very much beloved. He was the very finest man in all the state. I have sworn to avenge his death. I swear it every night--every night, Christine. First, I'm going to clear myself of the--the hideous thing. And then!" There was a world of promise in those two words. "You have said that there is a man who can clear you," she ventured. "Who is he, David? Where is he to be found? Why doesn't he step forward and clear you?" "I--I don't know where he is. In New York, I think. He--he was sent out of the country by--by some one. Do you want to hear my side, Christine?" "Do you--care to speak of it, David?" "Yes. You will understand. You are good. I want you to tell your mother, too." He slackened his pace. Both forgot that the hour for the "tournament" was drawing perilously near. "I lived with my grandfather, Colonel Jenison. My father was killed at Shiloh. My mother died when I was nine years old. I had one uncle, my father's younger brother. He was an officer in the Southern army, just as my father was. He gave my grandfather trouble all of his life. They say it was his wild habits that drove my grandmother to her grave. I knew him but slightly. When the war was two years old, he was court-martialed for treason to the cause. The story was that he had been caught trying to sell some plans to the enemy. He was sentenced to be shot. It was very clear against him, my mother told me on one of the rare occasions when his name was mentioned. But he escaped during a sudden, overwhelming attack by the Yanks. They never caught him. My grandfather, who had been a colonel in the war with Mexico and had lost an arm, disowned him as a son. He disinherited him, leaving everything to my father. When my father was killed I became the heir to Jenison Hall and all that went with it,--a vast estate. "A year ago my uncle Frank turned up. He came to Richmond with proof that cleared him of the charge of treason in the minds of his old comrades. Three men on their deathbeds had signed affidavits, showing that they were guilty of the very thing of which he was accused, he being an innocent dupe in the transaction. I don't know just how it all came about, but he was exonerated completely. With this to back him up, he came to the Hall to plead for my grandfather's forgiveness. He came many times, and finally it seems that grandfather believed his story. Uncle Frank took up his residence at the Hall. I hated him from the beginning. He was a wicked man and always had been. I don't believe what the affidavits said. "Well, he soon learned that I was to be the heir. Everybody knew it. I was at the University. Grandfather had sent me there. It was my second year, for I had gone in very young. When I went home for the Christmas holidays, Uncle Frank was practically running the place. Grandfather didn't really trust him, I'm sure of that. They had a couple of violent scenes New Year's week up in the library. It was something about money. Grandfather told me a little about it, but not much. He said Uncle Frank wanted him to change his will, claiming it was not fair to him, who had been so wrongfully accused. My grandfather told me that he would never change it. He might leave a certain amount in trust for Uncle Frank, but Jenison Hall was not to go to any Jenison whose name had ever been blackened. "One day I went up to Richmond to spend the night with some college friends. My uncle Frank was already there, on business he said. Well, I found out what his business was--accidentally, of course. He was there to see a nigger lawyer! Think of that, Christine. A Jenison having dealings with a nigger lawyer. This lawyer had once been a slave on the Jenison place, a yellow boy whose name was Isaac--Isaac Perry. When the war broke out he went with my uncle as his body-servant. He was a smart, thieving fellow,--always too smart to be caught, but always under suspicion. My grandfather had given him some schooling because Isaac's father was _his_ body-servant and he would have done anything for old Abraham. After the war Isaac was made a lawyer, 'way down in South Carolina. The judges were darkies, they say. Later on he went to Richmond and did some business for the darkies there, besides conducting a barber shop. "Well, I happened to go into his shop the evening I reached Richmond. He was shaving Uncle Frank. They did not observe me as I sat back along the wall. I heard him tell Uncle Frank he would surely come to the hotel that night to see him. Uncle Frank said it was important and asked him to be sure and bring the papers. He left the shop without seeing me, and Isaac had forgotten me, I reckon. I wondered what business he and my uncle could have to discuss. That night I made it a point to be at the hotel. I saw Uncle Frank standing out in front. When Isaac came up he took him off down the street. I heard him say to Isaac that the hotel was not a good place for a nigger to be seen, except as a servant, even if he did come as a lawyer. So they went back to the barber shop, which was closed. Isaac opened the doors and they went in. The blinds were shut. I waited until Uncle Frank came out, an hour later. He said to Isaac, who came no farther than the door, that he would be up again in about ten days to see how he was 'getting on with it.' Isaac said he'd have it fixed up 'so slick that it would fool the old man hisself.' "When I went back to Jenison Hall I tried to tell grandfather about all this, but I didn't do it. I couldn't bear the thought of carrying tales. I went back to school, but I couldn't get the thing out of my head." Christine interrupted him, intense almost to breathlessness. "They--they were fixing up a new will!" she whispered, vastly excited. He smiled wanly. "I wish I could prove that. About three weeks ago I had a message from Uncle Frank, saying that grandfather was quite ill. I was to come home. When I got to the Hall grandfather was much better, and seemed annoyed because my uncle had brought me home unnecessarily. That very night he was murdered." "Oh!" she whispered. "He was shot by some one who fired through the parlor window. It happened at half-past eleven o'clock, a most unusual time for grandfather to be about. He was fully dressed when they found him a few minutes after the shooting. A heavy charge of buckshot had struck him in the breast. I--I can't tell you any more about that. It was too horrible." "I know, I know! Poor David!" "I was studying in my room up to a short time before the shot was fired. The house was very still. Uncle Frank was downstairs with granddaddy. I couldn't imagine what kept them up so long, talking. Finally I heard Uncle Frank go upstairs to his room. Grandfather was pacing the parlor floor; I could hear the stumping. Finally he came out in the hall and called to me. I hurried downstairs. He was very much agitated. 'David,' he said, 'do you remember a darky we used to have named Isaac?' I was startled. 'Well, he has become a lawyer up in Richmond. He has done very well, and I want you to know what I have done for him. You are to own this place some day--soon, I fear. I have signed a paper to-night, deeding over to Isaac the little five-acre patch on the creek where he was born and where his father and grandfather were born. He saw your uncle Frank in Richmond recently and asked him if it would be possible for him to buy the ground. He wants to put up a building to be known as the Old Negroes' Home. I have thought it over. I did not sell it to him, David. I _gave_ it to him. It is all quite regular and legal. The paper is in that drawer there. You are taking the law course at the university. I want you to look over the agreement to-night or to-morrow morning, before it is taken over to the county seat. It is just as well that you, who are to be the next master of Jenison Hall, should understand all that there is in it.' "'Has Isaac Perry been here?' I asked, for I was strangely troubled. 'He has,' said granddaddy, 'he brought the document over this evening. Isaac seems likely to make something of himself, after all.' 'I will read it in the morning,' I said, and then I told him that I was glad that he had given the ground. 'Your uncle Frank advised me to tell you of it to-night,' said he. "I went upstairs to my work, leaving him below. Soon afterwards I went down again to get the paper, feeling that I might as well read it before going to bed. He was reading in the back parlor. I got the envelope out of the drawer in the front room and went back upstairs without disturbing him. A minute afterwards I heard the shot. My own gun was standing in the corner. I grabbed it up and crawled through a window on to the gallery, running down the back steps. As I reached the bottom I saw a man climbing over the fence to the right. Not dreaming that a tragedy had occurred, I rushed after him. He easily got away in the darkness. Then I returned to the house. As I came near I saw Isaac Perry--unmistakably Isaac Perry--at the corner. He turned and ran the instant he saw me. When he crossed in front of the lighted parlor windows I distinctly saw that he did not carry a gun. The man I chased had one. Just then a great cry came from the parlor. I rushed up to the window to look within. One of the panes of glass had been broken. "My grandfather was lying on the floor. Two of the servants were standing near, looking at him as if paralyzed. There was blood on his white shirt front. Oh! I can't tell you how it--" He could not continue for a full minute or more. The girl was scarcely breathing. "I just stood there and stared, the gun in my hand. Suddenly some one leaped upon me from behind. It was my uncle Frank and he was out of breath, very much excited. 'You little devil!' he yelled two or three times. Then he called for help. Servants came running from all directions. I didn't know what he meant. Soon I was to learn." "He--he thought you killed him?" whispered Christine. "He _said_ I killed him. I was dazed--I was crazy. It was a long time before I realized what was happening to me. The--the servants and the neighbors who came in wanted to lynch me--but Judge Gainsborough, who rode over in his night-clothes from his plantation, prevailed upon them to wait--to give me a hearing. My uncle Frank would have let them hang me. I began at last to realize how badly it looked for me. They laughed at my story of the man who ran away. My uncle Frank deliberately denied that Isaac Perry had been there. I was stupefied. It came over me suddenly that--that Uncle Frank had done the shooting. He had killed his own father!" "The monster!" "How wonderfully everything worked out against me. The gun, with one barrel empty, for I had fired it that very day in the woods; my presence at the window; the servants who saw me looking in; my uncle Frank's tale of how he came out on the gallery above and saw me hiding in the dead lilac bushes, and afterwards creep up to the window to look in upon the thing I had done. He told of my attempt to run and of his straggle to hold me. One of the servants had seen me go down when granddaddy called to me, and again he had seen me go down quietly to the library after the paper. I did go quietly, it is true, so as not to disturb the old gentleman. "They all rushed upstairs to search my room. Lying on my table was the long envelope. Judge Gainsborough opened it, so he says. They came downstairs and I shall never forget the look of horror in the Judge's eyes as he stood there staring at me. 'David,' he said, 'this is a terrible, terrible thing you have done.' I couldn't speak. 'How did you know that your grandfather had made this new will?' Christine, the--the paper was a new will, giving everything to my uncle Frank, excepting a small bequest in money and a house and lot in Richmond, which, however, was to go to Uncle Frank in case of my death. The will looked genuine--everybody said so--even Judge Gainsborough. It had been drawn three weeks before and had been witnessed by George Whitman, who died ten days after signing, and Mortimer Simms, who, strangely enough, died three days later." "It was a forgery--a false will?" she cried, trembling violently in her excitement. "I know it was--I know it. My grandfather had told me of the deed. This was the envelope and the paper. There was no such deed to be found. That makes me half believe that he did sign the will, thinking it was something else. My story about the deed was not believed. As for Isaac Perry, my uncle said that he left for New York soon after my grandfather's visit to Richmond, doubtless when the will was drawn and signed. He could not have been near Jenison Hall at the time of the shooting. Uncle Frank produced a letter from Isaac, received that very day from New York, in which he said that he was going to Europe as the body-servant of a New York gentleman who had helped him to secure an education. "They locked me in the cellar and put a guard over me until the sheriff could come up in the morning. Christine, there wasn't a single chance for me to prove my innocence. I knew that Uncle Frank and Isaac Perry had arranged the whole devilish plot--how nicely they arranged it, too! It worked out even better than they expected, for I unwittingly damned myself. I never can tell you of my feelings when the whole thing became clear to me. I must leave that to your imagination. I was as innocent as a babe, and yet, in the eyes of every one, as guilty as ever any murderer has been in this world. My only chance to escape certain hanging lay in escape. It was after three o'clock in the morning when I began to think of flight. I made up my mind that I could never hope for acquittal. I thought only of getting away from them and then devoting my whole life to finding the proof of my innocence. Isaac Perry can prove it--or my uncle. But, my uncle will not do it--and Isaac is not to be found. I discovered that when I reached Richmond two nights afterwards. He had left nearly three weeks before, never to return, it was said. "Well, to make it short, I hit my darky guard over the head with a chunk of stove-wood. I hated to do it, but it was the only chance. You can't kill a nigger by hitting him on the head. Then I crawled through a small hole in the cellar wall into the potato bins beyond. From there I could easily get into the back yard, provided no one was watching. They were all on the other side of the wing, discussing the murder--and me. They said I'd surely be lynched the next night. Oh, it was awful. I crawled out of the window hole and sneaked off toward the hen-houses, below the old slave building. I don't know when they missed me. I only know that I reached the woods and ran and ran till I thought I should drop. Some other time I will tell you of all I went through during the next week. You won't believe a lot of it, I know,--it was so dreadful. There were a good many times when I was ready to give up, and a good many times when they almost had me. God helped me, though. He heard my prayers. I'll never again think there is no God, as a lot of us used to think at the University. You don't know the agony of dread and fear in which I'm living now. Something tells me that they will get me and that I'll never have the chance to find Isaac Perry, to force him to tell the truth." "I am sure you will find him, David," she said, but her heart was very cold. The circus tents were just ahead of them now. The band was playing and people were hurrying along the poorly lighted streets, sheltered by umbrellas, all bound for the "grounds." David's lips were rigid; his eyes saw nothing of the scene ahead, nor were his ears conscious of the music. "Christine, I am going to kill my uncle Frank," he said, quite calmly. "Oh, David!" "If I find I can't clear myself, I am going back there and shoot him down like a dog--just as he shot his poor old fa--father." His body shook with the racking sobs that choked him. "You must not do that," she implored, terrified. "Then they would surely hang you." "Ah, but I wouldn't mind it then," he said between his teeth. "David, you must let mother talk with you. She can tell you what to do. Don't think of--of that, please, please don't." He turned upon her, amazed. "Don't you think that he _ought_ to be killed?" he demanded. "Can't a judge order him to be hung?" she asked encouragingly. "But they'd never be able to prove it on him. Christine, I--I wouldn't be surprised if he has also killed Isaac Perry. I've thought of that, too. Isaac is too dangerous to be left alive, don't you see. He drew the will and perhaps forged granddaddy's name, and also that of George Whitman, after Whitman's death. Maybe granddaddy really signed the will, thinking it was the transfer. I--" "Do you think your uncle wanted you to be hanged for something you didn't do,--for a murder he committed himself?" "Why not? I was in the way. If they lynched me at once, he could feel very secure. Besides, he knew of the other will, dated years ago, which is in the bank at Richmond. Of course, the fraudulent will takes the place of the old one." David did not then tell her of his stealthy return to Jenison Hall two nights after his flight and before the funeral. On this occasion he not only secured the envelope containing the three thousand dollars, hidden in his mother's black leather trunk, but from a place of concealment he was forced to hear such damning talk regarding himself that he again stole away, fully convinced that his wild design to charge his uncle with the crime would be absolutely suicidal. A sharp exclamation from the girl brought him out of his last fit of abstraction. They were quite near to the tents. "We are late," she cried nervously. "I didn't think of the time. The band is playing the waltz--that's the second piece before the tournament. We must hurry. Oh, I _do_ hope father has not missed us!" There was abject terror in her voice. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, apprehending the outcome for her alone. "We must make for the rear of the dressing-tent. Hurry, Christine." They broke into a run, intending to make a wide circuit of the main-tops. She was breathless with anxiety. He grasped her arm to help her across the rough ground. "If he knew, he would drive you away," she cried. She was not thinking of herself. Near the dressing-tent they were met by Mrs. Braddock, who had started out to look for them. "Hurry," she whispered. "Go in on the other side, Jack--quickly. Come this way, Christine. Your father is coming back through the main-top. Mr. Briggs and Professor Hanson are detaining him near the band section--talking of a change in the music. Oh, I've been so nervous!" "Good-by, David," whispered Christine, as she flew to the sidewall. An instant later she disappeared, casting a quick glance up into his face as he gallantly lifted the canvas for her to pass under. "I'm sorry," he murmured impulsively to Mrs. Braddock as she followed. Then he raced around the tent and bolted under the wall into the men's section. Joey Grinaldi simply glared at him. In two minutes he was out of his clothes and beginning to slip into the stripes. "Here's Brad," hissed a friendly "Courtier," calling in through the flap, beyond which a dozen men and women were waiting to make the _grand entree_, or "tournament." Braddock came in, his cigar wallowing in the throes of a vacuous but conciliatory smile. Every one stood ready for a shocking display of profanity. "Jacky," he said, with amiable disregard for the novice's tardiness, "would you mind letting me take fifty dollars until to-morrow? There's a guy out here that threatens to attach us if I don't settle an outrageous bill for feed and provisions. I'm just forty-eight fifty short." No one spoke. David did not even glance at Grinaldi or the others. He knew and they knew that there was no such claim against Braddock. He hesitated for an instant only. Then it was borne in upon him that Braddock may have heard of his walk with Christine and was demanding tribute. He picked up his coat and deliberately drew from the lining a thin, folded bit of paper. It contained all the money that was in his possession at the time. He counted off five ten-dollar bills, replaced the remaining thirty dollars inside his striped shirt, and handed the tribute to Braddock. "You're a damn' fine boy, Jacky," said the man. "I'll not forget this." Later on he demonstrated the sincerity of the remark. He came back when the show was half over, and with vast good nature took David over to where Mrs. Braddock and Christine were standing with wonder and doubt in their faces. "I guess it's all right for us four to see a little more of each other," he said, but he did not look at his wife. "Jacky, you rascal, you _are_ a gentleman, and as such I introduce you to my family. Let's all be friends." Mrs. Braddock's face went white. She understood the motive of the man. He meant to follow new methods in the effort to secure possession of David's money. Christine beamed with delight. She kissed her father's stubbly cheek and called him a darling! CHAPTER VII THE BROTHERS CRONK "Don't you tell 'im you've stuck that money away in a bank," was all that Joey Grinaldi said when David told him of Braddock's sudden change of front. It was a sentient bit of advice, showing that the wool was not to be pulled over Joey's eyes. "I think I understand," said David gloomily. "But what am I to say to him?" "Don't peep. Leave it to me. I'll tell 'im that you're talking of putting most of it into the business after you get safely over into Indiana or Illinois. That'll stave 'im off. But he's going to 'ave that money, one way or another, my lad. That's wot's on 'is mind." The next morning, just after the parade, David went off for a walk in the town. His thoughts were of the evening before and the half-hour he had spent with Christine. He was thinking of her wonderfully sympathetic eyes, of the live touch of her hand on his arm, of the soft music in her voice, of the delicious words of faith and confidence she had whispered. He could still feel the tight clasp of her fingers on his arm; he could still hear the tremulous note in her voice. And how gravely she had smiled at him in the ring! What a profession of deep loyalty there was in the glance she gave him when he passed her in the dressing-tent! The world seemed to have grown brighter for him all of a sudden. For the first time in weeks he whistled,--and it was a blithe air that he lilted, for, by nature, he was a blithe lad. His reverie was abruptly disturbed. Turning a corner he came upon a group of town boys. They were making faces and hooting at a strange figure that crouched against a high board fence. David recalled this figure at once: a squat, hunchback lad who was to be seen at times behind the counter of the "snack stand." More than once had the strong, straight Virginian gazed with a certain pity upon the pale-faced cripple. He had been struck by the look of patient suffering in the boy's face. But now that look was gone. The hunchback, who could have been no more than fifteen, was convulsed by rage. He was showing his teeth like a vicious dog. The most appalling flow of profanity came shrieking through his white lips. David was shocked. Never in all his life had he heard such unspeakable names as those which the tormented boy was screaming back at his tantalizers. Suddenly he spat upon the biggest of his scoffers, following the act with a name so vile that the other leaped forward and struck him a heavy blow in the face. This was too much for David. He dashed in and planted a stinging right-hander on the jaw of the enraged bully, sending him to the ground beside the hunchback, who was writhing there with blood on his lips. For a second or two the fellow's companions, four in number, stood undecided. Then, with one accord, they rushed at David Jenison. The Virginian was not skilled in the art of self-defense, but he was brave and cool and strong. He met the rush staunchly. To his own surprise his wild swings landed with amazing precision and the most gratifying effect. Two of his assailants reeled away under the savage impact of his blows. A stone, hurled by one of the young ruffians, struck him on the shoulder; another reached his face with a cutting blow of the fist. He felt the hot blood trickling down his cheek. But he stood squarely in front of the hunchback, his fists swinging like mad, half of his blows failing to land on the person of any one of his crowding, cursing adversaries. Suddenly a new element entered into the one-sided conflict. A whirlwind figure dashed out of an alley hard by and came crashing into the thick of the fray. "Dick! Dick!" shrieked the cowering cripple, the fiercest glee in his shrill voice. "Always on hand," sang out the newcomer, slashing out right and left. "Old Nick-o'-time, my lads. So you'd jump on a cripple, would you? Here's a Christmas gift for you, you hayseed!" Singing glibly after this fashion, the tall recruit laid about him with devastating effect. Three of the surprised town boys were sprawling on the ground; another was trying to scale the fence ahead of an expected boot-toe; the fifth was being soundly polished off by the exhilarated David. In less time than it takes to tell it, five terrified hoodlums were "streaking it" in as many directions, their chins high with a mighty resolve, their legs working like pinwheels, their eyes popping and their mouths spread in speechless endeavor. Five seconds later you couldn't have found one of them with a telescope. The hunchback had leaped forward and was clasping a leg of the tall, angry rescuer, whining petulantly: "Why didn't you come sooner, Dick! You never look out for me. One of them struck me. See!" "Struck you, did he? I'd--I'd have killed him if I'd knowed that, Ernie. But, say, who's your friend? Looked as if he was doing business all right when I came up. Hello! They got to you, did they? Bleeding like a pig, you are. Say, young feller, never--_never_ put your nose where it can be hit. I hates the sight of blood, and always did." David was wiping the blood from his cheek. The tall young man came over and inspected the break in the cuticle. "Just peeled it off a little," he announced. "No harm done. Oh, I say, you're the new clown, ain't you? I saw you last night. Put it there, kid. You're a brick. I'll not forget what you did for Ernie." The two shook hands. The satirical grin had left the stranger's face. He was regarding David with keen gray eyes, narrowed by the odd intentness of his gaze. David had the feeling that his innermost soul was being searched by the shrewdest eyes he had ever looked into. "I came up just in time," explained the Virginian, still somewhat out of breath. "They were teasing him, and then one of the brutes struck him. I like fair play. I couldn't help taking a hand. They might have hurt him severely." "He's my brother," said the other, putting his hand on Ernie's misshapen shoulder. "No, I won't forget this," he went on. "You didn't have to interfere, but you did. Plucky thing to do. They say you come from Virginia. Well, you've proved it. Thank you for doing this. My name's Dick Cronk. I'm from New York. Ernest, I haven't heard you say anything that sounds like 'much obliged.' Speak up!" The hunchback looked sullenly at the ground, his black eyebrows almost meeting in a straight line above his nose. "He couldn't have licked 'em if you hadn't come, Dick," he protested. "See here, Ernie," said Dick, "that's no way to act. Mr.--er--this young gentleman defended you until I--" "I saw him looking at my--my hump yesterday. He laughed at me," cried the boy fiercely. David's hand fell from his bloody cheek. "Laughed at you?" he cried. "I _never_ did such a thing. You are mistaken." "What were you laughing at, then?" demanded the unfortunate boy, made over-sensitive by his dread of ridicule. "I don't remember that I laughed," said David, perplexed and distressed. "Well, you did," defiantly. David caught the look of profound embarrassment in Dick Cronk's face. He felt a sharp pity for him, though he could not have explained why. "I'm sorry you think that of me," he said. "And I am happy to have come to your assistance just now. Let's be friends." Dick pushed Ernie forward, gently but firmly. The hunchback extended his hand grudgingly. "All right," he said sulkily. "Come on!" said Dick, suddenly alert. "The cops will be along here directly. Let's get back to the lot. I'm not particularly anxious to get pinched just now." He winked at David in a most mysterious way, and then grinned broadly. David looked puzzled. Then a deep flush spread over his unstained cheek. "You mean because you are with me?" he demanded. Dick Cronk stared. "What's that got to do with me? Oh!" He appeared to recall something to mind. "I didn't mean anything like that," he hastened to explain. "As far as that goes, I guess you're in worse company than I am at the present moment." With this enigmatic rejoinder he proceeded to collect three trophies of the battle and toss them over the high board fence. Three of their late enemies had neglected to pick up their hats as they scuttled off the field of carnage. "None of them worth keeping," was his contemptuous remark as he started off briskly in the direction of the circus lot. For the first time in many days the sun was shining. David announced that he would proceed on his walk toward the distant hills. "Better come along with me," advised Dick, halting abruptly. "The cops will get wind of this. They jerk up a circus man on the slightest excuse. It's something of an honor, I believe, to land one of us in jail. The darned rubes talk about it for weeks afterwards, telling how they nailed a desperate character. Everybody connected with a show is a regular devil in their eyes. And that reminds me. I had my lamps on a couple of blue boys down the street as I came up. We'd better go up this alley." The three of them turned into the narrow alley and walked briskly along, Dick Cronk regaling the perplexed David with airy comments on the methods employed by rustic police in their efforts to preserve the city from the depredations of circus followers and scalawags. He was a revelation to the young Virginian. Despite his jaunty, casual manner, there was a certain keen watchfulness in his face, an alert gleam in his lively eyes. He seemed to be taking in everything as they ambled through the alley. When they approached the intersecting street his gaze seemed to project itself far ahead, even to the scouring of the thoroughfare in both directions. "I think those two cops are still at the corner below," he remarked. "We'll turn to the left without looking to the right." They turned to the left. "Yes," said Dick, who, so far as David could see, had not glanced to the right, "they're still there. Let me tell you one thing, pardner. If a cop ever stops you and begins asking questions, just you tell him you're a performer. You can always prove it, whether you are one or not." He drew forth a short black pipe. "Heigho! I'm glad to be back with the show." There was a world of satisfaction in the way he said it. "Are you a performer?" asked David, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the long, supple figure. The fellow was filling his pipe. Dick Cronk laughed softly. "Yes. I've been performing on the perpendicular bars for the past two weeks. Not the horizontal bars, mind you. Banks and Davis do that act. Climbing up and down the bars has been my job lately." "You mean?" "Even the innocent must suffer sometimes," quoth the nonchalant philosopher. It was sharply revealed to David that he had been in jail. Three abreast they moved down the main street of the town, soon mingling with the throngs of country people in the neighborhood of the public square. Dick Cronk's hands were in his trouser pockets; his shoulders were thrown back, his chin elevated, his long legs stepping out freely, confidently. His stiff black hat was cocked airily over his right ear. He was rather flashily dressed, but he had the ease of manner that enabled him to carry his clothed with peculiar unobtrusiveness. They were threadbare and untidy, if you took the pains to look closely; but you never thought of looking closely; you merely took in the general effect, which was rather pleasing than otherwise. The face of this debonair knight of Vagabondia was curiously attractive, though not what you would call handsome. The features were too pronounced, the lips too prone to twist into satirical grimaces. His dark hair grew rather low on his wide forehead; it always looked straight and damp. The nose was long and pointed. When he whistled--which was almost incessantly--the tip of it appeared to protrude at least half an inch farther out from his face and to assume a new elevation. His chin was square and his neck was long. Swift-moving gray eyes twinkled good-humoredly under a frank, open brow. "Are you going to be with the show the rest of the summer?" asked David hesitatingly, at one stage of their conversation. "I don't know," said the other, pursing his lips. "I can't say that I like Braddock's greedy ways. He wants too much in the divvy. There's plenty of shows nowadays that don't ask anything off of us. But Brad's got to have a slice of it. See? I've been thinking a little of Barnum or Van Amberg." Ernie spoke up shrilly. "You bet your life he ain't going to leave the show." Dick turned pink about the ears. "Never mind that, kid," he said uneasily. David instinctively knew that there was a girl in the balance. Dick had the wonderful knack of "spotting" a policeman two blocks away. At times this quality in him was positively uncanny. "I can see 'em through a brick wall," he said to David. "I guess it must be second sight." "It's second smell," said Ernie briefly. They came at length to the show grounds. Here, to David's amazement, every one they met greeted the tall youth with a shout of joy. He shook hands with all of them, from the hostler to the manager, from the "butcher" to the highest-priced performer, without any apparent distinction. "Hello, Dick, old boy!" was the universal greeting. "Hello, kid!" was his genial response, to young and old alike. Women, sunning themselves, waved their hands gayly at him; some of them wafted kisses--which he gallantly returned. Old Joey Noakes took his pipe out of his mouth, crinkled his face up into a mighty smile, and exclaimed: "It's good for sore eyes to see you again, Dicky. How was it this time?" "I liked the stone pile better than the chuck they gave us. Gee whiz, I'll never get pinched in that burg again." David turned away for a moment to speak to some one. When he looked again, Dick Cronk had disappeared. "Where is he?" he asked of old Joey. "He's 'arf-way uptown by this time," said the clown quizzically. "Who is he, Joey?" Joey looked surprised. "Don't you know Artful Dick Cronk?" he demanded. "Why, Jacky, he's the slickest dip--that's short for pickpocket--in the United States. He's the king of all the glue-fingers, that boy is. My eye, 'ow he can do wot he does, I can't for the life of me see." He then went into a long dissertation on the astonishing accomplishments of Artful Dick Cronk. "And you all associate with him?" cried David, openly surprised. "Certain sure. Why not? He's the most honest dip I ever see. He wouldn't touch a thing belonging to one of us--not a thing. He works only on these 'ere rich blokes wot thinks we're scum and vermin. But, I say, Jacky," he interrupted himself to say sagely, "I wouldn't be seen with 'im too often if I was you. He _does_ have to make some very sudden escapes sometimes, unexpected like, and I doubt if you can dodge as well as he can. If that feller was to give up lifting pocket-books, he could be the grandest lawyer in ten states. Wot he don't know about the law nobody else does. Experience is a wonderful teacher. He comes by 'is name rightly, he does,--Artful Dick. I've larfed myself sick many a time listening to 'ow he lifted things. Once he actually took a feller's pocket-book out of 'is inside westcut pocket, removed the bills, signed a little receipt for 'em, and then returned the leather to the gent's westcut. Later on he 'eard the chap was going to use the money to pay off a morgidge and that he 'ad a sick wife. Wot did Dick do but 'unt him up again and put the money back, removing the receipt and substituting a fifty-dollar bill he'd filched from a wise guy in a bank, all wrapped up in a little note telling the chap to give it to 'is wife with the compliments of Old Nick. I've larfed myself to sleep wondering wot the feller thought when he found the note!" "I've never seen any one just like him. He's a very odd person," said David. "I think I should like him in spite of what he is." "Everybody likes him. He's so light-'earted he almost bursts with joy. He's followed us for two seasons, and I've never knowed 'im to do a mean or dishonorable thing," said Joey with perfect complacency. And yet Joey Noakes was the soul of integrity! David could not help laughing; whereupon the clown hastened to add: "Except to steal." "I'm sorry he's that kind," deplored David. "He's about twenty-one," said Joey, a retrospective light in his eye. "He first joined us as a sleight-o'-hand man in the side-show. That cussed little brother of 'is got a job taking tickets. Dick 'ad been in jail a couple of times and he decided to turn over a new leaf. He'd 'a' been all right if it 'adn't been for Ernie. Ernie didn't think he was making enough money by being honest, so he just naturally drove 'im to picking again. That boy is a little devil. You see, the trouble with poor Dick is, that he's set 'imself up to protect and provide for Ernie all 'is life. It seems that he's responsible for the deformity. When Ernie was five years old, Dick, who 'ad a wery disagreeable temper in them days, kicked the little cuss downstairs. The kid was laid up for months and he came out of it all twisted up--just as you see 'im now. Well, Dick never got mad at anybody after that. He wery properly swore he'd take care of Ernie and try to make up for wot he'd done to 'im. He said he'd beg or steal or kill if he 'ad to, to provide for 'im. He's never 'ad to beg or kill, I'm thankful to say. So, you see, he ain't altogether to blame for 'is occupation. Ernie's a miser. He wouldn't be satisfied with 'arf of a decent man's wages, if Dick minded to go to honest work; he must have 'arf of all Dick can steal, and he sets up a 'orrible rumpus if Dick don't make some good pulls. Ernie's excuse for 'is greediness is this: he says he wants to 'ave plenty to fall back on if Dick 'appens to get a long term in the pen. Who's going to support 'im, says he, while Dick's doing time? Wot do you think of that for brotherly love?" "It's unbelievable!" "He curses Dick in one breath and sweeties 'im in the next," went on Joey. "Wheedles 'im, don't you see. Once Dick was in the jug for two months. Ernie wanted to kill 'im afore he got out, he was that enraged at 'im for being so inconsiderate as to get caught. They say Ernie has several thousand dollars in a bank in New York, every nickel of which Dick stole for 'im. Dick spends 'is own share freely, or gives it away for charity, or--ahem! lends it to needy persons as 'appens to know 'im." "Poor fellow! What a life! What is to become of him?" cried David, genuinely concerned. "Oh, he's got all that set down in 'is book of fate, as he calls it. He says he's going to be 'anged some day. He's just as sure of it as he's sure he's alive." "Just a morbid notion." "Well, it's his antecedents, as the feller would say. In the family, so to speak. His father was 'anged for murder when Dick was eleven years old. I daresay it's got on 'is mind, poor lad." "His father was hanged?" cried David, in a lowered tone. A swift shudder swept over him. "He was," said Joey, refilling his pipe and preparing to scratch a sulphur match on his bandy leg. "And a good job it was, too. He was a 'ousebreaker, and he 'ad a wery gentle wife who prayed for 'im every night and tried to get 'im to give up the life on account of the children. One night he got drunk and shot a perfectly 'elpless old man whose 'ouse he was robbing. That's wot they swung 'im for. I daresay that's why Dick 'as never took to drink. He says it takes the polish off from a chap's ambition." All this time, at the back of the "snack-stand" across the lot the Cronk brothers were engaged in earnest conversation, low-toned and serious, irascible on the part of the one, conciliatory on the part of the other. "You know I give you half _always_, Ernie," said tall Dick, almost plaintively. "I never hold out on you." "You say you don't," snarled the other between his teeth. "You got more than twenty dollars out of that guy last night, didn't you? I know you did." "S' help me God, Ernie, I didn't get a--" "He had nearly fifty dollars in the saloon." "I don't know where it got to, then. I nipped only two tens, I swear, Ernie. Why, I wouldn't do you a dirty trick like that for the world." "You done me a dirty trick once," grated the misshapen lad. "If it hadn't been for you I'd be as straight as anybody and I--" "Don't begin on that again, Ernie," pleaded Dick. "Ain't you ever going to give me a rest on that? Ain't I trying to make up for it, the best I know how?" "Yes, and didn't you let 'em catch you back there in Staunton? Is that the way you make it up? Letting me starve--almost." He glared at the ground. "Yes, if I was straight she'd look at me, too. She wouldn't look the other way every time I come around. Oh, you don't know how it feels! She'd go out walking with me instead of that Virginian smart aleck who killed his grandpa. But just see how it is, though! She won't look at me! She won't even look at me!" A whole world of bitterness dwelt in that cry of despair. "If I was straight like you, she'd--she might love me. She might marry me. Just think of it, Dick! I might get her." With the inconsistency of the selfishly irrational he added: "I've got plenty of money. I could give her fine clothes and--But, oh, what's the use? She hates to look at me. I--I hurt her eyes--yes, I hurt her eyes!" It was pitiful. Greed and avarice had made a hateful little monster of him, and yet a heart of stone would have been touched by the misery in his eyes, the anguish on his lips. Dick murmured helplessly: "May--maybe you can get her anyhow, Ernie. Maybe you can. Maybe--maybe." But Ernie's emotion underwent a sudden change. Spitefulness leaped into his eyes; the wail of misery left his voice and in its place came shrill blasphemy. After he had cursed Dick and David Jenison to his heart's content he came to a standstill in front of his unhappy brother. Sticking out his lower jaw angrily he snapped: "Where's the sapphire ring you got from the feller in Charlottesville?" "I--I still got it." "Oh, I see!" sneered Ernie, drawing back. "You're saving it to give to Ruby Noakes, eh? That's it, is it? Cheating me out of it to give to her. An engagement ring, eh? Say, you--" "Hold on, Ernie," said Dick sternly. "I'm not going to do anything of the sort. Why--why, I couldn't give Ruby anything I'd stole. I couldn't!" "Aw, but you don't mind giving me things you've stole. I'm different, am I? I'm not as good as she is, am I? Well, say, lemme tell you one thing: Ruby Noakes ain't going to hook up with a sneak thief." "Ernie," said Dick, going very white and speaking very slowly, "you sometimes make me wish you'd 'a' died that time." "I wish I had! Then they'd 'a' hung you." "I was only nine," murmured Dick, trying to put his arm around his brother, only to have it struck away with violence. "And I was only four," scoffed the other. "Say, let's see that ring." Dick produced the sapphire. It was most unusual in him to carry the smallest part of his gains on his person. The circumstance struck Ernie at once. "So you _were_ going to give it to her," snapped he. "She wouldn't take it if I were fool enough to offer it," said Dick quietly, dropping the ring into his brother's hand. It immediately found a new resting place in the latter's pocket. "Maybe the other one will take it from me," he grinned. "You'd better not try it, Braddock would kick you to death." "Everybody wants to kick me," whined the other, taking a new turn. "But, say, he didn't offer to kick me last night when I told him she'd been out walking with that guy. I seen 'em--I seen 'em sneaking in. I told Brad. I bet he raised thunder with 'em." Dick was looking out past the stand in the direction of the big tents. "I'm not so sure," he said dryly. "I see Brad and Christine and the guy you mean talking over there by the entrance. They seem to be in a specially good humor." Ernie sprang forward, his eyes dilated. He stared for a full minute without blinking. Then his grip on Dick's arm suddenly relaxed. "Oh, God, how I wish I was straight and handsome like him!" he cried brokenly. Dick did not look down, but he knew that the tears were standing in the boy's eyes. "Don't think about it, Ernie," he began. Ernie shook off his hand and angrily rubbed his eyes with his bony knuckles. He sobbed twice, and then burst forth in a shrill tirade of abuse. Quivering with ungovernable rage, he called Dick every vile name he could lay his proficient tongue to. Poor Dick offered up no word of protest, no sign of resentment. When Ernie stopped for sheer exhaustion, not only of his lung power but in the matter of epithets, the tall martyr took his hands out of his pockets, stretched himself lazily, and announced, as if it were expected of him as a duty: "Well, the crowd is beginning to gather at the ticket-wagon. I guess I'd better be strolling among 'em, Ernie. So long." Ernie looked up eagerly, his mood changing like a flash. "Good luck, Dick," he said, his eyes sparkling. CHAPTER VIII AN INVITATION TO SUPPER That same night Artful Dick Cronk had a long conversation with Thomas Braddock. David was the principal subject of discussion. The airy scalawag was not long in getting to the bottom of the fugitive's history, so far as it could be obtained from the rather disconnected utterances of the convivial Thomas. They had come upon each other in a bar-room, but Dick had succeeded in getting the showman away from the place before he reached the maudlin stage. The day's business had been good. Braddock was cheerful, almost optimistic in consequence. He vociferously thanked his lucky sun, not his stars. Convinced that this was an uncommonly clever bit of paraphrasing, he repeated it at least a dozen times with great unction, always appending a careful explanation so that Dick would be sure to catch the point--or, you might say, the twist. "If we only had sunshine like this," he announced with a comprehensive wave of his hand, regardless of the fact that it was ten o'clock at night, "I'd clear a million dollars this season. We've got nearly fifteen hundred dollars in that tent to-night, Dick. Twenty-one hundred on the day. A week of this beautiful sunshine and we'd be doing three thousand a day. I'd make old Barnum look like a two-spot. Did you ever see more beautiful sunshine, Dick? Now, did you?" "That's not the sun, Brad," said Dick, removing his pipe from his lips. "That's a canvasman with a torch." They had arrived at the lot. Braddock swore a mighty oath, and with jovial good-humor chucked Dick in the ribs, not very gently, it may be supposed. Dick, with responsive good-humor, seized the opportunity to deliver a resounding thump on Braddock's back, almost knocking the breath out of him. If one could have looked into the brain of the grinning pickpocket, he might have detected a vast regret that policy made it inadvisable to thump the showman on the jaw instead of the back. He had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the other cough violently for some little time. "Don't be so rough," growled Braddock, taking a fresh cigar from his pocket to replace the one that had been expelled by the force of the blow. "Excuse me," apologized Dick promptly. "Say," he went on, without waiting for or expecting forgiveness, "tell me something about this new clown of yours." Whereupon Braddock lowered his voice and told him as much as he knew of the story. They sat on a wagon tongue at some distance from where the men were tearing down the menagerie tent. Dick Cronk puffed his pipe thoughtfully during the recital. One might have imagined that he was not listening. "I don't believe he killed him," said he at the end of the story. "Neither do I," said Braddock. "But it won't hurt to let him think that we're all still a leetle bit doubtful." "I heard all about the murder in Staunton. The sheriff was trying to head the kid off if he came through that county. We were expectin' to see him landed in jail any day. They had bloodhounds after him, I hear." Dick Cronk's body quivered in a sharp spasm of dread. "Say, Dick, listen here," said Braddock, leaning closer and dropping his voice to a half-whisper. "I've been wantin' you to turn up ever since he joined us. What will you say when I tell you he's got more 'n two thousand dollars with him?" Dick started. "What!" "He has. I've seen it. He's lousy with it." "Well, he came by it honestly," said Dick after a moment. "How do you know?" demanded the other insinuatingly. "Honest men are so blamed scarce, Brad, that I can always tell one when I see him." Braddock rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and back again before venturing the next remark. "It would be no trick at all to get it away from him." Dick Cronk looked at his averted face. "What do you mean?" "Think of what a haul it would be." "I suppose you want me to lift the pile. Is that it?" "Not unless we come to a thorough understanding beforehand," said Braddock quickly. "It's my plan, so I get the bulk of it, understand that." "I do the job and you get the stuff," sneered Dick, still looking at his companion. Braddock felt that look and moved uncomfortably. "It's too much money to let get away," he explained somewhat irrelevantly. "Then why don't you pinch it yourself? Why ask me to do it?" Braddock turned upon him angrily. "Why, I'm no thief! I'll break your neck if you make another crack like that." Artful Dick arose. "I'm not so easily insulted," he said with a queer little laugh. "But, say, Braddock, let me tell you one thing. I'm not going to touch that kid's wad, and you ain't either. I'm a friend of his'n, after what happened to-day. Put that in your pipe, Brad, and smoke it." Braddock gulped painfully. "See here, Dick, don't be a fool. We can clean up a--" "You'd take the pennies off a dead nigger's eyes," interrupted the pickpocket scathingly. "I'd do anything to keep the show from busting," said the other with the air of a martyr. "Anything to save my wife's little fortune, and anything to keep my performers from going broke." "I suppose your wife thinks it's all right to get this kid's money away from him," said Dick sarcastically. "She--why, of course, she wouldn't know anything about it. She's so blamed finicky." "Of course!" scoffed Dick. "But she'd stand for it, if she ever did find it out. She needs the money just as much as I do, only she likes to appear sanctimo--" "I hate a liar, Brad," said Dick coolly. Braddock arose unsteadily. "You mean ME?" "I do," said the thief to the liar. "You know you lie when you say she'd back you up in a game like that." "I've a notion to smash you one." "Here's your watch, Brad, and your pocketbook. I nipped 'em just now to see if I'm in practice. Oh, yes, and your revolver, too." He laughed noiselessly as he laid the three articles on the footrest of the wagon and turned away. Braddock blinked his eyes. As he replaced the articles in their places, he said admiringly: "Well, you do beat the devil!" When he turned, the pickpocket was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the earth had swallowed him. Five minutes later Dick appeared quite mysteriously in the dressing-tent, coming from the skies, it seemed to David, who found him filling a space that had been absolutely empty when he stooped over an instant before to adjust his shoe-lacing. "Hello, kid," said Dick easily. "Say, do you know there's a warrant for your arrest right now in the hands of the town marshal of this burg?" David's heart almost stopped beating. "How do you know?" he demanded. "I just piped him and a Pinkerton guy I know by sight hunting up Braddock. Not three minutes ago. They were talking it over between 'em out there by the road. The detective's got a picture of you, he says. Somehow they've dropped on to it that the new clown is you. Evening, Mrs. Braddock." The proprietor's wife came up, followed closely by Christine and Ruby, dressed for the street. In an instant David repeated the startling news. "What is to be done?" cried Mrs. Braddock, aghast. "They sha'n't take you, David," cried Christine. "Where is my father?" fell from Ruby's frightened lips. "Not a second to be lost," said Dick. "I've got a scheme. Come in here, kid, and let me get into the tights you've got on. Tell Joey, and put the rest of the crowd on to the game," he added to Ruby. When the town marshal and the detective deliberately stalked into the dressing-tent a few minutes later, a nonchalant group of performers greeted them, apparently without interest. The new clown was partly dressed, but he had not washed the bismuth and carmine from his lean face. Braddock, perspiring freely, came in behind the officers. He saw in a glance what had transpired. His cigar almost dropped from his lips. "We want you," said the marshal, pushed forward by the detective. The new clown looked up, amazed, as the hand fell on his shoulder. "No trouble now," added the local officer, nervously glancing around him. He knew the perils attending the arrest of a circus performer in his own domain. "What's the matter with you?" exclaimed Dick Cronk, jerking his arm away. "I want you, David Jenison, for murder in--" There was a roar of laughter from the assembled crowd of performers. "Come off!" grinned Dick Cronk. "You're off your base, you rube. Let go my arm!" "None of that now," said the detective. "I've got your picture here. The jig's up, young feller. It's no--" "My picture?" ejaculated Dick in surprise. "Let's have a look at it. I never had my picture taken in my life." The man held out a small solar print of a daguerreotype that David Jenison sat for the year before at college. While the marshal, in some trepidation, regained his grip on the prisoner's arm, the crowd of performers looked at the picture with broad grins on their faces. "Wash up, Jacky," said Grinaldi, stifling a laugh. "Let the rubes see what you really look like," added Signor Anaconda. Dick Cronk proceeded to scrub away the make-up. When he lifted his face for inspection, the two officers glared at him in positive consternation. "I guess I'm not the guy you're after," said Dick coolly. "A blind man could see that I don't look like that picture. My, what a nice-looking boy he is! A reg'lar lady-killer." "You're not the man, that's dead sure," said the Pinkerton operative, perplexity written all over his face. "We've had a job put up on us," he explained, turning to Braddock. "Some smart aleck sent word to our branch that the real Jenison boy was a clown in this show. We got a note from some one who said he belonged to the show. They sent me up here on a chance that it was true. We had this picture in the office. The note says David Jenison joined the show three weeks ago. How long have you been with it?" Dick Cronk was very cunning. "That's funny. I've been with it just three weeks. Say, I bet I know who put up this job on you." He turned to his friends. "It was that darned Jim Hopkins. He's always up to a gag of some sort." "Where is he?" demanded the detective. "The Lord knows," said Dick. "He ducked a couple of days ago. Gone to Cincinnati, I think he said. He works the shell game, and it got pretty hot for him after we left Cumberland. Well, say, this IS great! I guess the drinks are on the Pinkerton office. Thaw out, mister. Charge it to the Molly McGuires." In the mean time David Jenison, attired in a street gown belonging to Madam Bolivar, the strong lady, was on his way to the hotel, accompanied by Mrs. Braddock, Christine and others of the sex he represented for the time being. An hour later he stole away from the hotel, in his own clothes, and boarded a rumbling tableau wagon at the edge of the town, considerably shaken by his narrow escape, but full of gratitude to the resourceful pickpocket. In the railroad yards Dick Cronk hunted out his brother Ernie, and, standing over him in a manner so threatening that the astonished hunchback shrank down in fear, he bluntly accused him of informing on David Jenison. "I know you did it, Ernie," he said, when the other began to whimper his denials. "You've done a lot of sneakin' things, but this is the sneakin'est. If you ever peach on anybody again, I'll--well, I won't say just what I'll do. It'll be good and plenty, you can be I on that." "What'll you do?" sneered Ernie, but cravenly. "Something I didn't do the first time," announced Dick with deadly levelness. Ernie turned very cold. "You wouldn't hurt me?" he whined. "I'm through talkin' about it," said Dick, turning away. "Just you remember, that's all." Colonel Bob Grand descended upon the show the following afternoon. His customary advent was always somewhat in the nature of a hawk's visitation among a brood of chickens: it was quite as disturbing and equally as hateful. Moreover, like the hawk, he came when least expected. "Oh, how I loathe that man," whispered Christine to David. She was waiting for her turn in the ring, just inside the great red and gold curtains at the entrance of the dressing-tent. Tom Sacks was peeping through the curtains at the haze-enveloped crowd in the main tent. David and the slim girl in red were standing at the big gray horse's head and she was feeding sugar to the animal. The youth in the striped tights was a head taller than his companion--for David was then but an inch or two short of six feet and broadening into manhood. Colonel Grand had just entered the dressing-tent with Christine's father, and was paying his most suave devotions to Mrs. Braddock across the way. "When did he come?" asked David, filled with a sharp pity for the girl, who, as yet, could hardly have suspected the real object of his visits. "An hour ago. David, why does he come so often?" "I--I suppose he has business in these towns," he floundered uncomfortably. "My mother hates him,--oh, how she hates him. I don't see why he can't see it and stay away from us. Of course, he's very rich, and he's a--a great friend of father's. They say Colonel Grand gambles and--and he leaves his wife alone at home for weeks at a time. I can't bear the sight of his face. It is like an animal's to me. Have you seen that African gazelle out in the animal top? The one with the eyes so close together and the long white nose? Well, that's how Colonel Grand looks to me. I've always hated that horrid deer, David. I see it in my dreams, over and over again, and it is always trying to butt me in the face with that awful white nose. Isn't it odd that I should dream of it so much?" "It's just a fancy, Christine. You'll--you'll outgrow it. All children have funny dreams," he said with a lame attempt at humor. "I'm fifteen, David," she said severely. "I don't like you to say such things to me. But," and she beamed a smile upon him that fairly dazzled, "I do love the way you pronounce my name. No one says it just as you do. I hate being called Christie. Don't you ever begin calling me Christie. Do you hear?" "I've always loved Christine," he said frankly. Then he felt himself blush under the paint. She hesitated, suddenly shy. "I've never liked David until now," she said. "I've always liked Absalom better. Reginald is my favorite name,--or Ethelbert. Still, as you say, I will doubtless outgrow them. Besides, you are not David. You are poor little Jack Snipe." Her warm smile faded as she turned her eyes in the direction of Colonel Grand. The troubled look came back to them at once; there was a subtle spreading of her dainty nostrils. "How I hate his smile," she said in very low tones. Without looking at David again she passed through the curtains after Tom Sacks and made her way to the ring, a jaunty figure that gave no sign of the uneasiness that lurked beneath the joyous spangles. David looked after her for a moment. He became suddenly conscious of the fact that Colonel Grand was staring at him across the intervening space. Turning, he met the combined gaze of the three persons who formed the little group. There was a comprehensive leer on the face of the Colonel. In that instant there flashed through David's mind the conviction that Colonel Bob Grand was to play an ugly and an important part in his life. Again there came over him, as once before, the insensate desire to strike that gray, puttyish face with all his might. He had been kept out of the ring during the early part of the performance, while Artful Dick and other cunning scouts were satisfying themselves that the Pinkerton man actually had given up the chase. As a matter of fact, the disgusted operative had been completely fooled, and was well on his way to Philadelphia, cherishing the prospect of a laugh at the expense of the superintendent who had sent him on the wild-goose chase. David kept a wary eye open for the danger signal, which, however, was not to come. He saw the Braddocks and Colonel Grand leave the dressing-tent and pass into the open air. This time Braddock walked ahead with his unyielding wife. Apparently he was expostulating with her. She looked neither to right nor left, but walked on with her face set and her eyes narrowed as if in pain. Colonel Grand, the picture of insolent assurance, sauntered behind them, a beatific smile on his lips. The Virginian was sitting on a property trunk, dejectedly staring at the ground when Christine returned from the ring. Thunders of applause had told him when the act was over; the change of tune by the band announced the beginning of the next act--that of the strong man and his wife. How well David remembered these sudden transitions. He almost longed to be out there now, in the thick of it, with good old Joey Grinaldi at his side, dodging the ringmaster's lash and grinning at the jokes of the veteran. The girl came straight up to him, her anxious gaze sweeping the interior. She was about to speak to him, but changed her mind and hurried on to her dressing-room. An instant later she was back, greatly agitated. "Where is my mother?" she asked. "They went away a few minutes ago," replied David, as unconcernedly as possible. "Where? Where did they go, David?" she cried, her voice low with alarm. "To the side-show, I think," prevaricated he. He saw the look of relief struggling into her face. "She--she always cries when she goes out with them together," she murmured piteously. "Oh, David, I'm so worried. I don't know why--I don't know what it is that causes me to feel this way. But I am frightened--always frightened." He took her little hand between his own; it was trembling perceptibly. Very gently he sought to reassure her, his heart so full that his voice was husky with the emotion that crowded up from it. "Nothing ever can happen to your mother, Christine--nothing. Please don't worry, little girl. Colonel Grand can't--won't do anything to hurt her. Your father won't let that happen. He won't--" "David, I am not so sure of that," she said slowly, looking straight into his eyes and speaking almost in a monotone. He started. For a moment he was speechless. "You must not say that, Christine," he said. "I don't know why I said it," she responded, nervously biting her nether lip. Then she smiled, her white teeth gleaming against the carmine. "She'll be back presently, I know. I'm so silly." "You are very young, you'll have to admit, after this display," he chided. She left him. Joey Grinaldi came in a few minutes later and took his _protege_ off to the ring, with the assurance that "the coast" was clear. All the rest of the afternoon David's heart ached with a dull pain. He could hardly wait for the time to come when he could return to the dressing-tent. At last, he raced from the ring, pursued by the inflated bladder in the hand of Joey Grinaldi, their joint mummery over for the afternoon. Christine was sitting on the trunk that he had occupied so recently; Mrs. Braddock was nowhere in sight. "David," she said slowly, as he drew up panting, "they did not go to the side-show." He was spared the necessity of an answer by the providential return of the girl's mother. She came in alone from the main tent. A glance showed them both that she had been crying. Christine sprang forward with a little cry and slipped her arm through her mother's. As they passed by David the mother's stiff, tense lips were moving painfully. He heard her say, as if to herself: "I cannot--I will not endure it any longer. I cannot, my child." David stood before her the next instant, his face writhing with fury, his hands clenched. "Is--is there anything I can do, Mrs. Braddock? Tell me! Can I do anything for you?" he cried. She stared for a moment, as if bewildered. Then her face lightened. The tears sprang afresh to her eyes. "No, David," she said gently. "There is nothing you can do." "But if there should be anything I can do--" he went on imploringly. She shook her head and smiled. As soon as he could change his clothes David hurried out to the menagerie tent. For many minutes he stood before the cage containing the African gazelle, fascinated by the nose and eyes of the lachrymose beast. He stared for a long time before becoming aware that the animal was looking at him just as intently from the other side of the bars. It was as if the creature with the broad white muzzle and limpid eyes was studying him with all the intentness of a human being. An uncanny feeling took possession of the boy. He laughed nervously, half expecting the solemn starer to smile in return--with the smile of Colonel Grand. But the deer's eyes did not blink or waver, nor was there the slightest deviation of its melancholy gaze. A voice from behind addressed the lone spectator. "Attractive brute, isn't he?" David turned. Colonel Grand was standing a few feet away, gazing with no little interest at the occupant of the cage. Young Jenison did not reply at once. He was momentarily occupied in a mental comparison of the two faces. "It is our latest curiosity from the wilds of Africa," he said, his eyes hardening. A Jenison could not look with complacency on a man who, first of all, had fought against his own people, even though one Jenison had been a traitor to the cause. "The only one in captivity," quoted the Colonel. He had the smooth, dry voice of a practiced man of the world. "That's what they say on the bills, sir." He was walking away when the other, with some acerbity, called to him. "What's your name?" "Snipe, sir," said David, after a second's hesitation. "I've seen you back there in the dressing-tent. You don't look like a circus performer." "I am a clown," observed David coolly. Colonel Grand came up beside him. They strolled past several cages before either spoke again. "You are new at the business," remarked the older man. David felt that the Colonel was looking at him, notwithstanding the fact that they seemed to be engaged in a close inspection of the cages. "I am a beginner. Joey Grinaldi is training me." Thomas Braddock was watching them from beyond the camel pen. "It may interest you to know that I am accustomed to civility in all people employed by this show," said Colonel Grand levelly. "Do you always get what you expect?" asked David, stopping short. The Colonel faced him. "Young man," said he, after a deliberate pause, "let me add to my original remark, I _always_ get what I expect." "Then I suppose you expect me to sever my connection with this show," said David, looking straight into his eyes. The Colonel smiled. "Your real name is Jenison, isn't it?" "Yes," said David defiantly. The Colonel was startled. He had not expected this, at any rate. "And you are wanted for murder, I understand." "Yes." "By George, you take it coolly," exclaimed the other, not without a trace of admiration in his voice. "Why should I equivocate?" demanded David coldly. "You are in possession of all the facts. What do you intend to do about it?" The Colonel's eyes narrowed. There was not the slightest trace of anger in his manner, however. "I intend to have your wages increased," he said quietly. David could not conceal his surprise, nor could he suppress the gleam of relief that leaped to his eyes. "I don't understand," he muttered. "I expect you to remain with this show until the end of the season," said the Colonel grimly. David pondered this remark for a moment. "I may not care to stay so long as that--" he began, puzzled by the Colonel's attitude toward him. "But you _will_ stay," said the other, fastening his gaze on David's chin--doubtless in the hope of seeing it quiver. "If you attempt to leave this show, I will--Well, a word to the wise, young man." "You don't own this show!" flared David. "And you can't bully me!" Not a muscle moved in the face of the tall Colonel. In slow, even tones he remarked: "I am not cowardly enough to bully a wretch whom I can hang." In spite of himself, David shrank from this cold-blooded rejoinder. "See here, Jenison," went on Colonel Grand, noting the effect of his words, "I have a certain amount of respect for your feelings, because you are a Southerner, as I am. You have pride and you have courage. You are a gentleman. You are the only gentleman at present engaged in this profession, I'll say that for you. There is a probability that you may not be so unique in the course of a week or two. I am already a part owner of this concern. You know that, of course. It is pretty generally known among the performers that I have a creditor's lien on the business. I wish you would oblige me by announcing to your friends that I have taken over a third interest in the show in lieu of certain notes and mortgages. From to-day I am to be recognized as one of the proprietors of Van Slye's Circus. Do you grasp it?" David, a great lump in his throat, merely nodded. "Considerable of my time henceforth will be spent with the show. I intend to elevate you to better associations. You are of my own class. I'm going to give you the society that you, as a Jenison of the Virginia Jenisons, deserve. It won't be necessary for you to mingle with pickpockets and roustabouts and common ring performers. There will be a select little coterie. I fancy you can guess who will comprise our little circle--our set, as you might call it. There are better times ahead for you, Jenison. Your days of riding in a tableau wagon are over. I shall expect you to join our exclusive little circle--where may be found representatives of the best families in the South and North. Portman, Jenison and Grand. Splendid names, my boy. Ah, I see Mr. Braddock over there. We are dining this evening at the best restaurant in town. Will you join us? Good! I shall expect you at six." He had not removed his eyes from the paling face of his auditor at any time during this extraordinary speech. He saw surprise, dismay, perplexity and indignation flit across that face, and in the end something akin to stupefaction. Without waiting for David's response to the invitation--which was a command--he smiled blandly and walked away in the direction of the camel pen. For a full minute Jenison stood there, staring after him, his heart as cold as ice, his arms hanging nerveless at his sides. The real, underlying motive of the man was slow in forcing itself into his brain. He was to be used! He was to be made a part of the ugly web Colonel Grand was weaving about the unhappy Braddocks! All the innate chivalry in the boy's nature sprang up in rebellion against this calm devilry. A blind rage assailed his senses. For the moment there was real murder in his heart; his vision was red and unsteady; his whole body shook with the tumult of blood that surged to his brain. Impelled by an irresistible force, his legs carried him ten paces or more toward the object of his loathing before his better judgment revived sufficiently to put a check on the mad impulse. Instead of rushing on to certain disaster, he conquered the desire to strike for his own pride and for the honor of the woman in the case; he had the good sense to see that he could gain no lasting satisfaction by physical assault upon the man nor could he expect to help matters by reproaching Thomas Braddock for the miserable part he was playing in the affair. Covered with shame and anger, he abruptly hurried away from the scene of temptation, making his way to the dressing-tent, where he hoped to find Joey Grinaldi. The clown met him at the entrance to the main tent. It was apparent that he had been waiting there for his _protege_. "Joey!" cried David, all the bitterness in his soul leaping to his lips, "do you know what has happened?" Joey's quaint old visage was never so solemn. His pipe was out; it hung rather limply in his mouth. "Mrs. Braddock 'as told me," he said. "They 'ad to do it. They owed 'im nearly seventeen thousand dollars." "What is to become of her--and Christine?" cried the boy, his face working. "The good God may take care of 'em," returned the clown slowly. He puffed hard at his cold pipe. "I'm not surprised at wot's 'appened, Jacky. It's part of 'is game. Some day afore long he'll kick Braddock out of the business altogether. That's the next step. She can't do anything, either. All she's got in the world is in this 'ere show. If--if she'd only go back home to her father! But, dang it, she swears she won't do that. She'll work in the streets first." "She can have all I've got," announced David eagerly. "She ain't the kind to give up this 'ere property without a fight, Jacky. They'll 'ave to make it absolutely impossible for her to stay afore she'll knuckle to 'em. She's got pluck, Mary Braddock 'as. I know positive she 'as more 'n twenty thousand in this show. She put most of it in a couple of years ago when Brad swung over the deal with Van Slye. Since then she's put the rest in to save the shebang. I say, Jacky, I observed you a-talking to _him_. Wot is he going to do with you? Give you the bounce?" "No," said David, clenching his hands. Then he repeated all that had taken place in the menagerie tent. "I will not sit at table with that beast," he exclaimed in conclusion. Joey led him off to a less conspicuous part of the tent. He appeared to be turning something over in his mind as they walked along. "Jacky, I know it goes 'ard with a gentleman like you to sit down with a rascal like 'im, but I fancy you'll 'ave to lump your pride and do wot he arsks." "I'm--I'm hanged if I do!" cried the other. "Well, now, just look at it from another point," said Joey earnestly. "You can't afford to oppose 'im right now. Besides, there's others as needs you. There's got to be some one in the party to look out for Mrs. Braddock and Christine. Brad won't, so you're the one. Stick to 'em, Jacky, and if needs be, the whole show will back you up. You just go to supper with 'em." "You're right, Joey," said David, his face flushing. "They stood by me, I'll stand by them." "The restaurant is down the main street near the 'otel," explained the old clown. "Ruby and me will walk down with you. And, by the way, I've been talking with Dick Cronk about you. He arsked me to tell you to be mighty careful of that wad o' money." Joey winked his left eye. "He's a terrible honest sort of chap, Dick is, so I told 'im you'd put it in a bank. Which relieved 'im tremendous. He's took a fancy to you, and he says he's working on a scheme to get you out of all your troubles at 'ome." "Oh, if there is only a way to do it!" cried David fervently. "If I could go back to dear old Jenison Hall, Joey! I could give them a home--for all their lives. I would do it. And you could come there, Joey--you and Ruby. Oh, you don't know how I long to be there. My old home! I--I--" "Don't get excited now, laddie," warned old Joey. He spent a minute in calculation. "That there Dick Cronk is a mighty cute chap. You never can tell wot he's got in that noddle of 'is. No, sir, you never can tell." CHAPTER IX A THIEF IN THE NIGHT That supper was one of the incidents in David Jenison's life always to stand out clear and undimmed. The party of five sat at a table in a remote corner of the dingy little eating-house. At no time were they free from the curious gaze of the people who filled the place, a noisy bumptious crowd of country people making the most of a holiday. The glamour was over them. Some one had recognized "Little Starbright" in the simply clad, demure young girl; the word was passed from table to table. She was stared at and whispered about from the time she entered the place until she left. David, alert and dogged, soon forgot the boorishness of the country-folk, however, in the painful study of conditions near at hand. Colonel Grand, the host, was most affable. More than that, he was tactful. While there was an unmistakable air of proprietorship in his manner, he had the delicacy or the cleverness not to allow it to become even remotely oppressive. He managed it so that the conversation was carried on almost entirely by the two men. Now and then the three palpably unwilling guests were drawn into it, but with such subtlety on the part of their host that they were surprised into a momentarily active participation. Thomas Braddock, cleanly shaven and rather uncomfortably neat as to the matter of linen, was garrulous to the point of noisiness. He confined his remarks to the Colonel, or, in a general way, to the tables near by, with an occasional furtive glance at his wife's set, unsmiling face by way of noting the effect on her. The topics were commonplace enough: the weather, the prospects ahead, the improvements to be made in the show as business got better. Mrs. Braddock, who sat at the Colonel's left, was so noticeably pale and repressed that David wondered if she would be able to go to the end of the wretched travesty without fainting. Unutterable despair hung over her lowered eyelids; it stood out plainly in the lines at the corners of her mouth. Christine seldom looked up from her plate. She sat next to David. He felt the restraint and embarrassment under which the girl suffered. Her cheek went red on more than one occasion when her father's coarse humor offended her delicate sensibilities; she paled under the veiled, insinuating compliments of the other. Once David's hand accidentally touched hers, below the edge of the table. His strong fingers at once closed over hers and for many minutes he held them tight, unknown to any but themselves. The dark lashes drooped lower on her cheeks; he could almost detect the flutter in her throat. The ghastly meal drew to a close. The Colonel, leaning forward, was gazing through half-closed lids at the profile of the woman beside him. His long, white fingers fumbled with an unused spoon beside her plate. Once she had hitched her chair a little farther away from his,--an abrupt proceeding that had not failed to attract David's attention. "Well, we will have many of these jolly little spreads," he was saying in his oiliest tones. "Birds of a feather, you know. Ha, ha! That's rather a clever way of putting it, eh, Jack?" Braddock laughed boisterously. He had lighted a cigar regardless of the waiter's polite announcement that smoking was not allowed. "Yes, we will dine together frequently. I like these gay little affairs," went on the Colonel, not even attempting to conceal his shrug of disgust for Braddock. "I am leaving for home to-night, but I expect to return in two or three days. You must all join hands in breaking me into the circus business. Don't let me be a--what is it you call it? A rube, that's it. We'll be the show's happy family. Every circus has a 'happy family.' Yes, 'pon my soul, I like the life. I _do_ enjoy these quiet, impromptu little suppers."' David was suddenly conscious that Braddock's eyes were upon him. He met the gaze, curiously impelled. The man's face was almost purple; the look in his eyes was not of anger, but of a shame that sprung from what little there was of manhood left in him. Braddock looked away quickly, and an instant later announced that it was time to get back to the "lot." In front of the restaurant they came upon Artful Dick Cronk. The pickpocket made no attempt to speak to them, but when his eye caught David's, he closed it slowly in a very expressive wink. Braddock hurried on ahead, explaining that he was obliged to look after something at the grounds. "I'll look after them," said the Colonel affably. "With Jack's assistance," he supplemented. Christine clutched her mother's arm. The Colonel and David dropped behind, for the narrow sidewalk was crowded. In this fashion they made their way to the show grounds. Mrs. Braddock and Christine did not once look behind. Colonel Grand chatted amiably with his young companion, but never for an instant was his gaze diverted from the straight, proud figure of the woman ahead. He entered the dressing-tent with them. There he quietly said good-by to the three of them. The tears of indignation were still standing in Christine's eyes. He willfully misinterpreted their significance. A hateful tenderness came into his voice, but it did not disturb the sneer on his lips. "Don't cry, little one; it is only for a few days," he said. Christine's face flamed. "It's--it's not because you are going away!" she cried in angry astonishment. "I wish you would never come back! Never!" He smiled broadly. "Dear me! And I thought we were getting on so nicely. Pray control yourself, my dear. I had no idea you could be so ferocious. Who does she get it from, Mary?" Mrs. Braddock started as if stung. Her eyes dilated. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name. "How dare you?" she cried, her breast heaving with suppressed anger. He shook his head dejectedly. "I have much to learn, it seems." She opened her lips to say more, but reconsidered, and abruptly turned away, drawing Christine after her into the women's section. Colonel Grand turned to David. "Young man," he said sharply, "I don't like the way you look at me. Stop! Not a word, sir! I have taken up the show business seriously. I find that our animal tamers are entirely competent. What we need here is a tamer for vicious and ungentle bipeds. There is a way to tame them, just as there is a way to break the spirit of the lion or the tiger. It shall be my special duty to deal with these unruly human beings. I hope you grasp my meaning. It would not be to my liking to begin my experiments on a young gentleman of Virginia." "Sir, you've already begun!" cried David in a choking voice. "You may do what you like with me, but you've just got to let _her_ alone. You--" Colonel Grand held up his hand. David seemed to be gasping for breath. "That's the very thing I like about you, Jack," said his late host derisively. "I can always depend upon you to look after the ladies. They will be absolutely safe while you are with them. There is a distinct advantage in having a real gentleman about. You see, I can't always be on hand to--to protect them from such bullies as Thomas Braddock." His allusion to Braddock was strikingly impersonal. "I am making you my first lieutenant--no, my aide-de-camp, Jack. All you are required to do is to obey orders. Don't run the risk of a court-martial, my lad. It occurs to me that an uncle of yours has had an experience of that--but, never mind. Your first duty, sir, is to convince the ladies that I shall expect them to be in better humor when I return from the East." The words came from his lips with biting emphasis; the smooth oily tone was gone. There was no pretense now; he was showing his fangs. David could only glare at him, white to the lips. He could not speak. He could only look the hatred that welled in his heart. But down in that heart he was telling himself that some day he would crush this monster. Colonel Grand studied the clean-cut, aristocratic face for a moment. A conciliatory smile came to his lips. "Don't forget that I am doing you a good turn," he said. "Christie is a very pretty girl. She's fond of you. If you're smart, you'll make the most of her. You ought to thank me instead of--ah, but I see you do thank me." He willfully misjudged the expression on David's face. "I see no reason why you can't spend a most agreeable season with us. Jack." "Colonel Grand," said David very slowly, controlling himself admirably, "if it were not that I now regard it as my sacred duty to stay with this show, I would defy you, sir, and denounce you, let the consequences be as disastrous to me as you like. I am not afraid of you. I _can_ go back home--to jail--with my head up and my heart clean, if you choose to send me there. I am not afraid of even that. But I _am_ afraid of something else. That is why I am ready to bear your insults, to humble myself, to submit to your--your commands. Not for my own safety, but for the safety of others. Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, to assure you that you can depend on me to carry out at least a part of your instructions as faithfully as God will let me. I mean by that, sir, your instructions to _protect the ladies!_" He turned on his heel and left the Colonel standing there, a flush mounting to his flabby cheek. "Braddock," he said, a few minutes later, "I'm going to break that Jenison boy if it takes me a year--yes, ten years." "What's up?" demanded Braddock, rolling his cigar over uneasily. "Been sassing you?" "People of his class do not sass, as you call it," said Colonel Grand shortly. "Well, shall I kick him out of the show?" asked the other, perplexed. Remembering David's money, he supplemented quickly: "Say in a week or two?" "No. That is just what I don't want you to do. He stays, Braddock. Understand?" "All right," agreed the other hastily. "I like the kid. He's good company for Christie, too. _Tony_ sort of a chap, ain't he? I can tell 'em every pop. I said to my wife that first night--" "Yes, yes, you you've told me that," interrupted Grand impatiently. "You keep him here, that's all. When I'm through with him you may kick him out. There won't be much left to kick." For a long time after the departure of his new partner, Thomas Braddock's attitude of extreme thoughtfulness puzzled those who took the trouble to observe him. At last, when his cigar was chewed to a pulp and the night's performance was half over, light broke in upon him. He fancied that he had solved the Colonel's designs regarding David Jenison. His face cleared, but again clouded ominously; he conversed with himself, aloud. "By thunder, if he thinks I'm going to let him gobble up that kid's money, he's mistaken. Why didn't I think of this before? I might have known. It's the long green he's after. I wonder who told him about the two thousand." He scratched his head in sudden perplexity. "I wonder what's got into Dick Cronk. He's too blamed good, all of a sudden. That brother of his might try the job, but--no, he'd bungle it. Besides, he'd probably stick a knife into Davy if the kid made a motion." He began chewing a fresh cigar; his pop-eyes were leveled with unseeing fierceness at a certain patch in the "main top"; his brain was seeing nothing but that packet of banknotes. How to get it into his possession: that was the question that produced the undiverted stare and the lowering droop at the corners of his mouth. "I've got to get that wad," he was saying to himself, over and over again, with almost tearful insistence. Driven by the value of propinquity, he finally made his way to the dressing-tent. The performers were surprised to find him unnaturally sober and quite jovial. A certain nervousness marked his manner. He chatted amiably with the leading men and women in his company; the fact that he removed the cigar from his lips while conversing with Ruby Noakes and the Iron-jawed Woman, created no little amazement in them. He was especially gentle with his wife, and superlatively so with his daughter, both of whom were slow to show the slightest sense of responsive warmth. He proudly, almost belligerently, proclaimed Christine to be the loveliest creature that ever stepped into the sawdust ring. In spite of that fact, however, it was his plan to have her retire at the end of the season, when, if all went well, she was to go to a splendid school for young ladies. Mrs. Braddock eyed him narrowly. She was searching for the cause of this sudden ebullience, this astounding surrender to her own views regarding their daughter. As for Christine, she was more afraid of him than she had been in all her life. This new mood suggested some vague, undefinable trouble for her mother. The girl's rapidly developing estimate of her father was taking away all the illusions she had been innocently cherishing up to the last few weeks. To her horror, she was beginning to look for something sinister in all that he undertook to do or say. Unable to face the speculative anxiety in the eyes of his wife and child, Braddock edged off to the men's section of the tent. His furtive, nervous glances about the small apartment escaped the notice of the men who were changing their apparel. To his own disgust, a cold perspiration began to ooze out all over his body--the moisture of extreme nervousness and indecision. He took a stiff pull at his brandy flask. His shifting gaze ultimately rested on David Jenison's neatly deposited clothing. The boy was in the ring. His "street-wear" lay on a "keester" somewhat apart from the heterogeneous pile of men's apparel on the adjacent boxes. David's "pile" was close to the outside wall of the tent. Braddock marked its location in respect to a certain side pole. He began to tremble; a weakness fell upon him; the resolution partly formed in the big tent, and which had drawn him resistlessly to this very spot, gained strength as his blinking eyes swerved their gaze from time to time in the direction of the "pile." All the while he was talking volubly and without a sentient purpose. After fifteen minutes he sauntered from the section, cold with apprehension but absolutely determined on the action which was to follow. Leaving the tent, he strolled off toward the ticket wagon, carefully noting the position of the men who were loading the menagerie tent for the trip ahead. A cautious _detour_ brought him back to the dressing-tent, and directly in front of the spot where David's clothing was deposited. The trembling increased. His mouth filled with saliva. He felt of his hair. It was wet. As he stood there shivering and irresolute, the band struck up the tune that signified much to his present venture,--the tune heralding the approach of the entire company of male performers in the "ground and lofty tumbling act." It meant that the men's section would be entirely deserted for five or ten minutes. Thomas Braddock was not a thief. He never had stolen anything in his life. He did not intend to steal now. Before he entered the dressing-tent, half an hour ago, he had justified himself unto himself: he was not going to steal David's money. His purpose was an honest one, or so his conscience had been resolutely convinced. He meant to surreptitiously borrow the idle money, that was all. Toward the end of the season, when he was vastly prosperous--as he was sure to be--he would go to David and restore the money, with interest; whereupon the grateful young man would fall upon his neck and rejoice. He needed the money. David did not need it. What would his wife say if she came to know of this? What would Christine think of him? They were harsh questions and they troubled him. But above these questions throbbed a still greater one--the one that made his body damp with fear: was the money still in the boy's pocket, or was he carrying it with him in the ring? Of one thing he was sure: David trusted to the integrity of his fellow performers. As for that, so did Thomas Braddock. In all his experience with circus performers he had never known one of them to steal; somewhat irrelevantly he reminded himself that circus women were notably chaste. No; David's money was quite safe in that dressing-tent. Two full minutes passed before he could whip the conscience into submission. It was, as it afterwards turned out to be, the last stand of the thing called honor as it applied to whiskey-soaked Tom Braddock. Then he shot forward across the black shadows to the side pole he had been glaring at for a quarter of an hour. Through the lacings in the sidewall he saw that the section was empty. When David put his hand inside the lining of his waistcoat an hour later, he turned pale and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. For an instant he permitted them to sweep the laughing, unconscious group of men surrounding him. "Joey," he said a moment later, taking the clown aside, "my pocketbook is gone." "Wot!" gasped Joey. "'Ave you lost it?" "It has been stolen." Joey's face grew very sober. "Don't say that, Jacky. It was in your ves'cut--as usual?" "Yes. The lining is slashed with a knife." "Jacky, are you sure?" almost groaned the clown. "Why--why, there ain't nobody 'ere as would steal a pin. No, sir, not one of--" "I know that, Joey," said David. He was very white and his eyes were heavy with pain. "I know who stole it." Grinaldi looked up sharply. Something darted into his mind like a flash of lightning. "You--you don't mean--" "I won't say the name. And you mustn't say it either, Joey. But I am as sure of it as I am sure my heart beats. Casey said he--the man came in here for half an hour--I can't believe he is a thief! Joey, _they_ must never know. We must not mention this thing to any one. I don't mind the money. It is nothing--" Joey wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Right-o! Not a blooming word. I see your meaning. By Gripes, he's sinking pretty low. But," hopefully, "mebby he didn't do it." "I hope he didn't, but--" The boy shuddered. "Joey, I passed him as I came from the ring awhile ago. He was leaning against a quarter pole. The look he gave me was so queer, so ferocious, that I turned away; I couldn't understand it. But I do now, Joey. It's as clear as day to me. He had discovered that instead of twenty-five hundred dollars, there were but six ten-dollar notes in that pocketbook. Do you understand? He was black with rage and disappointment--" "I see! Well, blow me, I--I--" Here Joey began to chuckle. "He's wondering where the balance of it is. He was trying to look through your shirt, Jacky. He--" "Do you remember that he followed us in here and watched us change clothes? Well, I noticed that he never took his eyes off me. He was watching to see if I had anything hidden about me--a belt, a package, or--anything. Joey, it's as plain as day." "And he did kick that little property boy a minute ago. I remember that. He is mad! He's crazy mad, Jacky, we've got to keep our eyes peeled, you and me--and another pusson, too. We got to stand by tonight to protect 'er. He probably thinks that pusson can tell 'im where it is." But Thomas Braddock was not thinking of his wife in connection with the disappointment that had come to him in that last hour of degradation. He was thinking of Colonel Bob Grand and wondering what magic influence he had exercised over the boy to compel him to deliver so much money into his hands. Down in the darkest corner of his soul he was cursing Bob Grand for a scheming thief, and David Jenison for a hopeless imbecile. Before the wagons were well under way for the next stand he was dead drunk in the alley back of the hotel bar, having first thrashed a porter who undertook to eject him from the place. Mrs. Braddock and Christine waited for him at the lot until the men began to pull down the dressing-tent. David was with them. Not far away was Joey Noakes, the center of a group of performers, held together by his wonderful tale concerning the sensational bit of pocketpicking that had occurred early in the evening. A congressman had been "touched" for his purse and three hundred dollars while waiting for a train at the depot. The town was wild over the theft. In the midst of the narrative, Artful Dick sauntered up to the group, coming, it seemed, from nowhere. The gossiper abruptly stopped his tale. "They say it's going to rain before morning," said Dick airily. "You guys will get rust on your joints if you stay out in it. Ta-ta! I'm looking for my brother. Seen him?" He strolled on, as if he owned the earth. "That feller'll be as rich as the devil some day, if he keeps on," said one of the group. That was the mild form of opprobrium that followed Artful Dick into the shadows. As he passed by the Braddocks and David, he doffed his derby gallantly. To this knowing chap there was something significant in the dreary, half-hearted smile that the mother and daughter gave him. At any rate, he took a second look at them out of the corner of his eye. "Brad's up to something," he thought. The smile he bestowed upon Ruby Noakes, who stood near by with several of the women, was all-enveloping. Ruby's dark eyes looked after him until his long, jaunty figure disappeared in the darkness. "Too bad he's a thie--what he is," ventured the Iron-jawed Woman pityingly. She addressed the reflection to Ruby, who started and then positively glared at the speaker. David escorted Mrs. Braddock and Christine to the hotel, where he also was to "put up" under the new dispensation. They had but little to say to each other. A deep sense of restraint had fallen upon them. He understood and appreciated their lack of interest in anything but their own unexpressed thoughts. As for himself, he was sick at heart over the discovery he had made. Not for all the world would he have added to their unhappiness by voicing the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind, rioting there with an insistent clamor that almost deafened him. Christine's father was a thief! From time to time, as they walked down the dark, still street, he glanced at her face, half fearing that his thoughts might have reached her by means of some mysterious telepathic agency. Even in the shadows her face was adorable. He could not see her dark eyes, but he knew they were troubled and afraid. He would have given worlds to have taken her in his arms, then and there, to pour into her little sore heart all the comfort of his new-found adoration. For days it had been growing upon him, this delicious realization of what she had come to stand for in his life. She had crept into his heart and he was glad. Innate gallantry and a sense of the fitness of things had kept him from uttering one word of love to this young, trusting, unconscious girl. He was very young--stupidly young, he felt--but he was old enough to know that she would not understand. He was content to wait, content to watch. The time would come when he could tell her of the love that was in his heart; but it was not to be thought of now. He walked between them, carrying Mrs. Braddock's handbag. Christine refused to burden him with hers. As they neared the business section of the town--one of the Ohio River towns--they encountered drunken men and merry-makers. A particularly noisy but amiable group approached them from the opposite direction. Christine nervously clutched David's arm. She came very close to him. He was thrilled by the contact. After the revelers had lurched by them, she gave an odd little laugh and would have removed her hand. He pressed his arm close to his side, imprisoning it. She looked up quickly, a sharp catch in her breath. Then she allowed her hand to rest there passively. They were nearing the hotel when David impulsively gave utterance to the hungry cry that was struggling in his throat: "Oh, Mrs. Braddock, if I were free to go back to Jenison Hall! I could ask you and Christine to come there and stay. You'd love it there. It's the finest old place in--" "Why, David!" cried Mrs. Braddock in surprise. "Forgive me!" he cried abjectly. "Oh, I should love it--I should love it, David," cried Christine in a low, wistful voice. It seemed to him that there was a strange, mysterious wail at the back of the words. Mrs. Braddock uttered a short, bitter laugh. "How good you are, David. What would your friends think if you took circus people there to visit you?" He replied with grave dignity. "My friends, Mrs. Braddock, include the circus people you mention. I am not likely to forget that you took me in and--" "And made a clown of you," she interrupted. He was gratified to see a smile on her lips. The light from a window shone in her face. Her eyes were wet and glistening. He held his tongue for a moment, wavering between impulse and delicacy. His gaze went to Christine's half-averted face. He was moved by sudden apprehension. Was she beginning to suspect the real attitude of Colonel Bob Grand toward her mother? Was it something more than mere antipathy that filled her heart? "See here, Mrs. Braddock," he began hastily, "I'm right young to be saying this to you, but I want you to know that I am terribly distressed by what has taken place in--in your life. I know you hate Colonel Grand. I know he is a bad man. His new interest in this show is the outgrowth of an old one." She started. Her eyes were full upon his face. "You are not likely to know any more peace or happiness here. Why don't you give it up? Why don't you leave the show? Why--" "David," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "you don't know what you are saying." "You could go back to your father," he went on ruthlessly. "I know it would be all right. He would not--" She interrupted him quickly. "Who has been talking to you of my affairs?" He bit his lip. "Why, I--well, Joey Grinaldi. He is your best, truest friend. He told me all--" Christine was leaning forward, peering past him at her mother's averted face. The girl's clutch on his arm tightened perceptibly. "Mother," she said wonderingly, "what does he mean? Isn't--isn't your father dead? What is it that Joey Noakes has told you, David?" David realized and was dumb with a sort of consternation. Mrs. Braddock hesitated for a moment, and then said to him, drear despair in her voice: "Poor David! You don't know what you have done. No, Christine, my father is not dead. Be patient, my darling; I will tell you all there is to tell." "To-night?" half whispered Christine, dropping David's arm, moved by the horrid fear that there was some dark secret in her life which was to put a barrier between him and her forever. "Yes, my dear." CHAPTER X LOVE WINGS A TIMID DART The circus encountered vile weather from that time on. Day after day, night after night, during the last two weeks in June, there was rain, with raw winds that chilled and depressed the strollers. The route of the show ran through the Ohio River valley, ordinarily a profitable territory at that time of the year. July would see the show well started for the northern circuit, where the floods were less troublesome and the weather bade fair to turn favorable. So bad were the floods in one particular region that the concern was obliged to cancel dates in three towns, lying idle in a God-forsaken river-place for two wretched days and traveling as if pursued by devils on the third. The horses, overworked and half starved, obtained a much-needed rest. Performers and employees alike grew taciturn and absorbed in speculation as to the immediate future. No one believed that the show could continue against such distressing odds. At no performance were the receipts half adequate to the requirements; each clay saw the enterprise sink deeper into a mire of debt from which there was no apparent prospect of escape. The characteristically ebullient spirits of the performers surrendered at last to the superstitions that persistently obtruded themselves upon the notice of individuals. All manner of "bad luck" signs cropped out to sustain this multitude of beliefs. Every one was resorting to his luck stone or an amulet. Even David Jenison, sensible lad that he was, fell under the spell of superstition. He carried a "luck piece" given him by Ruby Noakes, and not once but many times was he guilty of calling upon it for relief from the general misfortune. A bloody fight on the circus grounds between the showmen and an organized band of town ruffians came near to bringing the concern to a disastrous end. The riot happened in one of the hill towns along the river, and was due to the ugly humor of the unpaid canvasmen and the roustabouts who went searching for trouble as an outlet for their feelings. Guy ropes were cut by an attacking force of half-drunken rowdies; the canvases were slashed and wagons overturned. The oldtime yell of "Hey, Rube!" marshaled the circus forces. There was a battle royal, in which the local contingent was badly used up, more than one man being seriously injured. David Jenison fought beside his fellow performers, who rallied to protect the dressing-tent and the terrified women. In the darkness and rain, after the night performance, the opposing forces mingled and fought like wild beasts. The young Virginian, vigorous as a colt, was a hero among his comrades. For days afterwards, every one talked of the stubborn stand he made at the rear of the dressing-tent, where he swung a stake with savage effectiveness in combat with half a dozen rioters who had cut the ropes, allowing the sidewalls to drop while many of the women were dressing. He was fighting for Christine Braddock, who was waiting in the tent for him, instead of going to the hotel with her mother earlier in the evening. He glorified himself forever in the eyes of the terrified girl; he was never to forget the soft, tremulous words of loving anxiety she used, quite unconsciously, while she went about the task of bandaging the cuts on his face half an hour later in her mother's room, where many of their intimates had gathered for attention. "We must find Dick Cronk and attend to his wounds," protested David, addressing the others who were there. "He came to my assistance before any one else arrived. I think he dropped from the sky." Ruby Noakes closed her eyes suddenly to hide the telltale gleam that had leaped into them. She knew that Dick Cronk was fighting for her, and her alone. "I saw him just now," she said after a moment. "He didn't have a scratch and he is perfectly mad with joy over the whole thing." "He could fall out of a balloon and not even get a lump on his head, that feller could," grumbled the contortionist, who had two very black eyes and several "lumps." Braddock, partially sobered by the serious consequences likely to arise from the riot, spent an uncomfortable day in the town. The circus manager succeeded in half-way convincing the authorities that his people had been set upon and were in no way responsible for the affray. Threats of suit against the town for damages had the desired effect: the authorities were eager to let the aggregation depart. But in that sanguinary conflict David Jenison had won more than his spurs; these volatile, impressionable people, in disdain for their own positions in life, were saying, "Blood will tell." Down to the lowliest menial the sentiment regarding him underwent a subtle but noticeable change. He was no longer the guileless outsider: he was exalted even among those who once had scoffed. Anxiety, worry and a mighty craving for exoneration, with a glorious return to the land of his people, triumphant in his innocence, were telling on the proud, high-spirited youth. A gauntness settled in his face; there was a hungry, wistful look in his eyes; his ever-winning smile responded less readily than before; sharp lines began to reveal themselves, flanking his nostrils. His heart was bitter. The weeks had brought him to a fuller realization of the horrid blight upon his fair name; he had come to see the wreck in all its cold, brutal aspects. The realization that he was a hunted, branded thing, with a price on his head, sank deeper and deeper into his soul. Hunted! Chased as a criminal! He, a Jenison of Virginia! Nor was he permitted at any time to feel that he was safe from arrest. Thomas Braddock, savagely disappointed on that shameful night, made life miserable for the young clown. Only a sodden hope that there was still a chance to secure the treasure kept him from actually doing bodily harm to David, to such an extent that he might be forced to leave the show. That hope, and the ever-present dread of the still absent Colonel Grand, moved Braddock to tactics so ugly that a constant watch was being observed by those who sought to shield not only the Virginian but the man's wife and child. The proprietor was sinking lower and lower in the mire of dissoluteness. There was no longer any pretense of sobriety. He drank with vicious disregard for the common aspects of decency. He was ugly, quarrelsome, resentful of any effort on the part of his friends to guide him out of the slough in which he was losing himself. More than one kindly disposed person had been knocked down for his "interference," as Braddock called it. David Jenison shrank from contact with him, revolting against the language he used, despising him for the threats he held over him, distressed by the snarling requests for money. No day passed that did not bring to David an almost irresistible impulse to escape this loathsome man by deserting the show. A single magnet held him: Christine. He endured torment and obloquy that he might always be there to defend her and the sad-eyed, broken woman who had defended him. If it had not been for the plight of these loved ones he might have persuaded himself to go back to Virginia and give himself up for trial. Time had encouraged him in the belief that his innocence would prevail. He had talked it over with Joey and Dick Cronk. Both of them had advised him to stand to his original determination to find Isaac Perry before putting himself in jeopardy. Colonel Grand's prolonged absence was the cause of much speculation and uneasiness. The entire company lived in dread of his return, yet each individual was eager to have it over with. No man liked the new partner; every one knew where his real interest lay. Thomas Braddock cursed him in secret for remaining away while the show was tottering on its last legs. Mrs. Braddock never spoke of the man, but it was not difficult to interpret the anxious, daunted expression in her eyes as, day after day, she appeared at the tent; nor was the temporary gleam of relief less plain when she convinced herself that he was not on the grounds. There was method in Colonel Grand's aloofness. He held off resolutely, with almost satanic cruelty, while Thomas Braddock and the weather brought the show to the last stages of desperation. At the psychological moment he would present himself and exact his pound of flesh. Christine's attitude toward her father changed forever on the night of David's luckless appeal. She had the whole story of her mother's life before she went to bed that night. From that unhappy hour of truth she gave all of her love to the abused gentlewoman whose willfulness and folly had resulted in her own appearance in the world. The knowledge that David knew the story, with all others, at first raised a sombre barrier between them, which was broken down by the young man's tender consideration and devotion. She was no longer the gay, sprightly creature he had known at first. Now she lived well within herself, a curb on her spirits that seldom relaxed except when she was happily alone with her mother and David. Then she breathed freely and cast off the weight that oppressed her. There was no mistaking David's attitude toward this dainty, bewitching comrade of those troublous, trying days. The whole company saw, approved, and was delighted. Joey alone spoke to him of what was in the minds of all. "Jacky," he said one blustering evening, "I see how it is with you now; but is it going to endure? Don't blush, my lad, and don't flare up. We all know you're terrible took with 'er. It's nothink to be ashamed of. Wot I'm going to say is this. She's a puffect child yet and you are still a schoolboy. Are you going to be man enough when you gets older and more mature-like to stick by this 'ere puppy love that means so much to 'er now? Are you going to love 'er allus, just as I dessay you'll find she will do by you?" "But--but Joey," stammered David in confusion--"she doesn't care for me in that way." Joey closed one eye and puffed thrice at his pipe. "Jacky, it's not to your credit as a gentleman to be so blooming stupid." "She's so very young," murmured David. "Well, love grows up, my lad, just the same as folks does," said the old clown wisely. "If--if I thought she'd love me when she's old enough to--" began David, his eyes gleaming. He stopped there, confused and awkward. Joey eyed him. "You mean by that, that you'd go so far as to marry 'er?" David flushed. Then his eyes flashed with resentment: "See here, Joey, that's not the way to speak of her. She's a lady. She's not a--" He checked himself suddenly. "Virginians are very 'igh and mighty pussons, I've been told," said Joey, leading him on with considerable adroitness. "Perhaps you have also been told that we require no lessons in chivalry," announced David, somewhat pompously. Joey chuckled softly. "Don't get 'uffy, Jacky. Let's get back to the fust subject. 'Ow is it going to be with you two when you've really growed up? You're a couple of babes in the woods just now." David was silent for a moment. Then he faced the old clown proudly. "She's perfect, Joey; she's wonderful. I expect to love her always. When she's old enough, I am going to ask her to be my wife." "Provided you escape the gallows," remarked Joey sententiously. "Yes," said the boy, setting his jaw, but turning very white. "But she knows I am innocent. Even though I should always live under this shadow, and under another name, I would not feel that I was doing her a wrong in asking her to share my lot with me. Nothing could be worse than what she has to bear now. But, Joey," he concluded firmly, "I am going to clear my name, as sure as I live." The old clown nodded his head, eyed his _protege_ furtively and lovingly, and lapsed into silence. For a long time neither spoke. It was David who broke the strain. "Joey, I wonder if you know how much Dick Cronk loves Ruby?" He put the question tentatively. "I do," responded Joey promptly. "He loves her so much and so honestly that he won't tell 'er about it." "I feel very sorry for him." "So do I. He's often told me that he's mad in love with 'er. But he says she can't haf--afford to 'ave anything to do with a pickpocket. He says it wouldn't be right. So he's just going on loving 'er and saying nothink. That's the way it'll be to the end." "And Ruby?" "Well, she knows 'ow it is with 'im. I daresay that's why she's allus trying to get 'im to give up wot he's doing now and go out West where he could begin all over again." "If he did that, would you let her--" "That's the question, my lad," interrupted Joey very soberly. "I don't think I could let 'er marry a chap as 'ad been a thief. I--I, well, you see, Jacky, I want my gal to marry a gentleman." His lip twitched and he fell to studying the ground. David did not smile. He looked away, for he understood the longing that was in the heart of this lowly-born jester who did not even pretend to be a gentleman. "No," said Joey after a long time, "he won't even ask 'er, 'Ow can he, feeling as he does about hisself? You see, he says he's going to be 'anged some day afore he gets through. He's that positive about it I can't talk 'im out of the idee. He says it won't do no good to reform if he's sure to be 'ung in the end. He says it's destiny, wotever that is." He got up and strolled away, saying it was time to dress for the performance, adding lugubriously that there'd be more people in the band-stand than there'd be in the "blues." When the night's performance was over, Thomas Braddock came back to announce to the performers that they would have to travel by wagon from that time on, unless they chose to pay their own railroad fare. "What's good enough for me and my wife and daughter is good enough for the rest of you, I reckon," he said. "We travel by wagon to-night. Mary, you and Christie take the car of Juggernaut. You can take anybody else in with you that you like. I've noticed you don't want me around any more. Maybe you'll take this Jacky boy in with you." He left the tent, laughing boisterously. "Now is the time for me to use some of my money," said David, hastening to Mrs. Braddock's side. "I'll get back what Joey and Casey have. You shall not travel in those wagons. I protest against it. The rest of the performers have some of their wages left. They can tide over these bad times. But you have nothing. You are at his mercy. Don't say no, Mrs. Braddock. I mean to do it." He had his way. Joey and Casey and Ruby produced, between them, nearly four hundred of his precious dollars. The generous boy promptly put the entire amount in Mrs. Braddock's hands. "It is a loan," she murmured. "Certainly," he said gravely. "Ruby, you will go with us," she went on. "My husband must be made to understand that we are to thank you and Joey for this bit of luxury." Joey Grinaldi sought out Braddock and told him of his determination to share his little store of savings with Mrs. Braddock and Christine. There was a scene, but the clown stood his ground. "I suppose I can sleep in the gutter," raved Braddock. "I don't give a 'ang where you sleep, Tom Braddock," shouted Joey, angry for the first time in years. "Where's that Snipe kid?" demanded the other. "He's to stay with me," announced Joey. "The damned little sneak, he could save us a lot of trouble if he'd thaw out and hand over some of the money he's hiding. I'm going to have it out with him. He can't stay on here and let--" "I wouldn't talk so much, Brad. Better keep a close tongue in that 'ead of yours," said the clown meaningly. Braddock looked at him in sudden apprehension. He began to wonder what the old clown suspected. He changed his tactics. "If Dick Cronk was only here, I could borrow enough from him to get a place to sleep," he growled petulantly. "But, curse him, he hasn't been near us since that job in Granville, ten days ago." When Joey left him he was cursing everything and everybody. On the way to the hotel Christine and David walked together. She clung very tightly to his arm. Leaving the grounds, she had whispered in his ear: "David, I adore you--I just adore you." "I'd die for you, Christine. That's how I feel toward you," he responded passionately. A sweet shyness fell upon her. The chrysalis of girlish ignorance was dropping away; she was being exposed to herself in a new and glowing form. Something sweet and strange and grateful flashed hot in her blood; the glow of it amazed and bewildered her. "Oh, David," she murmured timorously. "My little Christine," he breathed, laying his hand upon hers. She sighed; her red lips parted in the soft, luxurious ecstasy of discovery; she breathed of a curiously light and buoyant atmosphere; she was walking on air. Little bells tinkled softly, but she knew not whence came the mysterious sound. An amazing contentment came over them. They were very young, and the malady that had revealed itself so painlessly was an old one--as old as the world itself. Their hearts sang, but their lips were mute; they were drunk with wonder. They lagged behind. Far ahead hurried the others, driven to haste by low rumbles of thunder and the warning splashes of raindrops. The drizzle of the gray, lowering afternoon had ceased, but in its place came ominous skies and crooning winds. Back on the circus lot men were working frantically to complete the task of loading before the storm broke over them. Everywhere people were scurrying to shelter. David and Christine loitered on the way, with delicious disdain for all the things of earth or sky. A vivid flash of lightning, followed by a deafening roar of thunder in the angry sky, brought them back to earth. The raindrops began to beat against their faces. Sharp, hysterical laughter rose to their lips, and they set out on a run for the still distant hotel. The deluge came just as they reached the shelter of a friendly awning in front of a grocery store. The wide, old-fashioned covering afforded safe retreat. Panting, they drew up and ensconced themselves as far back as possible in the doorway. She was not afraid of the storm. Life with the circus had made her quite impervious to the crash of thunder; the philosophy of Vagabondia had taught her that lightning is not dangerous unless it strikes. The circus man is a fatalist. A person dies when his time comes, not before. It is all marked down for him. Of the two, David was certainly the more nervous. His arm was about her shoulders; her firm, slender body was drawn close to his. His clasp tightened as the timidity of inexperience gave way to confidence; an amazing sense of conquest, of possession took hold of him. He could have shouted defiance to the storm. He held her! This beautiful, warm, alive creature belonged to him! "Are you afraid,--dearest?" he called, his lips close to her ear. "Not a bit, David," she cried rapturously. "I love it. Isn't it wonderful?" She turned her head on his shoulder. His lips swept her cheek. Before either of them knew what had happened their lips met--a frightened, hasty, timorous kiss that was not even prophetic of the joys that were to grow out of it. "Oh, David, you must not do that!" cried the very maiden in her. "Has any one ever kissed you before?" he demanded, fiercely jealous on a sudden. She drew back, hurt, aghast. "Why, David!" she cried. He mumbled an apology. "Christine," he announced resolutely, "I am going to marry you when you are old enough." She gasped. "But, David--" she began, tremulous with doubt and perplexity. "I know," he said as she hesitated; "you are afraid I'll not be cleared of this charge. But I am sure to be--as sure as there is a God. Then, when you are nineteen or twenty, I mean to ask you to be my wife. You are my sweetheart now--oh, my dearest sweet-heart! Christine, you won't let any one else come in and take my place? You'll be just as you are now until we are older and--" "Wait, David! Let me think. I--I _could_ be your wife, couldn't I? I am a Portman. I _am_ good enough to--to be what you want me to be, am I not, David? You understand, don't you? Mother says I am a Portman. I am not common and vulgar, am I, David? I--" "I couldn't love you if you were that, Christine. You are fit to be the wife of a--a king," he concluded eagerly. "I have learned so much from you," she said, so softly he could barely hear the words. "It's the other way round. You've taught me a thousand times more than you ever could learn from me," he protested. "I'm nobody. I've never seen anything of life." "You are the most wonderful person in all this world--not even excepting the princes in the Arabian Nights." "I'm only a boy," he said. "I wouldn't love you if you were a man," she announced promptly. "David, I must tell mother that--that you have kissed me. You won't mind, will you?" "We'll tell her together," he said readily. "We--perhaps we'd better not tell father," she said with an effort. The words had scarcely left her lips when a startling interruption came. A heavy body dropped from above, landing in the middle of the sidewalk not more than six feet from the doorway. Vivid flashes of lightning revealed to the couple the figure of a man standing upright before them, but looking in quite another direction. Christine's sharp little cry came as the first flash died away, but another followed in a second's time. The man was now facing the doorway, his body bent forward, his white face gleaming in the unnatural light. David had withdrawn his arms from about Christine and had planted himself in front of her. Pitchy darkness returned in the fraction of a second. Distinctly they heard a laugh. Then out of the clatter and swish of driven water came the cheerful cry: "Hello, Jack Snipe!" "Who are you?" called out David. "Ha! Who goes there, you mean. Always use the correct question, kid. How can I give the secret password unless you put it up to me right? Oh, I say! I didn't see you, Miss Christine. Geminy! Ain't this a pelter?" "Why, it's Dick," cried David. "Where in the world did you drop from? The sky?" The pickpocket laughed gleefully. "Did I scare you? I guess it must have surprised you, me popping in here like a Punch and Judy figure, eh? You kind o' surprised me, too, I'll say that for you. Gee whiz, I didn't know anybody was here. Say, do you mind if I get back in there out o' the wind to light my pipe? I'm perishin' for a smoke." They drew back into the corner, and the jovial rascal proceeded to strike match after match in the futile attempt to light his pipe, all the while standing directly in front of David and facing the street instead of sensibly turning his back toward it. With the flare of each match his face was illuminated briefly but clearly. A more experienced observer than David would have grasped the significance of these maneuvers. But how was he to know that Ernie Cronk had been crouching in a sheltered doorway across the street, standing guard while his artful brother entered and ransacked the store whose awning now afforded him a comfortable refuge? And how was he to know that Ernie had glared out upon their tender love scene with eyes in which there was the most pitiable jealousy, the most implacable hatred? Dick Cronk, however, knew that his brother was over there and that he must have seen these two together in the flashes. Moreover, he knew that Ernie had been carrying a small derringer ever since his experience with the hoodlums earlier in the season. That is why he stood before David and vainly tried to light his pipe. "Why, you are perfectly dry," exclaimed Christine, touching his coat sleeve. "Have you been here all the time?" demanded David indignantly. "What do you call all the time? I was here before you came, if that'll help you any. But," he hastened to say, "I reckon I went away before you dropped in. Now don't ask questions. If you axes no questions I'll tell you no lies." With the next flash of lightning he cast a furtive glance in the direction of the show window to their left. The heavy shutter was still open and banging noisily against the casing. A particularly brilliant flash a few moments later revealed to this sharp-eyed young man a huddled, black thing with a ghastly patch of white that he knew to be a face, in the doorway opposite. "Where have you been for the past ten days, Dick? We've missed you. I've asked your brother time and again--" "Do you no good to ask Ernie, Jack," said the pickpocket grimly. "He ain't his brother's keeper, remember that. I've been taking my vacation, that's all. My work was likely to become too confining, so I took a notion for a change of air." A curious note of nervousness sounded in his voice. They were conscious of the fact that he was peering up and down the drenched, black street with quick, apprehensive eyes. Far below there was a lonely street lamp; another stood quite as far away in the opposite direction. "The rain's lettin' up a bit, Jacky," he said in hurried tones. "You've got an umbrell'. Say, if I was you and Miss Christine I'd dig out for the hotel. It's only a block and a half." "We'll wait a few minutes--" Dick pressed his arm instantly and said: "Better go now, kid; better dig." Christine's sharper wits grasped his meaning. The secret of his sudden appearance was revealed to her in a twinkling. She clutched David's arm once more. "Yes, come, Dav--Jack. I don't mind the rain. Mother will be so anxious." And then David understood. "Why, Dick, you haven't been in--" "Sh! You'll wake the guy that sleeps up there and he'll throw a bucket of water out on us for disturbin' him," said the other with quiet sarcasm. "Besides, this is no place for a young lady." "You're right," cried David in no little trepidation. "Come, Christine!" He had looked uneasily down the street. "We can't stay here. If some one should happen to shout from the windows upstairs, we'd be mixed up in--" "Say, Jack," said Dick, detaining him an instant, "come to Joey's room in half an hour. I've got something important to tell you. Good-night, Miss Christine. Sleep tight." "Do be careful, Dick," she cried anxiously, over her shoulder. He laughed jerkily. "The devil takes care of his deputies. Look to yourself. God don't always take such excellent care of his angels." David and Christine hurried off down the street. They looked back once during a faint glow of lightning. Dick had disappeared. While they were explaining their plight to Mrs. Braddock at the hotel entrance, Dick Cronk was leading his frenzied brother by back streets to the railroad yards. He had rushed across the street just in time to restrain Ernie in his blind rage. The hunchback, sobbing with jealousy, had started out to follow David, his pistol clutched to his misshapen breast. All the way through the dark streets the cripple was moaning: "I'd have shot him only I was afraid of hittin' her. I couldn't stand it, Dick. He's got her." "Don't be a fool, Ernie," his brother kept on repeating, greatly disturbed. "He'll be leaving the show before long. He won't stay after the truth comes out about that murder. Then maybe you'll--" "Oh, she'll never look at me! Don't lie to me. I wish I'd 'a' shot when I had the chance." "You'd ha' got me in a nice mess by doing that, Ernie. The police would ha' nabbed me coming out of the store and they'd ha' said I pinked him." "I don't care. They couldn't ha' proved it on me," raged the hunchback triumphantly. "I'll get him some time, and don't you forget it. Say," with a sudden change of manner, "what did you pick up in there?" CHAPTER XI ARTFUL DICK GOES VISITING Half an hour later, Dick Cronk was admitted to Joey Noakes' room at the Imperial Hotel. He came in jauntily, care-free and amiable, as if there was no such thing in the world as trouble. Joey and Ruby Noakes and the faithful Casey were there. Mrs. Braddock and Christine had just gone to their room, David accompanying them down the hall for a private word with the mother. He returned a few minutes after Dick's arrival, his eyes gleaming with a light they had never seen in them before. His voice trembled with an exaltation that would have betrayed him to even less observing people than these. "Sit down, Jacky," said Joey, putting down his mug of beer on the window sill. "I understand you've met Dick to-night afore this. Well, he's got something important to tell you--and all of us, for that matter." David, in no little wonder and apprehension, tossed his hat on the bed and sat down upon its edge. Ruby was sitting at the little table in the center of the room, her elbows upon it, her chin in her hands. She was gazing fixedly at the nonchalant outsider who leaned back in the only rocking-chair and puffed at his pipe. He had declined the mug of beer that had been tendered by the opulent Joey. A big, greasy kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling almost directly above Ruby's head. She had removed her hat. Her hair gleamed black in the glow from above. Casey sprawled ungracefully on a couch near by. "I've seen that precious uncle of yours," announced Dick, in his most _degage_ manner. David started up. "My uncle?" "Yep," replied Dick, enjoying the situation. "Where? Is--is he in town?" cried the other. "Squat, Jacky. Don't flop off your base like that. Always keep a cool head. Look at me. If the ghost of my own dad was to pop out of that lamp chimbley there, noose and all, I wouldn't bat an eye." "Tell me! What has happened?" demanded David, sitting down. He observed that the others wore very serious expressions. Joey was frowning. "Well, 't is a bitter tale," observed Dick, in his most theatric drawl. "Don't look so solemn, Ruby. It's all going to turn out beautiful, like the story-books do. No, kid, he ain't in town,--leastwise he's not in this rotten burg. Gawd knows where he is right now. Last I saw of him was in Richmond four days ago." "Go on, Dick. For heaven's sake, don't you see--" "You're anxious to know how your dear relative is, I twig, as Joey would say. Well, you can take it from me, he's very poorly. If I was him I'd--" "Get to the point, Dick," growled Joey. "Don't be kidding," added Ruby eagerly. "All right," said he resignedly. "Well, I've been to Jenison Hall, Jacky. It's quite a place. If you ever want to sell it give me the first chance at it." The others drew up to the table, David and Casey standing. The pickpocket had lowered his voice. "I got an idea into my nut a couple of weeks ago," went on Dick, squinting at the lamp reflectively. "I let it soak in deep and then I proceeded to act on it. I hopped on a freight one night about ten days ago, and lit out for Richmond, without sayin' a word to anybody. You had told me a good bit of your own story, David, and Joey had told me the rest, adding his confidential opinions as to what really happened on the night of the murder. Thinks I, if I can get my hooks on that uncle of his, I can make him squeal. Well, I went out and hung around Jenison Hall for a night or two, gettin' the lay o' the land. To be perfectly honest with you, I inspected the interior from top to bottom one night. That's a very nice, comfortable room of yours, David. "Next day I walked up, bold as you please, to the front door and asked for Mr. Jenison. I had found out in the village that he was drunk three-fourths of the time and raisin' he--Cain with everybody on the place. Gawd, how they hate him down there! Up I walks, as I said before. He was having a mint julep in the gallery, the nigger said. So I walked right around where he was and introduced myself as Robert Green, of New York. He said he didn't know me and didn't want to. What a mean thing drink is! He ain't a bad lookin' feller, as fellers go. The only thing against him, I'd say, is that he looks about half crazy--sorter dippy, off his nut, batty. "To make the story short, seeing's it's so late, I up and told him I wasn't there to be monkeyed with. I wanted five thousand dollars out o' him mighty quick or I'd tell all I knowed about the murder of his father. Well, you's orter seen him set up! I thought he was going to die on the spot. He upset his glass. Say, is there anything that smells nicer than a mint julep? There's the most appealin' odor to it. If I was a drinkin' man I'd surely go daft over--but, excuse me. I notice you are yawning, Jack, and Ruby's half asleep." "Go on," said she, her bright eyes glistening. "Then he said he'd have me kicked off'n the place. But I just mentioned having seen that nigger lawyer on the night of the murder, right out in front of the house. What's more, said I, I heard the shot that was fired. Being at that time unfortunately engaged in walkin' from Richmond to Washington, I was makin' for the nearest town when night came on. So I had to sleep in that barn down the road. I had all the dates right in my mind, and the hour, and the whole business pictured out puffect, as Joey'd say. I didn't give him a chance to do much talkin'. I sees I had him guessin', so I just sailed in and told him just how it happened, claimin' that the nigger told it to me after I had jumped out and grabbed him as he run past me in the road, thinkin', says I, there had been some skullduggery goin' on or he wouldn't be chasin' his legs off. Well, sir, that uncle o' your'n, for all his bluff, was sweatin' like a horse. Somehow, he forgot to have me kicked out. "My story was, that after I'd grabbed the nigger he told me he hadn't done the shootin', and begged me to let him go. He said the shootin' had been done by the old man's son, and a lot more stuff like that. To clinch the business, I said the nigger, scared half to death, told me about getting a deed signed that night and about a will that had been substituted, and so on and so forth. I was just repeatin' what you said, David. Well, by gum, he was knocked silly. He saw that I did know all about everything. I could tell that by the way he swallowed without having anything to swallow. "He kind o' got control of himself after a while, though, and began to question me sarcastic-like. First, he wanted to know where the nigger was now, and what woodpile he was in. I told him I didn't know anything about the rascal, except that he'd promised to give me five hundred dollars if I'd let him off and on condition I was never to tell his employer of what had passed between us. 'Well,' says your uncle, 'did he give you the five hundred?' 'No,' says I, 'he said he couldn't do it until you had got control of the old boy's money.' Then your uncle laughed. He said I was a fool. 'But,' says I, 'he gave me some valuable trinkets he'd stolen from a cabinet in the house when you were not looking. He said they were heirlooms and would easily bring a thousand.' 'You infernal liar,' said your uncle, but he got a little paler. 'Would you like to take a peek at what's in this little bag?' says I, pulling a leather pouch from my inside pocket. He sort of nodded, so I took out a wonderful gold snuff-box with the picture of a gorgeous French lady and a big letter 'N' engraved on it and held it up. His eyes almost popped out, but he managed to sit still. Then I showed him a magnificent gold watch, a couple of rings set with rubies and diamonds and--" "How did you get them?" cried David, his eyes wide with amazement. "I remember them. They once belonged to my father. My grandfather gave them to me a few weeks before he was killed. But--but I did not have time to get them that night. They were left--" "Right where you put 'em," said Dick coolly. "In the secret drawer of that old wardrobe in your room. Kid, you've got an awful memory. Don't you recollect tellin' me they were there and that you'd give anything in the world to have your father's watch, your mother's rings and your great grandfather's snuff-box that had belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte? Well, I just went in and got 'em for you, that's all." "A regular magician, by cricky!" gasped Joey. "Don't interrupt, Joey," commanded Dick, vastly pleased with himself. His audience was fairly hanging on his words. "Well, sir, you'd orter seen him then. I thought he'd bust. He said something about his brother and his brother's watch. I didn't wait for him to get collected. I then proceeded, with a great deal of caution, to take out of another pocket a long, frayed, yellow envelope. 'This,' said I, 'was given to me by the nigger that night. It had once contained a large sum of money, he said, but you had taken most of it, leaving him just fifty dollars. Do you recognize the envelope?' "I held it out, but beyond his reach. He sat there for three minutes gazin' at the handwritin' on the thing, his lips moving as if he didn't know they were doing it. 'My God,' he says, 'it is Arthur's handwriting. I'd know it among a million.' Then he jumped up and began to curse. 'Three thousand dollars!' he yelled, forgettin' himself. 'Did that black scoundrel say I had taken it? He lied. He took it himself. I've never seen this before. I didn't know it existed!' Suddenly he sees that he was giving himself away, so he flops down and pants like a horse with the heaves. "I put the things back in my pocket, and calmly says, 'I reckon you'll pony up the five thousand, won't you?' Well, sir, what do you think he does? He pulls himself together and politely asks me to have a julep. I never did see such nerve. He says he'll go and ask the servant to make it. He has an old darky named Monroe on the place, says he, who makes the best julep in Virginia. 'No,' says I, putting my hand on my hip pocket in a suspicious manner, 'I guess not. You fork over the five first.' Well, he gets to thinking hard. Finally he says he'll be hanged if he'll be blackmailed. 'All right,' says I, 'you'll find me at the tavern in the town over there if you want to change your mind. Think it over. I'll give you two days to get the coin together.' "With that I got up and walked away, just as calm as you please. I knowed he was done for. He killed your grandpa sure, David, and he knowed he was found out. I walked right pertly, though, so's he couldn't have a chance to go in and get a gun before I was safely down the road to where my saddle horse was tied. I went back to the tavern, paid my bill, and took a train out of town. But I got off at the first station and doubled back, sleeping that night in a barn. The next day, up he comes to town. He was a sight, he was so pale and shaky. I could see he'd been drinkin' all night most. They told him at the tavern I'd gone away, up to Washington to consult the President about something, but that I'd be back in two days. I never saw a man look so white as he did when he rode past the place where I was hiding, on his way back home. I hung around the post-office all day, knowing just as sure as shootin' that he'd write to the nigger, wherever he was. Sure enough, about two o'clock up comes the darky that had admitted me the day before, bringing a couple of letters. "He stuck 'em in his pocket while he hitched his horse to the rack. I bumped into him accidental-like. 'Nough said. A minute later he was lookin' everywhere on the ground for his letters, and he was scairt, too, I'll tell you that. I went back and asked him if he was lookin' for his letters. He said he was. I said 'you dropped 'em in the wagon.' I reached in and made believe to pick 'em up. I'd had 'em long enough to see that one was addressed to I. Perry, 212 Clark Street, Chicago." "Chicago," cried David excitedly. "You must give me that address, Dick." "The other was to John Brainard, Richmond," went on Dick imperturbably. "Know him?" "He runs a gambling house there." "I'm not fool enough to monkey with Uncle Sam, so I didn't attempt to open the letters. It's a bad game, fooling with the government. They always get you. Anyway, I had found out all I wanted, so I let him drop 'em in the office. I took the first train to Richmond and hung around Brainard's place for a day and a half, playing a little but watchin' the boss most of the time. The second day, your uncle came in, loaded for keeps. Him and Brainard went into a side room. When they came out later on, I was standin' close by. Your uncle says this to him: 'Let me know the minute he gets here, that's all. He's sure to come, sooner or later, curse him.' Then he went away. My job was over. I'd laid the fuse. Nothing more for me to do but to take a train for the 'great and only' Van Slye's. Here I am, and, Joey, here's that envelope you took from David and hid so carefully in the lining of your satchel. Also, David, permit me to restore to you your father's watch and your mother's--Hey, don't blubber like that!" The tears were streaming down David's cheeks. He had snatched up and was kissing the precious bits of metal the narrator had dropped upon the table. Ruby looked up into the face of the audacious Richard. Their eyes met and his fell, after a long encounter. "You are perfectly wonderful, Dick," she said. "Shake hands!" "It wasn't anything much," he muttered, as he clasped her hand. "Humph!" was an added bit of contempt for his prowess. "But, Dick you blooming idiot, don't you see wot you've done?" cried Joey in perplexity. "You've put the villain on 'is guard--you've queered everything for David. He'll--" "Sure," put in Casey, kicking the leg of the table viciously. "He'll get hold of that nigger and find out you've lied like a sailor, that's what he'll do. Then he can tell you to go to the devil. Dick, I didn't think you was so foolish." "I must go to Isaac Perry in Chicago before it is too late," said David. "Now, just hold your horses, all of you. I know more about this particular line of business than you do. In the first place, Frank Jenison is scairt stiff. I bet he's been lookin' for me to drop in on him every day, to claim the swag, or fetch an officer from Washington. He don't know just where he stands. If I'd ha' stayed around there, he'd have a chance to get me. He could even go so far as to give me the money. Or he'd probably put a bullet in me. But don't you see my idea? I'm lettin' him worry. Worry is the greatest thing the guilty man has to fight against, lemme tell you that. It nearly always breaks 'em down. He finds I'm gone. He waits for me to come back. I don't come. He goes nearly crazy with anxiety and dread. See? Well, in time, his nerves go kerflop. He'll see ghosts and he'll see scaffolds. 'Cause why: _he knows there's a feller wandering around somewhere that's on to him_. See?" "By cricky, you're right," cried Joey, leaping to his feet. "I can just see 'im now." "But when he sees Perry and finds out," protested Ruby, twisting her fingers. "I'll leave it to David, who knows Isaac Perry in and out, and ask if he thinks his uncle Frank will believe a word the nigger tells him, after all I've laid up before him. Isaac Perry can tell the truth from now to doomsday and Jenison won't believe him. I've fixed Isaac proper. What Jenison wants now is to get hold of Ikey and beat his brains out. And, lemme tell you this, on the word of an experienced gentleman, that is just about what is going to happen. You let two skunks like that get wise to each other and something desperate is bound to come off. Yes, sirree, I've fixed Isaac. It's in the air. If he escapes alive he'll be lucky." "But I need him to establish my innocence," cried David. "You just trust to your uncle Frank to do that, sooner or later. I'll bet my neck, he's actin' so queer these days, and sayin' so many foolish things that everybody in the township is wonderin' what ails him. Here's a little piece of rogue's philosophy for you all to remember: A guilty man is never so guilty as when he realizes that somebody is dead sure and certain he _is_ guilty. That's why they confess." "Dang me, I believe you," said Joey, puffing at his empty pipe. "Now put it this way," went on the philosopher, turning to David: "supposin' you actually had killed your grandfather. Would your eyes be bright and your lips moist? Would you be sleepin' well? Would you be thinkin' about a gal? Now, just put yourself in that position. No, sirree, David: you'd be a wreck--a mental, physical wreck, because you'd know that your uncle knowed that you killed his father. I tell you it makes a terrible difference when you know that some one else knows. Your uncle Frank understands now that two men know--me and Perry. He knows I'm hangin' around somewhere in this world, ready to spring on him. Yep; there's no more peace for him, no more sleep. He'll blow his brains out, perhaps. But he'll also do this first: he'll write a confession. They never fail to do that, these guys that have remorse." David Jenison placed his hands on the other's shoulders as he arose from the chair. The Virginian's eyes were glowing with a light that dazzled the pickpocket. "Dick Cronk," said he, hoarse with the emotion which moved him, "I would do anything in the world for you. You are the best fellow I know. I don't care what you are, I want to be your friend as long as we live. I mean that. Some day I may be able to do something half as great for you. I'll do it, no matter what it costs." Dick was abashed. He was not used to this. His eyes wavered. "Oh, thunder," he said in a futile attempt to sneer. "Let's say no more about it. It was just fun for me. Besides, David," he continued, meeting the other's gaze fairly, "you stood by Ernie that day. Don't forget that, kid. You didn't have to, you know." "You chaps can settle all this some other time," said Joey sharply. "Wot we want to get at now is this: Wot's to be done next? Is David to set down and wait or is he to go back there and wait?" "Go back there?" gasped Dick. "Why, Joey Noakes, ain't you got a mite o' sense? You old noodle! Of course, he ain't to go back there. You mark my words, purty soon his neighbors will be advertisin' for him to come home and forgive 'em. No, sir! Wait here until something drops. Read the _Cincinnati Enquirer_ every day, kid. You'll find something to interest you every little while about the Jenison murder case. You see, my buck, they're still lookin' for you." "I hope it all turns out as you think, Dick," cried David fervently. He was weak with excitement. "Oh, how I long to be cleared of this awful thing! How I long for the sight of Jenison Hall! And, say, Dick! If I should go back there as master, I want you and Ernie to come there and stay--all the rest of your lives. I--" But Dick raised his hand; his eyes had narrowed. "I couldn't do that, David," he said, a harsh note in his usually pleasant voice. "Thank you, just the same. Ernie and me are not cut out for places like Jenison Hall. We--we'd have all the silver inside of a week--and maybe the furniture." His face flushed as he made this banal excuse for jest. Ruby cried out in protest. "Don't say that, Dick Cronk! You _could_ be different. Oh, why don't you try it, Dick?" He looked down. His lips worked in the effort to force a grin of derision. His hand was trembling. No one spoke; somehow they felt the struggle that was going on within him. At last he lifted his eyes to hers. "Can't do it, Ruby," he said quietly. "I don't think I'm naturally a thief, but it's got hold of me. If I thought there was a chance, maybe I'd--oh, but what's the use! Let's change the subject. Jacky, before we part for the night, I want to say something more to you. It hurts like the devil to say it, but I got to. You said you'd like me and Ernie to--to come down there. Well, I may as well tell you right here in front of these friends of our'n that Ernie--my brother, don't like you. Now, don't say anything! You can't understand. He's terrible bitter against you. You'll excuse me if I say there's a--a girl at the bottom of it." "A girl?" fell from David's lips. "You--Great heaven, Dick, you don't mean--Christine!" Dick nodded, a rueful smile flickering about his lips. "Poor boy," he said apologetically, "he can't help it. But it's so, just the same. And I want to ask you to be on the lookout for him always, kid. He's liable to get you some time if he can. It's dirt mean of me to say this about my brother, but I don't want him to do anything like that. He--he might get desperate, don't you see; and--well, just keep your eye skinned, that's all. You--you got to remember, David, that his dad swung for killin' a man. Mebby it's in Ernie's system, too. He's had such a horrible, unhappy life, I--I somehow can't blame him for having it in for us fellers that are strong and straight." David had sunk into a chair, appalled by his words. "But he must know that Christine doesn't care for him," he said mechanically, his eyes on Dick's face. "Sure he does. That's the hard part of it. He's bitter jealous of you. Course she wouldn't think of a cripple like him. But he's got it into his nut that she wouldn't look at you either if you was disfigured or your back was smashed or something like that. I keep arguing with him and he's sensible when he takes time to think. But, just the same, I wish you'd keep your eye peeled." "I am very sorry he feels as he does about--" "Oh, I'm not asking you to give her up, kid--not for a minute. Cop her out if you can. She's a little Jim-dandy. And, say," he said, turning to the others, who had listened to him with grave uneasiness, "speaking of her reminds me that you may expect the new partner to-morrow." "Bob Grand?" growled Joey. "Yep." Dick had cast off his repressed air and was grinning once more, with all the delight of a teasing boy. "Old skeezicks was on the train with me this evening, but he's gone on to the next stand. He looks more than ever like a fat, satisfied slug." "Well," said Joey reflectively, "we don't need him, but we do need 'is money. I 'ope, Dicky, you didn't deprive 'im of it." "Joey," said Dick reproachfully, "do you think I'd take the bread right out of your throat?" David lay awake until nearly dawn, his mind whirling with the disclosures of the night. That sweet encounter in love still lingered uppermost in his thoughts, its fires fed afresh by the brand of hope that Dick had tossed upon them, but disagreeably chilled by the prospect of new trouble in the shape of Ernie Cronk. He fell asleep, thinking of those blissful moments under the awning when he held her slim, unresisting body close to his own and they were all alone in the blackest of nights with a tempest about them. In the background of his thoughts lurked Ernie Cronk and still farther back was the ominous figure of Colonel Bob Grand. For the first time in many weeks he did not think of the detectives--and the bloodhounds! CHAPTER XII IN WHICH MANY THINGS HAPPEN With all the irony of luck, Colonel Grand brought fair weather. It was as if he had ordered the sun to shine and it obeyed him. When the mud-covered wagons rumbled into town after their tortuous twenty-mile journey, the sun was high and the skies were clear and all the world seemed to be singing with the birds. David had prepared Mrs. Braddock and Christine; they looked for the Colonel on the station platform as the train rolled in. He was there, waiting, as if directed by Providence, at the foot of the steps which Mrs. Braddock was to descend. He had eyes for no one until she appeared in the car door. Then his ugly smile projected itself; his silk hat came off and he bowed low. One knowing the innermost workings of Colonel Grand's mind would have understood the profoundness of that bow. He was giving her time to collect herself; he was, on his own part, deliberately evading the look of repugnance he knew so well would leap into her eyes at the first glimpse of him. She did not see the hand he extended, but with a cool nod of her head, stepped unaided to the platform. Another man would have felt the rebuke. Colonel Grand, with the utmost deference in his manner, quietly relieved her of the traveling bag, his hat still in his hand. He sent a smile of greeting up to David and the angry-eyed Christine. "Bring Christine's bag, Jack," he called out. "I have a hack waiting on the other side of the depot. It is too muddy for walking." Mary Braddock drew herself up, her eyes flashed and her lips parted to resent this easy proprietorship. But she saw that a group of performers were staring at them in plain curiosity. She closed her lips in bitter determination, and walked off at his side. Close behind came her daughter and the young Virginian. Joey Grinaldi addressed himself to the little knot of strollers. "I never did see such a look as she gave 'im," said he. "My eye! It was a stinger. Take my word for it, she's going to take the bit in 'er mouth afore you know it, and show that hyena wot she's made of." "Hyena, dad?" scoffed his daughter. "He's not even that. He's a rep-_tile_." "Well, he brought the sunshine," said one of the women half-heartedly. "But it's still muddy," retorted Joey with dogged pessimism. They trooped off after him, each one lighter hearted in spite of a dull reluctance, simply because Colonel Grand had brought not only the sunshine but a life-saving opulence. Thomas Braddock, muddy, unkempt and sour, had managed to sleep off some of the effects of the liquor he had poured into himself the night before. True to his word, he had traveled by wagon. The treasurer of the circus had seen to it that he was tossed like a bundle of rags into the ticket wagon, there to roll and jostle from wall to wall over twenty miles of oblivion. He was waiting at the show grounds for the return of the street parade when he saw his wife and Christine approaching, followed at some distance by Colonel Grand and the faithful David. "Well," said he harshly, as the women came up to him, "you were too good to travel as I did, eh? Had to borrow money to ride in palace cars, eh? Fine thing for you to do, you two,--setting an example like that. I suppose Bob Grand put up for you. I notice you didn't mention his name to me, you--" Christine and her mother had talked long and earnestly together on the train coming down. The girl's cheeks had burnt during that serious conference, to which no outsider was admitted. Her mother had listened to an eager, piteous appeal from the lips of the girl; it was the cry of a maiden who suddenly realizes that she is conscious of a modesty heretofore dormant. Together they were now taking up a very portentous question with Thomas Braddock, with small hope of having him see the matter from their point of view. Mary Braddock had no retort ready for his ruffianly insinuation. "Are you too busy, Tom, to come over to the cook-tent with us for a few moments? I want to speak very seriously about something that has been on my mind for some time." Colonel Grand and David were sauntering off in the direction of the animal tent. "Why ain't that loafer in the parade where he belongs?" demanded Braddock, glaring red-eyed at the retreating David. "How should I know? Ask Colonel Grand. He appears to be giving directions nowadays," said his wife bitterly. "Well, what do you want of me? Let's have it, please. I'm busy." "Not out here, Tom. Come over to the cook-tent." Braddock glanced at her sharply. It occurred to him that she was unusually calm and serious. He turned after a moment and led the way to the cook-tent, which was always unoccupied at this time. There, in sullen amazement, he listened to the plea of his wife and daughter. He raged back at them as they pleaded; he met Mary's calm, patient arguments with sneers and brutal laughter; he put a stop to Christine's supplications with an oath that shocked and distressed her more than anything that ever had happened to her in all her life. "What do you take me for?" he roared, time and again, for want of better weapons to meet his wife's determined assault. In the end, he struck the table a mighty blow with his clenched fist, but he was very careful to have the table between them. More than once he had followed the impulsive movement of her hand in a sort of craven alarm, born of the conviction that he might have driven her at last to the point where a pistol would put an end to his wretched dominion. "Now, this ends it," he shouted. "I won't hear anything more about it. She's got to wear tights as long as I say so. What the devil's got into you two all of a sudden? Lookee here, Christine, don't ever let me hear you make such a fuss as this again. By thunder, I'll--I'll lick you, that's what I'll do. I've never laid a rough hand on you yet. I've allus treated you as a kind father should. But don't drive me to forget myself. You got to wear tights and do this act as long as we run this show. We--" "But, father, please, I--I am getting too big," sobbed Christine. "Too big!" he roared. "Great Scot! Why, you little whipper-snapper, you're just beginning to get big enough to look well in 'em. Too big! Say, you're just getting a shape that's worth noticin'. I suppose that peanut aristocrat friend of yours has told you it ain't swell or proper to wear tights. He'll get his back broke some of these days, if he puts ideas into that silly head of yours. Too big! Say what's the matter with you, Christine? Why, they're just beginning to talk about what a fine shape--" "Thomas Braddock!" exclaimed his wife furiously. The girl had dropped down on one of the seats, burying her flushed face in her arms. "Well, confound it," he mumbled, vaguely conscious of a shamed sense of the old manhood. "I didn't mean to upset her like that. But, lookee here, Mary, I don't want no more of this nonsense about her doing a side-saddle menage act. She's a world beater at the other thing. I won't listen to this guff. That ends it. You go on doing this work with Tom Sacks, Christie. I don't give a rap whether the Jenison 'Joy' likes it or not." Christine sprang to her feet, her face convulsed. "I shall ask Colonel Grand to help me. He owns part of the show. His interest and mother's together are greater than yours--" "Christine!" cried her mother, stunned. His face went grayish white; the cigar hung loosely in his parted lips, and a thin stream of saliva oozed from the opposite corner. He tried to speak but could not. She unconsciously had struck a blow that hurt to his innermost, neglected soul. "I'll show you who's boss of this show," he managed to articulate at last. Suddenly his knees gave way under him. He sagged heavily forward, dropping to the board seat. With one last desperate, stricken glare in his eyes, he lowered his head to his arms. A mighty sob of utter humiliation rent his body. Mary Braddock hesitated for an instant, then impulsively laid her hand on her husband's shoulder. A wave of pity for this wretch surged into her heart. "Don't, Thomas! Be a man! Everything will be well again, boy, if you'll only make a stand for yourself. I will help you--I will always help you, Tom. You know I--" He shook off her pitying hand and struggled to his feet. Without a glance at her or at their terrified daughter, he flung himself from the tent and tore across the lot as though pursued by demons. By the time he found Colonel Grand and David in the animal tent, however, his blind rage had dwindled to ugly resentment; the overwhelming shame his own child had brought to the surface shrank back into the narrow selfishness from which, perhaps, it had sprung. Five minutes before, he had wanted to kill. Now he was ready to compromise. "Grand," he said hoarsely, "I'm going to sell out--I'm going to get out of this. I'm going to Cincinnati to-night and look up Barnum's man. He's ready to buy." Colonel Grand eyed him shrewdly. He could see that something had shaken the man tremendously. The Colonel believed in strong measures. He knew precisely how to meet this man's impulses. In his time he had seen hundreds of desperate men. "Tom, you're drunk," he announced coldly. "When you are sober you'll kick yourself for the thought. Go and lie down awhile. I won't talk with you while you're in this condition." "Drunk?" gasped Braddock. "Bob, so help me, I'm not drunk," he almost whined. "Then you must be crazy," observed the other, walking away. David saw an opportunity to escape the company of both. He was edging away when Braddock stopped him. "Say, you! I want to give you a bit of advice. If you go to putting high-sounding notions in Christie's head, I'll break every bone in your body. If you don't like the way she dresses in the ring, why do you look at her all the time?" Further utterance on his part, or any effort David may have contemplated in resenting his attack, was prevented by the appearance of Ruby Noakes, who came running up from the main-top, waving a newspaper in her hand and crying out in the wildest excitement: "David! David! Have you heard? Have you seen it? We've been looking for you everywhere. Here! Look! It's to-day's _Enquirer!_ See what's happened! Your uncle!" The vanguard of the "parade" had reached the lot. Cages came creaking through the wide aperture at the end, and were wheeled skillfully into place by expert drivers. Gayly dressed horsemen trotted through. Every one was shouting to David. His ears rang, everything went black before him. He could not seize the paper that Ruby held before his eyes, nor were his eyes quite capable of reading the sharp, characteristic headlines that stood out before him in the first column of the _Enquirer._ The letters danced impishly, as if to confuse him further. Jenison--Jenison--Jenison everywhere! That was all he could see, all he could grasp. Dick Cronk's prophecy had been fulfilled. His uncle Frank Jenison was dead. Some one was shouting it in his ear. There had been a deathbed confession. He was no longer a fugitive! He was exonerated--he was free! He laughed hysterically and pressed the damp sheet to his lips. Ruby Noakes threw her arms about his neck and kissed him for joy. The voices of the half hundred people crowding about him buzzed in his ears. They were shaking hands with him, slapping his back and laughing with him, although he did not know that he laughed. Above the hum of eager voices rose one that was discordant, hoarse with passion. "Clear out! Skip, I say! All of you!" Thomas Braddock was shoving the glad performers about as if they were tenpins, raging like the lions which roared their surprise at this unseemly hubbub in front of the cages. From sheer excitement, David's head was reeling; his senses began to slip away; his legs were tottering. Suddenly the crowd fell away. One man was facing him. The unconscious smile was still on the boy's lips as he looked into the convulsed face of Braddock. The power to dodge the blow aimed at his face had gone with his wits. He only knew that Christine's father was striking; he could only wait, with hazy indifference, for the blow to land. "I won't have any disobedience here," roared the frantic manager, as he struck out in his bestial rage. "I guess that'll stop it." David was lying at his feet, stunned by the savage blow. "When I say a thing I mean it," shouted Braddock, turning to the stupefied crowd. "He can't hold a jubilee in this here animal tent. Who owns this show, anyway?" He drew back his foot to kick the prostrate boy. Half a dozen women screamed in terror. "Don't do that, Braddock!" cried a level voice in his ear. He whirled to face Colonel Bob Grand. "If you kick that boy I'll shoot you," said the Colonel almost impassively. "Do I own this show or not?" was all that Braddock could howl. "Get him out of here," said Grand, turning to the angry circle of men. "Sober him up or turn him over to the police." "What!" choked out Tom Braddock, his eyes bulging. "You say this to me!" "See here, Braddock, I kept your wife and daughter outside. They didn't see this cowardly trick of yours. You may have to explain to them why you did it. You can't explain to the rest of these people. We don't like brutes." A dozen men crowded forward with threatening mien. Tom Braddock shrank back in mortal terror. "Don't jump on me, boys--don't! I--I'll go out. I'll go peaceable. Let me get out where there's air. I must have been crazy." He almost ran to the sidewall and crept into the open air. As he slunk off among the wagons, he felt himself overwhelmed by a sudden sense of desolation, a sickening realization that he had no friends, and, worse than all this,--that no one feared him! A curious acknowledgment of his own degradation came with the stealthy impulse to go back later on and search for the stub of cigar that had dropped from his mouth during the encounter. In the dressing-tent, a few minutes after the proprietor's brutal exhibition, David Jenison sat in the center of a wondering, superstitious group. Not one, but nearly all of them attributed his good fortune to the working of some spell peculiarly brought about by the influence of certain "signs." The champion bareback rider recalled that David had found a horseshoe no longer ago than ten days. The Iron-jawed woman substituted the black cat charm, while Mademoiselle Denise held out for the virtues of occasional encounters with Ernie Cronk, the hunchback, whose hump he must have touched surreptitiously, no doubt. Only Joey and Ruby and Casey looked wise and said nothing. Dick was the luck-piece that brought it all about. David sat on a trunk, holding a wet towel to his red, swollen cheek. He had been steadied by the advice of these good friends, all of whom urged him for the sake of others to attempt no violent return for the blow Braddock had given him. Never was mortal so sore at heart as he, but he read wisdom in their argument. "He ain't responsible," said Joey, putting the whole of his summing up in a single phrase. The great news had finally found a clear lodgment in David's brain. He had listened to the reading of the newspaper story by Ruby Noakes. It was now very plain to him that his present vicissitudes were at an end. The joy and relief that filled his soul were counterbalanced to some extent by the fact that Mrs. Braddock and Christine had not come up to congratulate him. He could not understand this and was hurt. It is not necessary to repeat the newspaper account in full. The sensational story took up columns in the paper; the history of the case was repeated from the murder of old Mr. Jenison to the final tragedy. Considerable space and speculation were given to the unhappy accusation of the grandson, who had disappeared as if from the face of the earth. It was the opinion of the paper, as well as of the officers of the law, that the proud young man, unable to face the cruel disgrace and injustice, had made way with himself. It was announced in heavy black type that his county would not rest until the body of the last of the Jenisons was found and laid away with the greatest ceremony. David laughed with the others at this laudable but tardy appreciation. As for the story of Frank Jenison's death, it was, according to the newspaper, "so strange that fiction paled by contrast." Jenison and his negro accomplice, Isaac Perry, had quarreled in one of the private card-rooms at Brainard's place in Richmond, where they had met by appointment. The negro, driven desperate and in great fear of the white man, finally drew a revolver and began firing wildly at his employer, who returned the shots. Perry was killed by a bullet which found his heart. One of the negro's shots, however, had penetrated the abdomen of Frank Jenison. He was mortally wounded. On being informed by the surgeons that he had but a few hours to live, the miserable wretch directed that his confession be written out at his dictation, that he might put his signature to it and thereby set his unhappy nephew straight in the eyes of a condemning world. The full text of this confession was printed. The reader of this tale has heard enough of it, in one way or another, to determine for himself the chief facts in connection with the murder of old Mr. Jenison. It was Frank Jenison who shot him, deliberately laying his plans so as to direct suspicion to David. The nephew played into his hands in a most startling manner. A more convincing set of circumstances could not have been imagined, much less prepared. Isaac Perry was the first to propose the plan of substituting a forged will, but at the time neither of them contemplated the assassination of the old gentleman. It was not until it became known to them that Mr. Jenison intended to deed over a great part of his estate to David before his own death that they saw the necessity for hastening the end. The will was prepared in Perry's room at Richmond. The names of the witnesses belonged to men who were dead and could not repudiate the signatures. Then came the signing of the quitclaim deed which provided an opportunity to substitute the will, and which, as far as Isaac Perry was concerned, was a _bona fide_ transaction. The little plot of ground was in truth a portion of his own compensation exacted in advance of the murder. Perry was to have done the shooting. At the last minute his nerve failed him. Frank Jenison then coolly directed his henchman to stand guard while he committed the diabolical deed. To use his dying words, his father "was ready to die anyway, so it was a kindness to end life suddenly for him." We know how David walked into the trap, and how he crept out of it only to become an outlaw, hunted and execrated. Perry went to Chicago, where he was to remain for a few months before coming back to receive his promised share of the money which Jenison was to realize on the sale of certain properties as soon as he was clearly established as heir to the estate. Remorse began to gnaw at the heart of the murderer. He could not sleep without dreaming of his slain father, nor could he spend a waking hour that was free from thoughts of the innocent boy who would be hanged if the law laid its hands upon him. Then, one day, there came a stranger who told him of Isaac Perry's treachery. The thing he feared had come to pass--Perry's defection. He made up his mind to kill this dreaded stranger, and to follow that deed with another of the same sort which would deliver him of Isaac Perry. But the stranger disappeared. He did not come to claim his blood money. The terror which fell upon Frank Jenison was overpowering. He sent for Isaac Perry, hoping against hope that the stranger had lied and that with the negro's support he could defy him. Perry came to Richmond, expecting to receive his promised reward in coin of the realm. The half-crazed white man accused him of treachery. The negro lawyer vehemently denied every allegation, but, becoming alarmed by the other's manner, fell into a panic of fear and began shooting. At the end of his confession, Frank Jenison said: "My soul is black. It is already charred by the fires of hell. I was a traitor to our beloved cause, although acquitted of the charge by fraud and deception. I killed my own father. I would have killed others. My nephew has long borne the stain of guilt that is going with me to a dishonored grave. I go with the brand of Cain on my soul. There will be no rest for me in the hereafter. I have not the courage to ask God to be merciful. But I believe in God. I have tried not to believe in him. I have denied him all my life. To-day, for the first time in memory, I can say--and it is with my last breath--I can say that I thank God for one great act of mercy. He has permitted me to live long enough, with this bullet in me, to say to the world that my nephew, David Jenison, is as innocent as I am guilty." "Well," said Grinaldi the clown, his voice doleful in contrast to the cheery smile he assumed, when it came time for all to go to the cook-tent for dinner, "I dessay we'll 'ave to stop calling you Jack Snipe. Wot's more, David, you'll be going back to Virginia at once and settling down to be a genuine gentleman. Afore you think of going, my lad, let it be fully impressed in your 'eart that we all love you and we all wish you the greatest 'appiness in the world. You 'ave been a very poor clown, but I dessay 't is more the fault of your bringing up than anything else. A clown 'as to be born, David, just the same as any other genius. I suppose it's too soon yet to talk about your plans--wot you intend to do fust." "First of all, Joey," said David, his face aglow with the fervor that was crowding up from the depths of his grateful soul, "I want to say to you and to all of you, that if I live to be a thousand years old I shall never forget how good and how kind you have been to me. My home will always be yours, my friends, just as your home has been mine. Jenison Hall will bid you welcome, come what may. You will find Joey Grinaldi there. My home is his, when he chooses to forsake the ring. And Ruby's, too. God bless and reward all of you!" "When are you going to leave us, David?" asked one of the women. David put his finger to the bruised spot on his cheek. "My career as a clown in Van Slye's show ended when that blow was struck. You know quite well that I could not have stayed after that, even though other conditions were unchanged. I cannot eat of that man's bread; I cannot serve him. I have no trunk to pack, you know. Just that old satchel of Joey's, in which my linen is carried. So I am walking out of this tent now, free in more ways than one. When I come again I shall pay my way at the main entrance. No! Don't ask me to go to the cook-tent! It is impossible. As for my plans, I--" He stopped, stilled by a sudden, overwhelming sense of desolation. All this meant that he would have to leave Christine! His days with the show were over. His sweet, throbbing hours with her were at an end. Life for him had changed as with the blinking of an eye. Nothing could be the same. All the loneliness of despair he had known during those weeks of fear and trembling was as naught compared to the outlook that now confronted him, so bleak and so barren that his young soul sickened. For the moment it seemed to him that she was about to go out of his life forever. His heart revolted. There surged up the fierce impulse to cast away his patrimony, his name, his pride and honor. He would not desert her, even for a day. "As for my plans," he began once more, and again stopped. Joey understood the struggle that was going on within him. The old clown, in his own capricious life, had been called upon a hundred times to give up the things he loved, the associations he cherished. "We'll talk 'em over later on, David," he said, putting his arm over the boy's shoulder. "Come along with me and Ruby. We'll go to a restaurant and 'ave a bite together. I--I suppose you'll be saying good-by to them striped tights and the spotted trunks." "I should like to buy them, Joey," cried David eagerly. "They are yours, my lad; take 'em. They belong to me. Now, let's get out of this. I don't think it's best for Brad to find you 'ere." As they left the lot, David carrying all of his possessions in the unwieldy satchel, they were met by Colonel Grand. "David," said he, falling in beside them, "have you sufficient funds to carry you back to old Virginia? If you need money, I will gladly let you have it--as a loan." They were surprised by the offer. David hated him. "No, Colonel Grand, I can't take your money, even as a loan. It will be easy for me to raise the amount." The Colonel gave him an ugly smile. "As you like," he said. He lifted his hat to Ruby and abruptly turned back. Far ahead were two figures that they knew well. Mrs. Braddock and Christine were hurrying away from the grounds as if desirous of avoiding a meeting with the young man. David urged his companions to a more rapid walk. They overtook the Braddocks at the corner of an avenue which led off to the residence section of the town. "You have heard?" asked David, as they turned in response to his call. "You know what has happened?" He could see that the girl had been crying. Mrs. Braddock's face was white and set. "Yes," said the older woman. "And you are going home, David?" She spoke quietly. "I--I don't know yet," he stammered. Christine's face had been averted. Now she looked at him. "You--oh, David, you don't really think of staying with us?" she cried, her eyes glowing. "You must not think of it, David," whispered her mother hastily. "Your place is at Jenison Hall. You belong there. Lose no time, my dear boy, in returning to your home." They had come to a little park adjoining a church-yard where there were benches. He led them to one of the seats farthest removed from the pavement. Joey and Ruby strolled into the churchyard. "I suppose I shall have to go back," said David gloomily. "For a few days, at least. They will be expecting me. And the property is mine now--and all that. But, Mrs. Braddock," he went on feverishly, "I am coming back. In a week, yes, or less than that. I am coming back to be with you--to help you. I can't stay away now, Mrs. Braddock. It would make me too unhappy. I must be near Christine. She's more to me now than anything else in all this world." Mrs. Braddock smiled wanly. "You are very young," she said, "and very impulsive. Do you think it would be kind to Christine if you were to follow the show for no other reason than to be near her? Would that be the act of a sincere friend? She would be compromised, I think you will admit. It was different before. You were one of us. Now you are an outsider. Even the easiest-going of the performers would resent your attitude if you were to follow us now. It is an unwritten law among us that an outsider is always an outsider. We are like gypsies. Even you, who have been one of us, can have no future standing in our tribe--for that is what we are, David. You must take your place among those who look on from afar. As individuals we will always greet you and give you the best of our love; collectively we cannot take you among us. That is over. You are--" "But I may still be a performer," he cried insistently. He had taken Christine's hand in his, only to have it gently withdrawn by the girl. "No, David," said Mary Braddock firmly, "it is out of the question. You are no longer a soldier of fortune. You are a Jenison of Jenison Hall. We can't build a bridge for that." "But I won't stand it!" he exclaimed passionately. "I _will_ come back." "As a clown?" said she, smiling. "I'll buy a part interest in the show," he said stubbornly. "You are not of age," she reminded him. "The courts will name a guardian for you, I fancy. No, my boy, we must face the thing squarely. We shall be glad to see you if you happen to be where we may meet naturally." "But I love Christine," he protested. "You told me last night that you would put no obstacle in our way to--" "I told you last night that I would put no obstacle in your way, David, if you came to me in five years and still could say that you love her and would make her your wife." "But we thought then that I might always be near her--with the show, perhaps," he argued. "Quite true. But all that is blotted out, don't you see." Christine was weeping silently. "You think I'll forget her!" he cried angrily. "Oh, David!" moaned Christine. "You think I'll not care for her always--" "Listen, David," said the mother patiently. "I can think of no greater joy that could come to me than to see Christine your wife--some day. But we must face the true conditions. She may always be a circus rider. I hope to take her away from this life--yes, soon, may it please God. You think now that you will always care. But I know the world. I know youth too well. I--" "But you were not much older than Christine when you were married," he blurted out. He regretted the unhappy remark almost before it left his lips. She turned away her face, and no word came in response for a full minute. Then she ignored the tactless announcement. "You must go your way, David. We will go ours. If God is good to us, we may come together again, and we may still be happy. You are eighteen, Christine is fifteen. You do not know your minds, my children. I have thought it all out. You must be content to wait. Christine must come to you from a different sphere, David. It is not as it was. She must not be of the circus." "Mrs. Braddock," said he, rising to his full height, "I only ask you to believe that I love her, and that I, at least, will not change. Will you change, Christine?" "No," said the girl, giving him her hand as she rose to look into his eyes with the whole of her young heart glowing in hers. "I will not change, David." "Then, Mrs. Braddock, as a Jenison of Jenison Hall I formally ask you for the hand of your daughter. A gentleman may keep his word of honor for five years--for a hundred years. I pledge my love, my name, my fortune to her." "David," cried the mother, twisting her fingers in the agony of a despair that could no longer be concealed, "how can we know what the next five years may bring to us? What will they be to my darling child? Oh, if I only knew the way to save her--to preserve her, to give her what belongs to her by all the laws of nature!" "You must leave the show," he cried. "Give up everything. It is no place for either of you. Let me help you. Mrs. Braddock, give it up before it is too late. I know that harm will come to you here." He pleaded long and earnestly with the silent, depressed woman. In the end she held up her hand, and he waited. "Time will tell, David," she said. "When it becomes too heavy to bear I will cast off my yoke. That is all I will say." She hesitated for a moment, and then went on, holding out her hand: "Good-by, David. You are going to-night?" "I suppose so," he said dejectedly. "But, listen; I am coming back very shortly for a few days. I insist on that. If all is not going well with you and Christine, I shall know it. I mean to watch over her in spite of everything." "We will see you again before you leave," said the mother. "I am sure we understand each other. Come back, David, if you will, but only for a day. Let us walk home. You may walk with Christine. Say your good-bys now. Joey! Are you coming?" When the train for the East pulled out at eleven o'clock that night David was aboard. He positively had refused to take back any of the money he had lent to Mrs. Braddock, preferring to borrow from Joey and Casey. Christine kissed him good-by at the station. "I know that my father struck you, David," she whispered, as she put her hand to his cheek. "That won't prevent your coming back, will it? You will come, won't you?" "As surely as I am alive," he said fervently. There were tears in his eyes as the train rolled away. He had said good-by to all of them--to Joey and Ruby and Casey, and they had wished him good luck with that complaisant philosophy which was theirs by nature. Some one sat down beside him in the seat. He looked up. "I guess I'll go part ways with you," said Artful Dick Cronk comfortably. "I want you to do me a favor. Take this money and step into the little inn there in your town and pay the woman what I owe her. I forgot to settle when I left. She was a very good woman. I never trim a woman, good or bad." Primarily, Dick Cronk was traveling with David because his brother had disappeared from the snack stand early in the evening. The watchful pickpocket scented trouble. Before joining David in the coach, he traversed the length of the train to assure himself that Ernie had not slipped aboard in the darkness for the purpose of doing evil to the Virginia boy when least expected. He was satisfied that Ernie was not aboard, but it was now necessary for him to go on to the next station before leaving the train. "I owe her five dollars and sixty cents. Tell her to keep the change. I hear you're coming back soon to visit the--er--show. Let me put you onto Colonel Grand. He's a good loser, that old boy is. He's terrible disappointed because you've squared yourself with the law. He had something up his sleeve for you, but this spoils it all. But you noticed that he took it very pleasantly--polite and agreeable cuss, he is, when he has to be. Maybe you'd like to know what his game was." "I think I know, Dick." "Nix. I guess not. You were to do him a great favor before long. You were going to run away with Christie Braddock!" David started. "You are mistaken," he cried indignantly. "I wouldn't think of such a thing." "Just the same, kid, that's what he had it fixed for you to do, and you couldn't ha' got out of it. He's a wonder, he is. That's the only way he could get rid of Christie; and, with Christie gone, Mrs. Braddock's spirit would be smashed. He's going to get rid of Tom Braddock purty soon. Tom don't know it, but his days with this show are numbered." "What a cold-blooded devil he is!" cried David. "Hot-blooded's what I'd call him." CHAPTER XIII THE SALE We will forsake David Jenison for the time being. He is well started on his journey to the home of his forefathers, where complete restoration and the newspaper reporters await him. Let the imagination picture the welcome he is to receive; if possible, let it also describe the attitude of the community which had hunted him with dogs and deadly weapons, but which now stood ready to cast itself without reserve at the feet of the boy who had been so cruelly wronged. Picture Mr. Blake's disgust at learning from David's own lips how he had been outwitted by the circus people, and contrast it with his sincere relief in contemplation of the fact that he had not captured the boy in those days of prejudice. We leave all these details to the generous intelligence of the reader, for he knows that the heir to Jenison Hall has come unto his own again; and he also knows that in spite of all that can be done to make life bright and cheerful for David, there is still a shadow in the background that turns the world into a bleak and desolate waste for him. Two weeks passed over his head before he was able to turn away from the bewildering mass of legal requirements and look once more to the West, whither his heart was forever journeying. Not all the excitement that filled the fortnight to overflowing, nor all the homage that came to him, could ease the dull, insistent pain of separation from interests so vital to his young heart. He stole away one night, accompanied by a single servant--for now he was "lord of the manor" and traveled only as a true gentleman of the South should travel. Half-way to his destination he stopped off to draw from the savings bank the money he had placed there. With this small fortune in his possession he resumed the journey, now closely guarded by old Jeff, who always had been a slave to the Jenisons and would be till he died, Abraham Lincoln to the contrary. David's constant prayer was that he might not be too late. He was destined to find many changes in Van Slye's Great and Only Mammoth Shows. Let us go back to the night after the one which saw David's departure from the show. For two days Thomas Braddock had slunk about the show grounds, morose, ugly, taciturn. He avoided every one except those with whom he was obliged to consult. His wife and daughter caught fleeting glimpses of him; Colonel Grand and the others saw him but little more. He held aloof, brooding over his wrongs, accumulating a vast resentment against the world and all of its inhabitants, obsessed by the single desire to make some one else suffer for the ignominy that had come to him. Strangely enough, his most bitter resentment was lodged against the wife who had stood by him all these years, through thick and thin, through incessant storm and hardship, with a staunchness that now maddened him, because, down in his heart, he could see no guile in her. She was too good for him; she held herself above him; she made him to feel that he was not of her world--from the beginning. She was loyal because it would have put her in his class if she had lifted her voice in public complaint. He knew that she loathed him; he hated her for the virtue which gave her the right to despise him and yet to remain loyal to him. His sodden, debased soul resented the odious comparison that his own flesh and blood justly could make. There had been bitter moments when this maudlin wretch almost convinced himself that he could rejoice in the discovery that Christine was not of his flesh and blood, that this too virtuous woman was not pure, after all. His sullen despair brought him to even lower depths. In half-sober moments he began to realize that his daughter feared and despised him. She had come to feel the distinction between her parents, and she had done the perfectly obvious thing in following the instincts of the gentle blood that was in her: she had cast her lot with her mother. He forgot his own aspirations and hopes for her in this bitter hour. He wanted to hurt her, so that she might cry out with him in ugly rage against the smug, serene paragon. If he only could bring Mary to his level, so that Christine might no longer be so arrogantly proud of the blood that came through the Portmans. He drove himself at last into such a condition of hatred for all that was good and noble that he would have hailed with joy the positive proof that his wife had been untrue to him! All day long he had been singularly abstemious. His brooding had caused him to forget or to neglect the appetite that mastered him. Toward evening he resumed his drinking, however, mainly for the purpose of restoring his courage, which had slumped terribly in this estimate of himself. When the time came to go over the receipts with the ticket-sellers he pulled himself together and prepared to assert his authority. He tossed away the empty bottle and advanced upon the wagon, his face blanched by self-pity. He was confounded by the sight of Colonel Grand, sitting inside and going over the cash with Hanks, the seller. "What do you want?" demanded Colonel Grand, when Braddock, after trying the locked door, showed his convulsed face at the little window. Hanks looked uncomfortable. "Let me in there, Grand!" grated the man outside. "I'll attend to this. We can't have you bothering with the finances--" "I'll kick that door in," roared Braddock; "and I'll kill somebody!" Colonel Grand picked up the treasurer's revolver. He smiled indulgently. "I'm taking care of the money after this, Brad." "I own this show, damn you! I-I-I'll fix you!" sputtered the other. He began to cry. "Get away from that window!" snapped Grand, his eyes glittering. "Oh, say now Bob, treat me fair, treat me right," pleaded Braddock, all at once abject. "I'll talk to you later on. Get away!" "Don't throw me down, Bob. I've always done the square thing by you. Didn't I pay up everything I owed you by--" "Are you going to leave that window?" demanded Grand. The miserable wretch looked into the deadly eyes of the man inside, and realized. A great sob arose in his throat. He held it back for a moment, but it grew and grew as he saw no pity in the steely eyes beyond. "My soul!" he groaned, with the bursting of the sob. He withdrew his ghastly face and rushed away in the night, stumbling over ropes and pegs, creating no end of havoc among the men who happened to toil in his path. They ran from him, thinking him mad. Half an hour later Ernie Cronk came upon him. He was sitting on the curb across the street from the circus lot, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands--staring, staring through dry, hot eyes at the tented city that was slipping away from him. "What's the matter?" asked the hunchback, in his high, querulous voice. The older man did not respond. He did not alter his position when the questioner spoke to him. "What are you looking at?" asked the other. "Ernie," began Braddock in a voice that sent a shiver across the boy's crooked back, it was so sepulchral, "let me take your pistol a second." Ernie Cronk drew back a step. He eyed Braddock narrowly. "Who are you going to kill?" he asked after a moment. "Myself," said Braddock, lifting his haggard face. Again the hunchback looked long at the man. Then, without a word, he handed a new revolver to Thomas Braddock. It was not the small derringer he was wont to carry. Braddock seemed surprised by the boy's readiness. He received the weapon gingerly. A sudden spasm shook his big frame. "Is--is it loaded?" he inquired, less lugubrious than he had been before. "No," said Ernie shortly. Braddock's chest swelled suddenly. "I suppose you think I'm fool enough to let you kill yourself with my gun and me right here where they could nab me. It's got blank ca'tridges, that's all. Somebody changed 'em on me last night--just before that--that sneak went away on the train." Volumes could not have told more than that single sentence. Braddock handed the weapon back to him. "But if you really want to shoot yourself," went on Ernie maliciously, "I've got a round of real ca'tridges here. While you're loadin' the gun I can make a sneak. If I was you, though, I'd go up that alley there, Brad. It's terrible public here." "You wicked little brute, you!" cried Braddock in horror, coming to his feet and drawing away as if from a viper. "You cold-blooded whelp! I--I never heard of such--" "Ain't you going to kill yourself?" demanded Ernie, grinning. Braddock appeared to ponder. "No," he said with eager finality; "not just now. I've changed my mind. I'm going to have it out with her first. Then, maybe I won't do it at all." Without another glance at the hunchback he swung off toward the dressing-tent. Ernie's scoffing laugh followed him into the shadows. It was the last straw. He was an object of derision to this thing of jibes and sneers. The flush of anger had come back into his bloated cheeks by the time he had slipped under the sidewall into the dressing-tent. A sense of loneliness struck him with the force of a blow as he paused to survey the conglomerate mass of gaudy trappings: the men, the women, the horses, the dye-scented paraphernalia of the ring. The very spangles on the costumes of these one-time friends seemed to twinkle with merriment at the sight of him; the tarletan skirts appeared to flaunt scorn in his face. There was mockery in everything. His humiliation was complete when this motley array of people disdained to greet him with the eager concern that heretofore had marked their demeanor. No one appeared to notice him, further than to offer a curt nod or to exchange sly grins with the others. Christine was in the ring. Mrs. Braddock stood over by the tattered red curtains, peering out into the "big top." He knew just where to look for her; she always stood there while her daughter was performing with old Tom Sacks. Not Tom Braddock, but all the others, noted the weary droop of her shoulders. She started violently when he came up from behind and spoke to her. "Well, how does it look without the gentleman in stripes?" he asked coarsely. "It ain't so refined, eh?" She faced him, hesitated an instant, and then said, without a trace of emotion in her voice: "Tom, do you think Colonel Grand would be willing to buy out my share in the show?" He stared. Then he laughed sardonically. "What are you givin' us? Buy out your share? I should say not. He might buy you, but not your share." "You are a beast, Tom Braddock," she said, the red mounting slowly to her pale cheek. "Why do you say that to me?" "Say, don't you suppose I know how it stands with you and him?" he retorted. "Come off, Mary. You're both trying to freeze me out. I'm on to the little game." "Don't speak so loudly," she implored, clasping her hands. "Oh, I'm not tellin' any secrets," he snarled. "It's common property. Everybody's on. I should think you'd be ashamed to look Christine in the face." "God forgive you, Tom Braddock," she cried, abject horror in her eyes. "Say, I've got to have an understanding with you," he went on ruthlessly. "I'm going to find out just how I stand in this here arrangement. Grand's taken charge of the money box. He says it's you and him against me. He's going to--" "He lies! He lies!" "Oh, let up--let up! I'm no fool." "Tom Braddock, are you--are you _accusing me?_" she cried, all a-tremble. He opened his lips to utter the words which would have ended everything between them. His eyes met hers and the words slipped back into his throat. The spark of manhood that was left in him revolted against this wanton assault upon the pure soul that looked out upon him. His gaze was lowered. He began fumbling in his pocket for a cigar. "Course not," he said reluctantly. He peered hard at the opaque sidewall uncomfortably conscious of the scornful look she bent upon him. Neither spoke for a long time. "How much lower can you sink?" she asked in low tones. "Don't you turn against me like this," he returned sullenly. "I have endured too long--too long," she said lifelessly. "Now, shut up, Mary. Shut up your trap. I'm sick of having you whining all the time--" "Whining!" she cried. "God in heaven!" "Well, belly-achin', then." Her bitter laugh irritated him. "Say, I got to talk this business over with you. We've got to understand each other." "We _do_ understand each other," she said, a note of decision in her voice. "You are ready to prostitute me for the sake of worming money out of that horrid beast. I loathe him. You know it, and yet you force me to meet him. I am going to end it all. Either he leaves this show, or I do. I will not endure this unspoken but manifest insult a day longer. Do you understand me?" "I'd like to know how you're going to help it," he said, glaring at her with half-restored belligerence. "You can't get out without losin' what you've got in the business, and he _won't_ get out." "Are you going to permit him to continue paying his odious attentions to me--to your wife?" she cried. "I don't care what he does," roared Braddock. "That's his business. You don't have to give in to him, do you? If he thinks you've got a price, that's his lookout, not mine." "Not yours?" she gasped. "Oh, Tom! Tom! What manner of man have you come to be?" "Well, I'm just tellin' you, that's all." "You--you surely are not in your right mind." "You bet I am! Now, you listen to me. You are going to stick right with this show--you and Christine. And you're going to do what I tell you to do. You got to treat Bob Grand half-way decent. He's liable to leave us in the lurch any time. How'd you suppose we'd get on without his help right now? Just as soon as we get on our feet I'll put an end to his funny business. I'll show him what's what. He'll get out of the show business a heap sight wiser man than he is now. But we need him now. We got to stand together, you and me. No flunking, see. We--" "Stop!" She stood before him like an outraged priestess. This time he did not shrink, but glared back at her balefully. "This is the end! We have come to the parting of the ways. I will never call you husband again. If you even speak to me, Thomas Braddock, I shall ask any one of a dozen men here to beat you as you deserve. Oh, they will be only too happy to do it! Now, hear me: I am going to take Christine away from you--forever. Don't curse me yet! Wait! I am not through. This very night I shall offer my share in this show to Colonel Grand. He may have it at his own price. If he will not buy, then I shall go forth and look for another purchaser. I--" "You're my wife. You can't sell without my consent," he exclaimed. "Then I will ask the court to give me the right. Now, go! I--" "You can't take Christine. She's as much mine as she is--" "I will hear no more. I have given you the last chance to be a man. This ends it!" She turned and walked away from him. He knew that it was all over between them. Considerably shaken, he went over and sat down on a trunk near the wall. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a curious half-laugh, half-sob. He glared at the flap through which she had disappeared. A cunning, malevolent expression came into his pop-eyes. "Sell out, will you?" he muttered. "I'll block that game. I'll sell out to him myself. That's what he wants." He lifted the sidewall and passed out into the open air, directing his footsteps toward the ticket-wagon. Colonel Grand was leaving it as he came up. "Hello, Brad," he said quite genially. "If I was a bit rough awhile ago, I apolo--" "Say, I want to talk privately with you, right away. I've got a proposition to make. It's final, too,--and it's friendly, so don't look as if you're going to pull a gun on me. Come on to the hotel. Oh, I'm not as drunk as you think!" "Mrs. Braddock expects me to escort her to the hotel--" "No, she don't," rasped the other. "She's all right. Leave her alone. Are you coming?" Colonel Grand was struck by the man's behavior. He shrewdly saw that something vital was in the air. "All right," he said. "I'll go with you." They were soon closeted in the room back of the hotel bar, a bottle between them on the table. The door was locked. Their conversation lasted an hour. When Colonel Grand arose to depart he stood a little behind and to the left of Braddock's chair, a soft, sardonic smile on his lips. He held a sheet of paper in his hand. Pen and ink on the table, alongside the more sinister bottle, told of an act of penmanship. "We'll have the night clerk and some one else witness the signatures," he said quietly. "All right," said Braddock hoarsely. He was staring at his fingers, which he twiddled in a nerveless, irresolute manner. "The inside conditions are between you and me personally. You'll have to live up to them, Braddock." "Oh, I'm a man of my word, don't fret." "You are to get out at the end of the week. That's plain, is it?" "If the cash is passed over. Don't forget that. Say, Bob, I swear, you're treating me dirt mean. I ought to have five times more than you are payin' me, and you know it. Five thousand dollars! Why, it's givin' the show away, that's what it is. I've built up this here show--" "It is your own proposition. I didn't suggest buying you out. You came to me to sell. If you don't want to let it go at the price we've agreed on I'll tear up this bill of sale." "I've got to take it, so what's the use kicking? I'm going to get out of the business. My wife's against me. Everybody is. Damn them all!" Colonel Grand knew quite well that Mrs. Braddock, as the man's wife, could interpose legal objections to the transfer, but he was not really buying Tom's interest in the show; he was deliberately paying him to desert his wife and child. That was the sum and substance of it. Braddock was not so drugged with liquor that he could not appreciate that side of the transaction quite as fully as the other. Down in his besotted soul there lurked the hope that some day, in the long run, through the wife whom he was selling so basely, he might succeed in obtaining the upper hand of Bob Grand, and crush him as he was being crushed! "It will be a week before the currency can get here from Baltimore. I refuse to draw on my banker in the regular way. This money, being evil, must come from an evil source. My dealers will send it from the 'place.' Now, again, you understand that I can put you in the penitentiary if you go back on your word. You _did_ take the boy's money out of the dressing-tent. My man saw you." "I don't see why you hired a canvasman to watch me," growled the other, pouring another drink. "Mighty cheap work, Bob Grand." "I always go on the principle that it isn't safe to have business dealings with a man until you know all that is to be found out about him. In your case I had to choose my own way of finding out." "I'll knock off a couple of hundred if you'll tell me the name of that sneaking--" "You need the two hundred more than I do, Brad," said Grand with infinite sarcasm--and finality. "Well, I'm a Jonah in the show business. I guess it's the best thing I can do to get out of it. You'll do the right thing by Mary and--and--" he swallowed hard, casting a half glance at the other out of his bleary eyes--"and the young 'un. They'll get what's coming to them, Bob?" "Certainly." "I wouldn't sell out like this if--if Mary had acted decent by me," he said, trying to justify his action. He was congratulating himself that he had sold her out before she had the chance to sell him out. He closed his eyes to the real transaction involved in the deal. It gave him some secret satisfaction, however, to contemplate the futility of Colonel Grand's designs upon Mary Braddock. "Of course," said Bob Grand. "I am going to California," said Tom Braddock, for the third time during the interview. "I've asked you not to mention that fact to me, Braddock. You are supposed to stay with the show as manager and overseer." "Humph!" grunted the other. "You want to be as much shocked as the rest of 'em when I skip by the light of the moon, eh?" "We'll sign the paper," was the only response of the purchaser. Ten minutes later, after two men had witnessed their signatures, the document reposed in Bob Grand's pocketbook. The next morning Mary Braddock appeared before the master of Van Slye's Circus and offered her interest for sale. He calmly announced that he could not afford to put any more money into the concern. "I must sell out," she said. "All the money I have in the world is in this show." "It could not be better invested," he said. She shrank from the look in his eyes. "But I need it for Christine's education," she began. "I will see to it that Christine is given the best of everything, Mary. Leave it to me. She shall be sent abroad next year, if you think best." "I am asking no favors of you, Colonel Grand." "It may interest you to know that I have purchased your husband's entire interest in this show," he said softly. She stared, spellbound. "He--he has sold out to you?" she murmured, going white to the lips. "You seem surprised." "He could not do it! It is necessary to have my consent. I--I--" Her brain was whirling. "I understood that he was a perfectly free agent. I can send him to the penitentiary if he has swindled me. If you and Christine care to take that sort of stand against him, I'll have to do it. I should be terribly sorry on the girl's account, but--Oh, well, I'm sure it won't come to that." "He--he has sold me out?" she cried weakly. "Oh, hardly that!" Unable to speak another word to him, she turned and blindly made her way to the women's dressing-room. The Colonel smiled comfortably as he lifted his hat to her retreating back. Late that night four or five persons slipped out of the hotel by the rear doors. At the mouth of the dark alley a hack was waiting. With the utmost caution this small, closely huddled group approached the rickety vehicle. Three women climbed in, followed by numerous valises and small bags; their two male companions mounted the seat with the driver. Off through the still night rattled the mysterious cab, clattering across the cobbled streets for many minutes until at last it drew up at the darkest end of the railway station platform. Three trunks stood against the wall of the station building. One of the men attended to the checking of these heavy pieces, presenting two railway tickets for the guidance of the sleepy agent. The other stood guard over the cab and its occupants. A train thundered in. The station platform was quite deserted except for the few belated revelers who had remained in town for the night performance of Van Slye's circus. When the train pulled out, a woman and two men stood beside the hack, where tearful farewells had been uttered and Godspeed spoken. Toward the east sped a tall woman and a slim, beautiful girl. In the outskirts of the town the train swept past a string of huge, cumbersome, ghostly wagons, all of them slinking away into the night-ridden pike that led to another city where the young and curious were already dreaming of the morning hours that were to bring the "circus to town." "Good-by--good-by!" sobbed the girl, who had been peering intently through the window of the car. The tall woman did not look forth, but sat with her eyes riveted on the seat ahead. "Yes, it is good-by, my darling," she said in very low tones. Back at the railway station, after the rear lights of the train had disappeared, the lone woman turned her tear-stained face to the man whose arm was about her shoulder. "Do you think we'll ever see them again, daddy?" she moaned. "Yes," said the man huskily. "She said she'd let me know, one way or another, when it is safe to do so. Don't cry, Ruby. They're better off. They couldn't 'ave stayed on, God knows. And God will take care of 'em." "I wish she'd said just where she's really bound for," muttered the other man, a tall ungainly fellow. "She's mighty near dead-broke, and I'm--I'm uneasy, Joey." "She'll get on, Casey, confound you!" "If she'd only make up her mind to go back to her father," said the girl. "That's just it. If she's going back to 'im, it's best nobody knows yet--not even us. I've got their two letters for David, if he ever comes looking them up, as he said he would. Well, God bless 'em. I--I 'ates to think wot the show will be without 'em. Come on; let's get back to bed." And so it was, many days afterward, that David Jenison came "looking them up," only to find that they were gone and that no one could tell him whither they had fled. It was significant that Colonel Bob Grand was not with the show; he had gone away in a great rage when the discovery of the flight became known to him. Tom Braddock, strangely sobered and bleached out by a tardy remorse, went about mechanically in the management of the show which he no longer owned. Joey Grinaldi delivered two precious, carefully preserved missives into the hands of the distracted Virginian. One of these letters said that the writer would wait for him to the end of time, loving him always with all her heart. The other, much longer, came to its conclusion with these words, written by a wise, far-seeing woman whose heart was breaking: "... And now, David, good-by. We love you. Be content to let us go temporarily out of your life, if not from your thoughts or your heart. Always think of us with love and tenderness, my dear boy, as we shall never cease to think of you. You are young. Christine is young. You are not so wise now as you will be five years hence. I shall try to mold Christine into the kind of woman you could take as a wife to Jenison Hall. In five years, God willing, the circus ring and its spangles will be so remotely removed from her that no one can find the trace of them. In five years, David. That may seem ages to you and to her, who have youth and all of life ahead of you. When five years have gone by, David, I shall let you know where we are to be found. If you still care for her then, and she for you, no matter what the circumstances of either may be, no human power can keep you apart. You will come to her and say it all over again, and you will be happier because of this brief probation. If you should find, through the mature workings of a man's heart, that you have grown to love another, then you will both see for yourselves that my present course is right, and that your ways must continue, as now, along absolutely separate paths. Do not attempt to find us. Your own futile efforts, dear David, in that direction might be the means of bringing other and unkind searchers to our place of refuge. I know you would not bring greater trial and tribulation to us, who love you, than you have seen us suffer in the past." BOOK TWO CHAPTER I THE DAUGHTER OF COLONEL GRAND Snuggling down in a nest built of certain westward hills in fair Virginia, near the head of a valley long noted for healing waters that spring, warm and cold, from subterranean alchemies into picturesque pools and steaming rivulets, lies the ancient village of Hollandville, with its quaint, galleried facades; its flower gardens and its mill-race; its ambient clouds and drowsy sunshine, and the ever-delicious somnolence that overcomes the most potent vigor with an ease that mystifies. Beyond Hollandville, less than half a league distant, against the mountainside, facing the great ridge opposite, stands a time-honored, time-perfected hostelry inside whose walls and upon whose galleries the flower and chivalry of Virginia have clustered for generations. Names historic are to be found on the yellow pages of venerable and venerated ledgers and day-books, names of men and women known and cherished before the dauntless settler had turned his footsteps toward the territories of the Middle West. Here had come the famed Virginia and Maryland beauties of an ancient day, and here still came their great-great-granddaughters to create envy among the flowers that steal from the earth to bloom in this valley of delight. Here came Washington and Jefferson and others whose names will never die so long as there is an American heart-beat among us; came with their coaches, their servants, their horses and--their livers: for they had livers even in those good old days. If one were to call upon the sweet night air, and spirits were allowed to respond, the fair face of Dolly Madison would emerge from the shadows, attended by all the wits and beauties of her luxurious day. Betty Junol, too, held court in this primitive Spa. Here duels were fought for ladies fair, and here the hearts of the noblest women of our land were won by gallants who will live forever. Beaten roads that stretch off down the valley and wind through the hills could tell countless tales of those who, in one glorious century, rode hand-in-hand and unarmored to the lists of love and fell together in the joyous combat. To this very day the lists are open and the contenders as resolute, as gentle and as brave as in the ages when Washington was a boy and men wooed with a sword at their hip. Still stand the narrow, thatched cottages, immersed in honeysuckle and ivy, that sheltered the fathers of the Constitution; still wind the beaten roads over which rolled their coaches in days before the American historical novel was more than a remote probability. Heroes of a later war than that which gave us our freedom come now to this sequestered spot, men whose grandfathers fought with our George against the George of England. But, as their forefathers came, still come they, and will come for generations, for this is the ancient Mecca of Virginia gentlefolk to whom tradition is treasure and companionship wine. Late in the spring of 1880, when the dogwood was repainting the hillsides and wild-flowers were weaving a new carpet of many hues for the feet of wandering lovers, the company of guests assembled at the Springs--as yet numerically small--included no fewer than a dozen girls whose beauty was famed from one side of the Southland to the other. Attendant upon these dainty American princesses, there were again as many young men, rivals all for favors small. A chill, moist wind of a certain evening blew down from the mist-shrouded ridge, driving all guests to the glow of the fireplaces or to the seclusion of coveted nooks in shadowy halls, where staircases held secrets as tenderly inviolate now as on the nights of a dim, forgotten past. About the great fireplace in the general lounging-room a merry crowd of young people were gathered, discussing the plans for a projected trip to the Natural Bridge, quite a two days' journey by coach. A tall, lean-faced young man of twenty-three or four stood beside the fireplace, his elbow on the ancient mantel, his shapely legs crossed. There was a moody expression in his handsome face, albeit he smiled in quiet enjoyment of the vivacious conversation that went on around him. Half a dozen girls chatted eagerly, excitedly, in response to certain arguments advanced by young men who had the expedition in hand. Arrangements were being discussed, approved or set aside with an arbitrariness that left no choice to the proposers. From time to time disputed questions were referred to the tall young man at the mantelpiece. He appeared to be a person of consequence in the eyes of all; his decision was accepted, even by the most arrogant of rebels. Not one of these fair girls looked into his dark, steady eyes without hope that the thought which lay deep in them was of her and of no other, and yet each was painfully certain that he thought of some one else, whether present or absent they could not conceive. He gravely twisted the point of a small, dark mustache, then in vogue among the fashionables, and proffered his suggestions with the quiet assurance that comes from a thorough appreciation of the deference due the man who is "real quality" in the Southland, and yet without the faintest suggestion of superciliousness or conceit in his manner. This man was born to it; it had come to him through the blood of unnumbered ancestors. He was an aristocrat among aristocrats, as fair Virginia produced them. Notwithstanding he had arrived at the Springs no earlier than the forenoon of the day at hand, without knowledge of previous plans regarding the expedition, he was nevertheless established by common though unspoken consent as the arbiter of all its features. He had come among friends who knew him of old--last year, the year before, and the years before that. For this tall young man who leaned so gracefully against the mantelpiece was the master of Jenison Hall--the last of the Jenisons. And that was saying all that could be said, so far as a Virginian was concerned. Their council was disturbed by the arrival of the belated night coach that came over the mountains from the nearest railway station. The shouts of the driver and the darky hostlers, the pounding of horses' feet in the bouldered yard below, the rush of footsteps across the broad veranda, and the sudden opening of the door by an ebony porter,--all went to divert the attention of those who waited eagerly by the fireplace to catch a glimpse of new arrivals. Preceded by bags and satchels and rugs, there came two women out of the drenched night into the glow of the firelit room. Two of the girls in the circle stared for a moment, and then, with sharp cries of surprise, rushed over to the desk where the newcomers stood, having been conducted by the porters: two pretty girls from Baltimore. The group looked on with interest while greetings were exchanged. The arrivals were persons of consequence. Two French maids followed them into the room and stood at the foot of the staircase, respectful but with the composure which denotes tolerance. In those days few people in the South presented an opulence extending to French maids. The younger of the two women at the desk was tall, slender and strikingly attractive: of the dashing, brilliant type. She was not more than twenty, but there was an easy assurance in her manner that bespoke ages of conquest and not an instant of defeat. The elder was an aristocratic woman past middle age, the possessor of cold, aquiline features and smileless eyes. Her hair was almost snow white, but her figure was straight and youthful. Presently they were conducted to their rooms by an obsequious porter, and the young girls returned to the group at the fireside. There was a common, ridiculously casual movement among the older people in the room; the newcomers were barely out of sight in the upper hall before the first of the curious ones was looking over the register. Inside of three minutes a score of persons had glanced at the freshly written names and passed on to the water cooler, thence back to their seats, a fresh topic for conversation well in mind. "Who is she?" demanded an eager young man from Richmond. The Baltimore girls were visibly excited. "I didn't know they had returned to this country, did you, Nell? They've been living abroad for several years. Goodness, how that girl has blossomed out. I'd never have known her if she hadn't been with her mother." "Do you think she's so very pretty?" enquired the other, quite naturally. "She's a dream!" cried the Richmond young man, before the other could give her opinion. "But who is she?" "Roberta Grand. She's a Baltimore girl and--" "What name did you say?" asked the tall young man beside the fireplace, suddenly interested. The name was repeated. He listened to a long discourse on certain school day friendships, succeeded by a period of separation in which the subject of all this interest had traveled abroad with her mother, completing an education that, if one were to judge from the descriptions volunteered by her former classmates, gave small promise in the beginning of attaining much beyond the commonplace. "She was a dreadfully stupid girl at Miss Ralston's," proclaimed Miss Baltimore. "Wasn't she, Nell?" "Indeed she was. She--" The master of Jenison Hall was staring across the room in the direction of the register. He interrupted again. "Grand? Are there many Grands in Baltimore?" he asked. "Why are you so interested, Dave?" demanded one of the men. "I once knew a man from Baltimore whose name was Grand, that's all. I'm wondering if she can be--" "Her father is Colonel Robert Grand. He's the great racehorse man. Every one knows _him,_" said one of the Baltimore girls. "Colonel Bob Grand?" "Yes. Of course he and Mrs. Grand don't live together any longer. They were divorced about five years ago. Didn't you see the account of it in the Richmond papers? It seems that he ran off with an actress--to London, they say. Oh, I don't remember all the details. Mother wouldn't let us read the stuff in the papers. But I do remember that he bought a house in London for the woman and he never even fought the divorce. He treated Mrs. Grand shamefully, I know that much. Father says he is a terrible man." David Jenison was very pale and very still. He did not take his eyes from the face of the speaker. "Who was this actress?" asked some one. He went very cold. He tried to close his ears against a name he dreaded to hear on the lips of the fair gossip. "I don't know. Some one you never heard of. Just a common, ordinary actress, as I remember." Jenison abruptly left the group and strode out upon the porch, leaving the others to puzzle themselves over his unexpected defection. In the five years that had passed since his brief but ever green experience with the circus he had not come upon a single trace of Mary Braddock and Christine. With all the impulsiveness of boyhood he had at first made feverish efforts to find them. Detectives in his employ followed the circus for several weeks, keenly alert to discover anything that might put them on the track. Others shadowed the disgruntled Colonel; while Blake, his old pursuer, went to New York and, reinforced by agency men of Gotham, watched the home of Albert T. Portman. But they had disappeared so completely that every effort to unearth them proved futile. David was in college the following winter when he heard, through Dick Cronk, that Colonel Grand had sold out the circus to P. T. Barnum, with whose vast enterprises it was speedily amalgamated. As the concern was sold at private sale, by actual premeditation, Mary Braddock's interests were undefended. There was talk among the circus people, however, to the effect that Grand, after certain judgments had been satisfied, advertised throughout the country for Mrs. Braddock, conveying to her notice by this means the fact that he held in his possession many thousand dollars belonging to her. Whether this tempting bait found her in such dire distress that she could not remain in hiding while it was being offered, no one seemed to know. If she had come forth to claim her portion of the proceeds, the fact remained unknown to the old friends. Tom Braddock, so David learned, forsook the show soon after his wife's disappearance, and went to the Middle West. From time to time news of him reached David in roundabout ways. He had developed quite naturally into a common street loafer in Chicago, preying on the generosity of his old acquaintance and living the besotted life of a degenerate. Of certain cheerful wights who made up David's secret circle of intimates we may expect to hear more as we go along. Suffice it to say, he kept in close touch with them during his years at the University and subsequently as the recognized "lord of the manor," excepting a rather lengthy period devoted to travel abroad. On more than one occasion he responded generously to diffident appeals for help, coming from one or the other of his old friends. He never failed to contribute from his store of wealth, for young Jenison was the richest as well as the kindliest planter in all Virginia. Jenison farm lands stretched far and wide; Jenison town property was to be found in no less than five cities of importance; Jenison securities, as sound as Gibraltar, were piled up in New York vaults, and the Jenison collection included more than a score of the rarest paintings ever developed under the magic of Rembrandt, Franz Hals, Turner, Gainsborough, Velasquez, Stewart and others. He was more than a person of landed importance, however. His story was so well known that wherever he fared he was hailed as a hero. In his own sunny land he was a hero-prince with as many retainers and loyal subjects as ever bent knee to an Eastern medieval potentate. Rich in fair looks as well as in worldly possessions, the owner of a distinctive charm of manner, combined with the poise of good breeding, a certain interesting reticence and a wonderfully impelling smile, he was more than a hero to the young, and little short of an idol to the old. Countless assaults had been made against his heart. Every wile known to beauty had been employed in a hundred sieges. But the Jack Snipe of eighteen was still the lonely Jack Snipe at twenty-three: his heart was sheathed in a love that harked back to a rough, picturesque development and was strong by virtue of its memories. At no time in all these spreading years had Christine Braddock's flower-face and girlish figure faded from his vision. On this misty night in early June, while others were thinking of him, he was thinking of her and the promise made five years before. In five years, they both had said. The term of probation was drawing to an end. He was waiting now for the redemption of that promise. Once, and once only, had he heard from them, and then in the most mysterious way. Soon after his return to the University an envelope containing four hundred dollars in crisp new bills was delivered to him by Jeff, his body-servant, who came all the way up from the plantation to say that it had been left at the Hall by a man who offered no explanation except that his master would understand. No day passed that he did not look for some sign from Mary Braddock. She had promised, and he knew that she would not fail him. His mind was charged with the wildest speculations. What would be the nature of the resurrection? What word would come from the present to greet the past? From what mysterious hiding-place would come the call? Even now, at this very instant, from some far-away spot in the great wide world a voice might be winging its way to him. What tidings were in the air? What word of the girl he loved? And now, like an icy blast, came the appalling possibility that the world knew more of Mrs. Braddock's whereabouts and actions than he, who was so vitally interested. The word "actress" as supplied by the contemptuous Baltimore girl conveyed to his soul a sharp, sickening dread. Was Mary Braddock the one? Had she given way under the strain? Had circumstance cowed her into submission? Was she the one who occupied the little house in London-town? If so, what of Christine? He smoked as he paced the long veranda. In a dark corner at the lower end, sheltered from the mist by trailing arbutus, a group of three persons from the inexperienced, uncouth North, were drinking juleps served by an impassive but secretly disdainful servant bent with age and, you might say, habitual respect. Jenison did not notice them in his abstraction, but his ears would have burned if he could have heard the things the two women were saying about him to their male companion. As he passed the broad office door in one of his rounds it was opened and in the full glow of light from within appeared the tall, graceful figure of Roberta Grand. She remained there for a moment, looking out into the sombre night. Their eyes met as he passed. She was exceedingly fair to look upon, golden-haired and _spirituelle_, but he could see only the repulsive, hated features of Colonel Bob Grand, destroyer. When he returned to the group at the fireplace, half an hour later, she was sitting with the others, her back toward him as he approached. He was at once presented by the girl from Baltimore. Miss Grand looked up into his face with cool, indifferent eyes. "I have heard so much of you, Mr. Jenison," she said. Her voice was soft and pleasant. "We live in a very small world, Miss Grand," he said. "One's reputation reaches farther than he thinks." "It depends on the method by which it is carried," she responded enigmatically. He started. "I trust mine has been delivered by kindly messengers." "Both kindly and gentle," she said. "Some girl, I'll bet," remarked one of the young men. "Not so singular as that, Mr. Priest. The plural is 'girls,'" said Miss Grand. "I am relieved," said David. "It's much easier to understand the plural of girl. Girl in the first person singular is incomprehensible." "Do you really think so?" asked Miss Grand calmly. He bowed very low and said no more. It occurred to him in a flash that this fair girl knew more of him, in a way, than any one present. Later on, at the foot of the stairs, she came up with him. Without the slightest trace of embarrassment she remarked: "I think you knew my father, Mr. Jenison." He flushed in some confusion. "Your father is Colonel Robert Grand?" "Yes. It was he who told me your story, long ago. I have always been interested." David hesitated for an instant, then boldly put his question: "May I ask where Colonel Grand is at present? I hear you no longer live in Baltimore." It was a very direct attack, but he justified himself through the impression that she invited it. "We live in Washington, Mr. Jenison, my mother and I. My father's home is in New York. Some time, while we are here, I hope you won't mind telling me something of your experiences with the--the circus. My father often spoke of you. He said they called you--was it Jack Snipe?" David was taken aback. The girl's frankness amazed, unsettled him. "A name given me by one of the performers," he murmured. "The proprietor's daughter, Christine Braddock. Oh, you must not be surprised. I know her." "You know her?" he asked quickly. "That is, I once knew her. She came out to my father's stables years ago to practice her riding. I used to envy her so! You see, I wanted to be a circus rider." She laughed very frankly. "Do you know what has become of her?" he asked, risking everything. He watched carefully to catch the expression in her face. "No," she replied, hesitating. "I have not seen my father since our return from Europe." The words were ominous. He experienced a sinking sensation. She continued: "I supposed that you knew something of _our_ family history, Mr. Jenison." He looked sufficiently blank. "My father and mother lead absolutely separate lives. It happened four years ago. Perhaps you have forgotten." "I did not hear of it at the time, Miss Grand,' he explained. "We have lived abroad ever since. So, you see, I have had little or no opportunity to talk with my father. We write to each other, of course, but letters are not like talks. I am to visit him next month in New York. I can hardly wait for the time to come." She was now speaking rapidly, eagerly. "I--I don't believe that all the things they said about him in the newspapers were true. My mother's lawyers brought up everything they could think of, whether it was true or not. You see--Oh, you don't mind hearing me talk like this, do you?" She interrupted herself to insert this question. He hastened to assure her that she might speak freely to him, and with perfect confidence in his discretion. But, he suggested, it would be better if they were to continue the conversation in a place less conspicuous. He led her to a distant corner of the room, where they might be quite free from interruption. Her peculiar attitude interested and disturbed him. It was quite plain, from a single remark of hers, that her sympathies were with her father, although she had remained at her mother's side. "You knew my father quite well, didn't you, Mr. Jenison? He has often told me of the close friendship that existed between you in those days, how he tried to help you and how appreciative you were." David concealed his astonishment. "They were wretched days for me," he said evasively. "I am sure you wouldn't believe all the horrid things they said about him, knowing him, as you did, for a kindly, honorable gentleman. My mother was desperate, Mr. Jenison. She believed everything the lawyers put into her head. Of course, I understand now why it was so necessary to blacken his character. It was for the money--the alimony, they call it. And, more than that, it was to compel the court to give me into her custody. I had no choice in the matter, it seems, in spite of the law which says a child may elect for herself after she is fourteen. They made it so dreadful for him, that he could not take me, although I would have gone with him, oh, so gladly. I--" She stopped short. He waited for a moment, appalled by this undisguised antipathy to the mother, who, as he knew so well, had been wronged beyond measure by the beast whom the girl, in her ignorance, defended. "My dear Miss Grand," he said, "I am more than sorry if any rude inquisitiveness on my part has led you to--" "Oh, I want to talk about it to you," she interrupted with a directness that made him more uncomfortable than ever. "I know that you knew my father for what he really was. You knew how kind and good he was, and how nobly he befriended the Braddocks and all those wretched show people. You know how they treated him in return for his generosity. I feel as if I had known you always." "It's very nice of you," he mumbled helplessly. "You say the show people turned against him. Do you mean at the--er--the trial?" She lifted her brows, a sudden coldness in her manner. "Not at all. I refer to what happened afterward." "I am quite ignorant, Miss Grand," he said, a certain hoarseness creeping into his voice. "He was actually compelled to pay something like twenty thousand dollars on the complaint of Mary Braddock, who set up the claim that she owned part of the show. It was a blackmailing scheme, pure and simple, but he paid it. He is a man. He took his medicine like one." David glowed. He felt the blood surge to his head; he grew warm with suppressed joy. "When did this happen?" he asked, the tremor of eagerness in his voice. "Oh, I don't remember--three or four years ago. It really never came to a public trial. He settled her infamous claim out of court. Her lawyers hounded him as if he were a rat." "I happen to know that Mrs. Braddock was part owner in the show," he said quietly. "But he had already bought her out," she exclaimed. "He wrote all of this to me, after it came out in the papers. I had the whole story from him, just as it really happened. No, Mr. Jenison, he was compelled to pay twice." He was half smiling as he looked into her face. The smile died, for he saw in the features of Bob Grand's daughter a startling resemblance to the man himself, hitherto unnoted but now quite assertive. A moment before he had thought her pretty; now he realized that he had scarcely looked at her before. There was the same beady, intent gleam in her dark eyes, which were set quite close to each other over a straight nose with rather flat nostrils. Her mouth and chin were unlike Grand's. They were perfect, they were beautiful. The eyes were unmistakably his, and therefrom peered the character of the girl as well as that of the man. David was sharply cognizant of a feeling of repugnance. Much that had puzzled him a moment before was perfectly plain to him now. She championed the father because he had been stronger in her creation than the mother. "Did Mrs. Braddock prosecute her claim in person?" he asked, subduing the impulse to set his friend right in the eyes of this girl. "Not at all. She kept out of sight. Lawyers did it all." "Did your father say where she was living at the time?" "Oh, I know where she was living in London." "London?" he said, suddenly cold. "Yes. We saw her there, Centennial year. She had a home in one of those nice little West End streets. Of course, we could have nothing to do with her." "Of course not," murmured he dumbly. "And Christine?" "She was at the Sacred Heart Convent in Paris,--at school, you know. Father wrote me about her." He could not ask her the sickening question that was in his mind: was Mary Braddock the woman in the case? But his heart was cold with despair. He could not, would not believe it of her, and yet the circumstances were damnably convincing. "In a month, Mr. Jenison, I will be of age. I am sure that you, having been such a friend to him, will be glad to know that I am going to him. If he wants me, I shall stay with him." "You--you will leave your mother?" he demanded, unconsciously drawing back in his chair. "Just because my mother cast him out is no reason why I should do likewise. I love my father--I adore him! What did you say?" Under his breath he had uttered the word "God!" "I beg your pardon," he said hurriedly He felt like cursing her. "I just happened to think of something," he explained. "I am sorry to have bored you. I thought you'd like to know about father after all these years. Pray forgive me." "You intimated awhile ago that perhaps he could tell me where Mrs. Braddock is living, he said. His forehead was covered with moisture. "I've no doubt he knows, Mr. Jenison. She is living in New York." She was perfectly calm and matter-of-fact about it. If there was more that she could have told him, her inscrutable smile signified plainly that it should be left for him to find out for himself. He looked into her eyes for a moment without speaking. A feeling of loathing such as he had never known before welled up in his heart against this girl. He hated the sight of her face. He almost imagined he could see its soft, warm tints changing subtly into the gray, putty-like complexion of his oldtime enemy. A beastly jowl seemed suddenly to spread from her smooth round cheek and sag heavy over her neck; her smile, bewitching to other eyes than his, took on a mysterious breadth that horrified him. He was seeing visions. He knew that there was no change such as his mind pictured, and yet he could not cast out the illusion. He arose abruptly, fearful that she might see the repugnance in his eyes. He could not sit there an instant longer, facing this reminder of Bob Grand. Something atavistic in his nature urged him to strike out with all his strength at the fantastic face that forced itself upon him. "I beg your pardon," he said, and his voice sounded queer in his own ears, "but I must get off some letters to-night. May I take you to the stairs?" A few minutes later he was lying flat on his back, fully dressed, on the bed in his chamber, staring up at the ceiling, his brain a chaos of anguish, dread, pity--and faith, after all, in Mary Braddock. The walls seemed papered with the faces of Bob Grand and Roberta Grand. He was haunted by them. At daybreak he arose, without a single instant of sleep behind him. His mind was made up to one purpose. He could not stay in the same house with Roberta Grand. Before going in to breakfast at eight o'clock, one of the young men in the party of the night before asked the clerk at the desk if Mr. Jenison had come down. "Mr. Jenison left by the morning stage, Mr. Scott. He had a letter calling him back to Jenison Hall. Something very important, sir. He left a note for Miss Beaumont, I believe, to tell her he can't be back in time for the trip to Natural Bridge." CHAPTER II THE STRANGER AT THE HALL The letter that called David to Jenison Hall came, by curious coincidence, at a most opportune time. He had decided to leave the Springs within a day or two, cutting short his proposed stay of a month almost at its beginning. The advent of Roberta Grand, heretofore an unknown quantity, brought with it new and unpleasant complications. Her revelations disturbed him, her attitude angered and disgusted him. It was from this girl, so amazingly like her father, that he would have fled in any event. His nature revolted against the possibility of constant association with her, he scarcely could have maintained even a perfunctory show of consideration for her. And then something told him that her confidences would grow, that she would go farther in the effort to justify her father. He realized that he could not stand by and hear the things she doubtless would feel called upon to say in respect to Mary Braddock. His sleepless night had drawn many ugly pictures for him to efface before he could be at peace with himself. All through that dismal night he had given his thoughts to these people, and to three cities,--London, Paris and New York. In the last of these, Mary Braddock was living. Staring up at the dim, flickering shadows on the ceiling, he traveled in horrid conjecture from one to the other of these immense wildernesses. Ahead of him stalked the ugly figure of Robert Grand, who _knew_--who perhaps had known all the time; at his side was the knowledge that the five years had come to an end. Was Mary Braddock, after all, in a position to redeem her promise? The candle sputtered and went out. But he was no more in the dark than he had been all along. If there was to be light, he must make it for himself. He would not wait for her to speak out of the darkness. He would search her out, come what may; he would claim Christine. With his mind full of the decision to go to New York as soon as possible, where it would be an easy matter to find Colonel Grand, at least, he hurried down to an early breakfast, successfully evading his body-servant. There were two letters in his box, products of the night mail. One of them caused him to start and almost cry out aloud. It was from Artful Dick Cronk. The envelope bore the Jenison crest and it had come from Jenison Hall. A year had passed since he had heard from the pickpocket. The missive was brief, as were all of Dick's communications, written or oral. It said: "Just stopped off on my way north. Niggers say you are at the Springs. I'll wait here till you come back, if it ain't too long. Hope this reaches you prompt, because I am in a hurry to get up to New York. Don't write. You can get here just as quick as a letter. Maybe quicker." Except for the schoolboyish signature, that was all; but there was a world of importance between the laconic lines. David caught the early morning stage and was on his way over the ridge to the railroad with old Jeff, before eight o'clock. He reached home that night, surprising the housekeeper and servants. To his amazement, they knew absolutely nothing of Dick Cronk. He had not been there, nor any one answering to the description. David was thunderstruck. He carefully examined the letter, which he had retained. There could be no mistake as to the stationery or the postmark. He went to his room, gravely mystified by the circumstance. A messenger was sent post haste to the village hard by, with instructions to find Dick if he were at either of the boarding-houses. The master of Jenison Hall could not help chuckling to himself in contemplation of the crafty tricks the writer of the letter had employed in securing his information and in appropriating stationery. It was nearly eleven o'clock when the darky boy returned with the word that no one fitting the description had been seen in the village. "But he must be there," said the young master, vastly perplexed and not a little annoyed. "Yas, sah," agreed the darky, not for a moment questioning the assertion that fell from his master's lips. If "Marse David" said he was there, he _was_ there; that is all there could be to it. "He suttinly mus' be thah, sah. But I 'spec's he mussa fo'got to tell anybody 'bout hit, sah." "Ask Jeff to call me early in the morning, Pete," said David. "Good night." "Good night, Marse David." The boy went out, gently closing the door behind him. Almost instantly it was reopened. "What now, Pete?" demanded David, who, with his back to the door, was advancing to the mahogany bureau across the room. He came in line with the tall mirror that surmounted the chest of drawers. His fingers stopped suddenly in the light task of removing a pin from his scarf. Just inside the door stood Artful Dick Cronk, a genial smile reflecting itself in the mirror which confronted the other. David stared unbelievingly for a few seconds and then whirled to face the--but it was not an apparition. The lean, cunning visage of the pickpocket was illumined by the never-to-be-forgotten smile of guilelessness that so ably stood him in hand in moments of peril. The humor of it gradually succumbed to the satirical leer that always came to translate his strange sophistry into something more expressive than mere words. He was plainly enjoying the effect of his magic invasion. To make the puzzle all the more startling, Mr. Cronk was attired in one of David's loose dressing-gowns. He wore a pair of comfortable slippers and he smoked David's picturesque Algerian pipe. A picture of domestic contentment was he. You might have taken him to be the owner of the house, and not the sly intruder. "What are you doing in my room?" Dick demanded, assuming an air of severity. David's astonishment gave way to a hearty laugh. He advanced with his hand extended. "Well, you _do_ beat the world," he exclaimed. "In the name of heaven, where did you come from?" They shook hands. Dick's sprightly face presented a myriad of joyous wrinkles. "Where did I come from, kid--I should say, Mr. Jenison? I--" "Call me David," interrupted the other. "Sure! Come from? Take a seat, kid. You are my guest for the evening. Make yourself at home. I've got a couple of toddies planted here behind the dresser. You see, I was expectin' you." He went over and, reaching down behind the bureau, came up with two toddy glasses in which the ice clinked cheerily. "I made 'em just before you came in," he explained. David passed his hand across his brow. Then he accepted one of the glasses from the pseudo host. "Do you mean to tell me that you were in this room all the time I sat over there waiting--" Dick put his finger to his lips. "Sh! Not so loud, please. I'm not really supposed to be here, you know. Just think what heart disease would do to the wooly old boy that runs the front door if he heard you talking to me at this time o' night. I'm glad to see you, David. You got my letter, I see. Well, well, it's wonderful what a two-cent stamp'll do sometimes. A postage stamp is the greatest detective I know of. I've had 'em find me time and again, right off the real, when twenty plain-clothes men couldn't get a smell of me to save their souls. Sit down, David. Make yourself at home. It's good to see you here, old chap. I'm sorry you must be leaving so soon." "Leaving so soon?" "Yep. You're going away to-morrow." He was sitting now, with his long legs crossed, leaning lazily back in the lounging chair at the end of David's desk. "Don't talk in riddles, Dick. What's up? And how do you happen to be here, occupying my house without the knowledge of my servants?" "A simple question, with a simple answer. I've been here two days and two nights, right here in the house. My bedchamber is down the hall there, and this has been my lounging room. Of course, I had my meals in the dining-room--my after-the-theater suppers, you might say. It's been good fun, foolin' the servants. I hope you don't mind my fakin' grub from your larder, kid. I used to sit around, unbeknownst to the niggers, and listen to them talk about spirits and ghosts and all that sort of thing. It was most amusin'. They couldn't account for the disappearance of pies and cakes and Sally Lunn--say, how I do love Sally Lunn. And jam, too. To say nothin' of fried chicken. Say! I've been living like a prince, kid. Sleepin' in a real bed and hangin' around in swell togs like these. Say! You _do_ know how to live, David. You'd have been very much entertained half an hour ago if you could have seen me swipe a Washington pie and a quart of milk right out from under the nose of old Aunt Fanny. Milk is my favorite beverage, David. You notice I'm not drinkin' this fire-water. I made two of 'em for company's sake, but I still turn my back on the wine when it's pink. Not for me--not for little Dicky-bird." "I don't see how you do it, Dick," cried David delightedly. "That's part of my game, kid--not letting people see how I do anything. But it's as simple as rollin' off a log, as the jays say. I must confess--and that is something I make it a rule never to do--that this high living is not good for me. I'll get into awful habits, if I keep it up. I won't be satisfied with pretzels and bologny sausages. Seems to me I feel a touch of the gout coming on now." "You will have breakfast with me in the dining-room to-morrow morning, Dick," announced the master of the house. "It won't be necessary to swipe it, as you call it." Dick grinned. "My dear chap," he mimicked, "I have my breakfast stowed away in the garret at this minute. Never put off till to-morrow what you ought to do to-day. In time of plenty prepare for famine. Still, if you insist, I'll join you at some ham and eggs--and coffee. I _do_ miss my coffee, old chap. We take a train for Richmond at nine A. M." David's patience gave out. "What does it all mean, Dick? I must know at once. It must be important or you wouldn't--" "Maybe it's important and maybe it ain't," philosophized Dick, relighting the long pipe. "Well, let's have it." "Tom Braddock's out." "Out? I don't understand." Dick's surprise was genuine. "You don't mean to say you never heard what happened to him?" "Joey wrote me that he had gone completely to the dogs in Chicago." "Joey's off his nut. Brad's just out of Sing Sing." "Sing Sing! The penitentiary?" "The sure-enough cooler. He's been there for nearly three years." "Christine's father a convict!" groaned David. "As I said before, he's out. It may interest you to know that I spent a year's vacation up there in '78. I needed the rest, old chap. Brad came in shortly after I got settled. He _had_ been in Chicago for two years, boning his friends and living like a gutter-snipe. We spent most of our evenings at Sing Sing on the same piazza. During the day we sauntered back and forth between our apartments and the academy for physical research. Just to amuse ourselves we learned to make barrel staves between times. It was two months before we managed to speak to one another. After that we corresponded quite reg'lar. I had notes from him, and he from me. I soon got on to Brad's troubles. Seems that Bob Grand owed him several thousand dollars. He had owed it for more 'n two years. Some deal in connection with the show. You remember Brad was froze out soon after his wife left the aggregation in '75. He says Grand bulldozed him into duckin' the--I mean, leavin' the show, all the time owin' him the long green. Seems that Brad hadn't delivered all the goods mentioned in the bill of sale. Bob wouldn't settle until he got the goods. "Well, Brad hung around Chicago, fightin' firewater and always gettin' licked at it, for two years or more. Then he up and sashayed to New York for a show-down with our old friend Robert. He had blood in his eye, Brad had. He'd been buncoed bad, and a bad man hates that worse than the thought of hell. When he got to New York he hunted up Mr. Bob Grand, who was just leavin' for England. It seems that Brad's wife and girl had been located over there by the Colonel, who had never stopped lookin' for them. Which is more than you could say for Brad. Mrs. Braddock, through her father and a firm of lawyers, had forced old Colonel Dough-face to fork over a big wad of greenbacks. Her share in the show, you understand. Brad heard of it in some way. So he concludes he'll get in his little graft. He goes to the Colonel's rooms in a hotel on Broadway, but misses him. Then he lays for him on the street. They have it hot and heavy, back and forth, and it all ends with the Colonel puttin' over a job on Brad that lands him in the cooler. Charge of highway robbery. Brad gets three years in the pen. I'll say this for him, though; I'm dead sure he wasn't guilty." Dick paused to relight his pipe. David was trembling with eagerness. "What did he have to say of Mrs. Braddock and Christine? I am interested only in them, Dick." "He's up a tree regardin' them. They never peeped, so far as he's concerned. He never heard from them after they dusted that time. Of course, he thinks it was a put-up job, that gag of the Colonel's, payin' her all that money. He argues that it was all understood between 'em, and that it wasn't a squeeze on her part. The Colonel denied it, mighty strong, sayin' he had never heard from Mrs. Braddock until her lawyers and old man Portman came down on him, just after his own wife had got a divorce from him." "I have heard," ventured David, "that Mrs. Grand based her complaint on the fact that her husband was mixed up in some way with an actress." "She had to have _something_, Davy," said the other. "They faked up an imitation--that ain't the word--an imaginary actress for the occasion. Joey Noakes told me all about that. She first tried to get some of the old crowd to swear that Mrs. Braddock was the one, but she got a terrible throw-down there. They was all for Mary Braddock, strong. Then what do you think her lawyers up and does? They actually went to Joey and offered him ten thousand if he'd let 'em use Ruby's name." A spasm of rage transfigured the face of the imperturbable rascal. His hands were clenched and the veins stood out in his temples. "What a cowardly, outrageous thing to do!" cried David. Dick did not speak for several minutes, but sat staring at his hands, his thoughts five hundred miles away. At last his lips spread into a dry, crippled smile. "Joey told 'em to go to hell. And he rather helped the guy along the route by kickin' him half-way down stairs. If he hadn't caught himself against the railing half-way down, he'd 'a' been in the bad place these last four years. I wish to state at this point, Davy, that for the past four years I've made it my business to make that guy wish he was there a hundred times over. It's mighty hard to do a lawyer, but I've got that feller so's he sits up nights, looking like a ghost, waitin' to see what's going to happen to him if he should accidentally fall asleep. But, 'nough of that. After I got out of the pen I dropped in to see Joey. He was just organizin' that road pantomime show of his. He told me all about Mrs. Grand's proposal, and I was for cutting the dame's throat, only he wouldn't hear to it. You been in Joey's home in Tenth Street, haven't you? I mean the old one, just a little ways off Broadway. Well, you remember _them_ stairs? Can you imagine bein' kicked down them stairs? Gee whiz! How I'd like to ha' been there! Well, you know all about Joey's pantomime fizzle. It almost busted the old boy's heart. He went stony broke the first year. Him and Ruby had to go over to live in an awful place on the east side, just off the Bowery. It happened to be right near the joint where Ernie and me hang out in the winter time. Our palatial residence then was back of a cobbler's shop, two flights off the sidewalk. I can't say that it's as sunny and as nicely aired as your joint here, kid, but it's harder to get inside of. And it would be impossible to get out if you once got in, unless you had a recommend from one of the gang. Seven of us hangs out there now. Maybe I'll show you the joint some time, if you can keep your jaw shut about it. "But I'm gettin' off the trail. After Joey's bust up, Centennial year, who comes along and offers him a stake but old Colonel Grand. Offers to lend him money enough to start all over again. That's where Joey made his mistake. The old jay took the money and started all over again with--" David started to his feet. "Impossible!" he exclaimed. "Why, I--I myself, Dick, lent him the money three years ago to get on his feet again." "Sure you did. I haven't come to that yet. I said he took a couple of thousand from the Colonel. That was before you come into it, and he was so ashamed of it he never told you. Well, out they go on the road again, with him as the clown, Ruby as the columbine, Casey as harlequin and a guy named Smith as pantaloon. They had a show something like Humpty Dumpty. But you know all about that." "Perfectly," said David, smiling reflectively. "I was with the show for a week on the road in '78. I must say I liked the rough old tent days better than the life they led in those abominable country town opera houses." "Umph!" was the other's comment. "That's originally the way the Colonel's wife took it into her head to drag Ruby in if she could. Well, what does the Colonel do, after the show gets to going well, but drop in occasionally just as he did to Van Slye's circus, and proceed before long to make love to Ruby. Yes, sir! That's what he did, the hell-rotter that he is. Soon as Joey finds out his game, he up and takes a fall out of him. Then the Colonel threatens to put him out of business. Right then and there is where Joey writes to you for help. You fork over proper-like, as you should, and he pays back what he owes Grand, preferring to owe you. So he got rid of the devil for more than forty days. That's about the time I goes to the pen. I carelessly lets myself get nabbed, actin' on Ernie's advice. He's a slick kid, that boy is. He ain't goin' to let me get hung if he can help it. You see, I'm booked for hangin', sure as fate; he knows it as well as I do, only he's smart enough to want to put it off till I'm so old I won't mind it. So I goes to the pen just to keep from killin' Bob Grand. A year in the cooler makes you see things most sensible-like. I knowed that when I went in. If I'd waited a week after hearin' Joey's story of that dog's attentions to Ruby, I'd ha' been in Kingdom Come long ago, and so would he. We'd both been down below to welcome Mrs. Grand's lawyer when he arrived. So, actin' on Ernie's advice, I gets pinched the second night after hearin' about it. Ernie's a humane cuss. He saved two lives, then and there." "You deliberately put yourself in prison?" cried David. "Just to postpone the hangin', kid, that's all." "It's all rubbish, this talk of hanging," protested the other. "You're too kind-hearted, Dick, to kill a fly." "There'll be a rope around my guzzle some time, Davy, just as sure as you're sittin' there," said Artful Dick, and, notwithstanding his careless laugh, a perceptible gleam of terror showed in his eyes for an instant. "But I'm wandering again. When I was up to Sing Sing I tumbled to what was on Brad's mind. He thinks she turn him down for Grand. The more he thought of it, the more full of the devil he got. Just before I left the place he wrote me a long letter and slipped it to me in a hunk of bread. He said he'd made up his mind to kill her and Grand as soon as he got out. You can tell by a convict's looks whether he's bluffin' or not. I tell you, Davy, I sees it in Brad's face. He meant what he said. He's going to do it, as sure as fate. He ain't got anything to live for and he ain't going to let the two of 'em live any longer than he does." "And you say he's out? Dick, we must do something to prevent this awful--" "Sit down, Davy. You can't get a train till tomorrow. Besides, there's time enough. The first thing I does after I leaves the coop was to hustle down to see Joey. I put him on to Brad's bad talk, and he promised to keep a sharp lookout for him. At that time Mrs. Braddock was livin' in London, but Joey didn't know it. I found out later on through Ernie. He got her whereabouts by pumpin' a coachman who worked for her father, old man Portman. It seems that while she wouldn't take money from the old man, she appealed to him to help her in gettin' what was due her from the sale of the show. She went to Europe a couple of months after she left the show, a school friend puttin' up for her, I understand. Her dad was willin' to forgive her, after she'd tied the can to Brad, but she says nix. She changed her name and took charge of this school friend's children who were being educated in London, givin' their mother a chance to chase around Europe without bein' bothered by kids. When she got the dough out of old Bob Grand she puts Christine in a school some 'eres and--" "Thank God, and you, Dick, for this news," cried David fervently. "I knew that she could do nothing but the right thing. Go on!" "Well, about six months ago, her stepmother up and dies. The old man promptly sends for her to come back and cheer his declinin' years, as the novel writers say. Ernie writes all this to me and I gets the letter a couple of months ago down in New Orleans, where I was attendin' Mardi Gras, a sort of annual custom of mine, don't you know, old chap, by Jove! I'm terrible careless about my correspondence, which accounts for my neglectin' to write this to you. However, I'm not so careless that I neglected to write this to Ruby--a thing I do reg'lar every month, some months. Four days ago, in Looieville, I gets two letters, one from her and one from Ernie. Ernie knows everything. He's seen Christine nearly every day for three months, but she ain't seen him. Poor devil of an Ernie! I made him what he is--I banged him up for life." "It was an accident, Dick. Don't take it--" "Nix. It ain't no accident when you kick a four-year-old kid down a flight of stairs. Well, anyhow, they both write me that Tom Braddock is in New York and actin' terrible ugly. He's layin' for Bob Grand. As luck would have it, the Colonel is off attendin' the races along the spring circuit, and Ernie says he won't be back in New York for three or four days. Mrs. Braddock has got her father down South some-'eres, but the servants are expectin' 'em back this week." "Then we may be in time. We must not lose a minute, Dick. If Tom Braddock carries out his threat, we'll be to blame--you and I. Christine,--where is she? What is she like? What do they say of her?" "Ruby's been on the road, so she don't mention having seen her. And, say, Davy, don't be sore at me for what I'm going to say now. It's this way: Ernie made me promise never to tell you anything about her--how she looks--how she acts, where she is, or anything. I've only told you where her mother is, mind you. You'll have to guess about Christie. You see, Davy, that boy's sure jealous of you yet. I--I--guess you understand." David nodded his head without speaking. He understood. There was nothing for him to say. "I'll find her myself," he said, beginning to pace the floor in his excitement. "She must be beautiful. She must be all that her mother promised. But, Dick!" He stopped short, struck by a sudden thought. "Why hasn't Mrs. Braddock written to me? She promised. The five years have passed. We were to see each other at the end of five--" "Well, maybe you will, kid. Don't get peevish. I guess Mrs. Braddock knows her business. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be another Romeo lookin' at Christie? Five years is quite a spell. Girls are fickle brutes." "For God's sake, Dick, if you _do_ know of anything like that, tell me." "Cross my heart, Davy, I _don't_ know, and that's straight." "We _must_ catch the first train in the morning." "Don't hop around like that, Davy; you'll upset something. You can't hurry a train, kid. We'll catch it, all right. Sit down. Get a pipe and take a smoke. Keep cool. That's our game, kid. If you go bumpin' into old man Portman's house without bein' sure you're wanted, you might get--well, I won't say what!" "You're right, Dick. She may have forgotten me. She may have asked her mother not to write to me. I've waited and hoped and counted on having her--I've checked off the weeks and months and years. I wonder if you can understand how it is when you care as much as I do, and always have? No one knows. It's all in a fellow's own heart. It--" "Oh, I've had a case or two myself, kid. It ain't nothin' new, this crimp you've got," said Dick, putting his heels on the desk. "Adam had it. So did Solomon, only he had it in so many places he got so he didn't mind it. Think of them guys that have harems. Think of Brigham Young. Why, kid, you don't know the first thing about love pains. Think of the guy with the harem and _his_ guesswork! He's got something to worry about, he has. It's awful when you've got to love a couple of hundred of 'em at once, and them all hatin' you like poison. And old Brigham--think of him settin' up all hours of the night, wonderin' whether she loves him as much as she used to, and not being able to remember just which _she_ he's thinkin' about. Brace up, kid. It's only a rash you've got. If Christie has given you the shake just remember how easy it was for Brigham to collect 'em. The woods are full of 'em." "But, good Lord, Dick," cried David, laughing in spite of himself, "I'm not a Mormon." "Kid, every man's a Mormon at heart. Just cram that in your pipe. And every woman, no matter how ugly she is, thinks she's a siren. It's in the blood of both sexes, this Mormonism and sirenism. Oh, don't look so surprised, kid. I got some of my views out of the dictionary, but most of 'em came from observin' people as they look to me from my own level. I have a way of bringin' everybody down to my own level, kid, and I find, except for that commandment about stealin', we all have about the same amount of cussedness in us some'eres. It's human nature to be bad, or to want to be bad. We'd all be a little bit bad, from time to time, if we wasn't afraid of being found out. Course, it comes in different size doses. Some girls think it's terrible bad just to wink at a feller, but they do it because it's bad and not because it's sanctimonious, you bet. Then there are other girls who'd cut your throat with a razor while you're asleep. You bet they wouldn't be doing that if it was considered good. All men have got deviltry in 'em, and all women mischief. The women like the men for the deviltry, and it's the mischief in women that plays the devil with the men. It don't appear on the surface, but it's there just the same." "What amazing philosophy," laughed David. "I've been gettin' philosophy up in your attic, Davy," said Dick with a quaint grin. "I read some'eres that all philosophers get in their real work in attics. Now, I guess we'd better turn in. I don't think you'll do much sleepin' to-night, so you'd--" "First, Dick," interrupted David, rising to pull the old-fashioned bell cord in the corner of the big chamber, "we'll have a bite of supper. I want to introduce you to my servants." "Hold on!" Dick came to his feet quickly. "It's my treat. You wait here. I've got a fine supper goin' to waste up in the garret. I copped it out early this evening. Poke up the fire there, Davy, and don't try to foller me." He was gone, the door to the hall closing gently behind him. There was not a sound to be heard in the house. Outside the frogs were chattering, and a nearby owl hooted dolefully. David stood still in the center of the room, his gaze fixed on the hall door. He counted the minutes, expecting, in spite of his preparedness, to be startled when the door opened with ghostly ease to admit the lank figure of the "dip." There was a certain sense of dread in the knowledge that somewhere off in the dark, silent halls a stealthy, noiseless, almost sinister thing was moving--moving with the swiftness and caution of a weasel, but with all the merry purpose of a harlequin. David experienced a grewsome, uncanny desire to shiver. He remembered Dick's admonition and was about to turn to the fireplace, in which the logs were no longer blazing. Suddenly the door opened. He could have sworn that the knob had not turned. There had not been the faintest sound, and yet Dick Cronk stepped quickly, confidently into the room, a grin on his face. In one hand he bore a fair-sized package, done up in a napkin. "You are the ghostliest thing I've ever known," said David with a nervous laugh of relief. "How do you do it?" "Simple twist of the wrist," said Dick, employing a phrase of the day. "Gee, how tired you must be, after pokin' up the fire like that!" David hastened to do his part of the pantomime. When he turned from the replenished fireplace a cold supper was spread on the desk, the napkin serving as a tablecloth. There were knives, forks and spoons, and a china plate apiece. A pitcher of milk stood at one end, a bottle of claret at the other, with tumblers beside them. In the center of the board was a plate of fried chicken, some young onions, freshly baked bread, salt, pepper, and, most wonderful of all,--Aunt Fanny's newest marble-cake, huge and aggressive. The master of the house stared open-mouthed at this amazing feast. Where had it all come from? How had it been transported? "Well, I'll be hanged!" he gasped. Dick shuddered. "Don't say that! It gives me the Willies. Sit down, friend, and make yourself at home. Ah! This is real comfort! Don't you think I'd make some woman a fine husband? I'm no slouch as a provider, am I?" It was after two o'clock when Artful Dick Cronk whispered good night and slipped out into the hall. He carried with him all the plates, cutlery and remnants of the midnight feast, having remarked in advance that a careful operator never left anything "half finished." It was his purpose to restore every article except the food, to the place from which he had taken it. He and David chuckled joyously over the fresh amazement of Aunt Fanny in the morning; she had been living in a state of dread for three appalling days, as it was. The next morning Dick appeared at breakfast with his host. He rescued Zuley Ann's greatly prized silver watch from the steaming coffee urn, and picked Jeff's pocket-book from the mouth of a lamp chimney, afterwards restoring the thirty-eight cents it contained. Strangely enough, he took the coins from the wool on Jeff's head. If ever a negro's wool undertook to stand on end it was at that moment. Zuley Ann's eyes were permanently enlarged. I have it on excellent authority. At eight o'clock they were off for Richmond and the New York express. CHAPTER III THE MAN WHO SERVED HIS TIME Long before the train reached the station in New York, David and Dick parted company. The shrewd but whimsical scamp presented at considerable length the problem of virtue and vice stalking arm in arm, as it were, through the streets of New York; he pictured, with extreme unction, the doleful undoing of virtue and the practiced escape of vice. "Kid," said he, "the first cop that laid eyes on us meanderin' down Broadway would land on us like a rat-terrier. Being a clever devil, I'd hook it and give him the slip. But you, kid! Where would you be, little innocent? How far would virtue and justice carry you up an alley with a cop at your coat tails? Nix, kid. We go it alone after we leave Newark. That's the trouble with this world. Nothing's plumb square. Now, here's the point: Virtue's all right if it trots alone. But just let Virtue hook up with Vice for ten minutes, unsuspecting like, and see what the world says. Kid, that little ten minutes of bad company would upset a lifetime of continuous Sundays. 'Specially in the eyes of a cop. A cop ain't acquainted with virtue. My advice to the young and innocent is to avoid evil companions and cops. It's a long ways to heaven, and lonesome traveling at that, but it's only a step to hell, and the crowdin' is something awful. It's mighty nigh impossible to turn back once you get started, on account of the mob. I'm not saying you won't run across worse guys than I am at the swell hotel you'll stop at, but they ain't on speaking terms with the police." David went to one of the big hotels patronized by all well to do Southerners of the day. At the railway station he looked about for the philosophic jailbird, but he was not to be seen. The Virginian drove to the hotel, conscious of a strange loneliness, now that the resourceful rogue was not at his elbow. He found some consolation in Dick's promise to communicate with him before the close of the following day, when doubtless he would be able to furnish news of interest, if not of importance. The next morning saw David on his way to the home of Joey Noakes, far down town and to the west of Washington Square. He knew the house. He had been there before. A narrow, quaint little place it was, reminiscent in an exterior sort of way of the motley gentleman who solemnly called it his castle. You climbed a tall stoop flanked on either side by flower boxes, and rattled a heavy knocker that had all the marks of English antiquity,--and English servility,--and then you waited for the trim little housemaid, who betimes was a slavey below stairs and not permitted to answer the knocker until she had donned her cap and apron and rolled down her sleeves--and slipped on her cuffs, for that matter. If you were an unpleasantly long time in gaining admittance, you might be sure that she was also changing her shoes or perhaps brushing her hair. In any event, after you knocked it was some time before she opened the door, and then you were immediately impressed by the conviction that her brightly shining face had scarcely recovered from the application of a convenient "wash rag," and that she seemed deplorably out of breath. But she was neat and clean and quite English. As for that, everything about the establishment was English. The window-boxes, from basement to garret; the way the curtains hung in rigid complaisance; the significant name-plate on the middle panel of the door: "Joseph Grinaldi, Esq."; the minute plot of grass alongside the steps that led to the basement, with a treasured rose-bush in the corner thereof. You were positive, without looking, that Joey had a back yard which he called a garden, and that it possessed everything desirable except a vista--and he would have that if it were not for "the houses in between," to say nothing of the high board fence he had built to keep out all prowling beasts--including humanity--with the double exception of cats and sparrows. Although it was a typical, hemmed-in New York house, you wouldn't have thought of calling the chimneys anything but pots, nor would you have called the shingles by any other name than slates. Joey was at home. He was expecting David, which accounts for the prompt appearance of the sprightly maid, and the genial shout of welcome from the top of the stairs. "Come in, my lad," called Joey, bounding down the steps with all the resilience of a youth of twenty. "My crimes, I'm 'appy to see you." They shook hands warmly, the little maid bobbing her head in rhythmic appreciation. "You knew I was coming?" asked David, following the old man into the "drawing-room." "I found a note under the door this morning, David, left there mysterious-like during the night. It was left by the fairies, I daresay, although the 'and-writing was scarcely wot you'd call dainty." Joey pulled a knowing wink. "Dick Cronk," announced David. "He came up with me. Braddock is in the city, Joey." "Sit down in that chair by the winder, David. So! Wot a 'andsome chap you've got to be! My eye! Ruby will be proper crazy about you. I beg pardon: you mentioned Tom Braddock. Well, he was a setting right there where you are not more than twenty-four hours ago." "You don't mean it!" "Ruby will be in before long," rambled the old clown, thoroughly enjoying himself. "She's off to the market. Do you know, Davy, she's a most wonderful manager, that girl o' mine. We've been in from the road for nearly a month now--closed the most prosperous season on record at Rochester, New York, on the 17th of May--and Ruby 'ad the 'ouse running like it 'ad been oiled inside o' two hours arfter we got off the cars. She's a--Oh, we was talking of Brad, wasn't we? Well, let me see. Oh, yes, he was 'ere yesterday. And now you're 'ere to-day. It's marvelous 'ow things do go. Brad asked arfter you." "I suppose so," said David impatiently. "But, tell me, Joey, what is his game? What is he in New York for?" The old clown did not answer at once. He pursed his lips and stared in a troubled sort of way at the leg of David's chair. Then he began to fill his pipe. His hand trembled noticeably. Saving the snowy whiteness of his hair, Grinaldi did not appear to be an hour older than in the days of Van Slye's. His merry, wrinkled face was as ruddy, as keen, as healthy as it ever had been. No one would have called him sixty-five, and yet he was beyond that in years. "He's 'ere for no good purpose, I'm afraid," said he, at last. "In a way, I'm kind o' sorry for Brad, David. He'd 'a' been a different sort o' man if it 'adn't been for Bob Grand. If ever a chap 'ad an evil genius, Brad 'ad one in that man. I suppose Dick told you Brad's been up for two or three year, doing time. Not but wot he deserved it, the way he treated Mary, but it don't seem just right that Bob Grand should be the one to send 'im up. Mary 'ad nothink to do with it, but you can't make Brad believe that. He's got it in 'is 'ead that she's been working with Grand all along. I talked to 'im for two hours yesterday, but I couldn't shake 'im. He's a broken man--but he's a determined one. The time served up at Sing Sing 'ad one benefit to it: it dried up all the whiskey that was in 'im. He came out of there with 'is eyes and 'is mind as clear as whistles, and he's not the feller you used to know, David. He's twenty years older, and his face ain't no longer bloated; it's haggard and full o' lines. His hair is nearly as white as mine. And 'ere's the great thing about 'im: he ain't drinking a drop. He says he never will drink another drop, so long as he lives. Do you know why?" The old man leaned forward and spoke with a serious intentness that sent a cold chill to the heart of his young friend. "He says he ain't going to take any chances on bungling the job he's set out to do," went on Joey slowly. "He wants to be plumb sober when he does it, so's it will be done proper." "You mean--murder?" "That's just it, David. He's going to kill Bob Grand." "Joey, we must prevent that!" exclaimed David, rising and beginning to pace the floor. "There is time to stop him. Grand is not in the city. We must get Braddock away. Think what it would mean to--to Christine and her mother! Why, it's--" "Brad ain't going to stop to think about 'ow it will affect them. He's only got one idea in his 'ead. He'll 'ave it out with Mary beforehand, if he gets the chance, but he won't do 'er bodily injury. He swears he won't do that. He admits he's done 'er enough 'arm. Do you know wot he told me?--and he cried like a baby when he told me, too. David, he actually sold 'is wife to Bob Grand when he gave up the show." "Good heaven, Joey!" "He told me so 'isself, sitting right there. But he says he 'ad sunk so low in them days, pushed along by Grand, that there wasn't anything too mean for 'im to do. He told me he stole your pocket-book--and a lot of other cruel nasty things he did besides. But he said it was whiskey--and I believe 'im. You see, David, I knowed 'im when he was as straight as a string, and a manly chap he was, too--even if 'is father was an old scamp. He ain't making any excuses for 'isself--not a bit of it. He says he's a scoundrel." David sat down limply, stunned by the news of Tom Braddock's depravity. "But if he is sober and in his right senses, he must feel the most poignant remorse after that one terrible act," cried the young man. "He surely must know that she did not fall into the trap--that she actually fled to escape it. He knows all this, Joey. I think he loved her--in his way. I know he loved Christine. We must get at him from that side--the side of his love for the girl, the side of fairness. If he feels remorse, as you say, all is not lost to him. Where can we find him to-day, Joey? To-morrow may be too late." "Wot does Dick say?" asked the old clown, puffing at his pipe. His calmness served its purpose. David stared and then relaxed. "To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten Dick. Before we parted yesterday, it was understood between us that I was to do nothing until I had heard from him. He promised to find Braddock and report to me--by letter. Of course, he did not know that you had seen him, or he would have come last night to talk it over with you in--" Joey held up his hand and shook his head. "Oh, no, he wouldn't, David. Dick thinks too much of me to come 'ere. You see, it would never do for him to be seen frequentin' this 'ouse. I've _invited_ him 'ere, I'll say that; but he's too square to come. He says it would injure me, and my 'ouse would be watched as long as I live in it. And, besides, it wouldn't be right to Ruby. Once or twice he 'as sneaked in as a peddler or a plumber, by arrangement, poor chap, but never openly." To David's annoyance, Joey went into a long dissertation on the inscrutable virtues of Dick Cronk, concluding with the sage but somewhat ambiguous remark that it not only "takes a thief to catch a thief," but that an honest man is usually a thief when he is caught in the company of thieves. "You see, Davy, we ain't with the circus now. We're at 'ome in our own 'ouse, and things is different. A circus is one thing and a man's castle is another. Leastwise, that's wot Dick says. He says I'm too old to be caught in bad company. I'd die before I could live it down. He's an odd chap, he is. And now, in regard to Brad, just you keep cool until you 'ears from Dick. You can't afford to stir up a row. Old man Portman and Mary and Christine won't thank you for stirring things up. They're not anxious to 'ave a scandal. If you go arfter Brad too rough, it will percipitate matters instead of 'olding them back. And he'll know to onct that you are acting for his wife--a sort of go-between, don't you see. That will make it the wuss for 'er. So, just 'old yourself in, David. Now, let's talk about somethink else. Yourself, for instance." David resignedly settled back, and was at once involved in an exchange of personal narrative. "I 'ave retired from the stage," remarked Joey, putting his thumbs in the armholes of his velvet waistcoat. "I am too old to go clowning it any longer. This was my last season. I've got a comfortable income, thanks to you, David, and I'm going to spend the rest of my days in peace and quiet--if you call New York quiet, wot with the church bells and the milkmen. Three seasons in the pantomime, doing all the one-night stands in this bloomin' country, is enough for Joey. If you 'adn't staked me when I was stony broke three years ago, Davy, I'd be in the poor 'ouse now, I daresay. You saved the show for me and I'm properly grateful to you, even though you won't let me mention it. Next season Ruby will go out with the show, but I'm getting a new clown. That is, she'll go unless something important 'appens to pervent." He screwed up his eye very mysteriously. "What is likely to happen, Joey?" "Well," said he, "girls do get married." "You don't mean to say Ruby's going to be married!" David's thoughts ran to Dick Cronk, although he knew there was no possible chance for him. "Well, there's a chap mighty attentive to 'er these days. You never can tell. She's a 'ansome girl and--but I daresay it's best not to count chickens before they're 'atched. I don't mind saying, 'owever," he went on rather wistfully, "I'd like to see Ruby 'appily married and retired from the stage. It's wuss than the circus, my lad. The temptations are greater and there ain't so much honor among the people you're thrown with. The stage is surrounded by a pack of wolves just as vicious as Bob Grand ever was, and a girl's got to be mighty spry to dodge 'em." "Is--her best young man a desirable fellow?" asked David, feeling very sorry for the outcast who had not so much as asked for a chance. "Capital chap. He's a newspaper man, but I can't say that it's anything very damaging against 'im. He seems a very sober chap and thrifty. You wouldn't believe it, but it's quite true." "I'm sure I wish her all the happiness in the world." "She can't quite make up 'er mind to leave the stage," mused Joey. "And he won't 'ave 'er unless she does, for good and all. So there you are." "If she loves him, she'll give it up." "She loves 'im all right," said Joey. "I know it, because she never talks about 'im. I don't see wot's keeping her. She could ha' gone to market and back five times--Hello!" He was peering through the little front window. A huge smile beamed in his face. With a chuckle, he called his visitor to the window. "Sh! Don't let 'er see the curtain move! She'd take our 'eads off. See that chap? _That_'s why she's been so long to market." Ruby was walking slowly down the opposite sidewalk, attended by a tall, strong-featured young fellow whose very attitude toward her bespoke infatuation. They crossed the street and stood for a long time at the bottom of the steps, laughing and talking, utterly unconscious of surveillance. Then she shook hands with her courtier, tapped his cheek lightly with the grocer's book which she carried, and ran lightly up the steps. The tall young man, his face aglow, stood motionless where she left him, his straw hat in hand, until she entered the house and closed the door behind her. David's last glimpse of the suitor presented that person, with his chest out, his hands in his pockets, striding off down the street, very much as if he owned it. The young Virginian barely had time left to turn away from the window before Ruby swept into the room. He had noted, as she stood below, that her figure was a trifle fuller; she was a bit more dashing, and a great deal handsomer than when he had seen her last. Somehow, David, without intending to do so, found himself mentally picturing her ten years hence: a stout, good-natured matron with a double chin and a painful effort to disguise it. He was not taken aback when she rushed over, with a little scream of delight, and kissed him resoundingly. After which she shook hands with him. It was what he expected. You could have heard the three of them talking if you had been on the sidewalk, but you could not have made head or tail of the conversation. Joey repeated a single remark four times, without being heard by either of his companions. It referred to a joyful reunion and a mug of ale. At length Ruby gave over rhapsodizing on the tallness, the broadness and the elegance of their visitor, and rushed to the hall door. Raising her voice, she called out to some one down the hall: "Millie!" "Yes, Miss Ruby," came the instantaneous response, suggesting a surprised propinquity. "Goodness! I thought you were downstairs--But never mind! Don't forget what I told you about the new radishes." "No, Miss Ruby, they shall not be forgot," said the trim little maid, bobbing in the doorway. "Mr. Jenison likes his waffles crisp," added Miss Noakes. To David she said: "I love waffles and honey for lunch, don't you?" "I do," responded David. "But I didn't know I was to stop for lunch." "Father, didn't you tell him?" demanded Ruby. "I surely did," prevaricated Joey; "but you were both talking so 'ard he didn't 'ear me." During luncheon, which was blissfully served by Millie, David took occasion to compliment Ruby on her good looks, her success and her prospects. "Don't guy me, David," she cried, turning quite red. "If every girl I know could enjoy such improvement in five years, I'm sure--" began David gallantly. "I suppose you're thinking of Christine Braddock when you say that," said she shrewdly. He had the grace to blush. "Well, let me tell you, David, she's the prettiest thing on two legs--I should say, on two continents. Goodness, a girl does pick up such awful expressions on the stage! I'm just perfectly awful." "She is beautiful?" asked David, his heart-beats quickening. "She's what you might call ravishing," proclaimed Ruby. "And she's very elegant, too." "She don't forget 'er old friends, though," said Joey hastily. "She sent me that geranium over there larst month and she--" "Never mind, dad. David isn't interested in her or what she does. Tell me about Colonel Grand's daughter." "How do you happen to know--" "Oh, a little Dicky-bird told me," she said. "It was in the newspaper I take that you and she were at the Springs at the same time. Oh, I read the society news. Is she pretty?" "She reminds me of her father." "Then she looks like that African gazelle we had with Van Slye's! Poor girl!" "I don't like her," said David. Then he related his experience with the young woman. His hearers were disgusted but not surprised. "They're all alike," commented Joey. "They're bad, them Grands--father, mother and daughter. First one, then the other tried to bribe me and Ruby. I sometimes believe the wife's as bad as he is, only in a different way." They were still seated at the table, discussing the Grands, when a heavy knock came at the front door. "Who can that be?" said Joey, glancing at his daughter, who was suddenly quiet. The knock was repeated before Millie was instructed to go to the door. She admitted some one, after a moment's parley. The husky, low-toned voice of a man came to the ears of those in the dining-room. As Joey arose to investigate, the maid came in. "It's the same man who was 'ere yesterday, Mr. Noakes. He says as he's 'ungry." "Braddock," said Joey in a half whisper. The man was standing just inside the front door; his dim figure was silhouetted red against the narrow, colored glass window in the casement. Something told them he was fumbling his hat and that his head was bent. "Ask him to come in here, father," said Ruby promptly. "I can't bear to see a man hungry. I don't care who or what he is." Joey looked at David in doubt and perplexity. David, who had clutched the back of his chair with tense fingers, nodded his head. The old man, obeying the second but unvoiced entreaty of his daughter, strode out into the hall. They heard the low mutter of masculine voices, one in evident protest, the other cordially insistent. "He's changed quite a bit," whispered Ruby, David rose to his feet and stood staring blankly at the man who followed Joey into the dining-room, the man who had struck the never-to-be-forgotten blow. Could this gray, lean, shuffling creature be the leonine, despotic Tom Braddock of other days? The man stopped just inside the door and fixed his sullen gaze steadily upon the face of the Virginian. Without glancing at Ruby, he uttered a curt "Howdy do, Ruby." "I guess we ain't expected to shake hands," said Braddock, a twisted smile on his lips. "I can't shake the hand that struck me as yours did when I could not defend myself," said David coldly. "'Ere, 'ere," remonstrated Joey nervously. "We can't 'ave any old quarrels took up in my 'ouse." "_I'm_ not quarreling, Joey," said Braddock, still watching David's face. David had the feeling, quite suddenly, that he was looking into eyes he had never seen before--intent, hard, steady eyes that were full of purpose. They were no longer blood-shot and protruding: they seemed to slink back under the pallid, bony brow, looking forth with a sort of cunning that suggested a hiding animal, nothing less. The change in Tom Braddock was astounding. David had always thought of him as the bullying, bloated giant, purple-faced and blear-eyed. His face was thin and gray--with the pallor of the prison still upon it; his cheeks were sunken, and the heavy stubble of beard that filled the hollows was a dirty white. One would have guessed this apparition of Tom Braddock to be sixty years of age, at least. His hair, still rather closely cropped, was no longer black, but a defiant, obtrusive gray. The heavy neck was now thin and corded; the broad shoulders drooped as if deprived of all their youthful power. His aggressive mustache of the old days was gone, laying bare a broad, firmly set lip. The cheap jeans clothing that fell to him when he left the penitentiary hung loosely on his frame, for he had lost many pounds; the coat was buttoned close about his throat, albeit the day was warm. He wore no collar. His "hickory" shirt was soiled. He had slept in these garments for many nights. The contrast was appalling. That this cadaverous, prideless individual could once have been the vain-glorious showman was almost inconceivable. It is no wonder that David stared. "Well, I guess you've changed about as much as I have," said Braddock, reading the other's thoughts. He uttered a bitter laugh as he turned to drag a chair up to the table, with something of the assurance of old. "I hope I've changed as much for the better as you have, Braddock," said David, and he meant it. Braddock whirled to glare at him in wonder. He was silent for a moment. Then he flung himself into the chair, his jaws setting themselves firmly, no trace of the sarcastic smile remaining. "I guess you have, David," he said shortly. "You're not what you were when you joined us five years ago." A sneer came to his lips. "What a high and mighty chap you've come to be. No wonder you won't shake hands with a jail-bird." "Stop talking, Tom Braddock," said Ruby, a gleam of anxiety in her eyes. "Here's what's left of the lamb and here's--" "Wait a minute, Ruby," said he. With his elbows on the edge of the table and his chin in his broad, sinewy hands he leaned forward and spoke again to David. "I've been out three weeks. I was up there for two years and a half. I'm just telling you this so's you'll know why I've changed. The whiskey's all out of me. There never will be any more inside of me, do you understand that? Ten years ago I was a man--wasn't I, Joey? I was a dog when you knew me, Jenison. Now, I'm a man again. See these hands? Well, they've been doing honest work, even if it was in a convict barrel factory. I'm ten times stronger than I was before. There isn't a soft muscle in my body. What you miss is the fat--the whiskey fat. I'm gray-headed, but who wouldn't be? But that is not what I'm trying to get at. I saw Dick Cronk this morning. I don't know how he found me. He told me you were up here to take a hand in my affairs. What I want to know, right here, Jenison, is this: Where is your friend Bob Grand and where is _she?_" He spoke quite calmly, but there was a deliberate menace in his tones. David was startled. An angry retort leaped to his lips, but he choked it back. "You are very much mistaken, Braddock, if you consider me the friend of Colonel Grand. I hate him quite as bitterly as you do. I--" "Oh, no, you don't," snapped the other. "No one in all this world, from its very beginning, has ever hated as I hate." "He is no friend of mine," reiterated David. "I think you know me well enough to believe that I do not lie. I have not seen him in five years." Braddock stared hard at him. Suddenly he leaned back with a deep breath of relief. "I believe you," he said. "You don't know how to lie. Well, what are you doing here, then, mixing in my affairs?" "We'll talk about that later on," said David. "Here is food, man. Eat. You are half-starved. Have you no money?" "Money? Say, do you think they pay you up _there_? I _am_ hungry. Not a mouthful since yesterday noon. Before I touch this grub, Joey, I want to say to you that I don't deserve it of you. I sold you all out. I wasn't square with you. But it was drink and--and that devil behind me all the time. I took your pocket-book that night, David. I stole it. I guess I was crazy most of the time in those days. I don't say I'll ever pay it back. I'm not apologizing for it, either. I'm just telling you. I meant to get all you had, but--well, I wasn't mean enough to crack you over the head. It would have been the only way--" "Don't speak of it, Braddock," interrupted Jenison painfully. "That's all past and gone." "I've paid for some of my sins--but not all of 'em," said Braddock. "Not all of 'em." He fell to eating ravenously. The others sat back, stiff and uncomfortable, watching him. His sunken but powerful jaws crunched the food with some of the ferocity of a beast. It came forcefully to the minds of the two men that they were looking upon a man whose great sinews were of steel, who could have crushed either of them in the long, hard arms that stretched forth to seize the food Ruby had placed before him. They were slowly coming to realize the bent of this man's mind during its savage development in prison. He had slaved to a purpose. The same thought grew in the mind of each observer: what chance would Robert Grand have in the naked hands of his enemy? Joey was the first to broach the subject. "Brad," he said soothingly, "you want to think twice before you do anything desperate." Braddock gave an ugly laugh as he jabbed a fork into a piece of meat. "Joey," he said, "I've already thought ten thousand times." "What do you intend to do?" asked David. "I'm going to get square with Bob Grand," said he very quietly. "I'm not going to be rash about it. I'm going to take my time and be _sure_." "We'll have to do something to prevent--" began David. "You can't do anything. I'm not saying what I'm going to do to him, so don't get fidgety." "You intend to kill him!" "He sent me up, didn't he? Without cause, too. He swore me into the pen. Said I tried to kill him. I never tried it. He owed me money. I asked him for it." He suddenly sprang to his feet. "By Jove, I try not to think that _she_ had anything to do with it. I don't want to believe it of her." "She didn't 'ave anything to do with it," cried Joey. "Get that idea out of your 'ead. You treated 'er like a dog, Brad, but she never turned on you like that. I can swear it." Braddock went over to the window and stared out upon the little garden. A long interval of silence ensued before he turned to face the others. "Don't look so scared, Ruby," he said, noting the girl's expression. "I'm not going to hurt _her_. I guess I've hurt her enough already. She's living as she'd ought to live, and so is--so is Christine. I'm not going to begrudge _them_ anything. But I'm going to have a talk with her." His manner was ugly. "I'm going to ask her two questions. She'll tell me the truth, I know. That's all I ask." "She has always hated Bob Grand," cried Ruby, "if that's what you mean." "That's what I mean. But I'm going to ask her just how much he has pestered her since--well, since that time with the show. I'm going to ask her if she knows what I did to her in the sale of my interest. I'm going to find out if he told her. Oh, you needn't worry! I won't do anything to hurt her or Christine. If she don't know already what I did to her, I'm going to tell her myself. If I get a chance to see my girl, I'm going to tell her just what I did to her mother." "Braddock, you must listen to reason!" cried David. "No good can come of this. They are happy and contented. Don't spoil it all for them. Go away, man. Try to forget your grievance against Colonel Grand. God will punish him and--" "I'll tell you what I came here for to-day, Jenison," said Braddock levelly. "Dick says you're still crazy about my--about Christine. He swears you haven't seen her in five years--some kind of a promise my wife made, he says. I came to ask you this question: will it make any difference in your intentions regarding her if I--if her father should happen to end his life on the scaffold? I don't say feelings, mind you,--I said intentions." "I mean it. Would you still want her if--if it turned out that way?" David looked helplessly from Joey to Ruby and then at the set, emotionless face of the questioner. "Braddock, I can tell you this from my soul: nothing you may do will alter my feelings or my intentions. Christine is in no way responsible for your transgressions. I am only sorry that she has such a father. If she still cares for me, I shall ask her to be my wife, even though you are strung up a hundred times. But this is beside the question. _You_ should think of her happiness, her peace of mind. All her life she will have to think of you as a--a--well, I won't say it. You--" "I'll say it for you," interrupted the gray-faced listener: "as a gallows bird--as scaffold fruit." "Please don't, Tom," cried Ruby. "You would better a thousand times shoot yourself than to bring that black shadow into her life," said David. "Suicide is bad enough but--ugh!" He shuddered. "Look here, Jenison, I might have been a good man if it hadn't been for Bob Grand. I always would have been a showman, I reckon, but I'd have been fairly self-respecting. Today, instead of being what I am, I'd still have the love of my wife, the respect of my girl, and--oh, well, you can't understand. You all are against me--and have been for years. I don't blame you--not a bit of it. I deserve it. Grand deliberately set out to ruin me--to pull me down. You know why. We won't go into that. I happen to know he afterwards paid her a lot of money for her interest in the business. When she tells me it was a square transaction I'll believe it, but not before." He paced the floor, his hands in his coat pockets, his brows drawn down in a thoughtful scowl. "You can stop me, I suppose, by having me locked up--but you can't keep me there forever. I'll get out some time. I don't say I'm going to shoot Bob Grand. I want you all to bear witness to this statement: whatever I do to him will be with these two hands. See 'em? Don't they look competent? He didn't use weapons on me, and I'm not going to use 'em on him. It's just a case of who has the best hands in this little game." "Why, man, it would be cowardly in you to put your strength against his. You could crush him," groaned David. Braddock smiled, almost joyously. "Won't it be a pretty sight? My hands on that fat neck of his! Ha!" "And the 'angman's rope on that neck of yours," put in Joey, wiping his moist forehead. "That's not the point," said Thomas Braddock. He picked up his hat, which he had cast upon a chair, and, without another word to either of them--no word of thanks to Ruby, no word of appreciation to David, no word of gratitude to Joey--he strode out into the hall, through the door and down the steps. They sat still looking at each other for a long time. "He can't do it to-day," said Joey in hushed tones. "The man's still out o' town." CHAPTER IV THE DELIVERY OF A TELEGRAM On David's return to the hotel he found a hastily scrawled note from Artful Dick Cronk. He had remained at the Noakes' until mid-afternoon, discussing the sinister attitude of Thomas Braddock. Joey stubbornly maintained that it was worse than useless to have the man locked up; it would merely delay the consummation of his purpose, and it would add fuel to the fierce flames that already were consuming his brain. He was for temporizing methods, attended by shrewd efforts to keep the enemies apart. It was his opinion that Braddock would listen to reason before many days. Certainly there could be no immediate danger with Grand out of the city. Jenison at last came to his way of thinking, although not without a twinge of misgiving. He had no respect, no sympathy for Braddock. It was his firm opinion that the man had in no way reformed; that he was as bad, if not worse, than ever, for now he was himself and not crazed by drink. Dick's note bore the disturbing news that Colonel Grand had returned to town, and that Mrs. Braddock was expected the following day. Ernie had obtained this information through the friendly Portman servant, who (to quote Dick) affected the hunchback's society because he believed that the "touching of a hump would bring good luck!" Old Mr. Portman, it was given out, was on his way to his summer place in the Adirondacks, Naturally he would be accompanied by his daughter and Christine. They were due to arrive at four o'clock, and expected to remain in town for ten days before going up to the cool hills. The closing sentences of the pickpocket's note were quaintly satirical: "Brad says he can't afford to be seen in my company. You know how politely he would say it, don't you? He says he can't take chances now. But I staked him to a bed for to-night and I told him I'd give him grub money. It seemed to tender him up a bit. He's hanging round with Ernie to-day and I'm going to see him to-night. Did I tell you that Ernie has a little apartment all to himself over on Fourth Avenue? He's some elegant. Of course, it won't do for me to be seen around his shack much. I might accidentally give the place a bad name, see? Well, I'll close, but will write again to-morrow. DICK. P. S. They come in on the Pennsylvania." David spent a miserable night. He was obsessed by the fear that Braddock would seek out Grand that very night, and that it would all be over in the morning. At breakfast he scanned the newspapers closely, half expecting to find the dreaded head-lines. As the morning wore away his spirits lifted. He had made up his mind to go to the railway station. From an obscure corner he would see her without being seen. It was his whim to see her first in this manner, to stare to his soul's content, to compare her in the flesh to the glorious picture his brain had painted. He made no doubt that she would far surpass the portrait in his mind: did not Ruby say she was ravishingly beautiful? His heart leaped fiercely to the project in hand; more than once he found himself growing faint with the intensity of yearning and impatience. He took Joey and Ruby to luncheon at Delmonico's. All through the meal he was busy picturing to himself the girl who was whirling northward, nearer and nearer to him with each minute of time. She would be tall and slender and shapely. His mind's eye traveled backward. Her hair would be brown--But, even as he constructed her to please his eager imagination, he quailed before the spectre of doubt: was the heart of the girl of fifteen unchanged in the woman of twenty? Ruby was glibly telling him of the young men who paid court to the granddaughter of old Mr. Portman. Both she and Joey found rich enjoyment in the fact that these sprigs of gentility knew nothing of the circus-riding epoch in Christine's life; they wondered what the effect would be when the truth came out. Joey ventured the opinion that "the devil would be to pay," and Ruby added the prophecy that "they would drop her like a hot poker." Strange to say, David found considerable satisfaction in these dolorous predictions. He caught the ferry soon after luncheon, and was in the station on the other side of the river long before the train was due. Buying a newspaper, he took a seat in a far corner of the concourse. He read but little and that without understanding. His mind was quite fully occupied in peering over the top of the sheet in the direction of the sheds. Finally he became convinced, by certain psychic processes of the mind, that some one was staring at him. He looked about in all directions. At last his eyes rested on a squat, misshapen figure far over by the ferry entrance. He had no difficulty in recognizing Ernie Cronk. His presence there was disquieting in more than one sense. Dick had said that Braddock was "hanging 'round" with his brother. This, of itself, was sufficient to create alarm in David's mind. He searched the scurrying throng for a glimpse of the drab, sinister figure of Christine's father, all the while conscious that Ernie Cronk's baleful gaze was upon him. The beady eyes seemed to penetrate shifting obstructions, never changing, never wavering. David considered briefly, and then decided to consult the cripple. As he made his way over to him he noted that Ernie was flashily dressed, almost to the point of grotesqueness. One might have forgiven the vivid checked suit on the person of a buoyant barber, but it was grewsome in its present occupation. Its gaudy, insistent cheapness leaped out at the observer with much the same appeal for favor that one imputes to the garments of a clown. One might have read the envy in Ernie's soul as his eyes swept the tall, straight, simply clad Southerner who approached. He stood his ground defiantly, however; there was no smile of friendliness on his thin lips. "Hello, Ernie," said David. Ernie's arms were folded across his breast. As he gave no sign of unfolding them, David did not proffer his hand. "You don't have to speak to me if you don't want to," muttered Ernie, his eyes snapping. "Where is Braddock?" asked the other, imperturbably. The rat-like eyes glittered with a cunning smile. "Don't ask me. Got you worried, eh?" "We are trying to keep him from hurting Christine, that's all," said David tactfully. "He ain't going to do that," said Ernie quickly. A shadow of anxiety crept into his face, however. "He's after Grand." "Just the same, we are afraid. Is he here?" "No. He's asleep at my place, if that'll do you any good. I'm not going to turn against her father, which is more than the rest of you can say. You can tell her, if you want to, that I'm still his friend." It was plain to be seen that he was adopting this pitiful policy as a means of gaining the attention of the otherwise unapproachable Christine. "He was up all night--_looking!_" "For Grand?" "I didn't ask," leered the hunchback. Suddenly his eyes flew wide open. He was staring past Jenison. "Say! Speaking of angels, look behind you." David turned. Not twenty feet away stood Colonel Grand, twirling a light walking-stick and surveying the throng with disinterested eyes. He had seen and ignored Ernie, but had failed to recognize the young man whose back was toward him. David experienced a sickening sense of disappointment. His heart sank like lead. Grand's presence in the station could have but one meaning. A great wave of revulsion swept through the Virginian. He forgot the anticipated joy of the moment before in contemplation of this significant proof of an understanding. His lips were dry. He moistened them. Ernie, observing the movement, concluded that he was muttering something to himself. "Say it to his face, why don't you?" he recommended sarcastically. Before David could interpose, the hunchback called out to Colonel Grand. The latter turned quickly. For a moment he stared intently at the face of the tall young man. Suddenly light broke in upon him. "Why, it's Jenison," he exclaimed, and advanced, an amiable smile on his lips. David ignored the hand that he extended; he could only stare, as if fascinated, at the puffy face of the speaker. Grand had altered but little in appearance during the five years that had passed. He seemed to have grown no older, nor was he less repulsive to look upon. As of old, he was carefully, even immaculately dressed. Ernie Cronk moved away. They might have heard him chuckling softly to himself. "Let me see, it's five years, isn't it?" went on the Colonel suavely. He did not appear to resent David's omission. "You've changed considerably. The mustache improves you, I think." His voice was as oily as ever, his eyes and his nose as sheep-like. Something arose in David's throat, bringing a certain hoarseness to his voice. "Time has not affected you, Colonel," he retorted. "So they tell me," said the other. "Are you waiting to meet some one?" "Yes," said David, and nothing more. The Colonel twirled his stick. "My daughter is arriving by the four-twenty," he announced. "Beastly old station, this. What a godsend a destructive fire would prove if it took it from one end to the other." "Your daughter is coming?" asked David. The note of eagerness and relief in his voice caused the other's eyes to narrow suddenly. "You've met her, I believe," he said, studying David's face. "Once,--at the Springs." "She's coming rather unexpectedly to make me an extended visit. I should deem it quite an honor, David, if you would give us the pleasure of your company some evening for dinner--" "My stay here is to be very brief, Colonel Grand, and my time is entirely taken up," said David coldly. "I'm sorry," said the Colonel, shrugging his shoulders in self-commiseration. It was on the tip of David's tongue to ask him if he knew of Thomas Braddock's presence in town, but timely reflection convinced him that it would be unwise. The Colonel, in his alarm, might set about to have Braddock hunted down and confined without delay; and there was no telling what crime he would lay at Braddock's door in order to secure long imprisonment. "I met your wife, also, at the Springs," said David, coolly substituting the thrust. The Colonel frowned slightly. "You are doubtless aware that my wife and I are no longer living together," he said, his lips straightening. "I have heard something to that effect," said David easily,--so easily that the other could not mistake the insolence of the remark. Grand flushed. "I am happy to say, young man, that my train is pulling in. I must therefore deny myself the pleasure of conversing with you any longer. Good-day, sir." He did not bow as he turned away. A moment later he was threading his way through the crowd. David sauntered over to his first place of waiting, a smile on his lips. He was immensely relieved now, and not a little ashamed of a certain unworthy suspicion. He fixed his eager gaze on the throng of people that came up from the train, pouring into the big waiting-room. First, he saw Roberta Grand as she came rushing up to her father. He was struck by the swift change that came over the Colonel's face, who stared in amazement over the girl's shoulder, even as he embraced her. David allowed his gaze to return to the oncoming crowd. Mary Braddock approached, apparently unconscious of the presence of either of her old associates. She walked beside a decrepit old gentleman whom David at once surmised to be Albert Portman. A maid and a male attendant followed close behind. Christine was not in sight. Mrs. Braddock saw Grand when not more than half a dozen paces separated them. She almost stopped in her tracks. David detected the look of surprise and dismay in her face. She and Grand were staring hard at each other, but neither made the slightest pretense of anything more than visual recognition. She averted her gaze after a moment of uncertainty, and, with her head erect, passed close by the Colonel and his daughter, both of whom were scrutinizing her with brazen interest. She did not see David Jenison, although he might have touched her by moving two steps forward. Disconcerted by the rude, insolent stare that was leveled jointly by her old enemy and his daughter, a vivid flush mantled her cheek and brow. Time had made few changes in her appearance. Her face was softer, gentler if possible; her carriage was as erect and as proud as ever. She was modestly, unobtrusively attired, as David expected she would be. After she had passed, the young man turned his attention again to the crowd, his nerves jumping with eagerness. Christine was sure to be not far behind her mother. He saw her at last, a laggard at the end of the hurrying procession. She passed close by him. He stood motionless, seeing no one else, thinking of no one but this slim, adorable girl who had no eyes for him. At her side strode a tall, good-looking fellow whose manner toward her could be mistaken for nothing short of simple adoration. She was smiling brightly, even rapturously up into the eyes of this eager swain. In another instant they were lost in the crowd that rushed to the ferry, but David was never to forget that passing glimpse of her--not to the day of his death. She was all that his fondest dreams, all that his fairest prophecies, had promised--nay, she surpassed them! The pure, girlish face--the one of the deep, earnest eyes and tender lips--had been toned and perfected and rechiseled by the magic hand of Time. She was taller by several inches; a lissome creature who moved with the sureness and grace of an almost exalted symmetry. His dazzled, gleaming eyes followed her into the vortex below. A vast wave of exultation suddenly rushed over him. He had held her in his arms--he had kissed this beautiful, joyous creature--this product of enchantment! Now, more than ever, was he resolved to claim her for his own. It was as good as settled, in his enraptured mind! Nothing could keep her from him now. He had loved her, he had waited for her, and he would have her in spite of everything. What could it matter to him that she was coveted by all the men who knew her? He rejoiced in the fact that they were at her feet. It was left for him to look down upon them in the end, and smile with all the arrogance of triumphant possession! Even as he exulted, a dissolving element was flung upon the crystal in which he saw his own glorification. A harsh, discordant voice was speaking at his elbow. He turned. Ernie Cronk was standing beside him. It required a moment of concentration on the part of the infatuated David to grasp the significance of a certain livid hue in Ernie's face. The hunchback was looking up at him. His eyes were bleak with unhappiness. There was no anger in them: only despair. "That's the fellow," he was saying, his voice cracking hoarsely. "He's the one she's in love with." David started. "You mean--she's in love with him?" he demanded blankly. "That's Bertie Stanfield. He's a great swell. He was here to meet her. I saw him. It's--it's no use, David. No one else has got a show." His inclusion of David in his own misfortune, though by inference, would have been amusing at another time. Somehow, at this moment, it struck David as tragic. Was it possible that he was to find himself in the same boat with this unhappy, uncouth worshiper? He pulled hard at the end of his short mustache, and swallowed hard with involuntary abruptness. "I--I have heard of him," he said, a sudden chill creeping into his veins. "Did she--did she speak to you?" asked Ernie. The hard look was creeping back into his eyes. "She didn't see me," muttered David. "She spoke to me. She always does," said Ernie, twisting his fingers. "But," he went on, almost in a wail, "it's because she--she pities me!" David's heart was touched. He laid his hand on Cronk's shoulder and was about to speak kindly to him. The other drew back, shaking off the compassionate hand. "None o' that, now. I don't need any pity from you. Keep your trap closed about me." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and allowed his gaze to travel toward the ferry entrance. The despondent note returned to his voice. "Shall we take this boat or wait for the next?" he asked. It was as if he had said: "We are companions in misery, you and I. Let's make the best of it." David looked at him for a moment oddly. The humor of the situation struck him all at once; but the smile of derision died on his lips. After all, perhaps he was in the discard with Ernie Cronk. "I'm going to catch this boat," he said decisively. He started off, followed by his unchosen comrade, and caught the boat almost as it cast off in the slip. Mrs. Braddock and Christine were far forward. They were chatting gayly with the blonde Mr. Stanfield, who appeared to be giving them the latest news of the town. Old Mr. Portman sat against the deck house. David watched the little group at the rail from a safe distance. He allowed his fancy full play; his hopes rebounded; his confidence revived. By the time the ferry-boat was locked in the Manhattan slip he was buoyant with the hope and resolution of unconquered youth. He would win her away from them all. All the way across the river he had been aware of Colonel Grand's close proximity to the little party of three. He stood, with Roberta, across the forward deck, leaning against the rail, his arms folded. At no time did he withdraw his gaze from the figure of Mary Braddock. Her back was toward him,--resolutely, it seemed to David,--and she must have been conscious of the carnal eyes bent upon her. Somehow David had the feeling that she was battling against the impulse to turn in response to the hypnotic command. He hung back, biding his time, until the party had disappeared inside the ferry building. Then he hastened toward one of the exits, intent on securing a cab. He had made up his mind not to accost them; he would not present himself unexpectedly at a time and place when embarrassment to them might be the result. From somewhere at the edge of the crowd a thin, sardonic voice called out to him: "So long, David. You know how it feels yourself now, don't you?" He knew who the speaker was without looking. Mrs. Braddock was standing at the counter of the telegraph office near one of the street doors. He did not see her until he was almost upon her. She was alone and engaged in writing out a telegram. His plans were altered in an instant. A moment later, he was at her side, his face flushed and eager. For many seconds she stared wonderingly into his smiling eyes. Before uttering a word she glanced at the message she had finished and was about to hand it to the clerk; then her gaze returned to his face. "David Jenison," she said, and there was something like awe in her voice, "is it really you? How strange--how very strange!" "I'm not a ghost," he cried. "You look at me as if I had crept out of my grave." She looked again at the telegram. "Why, David," she began falteringly. Then her face cleared. A glad smile broke over it, and both her hands were extended. "It really _is_ you? I am not seeing visions? Yes, you are flesh and blood! You dear, dear David! I am _so_ glad to see you. How does it happen that you are here? Where do you come from and--" She went on with the eagerness of a child, asking more questions than he could remember, much less answer. "And how wonderfully you have grown up!" "I have seen Christine," he said eagerly. "She is perfection--she is marvelous." "Seen her? Where? But we cannot talk here. We must have hours and hours all by ourselves. Come to my father's house to-night. We are living with him, you know. There is so much that we have to tell each other--all that has happened in the five long years." "I am here solely to remind you that the five years are ended, Mrs. Braddock. Mahomet has come to the mountain, you see." Her face clouded. She glanced quickly through the window. His gaze followed hers. Christine and young Stanfield were driving away together in a hansom. He read her thoughts. "I'll take my chances," he remarked confidently. "I know that she has not forgotten, David," she said after a moment of deliberation, "but--well, I will be frank with you. She has suddenly shot past my comprehension. It is the privilege of a girl to change her mind, you know, when she changes the length of her frocks." "You haven't changed, have you?" he asked bluntly. She stared. "I?" "I mean, you are still my champion?" "Of course," she replied readily. "Then, as I said before, I'll take my chances with the rest. I'll not hold her to that girlhood bargain. That would be unfair. But, if you'll permit me, I'll go in and win her as she is to-day--if I can." She smiled at his ardor. "I hope you may win, David. But you must win for yourself. Do not look to me for help. She must decide for herself." He did not refer to the young man who had taken her away in the cab. Mrs. Braddock noted this and was not slow to divine the well-bred restraint that lay behind the omission. "That was young Stanfield," she observed. "He is delightful. My father is devoted to him." David smiled. "I hope to have the pleasure of meeting him soon." "You may meet to-night." If she expected to see a trace of annoyance in his face, she was disappointed. He gracefully confessed his interest in the prospective meeting. "I shall be more than delighted to come," he said. "And I am glad he will be there to engage Christine's attention while I devote myself to you, Mrs. Braddock." "You nice boy!" She extended her hand. "I must not keep my father waiting out there. You don't know how glad I am that you are here, David." Suddenly a wave of red mounted to her cheek; an expression of utter loathing came into her deep eyes. In some alarm he glanced over his shoulder. Colonel Grand was standing at the door through which she would have to pass. He was not looking at her, but his motive in placing himself there was only too plain. "Confound him!" involuntarily fell from David's lips. "If he dares to address me--" she began, her face going white. "David, I have not seen that man since the day I left the show. Why is he here to-day? Is it to annoy--to torment me in--" "He won't do that," announced David firmly. "I have a strange foreboding, David,--of evil, of something dreadful. Perhaps it is due to the unexpected sight of--his horrid face. I--" "That's it," said he promptly. Nevertheless, a slight chill entered his heart. There was Tom Braddock to be considered. "I'll come early to-night, if I may," he said, more soberly than he meant. "There are some very important things to discuss. Now I'll take you to your carriage." During their talk she had absently folded the telegram. He observed it in her hand and said: "The telegram--don't forget that, Mrs. Braddock." Her smile was enigmatic. With a diverted smile for the waiting clerk she said: "I shall not send it, after all." David walked with her to the door. They passed so close to Colonel Grand that David's elbow touched his arm, but neither of them looked at him. She hastily entered the waiting carriage, a sort of panic overtaking her. Thrusting the crumpled bit of paper into David's hand, her eyes steadfastly held against the impulse to look at the satiric figure in the doorway, she said in a half-whisper: "Take it, David--and come to-night." He stood there with his hat in his hand as the carriage drove off, sorely perplexed by her action. Suddenly a light broke in upon his understanding. He spread out the small sheet and read: "The five years have passed. I redeem my promise. You are not obliged to keep yours, however." It was signed "Mary Braddock." Colonel Grand was smiling sardonically in the doorway. CHAPTER V THE LOVE THAT WAS STAUNCH "I shall depend on you, David, to bring my husband here to see me. Search for him until you find him." The white-faced, distressed woman said this to David Jenison a few hours later in the Portman library. They sat alone in the half-light. Stanfield's married sister had taken Christine off earlier in the evening, to a concert. Mrs. Braddock, in a spirit of whimsicality, forbore mentioning the appearance of David to the girl, planning to surprise her when she returned from the concert. If David was disappointed at not finding her, he went to considerable pains to hide the fact from the mother. As a matter of fact he was secretly relieved, strange as it may seem, after the first shock of disappointment. Christine's absence was providential, after all. He had ugly news for Mrs. Braddock; he could wait on the opportunity to see Christine, but what he had to say to the mother could not be put off for a moment. He had gone at once to his room in the hotel after leaving Mrs. Braddock at the ferry. He was startled almost out of his boots by the discovery that Dick Cronk was there ahead of him, calmly occupying the easiest chair and reading the evening paper. A skeleton key had provided the means of admission to the room; a brave heart and cunning brain did the rest. Dick's news created great unrest in David's breast. Braddock, it appeared, had gone, early in the afternoon, to the apartment hotel in which Grand lived. Fortunately the Colonel was not about the place. Dick, on missing the ex-convict, had hurried at once to Grand's hotel, finding his man there, seated in the small lobby, a sinister example of respectability, waiting patiently for the return of his enemy. The self-appointed guardian coaxed him away from the place, conducting him to the cheap, ill-favored thieves' lodging-house where he had taken a single room for temporary occupancy. Braddock, after a show of obduracy, finally had consented to make an effort to see his wife before visiting his wrath upon Colonel Grand. Dick informed David: "He's set on doing something nasty, kid, that's all there is to it. He _won't_ be turned aside. Those years in the pen have put something into his backbone that never was there before. Maybe Mrs. Braddock can talk him out of it, but I dunno. She always had influence over him, but that was before he took to getting tight. It's different now. If we can't do anything else we'll have to warn Grand, that's all. I hate to do it, but--I guess it's the only way left." For the first time in their acquaintance David saw Dick lose control of himself. His face was convulsed by an expression so violent that the Virginian drew back in alarm. "David, I hate the sight o' that man. I'd go to hell to-morrow if I thought I could have a place where I could look on and see him burn forever. I never see him now without wanting to stamp that face of his to jelly. It's growing on me, too. Oh, to kick that white, putty face until there was nothing left of it! I'd give--" But David had grasped his arm, to shake him out of his frenzy, speaking to him all the while. He grew calm as abruptly as he had gone to the other extreme. His brow was moist, but the old, quizzical smile beamed beneath it. "I'm going on like a crazy man, ain't I? Well, forget it, kid. I'm off my nut, I guess. Get back to business. You got to fix it up with her to see Brad." He paused and eyed David's face narrowly. "Say, are you still worryin' about what I said about trampin' on his face?" David had cause afterward to recall the ugly sensation that this extraordinary burst of rage created in his mind. Before leaving, Dick announced that he was eager to start West to connect with Barnum's circus, complaining of the unprofitable idleness that had been forced upon him. He expressed the confident hope that Braddock might be persuaded to leave with him. "I can't afford to be loafin' around New York this season of the year," he reflected in the most _degage_ manner imaginable. "It's expensive, the way Ernie and me are living nowadays. I got to get out and round up the rubes. Now, kid, don't preach. Oh, by the way, has Joey told you the good luck that's happened to Ruby? Going to marry Ben Thompson, a newspaper man. I'm mighty glad she's gettin' a chap like him, and not one of them rotten guys that hang around the op'ry houses. She's--she's a fine girl, Davy--a plum' daisy." Jenison once more impulsively offered to provide a refuge and employment for life on his plantation for the delectable scalawag, but Dick laughed at him in fine scorn. He departed a few minutes later, sauntering down the hall with a complacency that fairly scoffed at house detectives and their ilk. David went to the Portman home in a state of suppressed eagerness and anxiety, one emotion topping the other by turns as he was being driven toward Washington Square. He expected to see Christine. He was counting on it with all the pent-up fervor of a long-denied lover. The brief glimpse he had had of her in the afternoon drove out all doubts as to his own state of mind concerning her. She was incomparably beautiful; she had the air of the high-bred; she was worthy of the attentions of the well-born; she possessed poise, manner--all that and more: the indefinable charm that radiates in some mysterious way from the superlatively healthy. His admiration for her, instead of suffering the shock that might have been anticipated--and which was secretly dreaded, to be quite candid--had grown more intense under the test. What would be her attitude toward him? That was the question. What had the five years and new environment done for her? Eager as he was to discover the state of her feelings, he recognized, however, the more pressing matters that were to be considered. The peace and welfare of the girl herself demanded his first thoughts, his most devoted efforts. Tragedy stalked close beside her. He was afraid to think how close it was, or when it would make its ugly presence felt. He lost no time, therefore, in apprising Mary Braddock of the true state of affairs. She sat before him, a great dread in her dark eyes, the pallor of helplessness on her cheek, listening to the direful tale he told. He did not make the mistake of minimizing the situation. He spared her not the details, nor softened the stubborn facts. As clearly as possible he drew for her the picture of Thomas Braddock as he had seen him. He repeated faithfully all that Dick Cronk and the Noakeses had told him, neglecting no particular in the known history of her husband since the old circus days. She was very still and tense. Her eyes never left his face while he was speaking, except once when she looked toward the door in response to a sound that led her to believe that Christine was returning. There were times when he imagined that she was not breathing. After the first few minutes she asked no questions, but mutely absorbed the story as it fell from his lips. The light of joy and gladness in her eyes that had been his welcome was gone now. In its place was the dark gleam of dread and anxiety. She interrupted him once, to ask him to tell her again how Braddock looked and how he had acted. As he repeated the description, her perplexed, even doubting, expression caused him to hesitate, but she shook her head as if putting something out of her mind and signified that he was to proceed. "I would not have known him," he concluded, "he was so unlike the man I knew." "He had not touched whiskey, you say--not since--" "Not in three years. It has wrought an unbelievable change in him." "I knew him, David, before he drank at all," she said, staring past him. "Perhaps the change would not be so great to me." "He has aged many years. There are hard, desperate lines in his face. You _would_ see a change, I am afraid, Mrs. Braddock." She was silent for a moment. "Go on, David," she said, suddenly passing her hand before her eyes in a movement as expressive as it was involuntary. "Dick Cronk has a certain amount of influence over him, you say." "It will not last. When Colonel Grand hears that he is back in town his first step will be to have him thrown into jail on one pretext or another. Braddock realizes this. He has made up his mind to strike first. I think he believes in you, Mrs. Braddock--in fact, I am sure he does. I know he loves Christine. But he hates Colonel Grand even more than he loves her or--you. He--" "Oh, he does not love me, David. You need not hesitate," she said drearily. "As I have already said, he gave Dick a half-promise that he would try to see you. He has two questions he intends to ask, I believe. I think, Mrs. Braddock, you will be doing a very wise thing if you see him--of your own free will. He will probably insist on seeing you in any event--even in the face of opposition. You can avoid a great deal of trouble by--well, by not barring him out. I know how it must distress you. I wish I could take all the worry, all the trouble off your shoulders. But there would be only one way in which I could do it--and that would be a desperate one." It was then that she laid her trembling, icy hand on his, and said, "Search for him until you find him." David hesitated a moment before putting his next question. It touched on a very tender subject. "Have you thought of divorcing him?" "No, David," she said quietly. "I made my bed years ago, as Joey would say. Tom is Christine's father. He is my husband. You may well say, God help both of us. But, David, while I cannot live with him, I intend to remain his wife to the end. I am ready to promise anything to him if he will go away. I will give him all of the money I received for my share of the hateful business. He must accept it quietly, sanely. It is for _her_ sake, and he must be made to see it. The world knows that I ran away to be married, but it has forgotten the circumstances. The general belief is that my husband died years and years ago, and that I have lived abroad ever since. There is one thing to his credit, David. I shall not forget it. When he was arrested, he thought of Christine and--and--well, he gave an assumed name, an alias, to the police. Colonel Grand kept his own silence, and for years he has held this over me as a threat. I have had many letters from him, believe me. Christine is no longer the little, unheard-of circus rider. She is--well, she is a _personage_. Do you understand?" He nodded his head. She went on hurriedly. "Tell Tom I _want_ to see him. Tell him I am ready to discuss everything with him. Tell him that nothing must happen that can injure her." "He may insist on seeing--her." "She does not know that he has been in prison," she said miserably. "But if he should insist?" "I should have to prepare her, David. She knows that he is alive--but-- Listen, David!" She leaned forward to give emphasis to her words. "If he comes to her now with the story of his--his wrongs, of his sufferings, she will forget all that has gone before. Her heart is tender. I am afraid of the stand she may take--and she may compel me to take it with her." "I'll do all that I can, Mrs. Braddock, to--" he began. The sound of voices in the vestibule came to them at that moment. Good nights were being called from the steps to the street below. Then the door was opened and closed quickly. Some one came rapidly down the hall. There was a swift rustling of skirts, the low humming of an air from "Pinafore." David was on his feet in an instant, visibly excited by the impending encounter. Christine came into the library. She was half-way across the room before she realized that the tall young man beside her mother was a stranger... She stopped. Her questioning gaze lingered on his face. His smile puzzled her. Her eyes narrowed, then suddenly they were distended; her lips parted in amazement, tremulously struggling into a smile of wonder and unbelief. No one had spoken. "It--it is David," she said, a quaver of breathlessness in the soft tones. He sprang forward, his hands extended. "Yes," he cried, transported by the new aspect of loveliness. She stood straight and slim before him, still unbelieving. Slowly her hands were lifted to meet his, as if impelled by a power not her own. He clasped them; they were cold. Something in their limp unresponsiveness chilled him as if he had been touched by ice. He gently released them and drew back, dismayed within himself. "Why--why didn't you tell me, mamma?" she cried, the flutter in her voice increasing. A swift wave of color rushed to her cheeks. She suddenly held out her hands to him again, an eagerness in the action that caught him unawares and lifted his spirits to dizzy heights. "Oh, I am so glad--so glad to see you, David," she cried. Her firm little hands were warm now, and trembling. "Christine," he half whispered, "are you--are you truly glad to see me? Do you mean it?" She was looking straight into his eyes. In her own glowed a dark appeal; she seemed to be delving in the secret recesses of his heart. "David," she cried, forgetful of everything else in the world, "does it mean that you--you still care for me? You haven't changed? I have been wondering--oh, how I have been--" The plaintive note drove all doubt from his mind. He was suddenly exalted. Speech was beyond him. His dream had come true. She was incomparably fairer than his waking hours had pictured her during the five years of probation; only in fond dreams had she appeared to him as she now appeared in reality. He could only look down into her face, mute under the seal of wonder. All that he had longed for and prayed for was here revealed to him; he could have asked for no more. He went suddenly weak with joy. "My little Christine," he murmured. "I have been so afraid," she was saying, still searching his soul through his eyes. "I am still afraid, David. It has been a long time. So many things may have happened. We were such young, foolish things. Oh, David, you don't know how I have worked and planned and striven to make myself what you would like, if you were ever to come to see me again. I--" "You are perfect--you are divine!" he cried, all the passion of his soul ringing in the tender words. "I can't believe it! You really care, Christine? You have not changed? It has always been the same with you?" "Changed, David," she whispered, her lip trembling, a sudden mist swimming in her sweet young eyes. "Changed?" "You _do_ love me? I am not dreaming? It is really _you?_" She suddenly lowered her eyes, the warm flush spreading to her throat, her neck, her ears. She caught her breath in a half-sob. [Illustration: Her lips parted in amazement, tremulously struggling into a smile of wonder and unbelief] Both had forgotten the tall woman who stood over there by the window, her hands clasped, her heart in the eyes that looked upon them. They did not see the beatific smile that came to her colorless lips. Nor were they aware of the fact that she turned away, to gently draw aside the curtain that she might look out, unseeing, upon the gloom of the night beyond. He quickly lifted the girl's hands to his feverish lips. There he held them for many minutes while he steadied his rioting senses, regaining control of his nerves. He looked down upon the dark, soft hair and worshiped. A red rose rested there. He bent over and kissed her hair--and the rose. Then she looked up. "I do love you, David," she said softly, "are you--are you sure that you--Oh, David, are you sure?" For answer, his eager arm stole over her shoulder and she was drawn close to his breast. She raised her lips to greet the kiss. Her little hand clutched his with a sudden convulsive ecstasy. He felt the warm, quick breathing--and then their lips met. "I am very sure," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "There never has been a minute in which I was not sure, Christine, my darling." "You have forgotten--you can overlook those old days when I was Little Starbright?" she whispered wonderingly. "They will make no difference--now?" "I loved you then. You and I and my love have grown older and stronger and dearer with the years that have--" She broke away from him, putting her hands to her cheeks in pretty confusion. Her eyes were shining brightly as she looked beyond him. "Oh, mother! I--I forgot that you were there. I forgot everything." She ran to her mother and buried her face on her shoulder. "I told you it would come true, mother. I knew it would. Oh, I am so happy! Have I been ridiculous? Have I been silly, mother?" It was the ecstatic David who reassured her on that point. In his unbounded joy he rushed over and enveloped the two of them in his long, eager arms. Later on, after Mrs. Braddock had gone to her father's room, he sat with Christine on the low, deep sofa under the bookshelf gallery. Her hands were clasped in his. They had but little to say to each other in words. Their eyes spoke the thoughts that surged up from their reunited hearts. She had thrown aside the light, filmy wrap, and the sweet, velvety skin of her neck and shoulders gleamed in the soft light; her perfectly modeled, strong young arms were as clear and white as marble. He was lost in admiration--in marveling admiration. For long stretches at a time he permitted himself to fall into silent, rapt contemplation of this perfected bit of womanhood. Every childish feature that he remembered so well had been subtly vignetted by the soft touch of nature; he was sensing for the first time the vast distinction between fifteen and twenty--the distinction without the difference; for she was the same Christine, after all. It was unbelievable. A delicate bit of magic was being performed before his very eyes; the slim, girlish sweetheart of other days was being effaced. The soft, insinuating loveliness of young womanhood, with all its grace, all its charms, was being revealed to him as if by some wonderful process in photography--new shades, new lights, new tints, all ineffably joyous in tone. He could not remember that her hair was so soft and wavy at the temples, nor had it ever seemed to caress her ears so adorably. Why was it that he had never noticed the delicate arch of her eyebrows? Why had he failed to see the limpid sweetness in her eyes? And her hair, too, seemed to cling differently above the slim, round neck. What magic sculptor had chiseled her lips into their present form? Her chin; her nose; her broad, white brow--why had he never observed them before? And what was this strange, new light in the dark eyes? This look that was no longer childish, no longer inquisitive, but steady with understanding! The girl of fifteen was gone. This was the perfect, well-blown human flower, the woman. The woman! Slender, beautifully molded, sinuous, incomparably fine--the woman! He closed his eyes in sudden subjection to that thing called rapture. He held her close, strained to his own triumphant, vigorous body. She was his! The woman! Ah, it _was_ different! "How beautiful--how wonderful you are, Christine," he whispered. "I can't believe that you are _my_ Christine." She could only smile her confirmation. No words could have told so clearly the sensuous delight that stilled her tongue. There was joy in her soft breathing, in the gently spreading nostrils, in the half-closed eyes. She was experiencing the unspeakable thrill that comes but once in the dream of love. When he spoke, at uneven intervals, his voice was husky with the passion that consumed him. Once he was saying: "It is too good to be true. I came unbidden, determined to learn how I stood with you. I could not wait. When I saw you to-day, I said to myself that you had grown away from me. I told myself I should have to win you all over again. You seemed unapproachable. You were so wonderful, Christine--so utterly beyond anything I had expected to find. I was alarmed, I was actually dismayed. But I told myself that I would win you; I would begin all over again and I--" "You saw me to-day?" she interrupted in surprise. "Where?" "I was waiting for you at the station--far back in the crowd. I wanted to see you in that way first. Your mother and I met there. She did not tell you. She asked me to come to-night, but she was careful to give me no hope. You will never know the doubts and fears that have beset me all this long evening. And then you came in. I was dazed. I was all a-tremble. And then to find that--that I had had all my fears for nothing! Why--why, I could have died for joy! You did not hesitate. You swept me off my feet. When you kissed me, Christine, I--I--it was as if night had turned to day in--" "I have gone on loving you, David, from the beginning. There never has been a moment in which I have ceased to do so. Ah, you had nothing to fear. But I! Oh, my dear one, I was never free from doubt--never quite certain. You were so far above me that I--" "Don't say that!" "That I was sure you would not take our--our love dream seriously. When you came to be a man, with all that manhood meant to you, I felt somehow that you would forget the little circus girl who--" He kissed her. Then she was silent for a long time. "Your mother was telegraphing me to-day to come," he said after a time. "Did you know that she intended to do so?" "No. I only knew that she would do it--soon. She had promised--both of us, you know." "Have you never asked her to send me the message?" "Never! How could I? I would not have held you to the compact. Nor would she." "And have you not told her that you cared for me all these years? Didn't she know?" "Listen, David," she said seriously. "My mother has never spoken of our compact. She did nothing to influence me. She was content to let time take its course--and nature, too. Ah, how wise she is! But all this time I have been conscious of a strange feeling that she was making me over anew with but one object in view. She wanted me to be all that you could expect, demand, exact, if you were to come some day to--to look me over, to see if I was--was worth the effort. Yes, David, she prepared me against this day. She worked with me, she planned, she denied herself everything to give me all that you might wish for in a--" "My dear, you had everything to begin with," he began gallantly, but she checked him with a shake of her head. "No, I did not. True, I had not been brought up as other circus children were. But I had a point of view that required years of training to destroy. We won't speak of my father. I don't like to think of him. David, as we used to know him, you and I. There was a time when he was different--and I loved him. But that was long before. I--I think he has gone out of my life altogether." David realized then and there that she should not be kept in the dark regarding her father's whereabouts and designs. She was sensible, she was made of strong timber. She could face the conditions, no matter what they proved to be. The thought was responsible for the irrelevant remark that followed. "I must have a word or two with Mrs. Braddock before I leave to-night." She looked up quickly. "A word concerning--you and me?" she asked. "Yes." Her eyes were lowered again, this time with some of the life gone from them. A shadow crossed her face. "David," she said, "I trust you, I know you are staunch and true. But, dear, are you considering well? Are you sure that you will never regret--this? No, don't speak yet, please. We must be frank with each other. I am not a silly, romantic girl, believe me. I have faced and can still face the real things of life. You are not driving yourself to forget or to overlook all the conditions that surround me, are you? I was a rider. My father was a rider. Oh, you are going to say that my mother was different. But what has that to do with it? What does it matter that she has brought me here, to this home of plenty and of respectability and--well, let us say it, of position. I am the granddaughter of Albert Portman. That may stand for something--yes, it _does_ stand for a great deal. But do not forget, David, dear, that I am the daughter of Tom Braddock. I am the granddaughter of old Stephen Braddock, who was a--a--" "Don't say it, dearest! Why should you be saying all this to me? You, an angel among--" "I must, David," she went on resolutely. "You have come here to ask me to be your wife--to hold me to a promise. You must think all this out in time, David. Please don't laugh in that scornful way. It hurts. I am very serious. Your friends, your people, will welcome me gladly as the granddaughter of Albert Portman, but will they take me, can they accept me, as the granddaughter of Stephen Braddock? As the product of a fashionable convent they may rejoice in me, but as the pupil of the sawdust ring,--as Little Starbright, a thing of spangles! Ah! How about that side of me? Who were my childhood friends and associates? Don't misjudge me. I loved them all--I love them now. They were the best friends and the truest. But could they ever be the friends of your friends?" "They are _my_ friends," he said simply, struck by her earnestness. "Are you forgetting what they meant to me in the old days? And what was I? A fugitive with a price on my head. A--" "Ah, but you were different--you always had been different. You were a Jenison. What are you going to say when some one--and there always will be the miserable some one--reminds you that he saw your wife when she was Little Starbright? What--" "Don't look so miserable, Christine! If any one says that to me I shall congratulate him." "Congrat--Oh, do be serious! It doesn't matter what I am to-day, David; it's what I was such a little while ago. I am not trying to belittle myself. _I_ am proud of what I am. Don't misunderstand me. I am a Portman! _Her_ blood is in me--her mind, her soul. But I am not all Portman. Suppose, David--suppose that my father were to come back some day. We know what he is--what he was. Perhaps the world may have forgotten, but suppose that he reminds the world of the fact that he is my father--" "Christine! You are working yourself into a dreadful state over all this--" "Am I not calm? Am I excited? No; you see I am not." "Dearest, I want you to be my wife. You urge me to think in time. Haven't I thought it all out? What more is there for me to think about, save my love for you? You are not presenting new conditions to me, sweetheart. They are old ones. I do not intend that either of us shall sail under false colors. When you go to Jenison Hall as my wife, it shall also be as the daughter of Thomas Braddock, the showman." "But, David, he may have fallen so low--he may have sunk to the very lowest--oh, you must understand. We have heard nothing from him. We don't know where he is, nor what his life has been. Suppose--oh, I can't bear to think of it." He put his hands on her cheeks and turned her face so that he could look squarely into her eyes. He saw the trouble there, the agony of doubt. "Look at me, Christine," he said gently. The light in his eyes held her. "It doesn't matter what he was, what he is or what he may become. I love you, as I have always loved you. You are going to be my wife. That is the end of it all." His heart was sinking, however, under the weight of the thing he knew, the thing she was yet to know. He would have given all he possessed in the world for the power to shield her from the blow that was yet to fall. There came swiftly to mind the hazy, indistinct interior of a dressing-tent, with its mysterious lights and strange people, just as it had appeared to him on that first, never-to-be-forgotten night. He felt himself again emerging from that state of insensibility to look upon the queer, unfamiliar things that were to become quite real to him. And out of the phantasmalian group of objects there grew a single slim, well-remembered figure in red, to dazzle him with her strange, unexpected beauty, and to soothe him with an unspoken faith that began then and had not yet faltered in her lovely eyes. She had given him food. She had said he was no thief. It all came back to him. He had looked upon her as an angel then--a strange, unfamiliar angel in the garb she wore, but an angel, just the same. Now he knew that love began with the first glimpse he had of her. It was as if she had been revealed to him in a vision. His mind swept along over the rough days that followed. He saw her again in the ring, in the dressing-tent--everywhere. Then there was that night under the grocer's awning--that sweetest of all nights in his life! And now she was here, with him again, but amidst vastly different surroundings. She was here, and she would need him now as he had needed her then. It was for him now to present himself as the bulwark between her and the fickle, disdainful world of which she had become a part. She was no longer the self-reliant, petted creature of the circus, where environment and adversity formed a training-school for disaster, but a delicate, refined flower set out in a new soil to thrive or wither as the winds of prejudice blow. In the other days she could have laughed with glee at the vagaries of that self-same wind, but now, ah, now it was different. She was not Little Starbright. He drew her closer. She trembled in the clasp of his arms. Her firm, full young breast rose and fell in quick response to the driving heart-beats. Again his thoughts shot back to the prophetic, perfect figure of the girl at fifteen. He fought off a certain delicious, overpowering intoxication, and forced himself to a bewildered contemplation of her present powers of resistance to the hard problems of life. She was strong of body, strong of heart, strong of spirit, but was she strongly fortified with the endurance that must stand unshaken through a period of sorrow and shame and--disgrace? Again he looked into her half-closed eyes. He saw there the serene integrity of Mary Braddock; the light of that woman's character was strongly entrenched in the soul of Christine Braddock. He experienced a sudden sense of relief, of comfort. She was made of the flesh and spirit that endures. Product was she of Thomas Braddock in his physically honest days, and of Mary, his wife, in whose veins flowed the strain of a refinement elementally so pure that the bitterest things in life had proved incapable of destroying a single drop of its sweetness. "What are you thinking of, David?" she asked, impressed by the look in his eyes and the unconscious nodding of his head. "Of you," he said, catching himself up quickly. "Always of you, dearest." "You were thinking of what I said to you a moment ago," she said steadily. "Yes," he agreed, "and of what you said to me five years ago." Soon afterward he prepared to depart. She ran upstairs to tell her mother that he wanted to see her. She had kissed him good night. He did not see her again. Later on, she stood straight and tense, in the center of her bedroom floor, her hands to her breast, waiting for her mother's return. Vaguely she felt that something harsh and bitter was to be made known to her before she slept that night. In lowered tones David Jenison was saying to Mary Braddock: "She must be told everything to-night. It isn't safe to put it off. She is strong and she knows that I am staunch. Nothing else should matter. We don't know what to-morrow may bring, but she must be as fully prepared for the worst as we are. It isn't fair to her. Tell her everything." "Yes," she said steadily. "And you will try to find him to-night?" "I will," he said. CHAPTER VI DOOR-STEPS David hurried off toward the car-line, bent on reaching Joey's home before that worthy retired for the night. At the top of a flight of stone steps leading to the doors of an imposing mansion across the street from the Portman home a motionless figure sat, as bleak as the shadows in which it was shrouded. Like a malevolent gargoyle it glowered out upon the deserted street; a tense, immovable chin rested in a pair of clenched hands, knees supporting the elbows. This desolate, forbidding figure had been there for an hour or more--ever since Christine's return from the concert. Not once were the burning eyes removed from the lighted windows across the way. At last, long after the footsteps of the anxious Virginian had died away in the night, and the lights were extinguished in the house opposite, the silent watcher moved for the first time. Slowly he came to his feet, his eyes still upon the solitary window in which a light had lingered long after all the others were gone. "Well, they're through discussing me," muttered Tom Braddock, thinking aloud. Shivering, as if from a mighty chill, although the night was warm, he stalked down from his perch and went swiftly up the street, a gaunt, broad-shouldered figure whose step seemed to suggest purpose more than stealth. As he slunk past the approach to a basement hard-by, a stealthy figure slipped out from the recess and kept pace with him, not twenty feet behind. A block farther up the street this second watcher quickened his pace. He came alongside the man ahead. "Hello, Brad," fell upon the ears of the stalked. He betrayed no surprise, no sign of alarm. He did not check his pace, nor look around. "Confound you, Dick," he said, as if pronouncing sentence, "if you don't quit dogging me like this I'll kill you, so help me God." "You might have known I'd be somewhere around," said the other quietly. They were now side by side, gaunt, slouching figures, both of them. "I thought I'd given you the slip." "Umph," was the expressive comment. "What did you follow me over here to-night for?" demanded Braddock fiercely, after thirty steps. "You know why, Brad. Don't ask." "This is my affair," went on the big man. "I was doing no harm, sitting across there. Can't a man sneak off for a single look at his own child--in the dark, at that--without being hounded by--Say, you must stop dogging me, d' you hear? I'm not a rat. I'm a human being. I've got feelings. I wanted to have a look at her. She's my girl and--" "Not so loud, Brad. Remember who you are with. You are in bad company, old man. Don't draw attention to the fact. Take a word of advice from me. Keep away from that house. Don't--" "I don't want to hear anything more out of you," grated Braddock. "I know what I'm doing. I'm living up to my promise, ain't I? Didn't I say I'd see Mary before I--Say," he broke off incontinently, his thoughts leaping backward, "that was my girl that said good night to the swells back there--mine! Did you see how prettily she was dressed? Did you hear how sweet her voice was? I--I--" Something came up in the man's throat to cut off the words; and a long silence fell between them. Not until they were turning into Fourth Avenue did Dick Cronk speak again. Somehow he felt the emotion that struggled in the breast of the man beside him. For the first time in his life he was sorry for him. "Where are you going now, Tom?" he asked, knowing full well what the spiritless answer would be. "To that hell-hole of a place you call home," said Braddock. Dick slipped his hand through the other's arm; they turned oft into one of the cross streets, wending their way through the sodden community, one with his head erect, the other with his chin on his breast, his hands in his coat pockets. Half an hour later a cab stopped at a corner not far from a Pell Street intersection. Two men got down and picked their way through the vile street, searching out the house numbers as they progressed. They passed the all-night dives and brothels, whence came the sounds of unrestrained and unrefined revelry, and came at last to a spot beneath a huge wooden boot that hung suspended above the door of the most unholy structure in the narrow street. A man in his shirt sleeves sat back in the shadow of the tumbledown stoop, smoking a pipe. At his left a narrow, black passage led down between two squalid buildings, one of which was dark, the other lighted so that the vicious revelers within might see and be seen. The uncertain, timorous actions of the strangers in Thieves' Alley brought a fantastic smile to the lips of the smoker. He watched them as they looked up at the boot and compared notes in rather subdued tones. "This must be the place," said one of the men. There was no mistaking the note of disgust in his voice. "Looking for some one, gents?" demanded the smoker, without rising from the stool on which he sat leaning against the wall. "Is this No. 24--Hello! It's Dick!" "Ain't you afraid to be seen down here, Joey?" asked the man on the stool, chuckling. "It's worth an honest man's life to be seen 'ere," said Joey Noakes, in hushed tones. "God 'elp 'im as can't 'elp 'isself if he ever strolls in 'ere unawares." "It's rather late in the night for any one to be about," said Dick Cronk. "Still, I've been expecting you, gents. That's why I'm sitting out here, takin' things easy--and makin' things easy for you. If you don't mind I'll keep my seat, David. It ain't wise to be seen hobnobbin' with swell gents at this time o' night--in Hell's Kitchen particularly. I know what you're here for. _He's_ back there asleep. Don't worry. I've got him safely sidetracked." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the narrow passage. The others looked down that filthy corridor and shuddered. "What a place!" muttered David Jenison. "Wot 'as Brad been up to to-night?" demanded Joey. Without changing his position, Dick Cronk, in as few words as possible, told them of Braddock's vigil. "Don't hang around here a minute longer than you have to," he said in conclusion. "There are a hundred eyes on you right now. You don't see 'em, but they're looking, just the same. I thought you'd be blame' fools enough to come, so I waited up. Something told me you would go to Joey's when you left her, kid, and you'd make him come along to hunt me out. Brad's safe, and he's not going to do anything just yet. So go home and go to bed. I'll see you to-morrow and we'll arrange for a time when she can talk with him. She'll see him, won't she?" "Of course. She is eager to see him. I am to bring him to her as soon as--" "We've got to handle him carefully or--" began Dick. Joey interrupted him. "The devil's to pay in another direction, Dick," he said. "Bob Grand 'as 'eard that Brad's out and that he's been 'anging around his 'otel, nasty-like. Who should come to my 'ouse in a cab at nine o'clock to-night but Bob Grand 'isself. He finds me alone, Ruby being off with 'er young man. When I sees who is coming up my steps, I almost keels over. The first words he says took my breath away. I was getting ready to kick 'im into the gutter when he puts a check on my leg, curious-like, by remarking that he's looking for Tom Braddock. He came to arsk me where he could be found. I told 'im I didn't know, and, if I did, I'd be hanged if I'd tell 'im. We 'ad some pretty sharp words, you may believe. But he took all the impudence out of me by announcing most plainly that he understood Brad wanted to kill 'im and that I'd best 'ave a care how I acted, because my 'ouse was being watched by secret service men. There was a lot more, but I 'aven't time to tell you. The upshot of it is, he's going to 'ave Brad nabbed and put where he can't do any 'arm. And, see 'ere, Dick, I don't want to be mixed up in this business. You've got to get Brad out of town to-night. He's done for now and--" Dick Cronk interrupted his old friend with a snarl of impatience. "Get him away yourself! I'm doing the best I know how. He won't leave of his own free will. He's here to do that man and he won't be put off. And what's more, Bob Grand ought to get it good and hard. Somebody ought to spike him, and who's got a better right than Tom Braddock? I'm ashamed of you, Joey! If you'd been half a man you'd 'a' beat his head off to-night when he put his foot on your doorstep, after what he put up to Ruby. I--I wish I'd been there!" The bowl of the clay pipe dropped to the bricks. He literally had ground the stem in two with his teeth. "Go home now--both of you," he said, a moment later, following his own awkward laugh. "You can't afford to be seen here. I'll look out for Brad. The Colonel won't come here a-lookin' for him, you can bet your life on that. You'll hear from me to-morrow. Maybe you think I ain't sick of this business? If it wasn't for you, Davy, I'd cut it in a minute and dig for the wooly West, where Mr. Barnum and Mr. Forepaugh are dying for my society. Move along now! Don't block the sidewalk! Can't you see the ladies want to pass?" Two maudlin women of the underworld lurched by, with coarse, ribald comments on the "swells." David felt himself grow hot with shame and disgust. After their laughter had died away he turned to the grinning Dick. "But we must do something to-night--" he began imploringly. Dick lifted his hand. "Correct," he said. "We must do some sleeping." He strode to the mouth of the forbidding passage. A light from a saloon window shone out upon a long flight of rickety steps at the farther end, leading up to the darkness above. "See that stairway? Well, I wouldn't advise you to follow me up there. It ain't a Romeo and Juliet balcony, gents. Good night!" He turned into the passage with a wave of the hand. They saw him pass up through the shaft of light from the window and disappear in the shadows. Then they hurried away from the foul place, almost running to the cab at the corner. David did not sleep that night. He tossed on his bed, beset by the direst anxiety and dread, his eyes wide open and staring. He dozed off at six, but was wide awake before seven, when he arose and partook of a hurried, half-eaten breakfast. It was not likely that he would hear from Dick Cronk before the middle of the forenoon. Until then he was to be harassed by doubts and fears that would not be easy to suppress in his present unquiet frame of mind. While he was obliged to stand idle and impotent, the very foundation of all the future happiness of the girl he loved might be irreparably shattered. Silent, deadly, purposeful forces were working toward that end. Her mother would, no doubt, prepare her in a way for the crash, but there always would be the memory of the cruel blow that might have been prevented. He crossed into Madison Square, taking a seat where he could watch the entrance to his hotel, though the hour was so early that it seemed sheer folly to expect Dick Cronk. A dozen times in the first half-hour he looked at his watch. Would the hands never reach nine o'clock? He knew that Dick would make his approach slyly. Perhaps if he returned to his room he would find him there. It would not be an unusual circumstance, he recalled. Had Colonel Grand's detectives swooped down upon Tom Braddock? Was Christine's father already in jail? Was Grand in a position to hold a new club over the heads of the two women? Were the newspapers preparing to revel in the great story-- He was in the midst of these direful questions when some one tapped him lightly on the shoulder from behind. He turned and glanced upward, his nerves a-tingle. "Dick!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Sit down!" commanded the pickpocket warily. David dropped to the bench, his eyes fastened on the white, drawn face of the pickpocket. A thick, white bandage was wrapped around his forehead, partially hidden by the slouch hat he wore. The man seemed faint and unsteady on his feet. "I say, Dick," cried David, "what has happened? You are hurt. Who--" With a rigid grin Dick put his hand to his head. "Braddock," he said succinctly. "You don't mean--Tell me what has happened? Wait! Do you require the attention of a surgeon?" "Sit still, kid. I'm all right. You might pass me a quarter or something, just to make people think I'm boning you for a breakfast. Thanks! Well, Brad's gone." "Gone?" "He cracked me good and hard, that's what he did. I told you he wouldn't be held down long. He's in no mood to be kind to them that are trying to be kind to him. He's past all that. He means business, Brad does. This morning about six he got up. I was watchin' him. He said he was going over to see his wife. He said he wanted to see her before Christine was awake, or out of bed. I told him they wouldn't let him in at that time of day. He said he'd get in or know the reason why. Then he opened up on me about all of us trying to manage his affairs for him. I tried to quiet him. But the devil of it was he was quiet enough. He was _too_ quiet. It looked bad. When he started for the door I took hold of him. He--well, he shoved me off. When I jumped in front of the door he picked up a chair and let me have it over the head. I didn't know anything for a long time. When I came to he was gone. Jimmie Parsons, who was in the room with us all the time, also tried to stop him after he biffed me. Jimmie's got two wonderful black eyes as a result." "The man must be insane!" cried David, aghast. Dick shook his head. "Not a bit of it. He's the sanest man I know." "Where has he gone? You said he started for Mrs. Braddock's? Great heavens, Dick, he may do her bodily harm! He may have shot her down in cold--" "Easy, easy! He ain't likely to do anything like that until after he's got Bob Grand." "Then he will shoot Bob Grand this morning, mark my words. He--" "He won't shoot anybody. He hasn't any gun. He says he don't need one. If he gets Grand, it won't be with a weapon of any kind. That's what he says, and he means it. If Bob Grand dies from a bullet, you can bet your life it won't come from Tom Braddock. But all this can wait. I stopped off at Joey's. He sent Ruby down to Mr. Portman's at once, and he's gone over to keep watch around the hotel where Grand stops. The thing for you to do is to make tracks for Portman's. I'm going to--" But David did not wait to hear what Dick intended to do. He was rushing off to hail a passing hansom. Dick followed him to the curb. "If you see Brad tell him there's no hard feelings, Davy. It was a dirty smash, but I deserve it for not ducking. And say, be careful how you tackle him. Remember that thing about wisdom being better than--what's the word? Nerve?" The hansom turned and sped down Fifth Avenue with its nervous passenger. Dick shook his head wearily. Then he smiled. From his coat pocket he slyly extracted a shining revolver. Three minutes before it had been in David Jenison's pocket. "He's better off without a thing like this," mused the clever philosopher. Thomas Braddock rang the door-bell at the Portman home shortly after eight o'clock. He was perfectly calm and in full possession of himself. A brisk manservant opened the door and faced the strange caller. "I want to see Mrs. Braddock," said the man in the vestibule. "Call again," said the servant curtly. "Just a minute, please," said Braddock. He did not offer to resist the closing of the door in his face. There was something in his tone, however, that caused the footman to hesitate. He took a second, surprised look at the gray, set face of the caller. "Mrs. Braddock is occupied," he announced. "You mean she isn't up yet. I'll wait," remarked Braddock, still very quietly. The man stared hard at him, suddenly struck by the pallor of his face. His eyes swept the grim figure in the ill-fitting suit of jeans. "What do you want? Can't you leave a message?" "Want? I want to see her." The footman glanced back over his shoulder as if searching for some one on whom he could shift an amazing responsibility. Recalling his dignity, he essayed to close the door in Braddock's face. "I am her husband," announced the caller, his hands still in his pockets. The servant's hand was stayed. "Won't you call again?" he temporized. "I don't quite understand. It don't go down very easy, I'll say that. At any rate, you can't see her now, no matter who you are. She was up all night with Miss Braddock, who took sick suddenly. Mrs. Braddock has just laid down for a--" "Christine sick?" demanded Braddock. The new note in his voice commanded attention. "It--it can't be serious. She was all right when she came in last night. What's the matter with her? Speak up! What does the doctor say?" "They didn't call a doctor." He was surprised to see the ominous glare fade from Braddock's eyes. They wavered and then fell. An uneasy, mirthless laugh cracked in his throat; then his lip quivered ever so slightly--Brooks could have sworn to it. His hand shook as it went up to fumble the square chin in evident perplexity. For a moment Thomas Braddock stood there, reflecting, swayed by an emotion so unexpected that he was a long time in accounting for it. Indecision succeeded the arrogant assurance that had marked his advances. He looked up quickly, suspecting the lie that might have been offered as an excuse to get rid of him. "Are you lying to me?" he demanded. "Sir!" Braddock's mind, long acute, worked swiftly. He went back of the servant's statement with an intelligence that grasped the true conditions quite as plainly as if they had been laid bare before him. Christine was ill. No physician had been called. He knew what the servant could not, by any chance, have known. He knew why Mary Braddock sat up with her daughter. A doctor? As if a doctor could prescribe for the affliction that beset her! Too well he now understood what had transpired in that upstairs room. A thing of horror had come to rack the soul of that happy, beautiful girl--had come suddenly because the time was ripe. She was suffering because _he_ was near! _He_ understood. A tense, bitter oath struggled through his lips. "Well, it's time she knew," he muttered in self-justification. Impelled by a strange anxiety--perhaps it was apprehension--he strained his eyes in the effort to penetrate the depths of the unfriendly hall at the servant's back. His ear seemed bent to catch the sounds of sobs or moans that he knew must reach him if he listened closely. He again questioned the servant with his eyes, a long, intense scrutiny that confused the man. Then he turned away. "All right," he said sullenly, putting his hands into his pockets once more and drawing up his shoulders as if he were cold. "I'll come again. Tell Mrs. Braddock I was here and that I'll be back in a couple of hours." Another glance through the half-open door, over the footman's shoulder, and he stalked off, his jaw set, his hands clenched in the pockets of his coat. At the foot of the steps he shot a quick, involuntary glance upward, taking in the second story windows. The wondering servant looked after him until he turned the corner below. Brooks had seen men with the prison pallor in their faces before. He was not long in apprising Mrs. Braddock of the stranger's visit. She was with Christine when he made the unhappy announcement. If he expected a demonstration of concern or surprise, he was disappointed. "I will see Mr. Braddock when he returns," said his mistress quietly. Brooks blinked two or three times, his only tribute to the stupendous shock he had experienced. Thomas Braddock walked to the Battery. There he sat down on one of the benches and glowered out upon the blue waters of the bay for an hour or more. No muscle moved in his face. He waited with a patience that was three years old. When David drove up to the Portman place, Mrs. Braddock herself arose from one of the chairs in the narrow stone porch at the top of the steps. She, too, had been waiting, but not for the young man who dashed up the steps. "He has been here," she said, as she gave him her hand. The tenseness of the clasp revealed the strain that was upon her. He noted the pallor in her cheek, the dread in her eyes. The hot glare of the June sun seemed to bring out gray hairs he had never seen before. He had not thought of her as growing old until now. "Yes?" he cried anxiously. "Where is he? I tried to get here in time. Did he--" "Sit down, David--here, please, behind the balustrade. I am waiting out here for him. He went off in that direction. I've been watching for nearly an hour. He is coming back." She resumed her chair, facing the direction which Braddock had taken. "You--you sent him away?" "I did not see him. You must not think, David, that I am afraid to see him. I am nervous, upset, but it really isn't fear. Christine--Christine knows everything. I told her last night. She is--well, you can imagine, she is very unhappy. Everything looks black to her. I did not hide anything. She is crushed." "Where is she? I must see her. I can comfort her, Mrs. Braddock. Let me see her before he comes back." He was standing over her, his face working. "She will not see you, David," she said in dull tones. He started. "What do you mean? She _must_ see me." "Her father was in the penitentiary." That was all; but it told all there was to tell. It required a moment or two for comprehension. Then he cried out reproachfully: "Does she think that will make any difference in my--" She held up her hand. "She knows it won't. That's what distresses her. I am afraid, David, after all, you have brought your honor to a wretched market. We are what we are, we Braddocks. We can't look beyond our environment. You cannot marry a convict's daughter. It was bad enough before. I should have seen all this. But I was blind only to her happiness. We can't--" His jaws were set. "Mrs. Braddock," he said, his voice quivering with decision, "I am not going to be put off like this. You may as well understand that, first and last. I love her. I want her. She loves me, thank God. It won't be so hard to make her understand how impossible it is for anything to come between us. She is going to marry me, Mary Braddock." A great light leaped into her eyes, even as she shook her head. The words of protest she would have uttered failed to pass her lips. She reached out as if to clasp his hand, a movement as involuntary as it was instinctive. He had turned and was facing the closed portals behind which his heart's desire was beating all joy and hope out of her poor tormented soul. The tears rushed to his eyes. "I can't stand it," he cried. "She must hear the words _now_--this is the time for me to go to her and say that I love her better than all the world. Nothing else matters." In his eagerness he was starting for the door when a sharp cry fell from her lips. He hesitated, struck by the note of consternation in the cry. A carriage had drawn up at the curb in front of the house. A face appeared at the open window of the vehicle, a never-to-be-forgotten face that brought to mind the African gazelle in Van Slye's. David turned. For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He stood rigid in the paralysis of stupefaction. Then a cold perspiration started from every pore of his body. He sprang to Mrs. Braddock's side. She was even then peering down the street, a great fear in her heart, every fiber quivering with alarm. Colonel Grand was assisting his daughter to the sidewalk. Already he had lifted his hat and sent a nauseous smile to the woman above. David's gaze followed hers in quest of a more sinister actor who might even then be coming upon the scene for the tragic climax. The young man recognized the necessity for quick action. Colonel Grand, whatever his motive for appearing so unexpectedly at the Portman house, must be turned away without ceremony or consideration. At any minute Thomas Braddock might return. A tragedy would be the result; that was inevitable. David started down the steps, passing the rigid, staring woman at the top. He was vaguely aware of Roberta Grand's bow and of the look of annoyance in the Colonel's face. Half-way down he called out: "Colonel Grand, you must not stay here--not a second longer. I will explain if you will let me ride with you for a couple of blocks." Grand advanced. "Young man," he said coldly, "I am here to see Mrs. Braddock on a matter of importance. You will do well to subside." David flushed angrily. "But Mrs. Braddock does not care to see you. She--" Grand came on up the steps, ignoring Jenison, addressing himself to Mary Braddock. "I have come to discuss Tom with you, Mary," he said. She started at the use of her name, a hot wave of anger rushing over her. "Go away!" she cried, in low, intense tones. "How dare you come here, Colonel Grand? Go!" He stopped, raised his hat, shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating manner, and then quickly lifted his free hand to check the approach of the young man who was ominously near at hand. "I fancy it will be best for all concerned if we avoid tableaux. Still, I will go away if you see fit to send me--" "I do see fit! Go!" Roberta Grand was staring at the speaker from the bottom of the steps. "Don't haggle with her, father," she cried venomously. "Bring her to time!" "You have met my daughter, Mrs. Braddock?" said Grand in his most suave manner. "What are you looking at, Jenison?" he demanded, suddenly noting the young man's frozen stare, directed down the street. David passed his hand over his damp brow and turned to look helplessly into Mary Braddock's face. Tom Braddock was standing across the street at the corner below, clutching a lamp-post for support. He was staring with wide open eyes at the group on the steps. CHAPTER VII TOM BRADDOCK'S PROMISE She had seen Braddock turn the corner. Her eyes were closed now, as if to shut out the disaster that must rush down upon them in the next instant; her thrumming ears waited for the sound of running footsteps and the crack of a revolver. David started up the steps toward her. "It will be best for you to hear what I have come to say," observed Grand, ignorant of the peril that lay behind him. He resumed his progress up the steps, Roberta following close behind. "For Heaven's sake, man, go while you can," cried David hoarsely. "Don't you see--" "Mary, will you listen to me? We've got to come to an understanding concerning Tom. He's in town. We must come to some agreement, you and I, as to whether a scandal is to follow his arrest--a scandal which will blast you and Christine forever in New--" "Is there no way to stop him?" groaned Mary Braddock, opening her eyes to look again upon the sinister figure across the way. She had not heard a word of Colonel Grand's minacious overture. "By this time Braddock has been taken by the police,--as Sam Brafford, the ex-convict and yeggman. Is he to go up this time as the father of Christine--" David sprang to his side, seizing his right arm in a grip of iron. In the same movement he whirled the older man about and pointed toward the figure at the corner. "It's Braddock!" he hissed. "Now we're in for it. By heaven, he ought to kill you!" "Braddock!" gasped Grand. "Why, he is in jail--" The words died on his lips. He recognized the man. His eyes bulged, his grayish face seemed to freeze stiff, with the lower lip and tongue hanging loose. Transfixed, he saw Thomas Braddock straighten up, relinquish his grip on the iron post, and start diagonally across the street, his head bent forward, his lower jaw extended. His unswerving gaze never left the face of Robert Grand. "Get into the carriage, Roberta," shouted Grand, suddenly alive to his peril. He trembled, but he was not the man to run from an adversary, nor was he likely to sell his life cheaply. With a quick, desperate tug, he jerked himself free of David's grasp. His hand flew to his inside coat pocket. Thomas Braddock had reached the curb. Miss Grand stood directly in his path, petrified by terror. Like a cat he sprang forward, cunningly putting her body between him and Grand, making it impossible for the latter to shoot without imperiling the life of his daughter. A revolver gleamed in the hand of the man on the steps. David's wits worked quickly. It may have been that he was inspired. Instead of attempting to grasp or disarm Colonel Grand, he decided to let the situation take care of itself for the moment. Neither of the men could make a move to attack the other. "Here, I say!" gasped the Colonel. "He can shoot me down like a dog. Stop him, Jenison! Don't you see I can't protect myself?" David took advantage of the knowledge that Braddock was unarmed. "Colonel Grand," he cried out sharply, "if you attempt to kill that man I'll see that you suffer for it." "But, damn it, he is here to kill me! I have the right to kill in self-defense if--" "Then why doesn't he kill you? He has you in his power. He is not here to attack you. That must be plain, even to you. Mr. Braddock has come to see his wife before leaving the city." He caught the cunning gleam in Tom Braddock's eyes. His heart gave a great bound of relief. The man was not so mad as to court certain death by attacking his enemy under the present conditions. Christine's father was perfectly cool; he was absolute master of himself. Nothing could be farther from the mind of Thomas Braddock than the desire to be shot by Robert Grand. It was his one purpose in life to kill, not to be killed. He realized that he was powerless. Grand could shoot him down like a dog--an inglorious end to the one spark of ambition left in him. The workings of Braddock's mind were as plain to Jenison as if the man were expounding them by word of mouth. "Before leaving the country," David substituted. The ghost of a sneer flickered about Braddock's lips. He spoke for the first time, hoarsely, but with wonderful calmness. "I came to see Mary," he said. "You'd better go, Grand. I don't want anything to do with you. It won't be healthy for either of us if we see too much of each other." "Stand out from behind my daughter, you coward," shouted Grand. "Don't shoot, father!" screamed the girl, terror-stricken. "Go ahead!" said Braddock grimly. The driver of the cab was looking wildly about in quest of a policeman. Two women had stopped on the opposite side of the street, and were staring at the group in front of the Portman mansion. "Shall I call a cop?" called out the cabby, addressing himself to the one person who seemed to belong on the premises--Mrs. Braddock. "No! No! Take them away!" she cried. "That's all I ask of you!" "Wait!" said Colonel Grand, master of himself once more. "We may just as well understand each other. I had an object in coming here. It concerns this man. He--" David broke in peremptorily. It was time to bring the distressing scene to an end, if it were possible to do so without inviting the actual catastrophe. He realized that he would have to act quickly in order to anticipate the curious crowd and to be ahead of the police. "Colonel Grand, you have put yourself in an unpleasant, uncalled-for position," he said. "I am of half a mind to hold you here until the police arrive. Cabby, I call upon you to witness, with all the rest of us, that Colonel Grand has drawn a revolver with the design to kill an unarmed, unoffending man. You have seen everything. Mr. Braddock saved his life only by--" "Unarmed!" shouted Colonel Grand. "Why, he is armed to the teeth. He's after me. He's going to kill me on sight, I swear--" "What is to prevent him from doing so now, Colonel?" demanded David. "You are in a position where you cannot shoot. He could drill you full of holes if that were his intention. Mr. Braddock, are you armed?" "No," said Braddock. "Do you suppose, if I had a gun, I would be standing behind this girl?" "Do you hear that, cabby? Do you, Colonel? Now, I want to say just this to you, sir; I am going to the nearest police station and swear out a warrant for your arrest. I can't hold you myself, but I can do the next best thing. I can land you in jail for attempted murder." Colonel Grand stared at him with uncomprehending eyes, a sickly smile on his lips. "You know better than--" he began. David cut him short with an exclamation. Then he walked out to the curb, opened the cab door and coolly motioned for Colonel Grand to step down and enter. Mary Braddock waited no longer. She sped down the steps, passing the slow-moving, stupefied Colonel, and ruthlessly shoved Roberta Grand to one side, taking her stand in front of her husband, facing his foe. "It isn't necessary for my husband to shield himself behind your flesh and blood, Colonel Grand," she said, her head erect. "Now, if you care to shoot, you have both of us at your mercy." "I came to propose a peaceful--" began the Colonel, baffled. "Step lively, Colonel Grand!" commanded Jenison. "Permit me, Miss Grand." "Don't touch me," hissed Roberta, disdaining his assistance. The look she bestowed upon her father, as she passed him, was not a pleasant one. He had promised her a different reception at the Portman home, secretly depending on his power to force Mrs. Braddock to welcome an armistice, no matter how distasteful it may have been to her. He had not anticipated the outcome. Miss Grand accompanied him, meanly it is true, in the hope that she might gloat over the Braddocks in their humiliation. She entered the cab, frightened and dismayed. Her father, still grasping his pistol, followed her. He cast a defeated, almost appealing glance at the uncompromising face of the young man who held open the door. "You can't obtain a warrant for me," he said nervously. "I have the law on my side. I can prove that this man threatened--" "Drive on, cabby," said David relentlessly. "I've taken your number. You will be called on as a witness. Don't argue! I mean it!" Muttering excitedly, the driver, without the customary "where to?" started off down the street. Colonel Grand leaned forward to send a menacing scowl toward the group on the sidewalk. He smiled sardonically when he saw that Mary Braddock still kept her place in front of her husband, evidently afraid that he would fire from the window of the departing cab. Then he called out his instructions to the driver and settled back in the seat. The gritting of Tom Braddock's teeth did not escape the tortured ears of his wife. She looked up quickly. He was glaring after the cab, a look of appalling ferocity in his face. "Come into the house, Tom," she said quickly. He turned on her with a snarl. "I won't keep you long," he grated. "I've got other business on hand." It occurred to him to tender David his meed of praise. "That was pretty sharp in you, David, staving him off like that. I owe you something for doing that." "I knew you were unarmed. You would have had no chance." They were going up the steps, Braddock between the others. Brooks, the footman, was holding the door open. He had been a politely interested witness to the startling encounter. Braddock seemed to be studying each successive slab of stone as he ascended. The muscles of his jaw were working. He seemed to have formed a habit of jamming his hands far down into his coat pockets. "That was the only chance _he'll_ ever have," was his sententious remark. No other word was uttered until they were inside the house, Mrs. Braddock's gasp of relief could not have been called a sigh. "Thank God!" she breathed, sinking upon the hall seat and clasping her clenched hands to her breast. Braddock shot a quick glance up the broad stairway. The surroundings were strange to him,--he had never been inside the home of his father-in-law before,--but he knew that Christine was somewhere overhead. "How's Christine, Mary?" he asked roughly. "She is wretchedly unhappy, Tom." "Umph!" was the way he received it, but a close observer might have seen the flutter of his eyelids and the sharp, convulsive movement in the coat pockets. "I don't want her to see me," he said. "She wants to see you--" He faced her angrily. "No! I've got to take care of my nerves. I can't take any chances on having 'em upset. See here, David," he said, lowering his voice and speaking with deadly emphasis, "that talk of yours about swearing out a warrant for Grand don't go, do you understand? I don't want him to be arrested. I don't want him locked up. I want him to be _free_. He'd be too safe behind the bars?" The sound of a door opening above came to them at this juncture, followed by the swift rush of feet and the rustle of skirts. Braddock looked up and instinctively drew back into an obscured recess at his left. Christine's face appeared over the railing above. She leaned far forward and called out in the high, tense tones of extreme nervousness: "Father! Is it you? Are you there?" There was no response. David, standing on the lower step, permitted his gaze to swerve from the sweet, eager face of the girl above to that of the man in the corner. The effect on Braddock was astounding. Signs of a great convulsion revealed themselves in his face. His lips were parted and drawn as if in pain; his eyes were half closed, screening the emotion that groped behind the lids. It was the face, the figure of a man mightily shaken by an unexpected emotion. Slowly his eyes were opened. An expression of utter despair and longing had come into them. Mrs. Braddock was staring at her husband as if she could not believe her senses. Words came hoarsely, unbidden from the man's lips, spoken as if from the bottom of his soul after years of subjection and restraint, so nearly whispered that they came to David's ears as if from afar off. "Oh! How lonesome I've been all these years, just for the sound of her voice!" His wife's hand went out to him involuntarily. He looked at it for a second, then into her eyes, waveringly, uncertain as to the impulse that moved her. He suddenly regained control of himself. He grasped the slender hand in his great, crushing fingers; the sullen, repellent glare leaped back into his eyes; alert and shifty, he held up his free hand to command the silence of David. Then, like a hunted creature at bay, he glanced over his shoulder. Seeing an open door almost at his elbow, he resolutely drew his wife after him into the room beyond. As he turned to slam the door with vicious energy, the tense, incisive voice called out once more from the head of the stairs: "Father!" The door banged as if propelled by the added energy of sudden fear. An instant later, David was dashing up the stairs, three steps at a time. She had started down. He met her at the bend. "Not just now, dearest," he cried. "Wait! He wants to see your mother first." She clutched the rail, putting one hand out as if to ward him off. The dread in her eyes went straight to his heart. Her lips were stiff, her voice was low with anxiety. "Is--is she safe, David,--is he himself? Oh, I must go down there. I know I can reason--" He stopped her gently. "Please, Christine," he commanded. She suddenly put her hands to his face, and looked into his eyes. "If anything were to happen to her," she whispered in agony, "I would--" "She is perfectly safe," he broke in. "Your father will not mistreat her." He clasped her hands and held them to his breast. "My poor darling!" Her head dropped, her lip quivered. Then she quietly withdrew her hands and sank to a sitting posture on the step, leaning her head wearily against the banister. Ruby Noakes, a discarded wet towel in her hand, came into the hallway above them. She saw them, hesitated for a moment, and then quietly returned to Christine's bed-chamber. David dropped to his sweetheart's side. His arm fell about her shoulders. She did not offer to remove it, but sat listless, unresponsive, her eyes lifted to a narrow window beyond which the hot sky gleamed. He began by whispering words of encouragement and sympathy, his soul in every syllable. She was so quiet, so hurt, so forlorn; never had she been so precious to him as now. "David," she interrupted, closing her eyes as if through faintness, "it is so good of you to say these things to me, but--but--oh, can't you see how impossible it is now? Don't stay here! Go away, David. Do you think that I can marry you now? It was bad enough before--but now! What am I that you should take me to be your wife! You must go away and forget--" Her drew her head to his breast, smothering the heartbroken cry by the fierceness of his embrace. "Open your eyes, Christine! Look at me." She looked up, utter desolation in her eyes. "Nothing on earth can keep you from being my wife--nothing! I couldn't give you up. What am I for, if not to cherish and protect and comfort you? What is the real meaning of the word 'love'? Husband! What does that stand for? A stone wall between pain and peril and trouble; that's what it means. And I'm going to be all of that to you--a stone wall for all your life, Christine. It is settled. The strongest man in the world is not strong enough for the weakest woman. I will never cease being proud of the fact that you are my wife. Don't speak! Lie quiet, dearest. Nothing can change things for you and me." "It cannot be, David,--it cannot be!" she moaned, covering her face with her hands. He held her there, sobbing, against his breast. Meanwhile Thomas Braddock was pacing the floor of the library almost directly beneath them. His wife watched him in silence; her eyes followed the tall, bent figure as it swung back and forth with the steadiness of a clock's pendulum. He had not spoken since they entered the room, nor had she moved from the spot where he left her when he released her hand. All this time she had been holding the wrist he had grasped so cruelly. It pained her, but she was only physically conscious of the fact; her mind was not comprehending it. It was the first time she had seen him in five years. A curious analysis was going on in her perturbed brain. The change in him! She could not take her eyes from the haggard, heavily-lined face, so unlike the blithe, youthful one she had loved, or the bloated, bestial one she had feared and despised. The coarseness, the flabbiness, the purplish hues were no longer there. The bulging, bleary eyes, on which the glaze of continuous dissipation had once settled as if to stay, were not as she remembered them. Instead, they were bright and clear, and lay deep in their sockets. The lips, now beardless, were no longer thick and repulsive. She marveled. This was not the vacillating, whiskey-willed man she had known for so long; here was a determined character, swelling with force, fierce in the resources of a belated integrity of purpose. No longer the careless, handsome youth, nor the honorless man, but a power! Whether that power stood for good or evil, it mattered not; he was a man such as she had never expected him to be. She was sensitive to one thing in particular, although the realization of it did not come to her at once, she was so taken up with the study of him as a whole: she missed the cigar from the corner of his mouth. He stopped in front of her. "This is the first time I have ever been asked into this house," he said, his lips curling in a bitter, unfriendly smile. "Where is your father?" "His rooms are in the other end of the house, upstairs. He sleeps till noon," she answered mechanically. "Umph!" he grunted, resuming his walk. "Tom," she said, taking a firm grasp on her nerves, "let us talk it over quietly. Sit down." He halted. "I can talk better standing," he said grimly. He came up close to her. She stood her ground, looking him squarely in the eyes. "There isn't much to say, Mary. You know me for what I am, and you know who made me so. He's got to pay, that's all. We won't go into the past. It's not easily forgotten. I guess we remember everything." "Everything," she said. "I'm not excusing myself. I'm past that, and besides it wouldn't go down with you. You know where I've been, and you must give me credit for trying to shield Christine a little bit. I took my medicine, and nobody but you and Grand knew that her father was up there until now, excepting Dick. I want to say to you, Mary, I was railroaded for a crime I didn't commit. I was jobbed. He was at the back of it. He was afraid of me--and well he might have been. I did a lot of rotten things while you and I were ploddin' along through those last two years with the show--you know what they were. But it was whiskey! I took money that didn't belong to me--yours and Christine's, and Grand's, and Jenison's. I did worse than that, Mary. I sold you out to Bob Grand--you knew that, too. But I'm going to try to pay up all my debts--all of 'em, in a day or two. I owe you my ugly, worthless life. I'm going to pay you in full by ending it. I owe Colonel Grand for everything I was, for what I am. I'm going to pay him, so help me God. Don't interrupt! My mind's made up. Nothing above hell can change it. I came here to ask you just two questions. I want you to answer them. I'm going to believe you. You never lie, I know that." "I will answer them, Tom." He hesitated, his gaze wavering for the first time. "I--I hate to ask you this first one, Mary," he said. "Go on. Ask it." "It's a mean question, but I've just _got_ to hear you say no. Did you go to England with Bob Grand?" "No." He breathed deeply. "That's one," he said. "Here's the other. Did he give you money to live on, to educate Christine with, abroad?" "No.", "I'll ask still another. Where did you get the money?" "Some of it from my father. Afterwards I brought suit against you and Colonel Grand for an accounting. He was compelled to pay into court all that was due me as part owner of Van Slye's. I had my own money in the show. I could not be robbed of that." "I'm glad you did that. It must have been a nasty dose for him." "His wife tried to make trouble for me. You heard that?" "I knew she would, sooner or later." "You knew it?" "She wasn't blind." "But how could she dare to think that I--" "She knew her husband's reputation, that's all. He was careless about women." His face went black as a thundercloud. "But he's had his day!" "Tom," she cried, clutching the lapels of his coat, "you shall not leave this house until you've promised me to do nothing--" He shook off her hands. "Don't come any of that, Mary. It won't do any good. He made me what I was, he would have prostituted you. I was just bad enough to fall, you were too good to even stumble. Then he landed me in the pen. Maybe you won't believe it, Mary, but I'd stopped drinking and was earning fair wages--well, I was tending bar in Chicago. Barkeepers _have_ to be sober men, you see. I had not touched a drop for nearly three months. The temptation was too strong there, so I got out of it. Then I looked up Barnum to get a job as ringmaster. I was going under the name of Bradford. Somehow nobody would trust me. They knew me. Joey Noakes came through the West with a pantomime show about that time. He told me you were in Europe. First thing I'd heard of you, that was, Mary. Then he told me you'd got your money out of Grand, legitimately, he swore. I didn't believe him. I thought there had been some shinanigan. I stood it as long as I could, and then I broke for New York. You see, girlie--I mean Mary, I'd done for you in a nasty way. I practically handed you to him. You--well, we won't go into that." "No," she said, very pale, "we must not go into that, Tom. You sold me with the show. I--I can never forgive you for that." "I'm not asking forgiveness, am I?" he cried harshly. "I'm just tellin' you, that's all. Well, I came down here to kill him three years ago. I knew you hated him. If you gave in it wasn't because you wanted to, but because I'd fixed it so's you couldn't very well get out of it. There was only one way for you to be rid of Bob Grand after that--and only one man to do it for you. So I came down here to do it. Ernie Cronk ran across me on the street one night. He began filling me up with stories of how Grand had also tried to hurt Christine, and all about how you were living like a princess abroad. I waited until Grand came back from England, a couple of weeks later. Ernie had got me clear off my head by that time, nagging me day and night. He tried to get me to drink, but I was too wise for that. Well, I found Bob Grand and, like a fool, started in to tell him what I was going to do to him instead of doing it first. All of a sudden he pulled a gun. I had no chance, so I bolted. He fired twice and yelled for the police. They--they caught me in an alley--and I had a gun in my clothes, too. The next morning he came to see me in the station-house--to identify me, he said. Then he told me he was going to send me up for highway robbery--but he was willing, for your sake and Christine's, to say nothing about the past--or anything. He did swear me into the pen, and I kept my mouth closed. But, Mary, I am not a thief at heart, I never was one. Whatever I did that was crooked in the old days was due to whiskey. It's a habit men have, I know, blaming everything on to whiskey, but--but, oh, say, Mary, you _know_ I wasn't that sort of a man when I married you. I was straight, wasn't I? I never had done a crooked thing in my life. I don't think I'd ever told a lie. I had a good mother, just as Christine has. But what the devil am I doing--talking like this!" The eager, rather appealing note went out of his voice; he almost snarled the bitter sentence. "I didn't come to explain, or to beg, or to excuse myself. I won't keep you any longer. Remember, I'm not asking anything of you, Mary,--not a thing. I'm not that low." He was out of breath. No doubt, it was the longest speech he had made in years. Perhaps his own voice sounded strange to him. "You are not to leave this house, Tom, until you have promised," she said firmly. All the time he was speaking, she had stood like a statue before him, never taking her eyes from his distorted face. "Oh, I'm not, eh? We'll see!" "What are you going to do to Colonel Grand?" "I'm going to--" he checked himself. "I'm going to beat him to a jelly!" "You mean, you are going to murder him?" She shuddered as she said it. "No," he said, with grim humor; "I'm only going to help him to die. You see, Mary, Bob Grand committed suicide the day he sent me up. The final death struggle has been a long time coming, but it's almost here. He took a very slow, but a sure poison." The time had come for the strong appeal. She laid her hands on his shoulders. "Tom, have you thought of what it will mean, not to me, but to Christine?" "She knows, by this time, that I'm an ex-convict. It won't hurt her to know I'm even worse." "She does not believe you were guilty. She always has said you could have been a good man if you had let whiskey alone. You see, Tom, she understood--she understands. Isn't it worth your while to think of her? You are not drinking now. Can't you think of something good--something kind to do? Must you go to your grave--and such a grave!--knowing that you never did a really big thing for her in all your life? Have you no desire to make her think of you as something except the unnatural beast you were when she knew you best of all? I see the change in you. Don't you want her to see it? What do you gain by killing Colonel Grand? He has wronged you, but do you help yourself by making matters infinitely worse now, so many years afterward? Do--" "He told me, over there in the police station, three years ago, that he had won your love, that you lived for him alone. He lied. I could kill him once for that lie. He told me, in the next breath, that you and he were going to sell Christine to a certain French nobleman, who already had a wife and family. He lied again. I could kill him once more for that lie. He told me--" "Don't! Don't! For God's sake, don't tell me any more," she groaned, horror-stricken. He went on. "He taunted me, he laughed at me. I was up there for three years. In all that time his damned sneers and laughter were never out of my mind. He laughed at me because the drunken bargain I had made with him had turned out to his credit, after all." "The sale?" "Yes." He looked away. The expression in her eyes cut him like a knife. "I ought to have been shot for that, Mary," he said. "Yes," she agreed mechanically. His hand went to his mouth suddenly, as if to steady the lips. "I'm not asking you to overlook it. Maybe you'll spare Christine the knowledge of it--not for my sake, but for hers." "Tom, don't you feel that you owe _me_ something?" she asked steadily. "Everything. I'm going to pay, too. I took you from a home like this and--Oh, well, it won't do any good to bring it all up again. Let's--" "You owe me a little happiness and peace, Tom, after all these years." "Oh, I'll go away all right. This is the last time you'll ever see me." "It isn't that that I ask. There was a time when we were happy, you and I. I do not forget the old days, before you--I mean, when we were working together, you and I, to get control of the circus. Not that I liked the life--God knows I did not! but that we were striving for big, good things. I--" "You got your money back," he broke in weakly. "That's more than I did." "What had I ever done to you, Tom, that you should sell me as if I were a concubine to--" "Didn't I tell you it was whiskey--and cards?" he cried fiercely. "True. You _did_ tell me that," she admitted, closing her eyes. He looked at the lowered lids for a moment and then swore softly to himself--not an oath of anger but of despair. She opened her eyes and caught the fleeting look of shame and remorse. "Ah," she cried, "you _have_ a heart, after all. I saw it then. Tom, you _did_ love me, years ago--you were fine and strong and true. You were yourself. You have changed, but I can still see something of the strong, manly Tom Braddock _I_ loved in those wonderful days." He was scowling again, but she had seen through the mask. She went on eagerly: "You are obsessed by this idea of vengeance. What can it mean to you, after all is said and done? You say you are going to end your own life, as well. You will escape the consequences, as any coward would, and you are _not_ a coward. Who stays behind to suffer all the pain and anguish? Not you! Oh, no! I am the one--as if you had not already done enough. Christine and I! We--" "I won't listen to you!" he cried, his breast heaving. "You are listening! You can't help it. Come! You must sit down here beside me. This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life." [Illustration: "This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life"] He drew back and permitted an irrelevant question to break from his lips: "Why didn't you divorce me?" "Because I married you, Tom, that is why! I'll always be your wife. I--I can't live with you--but I--" "Mary, you are the grandest woman in all this world," he cried, amazement in his eyes. "And to think of it! I am the one to have married you,--a thing like me!" She was trembling all over. "Will you do this for me, Tom?" "Do what?" "You know what, Tom." "You mean, give up the one thing I've lived for all these awful years?" "Yes." "I--I can't do it, Mary. It's got to be, sooner or later. That man and I can't live on the earth at the same time." "Oh! Won't you give me something to thank you for after all I've--" "Wait a minute! Let me think!" He began pacing the floor again. She watched him with bated breath, a half-hope in her heart. He stopped before her once more. His eyes were bright with a new, strange light. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Mary,--for you and Christine. I'll put an end to myself. That's the best way out of it. I can't live if he does. Wait a minute! It's the simplest, surest way. Don't breathe a word of this to any one. I'll go down to the river to-night. That will be the end of it all. I swear to you, I won't hunt up Grand,--on my word of honor, if you will believe that I have any honor. There is some sort of integrity in a man who can fight the battle I have--and without wavering or whimpering. I'll do that for you, Mary. It's the safest way." She had heard him at first with a sickening horror in her soul. It was a frightful compromise that he proposed. She knew he meant it, that he would keep his word. She understood how great the sacrifice would be on his part, how bitter the defeat; and she realized that he was doing it to justify himself in her eyes. As he got deeper into his amazing proposition, her clearing brain began to discern the rift in his armor. Not that she saw a sign of weakness beyond, but that the humanness of his strength was being revealed to her. There was an authority in his offer that dispelled all doubt as to the cloudiness of his mental vision. He was seeing things clearly. His sacrifice lay in the willingness to forego the joy of killing another man before he carried out his original design to make way with himself. She studied his face for a moment before speaking. There was something like gladness there--a truly bright glow that told of the relief he had found in at last doing something to please her! "Is there no other way, Tom?" she asked, so quietly that his eyes narrowed with a curious intentness. "It's the only one," he said grimly. She walked over to the window and looked down into the area-way. Her heart was throbbing loudly. "To-night?" she asked in muffled tones. "If I don't do it to-night I'll do something worse to-morrow," he said. "You promise me,--on your word of honor?" He started. "Certainly. I'll do it." She turned to face him, her back to the light. He could not see the expression in her eyes. "You will do this for me, Tom?" He nodded his head, that was all. "Take your own life?" "I was going to do it anyway. Before they could hang me." Both were silent for a long time. Neither had changed position. "You won't tell Christine that I did it, will you? Just say that I went away--to South America, I guess." "I will not tell her, Tom." "Is she going to marry David Jenison?" "I hope so." "Well, she'll feel easier in her mind if she knows I'm gone for good, then. Maybe you'd better tell her I'm dead." He said it as calmly as if he were announcing the time of day, but he was none the less earnest. "There is one alternative, Tom," she said, at last coming to the plan she had had in mind from the beginning. "You're not thinking of--of taking me back," he said, aghast at the very thought of it. "No. I'm going to make an offer that will give you greater satisfaction than that. Will you go away from New York forever, if I pay over to you every cent that I received for my share in Van Slye's--" "No!" he almost shouted. "You can't _buy_ me off. I was willing to do the right thing a minute ago. Now, you've gone and spoiled it all." He clapped his hands to his eyes; his big frame shook with rage. She went quickly to him. "Now, I _know_ you are a man--a big man, Tom. I am prouder of you now than I ever was in all my life." He looked bewildered. "You mean, you did that to _try_ me?" "To try myself," was her enigmatic response, "Well?" She stood back and looked at him intently. "I still have your promise. You _will_ do it to-night?" He stared at her as if he could not believe his ears, but he said resolutely: "Of course, I will." CHAPTER VIII COLONEL GRAND AND THE CRONKS She walked away from him and sat down in one of the big chairs, as if her limbs suddenly had lost the power to support her. He pulled his crumpled hat from his pocket and fumbled it for a few moments. She sat there, looking at him, her lips parted. "Well," he began, "I guess I'd better be going." "Going? Where are you going?" she demanded, suddenly alert. "Oh, out somewhere. I've got ten or twelve hours to kill." She struggled to her feet. "Tom, you are not going to leave this house until to-night." He drew back, amazed. "What?" "I am going down to the river with you." Comprehension was slow in filtering into his brain. A ghastly pallor spread over his face. "What did you say?" "I am going to the river with you. But you must stay here until to-night. You are not to go out into the streets. Do you understand?" "You can't mean that--Why, you must be crazy. You? Why--why, I'm doing it so that you can _live_. You can't mean what you're thinking of--" He could not complete the sentence. A heavy sweat broke out on his forehead. She forced a miserable smile to her lips. "You do not understand me, Tom. I am going down to the river with you, but I am coming back alone." He slowly grasped the meaning of it. "You--you're going down to see that I do make an end of it?" he cried. "I want to be sure, for Christine's sake," she said, quite steadily. He was glaring at her now. "Oh, I see. You don't trust me," he exclaimed bitterly. He put out his hand to steady himself against the library table. "I can't say that I blame you, either. But I won't stay here. I would, if it would do any good, but how can it? The police are likely to pile in here any minute with a warrant for me. That would be fine, wouldn't it?" He strode to the window and tried to look through the passage into the street. "I don't want to be pinched now. Go and look out of the front windows--go on! See if there's any one out there." She did not move. "Ain't you going to look?" he demanded. "The police?" dropped from her lips dully. She had overlooked the danger from that direction, although her mind had been so full of it a little while before. "He won't send them here, Tom--" "Of course, he will," he broke in irascibly. "He's crazy mad, and he'll act quickly to head off Jenison's warrant. I can't stay here--not another minute. Can't I get out the back way? They may be laying for me in front. Don't look like that, Mary! I can give 'em the slip. It won't do to have them nab me here. Just think of the newspapers! Wake up! Don't you see? And listen: I'll do what I said I would--to-night. I swear it. You can trust me, Mary. Now, quick, show me the way out--and don't let me bump into Christine. I--I couldn't stand that. I don't want to lose my nerve." She left him and ran into the next room to look out into the avenue. He followed rapidly. "There are two men standing at the corner," she whispered in alarm. He would have looked out if she had not dragged him away. "It would be terrible if they were to come in here," she was saying distractedly. "Yes, you must go." She grasped his arm. "Tom, you may go if you'll promise to come back tonight." "What's that for?" "Because I insist. At ten o'clock--or any time you may choose. Only you _must_ come back." He studied her face curiously. Something stirred in his heart, but it had been so long since anything had touched that organ that he failed to credit himself with an emotion. Whatever it was, it impelled him to submit to her demand. "I'll come," he said uneasily. "I don't see any use in it, though. We can say goodby now." "No!" she exclaimed. "It must be to-night." "All right, then. I'll come at ten,--_the back way_." Without another word she hurried him through the intervening rooms to the servants' entrance. They passed Brooks in the rear hall. He bowed stiffly to Braddock. Brooks had been listening at a keyhole. She opened the door and pointed the way with a trembling hand. "There is the alley, Tom,--through the little gate. Be very careful." He did not respond. Turning his face away resolutely, he stalked down the narrow steps, and, without so much as a glance behind, hurried off toward the alley-gate. She watched him pass through it, a strange cramp of disappointment in her heart because he had resisted the temptation to look back at his judge. How long she stood there stark and silent she did not know. Brooks, the footman, was speaking to her. "Miss Christine is ill, ma'am," he said, from somewhere behind her. "The housekeeper thinks she has fainted, ma'am." Colonel Grand was in a quandary. He was not afraid of the Braddocks, but he was distinctly alarmed over the intervention and attitude of David Jenison. That aggressive, determined young man had made a threat which struck something like terror to his heart. The more he thought of it, the more insistent became the conviction that Jenison held the whip hand over him. It was not altogether incomprehensible, this amazing turn of affairs. He _had_ drawn a revolver, and he had put himself in a decidedly uncomfortable position, with at least four witnesses against him, three of whom he could not hope to buy off in case of an inquiry. His first thought on driving away from the Portman house was to rush over to the nearest police station and set the officers of the law on the track of the man he feared and hated, in the hope that he might forestall any action on Jenison's part. On second thoughts, he decided that it would be wiser to make haste slowly. He was in the unhappy position of having to consider his own daughter as one of the witnesses. His brain was working rapidly despite the fact that his daughter was doing all in her power to distract it by an unrestrained flow of invective against--not the Braddocks, but David Jenison! To her surprise and subsequent rage he suddenly broke in with the announcement that she was to take the first afternoon train out of the city. He had some difficulty in making it plain that her speedy departure was necessary to her own as well as to his personal comfort. While she was still arguing and pleading to be allowed to stay and fight it out with him he stuck his head through the window and instructed the driver to take them to his hotel instead of to the police station, as first directed. With characteristic decisiveness he directed Roberta to begin her packing as soon as she reached her room. She entreated him to come away with her before Jenison could carry out his threat, but he sharply refused, already having in mind a plan of action, desperate but effective. His first step, however, met with an unexpected rebuke. On the arrival at the hotel he took the cabman aside and deliberately offered him a large sum of money on condition that he would swear that Braddock drew or attempted to draw a revolver. The cabman thought it over. Then he refused. "Money won't tempt me," he said doggedly, "although God knows I need it. You pulled a gun on him, and he didn't have any that I could see. That young feller took my name and number. He'd catch me in the lie, sure as shootin'. And, say, they sent a couple of guys up for perjury just last week, pals of mine, they were. Not for me, guv'nor. I'll stick to the truth, just to see how it feels." "But the man has sworn to kill me!" "You pulled a gun on him," retorted the driver surlily. "I don't like that kind of business. And I guess, if they happen to ask me, I'll just mention that you tried to buy me off, too. Ta-ta! Maybe I'll see you later." And away he went, less virtuous than nature intended him to be, but wholly satisfied that he possessed a conscience, after all. The Colonel, grim and furtive, accompanied Roberta to the station and saw her safely off. By three or four o'clock in the afternoon he began to feel reasonably certain that Jenison had failed in his attempt to secure a warrant, or had been turned from his purpose by that cool-headed, far-seeing woman, Mary Braddock. He remained in his rooms, disdaining flight or subterfuge. All through the long, hot afternoon, he paced the floor or sat in the windows, nervously awaiting the descent of the officers. They did not come. His spirits took wing again as the close of the day drew down upon him. He had waited, with all the stoicism of the born gambler, for the crash and it had not come; he had taken the chance; to use his own expression, he "stood pat." At six o'clock he threw away his half-smoked cigar and sauntered forth from the hotel. The Colonel was very punctilious in that respect: he made it a point not to smoke in the street. Although he was now quite comfortably sure that there was no immediate danger of arrest, he still was confronted by the ugly certainty that Tom Braddock was hard upon his heels and that no amount of persuasion could have turned him from his purpose. His blood went cold from time to time when he permitted himself to recall the set, implacable expression in the man's face, and the tigerish strength that marked every repressed movement of his body. Robert Grand knew that Braddock's sole object in life now was to kill him. He knew that the meeting could not long be deferred; and when it came, he would not have one chance in a thousand against this wily, determined giant. Braddock would accomplish his end, of that he was as sure as he was certain that the sun would rise in the morning. It was in the cards. He knew. He was a true-born gambler, with all the instincts, all the wiles, all the insight of one who courts Chance and fights it at the same time. Such men as Robert Grand go on defying Fate to the bitter end, but they know that there will be an end, and in the end they are bound to lose. This man, a lifelong tempter of Fate, had learned early in the game that the gravest errors in the category of crime came under that lachrymose heading, "wasted energy." Men of his stamp make it a point never to do anything that may be safely left undone, nor are they guilty of overlooking the act that should be performed. They think quickly and soundly, and they act at the proper time: never too soon, never too late. He had an object in remaining in his rooms during the afternoon, just as he had a purpose in venturing forth at six. That was the hour when the streets were crowded to their capacity by restless homeward-bound pedestrians, and the saloons, by those who paused in their haste. His tall, slightly stooped figure moved through the hurrying throng until he came to one of the most famous of the sporting bars. He entered, and, without looking to right or left, made his way to the small cafe in the rear. A man seated at one of the little tables looked up and nodded. Grand took the chair opposite to this person and, after an exchange of greetings for the benefit of the waiter, ordered oysters and a pint of musty ale. The Colonel had his principal meal at midnight. "Do you know where Braddock is?" he demanded as soon as the waiter had left the table. "Sure," said the man opposite. "He's laying low in that dive over on--" "Nothing of the kind," interrupted Grand sharply. Fixing him with his cold, steady eyes, he went on: "You are a wonderful spotter, you are. So you've been watching that place over there all day, have you? And you are sure he's there, eh? Well, let me tell you how damned worthless you are. I expected you'd have him behind the bars before ten o'clock, but--" "Say, Colonel, on the square, the police here are the slowest bunch of--" "Never mind," snapped the Colonel. "He's still at large, and he's not over there at Dick Cronk's. So much for your fine detective work." The man was an operative for one of the biggest private detective agencies in New York. It was his duty, and had been for years, to _watch the police_ in order that Colonel Grand's _sub rosa_ interests might be preserved from the fatal inconstancies of a greedy department. Just now he was devoting his time to Tom Braddock, laying the trap for the one man his employer feared more than he feared all the laws of the land and all the authorities behind them. The Colonel related his experiences of the morning. The private detective perspired freely. He realized how near his employer had been to death, and all through him. All efforts to explain his unhappy mistake met with curt interruptions from the Colonel. "Now," said that worthy, in conclusion, "I want you to find out if Braddock has returned to Cronk's place. Naturally the police could not find him this afternoon. He wasn't there. But he may go back to-night. His wife won't be able to hold him under her thumb. Find this Cronk fellow--the deformed one, I mean--and tell him I want to see him. Tell him it is worth just one thousand dollars to him, and possibly five times that amount. Send him up the rear stairway at Broadso's. I'll be in room five until twelve o'clock to-night. Any time after eight he will find me there--alone. You know where he lives; go and find him. Then make sure that Braddock is at Dick Cronk's room. That's all." At half-past eight o'clock that evening Ernie Cronk stole up the stairway in the rear of Broads's saloon. He slunk down the narrow, dimly-lighted hallway until he came to a door which bore the numeral five. For a full minute he stood there irresolute, held inactive by the two mental elements that bear such close kinship to each other--apprehension and greed. At last, with a stealthy glance at the lighted transoms down the hall, he tapped on the panel of the door. Colonel Grand himself opened the door and held it ajar that he might enter. The hunchback glanced quickly around the room. He had never been there before, but he knew in an instant where he was and what manner of traffic was carried on in this small, close room with the green-covered table in the center, over which was suspended a fully lighted chandelier. The door closed gently behind him and a key was turned in the lock. Like a trapped rat, he whirled at this ominous sound. Colonel Grand, smiling suavely, stood between him and the door. "Don't be alarmed, Ernie," said he in his oiliest tones. "Sit down, my lad. We're quite alone and we won't be disturbed. I am master of the hall, as they would say in England." He motioned to a chair beyond the table, and, bowing politely, settled himself in one nearer the door. "What's the game?" demanded Ernie Cronk, his long, bony fingers fumbling his flat derby hat. "Brown said you wanted to see me." "Where's your brother Dick?" asked the Colonel irrelevantly, leaning forward a trifle. "Dick? Why, he's--he's--I don't know where he is. He's got a place of his own somewheres. I don't see much of him these days. I can't afford it, to be honest, Colonel." "His reputation, eh? Well, I don't blame you. He didn't come over here with you, did he?" Ernie started. His gaze wavered ever so slightly, but the Colonel noted the change. "I haven't seen him in a week," said the hunchback steadily. "You are lying, Ernie. He's across the street now, waiting for you." "So help me God, Colonel--" began Ernie, but the Colonel checked the denial without ceremony. "I am just as sure that he came over here with you to-night as I am sure that you are sitting there. I thought you'd bring him. That's why I sent for you. I knew it was the easiest way to get him here. He wouldn't come if I sent for him, but he'd go anywhere on earth if you asked him to. We'll wait a quarter of an hour, Ernie, before we proceed to business. At the end of that period I'll open the door suddenly and we'll find Artful Dick Cronk standing in the hall. To make it all the more interesting I'll present you with ten dollars if he isn't there." Ernie's ferret-like eyes blinked in sheer amazement. Down in his mean little heart there always had been a dark fear of this rather imposing man; in his mind there was a no uncertain estimate of the Colonel's almost supernatural power to read the thoughts of others. "If he's outside there I don't know it," he said doggedly. "You told him I had sent for you, Ernie. Don't lie. I know you did. It's all right. So, you see, my little strategy worked out beautifully. I want to see Dick quite as much as I do you. We'll wait until he comes up to see what's happened to you." Ernie hesitated, then broke out with an uneasy note in his voice. "You said it would be worth a thousand and maybe more to me. Well, I'm square with Dick. He divides with me. I want to let him in on anything good that comes my way." "I see. You are willing to divide with him, so you are going to let him in on condition that he will do _all_ the dirty work while you sit back and boss the job. I see. You are a great financier, Ernie." "You ought to see my new flat over in Eighth Street," said Ernie proudly, quite taken in by the Colonel's none too gentle sarcasm. "You don't share that with Dick, I imagine." "Well, hardly!" ejaculated Dick's brother. Suddenly his uneasiness developed into a sort of whining protest. "Say, if you got anything to say to me, say it. I got to be moving along. If I can make a thousand honestly, I'm on the job. What's--" "We'll wait for Dick," observed the Colonel coolly. He took his time to light a long cigar, the hunchback looking on with curiosity and doubt in his shifty eyes. Then he handed a cigar to his guest. "Have a cigar. I'd offer you a drink, only I don't believe in drinking between friends. Only enemies drink to each other, Ernie. Bear that in mind. Unconscious enemies." "I don't drink," was the surly rejoinder. Precisely ten minutes later Colonel Grand got up from his chair. In three strides he was at the door; he turned the key and-- There was Dick Cronk leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway, his hands in his pockets, his long legs crossed, his "dicer" on the back of his head. There was no evidence of surprise or confusion in his face; he was as composed, as serene, as if the expected had occurred. A bland smile greeted the triumphant Colonel. "Evening, Colonel. Have you seen anything of a lost boy around here?" The other stood aside, giving him a fair view of the room. "Come in, Dick. I've been expecting you," he said quietly. Dick stared for a second or two longer than he might have done under less trying conditions. "No, thanks. I'll wait out here," he said dryly. He did not change his attitude in the least. "We've been waiting for you," said the Colonel. "We can't proceed without you. Do me the honor to step into my parlor." He bowed very deeply. "'Said the spider to the fly,'" quoth Dick, shifting his foot. Ernie appeared behind Colonel Grand. He indicated by a significant motion of his head that Dick was to enter, and without delay. Slowly the long pickpocket unwound his legs. He then removed his hands from his pockets, after which he coolly strode into the room. The door was closed quickly after him. There was an inscrutable smile on his face, even before the sharp exclamation of concern fell from the lips of Colonel Grand. "I've got the key here in my hand, Colonel," he observed, with his gentlest smile. The older man glared for a moment and then broke into a short, even admiring laugh. "You are a wonder, Dick. You must have wished it out of the door. I'll swear my hand hasn't been off the knob since I opened it a minute ago. How do you do it?" "Simple twist of the wrist--_presto visto_, as the feller'd say. Don't worry. I'll leave it in the door when I depart. And say, while we're exchanging compliments, allow me to hand you one. You're something of a wizard, too. I don't wonder you always win at poker if you can see through an oak door as easy as all that." "We'd better lock the door," urged the other, paying no heed to the remark. "All right. But, if you don't mind, I'll keep the key." He locked the door and then turned toward Ernie, sudden comprehension in his face. "Oh, you told him I came over with you. That explains it." Ernie protested. He would have repeated the entire conversation that had taken place if the Colonel had not stopped him with considerable acerbity. "You can talk that over afterwards," he said sharply. Ernie winced. Grand did not observe the ugly gleam that flickered for an instant in Dick Cronk's eyes. "I've got a proposition to make to you fellows." "What has it got to do with Tom Braddock?" demanded Dick bluntly. He sat on the edge of the table, one foot touching the floor. The Colonel came to the point without delay. "There's no sense in beating about the bush with you, I see," he remarked. "I want to get this man Braddock out of the way for good and all. He's a menace to me and I'm willing to pay to have him completely blotted out. You fellows are out for the coin of the realm. You, Dick, get it in dribs by plundering the unwary. It's slow work and dangerous. Ernie lives off of you with something of the voracity of a leech--no offense intended, Ernie. Now, why not turn your hand to something big and definite and safe?" He paused to let the idea sink into Ernie's avaricious soul. Dick drew a long breath. "Why don't you kill him yourself?" he asked, shooting a quick, apprehensive look at his brother's face. Ernie's eyes were glistening. "I didn't mention a killing, did I?" retorted Grand, momentarily disturbed. "If I had that in mind, Dick, I daresay I could accomplish it without calling on you for aid. What I want is to see him landed in Sing Sing for a long term of years--the limit, you might say." "See here, Grand, you've called in the wrong stoolpigeon this time. I'm not in that kind of business. Never in all my life have I put up a job on a pal, never have I done a trick as dirt-mean as that. I guess you'll have to count me and Ernie out." "Don't go off half-cocked, Dick," admonished the Colonel easily. "You're no fool, nor is Ernie. It's worth just ten thousand between you if Tom Braddock is landed to-night, with the goods on him, so to speak. Two thousand down, the balance--" "You infernal beast!" snarled Dick, standing squarely in front of him and glaring into his eyes with a scorn so shriveling that the other drew back with an oath. "So that's what you wanted with Ernie, is it? Through him you hoped to get me to do the trick, eh? Well, you've slipped up good and hard on _me_. I--" Ernie, his lips twitching, his fingers working, seized his brother's arm and pulled him back. "Wait a minute, Dick,--listen to me," he fairly croaked in his excitement. "Let's hear what his plan is. Maybe we can see a way to help him. Le' me talk, Dick. Leave it to me. I'm smart and sensible. You're off your nut to-night. Just le' me do the talking." "That's right," cried the Colonel quickly. He recognized an asset in Ernie's despicable greed. Dick shook off his brother's hand. "No! This is no business of yours, Ernie. I'm the one he wants to dicker with. You can't put up a job on Brad and he knows it. He's just using you to land me. Not for ten million, Grand. Do you get that?" "Don't shout so that they can hear you in the street," cried Grand, scowling deeply. "Let me have a few words with Ernie." "Yes, Dick, you'd better shut up," added Ernie eagerly. "I'll just talk it over with the Colonel. If we find we can't do it, why, we'll tell him so, that's all. I tell you ten thousand's a lot of money. We could open the nicest kind of a cigar stand with that, and live like honest, respectable men ever afterward." Dick sank back against the table and studied his brother's livid face with the darkest despair in his eyes. His shoulders drooped suddenly. "Honest and respectable?" he said, passing his hand over his eyes. "You mean, _you_ could be all of that, but where would I come in? Would you let me stand behind the showcase in your fine store? Would I ever get so much as a pipeful of tobacco out of it? No! Don't try to argue with me, Ernie; my mind's made up. I came here to-night just to save you from a game like this. I knowed you'd be for it strong, and I'd just have to do it if I wasn't here in the beginning to cork it. Look here, Grand, I don't know just what your plan is, but I'll tell you this: I'll blow on you as sure as I'm alive if you try to carry it out. Tom Braddock is an honest man these days. He's not a whiskey-soaked bum any longer. He cracked me over the head this morning--you can see the plaster there--but I don't hold it up against him. He considers me his friend because I swore I'd stand by him if he'd hold back on getting you right away. He trusts me and he thinks you're all right, too, Ernie. Now, once and for all, I'm not in on this dirty work. _And neither is Ernie!"_ Colonel Grand sat motionless before the angry young man, quietly tapping on the table with his long, white fingers, a faint smile on his half-crescent mouth. "We'll see," he said deliberately. "Perhaps you'd better let Ernie do the talking. I don't believe you are as wise and discreet as you might be, Dick." Dick whirled upon Ernie, who stood behind him. The hunchback was staring at him with a strange, unfamiliar expression in his face. It was a look of combined wonder and awe. "Come on, Ernie. Let's get out of here." "Just a moment, Ernie," interposed the Colonel. "Sit down and listen to what I have to say." But, for the first time since it entered his body, Ernie's soul arose above the sordid flesh. It came as from a great distance and slowly, but it came to take its frightened, subdued stand beside its kin. "I guess I'll be going," he said, and even as he uttered the words he wondered why he did so. "Ten thousand's a lot of money, but if Dick thinks it's too dirty for us to touch, why, I'm with him. You can count me out." He put on his hat and started toward the door. Dick could hardly believe his ears. "Great Scott, Ernie, you--you--Well, you're just great, kid!" "Just a minute," said Grand, arising slowly, an ominous glitter in his eyes. He towered above the hunchback, who was near the door. "I don't intend to let you go until you've heard _all_ I have to say." "Get out of the way, Grand," said the pickpocket, his fingers clenched so tightly that the backs of his hands were white. "There's only one way to handle swine of your breed," sneered Grand; "and that is with a club. You are a fine, virtuous pair, you are. I've got a job for you to do to-night, and I have the means of compelling you to do it. You must not get it into your heads that I did not prepare myself for either view you might take of the matter. I'm not such an idiot as all that. Now we'll indulge in a little plain talk. You are a couple of low-down sneak thieves, both of you. Of the--" "Hold on, Grand!" snapped Dick. "None of that!" "Of the two, Ernie is the lower. You miserable, misshapen scoundrel, you are worse than the vilest thief that ever lived. Dick is an angel compared--" "I'll get you for that!" quavered Dick, so shaken by rage that he could scarcely hold himself erect. "No, you won't," squeaked Ernie. "I'll get him! I'll cut his heart out!" Grand reached out with his left hand and touched a button in the wall. In the other hand gleamed a revolver. "If I press either the button or the trigger it will mean the end of you, you dogs. Now, listen to me. At the foot of the stairs are two policemen and a couple of detectives. They were duped into coming here by the word that a sucker was to be fleeced in Broadso's rooms to-night. All I have to do is to press the button and call for help. This hallway will swarm with waiters and men from all the rooms, and the cops will come on the run. I have nothing to do but to turn you over to them as a couple of thieves who came here to rob me. Trust me to make out a case against you." "I'm no thief!" shouted Ernie. Dick was looking about, like a rat in a trap, his teeth showing in the desperation of alarm. "You fellows will come to terms with me inside of two minutes or I'll land you both in the pen so quickly you won't know it's been done. I want this man Braddock put out of the way. I've got two men waiting to go with you, so don't imagine that you can play me false after you leave this room. It is all cut and dried. You are to carry out a plan I have for landing Braddock. The police will--" "I'll see you hanged first," grated Dick Cronk. "You are the king of crooks, you are." "Don't let him call the police, Dick," whined Ernie, shrinking back against the wall. "I'm no thief. I won't go to jail! I won't!" "Well, that's just where you'll land, my handsome bucko," said the malevolent Colonel. "Dick won't mind it, but it will be a new experience for you, your reverence. 'Gad, you toad!" "Let me go!" cried Ernie. "Keep Dick here, but let me out. Dick will help you, honest he will. I'm no thief. You wouldn't send me to jail!" "Oh, I wouldn't, eh?" snarled the other. "You'll look fine in stripes, you will. And nothing under the sun can save you if I push this button. Ten years, that's what it will be. The Cronk brothers! The _sick_ brothers! Why, a jury would give you the full limit. It will please your brother, after all these years, to see you doing time--Here! Drop that, curse you!" There was a deafening report, a blinding flash and a cloud of smoke. Then a gurgling groan, the scraping of a heavy body against the wall, and Colonel Grand slid to the floor, his arms and legs writhing in the last tremendous spasm of death. Neither of the Cronks moved for a full half-minute. They gazed as if stupefied at the bloody face of the great gambler; they saw his legs stiffen and his chest swell widely and then collapse. "Give me the key!" It was a whispered shriek that leaped from the lips of the hunchback. "Good God, he's dead! They'll hang us!" He sprang to Dick's side and snatched the door key from his stiff fingers. As he leaped toward the door, through the powder-smoke, he stumbled over the body of the dead man. He crashed to the floor but was up again in a flash, gasping, groaning with terror. An instant later he was in the hall. Like a cat he sped past the still closed doorways beyond and reached the stairway before a human being appeared in sight. Half-way down stairs he met men rushing upward, attracted by the pistol shot. He actually tried to clear their heads in a frantic leap. He was caught in the air, struggling and kicking furiously, to be borne down and held by strong arms. Shrieking with rage and terror, he fought like a wild cat. "I didn't do it!" he screamed, over and over again, foaming at the mouth. "It wasn't me! It wasn't me! Oh, God! Oh, God!" Some one struck him a violent blow on the mouth. The foam was red from that time on. In the hallway above there were shouts and the sounds of rushing footsteps. Loud oaths of amazement came ringing down the corridor. A man in his shirt sleeves appeared at the top of the stairs, his face livid with excitement. "Hang on to him!" he shouted. "Don't let him get away. We've got the other one!" "What's the matter up there?" grunted one of the two officers holding Ernie, whose feet were now braced against the steps in the effort to keep them from dragging him upward. "I didn't do it!" he panted between his teeth. "Search me! See if I have a revolver! I never carry a gun. Dick always carries one. Let me go! Let me go! Why don't you go and get Dick?" "Shut up, you!" They dragged him to the door of No. 5. He caught sight of his brother standing between two men near the body of Colonel Grand, beside which a coatless man was kneeling. Another man was going through the pockets of the tall, glassy-eyed prisoner. From an inner pocket the searcher drew forth a revolver. With nervous fingers he broke the weapon. A cry fell from his lips. "Here's the gun. One shell empty. Barrel still hot. You low-lived scoundrel!" Dick's eyes never left the bloody face of the murdered man. He was breathing heavily, as if in pain or extreme terror. "Is he dead?" he whispered through his bloodless, motionless lips. Just then he looked up and saw Ernie at the doorway, bloody-faced, cringing, wide-eyed with dread. Two burly policemen were dangling his ill-favored body almost clear of the floor. "Dead as a door-nail," said the kneeling man. "Here's his gun with all the chambers full. He didn't have a chance to shoot. Say, this is the worst thing I've ever heard of. You'll swing for this, you dog!" Ernie sent up a shriek. "Swing for it! I didn't do it! You can't prove anything on me. Can they, Dick? What are you holding me for? Let go! I'm an honest, respectable citizen of New York. I'm--" "Call a wagon," shouted one of the officers to a newcomer. "Nasty job here. We've got the murderer all right." Dick straightened up at this. He turned to look at the condemning pistol in the hand of the man who had taken it from his pocket. A great shudder shook his frame. "You got me all right," he said. "You won't believe it, of course, but he pulled a gun first. I had to shoot. Get me out of this. If you don't I'll kick his face to a jelly. I've always wanted to." He glanced at Ernie, a crooked smile on his lips. "Well, Ernie, I guess it's going to come true. I always said it would." CHAPTER IX IN THE LITTLE TRIANGULAR "SQUARE" Jenison did not seek the warrant for Grand's arrest. He remained in the Portman house until the middle of the afternoon, vastly exercised by the fainting spell that had come over Christine. The household was considerably upset by the occurrences of the morning; old Mr. Portman was the only person about the place who appeared to be in ignorance of impending peril and disaster. He went out for his drive at two, but was not accompanied by his daughter, a defection which surprised and irritated him not a little. Christine was herself again in a little while. She stayed in her room, attended by the entertaining Miss Noakes, who struggled manfully, so to speak, in her efforts to shatter the depression that surrounded the young girl like a blank wall. Downstairs Mary Braddock listened to David's earnest eager plea for an immediate marriage. Now that Braddock had promised to leave at once for the far West, never to return, it seemed to David that all of their problems were solved. She had told him that her husband was to depart by the midnight train, and that it was her intention to go with him to the depot. David begged her to take him along with her, but she was firm in her determination to go alone. Braddock had made it a condition, and she could not break faith with him. Shortly after the noon hour she drove up town to the bank. On her return she informed David that she had drawn out a sum of money to be delivered to Braddock before the train pulled out. She would not say how much she had drawn, except that it was sufficient to start the man out afresh in the world, and to keep him comfortable for a long time to come, if he should adhere to his decision to eschew drink and cards for the remainder of his life. "Where is he going, Mrs. Braddock?" She shook her head. "I will not tell you that, David. Only he and I are to know." "And you are to send him money from time to time?" "No, I am not to send him a penny." "He goes to-night--positively?" "He goes to-night, positively." "And he refuses to see Christine?" "Why should he see her?" "Well, I don't know," said he dubiously. "It seems rather hard, don't you think?" "Yes. He worships her, David. Yes, it is hard. He is going in this way because it makes it easier--for both of them, he says. You see, David, he is doing it for her sake, not for his own. If he were to do things just now for his own sake, he would kill Grand instead of running away from him." "He's a good deal of a man, after all, Mrs. Braddock." "A good deal of a man," she repeated. "He wishes Christine to be my wife. He told you so, but she won't consent until you tell her that it is all right. It's silly of her. I'm never going to give her up, and she knows it." She faced him suddenly. "You ask me why the marriage cannot take place to-morrow, David. Would you be just as eager to have it take place if her father decided to change his mind and remain here, with all the consequences such an act might create?" "Certainly," he replied promptly. "You do not forget what he is, what he has been, what he may yet become?" "That has nothing to do with it. I love Christine." "Would you be willing to stand at his side, the husband of his daughter, and say, 'I am content to be called your son'--would you?" David stared hard at the floor for a moment. "I think that is rather an unfair question, Mrs. Braddock, when we stop to recall the fact that both you and Christine have denied him for years. I will call myself his son when you call him husband and Christine speaks of him as father--to the world. You can hardly expect me to be proud of what you are ashamed to own." She bowed her head in sudden humility. "I was wrong," she said. "I deserve the rebuke." "I have hurt you. Forgive me." She placed her hand on his. He observed that it was as cold as ice. "While it is true that we have denied him, my dear David, nevertheless we do belong to him. She is his daughter. That is what I am trying to make plain to you." "If she chooses to call herself his daughter, I am perfectly content to call myself his son." "I wanted to hear you say that, David. You must take her as Thomas Braddock's daughter, quite as much as you do as Albert Portman's granddaughter." "I am not deceiving myself," he said with a smile. "Then I am ready to give my consent to an immediate marriage," she said. For the first time since their interview began she spoke hurriedly. A feverish light came into her eyes, burning bright and dry. He sprang to his feet, triumphant. "Come with me to her! She will name the day if you--" "I shall name the day, David," she said evenly. "It must be to-night,--this very night,--before her father goes away." "Are you in earnest?" he cried, scarcely believing that he heard aright. "She loves you with all her soul, and you love her. You are her protector, the stone wall between her and all the unkind things of life. She needs you now. Tomorrow may bring the hour of trial. It is best that she should have you to lean upon. It must be to-night. Come; we will go to her. It is nearly three o'clock. There is much to be done between now and the time that your train starts for Richmond. I want her to be in Jenison Hall to-morrow." Together they went to Christine. Half an hour later he hurried away from the house, a dozen imperative duties to be performed between that time and seven o'clock. He went with a joyous spirit, a leaping heart, and with the will to accomplish all that was required of him in that short space of time. At seven Christine and he were to be married in the huge, old-fashioned drawing-room; at eight-thirty they would be on board the train, bound for Jenison Hall. He was to take her away with him, far from all the ugly possibilities that crept up from all sides to threaten her. Mary Braddock refrained from telling Christine even so much as she had told David concerning the plans of her husband. The girl was allowed to believe that the man was already on his way to the far West. There was a rather trying scene when Christine learned that it would be impossible for her to see her father. She broke down and wept, crying out bitterly that she might have been able to comfort him if she had been given the opportunity. It was with some difficulty and the exercise of considerable patience that her mother convinced her that they had acted for the best. "Some day I shall go to see him, mother," she had said with a resoluteness that brought a strange gleam to the eyes of the older woman. "I am sorry for him. He needs some one to love him. I am sure he is not so wicked as--" "You must be guided by what David says, my child. Remember that you will have more than yourself to consider," was the evasive remark of Mary Braddock. Brooks was sent off with a letter to Dr. Browne, the rector, requesting him to conduct the marriage ceremony. Maid-servants packed Christine's trunks, all enjoined to secrecy. Ruby Noakes and old Joey attended to a few of the many preparations that were being hurried through with such nervous haste. All through the long afternoon Mary Braddock lived under the most intense strain of suspense and apprehension. Uppermost in her mind was the question: had he succeeded in eluding the watchers who were on his trail? At four o'clock she went to her father, prepared to tell him all that had transpired during the past thirty-six hours. She held nothing back from the old man, not even Braddock's gruesome design. They were closeted together for more than an hour. That which passed between father and daughter went no farther than the walls of the secluded little room that he called his study. She came forth from the trying interview with her head high and her heart low. The old man's last tremulous words to her were these: "Well, Mary, God shows all of us the way. Sometimes the way is hard, but we reach the end if we look neither to the right nor the left,--nor behind. What you have just told me is terrible. Is it the only way?" "Yes, it is the only way." He bowed his head and said no more. She kissed his gray hair and passed out from the room, closing the door gently behind her. David and Christine were married at seven o'clock. The shadow which hung over the household, the grievous exigency which made haste so imperative, did much toward suppressing the joy and gladness that under other conditions would have filled the house and the hearts of all therein. Mr. Portman, gray-faced and taciturn, gave the bride in marriage. There were but three witnesses outside of the family. Joey Noakes and Ruby were there and a single college friend to whom David had gone in the stress of necessity. Mother and daughter said their farewells in private. Christine sobbed in her mother's arms, imploring her to come away with them at once, to be happy forever. Mary Braddock's eyes were dry and burning, her hands were cold, her heart like ice. "I will come some time, my darling, but--not now. You must make your home before I come to see you in it. I shall go abroad, as I told you this afternoon. Father agrees with me that it is the thing to do under the circumstances. When I return, my child, I will come to see you in Jenison Hall. You will be its true mistress by that time. You will have discovered the true happiness of life. Until then, my darling, you will not have lived. Even I found joy and happiness in their fullest estate before I came to know bitterness and unrest. You are to be very, very happy. I will come to you in the midst of it all." After they were gone and the lights were out Mary Braddock, wide-eyed and tense, stole down to the stables and waited for the father of the bride. She was there a long while ahead of the appointed time--hours, it seemed to her. He came at last, slinking up from the mouth of the alley where a single street-light spread a dim glow in which he resolved himself for a moment in transit, only to be blotted out again as if by some magic process. With narrowed, anxious eyes and alert ears she waited, standing there in the half-open door of the carriage-house. Suddenly he grew up out of the darkness, almost at her side. "Tom," she cried out softly. He came straight to her. His eyes, used to the darkness and made keen by the ever-present sense of danger, had seen the faintly white splotch in the night that marked her face for him. He had seen and had waited to make sure that it was she who stood there peering forth. "Well, I'm here," he said in a hoarse, restrained whisper. "Have you heard what's happened?" "They are not pursuing you? What is it, Tom?" "Grand has been murdered, Mary!" For a full minute they stood as motionless as statues, he listening for the footstep that had been in his ears for days, she stunned by the appalling news. Her voice was shrill with agony when she finally broke the silence--agony, despair, horror, all combined in one bitter cry. "_You promised me you wouldn't do that!_" "Sh! Be careful," he whispered, coming close to her side. "I _didn't_ do it, Mary,--so help me, I _didn't!_ Wait! Listen to me! I'm telling you the truth." She had fallen back against the wall of the building. Her breathing was quick, as if horror was strangling her. "They caught the murderers,--a couple of gamblers at Broadso's, I heard. I didn't hear much about it. The newsboys were shouting it over in Broadway half an hour ago. I bought a paper, but it gave no details,--except that he is dead." "He is dead? Oh, Tom, Tom, you _do_ swear to me that you had no hand in it. I couldn't bear that now." Her arms were spread out against the building, her hands clenched. In the darkness he could see her eyes, wide and staring. "I swear it, Mary. I was not within a mile of Broadso's. I am as innocent of that murder as you are. You will know the truth to-morrow, even if you don't believe me now. I'll never hear the true story. Oh, I don't mind saying I would have given my very soul to have been the one to do it. Maybe you think I'm pleased that he is dead. Well, I'm not! I begrudge those fellows the pleasure they had in killing him. But, this is not the time or place to talk. Let's say good-by here, Mary. You go back to the house. Let me go and do it alone." She swayed toward him. He caught her on his arm,--an arm of iron. She put her hand to his face. "Tom," she whispered, "God has taken a hand in our affairs--in yours. You must believe in God! You must give yourself to Him to-night." His voice broke a little. "I--I guess you'll have to do the prayin', Mary. Go back to the house now and send up a little prayer for me. That's all you've got to do. I can't stay here. It's dangerous. There is the chance that the police may try to connect me with this murder. It's known that I was after him. Don't you see? Good-by, Mary, I--" "I am going with you, Tom." She grasped his arm tightly. He breathed heavily once or twice; a groan broke in his throat. "All right," he said. She felt the great muscle in his arm swell and relax again. "Do you know the way, Tom?" she asked. "That next street below takes us to the docks. I walked down there this morning. By heaven, Mary, I think you might spare yourself all this. It's too horrible to even think of. Why--why, I just can't do it with you looking on. What do you think I am?" "You said you would do it, Tom," she insisted dully. "Bob Grand is dead," he reminded her. "I said that he and I couldn't live on the same earth. It's hard to think of going straight to hell with him not more than two hours ahead of me." "Come," she said, starting off resolutely. He caught up with her, and they hurried through the alley side by side. "_I'll_ do it, all right," he said, after they had traversed nearly two blocks in silence. The words came as an epitome of the struggle that was going on in his mind. "Don't walk so fast, Tom. You are tiring me." "Tiring you?" he exclaimed. He looked at her bent head and laughed,--a short, mirthless chuckle. "You'll have to forgive me, Mary. You see I've been thinking of something else. Men walk fast when they're in a hurry." "Is it much farther?" He could scarcely hear the words. "Six or eight blocks, if I remember right." She did not speak again until they were in the middle of the second block beyond. From time to time he turned to look at her, his benumbed soul trying to get in touch with the spirit that moved her to come with him to the very brink of the grave. He was puzzled, he could not understand it in her. If there was a hope of any kind lying buried under the weight that was in his breast, he neither recognized nor encouraged it. There was an awful, growing dread that she did not intend to let him go in alone. He tried to put down the ghastly fear. His glances at her became more frequent, less furtive. The thought of this splendid, noble, beautiful creature going down into the black waters after him was almost beyond his power of comprehension, and yet he was slowly allowing it to take a hold on his senses. He came to an abrupt stop, rigid with horror. His hand fell upon her shoulder, roughly, regardless of the physical pain it was sure to inflict. "Mary, how can I be sure that you won't jump in after me? You act so queerly. I don't understand you. For Heaven's sake, go back! Don't do anything like that. I can't bear it--I can't bear the thought of you down there in the water, under the hulls, covered with--Ah!" He covered his eyes with his hand. She listened for a tense moment to the labored breathing of the man. He had thought of her at last! An odd, mysterious smile flickered on her lips. With a sudden convulsive movement she drew the long shaker cloak closer about her shoulders. "Tom, there is a little park over there, with benches. Let us sit down for a moment." "You won't do it, Mary, will you?" he pleaded, now completely in the grip of that terrible dread. "I am not as brave as you are, Tom," she said. He caught a new, vibrant note in her voice. He misconstrued it. "I call it pretty brave to be able to go down and see a man jump into the river. Not many men could do it, let alone women. It's like seeing a man hung." She led him, unresisting, to a bench in the corner of the dark little triangle that was called a "square." People were passing by, but no one had stopped there to rest, or to reflect, or to make love. They had the green little park all to themselves. "Christine was married to-night," she said after they had been seated for a few minutes. He remarked lifelessly: "Hurried it up on my account, eh? It's bad luck to postpone a wedding, even for a death in the family. Well, I'm glad. She's sure to be happy, God bless her!" "Yes, she will be very happy." "I suppose she--and you, too--had a notion that I'd turn up some day to spoil the whole business. So you got it over with, eh?" "I wanted everything to be settled, that's all." He was silent for a while, breathing heavily. "Did she ask about me?" "Yes." "You told her I was going away--that I'd probably never see her again?" "I told her you were gone." "I suppose she was relieved." "She cried because you were not there to see her married." He was fully half a minute in grasping the full meaning of that wonderful sentence. "Did she?" he asked, lifting his head suddenly. "Honest, Mary? You're not saying it just to--to make me feel--" He stopped and waited for her to reply to his unuttered question. She shook her head. "Then she does care a little for me. She hasn't lost all the feeling she used to have--" "She cried because she was not given a chance to talk with you. She thought she could comfort you, could help you. That was why she cried, Tom." He allowed his chin to rest in his hands, his elbows on his knees. "I wonder if I could have--Oh, say, there's no use talking," he ended bitterly. "What were you about to say, Tom?" "Nothing." "Yes, you were. Tell me." "Oh," he cried, with all the bitterness of a lost, hungry soul, "if I had only known! She _could_ have comforted me. What a fool I was not to see her. I've been cursing myself all day. Now I know why I cursed. It was because I wanted to see her--" He struck himself a violent blow on the mouth, as if that were all that was needed to crush the great longing that was in his breast. "Yes. Go on, Tom," she said quietly. "I can't, Mary. I can't talk about it. I guess I'd better say good-by now. I'll lose my nerve if I get to thinking and talking. I don't want to think that I might still get some happiness out of life if--if I went after it right." She put her cold hand on his big, clenched fist. He looked at her. The faint light from a near-by lamppost struck his face. It was heavy, leaden with despair and misery. "Almost the last thing she said to me before she went away was this, Tom: 'Some day I shall go to him. He needs some one to love him. I am sure he is not so wicked as--' She got no farther than that. I stopped her." "She said all--Mary, why did you stop her? Why didn't you want her to say it? Why did you begrudge me a little thing like that?" He was trembling violently. There was misery, not anger or resentment in his voice. "Tom, are you ready to go to the river?" He shrank away from her, shuddering, appalled. "It's hard to die, after all. I--I ought not to have let you tell me all this. It's made it harder. I never thought of it before. Somehow, Mary, I--I think I might have turned out a better man if--if I'd known just how Christine felt." He got to his feet suddenly. "I said I'd do it. You want me to do it. Well, I will!" She clung to his hand. He turned upon her with an oath on his lips. The light now struck her face. What he saw there caused him to catch his breath and to choke back the imprecation. "I am convinced that you would do it, Tom, for her sake and mine. You would do it, not because you are weak, but because you are strong. I am satisfied now." "Satisfied?" he murmured, wonder-struck. She arose. "Tom, I am not going to say that I love you. You cannot expect that. There is a feeling within me, however, that may develop into something like the old love I once had for you, if you give it the right kind of encouragement--and care." "What are you saying to me, Mary?" he cried hoarsely. "You would have given up your life so that Christine might be happy. I am willing to do as much, Tom, toward the same end. I will give up the life I am leading. You want another chance, Tom. Well, you shall have it. I will go where you go, live where you live." "Mary!" he gasped. "Christine said you needed help. Well, I will try to give it to you. You have her love. You didn't quite kill that, as you did mine." She took his limp hand in hers and looked up into his eyes. "Perhaps, if both of us try hard, you and I together, Tom, we may be able to make her forget the ugliest part of her life." "Together? I don't understand." "I am still your wife," she said, a shrill note creeping into her voice despite the effort she made to be calm. "You--you mean I won't have to go--to go to the river?" he cried, unable to think beyond that awful alternative. "I never meant you to do that." He suddenly took a long, deep breath and lifted his face, to stare about as if trying to convince himself that he was really there, alive and awake. "I guess I don't quite get your meaning, Mary," he muttered, but his fingers were beginning to tighten on hers. "Of course, I understand you are still my wife, and--You don't mean you--you are going to take me back!" "No. I am asking you to take _me_ back." He could not speak for a full minute or more. "You'll give me another chance? That's what you mean--that's what you're really saying, isn't it?" He was fairly gasping out the words. "Yes, Tom." "Oh!" He turned and flung himself on the bench, bursting into tears. "I don't deserve it--I don't deserve it! It's too much to hope for." These and other sentences fell in broken disorder from his lips. She did not speak, but sat down beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. After a time, he grew quieter,--then almost deathly still. She shook him gently. "Will you come home with me now, Tom?" she asked. She too had been crying softly. He looked up. They were so close together that she could detect the humble, wistful look in his face. His lips moved, but the words did not come at once. "Home with you?" "Yes. We have our plans to discuss, Tom." "To your father's house?" he persisted. "Yes. He understands. I talked it all over with him this afternoon. It was hard to do, Tom,--it was very hard to hurt that poor old man all over again. But I had it to do, and he understands. He asked me to bring you back with me. I told him I would. He wants to talk with you in the morning." "Mary," he began, fingering his hat in the extremity of an emotion that almost benumbed him, "I don't know whether you want to hear me say it, but I've never stopped caring for you. It isn't all Christine with me. I just want to tell you that." "I understand, Tom," she said, still more gently. "I can't take any help from your father," he managed to say after another long period of silence. "He will offer nothing but his hand and his well-wishes." "This is all so unexpected. I'm trying to get too many things through my head at once. Let me think for a minute or two." She was silent, looking off into the gloomy little street below. A man was whistling gayly near by. From afar came the sound of rumbling street cars. She had not noticed these or any other sounds before. A policeman came up to the corner, stopped and looked at the huddled twain for a minute or two, and then moved off. The sight of that uniform created a sudden chill in her heart. Tom Braddock began speaking again, in low, steady tones in which there was not only a sort of bitter determination but something like defiance. "What's more, Mary, I won't accept anything from you. Whatever you've got, put it aside for Christine or against the time when you may need it yourself. I'm not going to live off you. I'm not what I was back in those rotten days. I believe I'm going to be I happy again--I think life's going to be sweet to me after all. Half an hour ago I had but a few minutes to live, as I believed. I don't know just how to take this new grip on life. Maybe I'll be able some time to tell you all that I can't say now. I'm all befuddled. The main point is: I'm going to have a chance to be a man again, a real man; to be your husband and to make Christine forget she was ashamed of me. That's it. That's what I'm trying to say. So, you see, I can't afford to be ashamed of myself. Do you get what I mean?" "You would be ashamed of yourself if you accepted money or help from me? Is that it?" "Yes. I can work, Mary. I can support you, if you'll come with me. I know where to go. But you'd better think it over carefully. I can go alone, Mary dear,--I can go alone, if you feel you can't stand being with me." She hesitated, weighing her words. "I have a plan, Tom, that I want to talk over with you. I'll tell you about it when we get home. I want to know what you think of it. Perhaps you will consider it a good one. It occurred to me this afternoon while I was making preparations to leave the city with you to-morrow." "You--you had it all thought out before you--" "I had it all thought out. In fact, Tom, I have the railroad tickets at home in my desk,--two tickets, one way." "You are the most wonderful woman in all this world, Mary, I'd die for you a thousand times," he cried. It was almost a sob. She smiled. "I wouldn't allow you to do it even once for me. Come! We will go back the way we came, only we will go in by the front door." As they turned onto the sidewalk he cast a swift, involuntary glance, as of terror, in the direction of North River. She distinctly heard the quick intake of his breath and the involuntary chatter of his teeth. "You will sleep in a good, clean bed to-night," she said, reading his thoughts. He reached forth and touched her arm, timidly at first, as if he were afraid that ever so slight a sign of affection would be repulsed. Finding that she did not shrink or draw away, he ventured to draw her arm through his. His figure was still bent, but the slouching, furtive movement was gone. Mechanically she fell into his stride and they moved swiftly up the street. A clock in a house across the way banged out the hour. Far away, in the neighborhood of Broadway, a raucous-voiced newsboy was crying his "extra." They knew that he was shouting: "All about the murder!" in that unintelligible jargon of the night. "We will get it all in the morning papers," she said. "I hope they don't try to connect me with it--Mary, I'm afraid of that! You'd better let me get out of town to-night." She shook her head. He walked with his eyes set straight ahead, trying to understand, trying to get control of his new emotions. Always there was the sharp, ugly little notion that she still despised him, that she was sacrificing herself that he might be drawn as far away as possible from the child she was so anxious to shield. "I'm going to try my best to make you care for me again," he said, a vast hunger for sympathy and love taking possession of him. "I hope you may, Tom," she said drearily. "You're doing this for Christine," he said resentfully. "Just to get me away, so's I can't trouble her. That's it, isn't it? Tell the truth, Mary." "I would not expect you to do anything for her sake if I were not willing to do a great deal myself," was her enigmatic rejoinder. "Don't hate me, Mary," he burst out. She pressed his arm. "I am giving you a chance," she reminded him. There was still a dreariness in her voice, but he did not detect it. He returned the pressure, half hopeful that the beginning already had been made. Brooks let them in. He had been waiting up for them. "Mr. Braddock will be here over the night, Brooks." "Yes, Mrs. Braddock." He opened the door into the library for them, and then silently hastened upstairs. "You must have been pretty sure of yourself," commented Braddock, in no little wonder. She threw off the shaker cloak. "There is a cold supper for you in the dining-room, Tom--and a piece of a last-minute wedding cake. You must be hungry. While you are eating we will talk over my plan." He went about it as if in a dream. For an hour they discussed her plan for the future. In the end he fell in with it. "I'd be a dog if I didn't give in to you in a matter like this," he said. "You're doing everything for me." "Our room is at the head of the stairs, the first door to the left, Tom," she said, rising. Her face was very pale; she looked old. "The bath adjoins it. If you don't mind I'll stay downstairs awhile. I have many papers to look over and some letters to write." He went upstairs to the wide, high bed-chamber with its azure walls. For a long time he stood in the middle of the room, looking around in dull amazement and doubt. Was it really true that he was there, in the midst of all this elegance and comfort? He glanced at his big hands and started with shame. They were not very clean. The soiled cuffs of an ill-fitting "hickory" shirt came down over his wrists. Involuntarily he pushed them up. The greenish-gray of the coarse jeans garments he wore, clumsy and crumpled, was sadly out of harmony with the delicate, refined colors that surrounded him. It seemed to him all at once that he _jarred on himself_. Suddenly his gaze fell upon a neatly folded suit of clothes lying across the foot of the bed. The garments were dark blue, with a thin stripe running through the cloth, and they were new. On the center table there was a straw hat. Shoes stood beside the chair at the head of the bed. An immaculate white shirt hung over the back of the chair, while on the seat were undergarments. He rubbed his eyes. Then he sat down on the chaise longue and stared, with growing comprehension. The coverlet on the bed was neatly turned down; a night-gown was there, clean and white. Beside it was another, soft and filmy. Braddock put his hands to his face and sobbed dry, choking sobs that were not of anguish, but of bewilderment. At last he pulled himself together and arose to make a tour of the room. On the dressing-table there were collars and neckties and cuffs. His own old-fashioned silver watch lay there before him, with its heavy gold chain attached. He remembered with a pang that he had given it to her for preservation long ago, because it had once belonged to his grandfather and he was sentimental about it. He looked again at the clothes he wore, the clothes the state had placed on him when he left the penitentiary; he looked at his soiled hands; in the glass he caught a glimpse of his haggard, unshaven face and the dirt streaks that the tears had made. With a cry of disgust he began tearing off the hated garments. She had done all this for him! She had known all along that he was to come home with her. Half an hour later he came from the bath, scrubbed until his skin was red. He was clean! He was shaved! His hands were amazingly white. Like a boy, he tried on the fresh, new, clean-smelling clothes. Even to the shoes the fit in all cases was perfect. She remembered everything--the size of his collars, the size of his shoes, the length of his sleeves: the measurements of Tom Braddock as she had known him when they were young together. He picked up the filmy night-dress and kissed it a dozen times. Then he looked at the other one. A grim smile touched his lips. How long had it been since he had slept in a thing like that? It seemed like centuries. He sat down on the side of the bed and dropped his chin to his hands, suddenly a prey to widely varying thoughts, desires and emotions. For many minutes he drooped there, thinking, wondering, doubting. Over in a corner stood a small new leather-bound trunk. He did not get up to look at it, or into it. He knew without looking. "It's like a fairy story," he murmured over and over again. "I'll do anything in the world for her, as long as I live!" Suddenly he started up. He would go down to her. He would renew his pledges, his promises. As he opened the door to pass out to the stairs he heard her moving in the hall below. She tried the front door. Then the lower light went out. He heard her mounting the stairs slowly. She was coming up to him! When she got to a point where she could see the streak of light from the partially open door she came to a stop. A slight shudder went over her body. Her steps were slower after that, dragging, dejected, with one or two complete pauses. Braddock understood. He had been listening to that pitiful approach of the woman who was his wife. He could almost see the expression in her face. A sudden wave of pity swept over him. He gently closed the door and locked it on the inside. She came on and turned the knob, feebly, timorously. "Good-night," he called out from the most distant corner of the room. Fully ten seconds passed before she responded. He felt somehow that she held her breath during that time. "Good-night," she cried, a vibrant note in her voice. He heard her as she went down the hall. She was running. CHAPTER X THE BLACK HEADLINES Christine had been mistress of Jenison Hall for three days when the expected and anxiously looked-for letter came from her mother. A sensation of dread, of uncertainty, had been present during those three wonderful days, lurking behind the happiness that filled the foreground so completely. She could not divest herself of the vague, insistent fear that disaster hung over the head of the mother she idolized. David, supremely happy, used every device that his brain and a loving heart could present to set her mind at rest, to drive away the unvoiced anxiety that revealed itself only in the occasional mirror of her telltale eyes. When no word came on the morning of the third day, she timidly suggested that they run up to New York for a short visit. He laughed at her and playfully accused her of being tired of him, of being homesick. Nevertheless, he was troubled. He had seen the newspaper accounts of the murder of Colonel Grand, and he had been horrified, immeasurably shocked, to find that Dick Cronk was the self-confessed assassin. There was no mention of Braddock's name in the dispatches, yet he could not banish the fear that ultimately the man would be implicated. Dick Cronk's story of the crime, as presented by the newspapers, was clear and unwavering. He said that he had shot the man in the heat of a quarrel over money matters. The newspapers professed to be unable to secure a statement of any kind from the brother, Ernest Cronk, who was in jail as an accomplice, despite the vigorous protests of the principal figure in the case. The newspapers went into the history of the Cronk boys, from childhood up, devoting considerable space to the excellent reputation of the cripple and the unsavory record of the noted pickpocket. In summing up the case, there seemed to be no question of the innocence of the cripple, although it was stated that the district attorney intended to put him on trial for complicity in the crime. The men, held without bail, were to be given a hearing in the trial court at an early day. Letters from Joey Noakes and Ruby to the Jenisons set forth the details of a visit to the Tombs on the day following the murder. Both were constrained to remark that, in the view of Dick's confession, it would go very hard with him; they could see no chance of escape for him. Joey, however, urged David to contribute something toward engaging the services of a clever lawyer who at least might save him from the gallows. He stated that Ernie, after stubbornly maintaining his own innocence, refused to pay out money for an attorney, preferring to let the state provide counsel for him, under the law. There was no mention of Braddock in either letter, for obvious reasons. Then the letter came from Mary Braddock. It was addressed to Christine. The mother's heart cried out in the opening pages. David, at least, could read between the lines. There were the tenderest protestations of love and the most confident of prophecies, uttered with a buoyancy of spirit that convinced and delighted the girl, who had been so hungry for reassuring words. A new radiance enveloped her. But he saw beyond the wistful, carefully considered sentences. He saw the shadow of Thomas Braddock at the elbow of the woman as she wrote. Near the bottom of the second page she abruptly took up the subject which was, after all, uppermost in the minds of these anxious young people. "Your father," she began, "has changed his mind about going to the mines in the Southwest. I saw him after that dreadful thing had happened at Broadso's. He was afraid I might think he had a hand in it, so he came at once to reassure me. Of course, he was not implicated in any way. It will please you, Christine, to know that my father had a long talk with him on the day following the murder, and that he was more than merely impressed by the change in him. He firmly believes that your father means to lead an honorable, upright life. I, too, believe that he can work out his own redemption. Perhaps David will bear me out in this. He saw him, and he noted the wonderful change. Time, however, will tell. I ought not to be too rash with my prophecies. "He loves you. He wants to reclaim your love and respect. That is all he has to live for, I firmly believe. For this reason, if for no other, I am confident he will make a brave, a wonderful effort. What he needs most of all is encouragement, sympathy, the promise of ultimate reward. If he realizes that the time may yet come when he can stand before you without shame on his own part, and be received without shame on your part and David's, I am sure it will mean everything to him in the struggle he is to make in the next three or four years. "He is now on his way to your grandfather's ranch in Montana, of which he will assume the management next fall. The present manager is most unsatisfactory to my father. He recognizes Tom's great ability in handling men; his training in the school of hardship and adversity has given him all the requisites necessary to the conducting of a large ranch. You remember the name of the post-office where the mail for the ranch is always sent. I implore you to write to him often. It will mean so much to him, and, in the end, so much to you and yours. He insists that you are to make no effort to see him. You can well understand how he feels about it. Let _him_ come to you in his own good time. That is best, I am sure. I strongly advise you to respect his wishes in this connection. "As for my own plans, I am going to the ranch with him. He needs me." That was all she had to say of herself or her plans. In the next sentence she spoke of Dick Cronk: "I suppose you have read of that unhappy boy's arrest. Joey is trying to raise means with which to employ capable counsel for him. I have sent him a check for a thousand dollars, with the understanding that my name is not to be mentioned as a donor. Your father says he cannot conceive of Dick committing a murder. Nor can I. I have a strange feeling that he did not do it, but, of course, that is silly in the face of all that has come out. I am sorry for Dick. If David can find it convenient to befriend him in any way, I am sure he will not hesitate to help that poor, unfortunate boy who once did him an unusual service. "We are leaving at 5.30 for Chicago...." The weeks passed rapidly for the blissful young Jenisons. The letters from the far West were full of promise. Even the skeptical David was compelled to admit to himself that the silver lining was discernible against the black cloud that Mary Braddock had so deliberately set herself under. With his fair young wife he journeyed to New York toward the end of their first month of married life. It had not required the advice or suggestion of others to rouse in him a sense of duty. He owed more to Dick Cronk than he could have hoped to repay under the most favorable of circumstances: now it seemed utterly impossible to lift the obligation. His first act was to send a large check to Joey Noakes. This was followed by numerous encouraging letters to Dick Cronk, in each of which he openly pledged himself to do all in his power to help him in his great trouble. Dick's replies were characteristic. They were full of quaint, sarcastic references to his plight, glib comments on the close proximity of the scaffold, and bitter lamentations over the detention of his brother Ernie, whose misery and unhappiness seemed to weigh more heavily with him than his own dire predicament. On his arrival in town David went at once to the office of the great criminal lawyer who had been engaged to defend the Cronks. There he was met by Joey Noakes, Casey (no longer a contortionist but the owner of a well-established plumbing business descended from his father) and young Ben Thompson, the newspaper man who was soon to become Ruby's husband. The man of law was brutally frank in his discussion of the case. He had gone into it very thoroughly with the two prisoners. In his mind there was no doubt as to the outcome of the trial. The men had elected to be tried jointly. Richard Cronk did not have the ghost of a hope to escape the extreme penalty; Ernest would be discharged. There did not seem to be the remotest chance of saving Dick from the gallows. The testimony of the two prisoners would have but little weight with a jury, and there were no extenuating circumstances behind which he could go in support of his plea for leniency. The prisoners had revealed to him their motive in visiting Broadso's place, going quite fully into the details of the interview which ended in the shooting. David's surprise and horror on learning these hitherto unmentioned facts can well be imagined. "Personally," said the lawyer, "I am inclined to the opinion that Dick Cronk tells the truth when he says Grand drew a revolver on him and that he shot in self-defense. If we can make the jury see it in that light there may be some chance for him. That is the defense I shall offer, in any event. The state, however, is in a position to make light of the plea, and with tremendous effect. It is just as plausible a theory that Grand himself drew in self-defense. The fact that Cronk fired and Grand did not will go far toward substantiating that theory in the minds of intelligent jurors. It is not at all likely that Grand, who knew the character of his visitors, could be forestalled in a shooting affair, especially if he had been the first to draw. Gentlemen, I shall do my best, but I must say to you that it is a hopeless fight. Young Cronk is perfectly indifferent as to his own fate. He seems only anxious to have his brother acquitted of complicity in the actual crime. Ernie Cronk says that he saw a revolver in Grand's hand, but, you see, he is so vitally interested that it is doubtful if his testimony will be credited. It is very black for Dick Cronk. You may as well understand the situation. We have one chance in a thousand of getting him off with a life sentence, one in a million of securing an acquittal." The next day David and Joey went to the Tombs to see the two men. Dick came down to the visitor's cage, but Ernie stubbornly refused to see the callers. "He's in a terrible way, David," said Dick, in explanation of his brother's attitude toward them. "You see, I'm an old hand at the business, and I advised him to talk with no one except the lawyer. It's bad policy, gabbing with everybody that comes along. Keep a close tongue in your head, that's my motto. Ernie's followin' my advice right up to the limit. He's so cussed stingy with his conversation that he won't talk to himself. I don't believe he has said fifty words out loud in the past two weeks. It's getting to be quite a joke among the other guys in here. I never knew any one to be so careful as he is. But, as I said before, he's in a bad way. It's telling on him, poor kid. He can't see anything but the rope for both of us. And then, Davy, my boy, he's got a particular reason for not seeing you. I guess you know what it is. He's a terrible proud feller, Ernie is. Not a bit like me in that respect. Now I'm willing to thank you for putting up the coin for us, and all that, and I do thank you; but Ernie--well, he's a curious kid. He can't bear to--well, you understand." "Dick," began David as soon as the complacent rogue gave him the opportunity to break in, "I want you to tell Joey and me just how it happened. We are your best friends--" The prisoner held up his hand, palm outward, shaking his head slowly as he spoke. "I'd be a poor example for Ernie if I blabbed after tellin' him to keep his trap shut. Excuse _me_, Davy. My lawyer is the only one I talk to about the case. As he's your lawyer just as much as he is mine, and more so, I guess, I don't mind if you chat with him. He can tell you all he wants to. But not me. Nix, kid. Not even to you and old Joey here, the greatest close-mouth in the business. Why, I saw Joey last winter in that pantomime out West, and he never said a word from the time the curtain went up till it went down. Talk about your tight-lipped guys! Say, he's the king of them all. He's the only actor I ever saw that wasn't kickin' for more words to conquer. These gabby actors just give me a--" "For heaven's sake, Dick, be serious!" cried David impatiently. "You _must_ talk to us openly, frankly about--" "I'm sorry, David," interrupted Dick, his face grave in an instant. "I can't talk about it. I'd sooner not. You see, I've got to consider Ernie. He's absolutely innocent. If I got to spoutin' around, I might say something that could be twisted so's it would hurt him. So, if you don't mind, I'll talk about the weather. How is it down in old Virginia? How's old Jeff? And how is the cook-lady at Jenison Hall? Say, I wish you'd mention me to her. I'm the ghost that took her pies and cold chicken, you remember." It was useless for them to continue. He smilingly but stubbornly refused to be moved by their eloquence. To all of their subtly-worded entreaties he gave but the one, oft-repeated response: "I guess you'd better discuss that with Mr. Prull, the lawyer." They gave it up, but not until the time allotted to them as visitors was nearly over. "Mr. Prull has all the facts. Let him do the worrying," quoth Dick, the philosopher. "Ernie will get off, dead sure. As for yours truly, I made my bed, so I guess I'll have to sleep in it. Joey, I'll have the laugh on you. You always said I was a crazy freak when I told you where I was going to end. Just you remember that, will you, when you read about me doing the groundless dance one of these fine days. My old man did it before me. He was seventeen minutes strangling, they say. Almost a record-breaking performance. To tell you the truth, Joey, I'd be downright disappointed if I should happen to cash in natural-like. It would be an awful jolt to my faith in Fate." "For the love of 'eaven, Dick, don't go on like that," groaned Joey. A cold perspiration was standing on his forehead. "You ought to 'ave some regard for my feelings." Dick laughed merrily. "There you go! Always thinkin' of yourself. I've always heard that Englishmen haven't got any feelings." "Well, they 'ave," was Joey's retort. "Say, David, what's the latest news from Brad?" He listened with great interest to David's brief recital. "Good for Brad!" he exclaimed. "I always said he'd come out clean if he had a chance. I say, Mrs. Brad's a brick. She'll bring him around, see if she don't. He ain't a natural crook, Brad ain't. He's got a conscience and he can't get away from that. No man's a real crook who has a conscience. I've got my own definition of the word 'conscience': a mental funeral with only one mourner. Say, kid, I guess I saved your father-in-law's neck when I plugged old Grand--" "Dick, don't breathe that, I implore you," cried David. "He had promised Mrs. Braddock that he'd go away. It can do no good to drag him into all this." "Well," said Dick reflectively, "I guess you'd better ask Mr. Prull about that. He knows all the facts." "I beg your pardon, Dick. I'm sorry I spoke so quickly." "It's all right, kid. No harm done. Don't worry. There won't be anything said about Brad's _original_ intentions. I hope Christine--I should say Mrs. Jenison--is well. I know she must be happy." "She is both, Dick. She is very deeply interested in your case." "I hope you won't let her send me roses and sweet violets, kid. That's an awful gag they're workin' now. There's a fellow down the line here that cut his wife's head nearly off in two places--on both sides of the neck--and he's getting pink roses and lilies of the valley by the cab-load." "Christine is sending books and fruit, and three times a week you are to have a dinner fit for a--" The sudden fierce glare in the prisoner's eyes caused David to stop in amazement. "Look here," demanded Dick savagely, "ain't poor Ernie to have any o' these things? Is he to set by and see me eat--what?" "You are to be treated alike, of course," cried David quickly. Dick's face cleared. He looked down in evident embarrassment. "Excuse me, kid. I--I always get riled when I think of him getting the worst of anything. I'm sure we'll both be terrible grateful to Chris--to Mrs. Jenison. She's an angel,--as of course you know, kid. Sending me books, eh? Tell her I like Dickens, will you? And, say, there's _one_ book she needn't go to the trouble of sendin' me." "You mean the--the Bible?" "Yes." "Dick, you don't really mean that. You--" "I've already got one," said the prisoner simply. His eyes fell with curious inconsistency. They saw his chin and lower lip quiver ever so slightly. He scraped the floor with his foot a time or two, and his fingers tightened on the bars. "It's a little one my mother gave me when I was a kid. I've always kept it. Funny little old Bible, with print so small you can't hardly read it, 'specially that place where all them guys with the jay names were being begot. They seem to run together a good deal--I mean the names. I guess they must have run together considerable themselves, if accounts are true. Yes, my ma gave it to me for being a good boy once." His eyes were wet when he looked up at David's face again. His smile seemed more twisted than usual. "Where is it now, Dick?" asked Jenison, a lump coming into his throat. Joey was plainly, almost offensively amazed. "Why,--why, Ernie's got it. He didn't have anything else to read, so he took it a couple of weeks ago. I--I guess I'll ask him for it some day soon. Oh, yes, there _is_ something I want to speak to you about, Joey. A couple o' years ago I took out a life insurance policy in favor of Ernie, and also an accident policy. I couldn't keep up the accident one, but the other's paid up to next January. Maybe I won't have to pay on it again. It's for five thousand. I want you to see that he gets the money if--if I--well, you know. The policy is in the safe over at old Isaac's pawnshop,--you know the place. I'll write and ask him to come down and see me, and I'll tell him to give you the paper, if you don't mind, Joey." "Sure, Dick. I'll take charge of it. You're very good to Ernie, and thoughtful, lad." "Well, I guess I ought to be," remarked Dick dryly. David from the first had been more or less certain that Dick was not the one who shot Grand. He could not drive the ugly conviction from his mind. It occurred to him at this juncture to put his theory to the test, hoping to catch Dick off his guard. "The police are now saying that you did not do the shooting, Dick." He watched the other's face narrowly. There was not so much as a flicker of alarm. "They don't think the old boy committed suicide, do they?" asked Dick, with a chuckle of scorn for the obtuseness of the police. "No. They're working on some new evidence, that's all." "It's grand to have a reputation like mine," grinned the amiable rogue. "They won't even believe me when they catch me red-handed. Once a liar, always a liar. That's their idea, eh? If I was to turn around and say I didn't do it, I suppose they'd believe me? Well, nix! I guess not!" David and Joey left almost immediately after this, promising to visit him from time to time, and to do all in their power to aid Mr. Prull. "Well, so long," said Dick at parting. "Say, Joey, will you remember me to Ruby? I wish her all the luck in the world." The summer months wore away and toward the middle of October the case of the State _vs_. Cronk and Cronk came up. There was little or no public interest in the hearing. Two sets of friends, rather small circles very widely apart, were deeply interested, and that was all. The Jenisons and their friends formed one contingent, while the other was made up from that shifting, stealthy element of humanity known as the "under-world."--pickpockets, cracksmen and ne'er-do-wells who had been the associates of Dick Cronk in one way or another, off and on, for years. The plea of self-defense was ably presented by a great lawyer, but it was shattered by the State quite as easily as he had anticipated. He made an eloquent, impassioned appeal for clemency. The jury was out not more than an hour. Their verdict was an acquittal for Ernest Cronk, a conviction for murder in the first degree against Richard, with the recommendation that he be hanged by the neck until dead. Following the conviction came the application for a new trial, which was not granted. The record in the case was so clear of error and the proof so conclusive that Mr. Prull declined to carry the matter to the higher courts, realizing the hopelessness of such a proceeding. Then began the systematic, earnest effort to induce the governor to commute the sentence to life imprisonment. He declined to interfere. Dick Cronk was doomed. At eleven o'clock on the morning of a bitterly cold Friday in January a grim, sullen group of men, evil-faced fellows whose eyes were heavy with dread, and whose lips hung limp with dejection, crowded around the stove in a squalid, ill-smelling basement room. They spoke but seldom; their voices were rarely raised above the hoarse half-whisper of anxiety known only to men who wait in patience for a thing of horror to come to pass, an inevitable, remorseless thing from which there is no escape. They shivered as they crouched close to the red-hot stove, notwithstanding the almost unbearable heat of the foul, windowless room in which they were gathered. Their faces were pallid, their eyes bloodshot, their flesh a-quiver. Occasionally one or another of them would go to the door to listen for sounds in the black passage beyond. He would resume his seat without a word to his fellows, each of whom looked up with stark, questioning eyes. Then they would fall to staring at the walls again, or at the floor, their chins in their hands. At their feet lay the newspapers, eagerly read and discarded by each and every member of this little group. There was a "noon extra," fresh from a ten o'clock press. It had been the last to fall into their hands. They tried to smoke, but the water of mortal terror filled their mouths. The smell of dead, dank tobacco pervaded the room. In a far corner, huddled against the wall, there was a shivering, silent figure, a Pariah even among these under-world outcasts. He sat apart from the others, denied a place in the circle, despised and abhorred by the men he once had scorned because they were the devil-may-care companions and emulators of his brother. His beady black eyes never shifted from the low, padlocked door in the opposite end of the room. He, too, was waiting for the dread news from the upper world. His breathing was sharply audible, as of one drugged by sleep; his body had not moved an inch in an hour or more, so fierce was the suspense that held him rigid. From time to time he swallowed, although his mouth was dry and empty; there was a rattling sound accompanying the act that suggested the hoarse croak of a frog. Always his gaze was on the door, never wavering, unblinkng, fascinated by the horror that was creeping down to him as surely as the sun crept up to the apex of the day. Noon! Twelve o'clock, midday! The hour they were dreading! One of the shivering thieves beside the stove drew forth from a ragged pocket the plutocratic timepiece of a millionaire victim. The way his eyes narrowed as he looked at its face told the silent observers that it was twelve o'clock and after. Unconsciously every figure stiffened, every jaw was set, every nostril spread with the intake of air. Every mind's eye in that fear-sick group leaped afar and drew a picture of the thing that was happening--then! At that very instant it was happening! "Oh!" groaned some one, half aloud. "It's after twelve," muttered another thickly. "The jig's up wid Dick, kids. Blacky ought to be here wid de extry. Wot's a keepin' him?" said the first speaker, glaring over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "Twelve sharp, that's wot it says," shuddered a small, pinched thief. "He's a-swingin' now." Suddenly a wild, appalling shriek arose from the corner behind them. As one man, they whirled. Their gaze fell upon the cringing figure over there, now groveling on the floor in the agony of a terror that severed all the restraining bonds that had held his tongue so long. They shrank back as their minds began to grasp the words he was shrieking in his madness. He was sobbing out the thing that each man there had suspected from the first! For many minutes they listened to his ravings, stupefied, aghast. Then a stealthy glance swept round the circle as if inspired by one central intelligence. It crept out of the corners of rattish eyes, reading as it ran the sinister circle, and hurried back to its intense, malevolent business of transfixing the quarry in the corner. A hand reached down and grasped the leg of a short, heavy stool. Another went lower and clutched a long, murderous bar of iron that served as a poker. Savage eyes went in quest of deadly things, and purposeful hands obeyed the common impulse. Then they advanced.... Later, the stealthy, shivering group stole forth from the room and down the black hallway that led to the street. The last man out cast a terrified glance at the still, shapeless object in the corner as he closed the door behind him and fled after his fellows. When they came from the passage into the full light of day, each skulker looked at his hands and found that they shook as if with a mighty ague. Even as they blinked their eyes in the glaring sunlight, an excited young man came rushing toward them from the opposite side of the street. They paused irresolute. The newcomer was white, excited--yes, jubilant. In his hand he carried a newspaper, the heavy black headlines standing out in bold relief. "He's got a reprieve!" he was shouting eagerly. "Look 'ere! See wot it says." Fascinated, they slunk back into the dark passage, to listen in stupefaction while the joyous Blacky repeated the astounding news from the prison. "Mr. Jenison and his wife done it," cried Blacky, his eyes gleaming. "It says so here. They went to the gov'nor this morning and put it up to him in a way that made him grant a reprieve for thirty days, so's Mr. Jenison can get the real facts before him. That means a pardon sure, kids. Say, Jenison's all right! He's the kind of a friend to have, he is. He never quit on Dick. Say, where's Ernie? We'd better put him wise." "It won't make any difference to Ernie now," said one of the rogues, wiping his wet brow with his hand. Blacky fell away with a great look of dread in his eyes. He understood. "We'd better duck out o' this," he muttered vaguely. "It says here that the cops are going to question Ernie. They're out huntin' for him by this time, kids." "They know he was here wid us, and they'll find him sure," cried one shifty-eyed fellow. "Me to the woods." "Hold on. Spike," interposed another grimly. "We got to stand together on this. We got to stick by Dick, now he has a chance. We got to stay here and tell 'em what Ernie said to us in there. It's the only way. We'll do time for it, but what's the dif? Dick was doin' more for Ernie. We're sure to get off light, when it all comes out." They drew back into the passage and waited for the police to come. An hour went by, and not one faltered. There came at last to their ears the sound of heavy footsteps on the narrow stairway. Spike heaved a deep sigh and said to his comrades: "We've seen the last of Dick, kids. This Mr. Jenison will take care of him from now on. He'll have a good chance to be honest, lucky dog, just as he's always wanted to be." The fellow with the plutocratic watch took it from his pocket and gazed at it with the eyes of one who is contemplating a great sacrifice. "Jenison's all right, God bless him. I'm going to see that he gets his watch back, too. I was a dog to have pinched it in the first place." THE END 
7434	----	THE ADVENTURES OF JOEL PEPPER By MARGARET SIDNEY [Illustration: "'WHY, IT'S THE MAN WHO STOLE POLLY'S BREAD!' HE ALMOST SCREAMED."] CONTENTS I. JOEL AND THE SNAKE II. WHAT DAVE HEARD III. DEACON BROWN'S NAIL PILE IV. THE MUFFIN MAN AND THE TRAMP V. ON BANDY LEG MOUNTAIN VI. AB'M'S BIRTHDAY PARTY VII. JOEL GOES A-FISHING VIII. WHY THEY SAID NO IX. THE BAG OF RYE FLOUR X. MAMSIE'S SURPRISE XI. DR. FISHER'S VISIT XII. AT GRANDMA BASCOM'S XIII. PASSENGERS FOR THE BOXFORD STAGE XIV. DEACON BLODGETT'S BONFIRE XV. OLD MAN PETERS' CENT XVI. THE STAGE-COACH RIDE XVII. THE FIGHT AT STRAWBERRY HILL XVIII. IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE XIX. CIRCUS PLANS XX. CIRCUS OR MENAGERIE? XXI. JOEL'S CIRCUS XXII. THE MINISTER'S CHICKENS XXIII. THE BLACKBERRIES AND THE BULL XXIV. HOW JOEL STARTED THE FIRE XXV. JOEL SELLS SHOES FOR MR. BEEBE XXVI. Miss PARROTT'S COACH AND THE COASTING XXVII. PRINCES AND PRINCESSES THE ADVENTURES OF JOEL PEPPER I JOEL AND THE SNAKE "Come on, Dave!" It was Joel's voice, and Polly pricked up her ears. "'Tisn't going to hurt you. Hoh! you're a 'fraid-cat--old 'fraid-cat!" "No, I'm not 'fraid-cat," declared little Davie, trying to speak stoutly; "I'm coming, Joel," and his little rusty shoes pattered unevenly down the rickety board walk. "Jo-_el_!" called Polly, thinking it quite time now to interfere. Joel scuttled behind the old woodshed, and several smothered grunts proclaimed his disapproval at the interruption. "Now I know you're up to some mischief," declared Polly, "so you just come into the house, Joel Pepper, and tell me what it is." "'Tisn't," said Joel, loudly insisting. "_Don't go, Dave_," in a loud whisper. Thereupon ensued a lively scuffle, evidently, by the noise they made. "I must," said little Davie; "Polly called us." "No, she didn't call _you_," declared Joel. "You stay here. She said 'Joel.'" "Bo-_oys_!" sang out Polly's voice, not to have any doubt in the matter. "There, she did call me," cried Davie, wriggling to get free from Joel's clutch; "she said 'boys!'" "She's always calling us," said Joel, in an injured voice, dragging himself away from the charms of the woodshed to straggle slowly back to the house. There sat Polly on the big stone that served as a step for the back door, with her hands folded in her lap. Little Davie skipped by Joel, and ran up to her, with a flushed face. "Now I should like to know what you've been up to, Joey Pepper?" said Polly, her brown eyes full on him. "Haven't been up to anything," mumbled Joel, hanging his chubby face. "Yes, you have, I know," declared Polly, in her most positive fashion; "now tell me what it is, and right straight off, Joel. Begin." She kept her hands still folded in her lap. "What were you going to do?" Joel squirmed all over the little patch of ground before the flat doorstone, and dug the toes of his shoes into the dirt. "Don't do so," cried Polly. "You'll get bigger holes in 'em. Oh, Joel, to think how naughty you are, and Mamsie away!" At that Joel gave a loud howl, nearly upsetting Polly from her stone; then, digging his two fists into his eyes, he plunged forward and thrust his black head on the folded hands in her lap. "I ain't naughty," he screamed. "I ain't, and Mamsie won't care. O dear--ooh--ooh!" "Tell me what you were going to do, before I can say you are not naughty," said Polly, dreadfully frightened at his outburst, but not unfolding her hands. "I was only going to--going to--going to--" mumbled Joel, trying to burrow past her hands, and get into the comforting lap. "Going to do what?" demanded Polly, still not moving. "I was going to--going to--" said Joel, in smothered tones. "Stop saying you were going to," commanded Polly, in her firmest tones. "You told me to tell you," said Joel. "O dear! I was going to--" "Well, tell then, at once; what were you going to do? Hurry up, Joe; now go on." "I was going to--" began Joel again. "O dear me! I was going to--" he mumbled, burrowing deeper yet. "Joel Pepper!" cried Polly, in a tone that brought him bolt upright, his round face streaked with tears that his dirty little hands had tried to wipe off, the rest of them trailing over his round nose. "O dear me! Now you must go into the 'provision room' and stay. Don't you remember Mamsie said you'd have to go there the next time you wouldn't tell what you'd done?" And Polly looked as if she were going to cry at once. "Oh, no--no!" screamed Joel, in the greatest distress, and clutching Polly's arm. "I'll tell you, Polly; I'll tell." And he began to rattle off a lot of words, but Polly stopped him. "No, it's too late now. I've said it, and you must go; for Mamsie wouldn't like it if you didn't." Thereupon Joel gave a terrible howl. Little Davie, in distress, clapped his hands to his ears. "Oh, Polly, don't make him," he was saying, when heavy steps came around the corner of the house. "Any ra-ags to sell?" sang out the voice of a very big man. Joel took one black eye away from his brown hands, and shot a sharp look at him. Then he howled worse than ever. "No," said Polly, "not to-day, Mr. Biggs. There was a bagful Mamsie said I might sell, but I can't get it now." "Sho! that's too bad," ejaculated Mr. Biggs. "What's the matter with him?" pointing a square, dingy thumb at Joel. "Stomach-ache?" "No," said Polly, sadly, "it's worse than that. Please go away, Mr. Biggs, and come some other day." "Worse'n stomach-ache," said Mr. Biggs, in astonishment, and slapping his big hands together; "then I can't take him with me. But t'other one might go, if you say so, marm." He always called Polly marm, and she liked it very much. He now pointed to David. "Where are you going?" asked Polly, while David took away his hands from his ears to hear, too. "Why, you see, marm, Mis' Pettingill, up to th'East Quarter--you know Mis' Pettingill?" "No," said Polly. "I do," roared Joel, forgetting his distress. "I know, Polly. She lives in a nice yellow house, and there's a duck-pond, and cherry trees." He pranced up to Mr. Biggs, smiling through his tears. "That's it," cried Mr. Biggs, delighted at being understood. "This boy knows." He laid his hand heavily on Joel's shoulder. "Well, he seems to be better now, so I'll take him and t'other one along of me, marm, if you say so. Ye see, Mis' Pettingill told me to come up there sometime, 'cause she's got a lot o' rags--ben a-makin' quilts, she said, all winter, and I laid out to go to-day, so here I be, on my way." "Whickets!" shouted Joel, the last tear gone. "Come on, Dave. Oh, won't we have fun! I'm going to sit in the middle. Let me drive. Let me, Mr. Biggs." He swarmed all over the big rag-man. Little David stood perfectly still and clasped his hands in delight. [Illustration: "'WHICKETS!' SHOUTED JOEL, THE LAST TEAR GONE"] Polly drew a long breath, and the rosy color flew out of her cheek. "You can't go, Joe," she said slowly. "Mamsie wouldn't like it, after you've been naughty." Joel's arms fell down at his side, and he stared wildly at her a moment. Then he flung himself flat on the ground and roared. "He's worse agin," said Mr. Biggs, in great distress. "I guess he wants pep'mint. My mother used to give me that when I'd et green apples." But Polly shook her head. "He can't go, Mr. Biggs," she said; "but Davie can." At this little Davie gave a squeal of joy, and took three steps down the grass plot, but stopped suddenly. "All right," said Mr. Biggs, heartily. "Come on, boy; I must be off. It's a good piece down to Mis' Pettingill's. And she always wants me to take time a-weighin' her rags." And he began to lumber off. "I don't want to go if Joel can't," said Davie, slowly, and turning his back to the red rag-wagon waiting out in the road. He twisted his fingers hard, and kept saying, "No, I don't want to go, Polly, if Joel can't." "All right, Davie," said Polly, beginning to cuddle him; "only you must remember, Mr. Biggs won't go again this summer out to Mrs. Pettingill's, most likely." Davie shook his head again, and twisted his fingers worse than ever. "I don't want to go if Joel can't," he said, while Joel roared harder still, if that were possible. So Polly had to run down the grassy slope to overtake Mr. Biggs, who was now getting up into his red cart, in front of the dangling tin dishes, brooms, and pails with which it was filled. "If you please, sir," she said, the rosy color all over her cheek, "there can't either of the boys go." "Hey? What's the matter with the littlest one," cried Mr. Biggs, turning around with one foot on the shaft. "Is he took sick, too?" "No--no," said Polly, clasping her hands in distress, "but he won't go unless Joel goes. Oh, I do thank you so much, Mr. Biggs, for asking them." "Sho now! that's too bad," said the rag-man, his foot still on the shaft, and his big face wrinkled perplexedly. "Beats all, how suddint they're took. Now you better give 'em a dose o' pep'mint, marm, both on 'em." But Polly shook her head as she ran back up the grassy slope again. So Mr. Biggs had nothing to do but to drive off, which he did, staring hard at them; and every little while he turned back, to gaze in astonishment over his shoulder, until the big red wagon went round the slope of the hill and was lost to view. "Now, Joel," said Polly, firmly, "you must just stop making such a noise, and go right into the provision room, and get the stool, and sit down till I tell you to get up." To sit down on the old wooden stool in the middle of the provision room, with the door shut, was one of the worst punishments that Mrs. Pepper inflicted; and Polly's cheek got quite white. Little Davie, on seeing this, untwisted his fingers and went up to her. "Don't cry, Polly," he said suddenly, as he saw her face, and laid his hand in hers. Joel stopped roaring, and looked up at her through his tears. "I'm not going to cry," said Polly, "because I know Joel will be good now, and go at once and get on his stool in the provision room." Joel swallowed hard and stumbled up to his feet, wiping his cheeks with the back of one grimy hand. "That's right," said Polly; "now go right in and shut the door." "O dear me," said little Davie, hiding his face in Polly's gown, as Joel went slowly off. They could hear the provision room door shut. Then Polly turned. "Oh, Davie," she cried. Then she stopped, at the sight of his face. "Now you and I must go in the house and think of something to do for Mamsie before she gets home," she cried in a cheery burst. So they both hurried in over the old flat stone. "Now what will it be, Davie?" asked Polly, with another glance at his pale little face. "Let's think," she wrinkled her brows in perplexity. "We can't wash the dishes," said Davie, slowly, standing quite still in the middle of the old kitchen, "'cause they're all done, Polly." "No, and we can't wash the floor, 'cause that's all done," said Polly, wrinkling her forehead worse than ever. "Dear me, we must think of something, Davie. O dear me, what can it be?" "We might," said little David, slowly, "try to write some letters, Polly. That would make Mamsie glad, I guess." "O dear me," exclaimed Polly, in dismay, "I suppose it would, Davie." She sighed, and stood quite still. "I s'pose Mamsie would say, 'How nice,'" said little David, reflectively. "And you and I ought to get right at it this very minute," declared Polly, all her energy returning to her after that one dreadful pause, "so come on." And presently the two had the old table against the wall pulled out into the middle of the kitchen floor, and Polly ran and got the big piece of foolscap paper laid away carefully in the upper bureau drawer in the bedroom. Across the top ran the letters set there by the minister in obedience to Mrs. Pepper's request. "I'll get the brown paper--let me, Polly," cried David, quite in his usual spirits now. And he clambered up, and got out a carefully folded piece laid away after it had come home wrapped around one of the parcels of coats and sacks Mrs. Pepper had taken to sew. "Won't it be most beautiful when we can write on the white paper, Polly?" he cried, as he ran back into the kitchen, waving the brown paper at her. Polly set the precious copy along the top of the white foolscap, straight on the table. "Oh, that will be a long time, Davie," she said, gazing in an awe-struck way at the array of wonderful letters Parson Henderson had made for them. "Mamsie won't ever let us try until we can make 'em good and straight. O dear me, I don't s'pose I'll ever get a chance." She sighed; for writing bothered Polly dreadfully. "The old pen twists all up whenever I get it in my hand, and everything goes crooked." "Oh, Polly, you're going to write real nice, by and by," said little Davie, setting down the brown paper, and smoothing out the creases. "Now where's the ink-bottle? Let me get it, Polly, do," he begged, running over to the corner cupboard. "No, you mustn't, Dave," said Polly in alarm, "you'll spill it. I'll get it," hurrying after him. "I won't spill it, Polly"--but Polly was already on her tiptoes, and lifting down the old black ink-horn that had been Father Pepper's. "Isn't it nice that Mrs. Henderson filled it up for us so good?" she said, carrying it over carefully to set on the table. "You can get the pen, Davie." So David ran over to the shelf where, in a corner behind the little china mug given to Phronsie when she was a baby, lay the pen in its long black holder. Getting up on a chair, he seized it. "If Phronsie hadn't gone with Mamsie, she'd want to write," he said, "wouldn't she, Polly?" as he hopped down again. "Yes, indeed," said Polly, drawing up the inkstand into the best place, and sighing. "Well, dear me, I'd ever so much rather hold her hand while she writes, than to do it myself." And she gave a long stretch. "Then you wouldn't ever learn yourself," said little Davie, wisely, and putting the pen down carefully. "No," said Polly, with a little laugh, "I s'pose I shouldn't, Davie." O dear me, she thought, I ought not to laugh when Joel's in there all alone in the provision room. "Well, now we're all ready. I'm just going to peek and see if he's all right. You stay here, Davie." With that she hopped off down the little steps to look through the big crack in the old door of the provision room. "Why--where--" she started back and rubbed her eyes, and stared again. "Oh! Davie," she screamed. Then she clapped her hands over her mouth. "It never'd do to scare him," she said. And she opened the provision room door and rushed in. The old stool stood in the middle of the floor, but there was no Joel to be seen. Polly ran here and there. "Joel--_Joel_!" she cried, peering into every corner, and looking into the potato bag and behind some boxes that the storekeeper had given the boys to make things out of, and that were kept as great treasures. "O dear me, what shall I do? I must tell Davie now, so he can help me find him--" when she heard a funny noise, and rushing outside, she heard Joel say, "Don't come, Polly, he's 'most dead." Polly gave a gasp, and bounded to his side, as Joel flopped around on the ground, his back toward her, his black eyes fastened on something doubled up in his fists. "O dear me, Joel, what is it?" cried Polly, bending over him. "Ow--go way!" roared Joel, twisting worse than ever, and squeezing his brown hands together tightly; "he'll get away, maybe, and bite you." "Oh, he'll bite you, Joe," cried Polly, in great alarm. "O dear me, let me see what it is! I can help, Joel, I can help." She flung herself down on the ground close to his side. Just then out rushed Davie from the provision room. "Keep him away, keep him away," screamed Joel, trying to turn his back on both of them. But Polly caught sight of a dangling thing hanging from his clenched hands. "Oh, Joel!" She gave one scream, "It's a snake!" "I know it," said Joel, trying to twitch back again; "it's an ugly mean old adder, Polly, but he's most dead. I've squeezed his neck." "Let me see him," cried Polly. "Turn around, Joel. I'll help you. O dear me!" as Joel whirled back, the long body of the snake flopping from one side to the other. "If he'd keep still, I could cut off his tail high up. I'll go and get the hatchet--" and she ran off. "Hoh! you needn't," cried Joel after her, in great dudgeon, and giving a final wrench. "There, I've deaded him; see, Polly--see, Dave!" and he held the snake up triumphantly. "A snake!" screamed Davie, tumbling over backward on the grass. "O dear me, it's a snake, Polly!" and he huddled up his feet and tucked them under him. "Ain't he big?" cried Joel, swinging the long dangling body at Davie as Polly ran back. "Don't scare him, Joel," she cried. "O goodness me! What a big one, and a gray adder, too. Oh, Joel, are you sure he didn't bite you anywhere? Do throw him down and let me see," she begged anxiously. But Joel swung the snake back and forth. "Hoh, I guess not!" he said scornfully, "not a single snip, Polly. Ain't he big! I killed him all alone by myself." "Yes--yes, but do put him down, Joel," she begged, "and let me see if you're all right." So Joel at last set his snake on the ground, and straightened out his tail; then he commenced to run all around him. "Ain't he a buster, Polly!" he cried, his eyes shining. Polly looked at him reprovingly out of her brown eyes. "Mamsie wouldn't like you to say that word," she began. "But you won't again, I know," seeing his face. "No," said Joel, brightening up, "I won't, Polly. But ain't he big! You couldn't a-killed him, Dave," he cried at little Davie tucking up his toes under him on the grass. "No," said Davie. "O dear me, he may be alive and bite us all now." "Hoh!" exclaimed Joel, "he's just as dead as anything. See!" and he twitched up the long gray snake by the tip of the tail and swung it over his head. "Oh, don't, Joe!" begged Polly, running over to put her arms around David, who burrowed into them as far as he could. "Do put him down, and come and tell us how you killed him. There, let's all sit down on the doorstep. Come, boys." "I'm going to hold my snake," announced Joel, stopping the swing in mid-air to pat the adder's head lovingly. "Ain't he sweet, Polly?" Davie shivered and turned his eyes away. "No, you must not hold him," said Polly, decisively. "If you do, you can't sit on the step beside us." "Then I won't hold him," said Joel, running up to them, "but I'll have him close to me," and he laid the snake by the side of the doorstep. "I'm going to sit here by you, Polly." Little Davie thrust up his head and looked fearfully around Polly. "You can't have that snake here, Joel," announced Polly, in her most determined tone. "Put him off on the grass in the orchard," as the one scraggy apple tree was called. "Now hurry, like a good boy, and then come and tell us how you killed him." "I can't see him good, 'way off there," grumbled Joel, and picking up his snake he dragged him through the grass. "Just a little bit nearer," he pleaded. "Not a single bit of an inch nearer, Joel Pepper," said Polly, firmly. So Joel laid the snake down and ran back and sat down on the end of the step by Polly. "Now begin," said Polly. "Well, I was sittin' on the old stool," said Joel, his chubby face getting very red, "when I heard a scrunchin' an' a swishin', an' I thought 'twas you, Polly, so I didn't look round." "No," said Polly, with a little shiver, "it wasn't me. Go on, Joey." "Well, it scrunched an' it swished, and it didn't stop, so then I looked around." "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, throwing one arm around Joel, and drawing him to her. Little Davie sat up quite straight and folded his hands. "And he was sticking up his head behind the potato bag, looking at me just like this." Joel flew off the doorstep and stood up as tall as possible and ran out his tongue. Little Davie gave a loud scream. "Oh, you brave Joel!" exclaimed Polly, tumbling off from the doorstep to throw her arms around him, and kiss his stubby black hair. "Phoo! that's nothing!" cried Joel, who always hated to be praised. "And I'm just as proud of you as I can be," Polly ran on with kindling eyes. "Oh, Joel!" Joel wriggled all over with delight at that "Oh, Joel!" "And now come back and tell us the rest," said Polly, hanging to his brown hand. "Go on, Joel," as they sat down again on the doorstep. "Well, he looked at me, and I looked at him," said Joel, "and then I said 'Squish!' and he bobbed down his head, just a minute, and I jumped and I grabbed him by the neck, and that's all, Polly." And Joel gave a long stretch. But Polly had her arms around his neck. "Oh, you brave, brave Joel," she cried. "Mamsie'll be so proud of you! Think what she'll say when she comes home!" II WHAT DAVE HEARD "Dave," said Joel, in a whisper. It was the middle of the night, and the loft was very still, save for Ben's breathing over in his bed in the corner. "Don't say a word!" Joel laid his mouth close to the ear on the straw pillow; "if you do, I'll nip you and snip you." "Ow!" said little Davie, huddling down under the scanty blanket and dragging it over his head. "Sh--, be still!" cried Joel, with a wrathful pinch. "Ben'll hear you,--there now, just see!" "What's the matter, boys?" asked Ben, sleepily. Down flew Joel in a heap under his end of the blanket, where he bestowed a kick from one set of toes on David in a little heap against the wall. The loft was as still as a mouse, so Ben turned over again. "I guess Joel wanted a drink of water, and he's gone to sleep and forgot all about it. Now, that's good," and off he went again. Joel's black stubby head popped up, and he peered into the darkness. "Now, I've got to wait ever'n ever so long," he grumbled softly to himself. "No, there he goes!" he added joyfully, as Ben breathed hard. "Now, Dave," he rolled over and ducked under the blanket-end, "if you scream again, I'll snip, and snip, and snip you, most dreadful." "I won't," declared little David, fearfully. "Oh, I won't, Joe," huddling off from the little brown fingers. "Promise, now, you'll never tell,--black and blue,--hope to die if I do." "We must tell Mamsie," said David. Joel gave an impatient wriggle. "Mamsie won't care, and she's too busy. Now say it, 'black and--"' "And we must tell Polly," cried little Davie, in a smothered voice. "Oh, Joel, we _must_ tell Polly." "_Sh!_" cried Joel, with a warning pinch on the small arm that sent David into a worse heap than before. "Now, you've gone and waked Ben up again," and he pricked up one ear from under the bedclothes. "Oh!" exclaimed little David, thinking of Mamsie and Polly whom he was not to tell. Joel drew a long breath, as Ben did not stir. "Well, say 'black and blue--hope to die if I do,'" commanded Joel, sliding back again under the blanket. "Hurry up, Dave." "'Black and--blue--hope--to die if I do,'" mumbled poor little David, stuffing the end of the blanket into his mouth, trying not to cry as he thought of Mamsie and Polly. "Now, you know I've found a cave, and I'm goin' up there to live some day," announced Joel in a smothered whisper, his mouth close to David's ear. "Where?" cried David, fearfully. "_Sh!_ don't speak so loud. Over in 'Bandy Leg Mountain.'" "Ooh,--dear me!" cried David, stopping himself in the middle of a scream. "Won't old 'Bandy Leg' catch you, Joel?" "Hoh--no, I ain't afraid!" declared Joel. "He's been dead a hundred years, I guess. An' beside, I could knock him flat, yes, sir-ree!" He doubled up his little brown fist, and bounced up in the middle of the old shake-down. "What's the matter, Joe?" called Ben, sleepily; "turn over and go to sleep, and you'll forget again about the drink of water." Joel flung himself flat, and burrowed along the whole length of the bed, knocking Davie's shins all the way. "You're pullin' all the blanket off me," said Davie, clutching his end from Joel's frantic grasp. "Go to sleep, boys," said Ben, sharply. "And Joe, stop grumbling for a drink of water. Now you've waked up David." Joel gripped Davie fast and clapped one hand over his mouth. "Dear me, I think Ben might stay asleep a minute," he muttered in an injured voice. "Now, don't you speak a single word and I'll tell you all about it," after a long pause, in which they heard nothing but a rat nibbling away in the corner. "I'm goin' up there to-morrow, an' I'm goin' to take my gun, an' some things to eat, an'--" "Oh, Joel!" interrupted little David, "you can't ever in all this world. Polly won't let you." "Polly'll let us go an' play some to-morrow," said Joel, sturdily, "'cause there ain't any work to do. So there now! An' maybe I'll see a bear. An'----" "O dear me!" exclaimed little Davie, quite overcome, and trembling in every limb. "He'll eat you. Joel, I'm going to tell Polly." "You can't," said Joel, coolly; "you said 'Black-an-blue-hope- to-die-if-I-do,' and I'm goin' to take you." "Oh, I can't go," declared Davie, bouncing up in terror. "I ain't goin'. I ain't, Joey. I ain't----" "_Sh-sh_!" warned Joel, with another nip. "I ain't--I ain't--" cried David, softly, through his tears. "Pshaw! I guess there ain't any bear up there," said Joel, scornfully. "Be still, Dave!" "An' old--old Bandy Legs'll catch--catch me," mumbled David, digging his small knuckles into his eyes. "Old Bandy Legs has been dead ever'n ever so long. I guess a thousand years," said Joel; "an' there's flowers there--oh, most beautiful ones!" "Are there?" asked David, taking down his hands. "What kinds, Joel?" "Oh, all sorts. The most be-yewtiful flowers, red and yellow and green, you can't think, Dave Pepper." "I never saw a green flower," said little David, thoughtfully. "Well, they're up there. Oh, sights an' sights," said Joel, recklessly. "An' pink and blue an'----" "Are you sure there are green flowers up there, Joel?" asked David, huddling up to him close. "Sh--stop talking--oh, the most _beyewtiful_ things, I tell you, grow up by that cave." "I might go up and get some not very near the cave, Joel," said Davie, after a long breath. "Not very near." "So you could," said Joel, quickly. "Then I guess you'll be glad, Dave Pepper, that you came up with me." "I shall bring down most of the green ones, Joey," cried little David, joyfully, "'cause I can get the others down below the mountain." "Yes--yes," whispered Joel, impatiently. "An' if I plant 'em, they'll grow, and then Mamsie'll be glad, an' Polly too," he whispered, dreadfully excited. "Won't Polly be glad though, Joe? She's never seen a green flower." "Yes; now go to sleep," cried Joel, with a nudge, "and remember not to say a word to me to-morrow about it." "Can't I say anything to you behind the wood pile?" asked David, in surprise. "No, not a teenty word. An' don't you look at me. If you do, Old Bandy Legs'll come after you." "You said he was dead," cried David in a fearful whisper, and crouching tight to Joel and gripping him with both arms. "O dear me!" "So he is; but he'll catch you if you say a single word. Now go to sleep, an' when I tell you to come with me to-morrow, you must start just as quick as scat." "I shall take a basket for the green flowers," said Davie, trying not to think of "Old Bandy Legs." "No, you mustn't; you can bring 'em down in your arms." "I can't bring many," said little David, swallowing hard. "I can't bring many, Joe, an' Polly'll want some in her garden." "Well, old Bandy Legs won't let you get any, if you don't stop," said Joel, crossly, "so there now!" and he rolled off to the edge of the old straw bed, and in two minutes was fast asleep, leaving little Davie peering up at the rafters to watch for the first streak of light, determined to get as many green flowers as he possibly could for Polly's garden. "I'll twist up a birch-bark basket, to bring 'em down in," he decided. And the first thing either of them knew, there was Polly shaking their arms and laughing. "You lazy little things, you--get up! I've been calling and calling and calling you to breakfast." Joel and David flew up into the middle of the bed. "Joe was teasing all night for a drink of water," said Ben, as Polly ran down into the kitchen. "An' I was just going to get up and fetch him some, when he tumbled to sleep again." "Dear me," said Polly, rushing at her work; "well, I'll keep their porridge warm. Now, Phronsie, you can't help me about these dishes." "I'm just as big since yesterday," said Phronsie, standing up on her tiptoes to turn an injured face to Polly. "See, Polly." "So you are," said Polly, bursting into a laugh. "Well, I tell you, Pet, what you might do that would help me more." "More than to wash the dishes, Polly?" cried Phronsie, tumbling down from her tiptoes. "Oh, do tell me, Polly!" And she ran up to her, and seized Polly's check apron with both fat little hands. "Why, you see I can't do the dishes, all of 'em, till the boys get through their breakfast," said Polly, with a sober face, looking at the old clock, as she thought of the seams on the sacks she was going to fly at as soon as the work was done in the kitchen. How nice it was that Mamsie had promised she might try this very morning while Mrs. Pepper was down at the parsonage, mending the minister's study carpet. "Now I guess the money'll begin to come in, and Mamsie won't have to work so hard," thought Polly over and over, and her heart beat merrily, and the color flew over her cheek. "Tell me, Polly," begged little Phronsie, holding the apron tight. "Well, now, Pet, there's a snarl of thread in the work-basket. Don't you remember, the spool rolled under the table, and nobody saw it go, and the boys kicked it up and made it into a mess, an' Mamsie put it into the little bag, an' I was to pick it out when I got time? If you only could do that, Phronsie, just think how it would help." Phronsie gave a long sigh. She dropped the apron, and folded her hands. "Would it help so very much, Polly?" she asked. "Ever an' ever so much," said Polly. "You needn't do but a little now, an' some other day p'raps you could do some more." "I'm going to do it all," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head determinedly. So she got her little wooden chair from against the wall, and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor, and then brought the little cotton bag out of the old work-basket. "I shall do it all this very one minute," she declared softly, as she sat down and drew out the snarl of thread. "Now, boys," called Polly, as she took one look at her, and just stopped to drop a kiss on the yellow hair, "you must just come downstairs this very minute. If you don't, you can't have any breakfast." "Coming," sang Joel, and presently down he tumbled, two steps at a time, pulling on his jacket as he went. "Such a long time to stay abed," reproved Polly; "just think of it, it's after seven o'clock, Joel Pepper, and Mamsie's been gone half an hour!" "An' I'm working," said Phronsie, twitching at the end of the thread with an important air. "I'm going to pick out the whole of this, I am, for Mamsie. See, Joey!" She held up the snarl, and away the spool raced, as if glad to get off once more. "Hoh!" said Joel, "you're making it worse'n ever, Phron." "No, I'm not," cried Phronsie, clutching the snarl with both little fists. "Oh, no, I'm not; am I, Polly?" And the big tears began to race over her round cheeks. "No," said Polly. "Oh, for shame, Joel, to make Phronsie cry!" "I didn't make her cry," denied Joel, stoutly, his face working badly. "I'll get the spool--I'll get the spool. See, Polly, here 'tis," and he dived under the table, and came up bright and shining with it in his hand. "There now, Phronsie; see, Joel's got it for you," said Polly, beaming at him. "Now, Pet, I'll tell you what, let's put Mamsie's basket on the floor, and old Mr. Spool in it. There, Joey, drop him in, then he can't run away again. Now, then!" "Mr. Spool can't run away again," smiled Phronsie through her tears, and leaning out of her little wooden chair to see Joel drop the spool in. "That's nice, Polly, isn't it? Now he can't run away again," she hummed. "Indeed, it is," sang Polly, delighted; "he's fast now, so fly at your snarl, Pet, Mamsie'll be so pleased to think you've picked out some of it." "I'm going to pick it all out," declared Phronsie in a tone of determination. And wiping off the tears on the back of her fat little hand, she set to work, humming away again to herself. "Now, whatever keeps David!" cried Polly, dishing out Joel's mush from the kettle on the stove, and setting the bowl on the table. "He's coming," said Joel, hastily. "O dear me, I wish we ever had anything, Polly Pepper, but mush and molasses for breakfast!" "Some people don't have anything half as good," said Polly, starting for the stairs. "What don't they have?" asked Joel in alarm, as he watched her go. "Oh, I don't know; different things. Da-_vid!_" she called. "You said they didn't have things half as good," said Joel, stopping with a spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth. "So you know what they are, now, Polly Pepper." "Oh, well, they don't. Plenty and plenty of people don't get near as good things as we have every day for breakfast." "What are they, the things the plenty and plenty of people get?" persisted Joel, beginning on his breakfast comfortably, since Polly was going to talk. "Oh--let me see," said Polly, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "Old bread, for one thing." "Is it mouldy?" asked Joel. "Um--yes, I s'pose so," answered Polly, wrinkling up her face. "Eat your own breakfast, Joe, and not stop to think of what other people have. Da-_vid!_'" "You said 'things,'" said Joel, severely, "and you only told me mouldy old bread, Polly Pepper! What else?" "O dear, I don't know." "You _said_----" "I mean--well, cold potatoes, for one thing. I s'pose most everybody has potatoes. Now eat your breakfast, Joey Pepper. Those are things. Eat your breakfast this minute!" When Polly spoke in that tone, the three little Peppers knew they must obey. Joel ducked his head over his bowl of mush, and began to hurry the spoonfuls as fast as he could into his mouth. "I must go up and see what is the matter with David," said Polly, preparing to run up the stairs. Just at this moment he appeared coming slowly down. "Oh, here you are!" cried Polly, brightly, running over to the old stove to dish out his bowl of mush. "Now, Davie, fly at your breakfast, 'cause I've got to sew all the morning just as hard as ever I can." III DEACON BROWN'S NAIL PILE "Now, boys," said Polly, as Joel pushed back his chair, "I want you to help me, that is, as soon as Davie has finished his breakfast." "Oh, that's too bad," grumbled Joel, loudly, "when we got all our kindlings chopped yesterday, an' there ain't anything else to do. You know you said we could play to-day, Polly Pepper!" "I didn't say all day; but of course you can," replied Polly, with a fine scorn, "if you don't _want_ to help, Joel. I'm sure the little brown house can get along without a boy who isn't glad to make it as nice as he possibly can." The idea of the little brown house getting along without him made Joel aghast at once, and he stood quite still. Davie laid down his spoon, and got out of his chair quickly. "What is it, Polly?" he cried, the pink color all over his cheek. "Dear me!" cried Polly, merrily, "the very idea of a boy trying to help who hasn't finished his breakfast. Go back and eat every bit of that mush and molasses, Davie dear; then, says I, we'll see what you can do." "I'll be through in just a minute, Polly." David ran back and clambered into his chair, plying his spoon so fast that Polly cried in dismay, "Oh, Davie, you'll choke yourself!" "No, I won't," said Davie, with a very red face, and swallowing hard, "it's all slipping down. There, see, Polly. I'm all through; truly I am." He got out of his chair again, and ran up to her. "So you are," said Polly, glancing approvingly at the bare bowl. "Well now, I'll tell you, Davie, what you can do. You know that pile of old nails that Deacon Brown said Ben might have? Well, 'tisn't nice, you know, to play all day, so you may pick over some of 'em, and get the good ones out. Ben will be so surprised, even if you don't get but a few ready." "I'm going to work all the morning at 'em," declared little Davie, gladly, hopping off toward the door. "No, I don't want you to work but a little while," said Polly, decisively, and picking up the breakfast dishes to wash. "You can have most all to-day to play in. And then some other day, when there isn't any other work to do, you can pick over some more; and pretty soon, before you know it, they'll all be done, and Ben'll be so surprised, for they'll be ready when he wants to mend the woodshed." "I don't want to pick over any crooked old nails," proclaimed Joel, loudly, and knocking his heels against the pantry door. "I sh'd think Deacon Brown might have given us some good ones." "For shame, Joel!" said Polly, hurrying across the floor with the pile of dishes; "it's fine of him to give us these. And there are lots of good ones amongst 'em." "You told me not to say 'lots,' the other day," said Joel, with a sharp look out of his black eyes to see if Polly would relent. "So I did," she cried, and the color flew over her cheek. "Dear me, it is so hard not to say things that you don't like to hear other people say." "Well, I don't want to pick over old rusty nails," said Joel, ignoring this remark, "and it's real mean, Polly Pepper, to make me, when I want to go and play!" And he kicked his heels worse than ever. "I don't make you," said Polly, pouring the hot water into the dish-pan and dashing in the soap, "but I shouldn't think it was nice to go out to play right after breakfast. You might work an hour, and then you'd enjoy the play all the better." "I'd enjoy the play now. And a whole hour, too!" cried Joel, in a dudgeon. "Why, Polly Pepper! a whole hour!" "That's right, Davie," said Polly, smiling brightly at him, as the little fellow ran out into the woodshed. Then she began to sing, without looking at Joel. "A whole hour," shouted Joel. But Polly kept a cold shoulder toward him, running up and down in a merry song till a little bird outside the window trilled away as hard as he could, to keep her company. "A whole hour--" Joel ran up and pulled her dress. "It's as mean as it can be to make me work a whole hour, Polly Pepper!" "Chee--chee--chee," called the little bird, and away Polly sang, splashing the dishes up and down in the hot soap-suds, till the old kitchen seemed full of merry bustle. Joel regarded her closely for two or three minutes, and then went slowly out. David was up on top of the wood bin in the shed, and tugging at the box of nails that Ben had put on one of the beams. "I can't get it down," he said. "Come help me, Joel, do." But Joel kicked his feet on the woodshed floor. So little David gave another pull at the box, wavered, and clutched wildly at the air, and before Joel could speak, came tumbling down, and after him, the heavy box, spilling the nails as it fell. He lay quite still, and Joel only stopped to take one look. "Oh, Polly, Dave's killed, I guess," he screamed, rushing into the kitchen, his face working fearfully. Polly stopped her song in mid-air, and turned quite white. "Oh, no, I guess not," she said with a gasp, as she saw his face. Then she remembered Phronsie. "Come out here, Joe," and she gently pushed him out into the little entry. "I guess I'll go, too," said Phronsie, who had been humming a soft refrain to Polly's song, and laying down the snarl carefully in Mamsie's big work-basket she went softly out after them. "Now, Joel," Polly was saying out of white lips, "don't you scream. Think of Phronsie, and--" "What is it, Polly?" asked Phronsie's soft voice. "O dear me! What shall I do!" Polly turned. "Phronsie dear, you mustn't come now." Joel had sunk down and covered his face with his hands, trying not to scream. "Go right back to your chair, Polly says so. Be a good girl, Pet." She looked straight into the blue eyes wide with astonishment at being sent back. "Please let me, Polly," begged the little girl. "No," said Polly, firmly, "Mamsie wouldn't like it. Go back, Phronsie, and shut the door." Phronsie turned without a word and went slowly back, and as Polly seized Joel's hand and sped into the woodshed, they could hear the kitchen door shut, and knew that she had gone back to her chair. When Polly and Joel reached little David, Joel was beyond words, and he fell down and flung his arms around the little figure. Davie stirred and moaned. "Help me lift him up, Joe," cried Polly, hoarsely. "I couldn't get the nails," said David, "and then they all spilled. I'm sorry, Polly," and he opened his eyes and looked up into her white face. When Joel saw that David could speak, he gave a great gasp. "It was my fault," he sobbed. "Never mind, Davie dear," said Polly, soothingly. "We can pick the nails up." "I'll pick 'em up," cried Joel, delighted to find something to do, and he sprang up and went scrambling around and sweeping them into a pile with his fingers, while the big tears trailed down his round cheeks. "See, now," said Polly, trying to speak gayly, "how the old nails have to hop into the box again." "So they do," said David, with a wan little smile. Then he shut his eyes. "Run as fast as you can, Joe," said Polly, "and ask Grandma Bascom to come over." Then she lifted Davie and struggled with him to a pile of grain bags in the corner. "I can't get him into the bedroom till Joel helps me, and besides, I must get Phronsie out of the kitchen first," she thought. "Oh, God! _please_ don't let Davie die," she cried deep in her heart. Joel flew on the wings of the wind, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, over down across the lane to Grandma Bascom's little cottage. Grandma, with a tin pan full of wet corn meal, was just going out to feed her hens, when he dashed up behind her. "Please come!" he shouted, his trembling mouth close to her cap-border. "Polly wants you!" [Illustration: "'PLEASE COME!' HE SHOUTED CLOSE TO HER CAP-BORDER"] "Polly's here, now that's nice!" said Grandma, well pleased. "You just wait a minute, and I'll be ready to see her. Come, Biddy-Biddy," she called, and waddling off, she gathered up a handful of the wet corn meal. "Oh, come now!" roared Joe, and seizing her hand, he pulled her back toward the kitchen. "Dear Grandma Bascom, please come; Dave's killed, I guess," and before she knew it, she was halfway to the little brown house, and in a minute or two more there she was before Davie lying on the pile of grain bags, and Polly holding his hand, and fanning him with an old newspaper. "He's all right," said Grandma, with a practised eye; "only just fainted a bit. Now 'tisn't anything to what my son John's Abram did one summer he spent with me. Used to tumble over most every day." "He fell," said Polly. She could say no more, but pointed up to the beam. Then she found her voice. "The box of nails--I didn't know 'twas up there, see!" and she pointed to them, where Joel had tried to gather them up. "He fell down from there?" asked Grandma, looking up at the beam. Polly nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Joel wrung his hands together, and stood quite still. "In that case," said Grandma, "this boy must go for Dr. Fisher just as soon as he can." "Run, Joe, as hard as ever you can," gasped Polly. No need to tell Joel that. Over the fields and across lots he ran like a deer, scaling stone walls in a flash, only to reach the doctor's house to be told that he was away twenty miles into the country. Then Joel sat down on the grass by the roadside, and burying his face in his hands, cried as if his heart would break. He didn't mind that a pair of spirited black horses were coming down the road, the bright horses all a-jingle, and the carriage all a-bloom with gay colors, and merry with cheery voices. "What's the matter?" called somebody to him, but he cried on as hard as he could. Then his little shoulder in his homespun jacket was shaken smartly. "See here, my boy, either you tell me what you're screaming for, or I'll pick you up and carry you off." Joel looked up, the streams of tears making muddy paths along his face, where he had rubbed it with his grimy hands. "Dave's killed," he burst out, "and the--the doctor's gone away!" "Come on." It was a kind face that was over him, and in a minute Joel felt himself lifted by a pair of strong arms that presently tossed him into the carriage, in amongst the occupants, while the owner of the arms jumped in beside him. "Do you know the way home?" he asked. "Of course," said Joel; "it's the little brown house--" then he began to cry again. "See here, my lad, look at me." Joel rolled his eyes up at the man, the rest of the people keeping quite still to listen. "You are a brave boy, I know. Now I'm a doctor, and if you'll just take me to your house, I'll have a look at that Dave of yours. Which way?" Joel sat bolt upright as well as he could, being crammed in between a big fat man and his kind friend, and directed this way and that way, his tears all gone, and before any one could hardly think twice, the pair of black horses and the jingling harness and big carriage had stopped before the little brown house, and the doctor was springing over the stepping-stones in such a lively fashion that Joel had to run to keep up with him, until there they were, with Grandma Bascom waddling around in search of some herbs that were drying in the corner of the woodshed, and Polly still holding David's hand as he lay on the pile of grain bags. And in five minutes the new doctor had all the examination made, and Davie was sitting up, his head on Polly's shoulder; and no bones were broken, and all the trouble was the fright produced by the shock of the fall. And the color flew back into Polly's cheek, and Grandma Bascom kept saying, "Praise the Lord--and who be ye, anyway?" bobbing her cap-border at the new doctor. And he laughed and didn't tell her. But he did tell some funny stories. And little Davie laughed; and when they saw that, they all laughed, and the people out in the carriage said, "Just like Dr. Herman," and one tall girl, with her hat all covered with red roses, said, "Uncle John is always doing such queer things. I do wish he would hurry and come. It is too bad to have our driving tour interrupted like that." And pretty soon down the stepping-stones he came, as light and quick as could be, Grandma Bascom lifting both hands and calling after him, "Well, you're an angel of the Lord, anyway," and the new doctor was laughing. But he had stopped to look into Polly's brown eyes. "Don't worry, little girl, he's all right," he said. Joel squeezed past them through the doorway, and ran after him. "Please stop just a minute," he begged. "Hey?" said the doctor, turning his foot on the step. The tall girl in the hat with big red roses looked impatient enough, and beat her foot on the carriage floor, but Joel kept on. "I like you," he burst out, "ever'n ever so much." The doctor put one hand on Joel's stubby black hair, and turned his grimy face up. "You've got to be a man," he said; "now look out for it while you're a boy. I guess you'll do." He jumped into the carriage and drove the black pair of horses off at a smart gait down the road, while Joel stood on the roadside grass to see him go. IV THE MUFFIN MAN AND THE TRAMP So when the time came that was to bring Mamsie home that night, tired, but happy to fold her baby to her heart, for Phronsie always climbed into her lap to untie her bonnet-strings, there was David, running around brisk as a bee, his cheeks pink as a rose, and Joel, who had stuck to the old box of nails all day, despite Polly's pleadings to stop and rest, gave a shout that the last was done, and stretched his tired legs. Then he gave a hop and skip and jump around and around the grass before the little brown house. "Whickets! that feels good!" he cried, stopping for a long breath by the old green door; then away again, kicking up his heels like a colt. "He's done 'em almost every one," said Davie, mournfully, standing on the doorstone to see him go; "he wouldn't let me help only a teenty bit, and he's so tired, Polly." "Joel wanted to do 'em, Davie dear," said Polly, coming to the door, on hearing that, and giving him a loving little pat. "I know all about it, why he wanted to do it"--for Joel had told her the whole story--"and Mamsie'll be glad he did it. How I wish she'd come!" peering down the dusty road. "How I wish she'd come!" echoed Phronsie, poking her head in between Polly's gown and the door jamb. "Dear me," cried Polly, whirling around, "are you there, Pet? Well, Mamsie's coming pretty soon. I think I see--No, 'tisn't," as David started to scamper over the stepping-stones--"it's a man turning the road. Anyway, she'll be here before we hardly know it, I guess. Now let's play something, and that'll make the time go faster." "Oh, hooray!" cried little Davie, and, "Hooray!" piped Phronsie. "_Joel--Joel!_" screamed David; and Phronsie clapped her hands and screamed too, and Polly laughed and called as hard as she could, for Joel, imagining himself a gay trotting horse, was slapping his legs with a switch, and careering around the back of the little brown house in a great state of excitement. Now hearing the calls, he came whooping around, making all the noise he possibly could, so there was a perfectly dreadful din, and no wonder that the man Polly had seen turning the road came nearer without any one noticing him. He thought it was so convenient for him that all the children in the house should be out in the front yard, that perhaps he had better hop over the stone wall and go quietly in at the back door; for really he was very hungry, and there must be as much as a piece of bread, although the little brown house didn't look as if it held much meat and pie and cake. So over the wall he went, and slunk in through the tall grass, just as Polly was marshalling her forces on the greensward in front and saying, "Now, children, what shall we play?" "Tag--tag!" screamed Joel, crowding up in front. "Now begin, Polly, do, and let me be it." "I'd rather have the Muffin Man," said Davie, wistfully. "Muffin--Man--Muffin--Man," echoed Phronsie, beating her small hands. "Oh, Polly, please do let us have the Muffin Man," she cried, her yellow hair flying over her flushed face as she hopped up and down. "Please, Polly!" "Pshaw!" Joel exclaimed, contemptuously, "that old Muffin Man, he's no fun. I say 'Tag.' Do begin, Polly," he pulled her sleeve impatiently. "The Muffin Man is so very nice," said Davie, reflectively, "and we haven't played it in so long." "That old--" began Joel, crossly. Then he caught Polly's eye. "All right, Dave," he cried. "Go on, Polly. And let Dave be the Muffin Man, do, Polly." Polly shot him a beaming glance. "Now that's nice," and she took Phronsie's hand, who was so overcome with delight she could not stand still, but was engaged in making a cheese, and tumbling over in a heap on the grass. "Come on, Pet," and Polly pulled her up, "don't you see the Muffin Man is waiting for us?" for there was David standing off at the end of the grass-plot, as stiff as a stick, and most dignified, all ready to receive his visitors. It was after the merry line was dancing back into place that Joel happened to glance up at the window of the kitchen. And as quick as a shot he dropped Polly's hand and skipped off on the tips of his toes over the grass and around the back of the house. "Dear me!" cried Polly, "whatever can have happened to Joel?" "Do come on, Polly," begged Phronsie, pulling at her other hand, and lifting her flushed face pleadingly, "and let us see the Muffin Man once more." "So we will, dear," said Polly. "Now then!" So they danced off gayly. "We all know the Muffin Man--the Muffin Man--the Muffin Man. We all know the Muffin Man, that lives in Crumpet Lane." Meantime, Joel rushed in over the back doorstep and into the kitchen before the man he had seen through the kitchen window could hear him and turn away from the old cupboard. When he did, he said something that wouldn't have sounded nice had Joel stopped to hear it. As it was, he bounded in. "What are you doing in our house?" he cried, doubling up his fists. "Hey?" said the man. He wasn't very nice to look at either, and he peered over and around Joel's sturdy figure, to see if more of the children were coming after. When he saw that Joel was alone, and could hear the gay voices out on the grass-plot, he looked perfectly wicked, and he laughed as he pointed a long and dirty hand at him. "You scream, or stir from your tracks, and I'll make mincemeat of you!" he hissed. "I ain't a-goin' to scream," declared Joel, scornfully, "an' I'm goin' to drive you out of our house." With that he dashed at the man with both small brown fists well doubled up, pommelling right and left, and butting his stubby black head into the stranger's waistcoat. And the next minute he was caught in the long hands and tossed with a thump to the old kitchen floor, and the wicked eyes were over him as he lay there panting. "What did I tell you!" cried the man. "Now I'm going to make mincemeat of you." "We all know the Muffin Man that lives in Crumpet Lane," sang Polly and Phronsie merrily, out on the grass-plot, as they danced away. "Where _is_ Joel?" cried Polly, as they stopped to take breath. "Just once more," begged Phronsie, pulling her hand; "please, Polly." So down to see the Muffin Man again they danced. Meantime, Joel was tied up tight and fast with the clothes-line to the table leg, and in order that he should not use his tongue, Seraphina's clothes, where Phronsie had thrown her on the floor, were torn off and crammed into his mouth. "Now I guess you'll keep still," said the man, turning back to the cupboard with a grin; "and as long as those youngsters are at their noise out there, I'm safe enough," and he pulled out Polly's bread she had just baked that day, done up in a clean old towel. "Humph!" as he thrust his tousled head into the cupboard, and searched for butter, and ran his dirty hands all over the clean, bare shelves--"well, this will keep me from starving." So he rolled the towel as tightly as he could over the bread, and slouched off, shaking his fist at Joel with a parting scowl. "Now, Phronsie, I can't play another single time," said Polly. "I must see where Joel is." So she dropped the fat little hand and raced off, the other children after her. "Joel--Joel--" they all cried, and just then Mamsie was coming down the road--oh! so tired, as she had had to stay later than usual, for the Conference was to meet at the minister's house next day, and besides the study carpet to be put down, there were ever and ever so many things to be done. But she had an extra quarter of a dollar in her pocket, and Polly was to run over after the Conference dinner and get a basket of the eatables. "If they leave any," Miss Jerusha, the minister's sister, had said grimly, "which isn't very likely. I've heard 'em preach often enough of starved souls. La! 'tisn't a circumstance to the starved bodies they bring along to Conference." So Mrs. Pepper was turning in at the dooryard of the little brown house in a happy frame of mind, when she heard a babel of voices, and Phronsie's little shrill voice above them all. "Goodness me, the house must be afire!" she exclaimed, hurrying over the grass and in at the door. There was Joel, tied hand and foot, his black eyes blazing, while he was talking as fast as he could rattle, and Polly was untying the clothes-line, little Davie getting in the way, with trembling fingers, while Phronsie stood still and screamed. "He's got all our bread!" shouted Joel. "Oh, Mamsie!" Phronsie turned and saw Mrs. Pepper, and ran to her with outstretched arms. "Whatever in all this world," exclaimed Mother Pepper, grasping her baby tightly. "There--there--Phronsie, don't cry, Mammy's here." "Oh, Mamsie--Mamsie!" mourned Polly, tugging at the knots in the clothes-line. Davie scuttled over to Mother Pepper and tried to get within her arms, too. "Our bread!" screamed Joel, in a rage, and kicking at the knots. "Let me up! I'm going after him. He's got it all out of the cupboard, I tell you!" "Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, kneeling down by him, with Phronsie by her side, and putting both arms around his struggling figure, "Mother doesn't care about the bread; she's got you safe." Joel snuggled up close to her. "I couldn't help his gettin' it," he sniffled, "Mamsie, I couldn't." Then he broke out into a loud sob. "Mother knows you couldn't," said Mrs. Pepper, and she shivered as she thought of what might have been. "You're my brave boy. But you mustn't go after him, nor out of the house." "Oh, Mammy!" exclaimed Joel, lifting up his head, his tears all gone. "I can catch him." He gave an impatient pull at the knots. "Take care, Joe," cried Polly, "you're pulling 'em tighter. Oh, Mammy, let us all go after him," she begged with flashing eyes. "We can catch the bad wicked man." "No," said Mrs. Pepper, firmly, "not a single one of you must stir out of this house unless I tell you. And as for bread, why, we can do without it so long as Joel is safe." "Phooh!" said Joel, "he didn't hurt me any," just as Polly got the last knot out that tied his arms. Then he set to work to help her get his legs free. And in a trice he jumped to his feet and ran to the window. "Oh, Mamsie," he teased, craning his neck to look up and down the road, "do let me go. I can get some sticks in the woodshed, and I guess I can scare him then." "All of us," pleaded Polly, hurrying to Mrs. Pepper; "just think, Mamsie, with big sticks. Do let us." But Mother Pepper shook her head. "We'll all go over to Grandma Bascom's and see if he went there. Then Ben'll be home, and he can run over and tell Deacon Brown. He'll know how to catch the thief." "I'm goin' with Ben," announced Joel, decidedly, and coming into the middle of the kitchen with a bound. "He's my thief. An' I'm goin' with Mr. Brown to catch him. So there!" Mrs. Pepper shivered again, but smiled at Phronsie, who clutched her tightly with her little arms around the neck. "Well, I declare!" she said with a cheery laugh, "aren't you going to untie Mother's bonnet-strings, Baby?" "Yes, Phronsie," said Polly, with another little laugh, "so you ought to. I declare, we're all so excited we don't know what to do. I'm going to make your tea, Mamsie," and she spun off to the old stove. Mrs. Pepper smiled at her approvingly. "I won't wait for that now; we ought to get over and see how Grandma Bascom is. I don't believe he went there, but we'll see." "I forgot all about her," said Polly, in a shamefaced way. "I'll run down the lane and see. You don't need to come, Mamsie. We three will go." "I'm goin'. I'm goin'," screamed Joel, rushing for the door. "Joel," called his mother, "come here." Joel slowly retraced his steps. "Remember one thing. You stay with Polly, and do just as she says. And now, children, hurry along. And if you see the man, you call me." And Mrs. Pepper went to the door, and, with Phronsie in her arms, watched them scramble down the lane, and up to Grandma's little cottage. But Grandma Bascom hadn't seen anybody pass that way, and wasn't a bit afraid. There she sat, drinking her bowl of tea out under the lilac bushes. "Run in an' get some pep'mint drops out o' the cupboard," she said sociably, "they're in the big green dish. Be careful of it, for it's cracked." "We can't," said Polly, "Mamsie wants us to come right home." Joel's mouth watered. "'Twon't take but a minute, Polly," he said. "No, Joe, we mustn't," said Polly, firmly. "Good-by, Grandma. Now, let's run, boys, as fast as we can, home to Mamsie, and see which will get there first." V ON BANDY LEG MOUNTAIN And so Joel finally went to the cave alone. But not before a good many weeks, for the two boys didn't get play-day again in a long while. There was work to do picking rocks for the neighboring farmers; and then came potato-planting time when they could help Ben as he worked for Deacon Brown, who always paid them well in potatoes that kept them through the winter. And, dear me, there was always wood to pick up and split, Ben doing the heaviest part of the chopping; and errands down to the store for Indian meal and molasses and flour, and to fetch and carry back the coats and sacks that Mamsie was always sewing up. So at it they kept all the pleasant days. And, of course, on the rainy days no one could think of getting off to the woods. So presently Joel almost forgot about wanting to go, until one day when Polly broke out, "Now, boys, you can play a good while to-day; your work's all done up." Joel twitched Davie's arm and hauled him out to the woodpile behind the shed. "Now come on, Dave, let's go to old Bandy Leg Mountain." "No, I don't want to. I'm never goin' there," said Davie, shrinking back. "Not after the flowers?" said Joel, aghast at that. David looked longingly off to the tip of the mountain overhanging Badgertown. "N-no," he said slowly. "You see," said Joel, wheedlingly, "there must be such a very great lot up there, and nobody to pick 'em, Dave." Davie turned his blue eyes full of delight: "I might go a little way; but I'm not going to the cave; only just after the flowers--the green ones and the others." "All right," said Joel, carelessly, thinking that after Davie got started he could persuade him to keep on. "Now, you wait here till I get my gun." Joel's gun was an old willow branch out of which he had knocked the pith; then he would put in round pebbles, when he wanted to use it, and punch them out suddenly with another stick, screaming out at the same time, "Look out, my gun's going off. _Bang!_" So he ran off nimbly and got his gun from the corner of the woodshed, where he had hidden it, and then in to Polly in the kitchen. "Give us somethin' to eat, Polly, please. Dave an' me." "You can get some bread in the tin pail in the provision room, Joe," she said, without looking up. She was trying to sew up a long seam in one of the coats Mother Pepper was making for Mr. Atkins, and it bothered her dreadfully, for it wouldn't look like Mamsie's, try as she would. And she had picked it out three times, and was just threading her needle to begin again, when Joel rushed in. "Why, you've only been through breakfast a little while," she said quickly. "Dear me, Joe, seems to me you're always hungry." "How I wish 'twas gingerbread!" cried Joel, tumbling over the rickety steps in a trice. "Polly, why don't we ever have any?" he called back, twitching off the cover of the pail. It fell to the floor and rattled off, making a great noise. "Stop banging that pail, Joe," called Polly, in a sharp little voice, and twisting the end of the thread tighter. "Dear me, this hateful thing won't go in that eye. Go in, you!" with a push that sent the thread way beyond the needle. "I ain't bangin' the pail," contradicted Joel, in a loud, injured voice; "the old thing fell down. 'Twarn't my fault." And he ran noisily across the provision room to pick it up. "Well, set it on tight," said Polly, "and you're a very naughty boy, Joel, and always making a fuss over the bread pail." Joel didn't hear her, as he was busily engaged in cramming the cover on the pail, and in a minute or two he came up with his pockets full of dry bread, and his chubby face beaming with satisfaction. Polly tried again, without avail, to thread her needle, and at last, as he ran out with a good whoop, she laid it down and put her head back against Mamsie's big chair in which she was sitting. "O dear," she sighed, "how I wish I could go off to-day and play just once! How good it must be in the woods!" "Don't you suppose you'll go when you are a big woman?" asked Phronsie, laying down Seraphina, where she sat on the floor, and regarding her gravely. "Ever, Polly?" "O dear me, yes," said Polly, twitching up her head again, and picking up the needle and thread. "And I'm a bad, naughty girl, Phronsie, to fret," she added, her ill-humor flying. "There, now you've concluded to go in, have you?" this to the eye of the needle. "You're never bad, Polly," said Phronsie, taking up Seraphina once more, feeling that everything was right, as she had seen Polly smile, and beginning to tie on a remarkable bonnet upside down. "Yes I am, Pet, often and often," said Polly, with very red cheeks, "and I ought to be put in the corner." "Oh, Polly,--put in the corner!" cried Phronsie, in a tone of horror. "Why, you couldn't be. You're Polly!" "Well, I need it," said Polly, shaking her brown head, while the needle flew in and out merrily. Suddenly she laid it down. "I must go out and tell Joel I'm sorry. I was cross to him. I'll be back in a minute," and she sped off. When she came back she looked very sober. "They've gone down to the brook, I suppose," glancing at the clock. "Well, I'll tell Joe just as soon as he gets home," and slipping into the big chair again, she set to work, and presently the old kitchen was very quiet, except for the little song that Phronsie was crooning to Seraphina. At last this stopped, and Polly, looking off from her work, saw that Phronsie had fallen over on the floor, and was fast asleep. "Poor thing!" exclaimed Polly, "she wants her nap." So she took her up, and carried her into the bedroom, and laid her on the big four-poster, and came out and shut the door. "Now I do believe I'll have time to finish these two seams, if I fly at 'em," she said joyfully. "Then, says I, this old coat's done, and Mamsie can send the bundle back to-night when she gets home"--for Mrs. Pepper was away helping one of the village housekeepers to make her supply of soft soap. Many and many such an odd job did Mother Pepper get, for which she was thankful enough, as it helped her to eke out her scanty pittance. Joel and David trotted on as fast as possible, by many a short cut through the woods, till they reached the foot of "Bandy Leg Mountain," so called because the hermit who had lived and died there had short crooked legs. And at last they began to climb up its face, David peering on every side for any chance at spying out the wonderful flowers. "I most b'lieve there aren't any," at last he said, his feet beginning to drag. "Come on," cried Joel, way ahead. "Hoh! what you stoppin' down there for? Of course you won't find any until you get up nearer the top. Come on!" and he disappeared in a thick clump of undergrowth. "Where are you, Joel?" cried Davie. He was now too frightened to move, and he was sure he heard a lion roar, though it was only his heart beating and thumping; so he sat down on the moss and pine needles, and waited. Joel would surely come back. Meantime a little bird came up and perched on the branch above his head, and sang to him, so he felt less lonely. Joel, supposing Davie was close behind him, trudged on and on. "Hooray, we're most there!" he shouted at last. "Come on, Dave," and he turned around. "Why--Dave--Dave!" "I guess he's just back there," and Joel ran on, for there was the big hole in the rocks, and perhaps he'd really see a bear! and, O dear! he must have his gun ready. And Joel soon stopped thinking about David, but bounded ahead as fast as he could, and squirmed in through the narrow slit, and wriggled along down toward the end of the cave. Suddenly a very funny noise struck his ear; it wasn't a bit like a bear, nor even a wood-chuck, for they couldn't talk. And there surely were a number of voices. Joel stopped squirming, and stared with wide eyes into the darkness. It smelt dreadfully in there, so close and hot, and before he could stop it he gave an awful sneeze. "What's that?" exclaimed one of the voices. Then they whispered, and Joel heard some one say, "We're found out." And another one said a bad word, and laughed, saying nobody'd ever find them there. "I guess there's lots in there," said Joel, "an' I better go," so he wriggled back out into the light. And he hadn't been there but a minute when something came squirming down along after him. Joel flew into the bushes and peered out between the branches. "Why, it's the man who stole Polly's bread!" he almost screamed. The man went past the bush, so near that his long dirty fingers could have picked him out in a minute, and then went down the other way, looking around carefully, and whistling away softly to himself, and presently returned to the cave. And as soon as he had gone in again, Joel hopped out of his bush, and ran at a lively pace down the mountain-side, thinking only of meeting David, and then to get Ben and Deacon Brown and a lot of men, "and won't we come back and catch every single one of 'em, then!" There was David fast asleep under his tree, and the little bird singing to him. "Dave--Dave!" shouted Joel, shaking him hastily, "wake up! The man that stole our bread's up there. The cave's full of 'em. I'm goin' to get Ben, an' catch 'em!" "I'm goin'--to--get--the--flowers," said little Davie, sitting up straight and blinking. Joel seized his hand and spun him along as fast as he could around the rocks and boulders that now stood in the way. Ben was at Deacon Blodgett's, and looked up to see Joel and David, hot and panting, rush into the field. "I'm so tired," said Davie, and sank down; "O dear me, Ben, I'm so tired." Joel told his story, rattling it off so that Ben had to shake his jacket many times. "Hold on there, Joe," he said, "you haven't seen half that. You've been asleep." "Come up and see," cried Joel, excitedly. "Oh, Ben, come up and see." "What's all this?" asked Farmer Blodgett, drawing near. So Ben told it as well as he could for Joel, who wanted to go over every word again, and at last they made him understand. "Now that boy," said Mr. Blodgett, shifting his quid of tobacco into the other cheek, "bein's he's a Pepper, knows what he's a-talkin' of. I'm of th' opinion pretty strong that I'm a-goin' up Bandy Leg." "Oh, good! Mr. Blodgett," exclaimed Joel, hopping up and down in his delight. "Do please hurry this minute and come on." "Bein's I've lost more hens and chickens the last two weeks than I ever have in my life before, and only yest'day wife had a hull pan o' doughnuts took off from the back steps where she'd set 'em to cool, why I'm of the opinion pretty strong that Bandy Leg Mountain will bear lookin' into. So I'll call Peter an' Jed, an' we'll hoof it up there right away." "Oh, Mr. Blodgett, do hurry," begged Joel, "and come." And he began to dance off impatiently. "Hold on!" cried the farmer, turning back, "you ain't goin'." Joel stood absolutely still. "Not going!" "Th' idee o' takin' a leetle chap like you," laughed Deacon Blodgett. "Why, I couldn't look your Ma in the face, Joel Pepper, ef I sh'd do sech a thing." Joel scanned Ben's face. "I'm sorry, Joe," said Ben, "but Mamsie wouldn't like it, you know." Joel gave a howl. "They're mine. And he's my man who stole our bread; an' they all b'long to me, for I found 'em." He kept screaming on. "Mercy me!" cried Ben, shaking his arm, "stop screaming so, Joe, you're scaring all Mr. Blodgett's men. They'll think you're half killed. See 'em running here." "I don't have to go after 'em, to call 'em, s'long as you yell like that," observed Farmer Blodgett, grimly. "An' they all b'long to me, every single one of 'em," screamed Joel, harder than ever, "so there! an' Mamsie'd let me," he added in a fresh burst. "Well, I can't let you," declared Ben, decidedly, "without she says so; and if we wait here much longer, all those fellows will be slipping off, maybe. They can hear you up there, for all I know, you make such a noise." "See here," cried Deacon Blodgett, sternly, "Joe Pepper, you stop that noise! Ain't you 'shamed, bein' Mrs. Pepper's boy, to take on so? Now I'll tell you what I'll do. You've done a good thing a-drummin' up those scamps, an' I don't wonder you want to go an' see 'em ketched." "I want to help catch 'em, and they're mine," said Joel, through his tears. "Well,"--and the farmer smiled grimly,--"I don't wonder, so now I'll tell you what I'll do. Peter shall go along with you home, an' if your Ma says come, he'll bring you after us. So march lively." "Mother isn't home," said Ben. "She's at Miss Perkins' working, to-day." While Joel screamed shrilly, "Oh, dear-dear-dear, p'r'aps she won't let me go!" "Then you hadn't ought to want to," said Deacon Blodgett, sternly. "Start lively, now, and see." But Mrs. Pepper, looking into her boy's eyes, and hearing his story, stood quite still, and Joel's heart went down to his toes. "I think a boy who can act as bravely as you have, Joe," she said at last, slowly, "ought to go and see the job finished. Mother can trust you. Run along," and Joel's feet twinkled so fast that Peter could hardly see them go. VI AB'M's BIRTHDAY PARTY The robbers were caught, and were lodged in the county jail, and all the farmers who had hen-roosts robbed, and the farmers' wives who had their doughnuts stolen, kept coming over to the little brown house or stopping Mrs. Pepper after church on Sunday to thank her for what her boy had done, until it got so that when Joel saw a bonnet coming along the dusty road, or a wagon stop in front, he would run and hide. "I won't have 'em put their hands on my head and call me good boy," he cried, shaking his black hair viciously. "I'll kick 'em--so there!" So one day, when he caught sight of a wagon just about to stop, he ran, as usual, as fast as he could, off over to Grandma Bascom's. "Now that's too bad," said a big tall woman, who got out of the wagon and made her way up to the door, "for Mis' Beebe said in partic'ler I was to bring Joel, an' he ain't to home." "Go and call him, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, "Come in, won't you, and sit down?" Phronsie tried to drag forward a chair, while Polly ran out the back door, calling, "Joel--Joel!" "Bless her heart!" exclaimed the visitor, looking at Phronsie. "No, I can't set; I've got to keep an eye on that horse." As Mr. Beebe, who ran the little shoe shop up in the town, owned a horse that nothing but a whip could make go, this seemed unnecessary. However, Mrs. Pepper only smiled hospitably, while the woman went on. "You see, I've only jest about come, as 'twere, on from the West, an' bein' my boy's got a birthday, an' him bein' grandson, as you may say, to Mis' Beebe, she thought she'd give him a party." "Oh, are you Mr. Beebe's daughter?" asked Mrs. Pepper, in perplexity. "I thought the old people hadn't any children." "No more'n they hain't," said the visitor, leaning composedly against the door jamb and keeping her eye on the horse; "but as you may say, Ab'm's their grandson, for my husband's mother was sister to Mis' Beebe, an' she's dead, so you see it's next o' kin, an' it comes in handy to call her Grandma." "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Pepper. "Well, an' so Mis' Beebe's goin' to give Ab'm a party. La! she's been a-bakin' doughnuts all this mornin', got up at four o'clock an' begun 'em. I never see such sugary ones. They're sights, I tell you." Polly now ran in. "I can't find Joel, Mamsie," she said sadly. "Well, Mis' Beebe said I was to bring him most partic'ler; she'd rather see him than any of the rest o' you. She said, 'Marinthy, be sure to bring that boy who was so brave about them robbers. Tell him I've made some doughnuts special for him.'" "O dear!" exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands, "whatever can we do, Mamsie, to find him?" "You must not wait any longer," said Mrs. Pepper, remembering how, the day before, Joel, had run down to the brook, and been gone for hours, following along its course, never coming home till dinner-time. "Get Phronsie ready, and Davie and yourself. But I'm sorry for Joey to lose the treat," she said sadly. "So'm I," said Abram's mother, "an' Mis' Beebe'll feel dreadful bad. Well, I'm afraid that horse'll start, so I'll get in, an' you can all come out when you get ready." Pretty soon Polly emerged from the bedroom with a sad look on her rosy face, and her brown eyes drooped as she led Phronsie along as fresh and sweet as a rose, all ready. "Tisn't nice a bit to go without Joel, Mamsie," said Polly, disconsolately. "You can't help it, Polly," replied her mother, "and it won't do to keep Abram's mother waiting. So go on, and take care of the children, and see that they behave nicely. And don't let Phronsie eat more than one doughnut. And be careful to tie the shawl over her when she comes home." "I'll remember, Mamsie," said Polly, and wishing there wasn't such a thing in the world as a party, she put Phronsie into the wagon, and climbed up beside her. Davie, with a very sober face at thought of leaving Joel behind, craned his neck and watched for him as long as the little brown house was in sight. "You see," said Abram's mother, twitching the reins, when at last the old horse decided to start, "I had to hurry away an' get in. I sh'd a-liked to a' set an' passed the time o' day longer with your Ma, but I didn't darst to. It's dretful to have a horse run. I couldn't never a-catched him in all this world, stout as I be. Land! I hain't run a step for ten years, 'cept last spring I was to Sister Jane's, an' her cow took after me, an' I had to." "O dear," breathed Phronsie, turning her face up as she sat squeezed in between Abram's mother and Polly, "did he hurt you?" "Bless your heart!" exclaimed the woman, beaming at her, "no, for he didn't catch me. You see I had on a red shawl, an' the critter didn't like it." "Oh!" said Phronsie. "No; sho there, easy, you!" cried Abram's mother, holding the old leather reins as tightly as possible, and bracing back; "I guess he won't run, bein's I'm so strong in my hands. Well, you see Jane she hollered out o' th' window, 'Throw away your shawl, M'rinthy, he'll kill you.'" "O dear me!" exclaimed Phronsie. "An' did he kill you, Mrs. Big Woman?" she asked anxiously. "No; why here I be," said Abram's mother, with a hearty laugh. "Well, how could I throw off my shawl an' me a-runnin' so, an' 'twas all pinned across me, an' my brother'd brought it from over seas. So I had to run." Phronsie sighed, and kept her troubled eyes raised to the big face above her. "An' the first thing't ever I knew, I went down kerslump into a big compost heap, an'--" "What's a compost heap?" asked Davie, getting up to stand in the wagon back of them. "Oh, manure an' sich, all gone to rot," said Abram's mother. "O dear me!" said Davie. "An' that cow--'twas a bull, I forgot to tell you, Jane's husban' told me afterwards--he kept right on over my head, couldn't stop, you know, an' he went bang up against a tree on t'other side, an' it knocked him flat." "Did it hurt him?" asked Phronsie, in a sorry tone. "I s'pose so," said Abram's mother, "for he didn't know nothin', an' th' men folks came who'd seen me runnin' an' heard Jane hollerin' an' took him off before he came to, which he did after a spell, as lively as a cricket. An' they dragged me up, more dead'n alive, an' I hain't run a step since." Phronsie drew a long breath of relief that no one was killed. Davie gazed at Abram's mother in great satisfaction. "Tell us some more," he said. "An' I might as well have flung off that red shawl," she went on, ignoring his request, "if I could a' got out that pin, for it was all smutched up, fallin' in that mess, an' I couldn't put it on my back. It beats all how you never know what's best to do; but then, says I, you've no call to worry afterwards, if you decide in a hurry. Sho now, go easy, you!" And at last they drew up at Mrs. Beebe's door. There she stood in the doorway, in a cap with new pink ribbons, and old Mr. Beebe just a little back, smiling and rubbing his hands, and in the little window where the shoes and rubbers and slippers were hanging was a big round face plastered up against the small panes of glass. "There's Ab'm, now," exclaimed his mother, proudly. "I guess when you see him you'll say there never was sech a boy. Well, I'm glad we're here safe an' sound, an' this horse hain't run nor nothin'. Now, hop out,"--which injunction was not needed. Good Mrs. Beebe ran her eye over the little bunch of Peppers as they jumped down over the wheel. "Why, where's Joel?" she cried. "In the bottom o' th' wagon, I s'pose," she added, laughing and shaking her fat sides. "Yes, where's Joel?" cried Mr. Beebe, rubbing his hands together harder than ever. "I want him to tell me all about how he ketched them robbers." Polly was just going to tell all about Joel, and why he couldn't come, when the big woman shouted out, "They couldn't find him, for he warn't to home." "Sho, now, that's too bad!" ejaculated Mr. Beebe, dreadfully disappointed. Mrs. Beebe already had Phronsie in her arms, and was whispering to her some of the delights to come. "Well, well, well, come right in, all of you, and make yourselves to home. I'll take care of the horse, Marinthy; go in an' set down." "I'm sure I'm glad to," said Marinthy, getting over the little steps quickly after the Pepper children, and nearly knocking down David, who came last. "Ab'm, come here an' make your manners," she called. Ab'm got down from the pile of boxes where he had been looking out of the window, and slouched forward, his finger in his mouth. "Speak up pretty, now," said his mother, pulling his jacket down with a twitch, and looking at him admiringly; "these children's come to your party. Say how do you do, an' you're glad to see 'em." "How do you do, an' you're glad to see 'em--" "Land sakes alive!" cried his mother, with a shake; "hain't you no more manners'n that? Do say it right." "You told me to say it so," said Ab'm, doggedly. "No, I didn't," retorted his mother with another shake. The little bunch of Peppers turned quite pale, and scarcely breathed. "Did anybody ever see sech a boy, an' he that's had no pains spared 'n his bringin' up? Well, he's ten to-day, thank fortune, an' he'll soon be a-takin' care o' himself." Phronsie crept closer to Polly. "Take me home," she said. "I want my Mammy." "O dear me," thought Polly, "whatever shall I do! It will make dear Mr. and Mrs. Beebe feel so badly if I don't stop her. Phronsie," and she drew her off one side of the shop, old Mrs. Beebe having gone into the inner room, "you know Mamsie told us all to be good." "Yes," said Phronsie, her lips quivering, and the tears beginning to come in her blue eyes. "Well, it would just about make dear Mrs. Beebe and dear Mr. Beebe sick to have you feel badly and go home." "Would it?" asked Phronsie, swallowing hard. "Yes," said Polly, decidedly, "it would. People never go to a party, and then say they must go home." "Don't they, Polly?" asked the little girl. "No," said Polly, decidedly, "I never heard of such a thing. And just think, Phronsie Pepper, how Mamsie would look! Oh, you can't mean to be a naughty girl." "I--won't--be a naughty--girl, Polly," promised Phronsie, battling with her tears, "an' I won't look at the big woman, nor the boy. Then I'll stay." So Polly kissed her, and pretty soon Mrs. Beebe bustled in, her round face quite red with the exertions she had been making, and Mr. Beebe having seen to his horse, came in rubbing his hands worse than ever, saying, "Now, if we only had Joel, we'd be all right." "Now, my dears,"--began Mrs. Beebe. "Why, you haven't laid off your things yet!" to the Peppers. "No'm," said Polly, "but we will now, thank you, Mrs. Beebe," and she untied Phronsie's sun-bonnet and took off the shawl, David putting his cap down on the counter, keeping a sharp, disapproving eye on Ab'm every minute. "When are you coming for a new pair of shoes?" whispered Mr. Beebe, getting hold of Phronsie and lifting her to his knee. Phronsie thrust out her little foot. "See," she cried gleefully, forgetting for a moment the big woman and the boy, "dear, nice Mr. Beebe, they're all here." Then she poked out the other foot. "I buttoned 'em up all myself." "No?" cried Mr. Beebe, greatly delighted; "well, now, when those are worn out, you come and see me again, will you?" "They aren't ever going to be worn out," said Phronsie, positively, and shaking her head. "Hoh, hoh!" laughed Ab'm, suddenly finding his tongue, "your shoes ain't never goin' to wear out! Ma, did you hear her?" Phronsie started and hid her face on Mr. Beebe's fat shoulder. Polly hurried to her side. "Be still!" cried his mother; "hain't you no manners, an' they're company? Ab'm Bennett, I'm ashamed of ye." With that she leaned over and gave him a box on the ear. It was perfectly dreadful, and Polly had all she could do to keep from bursting out crying. And what they would have done, no one knows, if Mrs. Beebe hadn't said, "Won't you all walk out into the parlor an' set down to the table? Come, Pa, you lead with Phronsie." "Ab'm oughter," said his mother; "that's style, seein' th' party's fer his birthday." "Well, you go first then, Marinthy," said old Mr. Beebe, dryly, "with him, an' Phronsie an' I'll foller on. Now then, my dear." He set her on the floor, and bent his old white head down to smile into her face reassuringly, while her trembling fingers held his hand fast. "Polly," said little David, as they brought up the rear of the procession, "I am so very much afraid of that boy." "The party will soon be through," said Polly, encouragingly. "I'm so glad that Joel isn't here, for he'd say something, I'm afraid, if Ab'm scares Phronsie again," and she gave a sigh of relief. Oh, the table! There were doughnuts, sure enough, as Mrs. Marinthy had said, "The biggest I ever see, and the sugariest." No wonder good Mrs. Beebe got up at four o'clock to make them! And a great dish of pink and white sticks and cunning little biscuits with real butter on them, and a cake, with little round candies sprinkled all over the top. Was there ever such a beautiful birthday party! Phronsie, clinging to good Mr. Beebe's hand, thought not, and her glances wandered all up and down in delight, to bring her eyes at last up to Polly's brown ones, when her little face broke into a happy smile. Ab'm was so intent on choosing which of the pink and white sticks he should pick for, that he could think of nothing else, so Mrs. Beebe got them all seated without any further trouble. Old Mr. Beebe was just saying, "Now, if Joel was only here, we'd be all right," when the shop door opened suddenly, and into the little parlor ran Joel, very red in the face. "Now that's nice enough," cried Mrs. Beebe, getting out of her chair, her pink cap-ribbons all in a flutter, while old Mr. Beebe exclaimed, with a beaming face, "Well, I declare! ef I ain't glad to see you. Set right down by me." "No, he'll set here, Pa," said Mrs. Beebe, pushing up the chair next to Ab'm; "there's more room this side." So Joel marched up and got into his seat. "An' so you thought you'd come," said Mr. Beebe, with a jolly little laugh. "Now we'll have fine times, won't we, Phronsie?" patting her hand. "How'd you git here?" "I walked," said Joel, who couldn't for his life keep his eyes from the doughnuts, "'cept when I met a man with a load of hay. An' he was so slow I got down again, for I was afraid I'd miss the party." "Hee, hee, hee!" chuckled Mr. Beebe; "well, wife, do give Joel a doughnut; he must be tired, a-comin' so far." "Oh, thank you," cried Joel, thrusting out his hand eagerly. "'Tain't style, where I come from out West, to help the doughnuts first, an' specially when that boy's just come," said Mrs. Marinthy, with a great air. Joel dropped his doughnut to his plate as if it had been a hot cake, and leaned over to fasten his black eyes on her big face. "Well, pass the biscuits, do, then," said old Mr. Beebe, good-naturedly; "let's get somethin' a-goin', Ma." So the little biscuits were passed, but Joel did not take one; he still sat regarding Ab'm's mother. "Ma, Ma," said Ab'm in a loud whisper, and twitching her elbow, "this strange boy's a-lookin' at you all the time. Make him stop, do." At this Phronsie gave a little cry. "Don't let 'em hurt Joey," she gasped, turning to Mr. Beebe. "There shan't nothin' hurt Joel, don't you be afraid," he whispered back. "Hoh, hoh!" cried Ab'm, pointing a big fat finger at her, that might have been cleaner; "hear her now. An' she said her shoes warn't never goin' to wear out. Hoh, hoh!" "You let our Phronsie alone," screamed Joel, tearing his black eyes off from Mrs. Marinthy's face to fasten them on her son. "Ow! he pinched me," roared Ab'm, edging suddenly off to his mother. "I didn't," cried Joel, stoutly; "I did't touch him a single bit! But he shan't scare Phronsie, or I'll pitch into him. Yes, sir-ree!" "Joel!" cried Polly, in great distress, across the table. "Well, he shan't scare Phronsie," cried Joel, "this boy shan't, or I will pitch into him," and his black eyes blazed, and he doubled up his little brown fists. "Joel," commanded Polly, "do you stop, this very minute," and, "Oh, sir!" looking up at Mr. Beebe, and, "Oh, marm!" and her brown eyes were fixed imploringly on Mrs. Beebe's round countenance, "I do feel so ashamed, and Mamsie will be so sorry. But please will you let us go home?" And poor Polly could say no more. "An' I sh'd think you'd better go home," said Ab'm's mother, with asperity; "a-comin' to a birthday party and abusin' the boy it's give for. I never see th' like. An' to think how I driv' you clear over here, an' that horse most runnin' away all the time." Polly got out of her chair and sorrowfully went up to Joel. "We'll sit out in the shop, if you please, dear Mr. and Mrs. Beebe, till you get through the party. And then, if you please, we'd like to go home." Joel's head dropped, and his little brown fists fell down. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Mrs. Beebe picked off the biggest pink stick from the pile on the dish and slid it on Joel's plate. "Eat that," she whispered. "Ab'm's goin' home in a week, an' then, says I, you shall come over an' visit with me." And Mr. Beebe looked over at him and nodded his white head, and Joel was quite sure he winked pleasantly at him. But the pink stick and doughnut lay quite untouched on his plate, and after a time, Polly having crept back to her seat, the biscuits had been passed around again, and the grand cake with the candies on top had been cut, the pink and white sticks were divided, and the doughnuts went up and down the table, and lo and behold! the party was over. "I've had a birthday party," said Ab'm, with great satisfaction, sliding out of his chair with a black look for Joel, and stuffing what he couldn't eat into his pocket. "You come with me," said Mrs. Beebe to Joel, "and let the others go back into the shop." So he followed her into a little entry, and out of that opened a cupboard. "Now there's a paper bag up on that shelf," said Mrs. Beebe. "You can climb up and git it; that's right. Now, says I." She waddled back to the supper table. "Come here, Joel, my boy, and hold it open there and there." In went the biggest doughnuts that were left, some little biscuits, several pieces of the fine cake, and last of all, three or four pink and white sticks. "You tell your Ma," said Mrs. Beebe, speaking very soft, "that Mr. Beebe an' me thinks a sight o' you, an' that you're a-comin' out here to spend the day just as soon as Ab'm goes. Now remember." "Yes'm, I will," said Joel, twisting up his bag. "An' I'll come, Mrs. Beebe, if Mamsie'll let me." "An' take care the things don't fall out," warned Mrs. Beebe. Joel gave the bag another twist, and gripped it fast. "An' I guess Pa's got the horse around all right," said Mrs. Beebe, going out into the shop, "so I s'pose you all must go, though sorry I be to have you." She gave Polly a motherly little pat on the shoulder, and fairly cried over Phronsie. "Well, you've got to go, I s'pose," she said again, "'cause Pa's a-waitin'; yes, Pa," she called, "they're a-comin'." And presently the little Peppers, except Phronsie, all clambered over the wheel; then Polly and Joel lifted her up, and away they went, Mrs. Beebe watching them off till a turn of the narrow street hid them from view. "That Ab'm," said Mr. Beebe, after they had gone quite a piece, and glancing back over his shoulder, "well, he ain't reelly no kin to us, thank the Lord, an' they're a-goin' next week. I can tell you one thing, Polly, he an' his Ma don't git inside our house agin." VII JOEL GOES A-FISHING Joel sat on the back doorstep and kicked his heels disconsolately. Davie was lying down on Mamsie's bed, fast asleep. He was tired out picking rocks all the forenoon, and Polly had shut the door and said he mustn't be waked up. So there he lay, his arm thrown up over his flushed cheeks; and the long hot summer afternoon ahead of Joel, and he must spend it alone. "All the birds have lots of themselves to play with," grumbled Joel, idly slinging a stone at a pack of chattering young ones who could not contain their pride at being able to fly so finely, but kept screaming every minute, "Look at me. Chee-chee-chee. See-me-chee-chee-chee!" Now they cocked their little heads and stared down with their black beady eyes at Joel; when they saw it was he, they chirped and twittered worse than ever. "See me. Chee-chee-chee! Look-at-me-chee-chee-chee!" "Stop it!" cried Joel, crossly, looking up at them; "Davie's abed, an' I haven't any one to play with, an' you have, lots an' lots." Then a smile broke out and ran all over his chubby face, and he flung another stone he had picked off as far as he could into the grass. The little birds, glad to see him smile, fluttered their wings and flew off, screaming proudly, "See-me-chee-chee-chee!" "I'm going fishing down to Cherry Brook," said Joel, left alone with not a bird in sight. Even the squirrels seemed to have business at a distance that afternoon; so he hopped off from his stone and ran to get his old tin pail and the remnant of an iron spoon that Polly had given the boys to dig worms with; and very soon he had a good quantity wriggling and squirming away, and he came shouting, flushed and happy, by the window where she sat sewing. "I'm goin' fishin', Polly," he said, slinging his birch pole over his shoulder. "All right," said Polly, nodding and smiling away at him. "Sh, Joel, don't make such a noise. You'll wake up Davie." "Then he could go with me," declared Joel, on the edge of another whoop. "No, indeed, Mister Joel," said Polly, with a decisive nod of her brown head, "you needn't think it. Davie's legs aren't so strong as yours, and he's all tired out." "My legs are dreadful strong, Polly," said Joel, well pleased at Polly's words. And he set down his pail of angleworms, and the pole carefully beside it. "See, Polly," and he flopped over suddenly, turning two or three somersaults, to stand still on his head. "Oh, Joel--Joel!" cried Polly, forgetting all about David, and dropping her work to her lap "don't. You mustn't do that. Stop it!" "Pooh! that's nothing," said Joel, wiggling his legs far apart, and peering at her out of his sharp black eyes. "Joel!" screamed Polly, "get up this minute, and don't you go upside down again! Mamsie wouldn't like it. Get up, I say!" "Pooh! that's nothing," again declared Joel, slowly flopping over to lie still on the grass. Then he began to slap his legs up and down. "Ain't I dreadful strong, Polly? Ain't I?" "And your face is dreadfully red," said Polly; "I shouldn't wonder if sometime you burst a blood vessel in you, if you do that perfectly awful thing." "How could it burst?" cried Joel. "Tell me, Polly," bringing his legs down quite still to hear the answer. "Tell me, Polly." "You'd know, I guess," answered Polly. "Don't, Joel, you make me feel as if I sh'd fly to even think of it, and here I ought to be sewing every single minute." Just then the bedroom door opened, and out walked David, dewy-eyed, and with very pink cheeks. "Did you call, Polly?" he asked; "I heard you say something." "Now you've gone and waked Davie up," exclaimed Polly, in a tone of great vexation. "Goody!" screamed Joel, "now you will let him go fishing, won't you?" And he jumped to his feet and ran to the window to thrust his stubby head over the sill. "Dave, Dave, come out an' see the lot o' worms I've dug." "No," said Polly, feeling dreadfully at the sight of David's face, as it fell at her words. "I'm sorry, Davie, but you were real tired, an' Mamsie wouldn't like you to go off any this afternoon." "It's only to Cherry Brook," cried Joel, loudly. "Now, Polly Pepper, I think you're real mean to keep him in, an' we'd catch a whole lot o' fish, an' maybe have some for supper." It was always Joel's ambition to catch a fish big enough to cook, but as the brook, a little tumbling stream over a few ragged rocks, on the edge of Deacon Brown's meadow lot, only held minnows, with an occasional turtle and frog, this had never as yet happened. Phronsie laid down the bit of calico she was puckering up by drawing through it a needle to which a coarse thread was tied, and looked gravely at Joel. "You must not say so of my Polly," she said gravely, shaking her head. Joel's black hair ducked beneath the window. "I didn't mean--" he mumbled. "Polly, I didn't, truly." Then he flung himself on the grass and burst into tears, kicking over the pail. The angleworms wriggled along till they got to the edge, then quietly took themselves off. David drew a long sigh and folded his hands. "I'm not a bit tired, and I should like to go, Polly," he said. "No, Davie dear," said Polly, kindly, "you'd be tired before you'd gone halfway. And Mamsie wouldn't like it. Do go back and lie down again on the bed." "Oh, I can't," said little David, shrugging his shoulders, "it's all alone in there, Polly." "Well, I can't leave my sewing, and you must have it dark, or else you won't go to sleep. Do try, Davie, that's a good boy." But little Davie still shrugged his shoulders, and wouldn't even look at the bedroom door, but kept his back toward it. "Dear me, Phronsie," cried Polly, in despair. "Now, if you'd go in and lie down by his side and hold his hand, maybe he'd go to sleep. He's half sick, and I don't want Mamsie to come home and find him so." "I've got to sew, Polly," said Phronsie, with an important air, and holding up her mangy bit of calico, where all but one corner was in a pucker, "so I must stay right here and finish it. Truly, I must, Polly." "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, quickly, "then I don't know what is to be done. And Mamsie will come home, and then what will she say?" with another worried glance at David's flushed cheeks. Phronsie drew a long breath and set another crooked stitch. "I'll go, Polly," at last she said, with a long sigh, putting the puckered calico bit, with the needle hanging, carefully on the floor by her side. Then she got slowly out of her little wooden chair. "Now, that's a good girl," cried Polly, reaching out her arms to catch her, and nearly smothering her with kisses. "Whatever should I do without you, Phronsie, pet? I'm sure I don't know." "You couldn't do without me, could you, Polly?" cried Phronsie, very much pleased as Polly let her go and flew back to her sewing again. "No in-_deed_!" cried Polly, warmly. "There, take Davie's hand, and both of you go into the bedroom like good children, and shut the door and go to sleep. That's nice!" and she smiled approvingly at them as they disappeared. Joel cried on and on, his tears trailing off into the grass, till at last, as Polly took no notice of him, he raised his head to look in at the window at her. She didn't seem to see him, but sewed on and on quite composedly, as if Joel were not there. So he finally jumped up, and seeing his tin pail overturned on its side, he hurried to investigate. "Oh, my worms have all run off!" he shouted. "Polly, the bad old things have every single one of 'em run away!" and he beat the bottom of the pail with the broken iron spoon in his vexation. "Joel Pepper!" cried Polly, a little red spot coming in either cheek as she flung down her work on the floor by Phronsie's calico bit, "that's twice you've made a most awful noise; now you'll wake Davie up again, you bad, naughty boy," and without stopping to think, she dashed out doors, and before Joel could hardly breathe, she seized his shoulders and shook him smartly. "Oh, what have I done! What have I done!" she exclaimed, and throwing herself down on the grass, she covered her face with her hands, waving back and forth in distress. "You shook me!" cried Joel, his black eyes sparkling in anger. "Now I'll beat you, Polly Pepper," and he raised the old broken iron spoon. There they were--two little Peppers--oh, dreadful, to tell it--and Mamsie away! "You may, Joe," said Polly, brokenly, and rocking back and forth, while the big tears dripped down between her fingers, "for I've been bad to you, and Mamsie away." She could hardly speak for her sobs. "How could I! Oh, Joey, I'm so sorry. O dear--dear--dear!" She went off now into such a gust of crying, that Joel forgot all about his anger. He threw away the spoon, and kneeling beside her, he put his arms about her neck. "Don't cry, Polly," he begged, "please don't." "I can't help it, Joe," said Polly, struggling with her sobs. "O dear me! I can't ever forgive myself. I don't see how I came to do it. O dear me!" At last Joel, in despair, jumped to his feet. "I'm going to get Grandma Bascom." "Oh, no, you mustn't, Joe," cried Polly, bringing a very red face suddenly to view, the tears running in little rivers down her nose and cheeks. "There, see! I'm not going to cry any more. Come back, Joe," for he was starting off at a lively pace. "Sure?" cried Joel, stopping a minute. "Yes, I won't cry any more," cried poor Polly, swallowing very hard--"there, see, Joey dear," and she wiped off the last tear. "Now I'll help you dig some more worms," she said, racking her brains to think of something by which to make up to Joel for the shaking. "Will you?" cried Joel, in delight. "Oh, Polly, how nice! Here's the spoon--here's the spoon," and he ran and picked it out of the long grass. "Yes, I will," promised Polly, stifling a sigh as she thought of the work to be made up in some way on the coat seams. "And I'll sit here and see you," remarked Joel, doubling up in an easy position on the grass, "'cause you see there isn't but one spoon, Polly. Now dig a good lot," he said with a restful stretch. So Polly dug and dug away, being careful to select long, fat worms. And presently there was a good number all wriggling away in the bottom of the pail. And at last Joel hopped up and peered in. "Oh, Polly, what a lot! An' they're juicy ones, and a great deal better'n mine. Now I guess I'll catch some fish, an' you shall fry 'em for supper." He seized the pail, and slung the pole over his shoulder again, and trudged off. "All right," said Polly, with a loving little pat, "and oh, Joey, I'm so sorry I was cross and shook you." "I don't care," said Joel, pleasantly, "'cause you dug my worms for me, Polly," and he raced off. But Polly went into the little brown house with a very sober face. And it wasn't till all the children, Ben and all, were abed that night, and she crept into Mamsie's arms and sobbed it all out on her breast, that she felt better and like being Polly again. Joel rushed through the undergrowth and tangle of berry bushes, breaking through the wild grape vines that slapped him in the face and caught his pole; and, creeping and ducking under them, at last he struck the little path to the Cherry Brook, that gurgled its way along Farmer Brown's meadow. Underneath the cool trees it was dank and mossy, and he flung himself down to rest, first carefully setting his precious pail up against a big stone. "I'm just goin' to catch the biggest fish you ever saw, Joel Pepper," he exclaimed to himself, for want of company. "Yes sir-_ree_," untwisting the string which, for want of a fishing line, he had tied to his pole. "Then I guess, when Polly sees it, she'll be glad. Now I'll get the very juiciest worm in the pail." So he went to the pail, and was just leaning over to investigate its depths, when he heard voices. Joel knew in a minute whose they were, and he tried to scrabble his things together and run and hide them in the thick bushes, when the boys to whom the voices belonged broke through the undergrowth on the other side of the brook. "It's the Pepper boy," said one of them in an awful whisper. Then they stood still a minute, all three staring at each other. At last Joel picked up his pole and started to march away. "Hold on," called one of the boys, the biggest and dirtiest, and he jumped across the brook. Joel went steadily along as well as he could for the vines and stubby trees, determined not to turn back for anybody's call, at any rate that dirty Jim Belden. But Jim gave him no chance to think, and the first thing he knew, Joel was seized roughly by the shoulder. "Gimme them worms," and Jim tugged at the handle of the pail. "I won't; they're my worms," screamed Joel, hanging on for dear life; "so there, now! you go right away. Polly dug 'em, Polly dug 'em," he kept saying. But the scuffle was short, as the other boy raced up, and pulled too, so that pretty soon Joel was tumbled heels over head, into the brook, and the pail was in the hands of the biggest boy, who cried out joyfully, "Oh, see what a lot! now we'll go up to th' 'Pool.'" This was a deep spot a half mile or so away, where the stream widened. Mrs. Pepper never allowed the two boys to go there, unless Ben could go too, which was seldom indeed, and only looked upon as a very great treat. Joel burst out in a great passion, as soon as he could scramble out of the brook, "Give me back my pail!" and he looked so very fierce, although he was so small, that without another word the other two ran away as fast as they could. Joel plunged after them, angrier every minute, and instead of turning off to the "Pool," Jim and the other boy ran straight across Deacon Brown's field. "Oh, now he'll catch 'em," thought Joel, joyfully, without a thought of giving up the race. There was a man off in the further corner of the field. "Mr. Br-own," screamed Joel, shrilly. "Mr. Br-own!" Jim and the other boy, seeing their mistake, turned off to the undergrowth. "Hold on there!" commanded Deacon Brown, in a dreadful voice. So there was nothing to do but stop. [Illustration: "'GIVE ME BACK MY PAIL!'"] But when he got to the spot where they stood rooted to the ground, there were no worms in the pail, they having been jiggled out in the chase. So Joel had to go back, and pick up his pole with the string hanging to it, and carry that home and his empty pail. "But that Jim Belden didn't have the worms, anyway," he said, with great satisfaction. VIII WHY THEY SAID NO Ben came in and hung his cap up on its peg behind the door. Polly didn't see his face, for she was tying on Phronsie's eating apron, and Mother Pepper was in the pantry, else some one would have discovered that he was strangely excited. "Come," said Polly, "we can't wait any longer for those boys. Can we, Mamsie?" she called. "No, we better sit down," said Mrs. Pepper, coming out with a plate in her hand. "I'm sorry they're late, for I've got a surprise for you all to-night." She set the plate on the table, and her black eyes sparkled. "Now, then, see that!" "Ooh!" cried Polly, her brown eyes very wide, while Phronsie stopped climbing into her chair to precipitate herself into the midst of the group. "See, Ben! See!" exclaimed Polly, "it's white cake with real frosting on top. Oh, Mammy, where did you get it?" Ben looked at the six big slices lying across the plate, but he didn't seem to see them. However, Polly didn't notice, for she was dancing around the table with Phronsie, to see which side the cake looked the best. "White on top--real white on top!" sang Phronsie, beating her little hands together. "I know it," cried Polly, almost as much excited. "Oh, how I wish those two boys were here! Mamsie, where _did_ you get it? from dear Mrs. Henderson, I s'pose." "No, guess again," said Mrs. Pepper, cheerily. Then she looked at Ben steadily out of her black eyes. "I was going past Miss Barber's, and she knocked on the window, and when I stopped she ran out, and gave it to me all done up. 'I've been watching for you,' she said, 'for I knew you were helping at Deacon Brown's to-day. We had comp'ny last night, and I want you to have some of sister's cake. She's had real good luck.' So that's all the story about the cake, Polly." Mother Pepper still looked at Ben, though she spoke as cheerily as ever. "I'm so glad Miss Barber did have company last night," said Polly, her mouth watering for the taste of "sister's cake." "I want a piece," said Phronsie, stopping her dance suddenly, to hold out both hands. "Oh, no, Phronsie," said Polly, with a little laugh, "you must eat your bread first. Folks don't ever eat cake first." "Don't they?" asked Phronsie. "No, indeed; there, hop up into your chair." Polly flew into her own. "Why don't those boys come?" she cried in a vexed little way. "It won't make them come any quicker to fret over it," observed Mother Pepper, composedly, and getting into her chair. "Come, Ben, sit down, and we'll begin." So the grace was said, and the bread was passed. "Oh, Ben!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay, "you didn't wash your hands!" as he was going to take a piece. "I forgot it," said Ben, looking down at them. Then he got out of his chair and went out into the woodshed, where a tin basin and a towel and soap were always ready, for Mother Pepper said they might be poor, and that they couldn't help, but they could keep clean and nice. Polly nibbled at her dry bread, but she couldn't keep her eyes off the cake, and Phronsie bit little pieces all around the edge of her slice. Then she laid it down. "Now I'm ready for the cake," she said, holding out both hands again. "Please give it to me, Mammy." "Oh, no, Phronsie," said Mrs. Pepper, shaking her head, "Mother can't give it to you till you've eaten all your slice. Besides, you must wait till Polly is through, and I will pass it to her first." "I don't want any more bread, Mammy dear," said Phronsie, gravely. "You must eat it," said Mrs. Pepper, firmly. "See, Phronsie, mine's going fast," cried Polly, with another bite that rapidly diminished her slice. "Oh, you can't think how soon it will be gone, if you begin to eat." And Polly munched away determinedly, but she kept looking at the cake. Ben came in, and slid into his chair, and took a piece of bread. "Why don't those boys--" began Polly. "Oh, I forgot, Mamsie," with a little laugh, and the door opened, and in burst Joel and David with very red faces, and talking at once. "Oh, it's comin'!" "Over at Hillsbury--" "Horses and--" "Monkeys--" "And a big elephant and--" "A band--" this from Joel, who screamed it above Davie's faint treble. "And a bear, and a hippi--hoppi--" Polly dropped her bread-slice in astonishment, and Mrs. Pepper sat quite straight in her chair. Phronsie had just concluded to try again and do like Polly, so she sat quite still and stared, with her bread halfway to her mouth. Ben's head drooped over his plate, and he pushed his bread in rapidly, nearly choking himself. "Boys," said Mrs. Pepper, "don't both talk together. Joel, you may begin, because you are the oldest." But it was impossible to stop them, as they rushed up to her and threw their arms around her. "Oh, Mammy," cried little Davie, his cheeks aflame, "you can't think--there's monkeys!" At that Phronsie gave a little squeal, and before Polly could stop her, she slipped out of her chair and plunged over to her mother. "Oh, Mammy, I want a monkey, I do." "And bears--and horses," shouted Joel, winding both arms around Mother Pepper's neck. "Whatever in all this world!" exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, looking over their heads. Then her eyes fell on Ben. "Do you know anything of all this?" she asked. "Yes'm," said Ben, his head dropping lower yet, while Joel and David howled on, and Phronsie screamed to be taken up in her mother's lap, and that she wanted a monkey too. Polly sat as if paralyzed. "What is it?" asked Mrs. Pepper. "The circus," said Ben, slowly, "coming over to Hillsbury." Polly sprang from her chair, upsetting it, and plunged over to Mrs. Pepper. "Oh, Mamsie!" she screamed, as loud as the others, "the circus! the circus! Oh, oh! Can't we go? We must!" Poor Mrs. Pepper sank back in her chair, with the four little Peppers swarming all around her, and all pleading together, till the kitchen seemed fairly to ring with the noise. "We can't, Polly," said Ben, hoarsely. "You know we can't. And Joel and David ought not to have told." Polly turned a deaf ear, and kept on, "Oh, Mamsie, we've never seen one, 'cept the pictures. We must go!" On hearing this from Polly, Joel and David made as much worse clamor as was possible, drowning Phronsie's voice. "Aren't you ashamed, Polly!" cried Ben over at her. "You know we can't go, so what's the use?" "We can go," cried Polly, passionately, back at him, "if Mamsie'll only say so. We've never seen one, and we _must_ go." "Now, children," said Mother Pepper, in a firm voice that rose above the din, "stop, every one of you, at once, and go and sit down." When Mamsie spoke like that, the five little Peppers always knew that she meant to be obeyed, so they drew off from her and tumbled into their chairs; all but Phronsie. "I'll take you into my lap," said Mother Pepper, so Phronsie snuggled, well-contented, in her usual nest, and folded her small hands. "Now, then," said Mrs. Pepper, "as it is quiet enough so I can think, I'll hear the story. Ben, you may begin." "Oh, let me--let me, Mamsie," begged Joel. "You said I might, 'cause I'm the oldest." "That was because it was between you and David to tell it, and you didn't take the chance," said Mother Pepper, coolly. "Now Ben must do it." "Why, there's a big yellow paper down to the store," began Ben, slowly, and trying to make it as short as possible, "and--" "It's got pictures of all the horses," interrupted Joel, springing up from his seat, his black eyes dancing, "and--" "Joel, sit down," said Mrs. Pepper, sternly, "and don't interrupt. Go on, Ben." Joel dropped, as if shot, back into his chair. "And it's comin' to Hillsbury next week Wednesday," went on Ben, unwillingly, "and that's all, Mamsie. Only Joe and David shouldn't a-told." "Tisn't all," declared Polly, defiantly, with very red cheeks; "we must go! We've never seen a circus, and now it's goin' to be in Hillsbury, we _must_ go!" She seemed unable to stop herself. Ben stared at her in amazement. "Must is a hard word to use, Polly," said Mother Pepper, dryly. "I mean you'll let us, I 'most know," mumbled Polly, her cheeks turning scarlet, and twisting her hands together. "Won't you, Mamsie?" "Won't you, Mamsie?" piped Phronsie, poking her head up like a little bird out of her nest, to look into Mother Pepper's face. "How much does it cost, Ben?" asked Mrs. Pepper, smiling down at her baby, but not answering. "Fifteen cents for any one over twelve, and ten cents for boys and girls under twelve," said Ben. "Um, that would be one fifteen cents for you, and ten cents for Polly and Joel, and--" "Why, you must go, Mamsie," cried Polly; "we shouldn't any of us want to go without you, should we, Ben?" "No, indeed," said Ben. "But we ain't any of us going, Polly," he finished. At this there was another howl, breaking out from the two boys. Polly turned quite pale, but said nothing. "Be quiet, Joel and David," said Mrs. Pepper, turning her black eyes on them. "No, children, if I could let you go at all, I should trust you with such a boy as Ben, and such a girl as Polly, to look after you." Polly raised her head, that had drooped at her mother's reproof, and Ben sat quite straight in his chair. "But I don't see as it's right for me to let you go." There was a sign of another outbreak, but something in Mamsie's eyes stopped it halfway. "In the first place, it's five miles to Hillsbury," said Mrs. Pepper, slowly, as if trying to put off the final decision as long as possible; "and you younger children couldn't walk it." "I could, Mamsie," declared Joel, springing up again. "Sit down, Joel; well, Davie couldn't. I shouldn't be willing for him to try, and walk clear back. And Phronsie--" Mrs. Pepper looked down at Phronsie's yellow head, and smiled. It wasn't necessary for her to say a word. "Mr. Tisbett'll be goin' over," said little Davie, hopefully, "an' he can take us." "And that would cost money," said Mrs. Pepper. "Somebody will let us sit in behind," said Joel, confidently; "there'll be lots of wagons goin'." "And ever so many people going in them," added Mrs. Pepper. "No, my children shan't ever be a burden to other folks," and she lifted her head proudly. "Polly, run into the bedroom and get the stocking-leg." The stocking-leg, in the upper drawer of the big bureau that belonged to Father Pepper's mother, always held the stray quarters and half dollars laid up for a nest-egg against a rainy day. Polly jumped out of her chair, glad to have something to do, and ran into the bedroom. "I sh'd have screamed if I'd sat there another minute longer," she said, leaning up against the bureau. "O dear me! We _must_--I mean, what shall we do if we can't go? I guess Mamsie will let us go." And she pulled open the upper drawer, took out the stocking-leg, and ran back to put it in Mrs. Pepper's hand. Mrs. Pepper slowly untied the red flannel string and shook out the contents on the table, the eyes of all five little Peppers riveted on them. There were six silver quarters, three halves, two ten-cent pieces, and eight pennies. "Three dollars and twenty-eight cents," said Mrs. Pepper, slowly, as she set the pieces in a row. No one dared to speak, except Joel. "What a lot!" he cried joyfully; "now we can go, Mammy, can't we? Oh, whickets!" and he clapped David on the back. "Children," said Mrs. Pepper, and her eyes swept the whole circle around the table, but they rested on Polly's face, "there won't anything pay very well, circus or anything else, if we go when we hadn't ought to. We haven't got a debt, thank the Lord, but that money--" she pointed to the row--"is all that keeps us from it." It was impossible for Joel not to see by Polly's and Ben's faces, more than by what Mrs. Pepper had said, that they were not really to go, and he flung himself out of the chair and face downward on the floor, breaking into heartrending sobs, little Davie at once joining him. Polly got out of her seat and hurried over to them on unsteady feet. "Boys," she said in a broken little voice, "don't cry so. You make Mamsie feel badly. Look at her face." But they didn't hear her. "Boys,"--she got down close to them and put her mouth to Joel's ear,--"you are making Mamsie sick," she said; "just look at her face." At the word "sick," Joel stopped screaming, and bobbed up his head to take a good look at Mrs. Pepper. "Mamsie, don't be sick," he screamed, now thoroughly frightened. And jumping up, he ran to throw his arms around her, and hug her tightly. "Mother won't be sick as long as she's got such good children as she has," cried Mother Pepper, putting her arms around Joel, to draw him close to her. But her lips were very white. "Now, boys," said Ben, "I sh'd think you were two big babies, you act so. Joel's most a man, he's so big." "I'm big, too, Ben," said David, getting up from the floor and wiping off the tears with the back of a grimy hand. "I'm most as tall as Joel is," and he stood very straight. "Hoh! he isn't either," contradicted Joel, turning his round face, all tear-stained and streaky. "Now just look here, Ben," and he sprang out from Mother Pepper's arms and rushed up to David's side. "There, sir!" "Well, you are both of you big enough to act better," said Ben, coolly. "Come on, now, to supper." "You're standing on your tiptoes," cried little David, getting down on the floor by Joel to investigate. "Isn't he, Polly? Come and see." "I'm not either," cried Joel, flatly; "hear my heels." And he slapped them down on the floor smartly. "Children, don't quarrel," said Polly, finding her voice, "and come to supper. I don't b'lieve you know what we've got." "What?" asked Joel, indifferently, feeling quite sure of the dry bread and possible molasses. "Come and see," called Polly, trying to speak gayly. "I see," piped David, craning his neck. Since he couldn't be as tall as Joel, it was well to turn his attention to other matters. "_Cake!_" "Yes," said Phronsie, poking her head up again to shake it very gravely, "it's cake. And please may I have some, Mammy?" holding out her hand. "So you shall," said her mother; "dear knows, I can't expect you to wait any longer for it. Polly, give her a good piece." When Joel saw Polly handing out cake with white frosting on top, his black eyes stuck out, and he rushed without delay for his seat, teasing for a piece at once. But on Polly's assuring him that the bread must be eaten first, he began at once on the slice she cut for him. And being really very hungry, now that they had time to think about it, the two boys soon had their portions eaten, nobody discovering, in the excitement, that the little hands were grimy, until Phronsie spoke. "See Joey's hands, Polly," and then everybody looked. "My!" exclaimed Polly, quite herself, now. "I never saw such hands, Joel Pepper! Go right away and wash 'em as soon as ever you can." "Smutty hands and cake!" exclaimed Mother Pepper. Joel was so busy cramming the cake into his mouth that he didn't half hear. "I'm most through," he mumbled. "Lay down your cake, and go and wash your face and hands at once, Joel," commanded Mrs. Pepper. "Dave'll eat it," said Joel, his mouth half full. "Oh, no, I won't," said little David, "and I'm going too, to wash mine." So he laid his cake-slice on his plate, and ran into the woodshed. "You had a bigger piece than mine," said Joel, getting the tin basin first, and filling it at the pump. "No, I didn't," said David; "they were just alike." "Well, it's bigger now," said Joel, bringing the basin to set it on the wood bench and thrust his face in. Then he splashed his hands, and gave them a hasty wipe on the long brown towel hanging from the rack. "Anyway, it's bigger now. There, I'm done, and you ought to give me a bite of yours." Little David gave a sigh. "Well, you may have just one," he said slowly. Then he threw out the water from the basin, and carefully filled it again, while Joel dashed back gleefully into the kitchen. "Joel, what are you doing, biting Davie's cake!" exclaimed Polly, a minute afterward, and looking across the table while she snipped off a little piece of the white frosting from her slice, wishing the whole world was made of cake with white on top, and wondering how long she could make hers last. "Dave said I might," said Joel, with a very red face, and one cheek very much puffed out, while he turned David's slice over so that it didn't show where the big bite had been taken off. But his face grew quite red, and he didn't look in her brown eyes. "For shame, Joe!" cried Ben at him, in a way that made Mother Pepper look around. She hadn't heard Polly. Down went Joe under the table, and in a minute or two David hurried in. Nobody said a word. David picked up his cake, and his face fell as he saw the big hole. But he said nothing, and fell to nibbling. "I'd give some back, but mine's et up," said Joel, miserably, under the table. "It's too bad, David," said Polly; "here now, you may have some of mine," and she broke off a generous bit. "I told him he might have a bite," meekly said David, who never could bear to have Joel blamed. "I wanted him to have it," he added cheerfully. "O dear-dear-dear," boohooed Joel. Davie dropped his cake in a worried way. "Don't, Joey," he said, leaning over to look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," blubbered Joel. "O dear me!" David, unable to bear it any longer, slipped out of his chair, and crept under the table to comfort Joel. But it wasn't till Polly said, "Come, Joey," that he would show his face. Then he twisted his knuckles into his eyes, and hung his head. Mother Pepper said never a word, only held out her arms, and Joel walked straight into them, bursting into the loud sob he had held back so long; and then she took his hand and led him into the bedroom, and the rest of the children sat still and very uncomfortable, and Davie wouldn't look at his cake. When they came out again, Joel marched straight to David, and said, "You may have my knife." Joel's knife, with the tip of one blade broken, and the other all gone, was his dearest treasure. It had been given to him by Deacon Brown, and its possession had made him very proud and boastful. It was the one thing Davie longed for, above all others. "Oh, no, Joe, not your knife!" he cried, aghast, and shrinking back. "Yes, you may have it," said Joel, decidedly, and running out into the entry to hurry into the woodshed to the wooden box where he kept his treasures. "Yes, Davie, I would take it," said Mrs. Pepper. "Joel feels very sorry he's taken any of your cake, and he'd rather you had the knife." "But it's Joel's knife," said Davie, "and he loves it." "Not so much as he does to grow up a good boy," said Mother Pepper, proudly, as Joel came running in and laid the knife on the table in front of David. "It's yours, and I'm sorry I et your cake," he said in one burst. Polly hopped out of her seat, and ran around the table to take Joel's black stubby head in her two hands. "Oh, Joel! I'm so glad!" she cried, in a happy little gust. "Good for you, Joe!" cried Ben, approvingly. "Pooh!" exclaimed Joel, twisting off, his face getting redder and redder. "Mamsie, stop 'em--do;" yet he liked it very much. "Oh, Ben," cried Polly, after the last scrap of the wonderful cake had disappeared, the dishes were cleared away, and Phronsie put to bed, and everything was spick-span once more, "I've just thought of something perfectly splendid!" "What is it?" cried Joel, who, despite all his efforts, was just beginning to think of the circus again. "Do tell, Polly! Now you're goin' to whisper with Ben, and you won't tell us." "No, I shan't--and yes, I will," said Polly, all in the same breath. "It's this, Mamsie. Mayn't we have a little play out in the orchard next Wednesday, and can't Joel and David sit up a little longer to-night to talk it over? I've just thought of something splendid to act." "Oh, may we, may we?" cried the two boys, in a tumult. "Instead of the circus," Polly's brown eyes were saying. "Do, Mammy." "Yes, you may," said Mrs. Pepper, indulgently, "sit up half an hour longer." "We've had a cake to-night, and now Mamsie's going to let you two boys sit up. I think nobody ever had such a perfectly beautiful time," declared Polly, as they dragged their chairs around the table again, and Mamsie got out her big mending basket, "did you, Ben Pepper?" "No, I never did, Polly," said Ben, happy in seeing her face bright and rosy once more, with the little smiles running all over it. "Now begin," cried Joel, drumming impatiently on the table; "what's the play to be, Polly? I'm going to be a bear," he announced. "Oh, Joel, you were a bear last time," said Polly, with a little frown between her eyebrows. "I don't care, I'm going to be a bear," repeated Joel, obstinately. "See here, now, Polly makes this play, and you've got to be just what she says," said Ben. "I'm so tired making plays with bears in 'em," said Polly, pushing off the little rings of brown hair with an impatient hand. Then she caught her mother's eye. "Never mind, Joey," she said with a gay little laugh, "I'll make the bear." "Yes, you must be tired," declared Ben. "Joe, you oughtn't to tease Polly so. It's bad enough to have to make the plays, I think." "Oh, I don't care," laughed Polly. "Well, now here's the play. You see, we want something quite fine and extra," and she looked at Ben meaningly. He nodded, so she rushed ahead, well pleased. "Well, the name is Mr. Primrose and his Cat." "And the bear," shouted Joel. "And I know what I'm going to do, Polly, I'm going to eat the cat up." "Oh, no, you mustn't, Joe," said Polly, "for the cat is going to be Phronsie. Now you must be good and not scare her." "I'll tell her I'm nothing but Joel, and I ain't a bear," said Joel. "Hush about your old bear, Joe," said Ben. "Polly can't get on at all if you don't keep still." "I'll fix it, Joey," said Polly, kindly, "so you can be a bear, only you must promise not to roar too much and scare Phronsie." "I won't scare her a single bit, Polly," promised Joel, eagerly. So then Joel and his bear being settled, Polly launched forth on the wonderful play, and Mother Pepper glanced up now and then from her mending, and a smile began to come on the face that had been soberly bent on her work. "Poor things!" she said to herself. "And bless 'em, for the comforts they are!" But she sighed as she glanced around the bare old kitchen. IX THE BAG OF RYE FLOUR All that week Mother Pepper kept Joel and David away from the Store, and Polly or Ben had to go, whenever the errands made it necessary. Polly, when it was her turn, did not trust herself to look at the flaming yellow sheets of paper with the big staring letters across them, stuck up in the dirty store windows, or hung from the beams in among the kitchen utensils, or breadths of calico and gingham, wherever they would attract the most attention. One, in particular, was nailed up just inside the door. It was pretty hard to avoid this, but Polly turned her head away, and tried not to think of it, but keep her mind on what Mamsie said just before starting. "Don't keep looking at what you want and can't have, but keep busy over what you can have;" so she set her brain hard to work over the play, trying to decide whether she would have Mr. Primrose, who was to be Ben, rescue from the bear the white cat, who was to be Phronsie, in the remains of the old white fuzzy mat that Mrs. Henderson had given them to play with, or whether she (Polly), who was to be the fairy, should change her back into the small damsel she was at first, or whether-- "Well, Polly, my girl," said Mr. Atkins, with a hearty laugh, "I've spoke to you three times, and you seem deef to-day." He was a jolly good-tempered man, and very kind to Mrs. Pepper, sometimes giving her sacks and coats to make when he really didn't need them just then; and though he never waited for his money but once, and that was when the children had the measles, and Joel nearly died, he used to give large measures of things, and sometimes he'd slip in an apple or two, and once a whole fine orange went into the bag of Indian meal, so as to be a surprise when it was opened at home. So Polly liked Mr. Atkins very much. Now she blushed rosy red. "Oh, I didn't mean--" she began, and was just going to say, "Please, I'd like three pounds rye flour, Mr. Atkins," when he broke out, "I s'pose you're athinkin' about the circus--don't wonder--I got my mind some on it myself." "O dear, no," cried Polly, hastily, all in a tremble, and only anxious to get it out of her mind as soon as possible, and whirling around with her back to the wonderful picture. "I s'pose, now, your Ma don't approve of 'em," he said, looking quite solemn all at once; "well there, I s'pose they ain't quite 'xactly the thing, but they look pretty nice on paper. See that fellow, now, Polly, a-flyin' through that ring. Beats all how they do it. Makes my head spin to look at him. See there!" and Mr. Atkins pointed a stubby forefinger, shaking with excitement, to the big poster hanging by the counter. "Oh, I can't look, Mr. Atkins," she said hastily. "Please do hurry and give me the flour." And then she got so very miserable, for fear she had been rude, that she stood quite still, and the color flew out of her cheek. "I s'pose your Ma don't approve," observed Mr. Atkins again, not being able to tear his gaze off from the splendid evolutions of the man flying through the ring, and others of a like nature; "well-well-well, I d'no's 'tis 'xactly the thing, but then--an' then them horses. Why, Polly, this man is a-ridin' five great strong prancing ones all to once, dancing like ginger." Polly gave a great gasp. "Oh, if Joel could only see those horses once! It was too bad--it was cruel." Her heart seemed to jump into her throat, and to choke her. "We _must_ go!" It seemed to her as if she screamed it, as she started suddenly and ran out of the store on wild little feet. But Mr. Atkins, and the men and boys and women and girls left behind, were all staring open-mouthed at the pictures, and spelling out the no less wonderful descriptions of the staring yellow posters with the big flaring letters, so no one noticed her particularly, until the storekeeper tore his gaze away from the man flying through the paper rings, and the other one riding five prancing horses, and remarked, "I declare, I don't b'lieve I put up that rye flour for Polly Pepper, after all. Well, she'll come back for it, most likely, so I'll get it ready. Three pounds, she said." So he weighed it out, and tied it up, and set it to one side, saying to the frowsy-haired boy who helped him, "Jim, that's Mrs. Pepper's little girl's bundle, now remember." "Yes," said Jim, with no eyes or ears for anything but the circus posters. Polly ran across the road, and into Mr. Slimmen's meadow opposite, and to the further end, where she flung herself down on the stone wall, and pushed off the brown hair from her hot forehead. "O dear me, how could I!" she cried, twisting her hands tightly together. "What would Mamsie say! Now she never'll trust me to go to the store again. Oh, I shall cry! O dear, dear!" "_Moo!_" said Mr. Slimmen's cow, coming close to the stone wall, to lay a friendly nose on Polly's gingham sleeve, and to stare with wide eyes of surprise at her being there at all. "O dear me!" cried Polly, glad of anything to speak to, and laying her hot face against the soft one so near, and she threw her arms up over the cow's neck. "_Moo!_" said Mr. Slimmen's cow, as if she quite understood the matter, and no one need explain. And Polly felt quite comforted, although the dreadful thought of going back into the store nearly overcame her. But remembering that Mamsie would be waiting for her, and worry if she did not soon come back, Polly made a desperate effort and hopped off the stone wall. "_Moo!_" said Mr. Slimmen's cow, as if sorry to have her go, as Polly ran off, determined to get it over with as soon as possible. She had her bundle tucked under her arm, glad that no one had spoken to her; for Jim just pointed to it, when she laid the money down on the counter, and then turned back to study the poster again, and was skipping over the ground, when she met Joel coming at a lively pace down the road. "Oh, Polly, what a lot of time you've been gone!" he exclaimed. "Mamsie sent me after you." "Did she?" cried Polly, in dismay. "Well, we must hurry back then, as fast as we can." "I'm goin' to the store," said Joel, edging down toward Mr. Atkins'. "What for?" demanded Polly, stopping a moment. "Did Mamsie send you for anything?" "N-no--not exactly," said Joel, digging his bare toes into the sand; "but I might--might--p'r'aps get a letter, Polly," he added, as a bright idea struck him. Mr. Atkins, besides being the storekeeper, was also postmaster. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Polly; "why, Mamsie never has any letters, Joel. There isn't anybody to write to her." "She may, p'r'aps," said Joel, confidently "there may be one this afternoon. I'm goin' to see," and he darted off before Polly had time to stop him. "_Joel_!" she called, running after him. But as well try to stop the north wind. Joel raced up over the steps and disappeared within the store. Polly, endeavoring to reach him before he saw the yellow and red posters again, put forth all her effort, but stubbed her toe against a big stone, and fell flat. Away flew her bundle of flour--thud went the paper bag, and off came the string, and there it was all spilled on the ground. Joel didn't ask about the letter for Mamsie, but the minute his black eyes fell on those horses careering and prancing and dancing, he was nearly beside himself. And pushing in between the men and boys of the largest group, he stared, spellbound, and lost to everything else. "Now that's too bad!" said a voice that Polly loved dearly to hear, and some one lifted her up out of the sandy road. The dust was all in her eyes, so she couldn't see for a minute, but she knew 'twas Parson Henderson. "Well, Polly, I don't believe you are much hurt," he said kindly. "A tumble in the dirt isn't the worst thing in the world, is it?" Polly looked around for her bundle, anxiously. All the while she was saying, "Oh, thank you, sir. I'm not hurt a bit." But all the money for the rye flour gone! She could get no more, for Mamsie never had things charged, although Mr. Atkins was quite willing to do so. "'Tisn't safe," Mrs. Pepper always said; "if I do it once, I may again, so I'll pay as I go." Parson Henderson looked off the road over his spectacles and saw the rye flour all sprinkled on every side, just where it had flown. "Now that's too bad!" he said. "Well, Polly, they say it's no use to cry over spilt milk, and I suppose spilt flour is just as bad," and he took her hand. "Let us see if Mr. Atkins hasn't some more." But Polly hung back; still, she must go into the store and get Joel. So she started forward again, and said impulsively, "I won't get any more flour, please, Mr. Henderson, but Joel's there, and he must come home with me." "I'm intending to get some flour to send to Mrs. Pepper," said Parson Henderson, "and you don't have anything to do about it, but to carry the bundle, Polly," he added lightly. So they were presently in the centre of the store. When Mr. Atkins saw the minister, he got away from the red and yellow poster as soon as he could, and came forward, rubbing his hands. So Mr. Henderson, not saying a word about Polly's accident, bought some rye flour, and several other things for the parsonage, chatting pleasantly all the time. But the storekeeper didn't say a word about the circus. Polly was up by Joel, where he stood, his round face plastered up to the flaming sheet. "Come home, Joey," she whispered, trying to draw him off. "Gee-wheezes!" exclaimed Joel, his cheeks red as fire, and his black eyes sticking out. "See, Polly, I can ride as good as that man," pointing to the one who had so roused Mr. Atkins' admiration, "if I had five horses. Yes, sir-_ree_!" The farmers standing about burst out laughing, and punched each other to see him. "Joel," said Polly, in a low voice, and putting her arm around him, "come home at once, that's a good boy!" "Look at that white horse, Polly!" cried Joel, quite gone with excitement. "See him dance, like this, Polly," and he slapped his sturdy leg, and kicked out suddenly. Everybody laughed, the farmers guffawing in delight; and one small girl on the edge of the group who burst out, "Tehe-ee!" couldn't stop. Joel suddenly turned and saw them all; and he doubled up his little brown fists, and squared his shoulders. "Stop laughing at me!" he cried, throwing back his head defiantly, his black eyes sparkling in anger. [Illustration: "'GEE-WHEEZES! I CAN RIDE AS GOOD AS THAT MAN'"] "Joel!" commanded Polly, in great distress. Then a hand reached over between them and touched him on the shoulder. "Come here, my boy," said Parson Henderson, and before Joel knew it, there he was marching off out of the store. Parson Henderson said not a word, only, "Run back, Polly, and get the bundle of rye flour for me. Tell Mr. Atkins I'll step in for the other things." And Polly, doing as she was bidden, and catching up with them as they walked slowly down the dusty road, heard the minister say, "Well now, Joel, I should like to go fishing with you some day." Joel, who had hung his head sheepishly, now raised it. "Oh, would you?" he cried; "that would be prime!" "Yes," said Parson Henderson, "I think it would be, Joel," and he laughed gayly. "O dear, isn't he good!" cried Polly, softly, to herself, as she gained Joel's other side. Then she suddenly ran around him, and stepped up to the minister. "I think you might walk next to me," said Joel, in a dudgeon, craning his neck to look past Parson Henderson. "So I will, Joel," answered Polly, "in a minute." Then she looked up into the minister's face. "Oh, thank you so very much, sir!" she said, the color rushing all over her round cheeks. "All right, Polly," said the minister, smiling down at her. "I've enjoyed my walk very much, and Joel and I are going fishing together, some day. Now I must say good-by," and he stopped. "Here is your bundle," said Polly, handing up the rye flour. "That's Mrs. Pepper's bundle," answered Parson Henderson, cheerily, and he was gone. "What's in the bundle?" cried Joel, crowding up to Polly. "Let me see; let me see, Polly." "Take care, Joe," said Polly, whirling around and covering the bundle with her arms as best she could, "or you'll spill it again." "Spill it again?" repeated Joel, wonderingly. "I haven't spilled any bundle, Polly Pepper. Let me see what's in it?" and he tried to get hold of one end that stuck out. "Joel Pepper!" exclaimed Polly, quite worn out, "you've been a bad, wicked boy, and now you're going to tear this bundle all to pieces. Stop it!" she commanded sharply. "I haven't been a bad, wicked boy," contradicted Joel, in a loud, vehement tone, and stamping with his bare heel in the dust that flew up in their faces in a little cloud, "so there now, Polly Pepper!" And there they were, those two little Peppers, in the middle of the road, in such a state, and Mamsie smiling over her work as she thought of her children! X MAMSIE'S SURPRISE Polly cried herself to sleep that night, although Mother Pepper had comforted and cuddled her when the whole story had come out on their return; how in a minute the passion had died down when the two children thought of Mamsie as they stood there in the road. "Joel was the first to be sorry," Polly had said generously, when confessing it all. "No, I wasn't," contradicted Joel, "Polly looked sorry first." "Polly was older," Mother Pepper had said gravely. "I know it," said Polly, and her head drooped lower yet. "But Joey was very naughty indeed in Mr. Atkins' store and besides, he ought not to have gone there." And Mrs. Pepper's face looked very sad indeed. The two children, not having a word to say to this, stood very mournfully in front of her. The bedroom door was shut fast, and Ben was doing his best out in the kitchen to keep the other two children amused, in this unwonted state of affairs. "I wish you'd punish me, Mammy," said Polly, in a broken little voice, "real hard." "And me, too," cried Joel, sniffling. "I've never punished you children since you were big enough to know better," said Mother Pepper, slowly, "and I don't believe I can begin now. And it seems to me it's the best way for you to punish yourselves. So I'll leave you to think over it," and she went out and closed the door on them. How long they sat there, Polly didn't know, and as for Joel, he was in such a state of mind, he couldn't tell anything, only that Polly and he finally crept out in the gathering dusk of the long afternoon. No one but Mother Pepper ever knew the reason for the many unwelcome little tasks that Joey did after that, and, strange to relate, without a single grumble, while as Polly couldn't very well do more work than she did at present, and as there were no luxuries to give up in the way of eatables, the Peppers having butter and other nice things only when people were good enough to send them some, it is hard to think what she could do to punish herself. But that was Mother Pepper's and Joel's and her secret. And then Mamsie cuddled them and comforted them. Only Polly, when she went to bed that night, felt the tears drop quite fast on her pillow, and that was the last thing she remembered before she dropped to sleep. Meantime, it was rather hard work rehearsing the little play. "We'd give that up, Mamsie," cried Polly, though Joel made a wry face as he agreed to it, "but the others want it so much." "But that wouldn't be a very good way: to make other people suffer for your faults," Mrs. Pepper had replied. So the work over the little play went on, as if nothing sad had happened. But Polly carried a sorry little face about, until Phronsie would look at her wonderingly, or Davie would forget to smile; on such occasions Mrs. Pepper would look at her and raise her finger warningly, and Polly would exclaim, "Oh, I forgot," and then she would toss them a merry little bit of nonsense that made them happy at once. But down in her heart Polly had many sad thoughts. At last it was the great day. Nobody said "circus," but all the five little Peppers shouted it was the Play Day! And it really didn't rain, and the sky was as blue as could be, and Mamsie stayed home that day, and oh! Polly was quite sure she smelt something very nice, when she raced into the kitchen in the middle of the morning. Mother Pepper had sent them all out to rehearse the play in the orchard, and in the midst of it Polly cried out that she had forgotten the wings she was to put on as fairy godmother, when she appeared in time to rescue the little white cat, and to change her into a small girl again. She had made them, with the greatest trouble, out of thin paper and some old wire, and for fear they would get broken in the woodshed, Mamsie had said she might put them in the lower drawer of the big bureau in the bedroom, where Phronsie's red-topped shoes were always kept wrapped up. So now Polly dashed suddenly into the kitchen to run after them. "Oh, Mamsie!" she exclaimed suddenly, wrinkling up her nose at the unwonted smell of something baking. Mother Pepper was stooping over the oven door, which was open. She closed it quickly, and stood straight. "Polly," she said, and there was a little laugh in her eyes, although her firm lips were closed, "you are not to say anything what you think to the other children." "No, Mamsie, I won't," promised Polly, with a wild thought at her heart, "Could Mamsie possibly be making a cake?" as she rushed into the bedroom, got the wings, and raced out again. And all through the rehearsing she kept thinking how good it smelt when that little whiff from the oven flew out. And Mother Pepper smiled away to herself, and the voices from the orchard, with its one scraggy apple tree, came pealing in through the open window, as the rehearsal for the grand play was in progress. And then the whole bunch of little Peppers hurried off to get some wild flowers, "for it won't be much," Polly had said, "without some posies to put on the table" (the big stone Ben had tugged home from Deacon Brown's meadow). "I'm glad Polly'll have her posies," said Mrs. Pepper, hearing that, and seeing them go on the flower-hunt, as she paused a moment at the window. "Now they'll be good to trim the ca--" And it almost popped out, and she didn't mean to whisper the secret, even to herself! When the children came back from roaming the fields and woods, with the blossoms and green vines gathered in their aprons and arms, and they were all nicely set in the cracked teacup with the handle gone that Mamsie had given them some time before, and some other dishes that Mrs. Pepper had handed out with strict charges to be careful of 'em, they all stood off in a row from the stone table, in delighted admiration. "Isn't it perfectly beautiful!" exclaimed Polly, in a rapture, and clasping her hands. "Perfectly beautiful!" breathed little David. "Be-_yew_-ful!" echoed Phronsie, hopping up and down with very pink cheeks, and her hair flying. "It looks very well, Polly," said Ben, in a practical way. "I wish we had somethin' to eat," began Joel. "Oh, Joey!" cried Polly, reproachfully. But her heart jumped at the recollection of the lovely smell that came from the oven, and Mamsie's face. "Now, children," she said, "we've got everything all done," with a quick glance around, "and Phronsie must have her nap, so's to be a nice little wide-awake white cat. Oh, Ben, leave the fur rug and the other things out under the table," as Ben began piling them up to carry back to the woodshed. "Mamsie said, Always put everything back when we'd got through playing," said Ben. "Well, she'll let us put them there, we're going to use them so soon, I know," said Polly, "if you tuck 'em in neatly. Won't you, Mamsie?" she cried, running to the window to thrust her brown head in. "Yes," said Mrs. Pepper. "And may we all come in now?" asked Polly. "Yes," said Mother Pepper again. "Don't forget your wings, Polly," cried Joel, picking them up where Polly had carefully laid them against the tree, and rushing to her, waving them aloft. "Take care, Joel" warned Ben, but too late. One wing flopped over, and caught in a knobby old branch of the apple tree, and in a minute there was a big hole right in the middle! "Oh, you--" began Polly, passionately, when she turned and saw what was done. In a minute she dashed over to Joel and threw her arms around him. "You couldn't help it," she finished, "and I can paste a piece of paper over it, and it will be most as good as new," while the children stood aghast at the mischief, and Ben exclaimed, "How could you, Joe! Why didn't you let it alone?" "I didn't mean to. And now it won't fly--fly," screamed Joel, in a gust. "Oh, yes, it will," declared Polly, merrily; "you'll see. And when I get it on, Joey Pepper, look out and look if you don't see me sailing up to the sky." Joel came out of his sobs and looked up to the blue sky, and smiled through his tears, and when David and Phronsie saw Polly so merry, they smiled too, and Ben caught Polly's eye and didn't say any more. So they all marched into the house, and Phronsie was tucked up on Mamsie's bed, for her nap, and Polly sat down to mend her broken wing. Mrs. Pepper, going on with her work, sent her a smile and loving look, that said just as plainly as words could speak it, "You're trying hard, Polly, my girl, and Mother knows it." So Polly began to hum at her task, and presently the kitchen became the very cheeriest place possible. What they would have done if any of them had happened to spy out what was on the upper shelf of the cupboard, covered carefully with a clean old towel, cannot possibly be told. At last it came to be three o'clock, the hour of the grand play. Mrs. Pepper, as audience, was seated in her big rocking chair that Ben had brought out from the kitchen and placed in the best spot on the grass to see it all, and Polly and Ben and Joel and David and Phronsie were in the depths of excitement, and flitting here and there, Polly, as chief director, having a perfectly awful time to get them into their parts, particularly as Phronsie would keep rushing up, the old white fur rug nearly tripping her up every step, to lay her soft face against Mother Pepper's, and cry out, "I'm to be a white cat, Mamsie. I truly am!" And Joel would insist on roaring like a bear, and prancing and waving his arms, around which Polly had tied a lot of black hair that Mamsie had let her take out of her cushion. [Illustration: "'I'M TO BE A WHITE CAT, MAMSIE'"] "Joel, you spoil everything!" cried Ben at him. "See here, now all your hair is tumbling off from your arms." "They ain't arms. They're paws," said Joel, stopping suddenly to look with dismay at the damage he was making. "Polly didn't tie it on good," he said, trying to stuff back the loose hair. "Yes, she did, too, real good," retorted Ben, "only you are flourishing round so, nothing would keep on you. Keep still, can't you!" "And I'll tie it on again," said Polly, "if you'll wait till I fix Davie--just a minute--there, Davie, you're all right. Now, says I, Mr. Bear," and she flew over to Joel again. Once more Mother Pepper sent her a swift approving smile, and Polly's heart was so warm that a little sunbeam seemed suddenly to have hopped right down there. And the little play went on from first to last perfectly splendidly, and Mrs. Pepper, feeling very strange indeed to be sitting there in the middle of the afternoon with nothing in her hands to work over, clapped them together and applauded enough for a big audience. And there never was such a good time in all this world--no, not even under the big white circus tent over in Hillsbury! "I'm glad you like it!" cried Polly, tumbling over in a heap on the grass when it was all over, and the audience got out of the big rocking chair. "It was very nice indeed, Polly," said Mother Pepper, with shining eyes. "Indeed it was!" declared Ben with enthusiasm, which meant a great deal from him. "And now, children," said Mrs. Pepper, "you rest on the grass and talk it over, and I will call you into the house by and by." "I don't ever want to go in," declared Joel, positively, and rolling over on the grass to wave his legs in the air, while little Davie lay quite still. "It was good to be in the play, Polly," he said, "but it's nice to rest here." "I was a white cat, Polly," said Phronsie, sitting down on the grass as close to Polly as she could get, and tucking up her feet under her. "So you were, Pet," cried Polly, "the loveliest, sweetest white cat in all the world, Phronsie dear," giving her a little hug. "O dear me, I'm glad it's done, and that it was nice." "It was the nicest thing you've ever done, Polly," declared Ben, with emphasis. "Chil-_dren_!" Mamsie's voice, and it had a new sound. But Joel gave his sturdy legs another wave. "I wish we could stay out here longer," he said. So it happened that he was last in the procession filing into the little brown house, instead of first, as was usually the case. "_Oh, Mamsie_!" cried Polly, and, "_Oh, Mamsie_!" exclaimed every one of the others, while Joel pushed in between them as fast as he could, anxious to see what it all was. There was the table drawn out in the middle of the kitchen and spread with a clean white cloth. And on it stood a cake, yes, a big one, and there was--yes, there actually was white on top! When Polly saw that, she sat right down in the first chair. As for Ben, he was just as much astonished, and couldn't stop the children from reaching out to pick at the cake. "I took some of your flowers, Polly, to trim it with," said Mother Pepper, pointing to the wreath running around the big cake. "Now, children, all of you sit down, and Polly shall cut it, for she made the play." She handed Polly the big knife, sharpened up till it shone as bright as could be. "Let me--let me!" screamed Joel, with no eyes now for anything but the sharp knife "I've never cut a cake. Mammy, let me!" "Neither has Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, quietly. "No, Joe, Polly made the play, else you couldn't any of you have had this nice time." "And she's worked herself most to death to get us through it," said Ben. Polly had seized the big knife, and taken one step toward the wonderful cake. Now she stopped, and looked over at Joel. "You may," she said, smiling brightly. "Oh, goody!" cried Joel, plunging forward. Then he stopped suddenly, on meeting his mother's eye. "I'd rather not," he said. "Go on, Polly, Joel's right," said Mrs. Pepper, in satisfaction. So the slices were cut very slowly, Polly breathing hard with anxiety. But the white frosting didn't fall off a bit, and each piece was soon laid on a plate by Mother Pepper, and passed, first to Ben and then to the others, and to Phronsie last of all, of course, because she was the youngest. When it was all over, this delightful surprise of Mamsie's, and Polly and Mrs. Pepper were clearing up, Joel nudged David. "Come on, Dave," he whispered, and the two boys ran out to the orchard again. "I'm goin' to be bear again," cried Joel. "O dear me! Ben's taken in all the black hair," he cried, in great disappointment. "He had to put it back in Mamsie's cushion again," said David. "You know he promised." "He might have left it a little bit of a while," grumbled Joel. "He said he'd do it right away," persisted David, "so he had to, Joel." "Well, anyway, I'll be bear again without the black hair, then," declared Joel. "Now, look out, Dave, 'cause I'm goin' to climb up th' apple tree." "Bears don't climb up trees," observed little David, critically, watching Joel's progress, quite content to sit down on the grass meanwhile. "Well, I'm goin' to, when I'm a bear," cried Joel, now well up in the midst of the gnarled branches. "I'm goin' to climb trees, and do everything I want to, so there, Dave Pepper!" Little David said nothing, and turned his gaze downward, and a big green worm, that had somehow lost his way in the tall grass, meandered past him, trying to get home. So he put forth a gentle finger, bending down the biggest spears accommodatingly, and was so absorbed in the matter that he forgot Joel, until he heard a voice, "Hi, there; look, Dave, look!" "O dear me, Joe!" exclaimed David, letting the green spears swing back abruptly, and viewing Joel in alarm, "you'll fall. Do come down." "Pooh! I can bend way out. See, Dave! See!" cried Joel, twisting his legs around the branch on which he sat, almost at the very tip of the apple tree, and he swung both arms exultingly. There was a crack, a swish, and something came tumbling through the air, and before David could utter a sound, there lay Joel on the grass at his feet. XI DR. FISHER'S VISIT Ben picked him up, as Mother Pepper and the others hurried out, on hearing David scream. Joel lay so still and white in Ben's arms that Polly turned quite faint. But when she saw Mamsie's face, she bent over to Phronsie. "Come here, Pet," she tried to say, as she drew her off that she might not see. "What is it, Polly?" asked Phronsie, wonderingly. "What is Ben carrying Joey for?" "Now I must wash off the cake-crumbs, they're all over your face, Phronsie," said Polly, desperately. "Carry him into the bedroom," Mother Pepper was saying. "Come, child," Polly pulled Phronsie hastily toward the woodshed, "you must really let me wash your face." "Why do you want to wash it in the woodshed, Polly?" asked Phronsie, obstinately, holding back. "I want to wash it in Mamsie's nice bowl." "Oh, Phronsie, please come," begged Polly, still holding her arm. "See, if you don't, I shall cry." Which was the truth as the tears were beginning to come in Polly's brown eyes. Seeing this, Phronsie yielded, and pattered along by Polly's side obediently, and allowed her little face to be scrubbed and wiped quite dry, Polly's heart all the while going like a triphammer, and her ears pricked up for any word that might tell her of Joel. At last she could bear it no longer. "Phronsie," she said, when the round cheeks and hands were as clean as clean could be, "now look at me, dear." Phronsie lifted her blue eyes and fixed them in wide-eyed astonishment on Polly's face. "What makes you do so, Polly?" she asked wonderingly. "Never mind," said Polly, with an awful feeling at her heart, it was so still out in the kitchen and bedroom. "Now, you must do just as I tell you, and not ask me any questions. Polly wants you to do it, to go and sit down on that bench," pointing to a little low one in the corner, "and not stir till I call you." Phronsie looked over at the little bench. "I'll go, Polly," she said with a sigh, "if you want me to." Polly dropped a hasty kiss on the yellow hair, then fled on unsteady feet through the kitchen and into the bedroom. Mother Pepper was bending over Joel. Ben was holding the bowl of water, and Davie was crying and wringing his hands at the foot of the bed, with his eyes on Joel's face. "You better go for Dr. Fisher, Ben," Mrs. Pepper said hoarsely, putting the wet cloth into the bowl. Polly crept up to her side. "Hasn't Grandma Bascom anything?" she asked. "Shall I go and see?" "No," said Mrs. Pepper. "And the doctor must see if he's broken any limbs, or is hurt inside." Ben was already out and running down the road at top speed. It seemed an hour. It was really but ten minutes, when a step bounded out in the kitchen. Mrs. Pepper looked at Polly, who stole silently out, and with a gasp almost tumbled into the arms of a little man with very big spectacles. "Oh, Dr. Fisher!" she cried, "I'm _so_ glad!" "And I'm glad, too," said little Dr. Fisher, beaming at her. "Why, what's the matter, Polly, my girl?" as Polly seemed to be almost tumbling over. "You see, I've come to take Phronsie to ride. I haven't been able to a good while back," he mourned, "but perhaps you'd better go," setting his spectacles to take a keen look at her. "Oh, Dr. Fisher! Ben's gone for you," gasped Polly, seizing his hand, to draw him to the bedroom door. "Gone for me!" repeated Dr. Fisher, taking the words out of her mouth. "Who's sick?" and his face paled abruptly. "Joel," gasped Polly; "he fell from the apple tree. Oh, do come, dear Dr. Fisher." The little doctor was by this time in the bedroom. "Don't worry, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Pepper, then he hurried to the side of the bed and bent over Joel. "I ain't sick," exclaimed Joel, opening his eyes to look up into the big spectacles. "I wish people'd let me alone," and he gave an irritable flounce. "Oh--it's Dr. Fisher," he finished joyfully. "So it is," assented the little doctor, bobbing his head amiably, so that the big spectacles slipped down to the end of his nose. Then he looked to the others to keep still. "You'll take me to ride with you in the gig, won't you, Dr. Fisher?" begged Joel. His face was still white, but his eyes were as bright as ever. "Maybe," said the little doctor. "Well, now let's see. You've been playing up in the apple tree, haven't you?" Meanwhile, his long thin fingers were going rapidly all over Joel's bones and muscles. "Yes," said Joel, nodding. "And I was a bear, Dr. Fisher." "I used to play bear when I was no bigger than you are, Joel," said Dr. Fisher, whose fingers seemed to be everywhere at once. "I don't b'lieve you were as big a bear as I was," said Joel, sturdily. "No, sir-_ree_! And I went clear out to the tip of th' apple tree. Now could you do that, Dr. Fisher?" he asked triumphantly. "I wouldn't try it again, if I were you," said the little doctor, ignoring the question, while his fingers went rapidly on their work. "And may I go to ride in your gig?" begged Joel, twisting away to the other side of the bed, "and what are you feeling my legs all over for?" Little Dr. Fisher stood up quite straight and looked across at Mrs. Pepper. "He's sound as a nut," he said. "Praise the Lord!" exclaimed Mother Pepper. Polly ran up to her and threw her arms around her. "Mamsie, just think, Joel's all well!" she cried convulsively. Little Davie threw himself flat on the floor and cried as hard as he could. Polly ran over to him, "Why, Davie," she cried, getting down on the floor by his side, "don't you understand? Joel's all well. Dr. Fisher says so." "I know it," sobbed Davie, "but I can't stop. I'm so happy, Polly." "Well, you must stop," commanded Polly, firmly, "'cause you'll make Joel feel badly if he hears you, Davie." So Davie hushed his tears. Since Joel might hear him, there must be no crying. But he sat on the floor, and wouldn't get up. And then the door opened suddenly, and Ben hurried in with a white, disappointed face. "He isn't home, and they don't know when--Why!" for there sat little Dr. Fisher laughing and peering at him over his big spectacles. "Yes, Joel may go to ride," said Dr. Fisher, when Ben had gotten over his surprise a bit; "that is, if Polly will give up her seat,--for I'd invited her," and he looked over at her. "Yes, I will, indeed," said Polly, with a happy little laugh. "Oh, Joe, you'll have such a good time!" kissing his cheek, into which the color was slowly coming back. "I know it," said Joel, wheeling over to give a roll out of bed. "Take it easy," said Dr. Fisher, "there's plenty of time. Feel all right, my boy?" "No, I don't," said Joel, standing on the floor. Mrs. Pepper's cheek paled, and an anxious look came into her black eyes at once. "Whereabouts do you feel badly?" asked the doctor, in surprise. "Here," said Joel, laying his hand on his jacket-front. "I'm so hungry." "Do give him something to eat, Mrs. Pepper," said Dr. Fisher, laughing heartily, "then we'll be off. And Polly, you and I will have a ride next time," he said, darting off before Mrs. Pepper had a chance to pay him, or even to thank him. "But that I never could do enough," she said, wiping her eyes on her apron, "but the Lord will, I know." Joel was already in the gig, peeping out at them, and teasing Dr. Fisher to hurry. They had driven off, and been gone some time, when suddenly Polly started in dismay as she was setting the table for supper. "You most dropped that dish, Polly," said little Davie, looking at her in amazement. "I forgot--Phronsie--O dear!" gasped Polly, setting the dish in her hand suddenly on the table, and plunging out of the room. There sat Phronsie in the woodshed on the little bench, her rusty little shoes placed patiently before her, and her hands folded in her lap. "I'm so tired, Polly," she said plaintively. "So you must be!" cried Polly, in a spasm of remorse, and lifting her up. "Well, now we'll have such a nice time, Phronsie, you can't think," covering her with kisses. "You never came, Polly," said Phronsie, mournfully shaking her yellow head, "never at all." "Don't, Phronsie," cried Polly, almost smothering her as she hugged her tightly. "Oh, Polly, you hurt me!" cried Phronsie. "Did I, Pet? well, I won't do so any more. Now, says I, one, two--three, here we go into the kitchen!" and Polly set her down on the floor. "It is nice to walk with my feet," said Phronsie, giving a long stretch to her fat little legs. "Little things kept sticking into 'em, Polly, most all the time." "The prickles, from sitting still," said Polly. "Oh, Phronsie dear, I never shall forgive myself for forgetting you," as Phronsie pattered across the kitchen, to clamber into Mother Pepper's lap. But notwithstanding all the wonderful things that happened that day, Joel didn't quite forget the circus, and he whispered to David that night, after they had hopped into bed, and pulled the sheet over their heads, "I'm goin' to have a circus of my own, so there!" Little David was all worn out with the exciting events of the day, and he didn't hear him, as he fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. So Joel, not finding it very much fun to talk when there was no one to listen, closed his eyes, and before he knew it, he was asleep too. Ben, looking across at the two little faces, as he came up into the loft to go to bed, said to himself, "Well, I'm thankful that Joe's asleep." And he gave a sigh of relief. The next days were full of work. "Play can't come all the time," Mrs. Pepper observed wisely. She sent Polly down with the money for the doctor's visit, pinned up carefully in a paper, which the little doctor promptly returned the next day, Polly having left it, as he was away on his rounds. So Mrs. Pepper could do nothing but tie it into the old stocking-leg again, in the bureau drawer. "Children," she said, drawing them all up around her, "we must never forget to do something for Dr. Fisher, and may the Lord give us a chance soon. He's been so good to us." "There never'll come a chance, Mamsie," said Polly, disconsolately, "we're so poor." "Chances come, if people look for 'em," observed Mrs. Pepper, shortly, as she shut the drawer. "We ain't poor," cried Joel, who never could bear to be called so. "Yes, we are," said Polly, positively, "we are poor, Joel. That's the truth, Joel, and you oughtn't to mind hearing it." "Well, we ain't goin' to be poor," declared Joel, confidently. "When Joel's ships come in, I s'pose he means," said Ben, and the children shouted. "I don't care," said Joel, when the laugh died down, "we ain't goin' to be poor when I git to be a man. I'm goin' to be awful rich." "Well, you'll have to work when you're a boy, then," said Mrs. Pepper, sensibly. "Riches don't tumble into lazy folks' laps." "Then I'm goin' to work right straight off," cried Joel, springing away on nimble feet. "Come on, Dave, and help pick those old rocks." But a terrible shower came on, and drove them all within doors, and it grew so dark that Polly couldn't see to sew. So the three youngest children gathered around her and clamored for a story. "Yes," said Polly, "I will. Let's get down on the floor in a ring." So they all sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor, after some delay, caused by Joel's vociferous demand to sit next to Polly. "Phronsie must be one side," said Polly, "of course." "Yes, I must, Joey," said Phronsie, cuddling up closer yet to Polly. "Well, the other side, then," said Joel, struggling to slip in between Polly and little David, and twitching Davie's arm. "Stop, Joe, and sit down over here," cried Ben, seizing him by the jacket, "else you shan't sit anywhere." "Ow!" howled Joel, pulling smartly at David. "Davie got here first," said Polly, "and he's younger. How can you, Joe?" she added reproachfully. "He's always younger," said Joel, gloomily, "and I never sit next to you, Polly." "Oh!" cried Polly, "yes, you did, Joel Pepper, just the very last time I told stories." "Well, that was just forever ago," said Joel, still holding David's arm, and showing no disposition to give up. "Well, I think if Mamsie should come in now," warned Polly, for Mrs. Pepper had gone over to Grandma Bascom's--the old lady having been sick for a day or two--and been caught there by the sudden shower, "and should see you, you'd feel badly, Joey." At the mention of Mamsie, Joel's grasp on Davie's arm dropped, and he slunk back. Then Ben pulled him into a place next to him, quiet was restored, and Polly was soon launched on one of her wonderful stories, "Mr. Kangaroo and the silly little Duck," and presently they were all so absorbed that no one noticed the sun was shining brightly, until they heard a voice, "Well, I declare, sitting down in the day-time to tell stories!" Polly sprang to her feet and stared. "Ugh!" cried Joel, taking one look at their visitor. "I should think," said Miss Jerusha, the minister's sister, in a very tart voice, and raising her black mitts very high, "that children as old as you are could find some work to do, without sitting down to fold your hands and tell good-for-nothing stories." "They aren't good-for-nothing," shouted Joel. "You haven't heard 'em; they're just beautiful!" "Be still, Joe," commanded Ben. But Joel broke away from him, and jumped to his feet. "And Mamsie lets Polly tell us stories," he blurted out fiercely. "Well, then, she's a very unwise woman," said Miss Jerusha, calmly seating herself in Mrs. Pepper's rocking chair. "She ain't!" screamed Joel, quite beside himself with rage. "Our mother's just right," said Ben, slowly getting to his feet. There was a light in his pale blue eyes as he bent them on Miss Jerusha, that made her look away a minute, but she soon returned to the charge. "_I_ never was allowed to sit idle in the day-time," she said, "when I was a little girl." "I don't believe you ever were little," said Joel, bluntly, and glaring at her across the kitchen. "Joel, Joel!" cried Polly, in great distress. "Oh, please excuse him, Ma'am, he never talks so, and Mamsie will feel so very badly, when she knows it." "I am very glad I came," said Miss Jerusha, sitting up stiff and tall, "for you children need some instruction, I can plainly see. Poor things! well, it's not to be wondered at, when we consider you've had no bringing up." "We have had bringing up, Miss Jerusha," said Ben. "Children, you go into the bedroom, and shut the door, and stay there," he said to the three little ones. And never having seen him so before, the two boys went off wonderingly, without a word, and holding Phronsie by the hands. "Our mother is our mother," went on Ben, proudly, "the very best mother in all the world, and she's brought us up, oh, how she has worked to bring us up! and if we're naughty, it's all our own fault!" It was a long speech for Ben to make, and Polly stared at him in an amazement mingled with pride, while her breast heaved, and she clasped her hands tightly together, so afraid she should speak a word and spoil it all, for Miss Jerusha was really uncomfortable, that they could both see. Meantime, Joel was climbing out of the bedroom window. "I'm goin' to Grandma Bascom's for Mamsie," he cried passionately. "We must stay here, Phronsie," said little Davie, holding tightly to her hand, and standing still in the middle of the floor, "'cause Ben told us to, you know." "Ugh!" they could hear Joel exclaim, as he jumped clear of the window sill to the grass beneath; but they didn't know that the old cracked pane of glass had given away under his hand, nor that a little stream of blood was trickling down his wrist, as he raced over through the lane, and rushed into Grandma Bascom's little cottage. XII AT GRANDMA BASCOM'S "The land sakes!" exclaimed Grandma Bascom, seeing him first. She was propped up in bed, and Mrs. Pepper was heating some gruel on the stove out in the shed. "What's the matter?" as Joel held his arm out, and the blood was dripping down his little blouse. "Nothin'," said Joel, shortly; "where's Mamsie?" "Out in the shed," said Grandma. "Now you show her your arm as soon as you can." "Tisn't my arm," said Joel, "it's my hand," and he ran into the shed. "Come over home, Mamsie, do," he implored. "That old woman up to the minister's is at our house." "I can't come," said Mrs. Pepper, not turning around, "till I fix Grandma comfortable. And for shame, Joel, to speak so of Miss Jerusha! Remember how good Parson Henderson is to us; and his wife, too." "That ain't Miss Jerusha," said Joel, setting his teeth together, and wishing his hand wouldn't ache so; "and she's talking awful, and Ben's sent us all out." "Then she must be disagreeable," said Mrs. Pepper, beginning to look worried. "Well, I'll soon have this done, then I'll be over. Ben'll have to bear it as best he can," and she sighed. So Joel turned off and went out of doors, and the little stream of blood kept on trickling. "Has he cut it bad?" asked Grandma, anxiously, when Mrs. Pepper brought in the cup of steaming gruel a few minutes later. "Who?" asked Mother Pepper, absently. "Why--Joel. Hain't you seen it?" screamed Grandma, who, like a great many deaf people, always spoke her loudest, especially when she was excited. "The blood was all runnin' like everything down his arm. I guess he's most cut it off," she added with a groan, for Grandma always had a warm spot in her heart for Joel. Mrs. Pepper's face grew very pale, and she set the cup of gruel down hastily on the little stand by the bed-head, where Grandma could reach it. Then she hurried to the door. "_Joel_!" she called, prepared to run over home if he didn't answer. "What?" said a miserable little voice, as unlike Joel's as possible. There he sat crouching down under the big "laylocks," as Grandma always called them. It wasn't a moment, then, before Mother Pepper had him in the kitchen and the blood washed off, and as well as she could see, for the little stream that flowed again, she found out where the trouble was, in the long zigzag cut down the fleshy part of Joel's little brown hand. "Mother'll fix you up all right," she kept saying. And Joel, who didn't mind anything, now that he had Mamsie, watched every movement out of attentive black eyes. "Has he cut it bad? O dear me!" shouted and groaned Grandma from the bed. "No," screamed Joel, "'tain't hurt at all." "Oh, Joey!" reproved Mrs. Pepper, tying up the poor hand in a bit of old cloth. "Now run in and show Grandma, and I'll ask her if she has got any court plaster." So Joel ran in and sat on the edge of Grandma's bed, on top of the gay patched quilt, and recounted just how it all happened. "Hey?" exclaimed Grandma, every minute. "I can't make her hear nothin'," said Joel at last, in despair, turning to his mother. "What gets into folks' ears to make 'em deaf, Mamsie?" "Oh, it often comes on when they're old," answered Mrs. Pepper, who had been searching all this time in all the cracked bowls and cups for the scraps of court plaster. "It will be such a piece of work to get her to tell me where it is," she said to herself. "I ain't ever goin' to be deaf when I'm old," declared Joel, in alarm. "You don't know whether you will or not," said Mrs. Pepper, rummaging away, "so you better use your ears to good advantage now, while you've got 'em." "I'll always have 'em," said Joel, putting up both hands to feel of these appendages and see if they were there. "I guess they can't get off," and he shook his head smartly. "How'd you cut it?" asked Grandma, shrilly, for the fiftieth time. Joel slipped off the gay patched bedquilt, and ran up to his mother, drawing a long breath. "O dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, seeing the bandage of old cloth, which was quite red and damp. "Go and sit down and hold your hand still. I must ask Grandma where that court plaster is. I know she has some, because when Polly cut her finger, you know, Grandma gave her a piece." "You can't make her hear," said Joel, despairingly, and sitting down as his mother bade. "I must," said Mrs. Pepper, firmly; "and if a thing has to be done, why it has to be, that's all; we've got to have that court plaster." So she put her ear close to Grandma's cap-border, and after a great deal of explaining on Mother Pepper's part, and as many interruptings on Grandma Bascom's, who wanted everything said over again, at last it was known that the court plaster lay between the leaves of the big Bible, on the stand under the old looking-glass between the windows. "I put it there so's to have it handy," screamed Grandma, leaning back in great satisfaction against her pillows again. Mrs. Pepper, feeling quite worn out, got the court plaster and cut off a piece. "Now then, Joel," she said, coming up to him. "The cloth's all wet and soppy," said Joel, beginning to twitch at the bandage. "Don't do that, Joey," commanded Mother Pepper, quickly, "you'll make it bleed worse'n ever. Dear me! I should think it was wet!" suppressing a shiver, as she rapidly unwound the old cloth, now very red. "Come here, over the basin." And presently the poor hand was washed off again with warm water, the long cut closed, and the strip of black court plaster stuck firmly over the wound. "Why don't you put cold water on, Mammy?" asked Joel; "it would feel so good." "Is it cut bad?" Grandma kept screaming. "You can go and let her see it, Joey, now that it's all done up nicely. There's no use in trying to tell her," said Mother Pepper, clearing away the traces of the accident. So Joel hopped up on the big bed again and displayed his wounded hand, and Grandma oh-ed and dear me-ed over it, and then she reached over to the little drawer in the stand at the head of the bed. "Put your hand in, Joel," she said, "and take as many's you want." Joel's black eyes stuck out as he saw the big peppermint drops, pink ones and white ones, rolling round in the drawer the minute it was pulled open. "Can I have as many as I want, Grandma?" he screamed, hopping off from the bed to hang over the drawer. "Yes," said Grandma, delighted to think she could do something to help, "'cause you've hurt your hand." "I'm glad I hurt it!" exclaimed Joel. "O my! what a lot, Grandma!" which Grandma didn't hear, only she knew he was pleased by the sight of his chubby face; so she smiled, too. Mrs. Pepper found them so when she came up to the bed. "I'm going home now, Grandma," she said. "I'll be over again by and by, or Polly will." "Hey?" said Grandma. So Mrs. Pepper nodded and smiled and pointed to the door, and Grandma seemed satisfied. "She told me I might have as many's I wanted," said Joel, with great satisfaction. "I like Grandma ever so much." "Take care, Joey, you don't take too many," said Mrs. Pepper. "Grandma's good to you, so you must be good to her, and come right home from here. You may stay half an hour," pointing to the old clock. "Miss Jerusha will be gone by that time," she said to herself with a grim smile. "I'll come right home, Mamsie," said Joel, quite upset in his mind whether to take two white peppermint drops and two pink ones, or if it would do to take three apiece. "And don't let any cold water get on that hand," charged Mrs. Pepper the last thing. "Why, Mamsie?" asked Joel, looking up. "'Cause it would be very bad," said Mother Pepper, shaking her head warningly, "very bad, Joel. Remember, now." "What would it do to me?" asked Joel. "I don't know," said Mrs. Pepper; "it might almost kill you to chill it. Maybe you'd have lockjaw, Joel Pepper." "What's that?" demanded Joel, deserting the peppermint drops for a minute to run to the door and seize his mother's gown. "What's lockjaw, Mammy?" "I guess you'd find out if you had it," said Mrs. Pepper, grimly. "Why, you can't open your jaws. Let go of my gown, Joel. I must hurry home." And with visions of Miss Jerusha in the little brown house, she hurried off as fast as she could down the lane. "Huh!" exclaimed Joel, left quite alone staring after her. "I guess I ain't going to have any old lockjaw. And I could open my jaws, too." Thereupon wide apart flew his two sets of white teeth, at such a distance that he seemed to be all mouth. Then he snapped them together again so quickly that it made him wink violently; repeating this operation till he was quite convinced that nothing should ever be the matter with his jaws. "And if they ever do get locked up, I'm goin' to keep the key myself." Then he ran back to his peppermint drops again, quite satisfied. Grandma Bascom was sound asleep. Joel softly moved two pink peppermint drops over to one side of the drawer, and set two white ones next to them. "They're awful small," he said to himself, and changed the pink ones for two others of the same color. Then the same thought occurring to him in regard to the white ones, those had to go back and two different white ones take their places. Then he drew back, and gazed at them admiringly. "I don't s'pose Mamsie'd care if I took one more, if 'twas a little one," he presently thought. But the difficulty was, should it be a pink one or a white one? It took Joel so long to decide this, that at last he put one of each over in his collection at the side of the drawer, then hastily pushed the rest of Grandma's into a pile at one end. "There, she's got a lot," he exclaimed. And as he looked at them, the pile seemed to grow bigger yet; so he picked off one, a great pink drop, from the very top. "Now I must get a white one to match it," he said, fumbling over the pile till he had flattened it quite out. They looked so many more when this was done, that Joel felt quite right in extracting the last two. "It might a' made her sick. P'r'aps she's been eating too many." And as this thought struck him, he pulled out two more, picked up the ones he had set to one side, slammed to the drawer, by this time realizing that Grandma could not hear, and ran out of the bedroom to the "laylock" bushes, where he sat down to enjoy the peppermint drops. He had demolished the third one, eating as slowly as possible, in a way Phronsie had of nibbling around the edges to make it last as long as possible; and then, with his cut hand, there wasn't anything he could do; when suddenly Mamsie's words, "Be good to Grandma," swept through his mind, with an awful twinge. Joel stopped eating and looked at the heap of pink and white peppermint drops he had laid down on the grass by his side; then turned his back to them, and began his nibbling again. "She's got enough," he said, munching on. "She said, take as many's I wanted. So there now!" But in a minute he had hopped to his feet, and snatched up the pink and white pile, raced through the kitchen and into the bedroom, and twitching open the drawer to the little stand, he dumped his fistful in, all except one. Then, without trusting himself to look at them, he slammed the drawer quite tight, and leaning over Grandma, he put his mouth close to her cap-border where she lay snoring away. "I put 'em all back, Grandma," he whispered, "except four." Something made him glance up at the old clock. It was five minutes past the half hour, and Joel, with a dreadful feeling at his heart, for disobedience was a thing Mamsie never overlooked, fled over to the little brown house. XIII PASSENGERS FOR THE BOXFORD STAGE "I declare, that's fine!" said Ben, the next day. It was dull and cloudy, and he squinted up at the sky. "There isn't a bit of wind. Now Mr. Blodgett'll have that bonfire, I guess; that'll suit you, Joe, as you can't have much fun with that hand." Joel squealed right out. "That's prime! And I can pile in the sticks and straw just as well with my other hand." "You aren't goin' to touch that bonfire, once it's lighted," declared Ben, in his most decided way. "Now you remember that, Joe Pepper!" "There ain't any good in it, if I can't help," cried Joel, horribly disappointed. "You can see it," said Ben, "same's David." "Hoh! what's that!" cried Joel; "that won't be any fun." "Then you can stay at home," said Ben, coolly. "As for having you, Joe, careering round that fire, and cutting up your capers, we ain't goin' to let you. Like enough you'd be half burnt up." "Phoo!" cried Joel, in high disdain, and snapping the fingers of his well hand, "I wouldn't get afire." "I wouldn't trust you. You'd be afire before you knew it. You needn't tease, Joe; Mamsie wouldn't allow it." And Ben walked off and shut the door. "Ben never let's me do anything," howled Joel, twisting his face up into a dreadful knot, and wishing there was something he could do with his left hand, for the other was all tied up in a sling, Mother Pepper wisely concluding that to be the only way to keep it still. "If I tie it up, Joel, you can't use it," she had said, fastening the broad strip of white cloth firmly over his shoulder. And Joel, knowing there was no use in protesting, had borne it as well as he could, making Davie wait on him, and driving Polly almost to despair in her efforts to amuse him, while she did up the morning work, Mother Pepper being away. "Why don't you play stage-coach, Joel?" proposed Polly now, as Joel couldn't vent his disappointment loudly enough. "That's no fun, with one hand," said Joel, disconsolately, drumming on the window pane. "Some folks always drive with their left hand," said Polly. "Mr. Tisbett doesn't," said Joel, gloomily regarding the bunch of white cloth that covered his right hand. "He always drives with this one," sticking it out, "'cept when he takes both." "Well, you can play there's been an accident, and you got hurt, and so you had to drive with that hand," said Polly. "So I can," cried Joel, bounding away from the window, "so I can, Polly Pepper. I'll have it right now, and it's to be a perfectly awful one. Come on, Dave, let's fix up the coach, and you get inside, and I'll upset you, and most smash everything to death." And Joel ran hither and thither, dragging the chairs, and Phronsie's little cricket, and everything movable into place as well as he could with one hand. "Take care, Joe," warned Polly, wondering if she hadn't done wrong in proposing stagecoach, "don't fly round so. You'll hurt your hand. I'd get up on the front seat if I were you, and begin to drive." "Would you have the horses run into something, Polly, kersmash," cried Joel, tugging at Mamsie's rocking chair to bring it into line, "or make the stage-coach tumble over and roll down hill?" "Dear me," cried Polly, going into the pantry to mix up her brown bread, and wondering which would be the less of the two evils, "I'm sure I don't know, Joel." "I'm goin' to have 'em do both," decided Joel. "Dave, pull this up, will you?" So little David ran and gave a lift on the other side of the big rocking chair, to haul it into place. "We'll run into somethin' an' th' horse'll shy, and that'll make the old stage-coach roll down hill. Gee-whickets!" he brought up, in huge delight. "I shan't let you play it at all," said Polly, from the pantry, "if you say such words, Joel. You'll just have to stop and go and sit down. So remember." Joel was clambering up into Mr. Tisbett's seat on the box, but he ducked his head at Polly's rebuke. "Get in, Dave," he shouted, recovering himself. "Hurry up. You're the passenger that wants to go to Boxford. You're awful slow. I'll drive off without you if you don't make haste," he threatened, gathering up in his left hand the bits of string that were fastened to a nail in the corner of the shelf. Little David, feeling it a dreadful calamity to be left behind when he wanted to go to Boxford, hopped nimbly into the opening in the pile of chairs that represented the stage-coach, and off they drove. "I can't hold my whip," cried Joel in distress, after a minute or so of bowling along on the road to Boxford, accompanied with much shouting to Mr. Tisbett's pair of black horses, and excitement generally as the stage-driver tried to get out of the way of the great number of teams on the turnpike. "O dear, it ain't any fun without the whip!" and the whole establishment came to a dead stop. "I'll hold the whip," cried the passenger, eagerly, poking his head out of the stage-coach window. "No, you won't, either," cried Joel. "You're the passenger. O dear me, there ain't any fun without th' whip!" "Then I can drive," said little David. "Do let me, Joel," he pleaded. "I won't either," declared Joel, flatly. "I'm Mr. Tisbett, and besides, there won't be anybody inside if you get up here." "Phronsie might be passenger," said David, reflecting a moment. "Goody, oh, so she might!" cried Joel, "and Seraphina too. And that'll make more upset. Then you may come up here, Dave," he promised. But when Polly was made acquainted with this fine plan, she refused to allow Phronsie to enter into such a noisy play. And Joel's face dropped so dismally that she was at her wits' end to know how to straighten out the trouble. Just then one of the Henderson boys came up to the door with a little pat of butter in a dish for Mrs. Pepper. "Here comes Peletiah Henderson," announced Polly, catching sight of him through the window. "Now, p'r'aps he can stop and play with you, Joel." "He ain't much good to play," answered Joel, who never seemed to be able to wake up the quiet boy to much action. "Oh, Joel, he'll play real pretty, I guess," said Polly, reprovingly, "and he's such a good boy." "He might be the passenger," said Joel, thinking busily, as Polly ran to the door to let the Henderson boy in. "We'll play he's the minister goin' over to preach in Boxford, and we'll upset him just before he gets there. Jump out, Dave, and get up here." "I don't know as we ought to upset him if he's the minister," objected David, doubtfully, as he clambered up to Joel's side. Still, a perfect thrill of delight seized him at his promotion to the seat of honor, and his little hands trembled as Joel laid the precious whip within them. "No, I guess I'd rather you had the reins," decided Joel, twitching away the whip to lay the bits of string in David's little brown hands. "You can drive first, 'cause I want to crack the whip awful loud as we start. And then I'll take 'em again." David, who would much rather have cracked the whip, said nothing, feeling it bliss enough to be up there on the box and doing something, as Peletiah, a light-haired, serious boy, walked slowly into the kitchen. "You're the passenger," shouted Joel at him, and cracking his whip, "and you're going over to Boxford. Hurry up and get into the stage-coach. I'm Mr. Tisbett." [Illustration: "'YOU'RE THE PASSENGER!' SHOUTED JOEL"] "And I'm helping, Peletiah," cried David, turning a very pink and happy face down toward him. "I don't want to go to Boxford," said Peletiah, deliberately, and standing quite still, while Polly ran into the pantry to slip the little pat of butter on to another plate. "Oh, how good it looks!" she said, longing for just one taste. "Well, you've got to go," said Joel, obstinately, "so get in." "I don't want to go to Boxford," repeated Peletiah, not stirring. Joel cracked the whip angrily, and glared down at him. "P'r'aps he wants to go somewhere else," said little David, leaning forward and clutching the reins carefully, "and that'll be just as good." "Do you?" asked Joel, crossly. "Want to go anywheres else, Peletiah?" Peletiah considered so long over this that Joel, drumming with his heels on the dashboard, got tired out, and shouted, "Hurry up and get in--th' stage-coach's goin'!" which had the desired effect, to make the passenger skip in much livelier than he intended. "Now we're goin' to Boxford," announced Joel, positively, cracking his whip at its loudest. "Be careful, David; hold the horses up." "He said he didn't want to go to Boxford," put in little David, trembling all over at the vast responsibility of holding in Mr. Tisbett's black horses, and the passenger's being taken where he didn't want to go. "Well, he didn't tell us where he did want to go," said Joel, "and th' stage is goin' to Boxford. Boxford, Box," he screamed to imaginary people along the road. "Anybody want to go to Boxford?" "I said I didn't want to go to Boxford," interrupted the passenger in the general din. "Well, you've got to," said Joel, "'cause the stage is goin' there. Boxford--Boxford! Anybody goin' to Boxford? Want to go, Marm?" an imaginary old woman sitting on a stone by the roadside. "I'm goin' to get out," announced Peletiah, in a tone that convinced Joel that remonstrance was useless. "No, you mustn't," cried Joel, "and you can't, either, for th' accident's comin' now," he added cheerfully. Davie held his breath, and clutched the lines tighter yet, and Joel screamed shrilly, "Look out!" and gave an awful kick with his heels to the back of the top chair, and before anybody could say a word, over it came, knocking Davie with it, and before the passenger could get out, Mr. Tisbett and his assistant and the best part of the whole establishment seemed to be on top of him. Polly heard the noise and came rushing out. "Oh, boys--boys!" she cried in a fright, "are you hurt?" for everything seemed to be in a heap together, with some small legs kicking wildly about, trying to extricate the persons to whom they belonged. "I ain't," announced Joel, hopping out of the heaps and shaking the black hair out of his eyes. "Oh, Polly, it was such fun!" he cried. "Davie! Davie and Peletiah!" cried Polly, an awful dread at her heart, on account of the little guest, as she hung over the wreck, pulling busily at the chairs, "are you all safe?" Little David tried to speak, but his head ached dreadfully, and the breath seemed to have left his body. Peletiah said slowly, "I barked my shin, and I didn't want to go to Boxford." "O dear me," exclaimed Polly, fishing him out, "that's too bad! Joel, you oughtn't to have taken him to Boxford if he didn't want to go." "That wouldn't 'a' made any difference," declared Joel, "'cause we had to get upset, anyway." "Well, Davie's hurt, I expect," said Polly, looking Peletiah carefully all over, as in duty bound to a guest, as he stood up before her. "Oh, no, I ain't, Polly," said little David, trying to speak cheerfully, and crawling out with a big lump on his forehead. "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, at sight of it. "Well, I'm glad, child, it's no worse," as she rapidly examined the rest of him. "Now you must have some pieces of wet brown paper on that." "I'm glad I haven't got to have wet brown paper all over me," declared Joel, with a grimace--"old, slippery, shiny brown paper." "I barked my shin," gravely announced Peletiah, standing quite still. "Oh, so you did," cried Polly, with a remorseful twinge. "Now you must wait, Davie, till I fix Peletiah up, for he's company, you know." "I guess Grandma's got some wormwood--the stuff she made for Phronsie's toe when 'twas pounded," suggested Joel, quite oblivious to the black looks which Peletiah was constantly casting on him. "You may run over and see," said Polly. "O dear me, no, you can't, Joe, just look at your hand!" as she happened to glance up. Joel looked down quickly at the big white bundle in the sling. "There ain't nothin'--" He was going to say, "the matter with my hand, Polly," when he saw some very red spots spreading quickly along its surface. "Oh, now you've burst open the cut," cried Polly, forgetting herself, and turning quite white. "What shall we do, and Mamsie away!" Little David, at that, burst into a loud cry, and Joel tried to say, "No, I haven't," but looking very scared at Polly's scream. "Oh, I'll fix it, Joe," she exclaimed in haste, though how she managed to get the words out she never knew. "Let me see, Mamsie would untie it if she were here, and put on court plaster. Now, David, you run over to Grandma's and ask her to give us some more. She told us to come if we wanted it, and I'll put on a fresh piece just as tight, oh, you can't think!" Polly kept talking all the time, feeling that she should drop if she didn't, and little David, forgetting all about the lump on his forehead, that now was most as big as an egg, ran off as fast as he could, and presently returned with the court plaster, waving it over his head. Polly took off the bloody rag, setting her lips tightly together, until she saw Joel's face again. Then she began quickly, "Oh, what a nice time you're goin' to have at the bonfire, Joe!" "Is there goin' to be a bonfire?" asked Peletiah, with more interest than he had hitherto shown. "Yes," said Polly, "there is, Peletiah. Mr. Blodgett's goin' to burn up all that rubbish left after he pulled down his cow-pen, you know." "When's he goin' to burn it?" continued Peletiah. "This afternoon," said Polly. "Ben's over there, and Joel's goin', and David." All the while she was dabbing off the blood running out of the side where the court plaster slipped when the stage went over. Then she cut off another bit from the piece Grandma sent over, and quickly pasted it over the edge of the old piece. "There now, Joey," she cried, "that's as nice as can be! Now I'll get you a fresh piece of cloth to tie it up in." "I don't want it tied up," cried Joel, wiggling his fingers; "they feel so good to be out, Polly." "Oh, you must have 'em tied up," cried Polly, decisively, running back with the cloth. "Hold your hand still, Joe; there now, says I, that's all done!" She gave a great sigh of relief, when at last Joel's arm was once more in its sling. "I'm glad it's all back again, Polly," said little David, viewing the white bundle with satisfaction. "So am I, I declare," said Polly, folding her hands to rest a bit. "I guess I'll go to that bonfire," observed Peletiah. At the sound of his voice, Polly came to herself with a little gasp. "Oh, I forgot all about you, Peletiah, and David's head. I'll see your shin first, 'cause you're company." When Peletiah's small trouser leg was pulled up, Polly saw with dismay a black and blue spot rapidly spreading. "O dear me," she cried, down on her knees, "what will dear Mrs. Henderson say? and she's so good to us!" "And I didn't want to go to Boxford, either," said Peletiah. "Well, David, you must just run back and ask Grandma if we may have a little wormwood," said Polly. "I'd go, but I don't like to leave you children alone," in distress as she saw Davie's lump on his forehead, and his hot, tired face. "I'm sorry, for you've just been over." "I'll go," cried Joel, springing off, but Polly called him back. "No, you can't, Joe," she cried, "you'll burst that cut open again, maybe. Davie must go. Tell Grandma one of the minister's boys has got hurt." So Davie ran over again, trying not to think how his head ached, and in he came in a few minutes with the bunch of wormwood dangling at his side. "She said--Grandma did--pound it up and tie it on with a rag, if you haven't got time to steep it," said Davie, relinquishing the bundle into Polly's hand, "and to put some on my head, too," he added, feeling this to be a calamity as much worse as could be imagined than to have on the brown paper bits. "So I will," declared Polly. "Oh, how good of Grandma! Boys, we must do ever and all we can for her, she's so nice to us. Now I must pound this up, just as she said." This operation was somewhat delayed by all three of the boys hanging over her and getting in the way. And Phronsie, who had been busy with Seraphina in the bedroom, now running out to add herself to the number, it was a little time before Peletiah's small leg had the wet rag tied on. "Well, now you're done," said Polly, thankfully, "and you'd better run home, Peletiah, and tell your mother all about it, and how sorry we are." "Yes," said Peletiah, slowly moving off, "I will, 'cause she told me to come right back." "Oh, Peletiah!" exclaimed Polly, in horror, "and you've been here all this time!" "And I didn't want to go to Boxford," said Peletiah, going off. Pretty soon, back he came, just as Polly finished bathing Davie's head. "I'll take the dish," he said. "Mother said bring it back." XIV DEACON BLODGETT'S BONFIRE But that afternoon it began to rain smartly, so nobody went to the bonfire after all. "P'r'aps," Polly had kept saying to herself, "all Mr. Atkins' sacks will be sewed up by the next time Mr. Blodgett tries to burn up his rubbish, and then I can go," but she didn't speak a word to her mother, for then Mrs. Pepper would find out how dreadfully disappointed Polly had been at the thought of not seeing the grand spectacle. So she worked on busily, expecting every day to hear Ben say, "Now we're goin' to set it off to-day," for he was at work pretty steadily now, for Farmer Blodgett. But he never did. At last one day, Ben came home very late to supper, so late that Polly ran to the window ever so many times, exclaiming, "Bensie never was so late before." Phronsie had long been in bed, and the boys were anxiously looking up at the clock to see if it were anywhere near half-past seven, when Ben came in. "Why, Ben Pepper!" exclaimed Polly, aghast, "whatever is the matter?" "I should ask so, too," said Mother Pepper, "only I know Ben will tell when he is rested. Let him eat his supper, Polly, and don't bother him with questions." So Polly took off the clean towel that had covered Ben's supper on the table, and hovered over him, watching every mouthful. But she didn't say a word. "You see," said Ben, when he had appeased his appetite somewhat, and eating more slowly, "I really couldn't help it, for the bonfire was such a big one." "The bonfire?" screamed Polly. "What do you mean, Ben?" "Why, Mr. Blodgett's bonfire, to be sure," said Ben. "Whatever else could I mean, Polly?" leaning back to look over his shoulder at her. "You haven't gone and had that bonfire without telling us, Ben Pepper!" cried Polly, in amazement. "Oh, how could you do such a dreadful mean thing!" she added passionately. "Polly--Polly!" cried Mother Pepper, in dismay. "Well, I don't care," said Polly, recklessly, "it was perfectly awfully mean, Mamsie, to go and have that bonfire without telling us a single thing about it. Now we can't one of us ever see it," she mourned. "Better not judge Ben till you hear the reason, Polly," advised Mother Pepper, gravely. "I'll warrant he had some good one." "So I have," cried Ben, with a dreadful feeling at his heart that his comrade Polly blamed him. "Mr. Blodgett told me I mustn't run home and tell you, though I begged him as hard as I could to let me." "Then he is a very mean man," exploded Polly, with flashing eyes and a little red spot on either cheek. "Take care, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper. "I don't think so," said Ben, decidedly, shaking his head in disapproval of Polly; "he's been as good as gold to me, and--" "So he has, Ben," Mother Pepper was guilty of interrupting. "And he's been bothered to death to get the right time to work on that old bonfire, and today the men said the rubbish ought to be got off, 'cause two of 'em can come only a day more, and they want to get the ground ready for planting. So all of a sudden Mr. Blodgett comes over to the south meadow and calls out, 'Come, boys, we're going to set to on that bonfire!' And then I begged him to let me just run home and tell you all, and he couldn't, and that's all," said Ben, calmly finishing the account. "I don't see how you could help it, Ben," said his mother, "nor Mr. Blodgett either, for that matter." Polly stood quite still, the waves of color spreading over her face. Then she took a step forward, and threw her arms around Ben's neck. "Oh, Ben!" she cried convulsively, "I'm so sorry I was cross." "All right, Polly," said Ben, reassuringly, and patting her cheek, "and I guess next time you'll wait and hear about things." "I surely will," promised poor Polly. So no one saw the wonderful Blodgett bonfire, after all, except Peletiah Henderson, who was going past that farm when the excitement was at its height. But Ben comforted them all, and Polly helped out wonderfully, by repeating everything he said. "Now, children, I'll watch; there'll be other bonfires, I expect. Maybe before long; so I shouldn't wonder if we got another chance to see a big fire." It came sooner than they expected, but it wasn't a bonfire. It was one night about a week after. The little brown house was as still as a mouse, everybody abed and asleep. Suddenly Phronsie woke up with a fretful little cry. "I want a drink of water," she wailed, sitting straight in the trundle bed. "Oh, no, you don't," said Polly, sleepily. "Hush, Phronsie, and lie down again. You'll wake Mamsie." Phronsie's little lips quivered. In the darkness Polly couldn't see the small face and its sorrowful eyes, so she turned over again on her pillow. "Go to sleep, like a good girl," she said, almost asleep. "I can't, Polly," said Phronsie, almost ready to cry out, "and I am truly thirsty. Please, Polly, a drink of water." She put out her little hand to feel for Polly's, but in a minute the regular breathing told her that Polly had fallen asleep. So Phronsie sat still in the middle of the trundle bed, and choked back the tears. But her little throat was parched and dry, and at last the tears rolled over the round cheeks. "I won't wake poor Polly up," she said; "I can get it myself," and she crawled out of the trundle bed, having some difficulty in getting over the side, and made her way out into the kitchen. It was very bright there, at which Phronsie stared wonderingly, as there was no candle lighted, so she easily found her way to the pail of water which Ben always got the last thing at night and set on the bench by the window. "I can reach the dipper," said Phronsie, standing on tiptoes, and seizing it, she thrust it into the pail. How it happened, she didn't know, and there was no one else there to see, but over with a great clatter came the pail and the dipper to the floor. Polly started up in bed. Mamsie, who was very tired, still slept on. "Phronsie," cried Polly, remembering in a flash about the drink of water, "I'll get it for you," and she put out her hand to pat the little figure in the trundle bed. There was no Phronsie there! Polly hopped wildly out into the kitchen, to hear Phronsie gurgling out her distress, as she stood in her little white nightie, her hands stuck straight out, and the water dripping from her every pore. The pail and dipper were rolling away at their own sweet wills across the old kitchen floor. And over all shone a great light as bright as day, only it was tinged with red. "Phronsie Pepper!" exclaimed Polly, and "What's this light?" all in the same breath. And huddling Phronsie up in her arms, Polly raced along to the window. A great burst of light, red and glaring, shot across the sky, and lighted up the whole heavens. "Oh, we're burning up! Something's afire! Grandma Bascom!" screamed Polly. "Ben--Ben--wake up! Mamsie! Fire--fire!" she called. She could hear Ben spring out of bed, and Mrs. Pepper was in the kitchen in a minute, and Joel and David were tumbling downstairs at Ben's heels, and they all threw on their clothes and rushed out of doors. But it wasn't Grandma Bascom's. Her little cottage stood peaceful and quiet, with only the dreadful red light playing over it. "I can't think where it is," said Ben. "It seems so near, and we know it isn't, 'cause Grandma's is the only house for more'n half a mile." Meanwhile, the smoke was pouring into the sky, and when it cleared there was that dreadful red light glare again. "Oh, Ben!" exclaimed Polly, with clasped hands, as they all stood in front of the little brown house, breathlessly watching, "it must be Parson Henderson's." "No," said Ben, "that isn't the right direction." "It's nice Mrs. Beebe's, I know," said Joel, racing around excitedly. "And now it will burn up all those boots and shoes," which, luckily, Phronsie didn't hear. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Ben, "it isn't anywhere near Mr. Beebe's shop. It's ever so far off. And a barn, I guess, 'cause it burns like hay." "I hope there aren't any horses in it," sighed Polly, with a shiver, sitting down on the doorstone, and holding Phronsie very closely in her arms. "Wherever it is, you ought to go and help, Ben," said his mother. "I was thinking so myself, now I know 'tisn't near here, and I can leave you all," said Ben, hurrying off. "I'm goin', I'm goin'," cried Joel, wildly darting off. "No--no, Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, "you're too little to go to a fire." "I'd pass buckets," said Joel, "and climb the ladders--and--" "No," said his mother, firmly. He was afraid to cry, lest she should send him in the house, so he ran out into the road and watched impatiently to see if anybody was coming along to go to the fire. Presently they all heard wagon wheels. "Somebody's comin'!" screamed Joel, running back into the yard. "Oh, Mammy, mayn't I ride with 'em and just see the fire? I won't get out of the wagon; truly, I won't." "No," said Mrs. Pepper, "it's no use to ask it, Joel," and he knew it wasn't. "It's hard enough to let Ben go, though that's his duty. You can ask the people in the wagon if they know where the fire is." And Joel, delighted that there was some part in the excitement for him, tore madly down to the roadside and demanded this of the people in the team. "It's Deacon Blodgett's barn," they screamed at him as the old horse spun by, raising a cloud of dust. "What did he say?" asked Mrs. Pepper, as Joel raced back breathlessly. "It's Deacon Blodgett's barn," screamed Joel, quite overcome. "O dear me! So we are seeing his bonfire, ain't we, Mammy?" "Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, her face looking ghastly in the red light, "this is perfectly dreadful for poor Mrs. Blodgett and the good deacon. Oh, if we could only help them!" She looked off at the clouds of smoke now obscuring the red glare, and her hands usually so quiet were wringing each other. "Ben's there by this time," said Polly, feeling that nothing was hopeless with Ben close by. "Think of that, Mamsie." "I'm so glad of that," breathed Mrs. Pepper, thankfully. "Now he'll have a chance to show his gratitude for what Deacon Blodgett's done for him." "Polly," said Phronsie, suddenly raising her head where she had hidden it on Polly's arm, "do you suppose Mr. Blodgett's nice mooly cow is going to burn up?" She clasped her fat hands as she brought out the question fearfully. "No, I hope not, Pet," said Polly, soothingly. "Don't let's think of it," but her heart ached, nevertheless. How good Mrs. Blodgett had been to send down that sweet, rich milk, once in a while, for Phronsie. "See! Oh, ain't it a buster!" shouted Joel out in the road, hoping some other team would come by. "Joel," called Mrs. Pepper, even in her anxiety over good friends' trouble, unwilling to let the word pass, "what did you say?" "Well, it's a big fire, anyway," said Joel. "Come on, Dave, out here and see it," for Dave, at the first glimpse, had slunk down on the grass silently to watch the sky. "No," said little David, "I don't want to go, Joel. Mamsie--" and he turned a troubled face to her--"do you suppose God's going to let good Mr. Blodgett's barn burn up?" "No," said Mrs. Pepper, "I don't b'lieve God had anything to do with it, Davie. Like enough it's some man been in there with a pipe, but we'll hope the fire'll be put out. And don't you be troubled; God wouldn't let any one be hurt, least of all a good man like Deacon Blodgett." "Oh," said little David, quite relieved. And when Ben came home in the early dawn--Mamsie and the rest of the bunch of the little Peppers sitting up for him, for Phronsie wouldn't go to bed, so Polly held her in her arms--they found this was just the case. "And they've caught the tramp who was smoking the pipe," cried Ben, excitedly, "but that won't save the barn, and the horse and--" "Hush!" cried Polly, with a look at Phronsie. But her eyes were closed, and her head was bobbing sleepily on Polly's breast. "Better lay her on my bed now, Polly," said her mother, "and she'll doze off, most likely." "Yes, the cow has gone with the rest of the tools and wagons," said Ben, mixing things up inextricably. "O dear me!" And he rested his streaked face on his grimy hands. "Oh, Ben," cried Joel, "you're as black as you can be! How I wish I could 'a' gone!" he added, feeling it the highest state of bliss to come home looking like that from working in a fire. "Well, I feel black," said Ben, and down went his head lower yet in his hands. His mother went swiftly over to him and pressed her hand gently on his hair. "You couldn't help it, Ben," she said, "you'd 'a' saved it, if you'd been able." "Yes," said Ben, brokenly, "I would, Mamsie." XV OLD MAN PETERS' CENT Joel was walking along the road very slowly, swinging on his arm the tin pail that was to bring home the molasses. "I wish some one would come along who'd give me a ride," he thought, feeling hot, and wishing he were home, to lie on the cool grass in the orchard, after he had first drunk all he wanted to at the well. "I could drink the whole bucketful," he declared. "My, ain't I thirsty! Oh, goody, I hear a wagon!" and he hopped to one side of the road. "Ugh--it's old man Peters!" Mr. Peters slackened up as he passed Joel, but he didn't offer to let him ride. And Joel didn't want to, anyway. After a grumpy look at the Pepper boy, the old man in the wagon put the well-worn leather reins between his knees and took out a battered pocket-book, scowling above its contents as he went over a business transaction just completed at Badgertown. Then he slapped it together and stuck it into his pocket, and seizing the reins, he doubled them up, cutting the horse across the thin flanks. "Gee-lang, there--will you!" cried old man Peters, shrilly, "or I'll make ye!" Joel stepped back into the middle of the road, and began to trudge along in the wake of the wagon. Suddenly he stopped, and stared at something shining in the road. It was little and round, but it sent up a bright gleam that found an answering one in Joel's black eyes. "Oh, I've found a whole cent!" he exclaimed joyfully. Then his heart stood quite still. It must belong to old man Peters. "I don't care," said Joel, defiantly, to himself, "he left it in the road. It's mine, now, for I picked it up." And he clutched it tightly in his warm little palm, and dug his heels into the hot sand, glad enough he had had to go to the store after that molasses, for otherwise he wouldn't have found that cent. "It doesn't belong to you." It seemed as if Mamsie was walking there beside him, and had said the words, and involuntarily Joel glanced on either side. "I don't know as he dropped it," he said to himself, walking very fast, and trying to shake off the unwelcome thoughts; "I didn't see him." "But you did see him take his pocket-book out, and you ought to hurry after him and give it back," and Joel started on a lively run, without giving himself a chance to think twice. "Mr. Peters! Mr. Peters!" he cried, running along, and screaming after the retreating wagon. Mr. Peters looked back and shook his whip at him. "I ain't a-goin' to give you a ride," he said, "an' you needn't think you can catch on behind." So he gave the horse another cut, that made him amble along at his best speed. Joel chased as long as he was able to, the perspiration streaming from his red face, screaming when he could find breath, "Stop, Mr. Peters, a minute," till Mr. Peters shook his fist at him as well as his whip. At last Joel dropped from sheer exhaustion on the roadside grass. "That Pepper boy--th' one they call Joel--is a perfect nuisance," snarled Mr. Peters, after putting his horse up in the barn, and going into the house. "I passed him on the road, and he looked as if he 'xpected me to give him a lift." "Oh, Pa, why didn't you?" said Mrs. Peters, pityingly, "they have such a hard time, those little Pepperses. I s'pose he was dreadful tired." "S'pose he was," said Mr. Peters, going into the keeping room to sit down over the weekly paper. "I warn't a-goin' to take him up; and then the imperdent little chap started to run after me, a-yellin' all the way. I'd a horsewhipped him if I c'd 'a' reached him." "I wish you wouldn't feel so about boys," deprecatingly said his wife, a little woman; "they don't hurt you none, and I wish you wouldn't, Pa." "Well, I ain't a-goin' to have 'em round me," snarled Mr. Peters. "An' there ain't no call for you to say any more about's fur's I know, Marindy," and he jerked open the newspaper, put his feet on the round of another chair, got his spectacles out of their case and on his nose, and prepared to be comfortable. He never knew when his paper slid to the floor, and his bald head was bobbing over his empty hands. Mrs. Marinda Peters was upstairs sorting rags to give the rag-man when next he came by, the only way she could earn a little money for her own use, and the daughter was away; so Joel Pepper walked in without any one's knowing it. He had knocked and knocked at the kitchen door until his knuckles were sore, and tired of waiting, concluded to walk in by himself; for go home he would not, with Mr. Peters' cent in his pocket. So he marched in and stood by the old man's chair. "Here's your cent," he said, holding it out in his hot fingers. His empty pail struck suddenly on the edge of the chair with a clang, the noise, more than the words, waking the old man up. "Hey? What d'ye want?" cried Mr. Peters, his eyes flying open suddenly. "Your cent," said Joel, holding it out. "A cent? I hain't any money to give ye," snarled old Mr. Peters, now fully aroused, "And d'ye git out of this house soon's ye can, or I'll give ye suthin' to git for." His spectacles slipped to the end of his nose as he started to get out of the chair. "I don't want any cent," said Joel, hotly, sticking the one between his finger and thumb up under the old man's nose. "Here, take it. Don't you see it? It's yours." "Mine? My cent?" repeated the old man, staring at it. "What d'ye mean? I hain't give ye no cent." "I found it in the road. You dropped it," said Joel, feeling tired to death. And dropping it hastily on the window-ledge he hurried off, swinging his tin pail violently. "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Peters, at the sound of the voices; and, leaving the rag-bag suddenly, she hurried over the stairs. Old Mr. Peters, hearing her coming, picked up the cent, and, not stopping to put it in the old leather pocket-book, slipped it into his vest pocket, and seizing the newspaper, fell to reading. "Joel," called Mrs. Peters, as Joel was running out of the untidy yard, "what is it? Come here and tell me." "Let th' boy alone, can't ye, Marindy?" screamed Mr. Peters, irritably; "beats all how you allers interfere in my business--just like a woman!" he fumed, as Joel came back slowly. [Illustration: "'HEY, WHAT D'YE WANT?' CRIED MR. PETERS"] But Mrs. Peters was as persistent in her way as her husband, and she soon had the whole story laid bare. When that was done, she took Joel into the buttery and gave him a big wedge of custard pie. "You better go t'other way, and not past the keepin' room window," she said, "and eat it." Joel, with enthusiasm considerably abated as he examined his pie in the shadow of the big seringa bushes, concluded he didn't want it very much. But feeling very hungry, which was his usual condition, he finished it to the last crumb. "There warn't any sugar in, for one thing," he said critically. "I wonder why folks can bake pies who don't know how, and Mamsie never can have any." "That boy found your cent in th' road, and brought it clear way up here," cried Mrs. Marindy, on a high key, going into the keeping room, where the old man sat absorbed in his paper. "S'pose he did?" grunted old Mr. Peters. "I sh'd think you'd 'a' give it to him, Pa. It's a shame. Such a hot day as 'tis, too." "I don't have no cents to throw away," snarled old Mr. Peters. "And I wish you'd let me read my paper in peace and quiet." "Well, I sh'd think anybody who'd got a heart in their bosom 'ud feel sorry for them five little Pepperses. I don't s'pose they see a cent to spend from one year's end to another." And she made up her mind to bake a whole custard pie, sometime, and smuggle it down to Mrs. Pepper. "Though how I'll manage," she lamented, "would puzzle the Dutch and Tom Walker. But I'll try, just the same." Meanwhile, Joel, though he made light of the cent business, was relating his visit to the Peters' homestead, and the presentation of the piece of pie. "'Twas most horrid old pie," he said, with a wry face. "Oh, Joey," said Mrs. Pepper, "when Mrs. Peters tried to be kind to you. You ate it, didn't you?" and she laughed with the others when he said yes. "But 'twas horrid," cried Joe. "I can't help it, Mamsie. There wasn't any sugar in it, and it was black and smutty and thin. Why don't we ever have any pie in the little brown house, Mamsie?" he asked suddenly. "Why don't little boys talk sensibly?" asked Mrs. Pepper. "It's a great deal to have the little brown house, anyway, Joel, I sh'd think you'd know that." "Mamsie," said Polly, hearing this, "s'posin' we didn't have the little brown house; just s'posin', Mammy," and her cheek turned quite white. "I know it, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, quickly, setting busy stitches on Davie's jacket, where she was rapidly sewing a patch, "that's the way to talk. Just supposing we hadn't any little brown house." "But we have got it, Mamsie," said Joel, throwing himself flat on the floor, to indulge in a long and restful roll. "Well, we may not always have it. If folks don't appreciate their blessings, sometimes they fly away." "How's the little brown house going to fly away, Mamsie?" demanded Joel, sitting quite straight. "Well, it may," said Mrs. Pepper, with a wise little nod. "Mercies often take to themselves wings. Come, Polly, you may pick out these basting threads; that patch is done, thank fortune!" Joel hopped to his feet, and ran swiftly out, craning his neck to see the tip of the chimney on the little house, and surveying it critically on all sides. "It isn't going to fly--it isn't," he declared, quite relieved. Polly humming away some merry nonsense to Mamsie, neither of them heard him. So he came close to their chairs and repeated it: "Say, the little brown house can't fly away--there ain't any wings." "You take care you don't say anything discontented about not having pie and other things," said Mother Pepper with a smile, looking off from her work for a minute to let her eyes rest on his face, "and I guess the wings won't grow, Joey." "Anyway, I'm glad I don't live at old man Peterses house," said Joel, going back to his resting-place on the floor, and waving his feet in the air. "Mamsie, do you suppose old Mr. Peters ever was a little boy?" asked Davie, thoughtfully. "Dear me, yes," said Mrs. Pepper, abstractedly, as she was lost in thought over the question, Could she get the patch on Joel's little trousers before dark? "A real boy?" persisted David. "Yes, of course," answered Mother Pepper, moving her chair to get a little more of the waning light. "But I don't know what kind of a boy," she added. "I don't think he was a very nice boy, Mamsie," declared David. "Not a real, very splendid one." "Huh!" cried Joel, in a tone of contempt. "I guess he wasn't, Dave Pepper! I wouldn't have played with him at all," he added, in great disgust. "Wouldn't you, Joel?" cried little David, running over to sit down by him on the floor, and observing great care to keep clear of the waving legs. "No, indeed, sir," declared Joel. "I wouldn't have played once with him, not if he'd lent me his knife. An' his skates and--" "Oh, Joel, not even if he'd lent you his skates?" cried David, incredulously. "No, sir-ree! Nor if he'd let me have his horse to drive as much as I wanted to," declared Joel, most positively, with another wave of his legs. Little David collapsed on the floor by his side, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as he lay and thought it over. "I'd 'a' said, 'Go right away, you bad old Peters boy.'" cried Joel, delighted at impressing David so completely, "'or I'll take a stick to you.'" "And then you'd be very much like old Mr. Peters yourself, Joel," said Polly, catching the last words. XVI THE STAGE-COACH RIDE "Children," said Mrs. Pepper, and how her eyes shone! "I've got something very nice to tell you--that is, for Joel and David. Your turn will come sometime, Polly," and Mother Pepper smiled encouragingly at her. "Polly's turn never comes," said Ben, gloomily, who felt dreadfully fretted to think he couldn't earn money enough to do something nice for her. "We eat it all up as fast as we get paid," he had once said to his mother. "And that's what we have mouths for," she had answered brightly. It never would do for Ben to get discouraged, so she kept all the little ache in her heart out of sight. Now she beamed at Ben. "Oh, Polly's time's coming," she said; "never fear, Ben." Ben looked ashamed when he heard Mamsie's hopeful words, and brightened up at once. "Thank you, Ben," she said, going up to his chair to lay her hand on his shoulder. "Mother doesn't know what she'd do if her big boy failed her. Well now, children, I must hurry and tell you the good news about Joel and David. Mr. Tisbett has invited them to go on the stage to-morrow to Strawberry Hill." Once a week Mr. Tisbett ran the stage down to Strawberry Hill, returning by the East District. It was quite the prettiest ride out of Badgertown, following now and then the course of Cherry brook, and past fertile fields and forests, by a winding, rambling thoroughfare. And when once the settlement of Strawberry Hill was reached, there were Green's Tavern and the stop for dinner! Joel and David greeted this announcement with howls of delight. Phronsie caught the spirit and danced around the old kitchen in a clean pink calico dress, and cheeks to match. "Oh, Phronsie, I don't believe you know what you're dancing for," cried Ben with a laugh, and seizing her as the bustle died down a bit. "Yes, I do, Bensie," said Phronsie, struggling to get down to dance again. "Well, what is it then?" "Joel and Davie said 'O-oh' and 'Goody'!" hummed Phronsie, beginning to dance harder than ever. "I thought so," laughed Ben. "Don't tease her," begged Polly, coming up. "Polly, I wish you were going too," said Ben, suddenly, who couldn't help saying it. "Dear me, I couldn't go and leave all the work, Ben," exclaimed Polly, "even if Mr. Tisbett had asked me." "Well, I wish you could go, all the same," sighed Ben. Polly shook her head, and clapped her hands at Phronsie, and tried to forget what Ben had said. But it stayed there, deep in her heart, nevertheless. Joel and David could hardly sleep that night for thinking of the splendid treat of the morrow. Oh, if it should rain! They trembled as they rolled over on their backs and listened for any chance pattering on the roof. "It doesn't rain a single drop," declared Joel, rolling over on his side again, and carrying most of the bedclothes with him. "But it may, Joel," said little Davie, fearfully. "No, it isn't going to," said Joel, confidently. "Mamsie said we were to be good boys," said David, after a pause, in which Joel was lost in the wildest imaginings of sometime driving Mr. Tisbett's black horses. "Don't you know she did, Joey?" twitching his arm. "Well, I'm going to be good. I'm always good," said Joel, jerking away his arm. "Oh, Joel," cried little Davie, involuntarily. "Well, I'm going to be good to-morrow, anyway," declared Joel. "You'll see, Dave; as good as pie." "Because Mamsie said she'd trust us," continued David, "and we'd make trouble for Mr. Tisbett unless we minded him." Joel didn't reply, trying to decide whether he should hold the reins both together in one hand or use two, Mr. Tisbett observing both methods. "I guess I'll hold 'em in two hands," he said at last, "'cause most likely he won't let me take the whip at the same time. Ain't I glad I haven't cut the right one any more!" He held it up and squinted at it as well as he could for the darkness. There wasn't even a scar to be seen, thanks to Mother Pepper's good care. "Boys--boys, go to sleep," called Polly's voice over the stairs. "They're so excited," she said, going back to her mother, "about tomorrow. Mamsie, isn't it good that they're going?" she cried, with shining eyes. Mrs. Pepper looked at her keenly. "Yes, 'tis, Polly," she answered simply. What a time they had getting the boys ready for their unwonted journey! Joel rebelled at the thorough scrubbing that Polly insisted on before he was inducted into his clean clothes. "We wash all the time. Mamsie makes us," he grumbled. "Ow, Polly, you're rubbing my ear off." "That's only every day," said Polly, who dearly loved to fix up with extra preparations on important occasions. "And this--why, Joel Pepper, you've never been away on a journey before. Just think, you're going on a stage-coach clear over to Strawberry Hill!" "I know it," said Joel, trying to appear as if it were an everyday affair, while little David turned pale with excitement. "Well, now then, I believe you're nice and clean," said Polly, standing off and viewing Joel, red and shiny from her efforts. "All except this other ear must be washed a little bit more." "Oh, Polly," cried Joel, viewing her soapy cloth in alarm, "you've done it enough. Mamsie," he howled, "Polly's a-washing me just dreadful." But Mother Pepper did not seem to hear, so Polly finished, and then began on Joel's hair. This was so much worse an undertaking, that the whole household were very glad indeed when it was over. "I hope no one will ask you again to go anywhere, Joel," said Ben. "Goodness me, Polly, I sh'd think you'd be all tired out getting him ready!" "Well, he's done now," said Polly, pushing back the damp rings of hair from her own brow, while she pulled Joel's jacket straight with the other hand. "Now, Joe, if you go and sit down and don't move, you'll be all nice when Mr. Tisbett comes; and I'll take Davie." To little David the whole task of washing and combing his hair, and arranging him in his neatly mended best clothes, was one long, tremulous delight. He wouldn't have had it omitted for the world. At last he was patted and brushed, and pronounced "just perfect," Polly sealing her approval by a kiss that she meant for his forehead, but it fell on the tip of his nose instead. "You didn't kiss me," said Joel, in an injured voice. "Well, you didn't stand still long enough," retorted Ben, answering for Polly. "Goodness me, Joel, I'd as soon dress an eel as you!" "G'lang there! _Whoa!_" And the stagecoach rattled up in fine shape. "Mr. Tisbett's come! Mr. Tisbett's come!" roared Joel, as if everybody couldn't see and hear the stage-driver's hearty tones, to say nothing about the stamping of the horses and the rumble of the wheels. And darting out, he flew over the grass. "Let me sit up there with you, Mr. Tisbett," he screamed, trying to get up on the wheel. "Sho, there! So you may. Give us your hand, Joe, my boy," said Mr. Tisbett, brimming over with good humor, and a warm feeling at heart at making the Peppers so happy, and he put out his brawny hand, gave a jerk, and in a minute there was Joel smiling and shouting and waving his hat to David and the others escorting him down to the roadside. "Remember what I told you, Joel," said Mother Pepper, fixing her black eyes on him. "Yes'm," said Joel, nodding his head, "I'll remember, Mammy. I'm going to sit next to Mr. Tisbett," he cried, seeing the preparations to lift Davie up to a seat on the box. "Joel," warned his mother. "I'm a-goin' to have you up top here, along of me," said Mr. Tisbett, "so's I can look out for you. And I'm a-goin' to tell where you'll set, too, Joel. Now, you just hist over there, and let Davie in betweenst us; he's littler. There you be," as Joel promptly obeyed and took the outside seat. "Good-by, Mammy," shrilled little David, stretching forward to look past Mr. Tisbett's burly figure, and longing for another kiss. "Good-by, Davie." "Good-by. Good-by, Joel." "Crack-snap!" went Mr. Tisbett's whip. Off pranced the two black horses, and round went the wheels. He never made such a fine start in his life, Mr. Tisbett decided, when suddenly, "Stop! oh, stop!" screamed Joel, and the stage-driver, looking around at him, saw his face convulsed with the effort not to cry, as he yelled again, flinging out his hands frantically, "Stop!" [Illustration: "'CRACK-SNAP!' WENT MR. TISBETT'S WHIP"] "Whoa!" cried Mr. Tisbett to the prancing black horses, so suddenly they nearly sat back on their haunches. "What's the matter of ye, for the land's sakes o' Goshen?" "I want to get down," cried Joel, with a frantic lunge. "Let me get down!" "Hold on there, or you'll break your neck," roared Mr. Tisbett. "What you want to get down for?" and he scratched his head, his habit when in perplexity. "I want to kiss my Mamsie," stammered Joel, and now the tears began to come. "Sho!" cried Mr. Tisbett, "so you shall. There. Now then!" Joel, in some way, was lifted up and swung clear of the wheel, when he set out for a run to the little brown house. Mrs. Pepper and Polly and Ben were standing still in the front yard and watching them, while Phronsie was making cheeses, holding out her little pink calico frock to sink slowly in a puff on the grass. "Good-by, Mamsie," cried Joel, flinging his arms around her neck, "I'll be good, I truly will." "I know you will, Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, drawing him close to her, while she kissed and fondled him to his heart's content. Then he rushed back again. Mr. Tisbett leaned down and gave him his brawny hand once more, and up he flew. "Crack! snap!" went the whip--off pranced the horses--round went the wheels--and away they all went! Joel hung to the railing of the seat against which he leaned, with a blissful feeling that he was rushing through the air, and he saw nothing but those black horses below him. As for little Davie, he didn't dare to breathe, but peered out from his place between Mr. Tisbett's long, square figure and Joel, seeing nothing, only conscious that everything was perfectly beautiful. Mr. Tisbett slackened up after about a mile of this sort of driving. He always liked to give a good impression in going through the town. Folks invariably rushed to the windows, and said, "The stage is going by," and they never seemed to be tired of such amusement. So Mr. Tisbett always gratified them to the fullest extent. To-day, as he hadn't many passengers till he came to the Four Corners, he let the horses go at their utmost speed, occasionally glancing at the rapt faces of the Pepper boys, when he would roll his quid from one cheek to the other, and smile in great satisfaction. "Easy there, now," he said to the black horses, holding them up a bit. "Well now, that's something like, eh, Joel?" And he leaned over to see Joel's face. Joel was slow in finding his tongue. At last he answered, "Yes, sir," but continued to stare at the horses. "I guess this ere boy likes it, if you don't," exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, somewhat disappointed at Joel's lack of appreciation, and peering down at Davie. "Eh, David?" "I think it's just like Heaven," said little David, with a long-drawn sigh of bliss. "That's a fact," cried Mr. Tisbett, well pleased. "And so you liked it?" "I loved it, Mr. Tisbett," declared David, solemnly. "And you've said it about right," declared Mr. Tisbett, the smile dropping away from his jolly face, but the satisfaction remaining. "And I love them two horses's if they was folks. Fact!" And Mr. Tisbett slapped the toe of his big boot with his whip. "Now Jerry's a trifle the smartest, and--" "No! No!" howled Joe, in protest, and leaning clear over David so abruptly that the stage-driver started and involuntarily pulled up his horses smartly. "I like Bill the best." "Hey--sho, now!" exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, relaxing his tight grip on the reins. "You've waked up, have ye? Well, you set back and hang on to that there railing, or you'll break your neck. Then what would your Ma say to me? and I shouldn't never take you again." "Mr. Tisbett," said little Davie, deliberately, "I like Jerry the best, too. I do." "No, you don't," screamed Joel, with a nudge in Davie's side, "Bill's the best. Say so, Dave." "I can't," said little David, quite decidedly, "'cause I think just as Mr. Tisbett does." "They're both good; good as gold," Mr. Tisbett here made haste to say. "An' sometimes I think one's better'n t'other, an' then again I don't know. So, boys, the only way to fix it up straight is to like 'em both best. Well, we're comin' to my first passenger," and the stage-driver chirked up the horses. "Now step lively there." And presently the turn of the road brought them to a white house with green blinds and a big piazza across one end. There was a tall woman walking up and down in front of the house, and by the roadside a great collection of boxes, and a huge carpet bag, two baskets, and a bird-cage. "Beats all how women act," exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, in vexation. "Why can't she set in th' house and wait for me? I ain't never been late. Now I s'pose she'll take my head off." David glanced up in terror at Mr. Tisbett's shaggy head under the big straw hat, and then at the tall woman who was to take it off. "Joel," he whispered, "we mustn't let her." But Joel had no ears for anything that Davie might say, but was occupied in seeing the stage-driver flourish up to meet the passenger. "Good mornin', Miss Beaseley," said Mr. Tisbett, in his pleasantest way, springing over the wheel the moment the horses stopped. "I've been a-waitin' here," said Mrs. Beaseley, tartly, "the longest time. I thought you never'd come." "'Twould 'a' been a sight easier to 'a' waited in th' house," observed Mr. Tisbett, composedly, proceeding to pack the array of boxes and bags in the coach, "bein's I warn't schedooled to reach here till quarter past seven. And it's just three minutes to that time now, Marm." He stopped to pull out an immense silver watch, the only thing that could draw Joel's attention from the black horses. Now he stared at it until it disappeared again in Mr. Tisbett's waistcoat pocket. "Well, you needn't waste the time now," said Mrs. Beaseley, in asperity. "I'm sure there's little enough left. Put that carpet bag in careful, Mr. Tisbett; it's got some cups and sassers in I'm a-takin' to my daughter in Strawberry Hill." "All right, Marm," said Mr. Tisbett, setting the carpet bag, that seemed in danger of bursting, so full was it packed, on one of the seats. "I hain't never broke any o' my passengers' belongings yet, and I'm too old to begin to-day." To which Mrs. Beaseley deigned no reply, only to say, "You put 'em all in, and I'll get in last." So Mr. Tisbett put in the bandbox and a smaller box, and one two or three sizes larger, and the rest of the bags and the two baskets, and a bundle. Then he picked up the birdcage. "You let that be!" screamed Mrs. Beaseley. "I'm a-goin' to take that in my hand; you'll scare that bird to death." "You get in and set down, and I'll hand it in to you," said Mr. Tisbett. "I ain't a-goin' to scare your bird. I've seen 'em before, and handled 'em, too, for that matter." "I shan't set foot in that stage till all my things is in, and packed to suit me," declared Mrs. Beaseley, positively. "You gimme the bird;" with that she seized the bird-cage, and holding it well before her, she stepped up the first step. The next minute she was precipitated on the floor of the stage, with the birdcage under her. When she was helped up, and the bird-cage was set on the seat opposite, Mr. Tisbett slammed to the stage door quickly, and hopped nimbly to the box, leaving her straightening her bonnet. All the while she was giving vent to a torrent of abuse because the stage-coach steps were too high, the bird screaming and fluttering wildly in fright. "Didn't I tell you she'd take my head off?" said Mr. Tisbett, with a sly wink at the boys, and a little chuckle as he resumed the reins and they started off. Little David drew a long breath of relief, and gazed again at the shaggy head under the old straw hat. "It isn't off, Mr. Tisbett," he said, "and I'm so glad." "Hey?" exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, staring at him. "What's the boy mean? Oh,--my soul an'--body!" And he slapped his thigh with his brawny hand, and burst out into a hearty laugh that seemed to echo on every side, as the stage-coach spun along. "I sh'd think you'd laugh," exclaimed Mrs. Beaseley, in withering scorn, inside the vehicle, "when I've smashed my best bonnet, and shook that bird to death--like enough he'll die--and tromped all up the front breadth to my dress." But as there was no one to hear her, and Mr. Tisbett still laughed on, seeming unable to stop himself, the stage-coach contributed a very merry spectacle to those privileged to see it, as they bowled along to the next passenger for Strawberry Hill. "So you thought she'd really took my head off, did ye?" asked Mr. Tisbett at last, and mopping his face with his bandanna. "O dear me! Hee-hee-hee!" "You said she was going to, Mr. Tisbett," said little David, gravely. "So I did. I see I must be careful what I say, after this. Well, David, she'd like to 'a' took my head off, an' would, if she'd had her way." "O dear!" exclaimed little David, greatly shocked. "But she hain't, yer see," finished Mr. Tisbett, cheerfully, "it's on, an' set stiddy. Sho, now, easy there, Bill and Jerry! We must stop for Mr. Filbert." The next passenger was a thin, wiry little man, who seemed to beg pardon constantly for being in somebody's way. And after Mr. Tisbett had slung his hair trunk on the rack, Mr. Filbert stepped gently into the stage-coach. "Excuse me, Marm," he said to the woman. "Did I step on your toes?" "You hain't hurt me none," said Mrs. Beaseley, "and you hain't teched my toes. Goodness me, after the treatment I've had, an' th' sass I've took, I guess I won't complain." The little wiry man sank into the furthest corner and pulled out from his pocket a newspaper, which he tried to read. But Mrs. Beaseley, beginning on the statement of what she had suffered waiting for Mr. Tisbett, and every minute since the journey was begun, Mr. Filbert never got more than ten lines down the first page. At last, after picking up a little girl, and a boy who spent his time in thrusting out his head from the swinging vehicle to stare enviously up at Joel, the stage-coach rattled in fine fashion, bringing everybody to the doors and windows, into Strawberry Hill, and pulled up at the tavern. Here all the passengers got down; Mrs. Beaseley insisting that she ought to pay but half price, considering all things, and with very black looks, when Mr. Tisbett coolly waited till every cent was in his palm. The little thin man skipped nimbly out of the coach, and, with a backward alarmed look at her, hurried to get into a wagon waiting a little distance off, in which Mr. Tisbett deposited the hair trunk. "Say, how'd you get up there?" asked the boy, tumbling out of the coach to stare up at Joel. The small girl, who was going to spend Sunday at her grandmother's, got out with dignity, carrying her best clothes in a bundle. She stopped a minute to hear what Joel said. "I stepped up," said Joel; "how'd you s'pose?" "How'd he let you?" persisted the boy, pointing with a dingy thumb to the stage-driver. "He never let me." '"Cause he did," said Joel, curtly, "that's the reason." "Oh!" said the boy, and Mr. Tisbett coming back, he moved off. But he still continued to watch. "Now, says I, we'll hop down," cried Mr. Tisbett, which Joel proceeded to do in a trice, glad enough to stretch his legs. "Here, David, give us your hand." And the stage-driver soon had little David on the ground. "Now, Bill and Jerry, it's your turn." And very soon Mr. Tisbett was busy in unbuckling straps and tackling, to release the big horses, Joel in a wild delight getting dreadfully in the way, and being, as he thought, an immense help. Little David stood off and watched the proceeding, longing to help too, but too timid to say so. The other boy rushed up. "Oh, let me help!" he cried, thrusting a tousled head in between the two busy with the harness. The stage-driver shot him a keen look. "It will be time enough for you to help in this ere job, Jim," he said, "when I ask you." So Jim slunk off, to stare at a distance again. And at last the horses were led off to the big barn to get their dinner of oats and hay, and then Mr. Tisbett drew Joel and David away. But this was a hard task, for Joel hung over Bill and Jerry in delight, watching every mouthful. "Can't I climb up on his back and sit there while he eats?" he begged, pointing at Bill, while even little David much preferred the old barn with its sweet odor, and the big haymows, to any other place. "No, you can't," said Mr. Tisbett, answering Joel. "And you ain't a-goin' to be in this barn. I can't leave you here alone. Your Ma wouldn't like it. And besides, you've got to have somethin' to eat. I always get my dinner here. So come along; you're my company to-day, an' I told Mrs. Pepper not to put you up anything to eat." Strangely enough, at the mention of dinner, Joel still clung to the hope of remaining with the horses. Seeing which, the stage-driver wasted no more words, but picked an end of his jacket in his fingers and bore him off. Once within the cosey little dining room, with the green paper shades flapping in the summer breeze, and seated at the table with the tavern-keeper's wife bustling around to lay on the hot dishes, Joel thought differently, and had a hard time to keep his tongue still. Little Davie watched everything silently, with wide-open blue eyes. "I'm goin' to hev ham an' eggs," said Mr. Tisbett. "Fried on both sides, Mrs. Green, an' plenty of 'em." "All right," said the tavern-keeper's wife, with a smile for the jolly stage-driver who always made it pleasant for them all when he took his dinner there once a week. "Now, what's these boys goin' to have?" "As good a dinner as you've got in the house, Mrs. Green," said Mr. Tisbett, heartily; "these are the little Pepperses, and they live over to Badgertown, Marm." He said this with an air much as he might have announced, "This is the Lord Mayor of London," if he had been called upon to introduce that functionary. "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Green, much impressed, "I'll do my best. Well now, I've got boiled dinner an' a raspb'ry shortcake. Do you think they'd like that?" She appealed to the stage-driver. "Yes sir-_ree_!" cried Joel, smacking his lips; "we don't have anything but potatoes and salt for our dinner. Oh, David!" he seized little Davie's arm tightly, "raspberry shortcake, she said; that's what Polly was telling about she hoped we could have sometime." XVII THE FIGHT AT STRAWBERRY HILL "Now, then," exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, when dinner was over, and the little Peppers declared they couldn't eat any more, "I'm a-goin' to set out on th' porch a minute or two. I allers let Bill an' Jerry rest a full hour," pulling out the big silver watch again. "When I'm a man," cried Joel, leaning back in his chair, wishing he could eat some more raspberry shortcake, "I'm goin' to have a watch just like yours, Mr. Tisbett." "I thought you were going to have horses just like Bill an' Jerry," said Mr. Tisbett, in surprise. "Oh, I am!" cried Joel, in alarm at being misunderstood; "exactly like Bill and Jerry." "You ain't goin' to have horses an' a watch!" cried the stage-driver, keeping very sober. "You must choose between the two." "Then I'll take the horses," decided Joel, quickly. "You've got two, Mr. Tisbett," observed David, quietly. "Eh? Oh, so I have!" cried Mr. Tisbett. "Well, p'r'aps we'll let Joe have 'em both, then; that is, if he's a good boy. Well, can't either on you eat any more? What a pity, an' Mrs. Green has such good things." The tavern-keeper's wife cried out that some way her raspb'ry shortcake wasn't quite so light as what she had day before yest'day. "La, Mr. Tisbett!" she exclaimed, smoothing her apron delightedly, "if you'd only happened along then, 'twould 'a' melted in your mouth." "This suits me to a T," said Mr. Tisbett. "Now, Joel, if you and David will play round here real pretty, an' be good boys, I'll set on th' porch an' pass th' time o' day with the folks." The little Peppers promising they would be as good as could be, Mr. Tisbett slouched off to the big arm-chair, where he always took his accustomed rest at Strawberry Hill while the horses were put up in the barn. Joel ran back to tell Mrs. Green, "I like you,--I do; you make awful nice things," and David echoed the same, as they both scampered out of the house. "I declare, they're as pretty-behaved children's I ever see," confided the tavern-keeper's wife to the rest of the family who were at home, the tavern-keeper himself being away for the day. "Poor things, although they were so hungry, an' they don't get much to eat at home, they didn't grab an' pick at things." And she made up her mind to put up a little bundle of her sugar cookies for them to eat on the way back. "I wish we could have taken some of the raspberry shortcake home to Polly," mourned Davie, speaking out what had been running in his mind all through the dinner. "She's never tasted any." "Well, we couldn't," said Joel, with a qualm of conscience because he hadn't thought of it before; "Mamsie's told us it isn't nice to speak of taking things home. Hurry up, Dave," as they raced on. "I know it," said little Davie. But he sighed, nevertheless. "Now where'll we go?" asked Joel, leaning breathless against the big maple on the edge of the back dooryard. "Mr. Tisbett said we were to play round here," said little Davie. "Of course," assented Joel, in a superior way "Well, let's peek in th' barn the first thing." "Oh, Joe, we mustn't go in!" exclaimed little David, holding him back. "Mr. Tisbett said we weren't to be in the barn." "I know it," said Joel, twitching away. "I said peek, Dave. Mr. Tisbett didn't say not to do that." So both boys got as far as they could on the threshold of the big sweet-smelling barn, without stepping over the sill, and craned their necks to get a sight of the two black horses. "I can't see 'em! O dear me!" cried Joel, grumpily. "I wish there was a window we could climb up to." "We can hear 'em eating," said little David, taking great satisfaction in that. "Hoh--what's that! I want to see 'em," Joel ran on discontentedly. "O dear me! Mr. Tisbett wouldn't care if we just stepped in up to that post." "Yes, he would," cried Davie, in alarm lest Joel should really step over. "Let me alone," cried Joel, crossly. "O dear me! I can't see a bit of 'em." And in a minute, without stopping to think, he hopped over the door-sill and jumped into the barn. Little David stood still in terror. "Come here, Dave," called Joel, in glee, being careful not to go beyond the big post, "you can see 'em just as good's can be. Bill's got his mouth full of hay, an' he's bobbing his head, and the wisps are tickling Jerry, an' he don't like it," and Joel laughed heartily. Suddenly somebody slapped David on the back, precipitating him over the sill, and "Jim" ran in past him. "Helloa. What are you doin'?" he asked Joel. Joel looked at him, but didn't answer. "I live here," said Jim, "over in Strawberry Hill. An' Mrs. Green's my a'nt; and I've just come home from my grandmother's." Joel said nothing as to this family history, but continued to gaze at the horses. David picked himself up from the barn floor, and hurrying out over the sill, began to dust his clothes, glad that Joel had not seen him tumble in. "I knocked him over," snickered Jim. "Hee-hee! Cry-baby!" and he pointed to little David, whose face was quite red as he tried to brush his best clothes clean again. "I'm not crying," said Davie, indignantly, and raising his hot face. "You knocked him over!" cried Joel, boiling with wrath, and, deserting the big post, he squared off toward the Strawberry Hill boy, and doubled up his little brown fists. "Then you've got to fight me." "All right," said Jim, glad he was so much bigger. "I know a place down in th' cow-pasture where I can lick you's easy's not." "You ain't a-goin' to lick me," cried Joel, sturdily, "I'm goin' to lick you," while little David, sick with terror, screamed out that he wasn't hurt; that he didn't care if Jim did push him over, and for Joel to come back--come back! But Joel and Jim were already halfway to the cow-pasture, and Davie, wild with fright, stumbled over across the barnyard, and off to the house to find Mr. Tisbett. "He's just gone into th' house," said one of the farmers who always took this hour, on the occasion of the stage-driver's weekly visit, to come to the tavern porch and get the news. "He'll be out in a minute or two. Sit down, sonny; you're dreadful hot." But David wrung his hands, and rushed into the tavern. The dining room was dark and cool, all the dinner things being carried out, except the pickle dish and the sugar bowl; and the crumbs swept off from the table, and the green blinds pulled to. He could hear the rattle of the dish-washing and the clearing-up generally out in the kitchen, and he plunged in. "Where--where's Mr. Tisbett?" he cried, his breath most gone, from fright, and his little face aflame. "Goodness me, how you scart me!" exclaimed the tavern-keeper's wife, who, with another woman, was flying around to get the work done up. "Oh, it's one of the Pepper boys. What's the matter, dear?" with a glance at David's hot face. "What you ben a-runnin' so for?" "Joel." It was all David could say, as he pointed off where he thought the cow-pasture was. "Somethin's happened to that other boy. Didn't you say his name was--Joel?" said the other woman, fastening very small but sharp eyes on David. "Mercy me! you don't think it!" exclaimed the tavern-keeper's wife, her ruddy face taking a scared expression. "Dear me! I must call Mr. Tisbett. Mr. Tisbett!" she screamed, running, if the speed she now exercised could be called by that name, for it was more like waddling, out to the porch. "He isn't there," gasped David, following her. "Oh, dear Mrs. Green, please hurry and find him," he implored. "I don't know no more'n the dead where he is, child," said Mrs. Green, turning a perplexed face to David, after the old farmer had said the same thing over again. "Mr. Tisbett's got the run o' the place, an' likely as not, he's stepped to one o' the neighbors," pointing to a small cluster of houses a quarter of a mile away. Little David groaned and clasped his small hands in distress. "Then nothing can stop their fighting?" he exclaimed in despair. "Fighting? Who's fighting?" demanded Mrs. Green, sharply. "Joel and Jim," said David, glad to think he'd remembered what Mr. Tisbett called the boy, yet sorry, as it flashed over him, that the tavern-keeper's wife was his "a'nt." "He pushed me down," and his face turned more scarlet yet. But it was necessary to tell the dreadful thing, else Mrs. Green would think Joel was to blame in beginning the fight. But the tavern-keeper's wife had her own reasons for believing differently. And without wasting her breath on words, except to ask David, "Where?" she flung her dish-towel, which she had been carrying in her hand, across her arm, and picking up her skirts, she made remarkably good time across the barnyard by a shorter cut, which she was familiar with, to the cow-pasture. Jim saw her coming first, and much as he disliked on ordinary occasions to see his "a'nt," he now hailed her approach with secret delight, for the Badgertown boy was giving him all he could do to protect himself. So he now shouted out, "My a'nt's comin'. Stop!" "I don't care," cried Joel, pommelling away. So Jim struck back as well as he could, longing to hear Mrs. Green scream out, "Stop!" which she did as soon as she had breath enough, and shaking her dish-towel at them. "You wait there, Jim," she commanded, on top of her call, as she came panting on; and Jim, looking all ways for escape, saw there was no use in attempting it. When she did reach him, she seized him and shook him till his head seemed to wobble on his shoulders. Then, with a resounding box on the ear, that seemed like a clap of thunder, she paused to take breath. "Oh," begged little David, "don't hurt him, dear Mrs. Green." "Why did you stop us?" glowered Joel, wrathfully, turning his bloody little nose up in scorn. "I could 'a' done that to him's easy as not, if you'd let me." Mrs. Green stamped her ample shoe on the ground. "You start for home," she said to Jim, "an' tell your Pa if he lets you show your face over here for a long spell, he'll settle with me." Jim took one dive across the cow-pasture, scaled the fence, and disappeared. "Now you come along of me," said Mrs. Green. "Goodness land alive! I'm all shook to pieces," and she started for the tavern. "I'll wash your face," to Joel; "then I guess you ain't hurt much," yet she regarded him anxiously. "I ain't hurt a bit," declared Joel, stoutly, and wiping off the blood with the back of one chubby hand. "And I could 'a' licked him's easy as nothin'," he added regretfully. "I wish I'd let you, before I took him in tow," said the tavern-keeper's wife, hastily, getting over the ground as well as she could. "Mamsie wouldn't have liked it," cried little Davie, running on unsteady feet by Joel's side, and looking at him sadly. "Oh, no, she wouldn't, dear Mrs. Green." "I don't s'pose she would now," said Mrs. Green. "Well, Jim's a bad boy, if I am his a'nt. Like enough he'll git a trouncing from his father," she added cheerfully, as some compensation. "What is a trouncing?" asked Joel, suddenly, as they hurried on. "The land alive, don't know what a trouncing is!" ejaculated the tavern-keeper's wife. "It's a whipping, and Jim's father knows how to give it good, I tell you." Joel stood still. Little David stared in horror in Mrs. Green's face. "I don't want him to be whipped," said Joel, slowly. It was one thing to fight it out with fists in the cow-pasture, but quite another to go home to be whipped by a father. "Oh, yes, he will," repeated Mrs. Green, in her cheeriest way, and shaking her head at him. "You needn't fear, Joel, he'll catch it when he gets home." "But I don't want him to," declared Joel, loudly, not moving. "He mustn't! Stop his father from whipping him! He shan't." And before Mrs. Green could recover from her astonishment, he plunged her deeper yet, by bursting into tears. She gazed from him to David, still shaking her head helplessly. "Well, if I ever!" she exclaimed, when she came out of it. "And I shall just run and tell his father not to," blubbered Joel, realizing if Jim was to be saved from that awful whipping, he must be the one to do it. "Where does he live?" he cried, emerging from his tears at the chance of action. "Over there," answered the tavern-keeper's wife. "Well, if I ever!" pointing to a yellow house. She kept ejaculating this over and over, as she pursued her way to the house, thoughtfully swinging her dish-towel. Joel, with David at his heels, ran off across the cow-pasture, tumbled over the fence, and followed the direction that Jim had taken and that Mrs. Green had pointed, leading to the dingy yellow house. Long before they reached it, they could hear squeals that were not pleasant to hear, and that made them quicken their pace, to run around the house-place, and plunge almost into the face of an untidy woman who hurried to the door. "What d'ye want?" she demanded, as the two boys stopped panting before her. "Jim," gasped Joel. "And his father," added little David, breathlessly "They're both out there," said the woman, pointing with the hand holding the dish-towel, to the dilapidated woodshed. "He's gittin' a lickin', and Pa's a-givin' it." The squeals were now so much worse that Joel gave a plunge that carried him to the woodshed door, and little David, his heart in his mouth at thought of Jim's father, followed as best he could. Joel dashed in. "Oh, do stop!" he screamed. Jim's father turned; he had a big stick in his hand. When little David saw it he shuddered and sat down helplessly on the woodshed floor, in among all the clutter and dirt. Jim, with his knuckles twisted into his streaming eyes, whirled around from under the big hand grasping his collar. When he saw Joel, he screamed worse than ever. "Don't let him kill me, Pa," he roared, huddling up to him. Joel sprang up to a tall, big-shouldered man with a bearded face. "Oh, sir," he cried, "please don't whip Jim any more--p'r'aps he didn't mean to push David over, I don't b'lieve. Don't whip him." He put out his little brown hand, and boldly seized the stick. "Hey?" roared the big man. "Well, I'm beat all to smithereens," and his hand holding the stick dropped to his side. Jim stopped from sheer amazement, the roar dying in his throat. "If you'll only let him go," said Joel, "I'd be much obliged, sir," remembering how Mamsie said he should be polite when asking a favor. The big man grinned all over his bearded face. "I don't see but what I've got to, you ask me so pretty," he said, showing nearly every tooth in his head. "Well, Jim, you're let off for this time. I hadn't only just begun," he added to Joel, as he hung up the stick on a beam. Jim bounded off, climbed a tree, and watched to see the boys go away. [Illustration: "OH SIR,' HE CRIED, 'PLEASE DON'T WHIP JIM ANY MORE'"] "What's your name?" asked his father, as Joel helped David to his feet, and they started off. "Joel Pepper," he answered, "and this is my brother David. Say how do you do, Dave," he whispered, pulling his sleeve. But little Davie was too far gone in distress to speak, only to smile faintly. "And we live over in Badgertown in a little brown house," continued Joel, feeling that he ought to make up for David's silence. "Oh!" said Jim's father. "And we must go now," said Joel, keeping hold of David's jacket, "'cause you see Mr. Tisbett may be wanting us"--very desirous of getting away. "Did ye come with Mr. Tisbett?" asked the big man. "Yes, we did," said Joel. "Come on, Dave. We must go, sir. Good-by." And pulling David along, he ran at a smart pace off toward the tavern. Mr. Tisbett was standing on the porch, just starting for them, when the two boys ran up. And in front of him was the tavern-keeper's wife, telling the whole story as far as she knew it, the old farmer hitching forward his chair to catch every word. When the stage-driver saw them, he hemmed loudly, and made a sign for Mrs. Green to stop. "Well, now, I s'pose," he drawled, "it's about time to hitch up them horses. Want to come and help, Joe and David?" Joel gave a skip of delight and released Davie's jacket. "Oh, whickety--yes!" he cried. Little David did not answer, but smiled his pleasure, and the tavern-keeper's wife went into the house to get her bundle of cookies ready. But just as they got to the barn Joel hung back suddenly. "I ain't goin' in," he said. Mr. Tisbett didn't hear him, but marched on. Little David stopped in perplexity. "No, I can't," said Joel, growing very sober, "'cause I was naughty and went in. Mr. Tisbett doesn't know it. O dear me!" "You can tell him," suggested David, thoughtfully. "O dear, dear!" exclaimed Joel, just ready to cry, as he could hear Mr. Tisbett lift down the harness, and call out, "Stand still, there, Bill--good Jerry." "Why, boys!" exclaimed the stage-driver suddenly, coming to the door, the harness in his hand. "What on earth's the matter? I thought ye was jest crazy to come in, Joel," he added reproachfully. Then Joel burst right out. "I've been naughty--and went in." And he flung himself across the threshold, shaking with disappointment at losing the best chance of the whole day. Mr. Tisbett looked at Davie for explanation. So David, telling it as well as he could, got through with the story finally. "I can't say that ye warn't naughty, Joel," said the stage-driver, slowly, "'cause ye were. But I'm a-goin' to let ye in, and besides, I need ye to help me with them horses," and Mr. Tisbett began to look very worried at once. Joel sat very straight. "Oh, I'll help you, Mr. Tisbett," he cried joyfully. And in a minute they were all three in the big stall, and Joel was in the very midst of things, and even David forgot his fright enough to lend a helping hand, and to feel his importance, and presently the big black horses were led out of the barn, and harnessed into the stage-coach. "Now, hop up!" cried Mr. Tisbett, when he had gone carefully around and around the big coach, to see that every strap and buckle was in place, and had got down on his knees to be quite sure the springs were all right. Then he gave David a lift up to the box, Joel clambering up on the other side. "We'll drive up to th' door," he said, "an' get th' passenger," for there was one woman going over to Badgertown. "Oh, let me drive!" begged Joel; "just up to the door, Mr. Tisbett," he implored. "We don't want to be upset under folks' noses," said Mr. Tisbett. "Land! I'd rather 'twould happen where there warn't no one to see, if 'twas going to." "I wouldn't upset it for anything," promised Joel. "Please, Mr. Tisbett." But Mr. Tisbett sat down and gathered up the reins and drove round with such a flourish that it never had been surpassed, it seemed to the people on the tavern porch. And the one woman got in with her basket, and the tavern-keeper's wife ran down the steps and stood on her tiptoes and handed up to Joel the bundle of cookies, begging them to come again. And the old farmer said "Good day," and the woman with little sharp eyes, who had been washing the dishes, hurried out, pulling down her sleeves, to see them off. And away they rattled, with faces turned toward home and Mamsie. They had proceeded about a quarter of a mile, when Mr. Tisbett suddenly asked, "Want to drive, Joel? Come along over here," and he reached past David and took his hand. "Now, then, I'm goin' to set in the middle a little spell," and before Joel could recover from his astonishment, he found the old leather reins in his brown hands. He was driving Mr. Tisbett's black horses! XVIII IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE The delights of that day at Strawberry Hill never died out of remembrance, as Joel and David went over it constantly, so that the whole Pepper family soon felt that they had been of the company in the stage-coach along with Mr. Tisbett. Only when once the story was told of the trouble with Jim, as it was by David, Mrs. Pepper decided that that should never be referred to again. But her black eyes glowed when little David proudly related how Joel had stopped the beating that Jim's father was giving him, although the account was much delayed, Davie was in such a tremble. But the dinner! The two boys couldn't tell enough times to suit themselves or their audience, about that wonderful meal. "How did it taste?" asked Polly, as Joel finished the description of Mrs. Green's raspberry shortcake, and smacked his lips over it. "Just like all the best things you ever tasted in your life, Polly Pepper," he answered. "And the juice ran out all over it, and there was sugar on top." "Oh, Joel," cried Polly, incredulously, "not sugar on top, and inside too!" and she paused to think how such a fine shortcake could taste. "Yes, there was," said Joel; "lots and lots of sugar, Polly Pepper, was all sprinkled on top. Wasn't it, Dave?" "Yes," said little Davie, and his mouth watered as he thought of it. "And sugar inside--was it sweet?" persisted Polly, still standing quite still. "As sweet as anything," declared Joel, positively, and bobbing his stubby black head. "You can't think what a shortcake that was, Polly, if you try ever so hard." "Mamsie," cried Polly, suddenly, "do you suppose we'll ever have one? Do you?" "Maybe," said Mrs. Pepper, not looking into the brown eyes, but keeping her own bent on her work; "but I wouldn't think of it, Polly, if I were you. Things don't happen if you sit down and fold your hands and watch for 'em." "Well, I don't b'lieve it will ever happen that we do get a shortcake, any more than we had a chicken pie," said Polly, turning away with a sigh. "Why, you had your chicken pie, Polly," cried Joel, "only 'twas a goose." "Old gray goose!" said Polly, scornfully. "It was trimmed with a posy, though, and that was nice, wasn't it, Mammy?" brightening up. "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Pepper, cheerily; "and you baked it so good, Polly." "So it was baked good," said Polly, all her good humor returning. "And it did not make so much matter, did it, Mamsie, that he was tough?" "No, indeed," said Mrs. Pepper, laughing; "he lasted all the longer, you know, Polly." "Mean old gray goose!" exclaimed Joel, at the remembrance; "he most broke my teeth, trying to eat him." "Do you remember, Joe, how you teased for the drumstick?" laughed Polly. "You soon put it down on your plate, didn't you?" "Yes," said Joel, bobbing his head, "I remember, Polly. I couldn't bite a single thing off. Mean old goose!" "He looked nice," said little Davie, thoughtfully, "he was so brown, and there were Polly's flowers on top of him." "Yes," said Polly, "those were nice, children. Well, p'r'aps we'll get a really and truly chicken pie sometime. And if the old stove would behave, and not have these dreadful holes coming all the time, where the putty tumbles out, it would be perfectly splendid. Now," cried Polly, running up to the stove, and shaking her brown head at it, "you've got to do your very best. If you don't, I'm sure I shall just give up!" "Will you cry, Polly?" asked Phronsie, creeping up behind her. "Yes, maybe," said Polly, recklessly. "Yes, I really think I shall have to cry, Phronsie, if that old stove lets the putty Ben put in last week tumble out again." "Then it mustn't, Polly," said Phronsie, very decidedly, "let the--What is it Ben put in?" "The putty, child," said Polly. "It mustn't let the putty tumble out," said Phronsie. Then she ran up to the stove, and laid her little face up against its cold, black surface, for on summer afternoons there was never any fire in it. "You mustn't be naughty, old stove," she said, "for then Polly will cry." "Oh, Phronsie!" cried Polly, "you've smutted your face, and blacked up your nice clean dress," and she pulled her back in dismay. "O dear!" whimpered Phronsie, in distress, as she looked down at the long black streak across her pink calico gown. "I didn't mean to, Polly; truly, I didn't." "Never mind," said Mrs. Pepper, looking across the kitchen; "Mother'll wash it out for you by and by. Put on another one, Polly." "Let me wash it, Mammy," begged Polly, carrying Phronsie off to wash her face and get her into another gown. "No, you'll only spread it more, for you don't know how, Polly," answered Mother Pepper. So Polly, feeling as if there were a great many things she must grow up and learn, hurried off with Phronsie into the bedroom. And then it was that Joel suddenly thought of the circus he meant to have whenever the time came ready. "Come on out to the woodpile, Dave," he said, "and let's talk it over." It was a good two hours after when Joel and David clambered down from the woodpile, and ran into the house. "Joel," said Mother Pepper, "you forgot to fill up the wood box; see, it's nearly empty." "It's always empty," Joel began, his head nearly bursting with big plans for his circus. "Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, sternly, "don't let me ever hear you fret at your work again. Go straight out and bring in the kindlings." "And I'm going to help, too," cried David, skipping after. So it wasn't very long before the two boys had brought in two good basketsful of kindlings, which just filled the wood box behind the stove. "I'm glad it's done," remarked Joel, with great satisfaction, knocking off the little splinters sticking to his fingers. "People always are glad when their work is finished," said Mrs. Pepper, breaking off a fresh needleful of thread. "Shall you be glad, Mamsie?" suddenly asked Joel, who never could get over the idea that it was a perfect delight to his mother to sit and sew. "Of course she will," cried Polly, unguardedly. "Mamsie's tired to death sewing and working all the time." Little David's face grew very long, and he turned away, hoping no one would see him cry. Joel burst into a loud fit of sobbing. "I think--it's--too--too bad," he blubbered, covering his face with his arm, "that Mamsie has--has--to sew and work--all the time." "Now you see, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, putting aside her work and drawing Joel on her lap, "what mischief a few words can do. There, there, Joel, don't cry," and she patted his black hair. "Mother's glad to work for her children, and she gets rested when they're good." But Joel sobbed on, and she had to repeat it many times before he would wipe his tears, and be comforted. Little Davie drew near silently, to hear what she said. Phronsie, in the bedroom, saw Joel in Mamsie's lap, and Davie hanging over her chair, and she pattered across the kitchen floor. "Take me, too, do Mamsie," holding out her arms. "So Mamsie will," cried Mrs. Pepper, heartily, and drawing her up to sit next to Joel, on her lap. When little Davie saw that, "I wish there was room," he said softly, "to hold me, too, Mamsie." "Well, there is," said Mother Pepper, opening her arms, "and for Polly, too," for she saw Polly's head drooping from her reproof. "Oh, Mamsie!" cried Polly, running over to her, to get within the good arms, though she couldn't sit on her lap, of course, as there were three little Peppers there already; "I'm sorry I spoke, but I didn't think." "Didn't think makes most all of the trouble in this world," said Mrs. Pepper, gravely; "so see to it that next time you don't have to make that excuse, Polly child," and she dropped a kiss on Polly's red cheek. "It's just this way, children," she went on, smiling on all the bunch; "Mother is really glad to work, and every stitch she puts in, she keeps thinking, now that's for Ben and Polly and Joel and David and Phronsie." Mother Pepper's black eyes went lovingly around on all the faces so near her own. "And I keep looking ahead, too, to the time when the little brown house people are going out into the world and--" "Oh, we aren't ever going out into the world, Mammy," declared Polly, in alarm. "We are going to stay in the little brown house forever'n ever." "Forever'n ever," echoed Phronsie, folding her hands tightly together; while the two boys vociferously protested that nothing should ever drive them out of the little brown house. "No, not even to live over in Strawberry Hill with nice Mrs. Green." "Well, anyway, we must all live and grow up so that the little brown house won't be ashamed of us," said Mrs. Pepper, "and that's what Mother is working for; so don't let me hear any more crying about it. Now remember, all of you." With that she opened her arms wide again. "Now scamper off," she said, with a bright smile, and she picked up her sewing and sent her needle cheerily in and out once more. That evening, after the supper things were all cleared away, Joel began by drawing Davie off in a corner to whisper mysteriously. "Let him alone, Polly," said Ben, in a low voice. "Joe'll tell of his own accord, pretty soon." And sure enough, it wasn't ten minutes. Mother Pepper had gone into the bedroom to tuck Phronsie away for the night, when Joel said triumphantly, "We know something, Dave and me, and we won't tell what 'tis." "All right," said Ben, coolly. "Polly, I guess I'll mend Mamsie's washboard. I shan't have another chance so good this week." "I wish you would, Bensie," said Polly, well pleased, for Polly dearly loved everything kept mended up, and "shipshape," as Mrs. Pepper used to say. "I'll spread the paper down so you don't get any mess on the floor." So she ran to the pile of old weekly newspapers her mother always saved, when any of the Badgertown people sent her a copy, as they did once in a while, and flapping one open, she soon had a "paper carpet," as she said merrily, on the floor. And Ben, coming out from the woodshed, with the washboard in his hand, together with the hammer and nails, the kitchen began to hum with the noise. "Yes," said Joel, loudly, "we do; we know something real fine, Dave and I. Don't we, Dave?" with a nip on Davie's little arm. "Ow!" said Davie. "That so?" assented Ben, coolly. "Yes, and we aren't goin' to tell, either," said Joel, "not a single word; so there, Ben!" Then he began to whisper as fast as he could to David. "You'll tell, yourself, Joe, without anybody's asking," said Ben, as Joel began again with: "It's perfectly splendid, Ben Pepper. And oh, Polly, you don't know what we do; does she, Dave?" "Polly and I will know pretty soon," added Ben. "No, you won't, either," contradicted Joel. "We aren't ever in all this world goin' to tell of the circus I'm goin' to--" "There!" shouted Ben, throwing down the hammer. "You've told it, Joe, just the same as I knew you would. Ha, ha!" "Don't, Ben," begged Polly, "it teases Joel. Well, we don't know what kind of a circus you are going to have, Joey," she said kindly, "so we'll be just as much surprised when we see it." "Will you?" cried Joel; "well, then, Polly, I'd rather tell the whole, if you'll be surprised when you see all the animals." "I guess you will," said Ben, in a low voice; "there's no danger in promising that." "I truly will, Joey," promised Polly. "Do be still, Ben." "Well, to begin with, Polly, there's going to be a rhodo--What's that you told us about in your story of the circus?" "Hoh, hoh!" laughed Ben, busily at work over the washboard, "there's your rhododendron, Polly. I thought Joel wouldn't forget to have one in his circus." "Go on, Joel," said Polly, with a cold shoulder for Ben. "Now I know your circus is going to be perfectly elegant," she cried enthusiastically, running over to their corner. "Do tell us about it, Joel." Joel, vastly complimented that Polly took such an interest in his plan, now began lustily to set it forth, and little Davie piped in whenever there was a chance for a word, which wasn't often. And finally Ben said, "I guess I'll move my washboard and the 'paper carpet' up there with you all," and Polly said, "Oh, do, Ben." And presently they were all so very jolly, Ben deciding not to say anything more of Polly's rhododendron, that none of them knew when Mother Pepper said above their heads, "I thought you didn't know 'twas five minutes past your bedtime, Joel and David," pointing to the clock. XIX CIRCUS PLANS Joel practised the part of so many animals in the next week that the little brown house people became quite accustomed to any strange grunting or roaring they might chance to hear, as if a whole menagerie were let loose. Only Mamsie forbade that such noise should be allowed within doors. And every once in a while Joel would rush into the kitchen, with "Polly, how does an elephant scream?" and "Tell me, Polly, does a kangaroo cry this way?" until Polly was quite worn out. "I guess you'll be glad when that circus of Joe's is over with," said Ben. "I pity you, Polly. I'd enough sight rather chop wood for Mr. Blodgett." "Well, you needn't," cried Polly, "pity me, Ben, for Joel's so very happy. And poor Mr. Blodgett! O dear, it's too bad his barn's all burnt up." "And the horse and the cow," said Ben, very soberly. "Hush!" warned Polly, looking around to see if Phronsie heard. Luckily, she was in the bedroom, sitting down by the lower bureau drawer, which was open, and trying on her red-topped shoes, getting every button into the wrong button-hole. "Oh, Ben," Polly rushed up to whisper in his ear, "I do think that was too dreadful for anything." "Yes," said Ben; "it was Mrs. Blodgett sent you word she was sorry she hadn't any milk to send to Phronsie now and then." "Good Mrs. Blodgett!" exclaimed Polly, with the tears in her brown eyes. "Oh, I do wish we had something to send her!" she sighed. And Ben sighed too. Because, as he had been working at Deacon Blodgett's pretty steadily the last few weeks since the fire, he had noticed how the neighbors and friends had been sending in things to show how sorry they were for the Blodgett family, and it grieved him dreadfully that the Peppers seemed to be about the only ones left out. So now he preserved a gloomy silence. "Well, come, dear me," cried Polly, when she saw this, and, remembering her mother's advice, to think first before she spoke the words that might work mischief, she brightened up. "P'r'aps some chance will come to us to show dear Mrs. Blodgett that we are sorry for 'em, if we can't send 'em things." "P'r'aps," said Ben. But he still looked gloomy. "I can do my work just as well's I know how," he thought; "but I'm going to do that, anyway, so I don't see what other chance there'll be." "Whom are you going to invite to see your circus, Joel?" asked Polly, a few nights later, when, as usual, after supper, Joel was haranguing loudly on the great show to take place, and even little David was wound up to such a pitch of enthusiasm that Mrs. Pepper, on seeing his red cheeks, felt a dozen times inclined to send him to bed ahead of the time. But his happy little face appealed to her strongly, and she argued to herself, "I don't know but what 'twould hurt him quite as much to disappoint him, as to let him sit up half an hour longer. Thank fortune, it's seven o'clock now!" So David was saved being sent off to bed, until it was time for Joel to go too. "I ain't a-goin' to invite any one," said Joel; "no, sir-_ree!_ Everybody's got to pay to come into my show." "How much do we pay?" asked Polly. "O dear me, Joe, I don't b'lieve you'll get many people to see it." "Pins, I s'pose," said Ben. "Yes," said Joel, "pins, an' good ones, too, not crooked, bent old things." "Pins cost money," said Mrs. Pepper, looking up from her work-basket. "I suppose you know that, Joel?" "Well, we can't let folks in without paying," said Joel, in deep anxiety. "'Twouldn't be a circus if we did." "I tell you," said Polly, seeing his forehead all puckered up in wrinkles; "why don't you have some tickets, Joel, made out of paper, you know, and marked on 'em for ten cents and five cents?" "Where'd you get the paper, Polly?" asked Ben, who was very practical. "Better not propose anything you can't carry out. Look at Joe's face," he whispered, under cover of the shouts from the two boys. "O dear me!" cried Polly, whispering back, "we never have anything! It's perfectly dreadful, Ben; and we must help Joe. And you know yourself there aren't any pins hardly in the house, and Mamsie couldn't give us one of those." "You must think of something else besides paper, for that's just as bad as pins," said Ben, with perfect faith that Polly would contrive a good way out of the difficulty. Polly put her head into her two hands, while Joel was vociferating, "Oh, tickets! Goody! Polly's going to make 'em! Polly's going to make 'em!" in a way to fill her with dismay, while she racked her brains to think what would satisfy Joel as entrance money to his circus. "Now, children," she said briskly, lifting her head, her hands falling to her lap, "Ben says we can't manage the tickets very well, because we haven't any paper." She hurried on, "Be still, Joe!" as she saw signs of a howl. "But I'll tell you something else you might have, Joel, and we've got plenty of 'em, and they're round, and oh, so nice!" By this time her voice had such a confident ring, and she laughed so gayly, that little Davie cried out, "I know it's nice, Polly," and even Joel looked enthusiastic. "It's just as nice," declared Polly, clasping her hands. "Oh, you can't think! And I'll help you gather some." "What is it?" screamed Joel; "do tell, Polly." "It's cheeses," said Polly; "don't you know, Joe, out in the yard?" They were the little, round, green things, so called by the children, that grew on a little plant in the grass, and they used to pick and eat them. "Oh, they're not money," said Joel, falling back, horribly disappointed. "Neither are tickets money," said Polly, airily; "they only mean money; and the cheeses can mean it just as well. Besides, they're round." "And I think the cheeses are a great deal better than anything, to pay with," said Ben, coming to Polly's rescue. "And you can charge as much as you want to, you know, Joe, 'cause they're plenty." "So I can," cried Joel, quite delighted at this. "Well, you must pay fifty, no, seventy-five cheeses to get in, Ben." "Oh, I guess I shall spend my time picking seventy-five cheeses!" cried Ben; "you must let me in cheaper'n that, Joel." "You may come in for ten, then," said Joel, coming down with a long jump, very much alarmed lest Ben should not be able to get in. And as for having the circus without him--why, that would be dreadful! "You do think up such perfectly beautiful things, Polly," cried David, huddling up close to her, and lifting his flushed cheeks. "Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, catching sight of them, "your face is awful red." And she caught Mother Pepper's eye. "I know it," said Mrs. Pepper, the troubled look coming back. She laid down her work. "Come here, David, and let Mother see you." So Davie got up from the ring on the floor, and ran over to his mother, and climbed in her lap. "I don't see what 'tis," she said, looking him over keenly. Then she made him open his mouth, and she got a spoon and looked down his throat. "It isn't red," she declared, "and I don't believe it's sore." "No," said little Davie, "it isn't sore, Mammy. Mayn't I go back, now?" he asked, looking longingly over at the group on the floor. "I know what's the matter with Dave," said Ben, wisely. "He's been so many animals this week, Joel's made him, that he's tired to death." "I think you're right, Ben," said Mrs. Pepper. "Well now, Davie, Mother is sorry to send you to bed before the time--it's ten minutes yet to half-past seven; but she thinks it best." "Do you, Mamsie?" said Davie. "Yes, I do," said Mrs. Pepper, firmly. "I really think it's best. You're all tired out, and to-morrow I guess you'll wake up as bright as a cricket." "Then I'll go if you want me to," said David, with a sigh, and sliding out of her lap he went slowly out and up to the loft. "I haven't got to go for ten minutes," sang Joel after him. "Goody, ain't I glad!" "It's too bad Davie had to go," mourned Polly; "but I suppose it's best." "Yes," said Ben, "he'd be sick if he didn't. It's most too bad he has to go alone, though," and his blue eyes rested on Joel's face. Joel began to squirm uncomfortably. "Don't you think 'twould be nice, Joe," said Polly, "for you to go with Davie? He's so much littler; it's too forlorn for him to go up to bed alone." "No, I don't," snapped Joel. "I'm going to stay down and talk over my circus. You may get in for ten cheeses, too, Polly," he said magnificently. "Thank you," said Polly, coldly. Joel gave her a queer look. "And I'm going to let Sally Brown in for ten. No, she's got plenty of cheeses in her yard, she's got to pay more," he rattled on. Polly and Ben said nothing. "I'll go if you want me to, Polly," at last Joel sniffed out. "I don't want you to," said Polly, still with a cold little manner, "unless you want to go yourself, Joel. But I should think you would want to, when you think of poor little Davie going up there alone. You know you don't like to do it, and you're such a big boy." Joel struggled to his feet. "I'll go, Polly," he shouted. Mamsie flashed him a smile as he dashed past and stumbled up the steps of the loft. But the next morning David didn't seem to be bright and wide awake as a cricket, and although there was nothing the matter with him, except he still had his red cheeks and complained when any one asked him if he felt sick, that he was tired, that that was all, Mother Pepper kept him in bed. And that night he came down to sleep in Mamsie's big bed, and Polly had a little shake-down on the floor. "I wish I could ever be sick!" said Joel, when he saw the preparations for the night. "Oh, Joel, don't wish such perfectly dreadful things," said Polly. "Well, I never sleep with Mamsie," said Joel, in an injured tone. "And Davie gets all the good times." "Now, Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, the morning after that, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you can't have your circus awhile yet, till Davie gets real strong. So you must rest your animals," she said with a smile, "and they'll be all the better when the right time comes." Joel, swallowing his disappointment as best he could, went out and sat on the back steps to think about it. He sat so very still, that Polly ran out after a while to look at him. "Oh, Joe, you aren't crying!" she said in dismay. "No," said Joe, lifting his head; "but, Polly, I'm afraid my animals will all run away if I don't have the circus pretty soon. Don't you s'pose Mamsie'll let me have it in the bedroom Dave could sit up in the bed and see it." "Dear me, no," cried Polly. "The very idea!" Whenever Polly said, "The very idea!" the children knew it was perfectly useless to urge anything. So now Joel sank back on the doorstep and resigned himself to despair. "I tell you what I'd do if I were you, Joey," said Polly, kindly, and running down to sit beside him. "I'd think up all sorts of different things, and get all ready, every speck. There's really a great deal to do. And then I'd pick cheeses all the spare time I had. Oh, I'd pick lots and lots!" Polly swept out her arms as if enclosing untold numbers. "And--" "What do I want to pick cheeses for?" asked Joel, interrupting. "The folks that pay has to pick 'em, I sh'd think." "I know it," said Polly; "but if you pick a good many cheeses, you can give away some tickets, you know--comple--comple--well, I don't just know what they call 'em. But they let folks in without paying." "And that's just what I don't want to do," cried Joe, in high dudgeon. "Hoh, Polly Pepper, I sh'd think you'd know better'n that!" "It's just this way, Joel," said Polly, trying to explain. "Folks that give a show always send some tickets to their friends, so they don't have to pay. I should think you'd want to; why, just think," she jumped off from the step and stood before him in great excitement, "I never thought of it before," and the color rose high on her cheek. "You can ask dear Mrs. Beebe, and Mr. Beebe, and--" "I won't have Ab'm," cried Joel; but he was very much impressed, Polly could see, by her plan. "No, of course not," said Polly. "Ab'm has gone back West." "And Mrs. Beebe says she ain't ever going to have him again at her house," added Joel. "Well, never mind; and you can ask Mrs. Blodgett. She was so good to send Phronsie milk; and she's had her barn burnt." "Well, Sally Brown'll have to pay," said Joel, as Mrs. Pepper called Polly to come in to her work. And he jumped off the step and began to pick cheeses with all his might. XX CIRCUS OR MENAGERIE? "You tell Joel," said Mrs. Beebe, standing in the doorway of the little shop, "that I've got some animals I'm goin' to send down to his circus this afternoon, if so be I can't come myself and bring 'em." "Yes'm," said Polly; "and oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Beebe." "Whatever can they be?" she cried to herself, racing home on the wings of the wind. "Dear me, won't Joe have the most splendid time! and dear little Davie, it's good he's rested and well," and Polly's mind was flying as busily as her feet, as she set all her wits to work to think up everything that could possibly be achieved to help out the great event. When she got home Joel was in a great tribulation. "Polly, Polly," he mourned, "the tiger's run away." "Yes, she has," declared Davie, mournfully, "and she was the best of the whole. Oh, Polly!" and he sat down on the step in despair. "Now that's too bad!" cried Polly; "but then, dear me, Joe, p'r'aps we can find her. Doesn't Sally know where she is?" "No--no," cried Joel, quite gone in distress, and twisting his chubby fingers to keep from crying; "and Mrs. Brown doesn't know either. She says that cat never ran away before in all her life, and I'd just got her tamed to carry Seraphina. O dear, dear!" "Joel," cried Polly, "I do believe that cat is up in a tree, maybe, near the Browns'. I just mean to run over and call her with all my might." "We've called and called, and every one of the Browns has called," said Joel, "and she won't come." David's head sank, and he covered his face with both hands, unable to say a word. "Well now, Joel," said Polly, "I wouldn't care, if I were you; and oh," she cried suddenly, with delight at the comfort she could give him, "Mrs. Beebe says she's going to send you some animals, if she can't come and bring 'em herself. Think of that, Joe!" "Oh--oh!" screamed Joel, in an ecstasy. "Now I don't care if that old cat has run away. She bit me awfully yesterday," and he held up his thumb; "and she's a mean old thing, and she wasn't a very good tiger, anyway." "Mrs. Beebe's animals will be a good deal nicer," said little Davie, bringing up a shining face as his hands fell away. "What kinds are they, Polly?" "I don't know," said Polly; "that's all she told me." "And we've got the monkey left, 'cause I'm going to be the monkey," said Joel, with a bob of his black head; "and Dave's going to be a kangaroo, only he don't jump as big as he ought to." "I jump as high as I can, Polly," said little David, getting off from his step to go to her side, and look up into her face anxiously. "Oh, I know you'll be a lovely kangaroo, Davie," said Polly, giving him a reassuring little hug, "and they don't always jump high, Joel." "Don't they?" asked Joel, in surprise. "No, indeed, not unless they want to," said Polly. "But why don't you be the kangaroo, then, Joe, and let Davie be something else? Give him the snake, then he won't have to jump, and it's easier to wriggle." "Oh, no--no--no," cried Joel, in alarm, "I'm going to be the snake myself, and slash around like everything. Dave can't be the snake." "Well, something else that's as easy as the snake, then," said Polly, laughing. "You mustn't tire him all out, Joel, for then Mamsie will have to stop the circus, and _that_ would be perfectly dreadful, you know." This made Joel decide at once that he would change his animals round a bit; so he said, "I'll be the kangaroo myself, Dave. See here," and he executed such a remarkable series of leaps and hops, and long and short steps, that his audience of two were quite overcome with admiration. "Oh, I am so glad, Joel, that you'll be the kangaroo," said Davie, with a long breath of relief, "for it tired me so to try, and I couldn't do him good." "No," said Joel, coming up bright and shining, as he finished his last hop, "you couldn't, Davie. Now you must take some of the others then, if you aren't to be the kangaroo." And he threw himself on the grass at Polly's feet, as she and David now sat on the step. "Only one," said Polly; "you mustn't give him but one, Joe, to take the place of the kangaroo." "Well, the kangaroo was a big one," said Joel; "he ought to take two others to make up." "No, only one," said Polly, decidedly. "I'd rather be a bird," said little Davie, timidly. "Pshaw! a bird!" exclaimed Joel, in high disdain. "I'm not going to have any old birds. Folks don't have 'em in a circus." "Well, this is going to have a menag--menag--" said Polly, who sometimes found it hard to manage all the big words she wanted to use. "Anyway, what Ben called it the other night. He heard 'em talking of it at the Blodgetts'." "I know," said Joel, steering clear of the word. "Do they have birds in that thing that Ben told about?" he asked doubtfully. "Oh, yes--beautiful ones--trained to do anything, Joel Pepper," cried Polly "Oh, your show wouldn't be anything without a bird!" "Then I'll have one, and Dave shall be it," decided Joel, veering around. "And I'll do things," cried little Davie, very much excited, and getting off from his step to hop along the path. "I'll sing." "That's nothing!" said Joel, in scorn. "And I'll hop and pick up crumbs," added David, anxious to please and do everything that a well-brought-up bird should do. "Hoh! that won't be anything!" exclaimed Joel, with a withering look. "I'll tell you, Joel, let's play that you trained Davie, who's a bird, you know, to drag Seraphina around. We can tie her on a board real nicely." "Oh, yes, that's prime!" cried Joel, seeing hope ahead for David's bird, if Polly only took hold of it. "And then you can tell the audience that the trained bird is going to ride on the monkey's back," cried Polly. "Oh, hooray!" shouted Joel, prancing off to hop with David down the path and over the grass. "And then when you've got through showing him off, David must sing a little song to show he is a bird. This way," and Polly threw back her head and twittered twee-dee-ed, and chee-chee-ed, and trilled in a way she had, till the boys looked up in the branches of the old scraggy apple tree to see if there really was any little bird there. "That's fine!" cried Joel, clapping his hands and drawing a long breath. "Oh, I never can do it so nice as Polly," said David, in despair, growing quite sober. "Polly," cried Joel, suddenly, "couldn't you stay behind the bushes and sing? and folks will think it's Dave,--the bird--I mean." "Why, yes, Joel, if Davie doesn't want to sing," said Polly; "but he's the bird, you know, so it must be as he wants." "But he can't sing good, you know," said Joel, impatiently. "I'd rather you'd sing the bird, Polly," said little David, "'cause I can't do it good like you; and I'll _be_ the bird." And he repressed the sigh he felt like giving. "Then I will, gladly," said Polly, who loved dearly to sing. "And, Polly, will you play the band?" cried Joel, who had been so busy getting his various animals planned for and ready, that the music was left out of the reckoning. "Dear me, Joe!" exclaimed Polly, in consternation. Yet she felt quite flattered. "We haven't any table out here, except the stone one," glancing at it, "and my fingers won't make any noise on that. So I don't see how we can have the band." Polly always made her fingers fly up and down on the kitchen table while she sang, pretending it was a piano and she was a great musician, for it was the dearest wish of her heart to learn to play on a piano. "Ben can get us a board, I know," cried Joel, confidently; so he ran off to find him in the woodshed, for Ben was home to-day, chopping wood. And pretty soon Joel came running back, proclaiming that Ben had said yes, if Polly would play, that the board should be all ready. "O dear me!" cried Polly. "Well, then, I must hurry and go in and practise," as she called drumming on the kitchen table; she said this with quite an important air, as she hurried into the house. "Ben's going to be the elephant, isn't he, Joel?" she asked, turning around in the doorway, for Joel changed his animals about so often it was difficult to keep track of them. "No," said Joel, "I'm going to be that." "Why, I thought you were to be the bear," said Polly, in surprise. "I am, and Mr. Tisbett's black horses, and--" "You can't be two horses, Joe," said Polly. "Dear me. Ben must be one of them." "Well, I'm going to be Bill, anyway," said Joel, in alarm. "Ben can be Jerry. And I'm going to be Mr. Tisbett and make 'em go." "You can't be Mr. Tisbett if you're Bill," said Polly, in distress. "Oh, Joel, some one else must be stage-driver." "This isn't stage-driver," corrected Joel, in a superior way. "Hoh! don't you know anything, Polly Pepper! It's circus! And the horses do things. I saw 'em in the big picture." "Well, then, I can be Mr. Tisbett," said Polly, tingling to her finger-tips at the prospect. "Mr. Tisbett isn't a girl," said Joel, in scorn. "But I can put on Ben's coat, and you can tell 'em I'm Mr. Tisbett, same's you introduce all the animals," persuasively said Polly, feeling as if nothing could be quite as nice as to be Mr. Tisbett and manage those black horses. "Yes, let Polly be Mr. Tisbett," begged little David, longing to be that personage himself. "She'll make the circus splendid." "All right," said Joel. "Well, I'm going to jump through the paper hoops, anyway, on Ben's back. Are they safe?" he asked anxiously. "Yes, indeed," said Polly, who had a terrible time in making them, Joel being the most critical of individuals, "as safe as can be, in the bedroom cupboard;" and she ran off to get them, but not so fast as Joel, who rushed eagerly past her. "Take care, Joe, you mustn't get 'em," warned Polly, dashing into the bedroom at his heels. But too late! Joel's hands were on the paper rings, and he clutched them so tightly that, lo and behold, one little brown fist went clear through one of them, to come out on the other side! "Now, see," began Polly, desperately. Joel gave one look, then burst into a flood of tears. "I've spoiled it! I've spoiled it! Oh, I can't jump through it now!" he wailed, still holding them closely. "Oh, Polly, I've spoiled--" "Well, it's your own fault!" Polly was just going to say, knowing that she would have to make a new one, and where should she get the paper! Then her brow cleared, and she gave a sunny smile. "Never mind, Joey!" she cried. "There, p'r'aps it isn't much hurt," and she took the broken one, and began to smooth it out. "But it's bursted," cried Joel, trying to look through the rain of tears. "Oh, Polly! I was going to make the hole when I jumped through." "Um!--" said Polly, busily considering. Then she sat down and rested her elbows on her knees, first setting up the poor bursted ring against the bureau; and, with her chin in her hands, looked at it steadily. "I tell you, Joel, what we'll do," at last she cried; "those edges where it is torn can be pasted together, and--" "But it'll be a hole!" shouted Joel, who had stopped crying while Polly was thinking, knowing that she would get over the trouble some way. Now he cried worse than ever. "There wasn't goin' to be any hole, till I made one. O dear me!" and he flung himself flat on the floor, to cry as if his heart would break. "Joe, Joe," cried Polly, running over to him to shake his arm, "you must stop crying this very minute. If you don't, I shall not do anything for your circus. I won't be one of the animals, nor I won't play any music, nor anything." Joel gave a great gasp. "I'll stop," he promised. "Well, now, you must stop at once," said Polly, firmly, seeing the advantage she had gained. "So sit up, Joe, that's a good boy," as he very unwillingly brought himself up. "Now, then, I'll tell you what I'm going to do," and Polly seized the poor ring, and, tossing back her brown hair, began to pat and to pull the crooked edges together. "You see, Joey, I'm going to put a little border of red paper all around it," she said, patting and pulling away, "then it'll be--" "Oh, now that's goin' to be better than the other one," declared Joel, in huge delight, his round face wreathed in smiles. "And I'm going to break and smash the other one," and he doubled up his brown fist and dashed toward it. "No, you won't, Joe," cried Polly, in alarm. "I've only red paper enough to go on the broken one, so if anything happens to the other one, deary me! I don't know whatever in the world we could do. Now run and get the cup of paste in the woodshed, and in the shake of a lobster's whisker I'll have it all done," sang Polly, gayly. "Lobsters don't have whiskers," said Joel, as he ran for the paste cup. "Cats do, Polly, but lobsters don't," as he brought it back. "Oh, yes, they do," contradicted Polly; "those long thin things that stick out under their eyes. But never mind, anyway, and don't talk about them, for I've got to put all my mind on this dreadful ring." "Polly, I wish I'd had a lobster in my circus," said Joel, after a minute's panic, in which Polly pinched and snipped and pasted and trimmed with red paper all around the hole, till any one looking on would have said this was going to be the most splendid circus ring in the whole world. "Dear me, if you haven't enough animals and reptiles and things in your circus, Joey Pepper!" exclaimed Polly. "You wouldn't have had room for the lobster, anyway." "But I wish I had him," repeated Joel, stolidly. "And you must leave something for next time," said Polly, taking up the big ring to whirl it around over her head, to watch the effect of the red strip. "Oh, Polly!" screamed Joel, his black eyes sparkling with delight, "that's perfectly splendid! and I'll come right smash through that red ring. Yes, sir-_ree!_" and he danced around the bedroom, bumping into every object, as he was stretching his neck to look at the ring Polly was whirling so merrily. "Well, now that's done," said Polly, with a sigh of relief; "and I'm thankful, Joey Pepper. Yes, it does look nice, doesn't it?" and she surveyed the red border with pride. "Wasn't it good that Mamsie gave me those strips of paper? Whatever should we have done without them! Well, now, says I, you've got to hurry to get all ready. Three o'clock comes pretty soon after dinner, and there's ever and ever so much yet to do before you can have your circus, Joey Pepper." XXI JOEL'S CIRCUS "Joel," cried little David, his cheeks aflame, "Mrs. Beebe has brought your animals. Come out to th' wagon." With that David's heels twinkled down the narrow path to the gate. Joel dropped the wooden box that was to be the tiger's den, if Deacon Brown's cat should come back, and ran on the wings of the wind to the big green wagon standing out in the road. His black eyes roved anxiously over all the various things with which good Mrs. Beebe had loaded the vehicle, as she had many errands on her mind, and his heart beat fast at the sight of two or three boxes that stuck up above the rest, and an old canvas bag on top of them. "Here, Joel," said Mrs. Beebe, her face beaming with satisfaction. "You climb up behind and fetch down that bag." Joel's black eyes stuck out with delight, and he hopped over the back wheel in a twinkling and laid his hand on the old canvas bag. "Not that one," said Mrs. Beebe. "Mercy me, them's Pa's oats he told me to bring home--the other bag, Joel." "I don't see any other," said Joel, staring around at the various things, while his hand fell off from the canvas bag. He had been almost sure he heard something stir within it. "Dear me, child," exclaimed Mrs. Beebe, grasping the old leather reins in one hand, while she leaned back over the seat, "there they be," pointing to a paper bag laid nicely in between the two boxes, so it couldn't fall out. "Oh!" exclaimed Joel, swallowing hard. Then he wasn't to get one of those big wooden boxes, after all. "Yes, an' I guess you'll like 'em." Mrs. Beebe nodded and winked at him, and smiled all over her round face. "Now you take 'em and git out, that's a good boy, an' be quick, 'cause I've got some more arrants to do, an' I'm a-goin' to try to come to your show, Joel, seein' you've invited me so pretty." And with another bob of her big bonnet she twitched the reins smartly, and the old horse fell into a jog-trot, while Joel did as he was bidden, and with his paper bag in his hand, sat down on the grass, trying very hard not to cry. "She _said_ animals," muttered Joel, swallowing something that seemed to stick in his throat. "Look in and see," whispered little David, with a very distressed face, and sitting down on the grass to put one arm around Joel. Joel clutched his bag and stared gloomily. It didn't matter what it held; Mrs. Beebe had said "animals," and to find that she hadn't spoken the truth, made him feel so dreadfully that he longed to scream out after her, and tell her he didn't like her any more. He wouldn't ever like anybody who told a lie; and Mamsie wouldn't ever let him go to see her, and Polly's brown eyes would fill with scorn. Oh, he could feel just exactly how Polly would look, and he shivered. "Don't cry, Joe," said little Davie, feeling the thrill, and hugging him tightly; "and do see what's in it." Joel gave one plunge at the bag, untwisted it, and thrust in his hand. Suddenly he started back, nearly upsetting David. "Oh!" "What is it?" cried Davie, fearfully; "a snake, Joel?" "No--that is, I guess so," answered Joel, dragging out a whole handful of sugar cooky animals, and spinning them on the grass in various directions. "I guess there's a snake there. She _said_ animals, and they _are_ animals, Dave," and a smile broke all over his chubby face. David took one look at the sugar cooky animals flying over his head. "Oh, Joe, and they've got currant eyes!" he screamed, and clapped his hands. "See, there's a el'phant! Oh, and a goose, and a monkey!" with a dive at the last. "That isn't a monkey!" retorted Joel, with a pause in the work of emptying the bag to investigate the animal in David's hand, "that's a wild-cat." "Oh, Joel, is it?" cried Davie. "Um!" Suddenly Joel took it out of David's little palm, and popped one end of it into his mouth. "Oh, goody!" was all he said. "Have some, Dave?" and he shook the bag with the rest of its contents at him. But David was sprawling over the grass, picking up the scattered ones. Suddenly he stopped, with one halfway to his mouth. "Don't you s'pose Mrs. Beebe wants you to keep 'em for the circus, and give the folks some of them?" Joel squirmed uncomfortably, taking large bites of the biggest animals he could pick out, but said nothing. David laid his pig down on the grass, and looked at it wistfully. "They're mine," said Joel, crossly, and speaking as distinctly as he could for his mouthful, and bolting a rabbit and a hippopotamus together; "an' I'm goin' to eat 'em now." David still gazed at his pig, but didn't offer to touch it. Suddenly Joel threw down the bag. "I'm sorry I et 'em," he said ruefully. "You've got ever so many left," said Davie, cheerfully. "An' we'll pick up those on the grass," said Joel, suiting the action to the word, "an' save the rest for th' folks." And he soon had the remainder safe in the bag, when both the boys rushed into the house to display Mrs. Beebe's gift. After this, it was all commotion; so much so that Mrs. Pepper said she didn't know as she should ever let another circus come into the orchard. But her black eyes twinkled, and she patted Joel's head when she said it, and the anxious look ran away from Joel's face; and then the dinner of potatoes and brown bread was soon finished, and Polly somehow or other got the dishes all washed up, and the kitchen as clean as a new pin, ever so much quicker than on other days, and pretty soon Joel and all his animals and the musician were out in the orchard in a perfectly dreadful state of hurry and confusion. But at last the show was in full progress; on the seats of honor were Mother Pepper and Mrs. Beebe, who got in at the last minute, just before they were to begin. And Grandma Bascom, who was delighted to be able to hear for once, as she now could, all the roars of the various animals, while Sally Brown and the Henderson boys made up the rest of the audience. And everybody clapped their hands, and said, "Oh, isn't that good!" and, "I think that is fine!" And Grandma said, "La me!" and lifted her black mitts, which she had put on to do honor to the occasion, "and who would have thought it!" And Sally Brown and the Henderson boys stared with envy, and wished they were some of the animals and having such a good time. And Peletiah solemnly determined within himself to get up a circus the very next week. And the excited animals thrilled with delight when it came the monkey's time to perform and jump through the big paper rings. Joel bobbed out from behind the bushes, and told the audience what was coming; then he bobbed in again, and Polly and Ben got him into the monkey skin,--an old brown flannel petticoat that Grandma Bascom had given the children to play with, "'Cause it's so et up with moths, 'tain't fit to set a needle into to fix up," as she said. And Ben made a long, flapping tail out of an old, frayed rope, and Polly had sewed a little tuft of hair, that came out of Mamsie's cushion, on top of the monkey's head, pulling it all around the face for some whiskers; so, when Joel was really inside of it, he was perfectly awful. Particularly as he showed all his teeth, and rolled and blinked his black eyes every minute, so that Phronsie, who sat on the grass at Mamsie's feet, when she wasn't an animal and needed to perform, shivered, and clung close to Mrs. Pepper. "Take me, Mamsie," she begged. "'Tisn't a real, true, live monkey," cried Polly, rushing out from behind the bushes as she heard her, "it's only Joel, Phronsie." "It's me," cried Joel, who had been making faces at Peletiah, but stopping the minute he heard Phronsie. "It's me, Phronsie." "I want a monkey," said Phronsie, bringing her face out from under her mother's arm, "but not Joey. Please don't let Joey be a monkey," and she patted Mrs. Pepper's cheek. "Hush, dear," said Mother Pepper, "you'll spoil Joel's circus if you talk. See, Phronsie, the monkey's going to jump through the rings." So Phronsie sat up very straight in Mrs. Pepper's lap, and the wonderful act began, Polly being the musician, and singing her merriest, while she drummed with her fingers on the board that Ben had fixed across the stone table, running up and down with so many little quirks and quavers it was really very remarkable to hear. Ben held up a big ring, saving the one with the red border for the last. "Hold it higher," said Joel, in between his roars and grimaces. "No, sir," said Ben, firmly, "you aren't going to jump any higher. Go on." "Tisn't half as high as I jumped the other day," grumbled Joel. "Go on," commanded Ben, "or I won't hold it at all," and Polly bobbed her head at him as she drummed away. "Hurry up," she seemed to say. So Joel sprang off from the lower branch of the apple tree and went zip-tear-bang, at the paper ring. But instead of going through, he knocked it out of Ben's hand, and went with it, rolling over and over on the ground. When he got up to his feet, the big paper ring was all in tags, and the hair on the monkey's head was all over his eyes, and covering his red face. "Never mind, Joe," said Polly, running away from her piano, to pull him out straight and fix him nice again, "you'll do it fine next time, I guess." "Ben jiggled it," announced Joel, stoutly, and with a rueful face as he saw the broken ring. "No, I didn't," declared Ben; "I kept it as steady as could be. But you sprawled your legs and knocked it out of my hand. Take a good flying leap, Joe, and keep your eye on the red border." "Yes; I'm so glad there's a red border on it," said Polly, hopping back to make her fingers run merrily up and down her piano once more. So Joel took a flying leap, keeping his black eyes fixed on the red border, and came through the ring so splendidly that everybody hopped up to their feet, and shouted and clapped their hands, Grandma exclaiming, "La--for the land's sake!" while Phronsie slid out of Mrs. Pepper's lap and gave a squeal of delight. "Hoh! that's nothing!" declared Joel, and before Ben could say anything he ran and jumped up on the lower limb of the apple tree, and winding his sturdy legs around the trunk, and then springing from one branch to another, there he was, before any one knew it, on the topmost bough! "O mercy me--he'll be killed!" screamed Grandma, who saw it first. Mother Pepper turned swiftly. "Joel!" she was going to exclaim. But in a minute she knew it would be the worst thing in the world to do. So she tried to smile and to say, "Come down, Joey, and be careful." But Joel was swinging and slashing the long rope tail, and having a delightful time up there in the branches, and roaring and screaming so, that Mother Pepper's quiet tones couldn't possibly be heard. Polly's face turned very white. "Oh, Ben, he'll be killed!" she exclaimed. "He won't look at us, and we can't make him hear," for by that time everybody was shouting at him to come down, and Phronsie was crying as if her heart would break. "I'm goin' to hang by my tail," screamed Joel at them, and before any of them could realize what he was doing, he had swung the long rope over a branch and twisted it up in a knot, then he swung himself out, and let his feet free from the bough. Mrs. Pepper seized Ben's arm and said hoarsely, "Go up after him." Ben was halfway up the trunk as fast as he could go, which wasn't very good speed, as he was always slower at such things than the other little Peppers. When Joel, head downward, saw him coming up, he screamed, "Ha! I'm a monkey, and you can't catch me," and he swung farther out than ever. The knot he had thought so safe untwisted, and down, down, he went, the long rope curling through the air to wind around his legs. It was all done in one dreadful moment, and when they ran to pick him up, everything seemed to turn black around Polly's eyes. She never knew how it happened, but there was Mother Pepper sitting on the grass with Joel's head in her lap, and Mrs. Beebe hurrying into the kitchen for water and cloths to wash the blood away, and Grandma waddling down the lane to get things from the cottage. And Ben sliding down the tree, the rest of the little Peppers crouching up in misery around Mamsie and her boy. Polly's white lips only formed the words, "Dr. Fisher--I'll go--you stay here and help Mamsie," and she was off in a flash. For Polly could run the swiftest of any of them, her feet hardly touching the ground. Somebody called her name as she spun along the dusty ground, but she didn't stop--only sped on. But by laying the whip smartly over the back of his horse, the man in the wagon came up by her side and yelled at her, and then she saw that it was Mr. Tisbett. "Oh, I can't stop, sir!" she wailed, clasping her hands, "for Joel's dead, I guess." "Now you just git in here," commanded Mr. Tisbett, getting down to the ground; and without waiting for Polly to obey, he picked her up and set her on the seat. "I take it you're goin' after th' doctor. Now he ain't to home, for this is his day for Hillsbury, ye know. But I tell you," he added briskly, as he saw Polly's face, "I'm a master hand at doctorin', an' I'm goin' to take a look at Joel." All this time he was getting over the wheel and into his seat, and turning down the road toward the little brown house. "What's th' matter with Joel?" he asked at length, after slapping Black Bill smartly, who now ran at his liveliest pace. "He fell from the apple tree," said Polly, in a low voice. "Oh, Mr. Tisbett, could you go a little bit faster, please?" she implored. "Yes, yes," said Mr. Tisbett, obligingly, and applying the whip again to the horse's flanks. "Now it's lucky enough my stage-coach got a mite broke this morning, an' I had to wait over a trip, and so I've met you. We'll soon be there, Polly, don't you worry a mossel. I fell out o' apple trees time after time when I was a boy, and it hain't hurt me none. Git ap, Bill! An' at any rate, I'll fix Joel up. I used to be a doctor 'fore I was a stage-driver. Ye hain't never known that, hev ye, Polly?" and he smiled down on her. "No," said Polly, with a thrill of hope at her heart. "Oh, if Black Bill only would go a little faster!" "Fact," said Mr. Tisbett, rolling the tobacco quid into his other cheek. "I was what ye might call a nat'ral doctor, bone-setter, and all that; never took a diplomy--but land sakes alive, I donno's it's necessary, when ye got to make a bone into shape, to set an' pint to a piece o' paper to tell where ye was eddicated. Git up an' set th' bone, I say, an' if ye can do it all right, I guess it's a good enough job to the feller what owns the bone. Git ap, Bill!" and they drew up in front of the little brown house. Mr. Tisbett never waited to ask questions, although Mrs. Pepper looked at him inquiringly, but just took hold of the job he had come to do, and Polly explained to Mamsie. And presently everybody was obeying the stage-driver just as soon as he spoke a word. And his big hands were just as gentle and light, and his fingers, that always seemed so clumsy holding the old leather reins, were a great deal softer in their touch than Mother Pepper's own, as they wandered all over Joel's body. "That boy's all right, and bound to scare ye a great many times, Marm," at last he said. "Don't you worry a mite, Mrs. Pepper, he'll come out o' it, when he gits ready." But Mother Pepper shook her head as she hung over her boy. "Mammy," said Polly, crawling up to her like a hurt little thing, "I do believe Mr. Tisbett knows," she whispered. "I do, Mammy." But Mrs. Pepper only shook her head worse than ever. "What shall we do, Ben?" cried Polly, rushing up to him; "just look at her, Ben. Oh, what can we do for Mamsie! She's never been like that." "Nothing," said Ben, gloomily; "we can't any of us do anything till Joel comes to himself. There won't anything else help her." But Mrs. Pepper suddenly raised her head and looked at them keenly. "Come here, Polly," and at the same instant it seemed, so quickly she obeyed, Polly was at her side. "Mother feels that her boy will be all right," said Mrs. Pepper. And she even smiled. XXII THE MINISTER'S CHICKENS Mr. Tisbett was right. And before he left, Joel was sitting on his knee, and hearing various accounts of Black Bill; how he ran away once when he was a colt, and Mr. Tisbett never caught him till he'd chased him over into Hillsbury; and how once, when the pole broke going down a hill, Black Bill had held Jerry from kicking and plunging loose, and brought 'em all down in safety to the bottom. "I tell you, sir," declared Mr. Tisbett, bringing his big fist down on his knee, "that's a horse for you, ef ever there was one. And you shall go along of me sometime, Joe, and have a ride in th' stage-coach again, if your Ma'll let you." "Hooray!" cried Joel, hugely pleased. "When I'm a man, Mr. Tisbett, I'm goin' to have a stage just like yours, and two horses just exactly like Black Bill." "Take my advice," said the stage-driver, "an don't try to get two horses exactly alike, 'cause you're bound to be disappointed. Now there's Jerry; ain't a mite like Black Bill, but he's awful good to run along with him." "Then I shall have one like Jerry, instead," decided Joel, folding his hands in great satisfaction, since Mr. Tisbett advised it so. "Now I'm going to finish my circus, and be monkey." And he began to get down from the stage-driver's knee. "You hold on there," said Mr. Tisbett, firmly; "you've been monkey long enough, and scart your Ma and all on us nigh almost to death. Don't you go up that tree again, Joel Pepper! If you do, I won't take you on no more stage rides with me. You hear me, now." Yes, Joel did hear, so although he whimpered and teased, and declared he hadn't played monkey more than a half a minute, and he'd lost most all his circus, Mr. Tisbett sat up stiff and straight, holding him tightly, and said, "If I hear of you goin' up that ere tree again, you don't go with me." So Joel promised he would be very good, and then he hopped down and got into Mamsie's lap, and let himself be cuddled to his heart's content. "My land!" exploded Mrs. Beebe, when quiet was restored. "I declare, I'm all beat out. You could knock me down with a feather," she confided to Polly. "Well, well, well, that boy's saved for something. Now, Joel, why don't you have the animals now? Did you like 'em?" and she settled her glasses to get a good look at him, and assure herself that he was really uninjured. "It's a miracle," she kept saying to Grandma, who bobbed her cap all the while, as if she heard every word. "They were awful good," said Joel, in satisfaction. "Give me the rest of 'em, Polly," and he held out his hand. "So you shall have 'em, Joel," cried Polly, glad to think there was something she could do, and she ran and brought the little sugar cooky animals where she had fixed them in some large leaves ready for Joel to pass them around among the company at the close of the performance. "Mamsie must have the first one," said Joel, picking out the biggest and best, with the largest currant eyes, to force it between Mrs. Pepper's pale lips, "then Polly next." "Oh, no, Joe," said Polly, "I'm not company. Give one to Grandma and to Mrs. Beebe first." "Oh, you pretty creature you!" exclaimed Grandma. "So you want me to have a cake?" as Joel turned to her with one in his hand. "Tisn't a cake--it's an animal," corrected Joel, irritably. "Yes, yes--so 'tis a cake," repeated Grandma Bascom, taking the animal. "'Tisn't," said Joel. "Mamsie, make her stop saying things that aren't so, over and over." "Joel," said Polly, quickly, "Mrs. Beebe hasn't any animal. Why don't you give her a--let me see," and she considered deeply. "I'd give her a bird, Joel, here's a lovely one," and she pounced on a most remarkable specimen in the bird line one would wish to see. "Mrs. Beebe, wouldn't you like that?" she asked. "Oh, I should so," replied Mrs. Beebe, smiling all over her face to see how well Joel was, and putting out her hand. "Bless your heart, Joel, I'd rather have the bird than any other." "Had you?" asked Joel, greatly pleased. "Yes, indeed I had. I always set dreadfully by birds," said Mrs. Beebe. So Joel gave her the bird, then he leaned over and picked out a horse, very much baked on one side, and with one leg shorter than the other "That's for you, Mr. Tisbett," he said. "That suits me," said Mr. Tisbett, heartily. "Well, now I never! Seems to me I can't eat it, 'twould be almost like chewing up a critter, but I'll keep it to remember you by," and he slipped it into his big pocket. Then he got up and shook himself. "And now I must be a-goin'. Don't you be a mite worried, Mrs. Pepper, take my advice; that boy'll scare you more times than you can count. So you might as well get used to it. Now look sharp, Joe, and remember what you promised." "Phronsie must have the--" "Oh, Joey, I want the piggie, I do," cried Phronsie, whose eyes had been fastened on the cooky animals ever since Polly had brought them up on the beautiful green leaves. "May I, Joel?" she begged. "Hoh, that isn't good!" said Joel, disdainfully. "He's a horrid old pig." "Hush, Joey," said Polly, and her face turned rosy red, remembering Mrs. Beebe. But old Mrs. Beebe only laughed, and said she knew the pig wasn't baked good, he would whirl over on one side in the pan. And sometime she would bake Joel a good nice one. But Phronsie kept on pleading for this particular pig. "Do, Joel, please," she begged, "give me the dear, sweet piggie." So Joel put it in her hand, when she cuddled it lovingly up against her fat little neck, not thinking of such a thing as eating it. And then David must pick out the one he wanted, and then Ben. And then all over again, around and around, till there wasn't another cooky animal left. And when he saw that, Joel hopped down from Mamsie's lap and marched up to Mrs. Beebe. "Your animals were better'n mine," he said. "They don't tumble out of trees," said Mrs. Beebe, laughing. And then everybody got very merry, and Polly said, Could they play a game? and Mrs. Pepper looked at Joel hopping about, and she said, Yes, with a glad thrill that her boy was safe. "It will help him to forget his accident," she said to Polly. So after all, the circus wound up with a fine ending. And in the midst of it Mrs. Brown came panting over, having run nearly every step of the way. When she saw Joel spinning around in The Barberry Bush, she leaned against the side of the little brown house, and said, "O my!" Mrs. Pepper hurried over to her. "Sally ran home and said Joel had tumbled from a tree, so I brought these over as soon's I could," panted Mrs. Brown, opening her apron, and there were ever so many bottles of medicine. "O dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, with a thankful throb to think they were not wanted, and, "You are so good, Mrs. Brown." "So we go round the barberry bush," sang Joel, piping out the loudest of any one, and kicking up his heels as he danced. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Brown, "I never did, in all my life! Just hear that boy!" And she hadn't been gone but a moment or two, carrying her apron full of medicines with her, before Mrs. Henderson came hurrying along down the dusty road. Her face was flushed, and she looked anxious enough. Mrs. Pepper said, "Run, Polly, and meet her, and tell her Joel is all right. Bless her! She is a parson's wife!" So Polly ran with all her might, and stood before Mrs. Henderson, flushed and almost breathless. "Joey's all well," she managed to say. "Thank you, Polly," said Mrs. Henderson, smiling down into the flushed face. "And I am so glad to know it, for Peletiah came home very frightened. Well, take your mother this. Stay, I better go and see her, I guess." So she went up to the little group back in the orchard, and heard all about Joel's accident from himself, as he wanted to tell it all, up to the time when they picked him up. Mrs. Henderson wiped her eyes many times during the recital, then she drew Joel to her. "You must come over to see my new chickens some day." "I'll go to-morrow," said Joel, sociably, "if Mamsie'll let me." "Oh, Joey!" reproved Mrs. Pepper. "Please excuse him," to Mrs. Henderson, "he doesn't think what he is saying." "So you shall, Joey," said the parson's wife, with a pleasant smile, "and bring the others with you. Let them come, Mrs. Pepper, do." "Ben can't go, of course," said Mrs. Pepper, "and Polly can't, either," and her face grew sober, "for Mr. Atkins says I may get some more coats to-morrow morning, and she's getting so she helps me a good deal." "Never mind," said Polly, trying to laugh. How she would love to see those new chickens! "Polly shall come some other time," said Mrs. Henderson, with a kindly smile on her face. "To-morrow afternoon, Mrs. Pepper, at three o'clock, please let them come over." So the next afternoon Joel, with many injunctions to be good, escorted the other two children to Parson Henderson's, Mrs. Pepper and Polly watching them from the door stone as they trudged off down the road, Phronsie clinging to Joel's hand, and David on the other side. "She's a parson's wife, now!" said Mrs. Pepper for the fiftieth time, as the children turned the bend in the road, and wiping her eyes she went back into the house to pick up her sewing and go to work. "Well, Polly, you and I will have a fine time to fly at this now." The two needles clicked away busily enough as Polly sat down on the cricket at Mrs. Pepper's feet. "Whatever should we do without Mr. Atkins, too, Mamsie?" she said. "Polly," said Mother Pepper, suddenly, and she laid down her work a moment, although time was precious enough, "Mother's sorry you couldn't go, too. But a nice time will come for you sometime, I hope," though she sighed. "Never mind me, Mammy," said Polly, cheerily. "But I can't help minding, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, sadly, "when I think how few nice times you have. But I'll try all the harder." And she picked up her work again, and made the needle fly faster than ever. "And it's so very nice that Joel can go and see those new chickens," said Polly, suppressing a sigh, "after he fell yesterday, and Phronsie, oh, you can't think, Mamsie! how she runs on about the chickens she saw there once." "Yes, it is nice," said Mrs. Pepper, but she sighed again. Meantime Joel was in a state of supreme delight. Kneeling down in front of the coop, with his face pressed close to the bars, he was watching every movement of the fluffy little things, counting them over and over, and speculating what he would do if they were his, Phronsie crouching down by one side, while David was as close on the other, and all three children speechless with delight. Presently Joel broke the silence. "I'm going to take out one," he said. "Oh, no, Joe!" cried Davie, in alarm, and tumbling backward from the coop. "Yes, I am," said Joel, obstinately, who never could brook interference. "It won't hurt it a bit, and I'll put it right back." Phronsie didn't hear him, her whole attention being absorbed by the wonderful chickens. So Joel cautiously pulled up one slat of the coop a very little way. "There, you see," he cried in exultation, "I can do it just as easy as not;" when a bee, humming its way along, stung him smartly on the arm, and Joel twitched so suddenly that up went the slat quite high, and before he could stop them, out walked the old mother hen, and two of her children. "Oh, Joe, Joe! they're out!" screamed David. Phronsie rolled over on the grass in a little ball, as Joel knocked against her, and nobody thought for a moment of shutting the bar down. So three more chickens stepped out and hopped away over the grass. "Oh, Joe, Joe, they're all coming out!" cried David, quite beside himself with horror. "Shut the bar! shut the bar!" screamed Joel, running hither and thither, and only making the mother frantic, in her efforts to get away from him, and to protect her brood. "I can't," mourned Davie, tugging bravely at it. So Joel stopped chasing the hen and the chickens, and rushed up to slam down the bar, and two more chickens having hopped out in the meantime, there they were--seven downy little balls, hurrying about in a great state of excitement to reach mother, who was clucking noisily for them to hurry and come under her wing. "Oh, Joe! see what you've done," cried Davie, in distress, trying to help in every direction, but only succeeding in getting in the way. "O dear me! You can't ever get 'em back in the coop, in all this world." Phronsie, meanwhile, picked herself up, and eagerly entered into the chase, gurgling in delight as she pattered first after one little fluffy ball, and then another. "Yes, I can," said Joel, confidently, rushing here and there. "You stand still, Dave, and don't let 'em get by you. Then I'll drive 'em up." But after about five minutes of this sort of work, Joel found that he couldn't do it very well, for as fast as he got one chicken headed for David, the others all scattered in every direction, while Mistress Biddy scampered and waddled and clacked to her children, till the parsonage garden seemed full of hens and chickens. At last Joel stopped and wiped his hot face, David looking at him from a distance in despair. "You stay there, Dave, I'm going to tell 'em," and Joel marched off with an awful feeling at his heart. But he didn't dare to stop to think about it, but mounted the steps of the parsonage and went down the wide hall. There was nobody to be seen, and Joel was just going to run out to the kitchen, if, perhaps, Mrs. Henderson could be found there. Suddenly the study door opened, and there stood the minister himself in the doorway. "Well, Joel," said Parson Henderson, kindly, "I'm glad to see you. Do you want anything, my boy?" Joel's knees knocked together, but he answered, "I've let all the hens and chickens out." "You've let all the hens and chickens out?" repeated the minister, but he only half understood, and stood staring down into Joel's black eyes. "Yes, sir," said Joel, twisting his brown hands together tightly. If he should cry now, before his story was told, maybe the minister would never get those chickens into the coop. He must make him understand. "They're all running everywhere in the grass," he added miserably. "Do you mean Mrs. Henderson's new chickens?" asked the minister, starting a bit. Then he added composedly, "Oh, no, Joel, they're quite safe. She is very particular about looking after the coop herself." "But they are," gasped Joel. Then he forgot that it was the minister, and seized his hand. "Please--they're running awfully, and they'll die, maybe." Parson Henderson bestowed on him a long searching gaze. "How did they get out?" he asked. "I let 'em out," blurted Joel, "and they're all running. Do come, sir." And he fairly tugged at the minister's hand as if it had been David's. The parson went swiftly down the long hall, Joel hanging to his hand. Just then a voice called down the winding stairs, _"Jotham! Jotham!"_ It was Miss Jerusha. Joel gave one glance up the stairs, and held tighter than ever to the minister's hand. "Do come," he cried, in an agony. "Oh, please! sir." "Mehitable's chickens are out!" screamed Miss Jerusha, now appearing at the top of the stairs. She was in a short gown and petticoat, and had been doing up her hair, having just taken the ends of the side wisps out of her mouth, where she had conveyed them for the easier combing of the back locks. "I know it," said Parson Henderson, quietly; "Joel has just told me." With that he pressed the little brown hand that was in his own. "Go back to your room, Jerusha," he said. "I'll see to the chickens." "And there's those other two Pepper children," cried Miss Jerusha after him, with a tart look at Joel, "all over the place. And Mehitable is baking a cake for 'em--think of it!" "Is she baking a cake for us?" cried Joel, finding his tongue, as the minister, still holding his hand, went out toward the garden. "Yes," said Parson Henderson, "she is, Joel." "And I've let out all her hens and chickens!" cried Joel. "O dear, dear!" and the tears he couldn't hold back any longer rained all down his chubby face. "See here," Parson Henderson stopped a minute, "if you're going to help me, Joel, you can't cry, that's very certain. Why, I expect you and I will have every one of those chickens safe and sound in that coop in--well, in next to no time." "I'll help you!" cried Joel, dashing off the tears at once, and swallowing hard. "Oh, do hurry, please, Mr. Henderson," pulling hard at the kind hand. "Softly--softly there, Joel, my boy," said the minister. "If we're going to get those chickens into that coop, we mustn't scare them to begin with. Now, you run into the barn, and get a little corn in the quart measure." So Joel, glad of something to do, dropped the minister's hand, and ran off at lightning speed, and soon raced back again with the quart measure half full of corn. "That's well," said Parson Henderson, approvingly. "Now then, the first thing to do is to make the mother go back into the coop. Here, Mrs. Biddy, take a bit of this nice corn." He flung out a kernel or two to the hen, whose feathers that had started up in a ruffle and fluff, at sight of Joel, now drooped, and her excited clacking stopped. "Keep perfectly still, Joel," said Parson Henderson, over his shoulder. All this time, Phronsie and David, at sight of Parson Henderson's approach, had stood as if frozen to the ground, never taking their eyes from his face, except to look at Joel. The parson then went along a few steps nearer to the coop, scattering one or two kernels as he went. Mistress Biddy eyed them all wistfully. "Come on," said the minister, gently. "Cluck--cluck," said the mother hen, sociably, and she waddled slowly, and picked up the first kernels. These were so good that she came readily after the next, and so followed the parson, as he let fall two more. The little fluffy balls, when they saw their mother so employed, all scampered like mad after her, to surround her. At last, she was so busily employed, that she didn't notice that she was running into an angle formed by the coop and the end of the barn. There was a rush. A sudden squawk, and the parson emerged from this corner, with Mistress Biddy in his hands. "Now, Joel, you can help me so much," he said cheerily. "Run and push up the bar to the coop. Be careful not to let any more chickens out. There, that's right!" In went Mistress Biddy, who gave an indignant fluff to her gray feathers, and then cackled crossly, and the bar flew down into place. "That's fine!" exclaimed the minister in great satisfaction, getting up straight again. "Now, Joel, it won't be such a task to catch the little chickens. Come away from the coop, and they'll run up when they hear her call," which was indeed the fact. They soon began to scamper as hard as they could from all directions as Mistress Biddy set up a smart "cluck, cluck," until all of the seven were swarming over each other to get into the coop to mother. It was surprising, then, to see the minister's hands; they seemed to be here, there, and everywhere, and to pounce upon those little fluffy balls with unerring aim, and presently, there they were, Joel lifting the bar when bidden, in the coop, "peeping" away and huddling up to the dear gray feathery nest. The chickens who hadn't run out came up, as if wanting to hear the story, and what it was like to be out in the world. Mr. Henderson sat down on the long grass. "That's a very good job done, Joel," he said. Just then the kitchen door opened, and a pleasant voice called, "Come, Joel and David and Phronsie Pepper, I've got a new baked cake for you." XXIII THE BLACKBERRIES AND THE BULL "Now, Joel," said Polly, a few days after, "you mustn't tease for the pie, you know, 'cause Mamsie may not be able to get the white flour." "P'r'aps she will," said Joel, swinging his tin pail, and kicking the sweet fern with his bare feet; "then, Polly, we could have it, couldn't we?" "Maybe," said Polly, with her thoughts not so much on blackberry pie, as how good it was to be out of doors for a whole afternoon. "Oh, Joe, what a big butterfly!" "Hoh--that's nothing!" said Joel, who was rather tired of butterflies. "I'm going to pick bushels and bushels of blackberries, Polly." "You'll do well if you pick a quart," said Polly, laughing, remembering his past experiences. "Oh, Joel, isn't it just lovely to go blackberrying like this!" and her brown eyes sparkled. "The bushes scratch like everything," said Joel, with another kick at the sweet fern. "It's nice to go blackberrying," hummed Phronsie, holding fast to a little tin cup the rag-man had presented her on his last visit. "I'm going to pick ever and ever so many, to carry home to my Mamsie." "So you shall," cried Polly, rapturously; "and, children, I never saw anything so perfectly beautiful as it is this afternoon! Isn't the sky blue!" Little David looked up and smiled. Joel threw back his head and squinted critically. "I wish I could go sailing up there on that cloud," he said. "I don't," said Polly, merrily, swinging her tin pail. "I'd rather be down here and going blackberrying with you children. Well, come on, we ought to hurry, 'cause we want to take home as many as we can." "You're always hurrying us, Polly Pepper," grumbled Joel, lagging behind. "What for, if we can't have any pie?" "Well, we can carry home the berries to Mamsie, anyway," said Polly, moving on very fast. Phronsie trotted after her with a very happy face. "Now, children," said Polly, when they reached the place where the bars were to be taken down, "we must keep together, and not straggle off. Remember, Joe; then when we're ready to go home, it won't be such a piece of work to get started." Joel was already pulling at the bars. "Come on, Dave, and help," he called. "We'll go right across this corner," said Polly, when the bars were put back, and they were on the other side, "and then, says I, we'll soon be at the blackberry patch. O my, just see that bird!" "Polly's always stopping to look at birds," said Joel. "I like 'em, too," said David. "And that one is just beautiful." "It's just beautiful," hummed Phronsie, who wanted to stop every moment and pick clover blossoms, or the big waving green grasses. "Well, come on, Pet," said Polly, seeing this, "or we shan't ever get to the blackberry patch; and then, says I, what would Mamsie ever do for her berries!" At this, such a dreadful distress seized the whole bunch of little Peppers, that they one and all scuttled as fast as they could through the long grass, Phronsie not looking back once to pick a single blossom; and Polly presently had her company all marshalled up in good order in a perfect thicket of blackberry bushes, where the berries hung as thick and ripe as could be. For a few minutes no one spoke; the big blackberries tumbling into the tin pails making the only noise, though Phronsie dropped hers into the grass as often as she put one in her little cup. And they worked so fast, that no one noticed that Polly's blue sky was getting overcast by white patches of puffy clouds that looked as if they were chasing each other. At last Joel said, "Ow!" and began to complain that he was all scratched up by the prickly bushes, and when Phronsie heard that, she set down her tin cup and held up her fat little arms. "See, Polly," she said gravely. "O dear me, now that's too bad, Pet!" So Polly had to come out from her nice little clump where she was picking fast, and kiss the little red marks on Phronsie's arms. "Now don't lean in the bushes again; I'll show you a place. There," and Polly pointed to some low branches that stood out; and the blackberries on them were thick and ripe. "Ooh!" said Phronsie, when she saw them; and she forgot all about her arms, that prickled and ached, and Polly flew back to her clump again. Rumble--rumble! "Oh, boys!" gasped Polly, "there can't be a thunder-storm coming!" and she poked her head out from her clump, and stared up at the sky in dismay. "There surely is! Now we must run home like everything." She skipped out and seized Phronsie's arm. "Come, Pet," and not stopping to look, she set out upon a run. Phronsie began to wail, and then pulled back. "I've left my cup, Polly," she said. "Didn't you bring it?" cried Polly, pausing a minute. "Boys," as she saw that they hadn't started, "come this minute, and bring Phronsie's cup," she screamed. "Now come on, child; they run so much faster they will soon overtake us." Phronsie, with her mind at rest about her cup, kept up as well as she could by Polly's side. "I guess I shall have to carry you," at last said Polly, as the boys came rushing up in high glee over their dash across the meadow. "Where's my cup?" asked Phronsie, holding out eager hands. "Here," said Joel, thrusting it at her. "Now come on, Dave, let's see who will get to the bars first." Phronsie peered within the tin cup. "Why--where--" she began. Then she turned two big sorrowful eyes up toward Polly. "They aren't there," she said. "What--the berries? Oh, never mind, Pet, you shall have some of mine," said Polly, whose only thought was how to get home as quickly as possible. "Goodness me, child!" as a raindrop splashed on her nose. "I really shall have to carry you," and Polly picked her up, and tried to hurry over the ground. "But they won't be mine I picked," wailed Phronsie. "Polly, I want my very own." "Well, the boys spilled 'em, I s'pose," said Polly, staggering on, her own tin pail swinging from her arms, while Phronsie grew heavier and heavier every minute, and the clouds blacker and blacker. "Dear me, I didn't think it was so far across this meadow!" when suddenly Joel screamed out, "Oh, Polly, he's coming!" and there, from the further corner of the field, was walking quite smartly a bull, and he was looking straight at her and Phronsie. "I mustn't run," said Polly; "Mamsie said once, I remember, I must look straight at any cross animal, and not let 'em see that I was afraid." So she set Phronsie down on the ground. "Now, Pet, don't run, but walk to Joel as fast as you can," for Joel and David were over the bars, which they hadn't taken the trouble to take down for themselves, intending to do it for Polly and Phronsie when they should come up. Phronsie set off at once, since Polly had told her to do so, and was soon nearly at the bars. Joel sprang over to meet her. "Don't run, Joe," called Polly, in a warning voice; "just take her over the bars." Then she slowly went backward, keeping her brown eyes fastened on the bull, who still walked toward her, with his eyes fixed on her face. Joel got Phronsie safely over the bars, David, with trembling fingers, pulling her from the other side, and all was going on well when Polly stepped backward into a little gully, and over she went in a heap. In a minute, the bull tossed his head and quickened his pace, and by the time she was up on her feet, he was coming on toward her at a trot, and with an angry light in his eyes. All of a sudden, Joel shot past her. "I'll stop him, Polly," he said cheerily, and he dashed in between her and the bull, who, not liking this interference, now shook his head angrily. Joel then turned off, and the animal went after him. "Joel, you'll be killed!" cried Polly, rushing after him, to make the bull turn from the chase. But it was useless; for both were now well across the field, Joel running like wildfire, and the bull snorting and kicking up the ground in his rage after him. And Polly, straining her eyes, pretty soon saw Joel turn swiftly and duck, and the bull run with full force against a tree, before he could stop himself. And there was Joel clambering over a high stone wall. Then she started and rushed for the high bars, climbed them in a flash, and when the disappointed bull came running back, there she was, with the other two, huddled up in a place of safety. And in a minute Joel scrambled around from his stone wall. So there they were, all together, safe and sound! "Oh, Joel, are you really here?" exclaimed Polly, laughing and crying over him together. "Yes," said Joel, "I am, Polly;" then he looked up from her arms that she had thrown around his neck. "You've lost your berries, Polly Pepper, and the tin pail. Now what will Mamsie say?" "I guess she won't say anything," said Polly, with a little shiver. "Come, children, we must run, now, as fast as we can, for it is going to rain like everything." "Joey," said Polly, when they paused a moment to take breath, "you must give Phronsie some of your berries when we get home; that's a good boy, for I promised her some of mine. Hers got spilt, and now I haven't any." "Well, mine shook out of the pail," said Joel, dismally, "when I swung it at that old bull's face." "I'll give her mine," declared Davie. "You shall have 'em all, Phronsie." Phronsie, at that, could not express her delight, but she clasped her hands, and gave a great sigh of satisfaction. When they all reached home, there was Mamsie watching for them anxiously. And they all scampered in out of the rain like so many rabbits. "Children, I've got such a surprise for you," said Mother Pepper, as soon as she could take off the wet clothes from Phronsie, and get her into something dry. "Now, you all better get your things off, and hang 'em to dry by the stove, and get on some clean clothes." "I ain't wet, and we haven't got any berries, 'cept Dave, an' he gave 'em to Phronsie," said Joel. "They all got shook out of the pails, Polly's and mine did, when the bull chased us." "When the bull chased you!" repeated Mrs. Pepper, while her black eyes roved from one to the other. "Oh, Joel, don't tell Mamsie this way," said Polly, pulling his jacket. "Besides, Phronsie doesn't know what we ran for." "David," said Mrs. Pepper, "take Phronsie into the bedroom and shut the door. Now then, Polly and Joel, tell me all about it, every word." So they did, not sparing themselves a bit of the account, Joel cutting in when he thought Polly didn't tell enough what she did. "But oh, Mamsie, you can't think how splendid Joe was!" cried Polly, with shining eyes; "he couldn't have done better if he'd had a sword and gun." Then she told it all over--his part--dilating at great length upon it, until Joel got down on the floor and rolled and kicked in dismay, because he couldn't stop her. "Make her stop, Mamsie," he howled. "And oh, when Ben comes home, won't I have a splendid story to tell him!" finished Polly. "How I wish he'd come now," and the queerest thing was, the door opened, and in he walked. "I got through earlier than I expected," he said. "Why, what makes you all look so queer?" "We've had enough to make us look queer," answered Mrs. Pepper. Her eyes shone too! "Polly will tell you," she added. So Polly, glad enough to tell the story, went over it all, bit by bit. When she came to Joel's part, Ben seized him from off the floor. "See here, I'll give you a ride, Joe, in honor of it," and setting him on his shoulder, Ben pranced around and around the old kitchen, till Joel screamed with delight. "I tell you what, that was fine!" declared Ben, and his eyes shone too. Then Phronsie drummed on the bedroom door, and begged to be let out, in spite of all that Davie could do to stop her. "Do run and let her out, and Davie, too," said Mrs. Pepper, quite as excited as either Polly or Ben. "I'll go," said Joel, flying off with alacrity. So Phronsie and David came running in, well pleased to be once more in the midst of things; and then it was time for supper, and all the while she was laying the cloth and getting out the dishes, Polly was looking at Joel, and her brown head went up proudly, and every once in a while she would run over and drop a kiss on his stubby hair. And when Davie went up to the loft back of him that night, as they were going to bed, Joel turned around on the upper stair. "We'll play bull to-morrow, Dave," he said. "No, I don't want to," said little Davie, with a shiver. "Pooh! I do; it's splendid! You may be the bull, if you want to," said Joel, generously. "I don't want to," protested Davie, fretfully, and hurrying off his clothes, to tuck into bed, where he huddled down. "Well, you've got to," said Joel, determinedly, giving his jacket a fling to the corner, "'cause if you don't, I'll be the bull, and chase you just awful. So there now, Dave Pepper!" But Davie was spared that tribulation, for when the next day came, Mrs. Pepper had so much work for them all to do, that the chase dropped entirely out of Joel's mind, even if he had a moment in which to accomplish it. The great surprise that Mrs. Pepper had told them of, now came out, everybody being so full of the adventure with the bull, that it completely crowded out everything else. "Now you can't guess," said Mrs. Pepper, smiling at them all, when she had repeated, "such a surprise, children," "so I might as well tell you. It was--" "Oh, Mammy, let us guess," howled Joel. "I know--it is a horse! Somebody's given you one." A perfect shout greeted this, but Joel was in no wise dashed. "I don't care," he said, "that would be a surprise." "Yes, I think it would be," laughed Ben. "Guess again, Joe, and don't give such a wild one." "Then I guess it's some candy," said Joel, coming down with a long jump to a possibility; "and do give us some right away." "No, it isn't candy," said Mrs. Pepper, smiling at him. "Then I don't care what it is," declared Joel, turning off indifferently; "and say, Polly, what have you got for breakfast?" "The same as ever," said Polly, with only half an ear for him, her mind being intent on the splendid surprise; "you know, Joel; what makes you ask?" "Mean old breakfast!" said Joel, with a grimace. "Polly, why don't we ever have anything but mush?" "You know that too, Joe," said Polly, with a cold shoulder for him. "Do let me be, I want to guess Mamsie's surprise. O dear me! whatever can it be?" She wrinkled up her brows, and lost herself in a brown study. "I guess I know," said Ben, slowly, after a good look at Mrs. Pepper's face. "What?" roared Joel, interested again, since Ben had guessed it. "It's blackberries," answered Ben, with a shrewd nod of his head. "Isn't it, Mamsie?" "Yes, it is," said Mrs. Pepper; "you've guessed it, sure enough, Bensie." "Hoh--old blackberries!" cried Joel, dreadfully disappointed, and falling back to the other corner. "The blackberries aren't to be ours," said Mrs. Pepper; "that is--" "Not to be ours," repeated the children together, while even Ben looked surprised. "No." Mrs. Pepper laughed outright to see their faces. "You can't guess," she said again, "so I'll tell you. Mrs. Brown is sick, and I'm to make her blackberry jell over here; and she's given me some sugar, besides the pay she'll give me, so now we can have our pie." There was a perfect babel at this, the five little Peppers having always before them the hope of some day hearing their mother say they should have a blackberry pie--to make up for not being able to accomplish the chicken pie that Polly and all the others had so longed for--and which was quite beyond their expectations. Now the blackberry pie was really coming! "Make it now. Make it now, Mamsie, do," begged Joel, his mouth watering. "Goodness me!" exclaimed Polly; "why, it's before breakfast, Joe. The idea of teasing Mamsie to do it now." "And I can't do it just after breakfast, either," said Mrs. Pepper, "for I must begin as soon as I can on the jell, and you must all help me. There is ever so much you can all be useful in, about making jell. All but Ben, he's got to go to work, you know." "When will you make the pie, then?" cried Joel, trying to smother his disappointment, and finding it hard work to do so. "Just as soon as ever this jell is done and out of the way," said Mother Pepper, in her cheeriest tones. "So, Polly, fly at getting the breakfast ready, and when that's eaten, we'll all, except Ben, tackle the jell." When the dishes were all cleared off, and Polly was washing them, Mrs. Pepper turned to Joel. "Run over to Mrs. Brown's now, Joe, and get her kettle." "What kettle?" asked Joe, who didn't relish being turned out of the kitchen in all the bustle of getting ready for the jelly-making. "The preserve-kettle," answered Mrs. Pepper. "She'll tell you where 'tis. I told her I'd send you over for it. And be real still, Joe, and don't ask her questions, 'cause she's miserable, and is in for a long sick spell if she doesn't look out." So Joel went off, wishing there weren't any such things in the world as preserve-kettles, and presently, back he came, dragging it after him "bump-bump." "Oh, Joe," cried Mrs. Pepper, in dismay, "how could you!" "I don't b'lieve he's hurt it, Mamsie," said Polly, running up to examine the kettle closely; "he couldn't, could he? it's all iron." "No, I don't suppose he could really hurt it any," said Mrs. Pepper, "but he oughtn't to drag it along and bump it. Things that don't belong to us should be handled extra carefully. Well now, Joe, set down the kettle, and go and wash your hands, you and Davie, and then come back and pick over these blackberries, and Polly'll take hold as soon as she gets through with the work." "O dear, I don't want to pick over old blackberries," whined Joel. "Then I suppose you don't care for any of the pie when it's baked," said his mother, coolly; "folks who can't help along in the work, shouldn't have any of the good things when they're passed around." "Oh, yes, I do want some pie," declared Joel, vehemently. "Dave and me both want some; don't we, Dave?" "Yes, I do," said little Davie, "very much indeed, Mamsie." "And I want some pie," echoed Phronsie, hearing the last words, and smoothing down her pink apron. "So you shall have, Phronsie," promised Mrs. Pepper, "and so shall every one of you who's glad to work, and be useful." "We'll be useful and work," cried Joel, tumbling out into the woodshed to wash up. "Come on, Dave; then we'll get our pie when it's baked." XXIV HOW JOEL STARTED THE FIRE "Now," said Polly, to the old stove, "just remember how you acted that day when Mamsie made Mrs. Brown's jelly!" She was standing in front of it, and she drew herself up very straight. "You ought to be ashamed, you naughty thing, you! to make such trouble. Now I've stuffed you up all good and nice in the holes, and when I come home I'll build a fresh fire, and then, says I, you've got to bake a whole batch of bread just as nice!" and Polly shook her brown head very decidedly, and whirled off to the bedroom door. "Come, Phronsie," she called, "hurry up, Pet. O dear me!" Phronsie still sat on the floor by the big bureau, with one red-topped shoe in her hand, and patting it. "The other one is on, Polly," said Phronsie, as she saw Polly's face; "truly it is," and she stuck one foot out. "I sh'd think it was," laughed Polly; "every button is in the wrong button-hole, Phronsie." Phronsie looked at the little shoe very gravely, then her lip quivered. "Deary me, that's no matter," exclaimed Polly. "We'll have that all right in a twinkling." So she sat down on the floor, and took Phronsie's foot in her lap, and unbuttoned and buttoned up the shoe. "There now, that's done as spick-span as can be." "What is 'spick-span,' Polly?" said Phronsie. "Oh, nice--just right. Dear me, it means ever so many things," said Polly, with a little laugh. "Now then, let's have the other shoe on," and she held out her hand for it. "Let me put it on," cried Phronsie, and drawing it back in alarm; "let me, Polly, oh, I want to put it on my very own self, I do!" "Well, so you shall," promised Polly, "if you'll hurry, for you know I've got to bake my bread when I get back." "Isn't there any bread?" asked Phronsie, drawing on the little shoe, and pausing, lost in thought, when it was half on. "Yes, just enough to last till I get the new loaves baked," said Polly, longing to give the shoe a twitch and expedite matters; "that is, I think so. I never know how much Joel will eat." "O dear me!" exclaimed Phronsie, much troubled. "See here now, Pet," cried Polly, decidedly, "if you don't pull on that shoe quickly, I shall have to do it, for we must start--" which had the effect to make the little red-topped shoe slip on to Phronsie's fat foot in a trice. "Now then, we're ready," said Polly at last, tying on Phronsie's pink sunbonnet. "Come, Phronsie," and she took her hand. "Joel," she called, as they went out the doorway, "where are you?" "Here," said Joel, thrusting his head down the loft stairs, where he had heard every word that Polly had said to the old stove. "Now you and Davie must look after the little brown house," said Polly, feeling very grown up and important, "and be good boys while we're gone down to the store after the bundle of sacks Mr. Atkins has got for Mamsie." "Yes," said Joel, "we will, Polly." So Polly ran over the stairs and kissed Joel and little Davie, who crowded up for one also, and then Phronsie had to come up to be kissed too. "What are you two boys doing?" asked Polly. "Nothin'," said Joel. David was silently digging his toes back and forth on the floor. "Well, you better come right down and play in the kitchen," said Polly, "then you can look after things;" and she helped Phronsie downstairs and took her hand, and they walked down the path and off on to the road in a very dignified way, for Polly loved to be fine, and it was always a gala occasion when she could dress Phronsie up neat and nice, for a walk to the store. "I very much wish we had a parasol," sighed Polly, who never could get over the longing for one, ever since she saw Miss Pettingill's green sunshade, with waving fringe, that she carried to church; "but then, I don't suppose I'll ever get one," and she sighed again. "It's nice to be walking down to the store, Polly," observed Phronsie, peering up at her from the depths of the pink sunbonnet, and smoothing her pink calico gown down in front. "So it is, Chick," said Polly, with a merry laugh. "I don't b'lieve anybody ever had such perfectly good times as we do, in all this world." "No, I don't b'lieve they ever did," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head, delighted to see Polly gay once more. So they walked on quite contentedly. Meanwhile, Joel turned to Davie up in the loft. "We'll keep the crickets in the box," he said, "till by'n by, an' go down, 'cause Polly said so. And I'm goin' to help her; you'll see." With these mysterious words he shoved a tin box half full of hopping black crickets under the bed, saying, "There, the cover's on. Come on, Dave," and scrambled down the stairs to the kitchen. Little David went down more slowly, as if something were on his mind. When he reached the kitchen, Joel was standing in front of the stove, a pile of paper was down on the floor at his feet, and he had a match in his hand. Davie stared at him in amazement. "I'm going to help Polly," declared Joel, loudly, holding his match quite fast with one hand, while he twitched off one of the covers, with the lifter. "Oh, Joe, you aren't going to make a fire?" cried little David, horror-stricken, and rooted to the spot. "Of course I am," declared Joel, boldly. "I heard Polly talking to the old stove just before she went away, and she's got to bake bread when she gets home, an' it's all right, an' she'll be so glad to see it ready for her." All the time he was talking he was stuffing the paper into the stove; then he ran into the woodshed, bringing out some kindlings. "We've got to fill the wood box, Dave," he said, to make talk and divert David's mind; and he crammed the wood in after the paper, till there wasn't much room left. "You ought not to do it, Joe. O dear me, do stop," implored David, clasping his hands. "I'm big enough," declared Joel, strutting around and pulling at the things that Polly said were dampers--though why they should be damp, when there was a fire in the stove every day, he never could see. "And when Polly sees that I can make it as good's she can, she'll let me do it every day. Yes, sir-_ree!_" With that he drew the match, and held it to an end of the paper, sticking up. And forgetting to put back the cover, he raced off to the wood, shed again for another armful of kindling. _"Joel!"_ screamed David, left behind in the kitchen. "Come! Oh, we're afire! We're afire!" Joel dropped his kindlings and the heavier pieces of wood he had gathered up, and went like a shot back to the stove again. Great tongues of flame were shooting up toward the dingy ceiling. "Why didn't you put the cover on?" cried he, terribly frightened, for he began to think, after all, perhaps it would be quite as well to let Polly make the fire. "It'll be all right, I'll have it on in a minute," suiting the action to the word, as he stuck the lifter into the cover and advanced to the stove. "Oh, Joe, you'll be burnt up," cried David, in a dreadful voice, and wringing his hands. Joel made a dash, but the flames swirled out at him, so he backed off. "You can't do it," screamed Davie; "don't try it, Joe, you'll be all burnt up." When Davie said that he couldn't do it, Joel made up his mind that he would. Besides, the very thought of the little brown house taking fire turned him desperate with fright; so he made a second dash, and somehow, he never could tell what made it, the cover slid on, and the flames muttered away to themselves inside, in a smothered kind of way, and there they were, shut up as tight as could be. "'Twas just as easy as nothing," said Joel, drawing a long breath, and beginning to strut up and down, still carrying the cover-lifter. "You're such a 'fraid-cat, Dave," he added scornfully. David was beyond caring whether or no he was called a 'fraid-cat, being stiff with fright, so Joel strutted away to his heart's content. "Now I must put in more wood," he declared, and, twitching off the cover, he crammed the stove as full as it would hold, on top of the blazing mass. Then he wiggled the dampers again, to suit him, paying particular attention to the little one in the pipe, then wiped his grimy hands, in great satisfaction, on his trousers. "You see 'tisn't anything to make a fire," he observed to David; "an I'm goin' to build it every single day, after this. Polly'll be so s'prised. Now come on, Dave, let's go an' play," and Joel gave a long and restful stretch. Little David, seeing the stove behaving so well, gave a sigh of relief, and coming slowly out of his fright, clattered after Joel, and soon they were down back of the house, where they had scooped out the ground, and filling it with water, had made what they called a pond. Here they now began to sail boats made out of bits of paper. "Hi--there--you!" shouted a harsh voice. Joel and David, absorbed in getting their boats across the pond without running into each other, didn't hear. "_Hi!_" yelled the voice again, "your house is afire!" Joel lifted his black head and stared. "Come here, you!" screamed a man, jumping out of a wagon in the middle of the road, in front of the little brown house. He was big and redheaded, and he held a whip in his hand. This he shook frantically up toward the roof, screaming, _"Your house is afire!"_ Sure enough. Great volumes of smoke came pouring out of the chimney, which wasn't any too good, and once in a while a tongue of flame would sweep out, licking the sides of the bricks, as much as to say, "You can't shut me up entirely, you see." Oh, how merrily they danced! [Illustration: "''TWAS JUST AS EASY AS NOTHING,' SAID JOEL"] "Get a bucket. Step lively, if you want to save your house!" roared the man at Joel, who took one good look at the chimney, then sprang for Mamsie's pail. "Get something, Dave," he screamed, "and bring some water." Now that the fire had really come, David, strange to say, felt all his fright dropping from him. It was as if Mamsie said, "Save the little brown house, dears," and he rushed on the wings of the wind over down across the lane, and helped himself to Grandma Bascom's big bucket, always standing on a bench beside her kitchen door. And, with it almost full of water, he soon stood by the big red-headed man's side. "You're a likely-headed pair o' chaps," said the man, as Joel dashed up with his pail, which he hadn't been able to find at once, as Mamsie had put some cloth she was going to bleach into it, and set it in the woodshed. "Now, then, I must climb the roof, an' you two boys must keep a-handin' up th' water as smart as you can." "Oh, I'm goin' up on the roof," cried Joel, and springing up the gutter-pipe. "Do ye think ye kin?" asked the man. But Joel was already halfway up. And presently the first pail of water was handed up, and splash it went on the flames, by this time coming out very lively at the chimney-top. But it didn't seem to do any good, only to sizzle and siss, for just as soon as a pailful of water was dashed on, out they popped again, as bright as ever. A boy, coming whistling down the road, stopped suddenly, took one look, and ran like lightning over across the fields on a short cut. "Fire--_fire!_" he screamed, and pretty soon, by dint of jumping stone walls and fences, he got into the street, at the end of which stood Mr. Atkins' grocery store. "Fire--_fire!_" he bawled every step of the way. "Where--where?" cried the people at the store, rushing to the door and craning their necks, as he flew by, intent on getting to the fire-engine house, so as to run back with the men who dragged the machine by the ropes. "At the Pepperses little brown house," bawled the boy, plunging on. "Now, Polly," Mr. Atkins was just saying, when the boy's scream was heard, "you tell your Ma she needn't hurry about these coats. I guess that paper'll cover 'em, if I put another knot in th' string. My land! what's that!--" "_Fire! Fire!_" the boy was bawling all along the street. "It's the Pepperses little brown house." Somebody said, "Poor children." Others, "Don't let 'em hear," "Too late!" and various other things. "Come, Phronsie," said Polly, hoarsely, seizing the little fat hand. Phronsie, who was regarding some very pink and white sticks in a big candy jar on the shelf, tore her gaze away, and followed obediently as Polly pulled her along to the door. "Oh, Polly, you hurt me," she said in a grieved way. "Here, I'll take you," cried an old farmer with a long beard that looked like a bunch of hay, and he seized Phronsie and set her in his big wagon. Polly hopped in beside. "Don't be scart. We'll all go down and help," screamed a half dozen voices after her. Rattle--rattle--clang came the fire-engine, the boy who had brought the news having secured one of the most important places at one of the long ropes. And away they went, the procession gaining in length and strength at each step, till it seemed as if all Badgertown were on the road and bound for the little brown house. The big red-headed man had dashed up to the roof by the side of Joel. "You better go down and hand water," he said, "an' bring the axe, we may have to cut away th' ruf." Joel, knowing it was worse than useless to disobey, slid down, and got the axe first, to have it ready--oh, dreadful thought!--to cut the little brown house with; and then the two buckets, as full as they could be lifted, went up, and came down empty. Up and down. Up and down. "Here come th' folks," yelled the man on the roof. "Now we're all right. Don't you be scart, boys, th' fire-engine's comin'." None too soon! A little fork of flame was just beginning to pop its head out between the shingles close to the chimney, as if to say, "You really needn't think you are going to keep us shut up." Up clattered the fire-engine with a dreadful noise into the back yard, which suddenly seemed to be full of people of all sizes. Joel, when he saw the firemen on hand, sprang for the roof again. This time he staggered up with his bucket of water. "Oh, Joel!" He looked down and saw, as well as he could, for something seemed to be the matter with his eyes, Polly's face. Now that the danger was all over, for of course the fire-engine and all those people would save the little brown house, Polly was the last person whom Joel really wanted to see. And he busied himself in helping to haul up the water-buckets, that now came up pretty lively as the boys filled them and handed them to the firemen. "You'd better get down," said more than one fireman. The roof now seemed to swarm with them. "I ain't goin' to," said Joel, obstinately, reaching out for another bucket; "it's our house, so there!" "Let him alone," said the big red-headed man, "he'll work as smart as any two of ye men. If it hadn't 'a' been for him and that one there," pointing with a grimy thumb to David on the ground, still patiently getting water and handing up his bucket, "we'd 'a' been all burnt up, by this time." Joel's face got fiery red, all through the smut and grime. "If it hadn't been for me!" and down went his black head. "Would Mamsie and Polly ever, ever forgive him?" "Oh, Joel," screamed Polly from the ground, looking at him piteously, "do come down, dear!" But he really didn't hear now. It seemed to him if he didn't work to the very last, he could never look Mamsie in the face again, so he was now on the other side of the chimney, where the fire was the hottest. "It's an even chance, if we save it," Joel heard one of the firemen say; "it's got in between the joints. See!" "Then we've got to cut just that spot," said the big red-headed man, who, by reason of being on hand first, was considered to be the leader, and he swung his axe over his head. "Crash!" went the little brown roof. At the sound, Polly dragged Phronsie over to David's side. "Now, then, in with the water lively, boys, and splash her out," cried the big red-headed man, who very much liked being a leader. And thereupon he stopped working, and set the others at it in such a brisk fashion that the water ran down in perfect rivers all over the roof, one or two of the streams soaking through, to drop into Ben's and Joel's and David's bedroom in the loft. "It's out! It's out!" bawled some of the firemen on the roof to the men and boys. "You don't need to send up any more water." "Look behind you!" screamed the boy who had first discovered the fire. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, and the firemen, whirling around, saw a little tongue of flame shooting determinedly up. It had run along underneath the shingles and hopped at the first chance it could get. So the buckets of water had to keep on flying up, to come down and be filled. Up and down, up and down, till Polly sank on the grass, unable to bear it another bit longer. "Oh, if I weren't a girl," she moaned passionately, "then I could be up there, and I know I'd save the little brown house. Oh, Mamsie! Mamsie!" "Don't fret, Polly," said a good woman living in the village,--for by this time a long procession of men, women, and children had hurried in, crowding and jamming into the yard,--"ef it burns down, you shall all come to our house an' stay a spell, till you get another one." "Don't," cried Polly, passionately, and shrinking off; "we can't live, if the little brown house goes. Oh, Mamsie! Mamsie!" and she sobbed as if her heart would break, and covered her face with her hands. "Don't cry, Polly," and Phronsie's little hand crept softly up to her neck. But Polly couldn't stop. If there had been anything for her to do, she would have kept up, but to sit there and see the little brown house burn up, and know because she was a girl there was no place for her on the roof--why, there she was, sobbing as if her heart would break, and Phronsie clinging piteously to her neck. A ringing shout struck upon her ear. "It's coming!" shivered Polly; "the roof's tumbling in!" and she hid her face lower yet. Wouldn't God stop the dreadful fire ever yet. He must, for Mamsie said He loved to help all His children. And-- "Hooray, Polly!" called Joel in her ear, putting a very black face up close to her pale one. "Don't you understand? It's all out. It is, truly, this time, every single squinchin' bit." But Polly didn't understand, and they laid her back on the grass, and one woman said, "Get a pamleaf fan," and another cried, "Get th' water in that pail there," pointing to one not used, on the grass. And everybody got in everybody else's way, and crowded around her, and the water was dashed over her face till she was in a little pool of it, and still she didn't open her eyes. And Phronsie wailed and clung to her, getting as wet, so a thin woman remarked, "as a drownded rat," and David was on the other side, nearly as bad. As for Joel, he rushed up and down, completely gone with fright. After all his brave fight, to have Polly give out was something so very dreadful he couldn't think of it. "Here comes Mrs. Pepper," said somebody, and, "Thank the Lord," said another, and down the road in the doctor's gig, the little doctor driving like mad, came Mamsie. They helped her out, and she was in the yard, never looking at the little brown house; for her black eyes were searching among the crowd, and her white lips tried to frame some words. "All safe, Marm," sang out the big redheaded man; "and you've got some smart chaps," thinking he'd give all the comfort, and at once, that was in his power. "Polly ain't just well," spoke up somebody, sympathetically, and in a minute Mamsie was down on the grass, with Polly's head in her lap, the other children swarming around her, and Dr. Fisher in the midst. "Oh, I'm so ashamed," gasped Polly, coming to, and hiding her face on Mrs. Pepper's breast. "Don't you feel badly, Polly child," said Mamsie, smoothing her brown hair gently; "you're all tired out. The little brown house is all safe--just think of that!" Polly thrust up her head and took one look. "Mamsie," she whispered, holding to Mrs. Pepper's neck convulsively, "God did stop the dreadful fire, didn't He?" "He surely did," said Mrs. Pepper, looking around on all her little group. The neighbors and townspeople, the firemen and the crowd, stole silently off and left them there, but Dr. Fisher stayed. Suddenly Joel was missing. "Where is he?" asked Mrs. Pepper, a fresh alarm gathering on her face. "P'r'aps he's gone with the engine," piped up the boy who had discovered the fire, and who seemed to think it his duty to watch that it didn't break out again. "Oh, no, Joel wouldn't do that," said Mrs. Pepper. "I'll find him," said little Dr. Fisher, who had his own views about Joel, after closely regarding his singed eyebrows and black face; "lucky enough if he doesn't need considerable patching up," he muttered to himself, as he strode off to reconnoitre. "There's no use in your hiding," he said aloud, as if talking to some one. "So you might as well come out at once, and let me know where you're hurt, Joe, and I'll fix you before your mother sees you." "I ain't hurt," said a voice from the lilac bushes. "Oh, you are not?" said the little doctor, opening the bushes to peer within, his spectacles setting well down on the end of his nose, so that he looked over them. "That's good," and he soon had Joel out. "Now then, I'll fix you up as good as ever," and he rummaged his ample pockets for the things he had thrust into them for this very work. "I ain't hurt," said Joel, wriggling furiously. "Stand still, Joe," said the little doctor, coolly, "for I'm going to patch you up, so that you're decent to see your mother. Aren't you ashamed to get this way when Polly, poor brave girl, has been so sick? Why, what's the matter with you!" suddenly giving Joel a whirl, so that he could look in his face. Joel's face was working frightfully. "I 'most--burnt--the little brown house--up," he gasped. "I made a fire in--the stove!" XXV JOEL SELLS SHOES FOR MR. BEEBE The little doctor kept a firm hold on Joel's jacket, and gazed keenly into his face. "Um!" he said. "I wanted--to--to--help Polly," gasped Joel. "O dear me!" He was a sight to behold, as the tears washed their way down the grimy face, which was still working fearfully, as he tried to hold in his sobs. "So you thought you'd help Polly," said Dr. Fisher, kindly; "was that it, Joel?" "Yes," said Joel; "she'd put the putty in, and put it in----and----" "Put the putty in?" repeated the little doctor, aghast. "Yes, or Ben had." "I never in all my life heard of burning putty in a stove," said Dr. Fisher, helplessly, and setting his big spectacles again, as if that might possibly assist him to understand. "Oh, she didn't burn it," cried Joel, just as much astonished. "Well, what did she do with it, then?" demanded Dr. Fisher. "Dear me, I always supposed a stove was meant to burn things in," and he waved his head helplessly, and regarded Joel with a fixed stare. "She stuck the putty in the holes," said Joel, very distinctly; "don't you understand? Polly's stove is very old, and it's cracked, and she says the air comes in and then the fire goes down, so she has to stuff up all the mean old cracks. O dear me, I wanted to help her," and off Joel went in another gust of tears. "I suppose Polly feels badly over her stove, sometimes," reflected Dr. Fisher, casting a very sharp glance on Joel. "I really wonder if she does," he added carelessly. "Feels badly!" exploded Joel. Then he took a good long look around on all sides, and leaned over to whisper in the little doctor's ear, "_She cries sometimes, Polly does_." "No!" exclaimed Dr. Fisher. "Yes, she does," declared Joel, shaking his stubby head decidedly. "She cries dreadfully when Mamsie isn't looking. And she didn't know that I saw her, either, only I peeked behind the pantry door. And I wanted to--to--help her." He began to cry afresh at the recollection. "Joel," said Dr. Fisher, getting up suddenly, "you've got to tell your mother how the little brown house got on fire." "I know it," said Joel, but his head drooped, and his eyes fell. "And the best way to right the wrong is to own up at once," said the little doctor. "I suppose she's taught you that, eh, Joel?" "Yes, sir," said Joel. "Well, when you've got such a mother as you have, Joel," continued Dr. Fisher, "you better treat her as well as you know how. So run along, and be quick with you," and Dr. Fisher gave him a resounding clap on the shoulder, that sent Joe flying off like a shot from a gun, while the little doctor stole off the back way, and got into his gig, and drove off as fast as he could, and thus escaped being thanked. And the Badgertown folks got together and held a meeting in Mr. Atkins' store that very evening, and said that it was a pity that Mrs. Pepper, who was struggling so to bring up all those five children, should have such a hard time. So each man put his hand in his pocket and fished out some money; and the carpenters came next day and mended up all the holes where the axe had cut through the roof; and the whole house was cleaned and dried where the water had run down, and then there was one dollar and forty-five cents left over, for people had been so very generous. "Just keep it, Mrs. Pepper," said the spokesman, "'twill come in handy, most likely;" and Mrs. Pepper couldn't speak, she was so taken aback. But they didn't seem to feel as if they hadn't been thanked enough, as they all went back again into the village. Ben had been working in a distant wood-lot for Deacon Blodgett, and so hadn't heard a word of the fire until he got into the village, on his way home. Then he said he wouldn't believe it, unless he should see for himself. So he ran every step of the way home, and rushed in all out of breath. "What's happened?" he demanded of the first person he met. This happened to be Polly. "Oh, Ben!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around him. And then followed all the story. And Ben continued to blink every now and then up at the ceiling, varied by hurrying out to gaze at the roof, when he would rub his eyes. "Dear me, Polly!" he would exclaim, "it seems just like an awful dream." "I wish it was," sighed Polly, "and I guess Joel wishes so, too." But the next day, when the Badgertown people came with their gift, then the five little Peppers changed about to the very happiest children in the world! And as soon as the visitors had gone, the whole bunch of Peppers just took hold of hands, and danced like wild little things around the table where the pile of silver quarters and ten cent pieces lay. "Mamsie," said Polly, when at last they stopped to take breath, "did you ever know of such good people in the world as our Badgertown folks?" "I'm sure I didn't," declared Mrs. Pepper, wiping her eyes. "May the Lord reward them, for I'm sure I can't." Polly suddenly left the ring of Peppers, and came close to her mother. "Perhaps you can, sometime, Mamsie," she said soberly. "I hope so," replied Mother Pepper. "Well, well look forward to it, and take the chance, if it ever comes, you may be sure, Polly." That night, when the little brown house was as still as a mouse, Polly heard a loud scream come pealing down from the room in the loft. Mrs. Pepper, strange to say, didn't hear it at all; poor woman, she was very tired with her work, from which she had been hurried so unceremoniously when the alarm of fire reached her, and she had lain awake all the first part of the night with a heart burdened with anxious care. "Joel's dreaming all about the fire, most likely," said Polly to herself. So she slipped on Mamsie's old wrapper, picking it up so that she would not trip and tumble on her nose, as she sped softly over the stairs. "Joel, hush!" she said reprovingly, "you'll wake Mamsie and Phronsie! Ben, do make him keep still!" "I can't," said Ben, only half awake. "Hush up there, Joe!" and he turned over a very sleepy face, and tried to look at Polly. "'Tisn't me," said Joel, in high dudgeon; "I ain't a 'fraid-cat." And Polly stared to see David sitting on the edge of the bed he shared with Joel, and tucking up his feet well under him, while he shook with terror as he cried shrilly, "They're running all up my legs!" "Poor little thing!" exclaimed Polly, sitting down on the other edge of the bed, at the risk of getting on Joel's toes. "He's frightened," to the others. "I s'pose you've been dreaming, Davie." "No, no!" cried Davie, huddling up worse than ever. "There goes one of 'em now!" he exclaimed suddenly, and pointed toward Polly; "he's just running under Mamsie's wrapper!" Polly hopped off the bed in her liveliest fashion, while from under Mamsie's wrapper scuttled a black object over the bedquilt in the opposite direction. "What is it?" she cried, beginning to shake violently herself; "O dear me! are there any more of them?" "Yes," said Davie, "there are lots and lots, Polly. O dear me!" He couldn't twist himself into a smaller knot than he was, so there he sat, as miserable as possible, with the tears rolling down his face. "Joel!" cried Polly, giving that individual a little poke in the back, as he appeared to be going off to sleep again, "you can tell about these black things! I must know; so what is it?" "Let me go to sleep," grunted Joel, twisting away from her fingers. "No," said Polly, firmly, "I shan't, Joey Pepper. What are those black things that Davie--O dear me, there is another one!" and Polly hopped back upon the bed, for there was a second black creature steering straight for her in the dim light. Joel gave a long restful sigh. "Do let me alone," he said crossly. But Polly leaned over and shook his shoulder smartly. "See here, now," cried Ben, roused by all this, "you just sit up in bed, Mister Joel, and tell Polly all you know about this business. Do you hear?" And suddenly over came Ben's pillow flying through the air, to tumble over Joel's chubby nose. "Nothin' to tell," declared Joel, again; but he sat up in bed. "So you said before," said Polly; "but these black things got up here somehow, and you know all about it, I'm sure. So you've just got to tell all about it, Joel Pepper." "It's crickets!" blurted Joel, suddenly, "an' Dave an' me brought 'em to put in Ben's bed, an'--" "Thank you," interrupted Ben, and, "Oh, Davie," reprovingly said Polly. "I'm sorry," said little Davie, wriggling up his toes; "I didn't know they hopped so bad. Oh, Polly, they're all running up my legs," he cried with another burst. "Never mind," said Polly, quite reassured, "they're nothing but dear, nice little crickets. I don't care, now; but it's dreadful to see black things in the middle of the night, when you don't know what they are." "I don't like 'em, Polly," wailed David. "I'd rather they'd be out of doors." "But you helped to bring 'em in," said Polly. "How could you, Davie?" she added reproachfully. "Dave didn't 'xactly help," said Joel, uneasily. "I told him he'd got to, Polly," he added honestly. "Oh, I see," said Polly. "Well, now, Davie, you're going downstairs to get into Mamsie's bed." "Oh, goody!" cried Davie, smiling through his tears; and stepping gingerly out of bed on the tips of his toes, lest he should meet a black cricket unawares, he skipped to the head of the stairs. "Shake your clothes," called Polly, in a smothered voice, fearful lest Mamsie and Phronsie should wake up. Thereupon she began to shake the old wrapper violently. "We mustn't carry any of 'em downstairs," she said, while Joel set up a howl. "Oh, I don't want Dave to go downstairs and leave me," he whined. "Yes, you can stay up here with your crickets," said Polly, coolly, having shaken off any possibility of one remaining on Mamsie's wrapper. "And to-morrow morning you just step around lively and pick 'em all up and carry 'em out doors," said Ben, before turning over for another nap. "Good night, Polly." "Good night, Ben," said Polly, softly, going downstairs after Davie, who was pattering ahead, "and good night, Joey." "Good night," snivelled Joel. "O dear me, I don't want Dave to go. Well, anyway, he ain't goin' away ever again, Polly Pepper--so there!" The next morning, as soon as it was light enough to see them, Joel picked up all his crickets. It was no easy matter, for they made him an awful piece of work, hopping and jumping into all the corners; and, just as soon as his thumb and fingers were on them--away they were off again. But Ben had said every one must go. So at it Joel kept, until the perspiration just rolled from his tired, hot face. "I don't like 'em, Polly," he confided, when the last one was escorted out of doors, "and I ain't ever goin' to bring one in again." "I wouldn't, Joe," said Polly, "and it isn't nice to scare folks, I think." "I think so, too," said Phronsie, with a wise nod of her yellow head, as she sat on the floor, playing with David. "Think what, Phronsie?" cried Joel, suddenly. "What Polly said," replied Phronsie, patting Seraphina, who was being shown the pictures in a bit of old newspaper that David was pretending to read. "Hoh! Hoh!" cried Joel, bursting into a laugh. "You don't know whatever you're talking about, Phron. Does she, Polly?" "Don't tease her," said Polly; but Phronsie didn't hear, being absorbed in correcting Seraphina, who had wobbled over on her back instead of sitting up elegantly to view the pictures. Joel ran down the next day to see Mrs. Beebe, Mother Pepper giving the long-desired permission. Davie had a little sore throat, and he much preferred to stay near Mamsie's chair. "Now, Joe, remember to be good," warned Mother Pepper, the last thing, when he had been washed and dressed and brushed and declared quite prepared. "I'm going to be always good," declared Joel. "I ain't ever going to be like Ab'm," he added in disgust. "Joel," reproved Mrs. Pepper, sternly, "don't judge other folks; it's enough for you to do to look out for yourself." Joel hung his head, abashed. "Well, good-by," said Mrs. Pepper, the stern lines on her face breaking into a smile. "Good-by, Mamsie!" Joel flew back suddenly, to throw his arms around her neck, then he rushed up to do the same thing to Polly, and then to Phronsie. "Don't kiss David," said his mother, "'cause you may take his throat." "Then I want to kiss him," cried Joel. "Mayn't I, Mammy?" he wheedled. "I don't want Dave to have it." "Oh, he'd have it just as much," said Mrs. Pepper, sewing away for dear life. "How could he?" cried Joel, in great astonishment, and standing quite still. "Say, Mammy, how could he, if I took it?" "You'd find if you took it there'd be quite enough sore throat for two," answered Mrs. Pepper. "Well, run along, Joe, you wouldn't understand, and 'tisn't necessary that you should; only you are to do as I say, that's all." So Joel ran off, waving a good-by to David; and since he was not allowed to kiss him, he gave a rousing "Hooray," which delighted little Davie greatly, as he stood, his face pressed to the window, to see him go. Once within Mrs. Beebe's home, it was enchantment enough. It was a good afternoon for the shoe business, Mr. Beebe having two customers. One of them was a very fussy woman who had a small boy in charge. Joel was in high glee at being called upon to help lift down ever so many boxes, until pretty near every shoe in the stock was tried on. Mrs. Beebe kept coming out of the little parlor at the back of the shop, and saying, "Ain't you through with Joel yet, Pa?" all of which made Joel feel very important, indeed, and almost decided him to keep a shoe shop, when he grew up, instead of being a stage-coach driver. "No," said Mr. Beebe, shortly, "I ain't through with him, Ma. He's a master hand at getting them boxes down." "Hain't you got a pair a little mite broader across the toes?" asked the woman. "Stand up and stamp in 'em, Johnny." So Johnny stood up and stamped in the new shoes. "Real hard," said his mother. So he stamped real hard. "I'd druther have another pair a mite broader," said the woman, discontentedly. "I showed you some broader ones," said old Mr. Beebe. "Well, Joel, my boy, you'll have to climb up and hand down that box up in the corner. P'r'aps some of those will suit." So Joel, who wished he could be there every day in the year, and that that woman would all the time bring in boys who wanted different shoes from any that Mr. Beebe had, climbed up like a squirrel and brought the box to Mr. Beebe. "Now, Marm," said the shoe-store keeper, deftly whipping a good roomy pair, "I guess these are about what you want," and he laughed cheerily. "No, they ain't either," said Johnny's mother, snappishly taking them, and viewing them critically, "they're big as all out doors, Mr. Beebe." "Well, he wants 'em to wear out o' doors, don't he?" said Mr. Beebe, "so I guess they'll suit, at last." "Well, they won't," said the woman, "an' you needn't try 'em on, Johnny. They're a sight bigger'n they orter be. I guess I can tell soon's I see a shoe." "Can't Joel come now, Pa?" asked old Mrs. Beebe, presenting her cap-border in the doorway again. It was quite fine, with new pink ribbons which she had put on because she had company. "Yes, pretty soon, Ma," replied her husband, quite worn out. "Well, I'm sure I'm sorry I can't suit you, Marm," turning to the woman, "but I honestly can't, for I've shown you every shoe in my shop. Here, Joel, we'll begin and pack 'em up again," he said, sorting the pairs out from the pile on the counter that ran across the side of the shop, and slinging them by the string that tied them together, over his arm. "I'll see that pair," said the woman, suddenly, touching one as it dangled over Mr. Beebe's arm. "All right, Marm," said Mr. Beebe, most obligingly. So he knelt down before Johnny again, and pulled on the shoes, and Johnny's mother told the boy to stand up and stamp in 'em, all of which was performed, and old Mr. Beebe got up and pulled out his bandanna and wiped his hot face. "Now that's somethin' like," said the woman, with a bob of her head, while her little eyes twinkled. "I guess I know the right shoe, as well as the next one. Why didn't you show 'em to me before?" she snapped. "You've had them shoes on twice before," said Mr. Beebe, "or at least the boy has, and first they were too broad, and then they were too narrer." "Well, I'll take 'em, anyway, now," said the woman, laying down the money, "and I guess I know, as well as the next one, whether my boy's tried on shoes or not." "Now, Joel," said old Mr. Beebe, when the little green door with its jangling bell had really closed on her and on Johnny, "as soon as we get these shoes back again in the boxes, you better run into th' parler, 'cause Ma's been a-waitin' considerable." Joel, much divided in his mind whether he would rather stay in the shop altogether, with the delightful shoes, or go out and spend half of the time with Mrs. Beebe and the doughnuts and pink and white sticks he felt almost sure were waiting for him, came to the conclusion that he really couldn't decide which was the more delightful; and then the shop-door bell jangled again, and there was another customer. This time it was a little thin old man, and although he came from another town, he seemed to be a great friend of Mr. Beebe's, who now joyfully welcomed him. "Well, I declare, if 'tain't Obadiah Andrews!" exclaimed the shoe-shop keeper, radiantly, taking a good look at the newcomer. "I haven't seen you for a week o' Sundays, Obadiah." "Nor I hain't seen you," declared the little man, just as well pleased, and sitting down gladly. "I'm most beat out, a-gittin' here, so I want some new shoes, Jotham, and I cal'late I'll get 'em about as nice as they make 'em here." "I cal'late so, too, Obadiah," said old Mr. Beebe, rubbing his hands together in a pleased way. "Now, Joel, we'll get down all the shoes on this side," and he ambled across the shop, "an' you can put up the boys' sizes, afterwards, if you want to." "Pa, ain't you most through with Joel? Oh, why, here's Mr. Andrews!" exclaimed Mrs. Beebe. Then she came into the little shop and sat down, while Mr. Beebe and Joel got out the shoes that were to be tried on. "It's so nice that I can pass the time o' day with you, meanwhilst," she observed. But it didn't take very long to satisfy old Mr. Andrews. As soon as the first shoe was pulled on he declared it was just right, although the shoe-shop keeper offered to try on the others. "P'r'aps these'll pinch when you get home," suggested Mr. Beebe, anxiously, "or somethin' else as bad will be the matter with 'em." But the little old man said, "No; do 'em up, Jotham." So the shoes were rolled in paper, and tied with a red string, and then Mr. Obadiah Andrews said, "Now I'm a-goin' to set an' visit, and pass the time o' day with you, Jotham." "So do," cried old Mr. Beebe, delightedly, counting out the change. "Now, Joel, you can pile all them shoes back, and then finish the boys' sizes, if you want to; and after that, Ma, he can go into the parlor, and be company to you." When Mrs. Beebe and Joel finally got into the parlor, leaving the two old friends talking busily, there only remained ten minutes before it was time to go home. "O dear me!" exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe, quite aghast, as she glanced at the clock. "Well, you must obey your Ma, and the only thing I see out of it is, you must come again." So she stuffed into a paper bag all the pink and white sticks and doughnuts that were piled so nicely, in a company fashion, on a blue plate. "There," she said, smothering her disappointment as best she could, "take these home with you, and tell your Ma I expect you again, some day. We can't help it, 'cause Pa's been so busy," as Joel ran off. "I've sold shoes all the afternoon," he screamed, rushing into the little brown house, and for a moment forgetting the paper bag and its precious contents. Then it came ever him in a burst. "Look at this!" swinging it over Polly's brown head. She bobbed it up suddenly. "Look out!" screamed Joel, but too late; Polly's brown head bumped into the bag, and away it spun, and the doughnuts and pink and white sticks went flying all over the kitchen floor. "Now, that's too bad," cried Polly, jumping up to help pick them up. "Oh, Joel, what a perfectly splendid lot!" "Ain't it!" said Joel, his mouth watering to begin on them. "Here's one more," spying a pink stick behind Mamsie's chair. "Here 'tis. I've got it!" emerging in triumph, and holding it fast. "Where's Phronsie and Dave?" "Over at Grandma's," said Polly. "O dear!" began Joel, then he thought a minute. "I'm going to take Grandma a doughnut, Polly," he cried, dancing off, and swinging the bag, into which he had crammed all the "goodies." He heard Phronsie singing to Grandma, which she was very fond of doing, and perched up on the side of the bed, Grandma smiling away, as well pleased as though she heard every word. "Dave," screamed Joel, bounding in, and swinging the bag, "you don't know what I've got," and he hopped up on the bed between Grandma and Phronsie. When Davie saw that, he got out of his chair and speedily hopped up on the bed, too. Grandma laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I guess you'll laugh more yet, Grandma," declared Joel, untwisting the top of his bag, and bringing a pair of bright black eyes very close to it to peer within. "It's perfectly splendid!" he cried, holding his hands so no one else could see. "Oh, Joey, do show us!" cried Phronsie, getting up to kneel on the patched bedquilt, to look over his arm. "You may take one peek," decided Joel, suddenly, bringing his eyes away from the mouth of the bag to gaze at them. "Grandma must have the first one; then you must guess what it is." "I guess it's doughnuts," said little Davie, "'cause you've been to Mrs. Beebe's, and besides, I smell 'em." Grandma smiled all the time, just as happily as if she had heard everything that had been said. "There's something else," said Joel, emphatically, "but 'tisn't your guess. Now, Grandma," he held the bag close up to the old lady's cap-border, "look!" "My!" exclaimed the old lady. "What you got, Joel?" as he twitched away the bag. "Didn't you see?" cried Joel; "well, you may have one more peek, 'cause you are Grandma," and he brought it up again before her eyes. "Doughnuts?" said Grandma. "My sakes! where'd you get 'em?" "You may have one," said Joel, peering into the depths of the bag to fish out a good-sized one, that was sugary all over, which he dropped in her hands. "Give me one," begged Phronsie, holding out both hands. "In a minute," said Joel. "Now, Grandma, what else is in here?" giving the bag a shake. "Hey?" asked Grandma; "speak louder, Joel." "O dear me! I can't speak so's she'll hear," said Joel, in despair, to the others. So he shook the bag again, when the bottom of it came out, and away the doughnuts and pink and white sticks flew, and rolled all over the patched bed-quilt. "There, now," said Joel, in disgust; "there isn't any use in anybody's guessing anything. But we can eat 'em now," he added, brightening. XXVI MISS PARROTT'S COACH AND THE COASTING It was snowing tiny flakes when Joel's eyes popped open, and the small, feathery things whirled against the little paned window, as if they would very much like to come in. "Dave--Dave!" cried Joel, poking him, "get up--it's snowing!" David's eyes flew quite wide at that, and he sat up at once. "Oh, Joel," he squealed, as he watched the flakes, "ain't they pretty!" "Um! I guess so," said Joel, springing into his clothes; "they're nice for snowballs and to slide on, anyway." David reached over for one blue woollen stocking on the floor by the side of the bed, and sat quite still with it in his hand, regarding the snowy whirl. "You ain't got dressed a bit," cried Joel, spinning around, "and I'm all ready." "So will I be all ready," cried little David, pulling on the stocking with all haste, and flying at the rest of his clothes with alacrity. "Wait, Joe--do," as Joel began to clatter downstairs. "Can't," said Joel, racing off, "I'm going to get the sled." "Wa-it," called Davie, half crying. But Joel was in the woodshed, hauling out the precious sled that Ben had made for the boys out of some boards and old sleigh runners that had been given him. He was dragging it out with a dreadful noise from the corner where it had stayed all summer, when Polly came running out. "I don't believe it's going to snow much," she said, squinting at the feathery specks. "You won't want your sled to-day, boys." "I'm goin' to have it ready," said Joel, with another pull. "Well, I'll help you," said Polly, taking hold of one end. "Dear me, I do think this is the most splendid sled in all the world," she exclaimed enthusiastically. "I don't see how Ben could make it so nice." "Ben can do anything," declared Joel, tugging away. "I know it," said Polly, with pride. "Well, I wish he had time to go coasting all he wants to," she added sorrowfully. "Maybe he will have, this winter," suggested Joel, who never could bear to see Polly sad. "P'r'aps," said Polly; "but there's always wood to chop in the winter, Joe. There--here it comes!" as the big sled tumbled out with a rush, to be dragged into the middle of the woodshed floor. David now came running downstairs, and Phronsie, hearing that the sled was to be drawn out, pattered into the woodshed, too. "Oh, Polly," she cried in rapture, "now I'm going out to ride on it this very minute," and she danced round and round, clapping her hands in glee. "O dear me!" cried Polly, pointing out of the little low window. "See, Phronsie, there's only the leastest little bit of snow. Why, I do verily b'lieve it's going to stop." At this dreadful suggestion, every one of the little Peppers in the woodshed rushed to the window, and Joel flung wide the door, so that a cold blast, carrying a feathery cloud of little flakes, swept in. "Oh, Joel!" exclaimed Polly, "shut the door, Phronsie'll catch cold." Joel was already out in the house-place, dancing about, declaring it was going to be awful deep, and they could make a snow man soon, he guessed; so little Davie ran and pushed to the door, shutting off all chance of hearing the rest of what he was saying. He was gone some time, and the others ran into the kitchen, for Polly declared they would get no breakfast that day if she did not hurry up, and David and Phronsie thought it much nicer to watch the snowstorm from those windows than from the little tucked-up window in the woodshed. The consequence was that Joel ran in just as they had begun breakfast, in a fine glow, his cheeks very red, and his chubby nose as well. "Why didn't you come?" he demanded, with sparkling eyes. "Where?" cried Polly. "Oh, Joe, what have you been doing? Your face is as red as fire." "And your nose is red, too," said David. "I don't care," said Joel, slipping into his seat. "Give me some mush, Polly, do!" he begged hungrily, passing his bowl. "Oh, 'twas just prime, I tell you!" "What?" asked Polly, quickly. "You keep saying it's fine, and don't tell us what you've been doing. That isn't polite," she added, for Polly was quite particular as to her manners, and liked to be very genteel before the other children. "Oh, I've been riding in Miss Parrott's coach," said Joel, trying to appear as if this were an everyday occurrence, and eating on as if nothing had happened. Miss Parrott lived in an old ancestral house, about two miles from Badgertown. She was very rich, but kept entirely to herself, and drove about in an ancient coach, the envy of all the villagers. "And I called you all to come, and you wouldn't." "Oh, Joel Pepper!" cried Polly, greatly shocked to think of the splendid chance they all had missed, and dropping the big spoon with which she was serving the mush, "you never called us one single bit!" "No, you never did!" added David, solemnly, and looking at Polly with all his eyes. "Never did!" echoed Phronsie, shaking her yellow head positively. "Polly, I want some more mush, I do." "Yes, I did, too," spoke up Joel, loudly. "Joel!" reproved Mother Pepper. "Well, I did, Mamsie," repeated Joel, in a very injured tone. "I called just like this, 'come quick! and ride in Miss Parrott's coach;' so there!" "O dear me!" cried Polly, passionately, sitting back in her chair, "I'd rather have gone in that coach than have done anything else, and now you've been, and we never'll get a chance again. Never in all this world!" "How did it happen, Joel?" asked Ben. "Do tell the whole story from the beginning." "Why, you see it was this way," began Joel. "Polly, give me some more mush, do," passing his bowl. "O dear me, do tell first, Joe," cried Polly, impatiently. "I don't know where the spoon is," for the big spoon had tumbled off to the floor, and she hadn't seen it go in the excitement. "Joel, get a clean one," said Mrs. Pepper, "and then pick up the other; it's likely it fell down." So Joel hopped out of his chair and got a clean spoon for Polly, and then dived under the table and came back with the other spoon. "Now begin and tell us all about it," said his mother. "No, Polly, you needn't help him the mush till he's told." So Joel, seeing he wasn't to get the mush until the whole story how he got his ride in the Parrott coach was related, began at once, and rattled it off as fast as he could. "The--man--that-- drives--it--stopped--an'--I--was--in--th'--yard--an'--he--said-- don't--you--wanter--all--hands--o'--you children--to drive-- I've--got--to drive a--piece--down th'--road--an' I--called-- and--called--you--an'--we--went--an'--that's all. Now give me some mush!" "If we only had known!" mourned Polly, clasping her hands. "Is it lined with green satin, Joel?" she asked suddenly. "I don't understand," said Mrs. Pepper, in a puzzled way. "Where were you, Joel, when Miss Parrott's man asked you? And you didn't go bareheaded, and without your coat?" "Out in the yard, Mamsie," answered Joel. "Polly, do give me some mush," for Polly was so absorbed waiting to hear if Miss Parrott's coach was really lined with green satin, that she had forgotten all about Joe and his breakfast. So now she hastily dipped out the mush into the bowl that was waiting for it. "Is it really lined with green satin, Joel?" she cried breathlessly. "I don't know," said Joel, all his attention upon his bowl of mush. "I most know it is," said Polly, leaning her elbows on the table, and her head upon her hands, to think how it would really seem to be riding in a coach lined with green satin. "And now I never shall go," she ended. "Why didn't you come back for us?" asked David, suddenly. He hadn't eaten anything since Joel had rushed in with the wonderful story, and between Polly's disappointment and his own, was in a great state of distress. "Oh, I thought you were coming right off," said Joel, swallowing rapid mouthfuls; "and then, when I got into the coach, the man that drives Miss Parrott said he couldn't wait no longer." "Any longer, you mean," corrected Mrs. Pepper. "Yes'm," said Joel; "and then we drove off." "You see, we had to shut the door to the woodshed," said Polly, "'cause Phronsie would catch cold if we didn't, and we didn't hear a single word when you called, Joel Pepper; not a single one!" "Where'd you go?" asked David, suddenly. "Oh, down to the Centre," said Joel, "to two--no, I guess four stores, and then he brought me home--that is, almost home. He dropped me at the corner." "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly. "Oh, jolly! look at the snow!" screamed Joel, flying out of his chair. And sure enough, while they had been so engrossed, there it had been coming down faster and faster, until it was a powdery veil, almost too thick to see through. So somewhere in the middle of the morning, Joel and David started off with their sled, drawing on their mittens with the greatest satisfaction, and bobbing good-by to the others watching them from the windows. All went well, until Joe proposed that they should go to Simon's Hill, a long steep thoroughfare some two miles distant, that swung at the bottom very abruptly into the turnpike. And trudging off there, they climbed it with despatch, and began to coast down. "Oh, whickets!" cried Joel, who was steering, little Davie hanging on behind, more than three-quarters afraid, though he wouldn't let Joel see it for all the world. "Gee-haw-gee-haw-whee-dimp-dump," as they flew over the rises, bumping and twisting from side to side. [Illustration: "GEE-HAW-GEE-HAW-WHEE-DIMP-DUMP"] "Oh, take care, Joe," screamed David, in terror, "we most went over," for on one side the road ran down abruptly into a thicket of evergreen and scrub oaks. "Hoh, we're going straight!" sang out Joel, "you're always such a 'fraid-cat, David Pepper." "I ain't a 'fraid-cat," protested Davie, "and I want to go home to mother." "Well, you are going down again, eleven, no, I guess sixty times," declared Joel, "after this. Gee-whiz-bump-bump-bang!" This last was brought out of him by a sudden slewing to the side, where the slope ran off to the evergreen, scrub oak thicket; but Joel missed the edge by about an inch, so he screamed with delight, and whizzed safely down the rest of the hill. "I ain't going down ever again," said David, "not once, Joel," as they flew along and the cold air swept his pale cheeks. Just then, along the turnpike toward the abrupt turn of the hill-road, was coming an ox-pung, loaded with wood, and driven by old Farmer Seeley, who was almost as blind as a bat and deaf as a post. "Hi!" screamed Joel, whizzing along. "See us come down," but Farmer Seeley neither saw nor heard, and just then he concluded to steer his team up as near as possible to the hill-road. Joel saw this, and yelled, but he might as well have screamed to the hill. It was all done in a moment. Down flew the clumsy home-made sled, that couldn't be turned in a second; Joel frantically steering to get past the big awkward team, that was blocking up the way, David clinging to him in a dumb helpless terror. Z-z-rr-thud! and the first thing that old Farmer Seeley knew, four small arms and legs were waving frantically in the air, and thrown suddenly, with a mixture of boards and runners, against the ox-team of wood, with an awful crash; and then all was still. "Land o' Goshen!" ejaculated Farmer Seeley, at the crash. "What's that 'ere? O my gracious Peters!" as he saw what it was as well as he was able, for his poor eyes. And getting off from the team he went to the spot, shaking so in every limb, that he could hardly walk. There was no sound beneath the upturned sled, where it lay just as it had been thrown against the wood-pung, and for one dreadful moment Farmer Seeley thought the two boys to whom the small legs and arms belonged were dead, and he shook so his false teeth rattled in his head, and he sat right down in the snow. "I must dig 'em out," he said to himself in a cold fright, "for they've druv their heads clean into the snow, and they may get stuffocated, if they ain't already dead." So he did the best he could in that work, proceeding only a little way, when Joel bounced up suddenly, shook his black hair, and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, I remember," he said. "Now, see here--you boy," screamed old Farmer Seeley, angrily, "I'll have you took up, whoever ye be, a-runnin' into my ox-team, an' a-buntin' into my wood. Um--I will!" "Get Dave out," cried Joel, who cared very little for whatever the old man might say, and pawing the snow wildly. "Help me get Dave out." "I can't help none," said the old man, querulously. "I'm stiff in th' jints, an' beside, you've scart me to death, eenamost." "Oh--oh!" screamed Joel, in a frightful panic. "Dave--get up, Dave!" But David lay like a little log of wood, as still as those on the old pung. XXVII PRINCES AND PRINCESSES "Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, "don't worry any more about the boys not coming home; just keep the potatoes hot in the oven." For Polly had run to the window about a dozen times, wondering where they could be, and why they didn't come back for dinner. "They are having a nice time, somewhere, bless their hearts," said Mrs. Pepper, with a smile. "I'm so glad the snow has come early, for they've been longing for it so much." She hadn't felt so happy and contented for a good while, for besides rejoicing in her boys' pleasure, Mr. Atkins had given her this very morning an order to knit as many mittens as she could, and she even caught herself humming a little tune. Polly heard her, and ran over to her side. "Oh, Mamsie Pepper!" she exclaimed, "do sing it," and she threw her arms around her neck. "I can't sing now," said Mother Pepper, a little flush coming on her cheek, "and besides, I don't need to, with you, Polly," and she smiled fondly on her. "I'll stop, Mamsie--if you'll only sing to us more," cried Polly. "Then I never should sing, Polly," declared Mother Pepper, with a little laugh. "I shouldn't know what to do, child, if I didn't hear you singing round." "Shouldn't you, Mammy?" asked Polly, much gratified, and curling down into a little ball at her mother's feet. "No, dear, I shouldn't." Mrs. Pepper stopped her work long enough to lay her hand caressingly on Polly's brown hair. "Why, it wouldn't seem like the little brown house at all, Polly, and I don't know what we should any of us do, if you stopped it." "Then I'll sing always for you, Mamsie," said Polly; "I truly will." "So do, child. Well, I must hurry along, or I shan't get time to begin on those mittens. And just think, Polly, Mr. Atkins has promised to let me knit as many pairs as I can." "Mamsie," said Polly, suddenly, and hopping to her feet, "won't you teach me to knit, and then I can help you." "Yes," said Mrs. Pepper; "for it's good for you to know how. But I shan't be willing to have you help me any more than you do now. I wish you didn't have to work so hard, child," and an anxious cloud overspread the brightness on Mother Pepper's face. "Oh, I'm not going to work too hard," cried Polly, with happy throbs at her mother's words. And she dashed off to her interrupted work, and Mrs. Pepper smiled, as presently Polly began to sing so merrily that Phronsie set up a little song, till the old kitchen was the cosiest place possible. At last, in a lull, Mother Pepper called, "Polly, what is this stopping at the gate? Tell him we don't want any," as she saw it was a load of wood. Polly ran to the door, and was beginning to say, "We don't want any wood," when her face turned very white, and she ran over the snow on unsteady feet. "Oh, Joel, what is it?" throwing her arms around him. But before he could answer, there was Mrs. Pepper close behind her. They lifted Davie down from the pile of wood, where they had made him as comfortable as possible, Farmer Seeley and Joel; the old man tried to tell that "'Twarn't none o' my fault. Th' boys ran into me," but Joel, for the first time in his life, was without words. "Mamsie, don't feel badly," said little Davie, putting up his face to be kissed, as her arms received him. Joel flew to Polly for comfort. "And Mr. Seeley's nice," said David, who had found out the old farmer's name on the long, slow, homeward journey, and now seemed afraid he might be blamed, and not thanked enough. The old farmer, not hearing this, or indeed much of the talk, kept saying at intervals, "'Twarn't my fault. I ain't to blame," till Mrs. Pepper carried David into the little brown house, and the others, following mournfully enough, the door was shut. David was laid up with a sprained ankle, that was all, after the upset. But Joel found it dismal enough to play out in the snow alone, and he kept pretty close to the window, so that he could look up and sing out once in a while to Dave seated by it in Mamsie's big rocking chair. And pretty soon, one day, Ben brought Davie out, all bundled up, and set him carefully on the big sled. "There you are!" cried Ben, depositing his burden, "as fine as can be," all the rest of the family flocking around to tuck David in tighter, and to pull his tippet closer, and to be sure that he had his mittens on. "Don't go very far, Joe," cautioned Mrs. Pepper. "I won't, Mamsie," said Joe, proudly enough, marching off, while the big sled, with Davie sitting upon it as happy as a king, came sliding along behind. "Hooray!" cried a harsh voice, when they had proceeded in this way for a good distance down the road, David joyfully exclaiming every minute, "Oh, Joey, it's so good to get out doors again." "Hooray!" screamed the voice again, and Joel, staring as hard as he could, saw two boys pop up from behind a stone wall, and come rushing down toward him, each with a large snowball in his hand. And the next thing, the snowballs flew through the air, and one hit David in the neck, and burst all over his tippet. Joel didn't care that the other one gave him a whack on the head. "You stop that!" commanded Joel, with a face as red as fire. "Don't you hit Dave again," and his black eyes flashed. "We're bigger'n you," sneered one boy, and he picked up some more snow, and began to roll it into a hard ball. "No, you ain't, either," contradicted Joel, who never would acknowledge any one to be bigger than himself. "And you let Dave alone, I say." "We're going to push him off th' sled," said the other boy, with a dreadful grin. At this Joel looked all around in despair for a moment to see if any one was coming who would help. "Davie's ankle. O dear me!" he thought. So he got between the sled and the biggest boy. "You let him alone!" he cried sturdily, setting his teeth tight together. "Hoh--hoh--'fraid-cat--'fraid-cat!" laughed both boys, hopping about in glee, and singing over and over, '"Fraid-cat--'fraid-cat!" Joel clenched his little brown hands together tightly. It was hard work not to fly at them and pommel away. "But Davie's ankle--dear--dear!" So he held his breath and kept still. Suddenly both boys made a rush at David, meaning to make him eat snow and have one ball thrust down his back at one and the same time, but Joel was too quick for them, and the first thing they knew, as David gave a scream at their approach, two hard little fists were pommelling them to right and left. "Stop it!" they cried. But Joel didn't know how to stop; he pounded away so much and so fast, and they didn't exactly seem to know where he was going to strike next, that in a few minutes both boys were crying as hard as they could. "'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid-cat!" sang Joel, dancing around them, and swinging his fists in the liveliest fashion. "Joel Pepper!" exclaimed a voice, suddenly, that made all the boys skip, while little Davie shook in much worse apprehension than he did before. "Fighting in the public road! Well, I never heard anything so dreadful!" Joel whirled around, his fists still ready. "I ain't fighting," he denied stoutly. It was Miss Jerusha, Parson Henderson's sister. "And it's bad enough to fight, without telling a lie about it," said Miss Jerusha, holding up her black gloves in horror. "I ain't fighting. And I didn't tell a lie," declared Joel. "And you mustn't say so," he added, advancing on her with blazing eyes. Miss Jerusha retreated. "You're a very bad boy," she said tartly, "and I shall have no more to say to you." "You must say I don't tell a lie," insisted Joel with unpleasant firmness, and throwing his head back. "What are you doing, if you're not fighting?" began Miss Jerusha, loudly; "pray tell." Joel was just going to say, "They were going to hurt Davie," when, before he could get the words out, Polly was seen running down the road toward them all, her hood flying back on her shoulders. "Oh, Joel, what _do_ you think--" she began, when she saw the two boys, and, worst of all, Miss Jerusha; then she came to a dead stop. "Where are your manners?" snapped that lady, wanting to scold some one. "I'm sure when I was a girl I was pretty spoken, when I met people." "How do you do, Miss Jerusha?" asked Polly. Then she couldn't help regarding the two boys with wide-eyed astonishment; they dug the toes of their shoes in the snow, and wouldn't look at her. "She says I told her a lie," blurted Joel, not taking his blazing eyes from Miss Jerusha's face. "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, in the greatest distress. "Joel couldn't tell a lie, Marm; he never did." Joel flung his black head higher, but he didn't take his eyes from Miss Jerusha's face. "I'm sure I don't know nor care whether he did or not," retorted Miss Jerusha, shrilly. "And you're very pert, Polly Pepper, to set yourself up against your elders. When I was a little girl I never contradicted folks. Never in all the world! What is your mother thinking of, to bring you up in this way?" And she held up her black gloves again. "Polly," called little Davie, where he had been crouching timidly in the middle of the big sled, "can't we go home?" "Yes," said Polly, hoarsely. "Joel, come home with me this minute; don't say another word, Mamsie wouldn't like it," she commanded. She seized the rope, and Joel, removing his eyes with the greatest difficulty from Miss Jerusha's face, grasped it, too, and the little Peppers went as swiftly as they could go, back home to Mamsie, leaving the other three in the middle of the road. "O dear!" gasped Polly, as they ran on. Then, "Joel, if we can only get to Mamsie," while back on the sled Davie trembled with delight at the very thought. In front of the little brown house stood a big comfortable sleigh of the old-fashioned pattern. Although it had once been very handsome, it was now faded and ancient. A man who almost looked as if he had gone into service along with the sleigh and the other belongings of his mistress, sat primly upon the front seat. He expressed as much pleasure at seeing the little Peppers coming, as his stoical countenance would allow, but he didn't move a muscle of face or figure. At any other time Joel would have howled with delight at seeing Miss Parrott's man sitting there before the house, and in a sleigh. And it wouldn't have been a minute before he would have been in that sleigh, and on that front seat, besieging that stiff figure to let him drive. But now Joel flew by, dropping the rope, and rushed into the house, and Polly was left to drag David to the door, and call to Mamsie to help lift him off. But she stopped to say to Miss Parrott's man, "I must stop to speak to Mamsie, first, if you please." Miss Parrott's man so far forgot the ancient usage of his years that he rubbed his eyes as Polly turned away, and then he turned and continued to gaze at her as long as she was to be seen. For he really could not believe that it was the same little girl who had danced down the road, with sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, and he even glanced nervously around, the more he thought about it. "Mamsie!" cried Joel, hoarsely, flinging himself into Mother Pepper's arms, as she came to the door to meet him, her face beaming with happiness at the realization that Miss Parrott's sleigh actually was waiting at the door to take her little ones for a sleigh-ride, "Mamsie! Miss Jerusha says I told a lie. Did I, Mammy?" and Joel clutched her and broke into a torrent of tears. And then Polly got there, and Davie was lifted off the sled and carried into the house, and among all three of them the story was out. And there was Miss Parrott's man sitting stiffly on the front seat of the sleigh, only his head was turned, and his eyes were staring like all possessed at the little brown house. "Now, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, when there was no more to tell, and the children gazed at her in amazement to see her so cheerful, "you just get yourself ready, as soon as ever you can. Wash your face good, and your eyes, and I'll spring to, and help Joey and Davie. Phronsie's all ready." Indeed, she was, and sitting patiently on her little cricket all this time, her small mittened hands folded in her lap. To Phronsie, every bit of the fuss of getting ready for a trip was always as much of a delight as the expedition itself, and was enjoyed with grave pleasure. "And, dear me!" continued Mother Pepper, in her briskest fashion, all the while she was washing and patting and pulling the two boys into just the right condition for such a grand occasion as this, "there is Miss Parrott's man waiting out there all this time! Now see how good you can stand still, Joey, and then we'll be as quick as we can be." And pretty soon they were all ready, and Joel's swollen nose and red eyes didn't look so very much as if he had been crying, and Polly's face showed very little trace, after all, that she had been crying, too. So they all went down to the gate, Mother Pepper and Polly and Joel carrying David, and Phronsie walking gravely behind. "I am very sorry," said Mother Pepper to Miss Parrott's man, still immovably staring at them, "to keep you waiting. It is not my children's fault, I should say that." Then she helped them in, and tucked the big fur robes all nicely around the three on the back seat. Joel, of course, was by this time snugly settled on the front seat. "Now, children," said Mrs. Pepper, regarding them for a moment, and standing quite still by the roadside, "you are to have the very nicest time you ever had in all your lives. Remember!" and she smiled at them, and all the sunbeams that ever shone seemed to hop right down into their hearts. Miss Parrott's man solemnly gathered up the reins tighter in his hands, and touched the horses with the whip with the same dignity, and off they went. Mrs. Pepper watched the big sleigh till she couldn't see a speck of it; then she turned and went into the house, took down her Sunday bonnet and shawl, for this was to be a call of importance, and soon she had left the little brown house, and was walking rapidly over the snowy road to the minister's house. "I must get it over with as soon as I can, and be home before they get back," she said to herself, going swiftly on. It wasn't two minutes before Joel was laughing gayly, and bobbing around with an important air on that front seat to the others on the back seat, and Polly found herself tossing scraps of nonsense back at him and the two others, and little Davie smiled happily. As for Phronsie, she sat wedged in between the other two, her little mittens folded in her lap, in grave satisfaction. Miss Parrott's man drew a long breath when all this was accomplished, and the only word he said for the first two miles was, "I guess you're all right _now_." Where they went, no one of the four little Peppers could have told. It all seemed like Fairyland, a great enchanted space of winding snowy roads, dazzling in the morning sunlight of a perfect winter day; every little crystal sparkling away on a pine tree, where it had to melt away, seemed to come out and wink at them, as the stately horses bore them along. All the fields sleeping under their soft, white blankets, were new to the Peppers gliding by. That surely was not Deacon Brown's field, where they used to race across lots, on a summer day! And as for that being Mr. Blodgett's meadow--why! no one need ever tell them so; it was enchanted ground, and they were princes and princesses whirling by in their chariots. "Let's play so," cried Polly, suddenly, and leaning back against the padded cushion, feeling very glad indeed. "What, Polly!" cried Joel, wheeling around, at the imminent danger of tumbling out backward, and astonished that Polly should want to play anything when they were enveloped with such richness of enjoyment. "Oh, that we were princesses and princes," answered Polly, with a grand air, "and we were riding through our kingdom in a big chariot." "Oh, yes, let's--let's!" screamed Joel, "and I'm the biggest prince," he announced, with another shout. "I wished I had a feather in my cap," he added ruefully, remembering the splendid one that Grandma Bascom's rooster had furnished for a former occasion, when Polly decked him out a prince, and that was tucked away in his box of treasures in the woodshed,--"O dear! if I'd only brought it!" "But we haven't got our things," said Polly, quickly, "so you must just play it, Joel. That's as good as having the feather." "I think it's heaven," said little Davie, with a long breath, hanging out as far as he could over his side of the back seat. "Polly, isn't it?" "Yes, dear," said Polly, leaning past Phronsie to drop him a kiss, which, by reason of the big sleigh going just then over a hump of frozen snow, fell on the tip of his nose. This made him laugh, and then Polly laughed, and Phronsie came out of her grave delight, to gurgle her amusement; and Joel, hearing them all have such a funny time back there, bobbed around again, and _he_ laughed, though he never found out what it was all about. And Miss Parrott's man learned more about princesses and princes and golden chariots and Fairyland and enchanted things and places in general than he ever heard in his life before, and when at last they glided into Badgertown Centre, it really seemed as if the cup of happiness would overflow. "Polly," cried little David, his cheeks aflame under his woollen cap that was drawn close around his ears, and sitting quite erect as a prince should, "the people are all coming out to meet us--the queen and king have sent us to do the errands; haven't they, Polly?" "Yes," cried Polly, delighted at the idea. "Oh, let's play that!" So the four little Peppers drove down Badgertown main street, where all the shops were, and old Mr. Beebe happened to be standing by his little window watching for customers. "Ma--Ma!" he screamed, "here's the Pepperses goin' by in a sleigh; it's Miss Parrottses, I do declare." And Mrs. Beebe, stopping to put on her best cap with the pink ribbons before she ran out from the little parlor back of the shop, of course didn't get there till long after the triumphal procession was over. And of all the people who stared and rejoiced in their happiness,--for there wasn't one who saw them who didn't feel glad, down to the tips of the fingers and toes, that the Peppers were going a-pleasuring,--no one of them all suspected that it was a chariot load of princes and princesses gliding by. At last it was all over, and the golden chariot paused before the little brown house. Polly and Joel carried David over the snowy path, while Phronsie ran ahead like a mad little thing. And so they all rushed in, royalty dropping off at the old flat door stone. "We've been princes," cried Joel, as Polly set Davie down, and stamping the snow, gathered on the royal rush over the yard, from his feet, "and I was the biggest prince." "I was the best," declared David, twitching off his cap that had gotten knocked over his eyes in the scramble to carry him in. "Mamsie, I truly was." "Oh, Mamsie!" cried Polly, dancing around the kitchen on happy feet, her eyes glowing like stars, "it was perfectly gorgeous!" for Polly dearly loved fine words, and she thought nothing could be too grand for this occasion. "And I was a princess," piped Phronsie, crowding up to hold fast to her mother's gown. "I truly was, Mamsie. Polly said so." "So you were," declared Mamsie, smiling happily on her whole brood; "but then, you mustn't ever forget, children, that it's well enough to be princes and princesses once in a while, but you're my little brown house people every day." 
8430	----	Proofreading Team The Mountebank by William J. Locke Chapter I In the month of June, 1919, I received a long letter from Brigadier-General Andrew Lackaday together with a bulky manuscript. The letter, addressed from an obscure hotel in Marseilles, ran as follows:-- MY DEAR FRIEND, On the occasion of our last meeting when I kept you up to an ungodly hour of the morning with the story of my wretched affairs to which you patiently listened without seeming bored, you were good enough to suggest that I might write a book about myself, not for the sake of vulgar advertisement, but in order to interest, perhaps to encourage, at any rate to stimulate the thoughts of many of my old comrades who have been placed in the same predicament as myself. Well, I can't do it. You're a professional man of letters and don't appreciate the extraordinary difficulty a layman has, not only in writing a coherent narrative, but in composing the very sentences which express the things that he wants to convey. Add to this that English is to me, if not a foreign, at any rate, a secondary language--I have thought all my life in French, so that to express myself clearly on any except the humdrum affairs of life is always a conscious effort. Even this little prelude, in my best style, has taken me nearly two cigarettes to write; so I gave up an impossible task. But I thought to myself that perhaps you might have the time or the interest to put into shape a whole mass of raw material which I have slung together--from memory (I have a good one), and from my diary. It may seem odd that a homeless Bohemian like myself should have kept a diary; but I was born methodical. I believe my mastery of Army Forms gained me my promotion! Anyhow you will find in it a pretty complete history of my career up to date. "I have cut out the war----" Is there a _lusus naturæ_ of any nationality but English, who rising from Private to Brigadier-General, could write six hundred and seventy-three sprawling foolscap pages purporting to contain the story of his life from eighteen-eighty something to June nineteen hundred and nineteen and deliberately omit, as if it were neither here nor there, its four and a half years' glorious and astounding episode? "_I have cut out the war!_" On looking through the MS. I found that he had cut out the war, in so far as his military experiences were concerned. In khaki he showed himself to be as English and John Bull as you please; and how the deuce his meteoric promotion occurred and what various splendid services compelled the exhibition on his breast of a rainbow row of ribbons, are matters known only to the War Office, Andrew Lackaday and his Maker. Well--that is perhaps an exaggeration of secrecy. The newspapers have published their official paragraphs. Officers who served under him have given me interesting information. But from the spoken or written word of Andrew Lackaday I have not been able to glean a grain of knowledge. That, I say, is where the intensely English side of him manifested itself. But, on the other hand, the private life that he led during the four and a half years of war, and that which he lived before and after, was revealed with a refreshing Gallic lack of reticence which could only proceed from his French upbringing. To return to his letter:-- I have cut out the war. Thousands of brainy people will be spending the next few years of their lives telling you all about it. But I should rather like to treat it as a blank, a period of penal servitude, a drugged sleep afflicted with nightmare, a bit of metempsychosis in the middle of normal life--you know what I mean. The thing that is _I_ is not General Lackaday. It is Somebody Else. So I have given you, for what it is worth, the story of Somebody Else. The MS. is in a beast of a muddle like the earth before the Bon Dieu came in and made His little arrangements. Do with it what you like. At the present moment I am between the Devil and the Deep Sea. I am hoping that the latter will be the solution of my difficulties. (By the way, I'm not contemplating suicide.) In either case it doesn't matter.... If you are interested in the doings of a spent meteor, I shall be delighted to write to you from time to time. As you said, you are the oldest friend I have. You are almost the only living creature who knows the real identity of Andrew Lackaday. You have been charming enough to give me not only the benefit of your experience, riper than mine, of a man of the world, but also such a very human sympathy that I shall always think of you with sentiments of affectionate esteem. Yours sincerely, ANDREW LACKADAY Well. There was the letter, curiously composed; half French, half English in the turning of the phrase. The last sentence was sheer translation. But it was sincere. I need not say that I sent a cordial reply. Our correspondence thenceforward became intimate and regular. In his estimate of his manuscript from a literary point of view the poor General did not exaggerate. Anything more hopeless as a continuous narrative I have never read. But it supplied facts, hit off odds and ends of character, and--what the autobiography seldom does--it gave the _ipsissima verba_ of conversations written in helter-skelter fashion with flowing pen, sometimes in excellent French, sometimes in English, which beginning in the elaborate style of his letter broke down into queer vernacular; it was charmingly devoid of self-consciousness, so that the man as he was, and not as he imagined himself to be or would like others to imagine him, stood ingenuously disclosed. If the manuscript had been that of a total stranger I could not have undertaken the task of the Bon Dieu making His little arrangements to shape the earth out of chaos. An elderly literary dilettante, who is not a rabid archæologist, has an indolent way of demanding documents clear and precise. As a matter of fact, it was some months before I felt the courage to tackle the business. But knowing the man, knowing also Lady Auriol and having in the meantime made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Elodie Figasso and Horatio Bakkus, playing, in fact, a minor rôle, say, that of Charles, his friend, in the little drama of his life, I eventually decided to carry out my good friend's wishes. The major part of my task has been a matter of arrangement, of joining up flats, as they say in the theatre, of translation, of editing, of winnowing, as far as my fallible judgment can decide, the chaff from the grain in his narrative, and of relating facts which have come within the horizon of my own personal experience. I begin therefore at the very beginning. Many a year ago, when the world, myself included, was young, I knew a circus. This does not mean that I knew it from the wooden benches outside the ring. I knew it behind the scenes. I was on terms of intimacy with the most motley crowd it has been my good fortune to meet. It was a famous French circus of the classical type that has by now, I fear me, passed away. Its _hautè école_ was its pride, and it demanded for its _première équestrienne_ the homage due to the great artists of the world. Bernhardt of the Comédie Francaise--I think she was still there in those far-off days, Patti of the Opera and Mlle Renée Saint-Maur of the Cirque Rocambeau were three stars of equal magnitude. The circus toured through France from year's end to year's end. It pitched its tent--what else could it do, seeing that municipal ineptitude provided no building wherein could be run chariot races of six horses abreast? But the tent, in my youthful eyes, confused by the naphtha glares and the violent shadows cast on the many tiers of pink faces, loomed as vast as a Roman amphitheatre. It was a noble tent, a palace of a tent, the auditorium being but an inconsiderable section. There was stabling for fifty horses. There were decent dressing-rooms. There was a green-room, with a wooden, practicable bar running along one end, and a wizened, grizzled, old barman behind it who supplied your wants from the contents of a myriad bottles ranged in perfect order in some obscure nook beneath the counter. They did things in the great manner in the Cirque Rocambeau. It visited none but first-class towns which had open spaces worthy of its magnificence. It despised one or two night stands. The Cirque Rocambeau had a way of imposing itself upon a town as an illusory permanent institution, a week being its shortest and almost contemptuous sojourn. The Cirque Rocambeau maintained the stateliness of the old world. Now the Cirque Rocambeau fades out of this story almost as soon as it enters it. But it affords the coincidence which enables this story to be written. For if I had not known the Cirque Rocambeau, I should never have won the confidence of Andrew Lackaday and I should have remained as ignorant, as you are, at the present moment, of the vicissitudes of that worthy man's career. You see, we met as strangers at a country house towards the end of the war. Chance turned the conversation to France, where he had lived most of his life, to the France of former days, to my own early wanderings about that delectable land, to my boastful accounts of my two or three months' vagabondage with the Cirque Rocambeau. He jumped as if I had thrown a bomb instead of a name at him. In fact the bomb would have startled him less. "The Cirque Rocambeau?" "Yes." He looked at me narrowly. "What year was that?" I told him. "Lord Almighty," said he, with a gasp. "Lord Almighty!" He stared for a long time in front of him without speaking. Then to my amazement he said deliberately: "I remember you! You were a sort of a young English god in a straw hat and beautiful clothes, and you used to take me for rides on the clown's pig. The clown was my foster father. And now I'm commanding a battalion in the British Army. By Gum! It's a damn funny world!" Memory flashed back with almost a spasm of joy. "'By Gum!'" I repeated. "Why, that was what my old friend Ben Flint used to say twenty times an hour!" It was a shibboleth proving his story true. And I remembered the weedy, ugly, precocious infant who was the pride and spoiled darling of that circus crowd. Why I, a young gentleman of leisure, fresh from Cambridge, chose to go round France with a circus, is neither here nor there. For one thing, I assure you it was not for the bright eyes of Mlle Renée Saint-Maur or her lesser sister luminaries. Ben Flint, the English clown, classically styled "Auguste" in the arena, and his performing pig, Billy, somehow held the secret of my fascination. Ben Flint mystified me. He was a man of remarkable cultivation; save for a lapse here and there into North Country idiom, and for a trace now and then of North Country burr, his English was pure and refined. In ordinary life, too, he spoke excellent French, although in the ring he had to follow the classical tradition of the English clown, and pronounce his patter with a nerve-rasping Britannic accent. He never told me his history. But there he was, the principal clown, and as perfect a clown as clown could be, with every bit of his business at his fingers' ends, in a great and important circus. Like most of his colleagues, he knew the wide world from Tokio to Christiania; but, unlike the rest of the crowd, whose life seemed to be bounded by the canvas walls of the circus, and who differentiated their impressions of Singapore and Moscow mainly in terms of climate and alcohol, Ben Flint had observed men and things and had recorded and analysed his experiences, so that, meeting a more or less educated youth like myself--perhaps a rare bird in the circus world--standing on the brink of life, thirsting for the knowledge that is not supplied by lectures at the Universities, he must have felt some kind of satisfaction in pouring out, for my benefit, the full vintage of his wisdom. I see him now, squat, clean-shaven, with merry blue eyes in a mug of a face, sitting in a deck chair, on a scrap of ragged ground forming the angle between the row of canvas stables and the great tent, a cob pipe in his humorous mouth, a thick half litre glass of beer with a handle to it on the earth beside him, and I hear his shrewd talk of far-away and mysterious lands. His pretty French wife, who knows no English, charmingly dishevelled, uncorseted, free, in a dubious _peignoir_ trimmed with artificial lace--she who moulded in mirific tights, sea-green with reflections of mother-of-pearl, like Venus Anadyomene, does the tight rope act every afternoon and evening--sits a little way apart, busy with needle and thread repairing a sorry handful of garments which to-night will be tense with some portion of her shapely body. Between them sprawls on his side Billy, the great brown pig whom Ben has trained to stand on his hind legs, to jump through hoops, to die for his country.... "They don't applaud. They don't appreciate you, Billy," the clown would say, choosing his time when applause was scant. "Show them what you think of them." And then Billy would deliberately turn round and, moving in a semicircle, present his stern to the delighted audience.... There lies Billy, the pig, the most human pig that ever breathed, adored by Ben Flint, who, not having given the beast one second's pain in all its beatific life, was, in his turn, loved by the pig as only a few men are loved by a dog--and there, sitting on the pig's powerful withers, his blue smock full of wilted daisies, is little eight-year-old tow-headed Andrew Lackaday making a daisy chain, which eventually he twines round the animal's semi-protesting snout. Yes. There is the picture. It is full summer. We have lunched, Madame and Ben and Andrew and I, at the little café restaurant at the near-by straggling end of the town. At other tables, other aristocratic members of the troupe. The humbler have cooked their food in the vague precincts of the circus. We have returned to all that Ben and his wife know as home. It is one o'clock. At two, matinee. An hour of blissful ease. We are in the shade of the great tent; but the air is full of the heavy odour of the dust and the flowers and the herbs of the South, and of the pungent smell of the long row of canvas stables. I call little Andrew. He dismounts from Billy the pig, and, insolent brat, screws an imaginary eyeglass into his eye, which he contrives to keep contorted, and assuming a supercilious expression and a languid manner, struts leisurely towards us, with his hands in his pockets, thereby giving what I am forced to admit is an imitation of myself perfect in its burlesque. Ben Flint roars with laughter. I clutch the imp and throw him across knee and pretend to spank him. We struggle lustily till Madame cries out: "But cease, André. You are making Monsieur too hot." And Andrew, docile, ceased at once; but standing in front of me, his back to Madame, he noiselessly mimicked Madame's speech with his lips, so drolly, so exquisitely, that Ben Flint's hearty laugh broke out again. "Just look at the little devil! By Gum! He has a fortune in him." I learned in the circus as much about Andrew as he knew himself. Perhaps more; for a child of eight has lost all recollection of parents who died before he was two. They were circus folk, English, trapeze artists, come, they said, from a long tour in Australia, where Andrew was born, and their first European engagement was in the Cirque Rocambeau. Their stay was brief; their end tragic. Lackaday _Père_ took to drink, which is the last thing a trapeze artist should do. Brain and hand at rehearsal one day lost co-ordination by the thousandth part of a second and Lackaday _Mère_, swinging from her feet upwards, missed the anticipated grip, and fell with a thud on the ground, breaking her spine. Whereupon Lackaday _Père_ went out and hanged himself from a cross-beam in an empty stable. Thus, at two years old, Andrew Lackaday started life on his own account. From that day, he was alone in the world. Nothing in his parents' modest luggage gave clue to kith or kin. Ben Flint who, as a fellow-countryman, went through their effects, found not even one letter addressed to them, found no sign of their contact with any human being living or dead. They called themselves professionally "The Lackadays." Whether it was their real name or not, no one in the world which narrowed itself within the limits of the Cirque Rocambeau, could possibly tell. But it was the only name that Andrew had, and as good as any other. It was part of his inheritance, the remainder being ninety-five francs in cash, some cheap trinkets, a couple of boxes of fripperies which were sold for a song, a tattered copy of Longfellow's Poems, and a brand new gilt-edged Bible, carefully covered in brown paper, with "For Fanny from Jim" inscribed on the flyleaf. From which Andrew Lackaday, as soon as his mind could grasp such things, deduced that his mother's name was Fanny, and his father's James. But Ben Flint assured me that Lackaday called his wife Myra, while she called him Alf, by which names they were familiarly known by their colleagues. So who were Fanny and Jim, if not Andrew's parents, remained a mystery. Meanwhile there was the orphan Andrew Lackaday rich in his extreme youth and the fortune above specified, and violently asserting his right to live and enjoy. Meanwhile, too, Ben Flint and his wife had lost their pig Bob, Billy's predecessor. Bob had grown old and past his job and become afflicted with an obscure porcine disease, possibly senile decay, for which there was no remedy but merciful euthanasia. The Flints mourned him, desolate. They had not the heart to buy another. They were childless, pigless. But behold! There, to their hand was Andrew, fatherless, motherless. On an occasion, just after the funeral, for which Ben Flint paid, when Madame was mothering the tiny Andrew in her arms, and Ben stood staring, lost in yearning for the lost and beloved pig, she glanced up and said: "_Tiens_, why should he not replace Bob, _ce petit cochon?_" Ben Flint slapped his thigh. "By Gum!" said he, and the thing was done. The responsibility of self dependence for life and enjoyment was removed from the shoulders of young Andrew Lackaday for many years to come. In the course of time, when the child's _état civil_, as a resident in France, had to be declared, and this question of nationality became of great importance in after years--Madame said: "Since we have adopted him, why not give him our name?" But Ben, with the romanticism of Bohemia, replied: "No. His name belongs to him. If he keeps it, he may be able to find out something about his family. He might be the heir to great possessions. One never knows. It's a clue anyway. Besides," he added, the sturdy North countryman asserting itself, "I'm not giving my name to any man save the son of my loins. It's a name where I come from that has never been dishonoured for a couple of hundred years." "But it is just as you like, _mon chéri_," said Madame, who was the placidest thing in France. * * * * * For thirty years I had forgotten all this; but the "By Gum!" of Colonel Lackaday wiped out the superscription over the palimpsest of memory and revealed in startling clearness all these impressions of the past. "Of course we're fond of the kid," said Ben Flint. "He's free from vice and as clever as paint. He's a born acrobat. Might as well try to teach a duck to swim. It comes natural. Heredity of course. There's nothing he won't be able to do when I'm finished with him. Yet there are some things which lick me altogether. He's an ugly son of a gun. His father and mother, by the way, were a damn good-looking pair. But their hands were the thick spread muscular hands of the acrobat. Where the deuce did he get his long, thin delicate fingers from? Already he can pass a coin from back to front----" he flicked an illustrative conjuror's hand--"at eight years old. To teach him was as easy as falling off a log. Still, that's mechanical. What I want to know is, where did he get his power of mimicry? That artistic sense of expressing personality? 'Pon my soul, he's damn well nearly as clever as Billy." During the talk which followed the discovery of our former meeting, I reported to Colonel Lackaday these encomiums of years ago. He smiled wistfully. "Most of the dear old fellow's swans were geese, I'm afraid," said he. "And I was the awkwardest gosling of them all. They tried for years to teach me the acrobat's business; but it was no good. They might just as well have spent their pains on a rheumatic young giraffe." I looked at him and smiled. The simile was not inapposite. How, I asked myself, could the man into which he had developed, ever have become an acrobat? He was the leanest, scraggiest long thing I have ever seen. Six foot four of stringy sinew and bone, with inordinately long legs, around which his khaki slacks flapped, as though they hid stilts instead of human limbs. His arms swung long and ungainly, the sleeves of his tunic far above the bony wrist, as though his tailor in cutting the garment had repudiated as fantastic the evidence of his measurements. Yet, when one might have expected to find hands of a talon-like knottiness, to correspond with the sparse rugosity of his person, one found to one's astonishment the most delicately shaped hands in the world, with long, sensitive, nervous fingers, like those of the thousands of artists who have lived and died without being able to express themselves in any artistic medium. In a word, the fingers of the artiste manqué. I have told you what Ben Flint, shrewd observer, said about his hands, as a child of eight. They were the same hands thirty years after. To me, elderly observer of human things, they seemed, as he moved them so gracefully--the only touch of physical grace about him--to confer an air of pathos on the ungainly man, to serve as an index to a soul which otherwise could not be divined. From this lean length of body rose a long stringy neck carrying a small head surmounted by closely cropped carotty thatch. His skin was drawn tight over the framework of his face, as though his Maker had been forced to observe the strictest economy in material. His complexion was brick red over a myriad freckles. His features preserved the irregular ugliness of the child I half remembered, but it was redeemed by light blue candid eyes set in a tight net of humorous lines, and by a large, mobile mouth, which, though it could shut grimly on occasions, yet, when relaxed in a smile, disarmed you by its ear-to-ear kindliness, and fascinated you by the disclosure of two rows of white teeth perfectly set in the healthy pink streaks of gum. He had the air of a man physically fit, inured to hardship; the air, too, in spite of his gentleness, of a man accustomed to command. In the country house at which we met it had not occurred to me to speculate on his social standing, as human frailty determined that one should do in the case of so many splendid and gallant officers of the New Army. His manners were marked by shy simplicity and quiet reserve. It was a shock to preconceived ideas to find him bred in a circus, even in so magnificent a circus as the Cirque Rocambeau, and brought up by a clown, even by such a superior clown as Ben Flint, "And my old friend?" I asked. For I had lost knowledge of Ben practically from the time I ended my happy vagabondage. _Maxima mea culpa_. "He died when I was about sixteen," replied Colonel Lackaday, "and his wife a year or so later." "And then?" I queried, eager for autobiographical revelations. "Then," said he, "I was a grown up man, able to fend for myself." That was all I could get out of him, without allowing natural curiosity to outrun discretion. He changed the conversation to the war, to the France about which I, a very elderly Captain--have I not confessed to early twenties thirty years before?--was travelling most uncomfortably, doing queer odd jobs as a nominal liaison officer on the Quartermaster-General's staff. His intimacy with the country was amazing. Multiply Sam Weller's extensive and peculiar knowledge of London by a thousand, and you shall form some idea of Colonel Lackaday's acquaintance with the inns of provincial France. He could even trot out the family skeletons of the innkeepers. In this he became animated and amusing. His features assumed an actor's mobility foreign to their previous military sedateness, and he used his delicate hands in expressive gestures. In parenthesis I may say we had left the week-end party at their bridge or flirtation (according to age) in the drawing-room, neither pursuits having for us great attraction, in spite of Lady Auriol Dayne, of whom more hereafter, and we had found our way to cooling drinks and excellent cigars in our host's library. It was the first time we had exchanged more than a dozen words, for we had only arrived that Saturday afternoon. But after the amazing mutual recognition, we sat luxuriously chaired, excellent friends, and I, for my part, enjoying his society. "Ah!" said he, "Montélimar. I know that hotel. _Infect_. And the _patron_, eh? You remember him. Forty stone. Phoo!" The gaunt man sat up in his chair and by what mesmeric magic it happened I know not, but before my eyes grew the living image of the gross, shapeless creature who had put me to bed in wringing wet sheets. "And when you complained, he looked like this--eh?" He did look like that. Bleary-eyed, drooping-mouthed, vacant. I recollected that the fat miscreant had the middle of his upper lip curiously sunken into the space of two missing front teeth. The middle of Colonel Lackaday's upper lip was sucked in. "And he said: 'What would you have, Monsieur? _C'est la guerre?_'" The horrible fat man, hundreds of miles away from the front, with every convenience for drying sheets, had said those identical words. And in the same greasy, gasping tone. I gaped at the mimetic miracle. It was then that the memory of the eight-year-old child's travesty of myself flashed through my mind. "Pardon me," said I, "but haven't you turned this marvellous gift of yours to--well to practical use?" He grinned in his honest, wide-mouthed way, showing his incomparable teeth. "Don't you think," said he, "I'm the model of a Colonel of the Rifles?" He grinned again at the cloud of puzzlement on my face, and rose holding out his hand. "Time for turning in. Will you do me a favour? Don't give me away about the circus." Somehow my esteem for him sank like thermometer mercury plunged into ice. I had thought him, with the blazing record of achievement across his chest, a man above such petty solicitude. His mild blue eyes searched my thoughts. "I don't care a damn, Captain Hylton," said he, in a tone singularly different from any that he had used in our pleasant talk--"if anybody knows I was born in a stable. A far better man than I once had that privilege. But as it happens that I am going out to command a brigade next week, it would be to the interest of my authority and therefore to that of the army, if no gossip led to the establishment of my identity." "I assure you, sir----" I began stiffly--I was only a Captain, he, but for a formality or two, a Brigadier-General. He clapped his hands on my shoulders--and I swear his ugly, smiling face was that of an angel. "My dear fellow," said he, "so long as you regard me as an honest cuss, nothing matters in the world." I went to bed with the conviction that he was as honest a cuss as I had ever met. Chapter II Our hosts, the Verity-Stewarts, were pleasant people, old friends of mine, inhabiting a Somerset manor-house which had belonged to their family since the days of Charles the Second. They were proud of their descent; the Stewart being hyphenated to the first name by a genealogically enthusiastic Verity of a hundred years ago; but the alternative to their motto suggested by the son of the house, Captain Charles Verity-Stewart, "The King can do no wrong," found no favour in the eyes of his parents, who had lived remote from the democratic humour of the officers of the New Army. It was to this irreverent Cavalier, convalescent at home from a machine-gun bullet through his shoulder, and hero-worshipper of his Colonel, that Andrew Lackaday owed his shy appearance at Mansfield Court. He was proud of the boy, a gallant and efficient soldier; Lady Verity-Stewart had couched her invitation in such cordial terms that a refusal would have been curmudgeonly; and the Colonel was heartily tired of spending his hard-won leave horribly alone in London. Perhaps I may seem to be explaining that which needs no explanation. It is not so. In England Colonel Lackaday found himself in the position of many an officer from the Dominions overseas. He had barely an acquaintance. Hitherto his leave had been spent in France. But one does not take a holiday in France when the War Officer commands attention at Whitehall. He was very glad to go to the War Office, suspecting the agreeable issue of his visit. Yet all the same he was a stranger in a strange land, living on the sawdust and warmed-up soda-water of unutterable boredom. He had spent--so he said--his happiest hours in London, at the Holborn Empire. Three evenings had he devoted to its excellent but not soul-enthralling entertainment. "In the name of goodness, why?" I asked puzzled. "There was a troupe of Japanese acrobats," said he. "In the course of a roving life one picks up picturesque acquaintances. Hosimura, the head of them, is a capital fellow." This he told me later, for our friendship, begun when he was eight years old, had leaped into sudden renewal; but without any idea of exciting my commiseration. Yet it made me think. That a prospective Brigadier-General should find his sole relief from solitude in the fugitive companionship of a Japanese acrobat seemed to me pathetic. Meanwhile there he was at Mansfield Court, lean and unlovely, but, as I divined, lovable in his unaffected simplicity, the very model of a British field-officer. At dinner on Saturday evening, he had sat between his hostess and Lady Auriol Dayne. To the former he had talked of the things she most loved to hear, the manifold virtues of her son. There were fallings away from the strict standards of military excellence, of course; but he touched upon them with his wide, charming smile, condoned them with the indulgence of the man prematurely mellowed who has kept his hold on youth, so that Lady Verity-Stewart felt herself in full sympathy with Charles's chief, and bored the good man considerably with accounts of the boy's earlier escapades. To Lady Auriol he talked mainly about the war, of which she appeared to have more complete information than he himself. "I suppose you think," she said at last with a swift side glance, "that I'm laying down the law about things I'm quite ignorant of." He said: "Not at all. You're in a position to judge much better than I. You people outside the wood can see it, in its entirety. We who are in the middle of the horrid thing can't see it for the trees." It was this little speech so simple, so courteous and yet not lacking a touch of irony, that first made Lady Auriol, in the words which she used when telling me of it afterwards, sit up and take notice. Bridge, the monomania which tainted Sir Julius Verity-Stewart's courtly soul, pinned Lady Auriol down to the green-covered table for the rest of the evening. But the next day she set herself to satisfy her entirely unreprehensible curiosity concerning Colonel Lackaday. Lady Auriol, born with even more curiosities than are the ordinary birthright of a daughter of Eve, had spent most of her life in trying to satisfy them. In most cases she had been successful. Here be it said that Lady Auriol was twenty-eight, unmarried, and almost beautiful when she took the trouble to do her hair and array herself in becoming costume. As to maiden's greatest and shyest curiosity, well--as a child of her epoch--she knew so much about the theory of it that it ceased to be a curiosity at all. Besides, love--she had preserved a girl's faith in beauty--was a psychological mystery not to be solved by the cold empirical methods which could be employed in the solution of other problems. I must ask you to bear this in mind when judging Lady Auriol. She had once fancied herself in love with an Italian poet, an Antinous-like young man of impeccable manners, boasting an authentic pedigree which lost itself in the wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus. None of your vagabond ballad-mongers. A guest when she first met him of the Italian Ambassador. To him, Prince Charming, knight and troubadour, she surrendered. He told her many wonders of fairy things. He led her into lands where woman's soul is free and dances on buttercups. He made exquisite verses to her auburn hair. But when she learned that these same verses were composed in a flat in Milan which he shared with a naughty little opera singer of no account, she dismissed Prince Charming offhand, and betook herself alone to the middle of Abyssinia to satisfy her curiosity as to the existence there of dulcimer-playing maidens singing of Mount Abora to whom Coleridge in his poem assigns such haunting attributes. Lady Auriol, in fact, was a great traveller. She had not only gone all over the world--anybody can do that--but she had gone all through the world. Alone, she had taken her fate in her hands. In comparison with other geographical exploits, her journey through Abyssinia was but a trip to Margate. She had wandered about Turkestan. She had crossed China. She had fooled about Saghalien.... In her schooldays, hearing of the Sanjak of Novi Bazar, she had imagined the Sanjak to be a funny little man in a red cap. Riper knowledge, after its dull exasperating way, had brought disillusion; but like Mount Abora the name haunted her until she explored it for herself. When she came back, she knew the Sanjak of Novi Bazar like her pocket. Needless to say that Lady Auriol had thrown all her curiosities, her illusions--they were hydra-headed--her enthusiasms and her splendid vitality into the war. She had organized and directed as Commandant a great hospital in the region of Boulogne. "I'm a woman of business," she told Lackaday and myself, "not a ministering angel with open-worked stockings and a Red Cross of rubies dangling in front of me. Most of the day I sit in a beastly office and work at potatoes and beef and army-forms. I can't nurse, though I daresay I could if I tried; but I hate amateurs. No amateurs in my show, I assure you. For my job I flatter myself I'm trained. A woman can't knock about the waste spaces of the earth by herself, head a rabble of pack-carrying savages, without gaining some experience in organization. In fact, when I'm not at my own hospital, which now runs on wheels, I'm employed as a sort of organizing expert--any old where they choose to send me. Do you think I'm talking swollen-headedly, Colonel Lackaday?" She turned suddenly round on him, with a defiant flash of her brown eyes, which was one of her characteristics---the woman, for all her capable modernity, instinctively on the defensive. "It's only a fool who apologizes for doing a thing well," said Lackaday. "He couldn't do it well if he was a fool," Lady Auriol retorted. "You never know what a fool can do till you try him," said Lackaday. It was a summer morning. Nearly all the house-party had gone to church. Lady Auriol, Colonel Lackaday and I, smitten with pagan revolt, lounged on the shady lawn in front of the red-brick, gabled manor house. The air was full of the scent of roses from border beds and of the song of thrushes and the busy chitter-chatter of starlings in the old walnut trees of the further garden. It was the restful England which the exiled and the war-weary used so often to conjure up in their dreams. "You mean a fool can be egged on to do great things and still remain a fool?" asked Lady Auriol lazily. Lackaday smiled--or grinned--it is all the same--a weaver of fairy nothings could write a delicious thesis on the question; is Lackaday's smile a grin or is his grin a smile? Anyhow, whatever may be the definition of the special ear-to-ear white-teeth-revealing contortion of his visage, it had in it something wistful, irresistible. You will find it in the face of a tickled baby six months old. He touched his row of ribbons. "_Voilà_," said he. "It's polite to say I don't believe it," she said, regarding him beneath her long lashes. "But, supposing it true for the sake of argument, I should very much like to know what kind of a fool you are." Lying back in her long cane chair, an incarnation of the summer morning, fresh as the air in her white blouse and skirt, daintily white hosed and shod, her auburn hair faultlessly dressed sweeping from the side parting in two waves, one bold from right to left, the other with coquettish grace, from left to right, the swiftness of her face calmed into lazy contours, the magnificent full physique of her body relaxed as she lay with her silken ankles crossed on the nether chair support, her hands fingering a long necklace of jade, she appealed to me as the most marvellous example I had ever come across of the woman's power of self-transmogrification. The last time I had seen her was in France, wet through in old short-skirted kit, with badly rolled muddy puttees, muddier heavy boots, a beast of a dripping hat pinned through rain-sodden strands of hair, streaks of mud over her face, ploughing through mud to a British Field Ambulance, yet erect, hawk-eyed, with the air of a General of Division. There sex was wiped out. During our chance meeting, one of the many queer chance meetings of the war, a meeting which lasted five minutes while I accompanied her to her destination, we spoke as man to man. She took a swig out of my brandy flask. She asked me for a cigarette--smoked out, she said. I was in nearly the same predicament, having only, at the moment, for all tobacco, the pipe I was then smoking. "For God's sake, like a good chap, give me a puff or two," she pleaded. And so we walked on through the rain and mud, she pipe in mouth, her shoulders hunched, her hands, under the scornfully hitched up skirt, deep in her breeches pockets. And now, this summer morning, there she lay, all woman, insidiously, devilishly alluring woman, almost voluptuous in her self-confident abandonment to the fundamental conception of feminine existence. Lackaday's eyes rested on her admiringly. He did not reply to her remark, until she added in a bantering tone: "Tell me." Then he said, with an air of significance: "The most genuine brand you can imagine, I assure you." "A motley fool," she suggested idly. At that moment, Evadne, the thirteen-year-old daughter of the house, who, as she told me soon afterwards, in the idiom of her generation, had given the divine-services a miss, carried me off to see a litter of Sealyham puppies. That inspection over, we reviewed rabbits and fetched a compass round about the pigsties and crossed the orchard to the chicken's parade, and passed on to her own allotment in the kitchen garden, where a few moth-eaten cabbages and a wilting tomato in a planted pot seemed to hang degraded heads at our approach, and, lingering through the rose garden, we eventually emerged on the further side of the lawn. "I suppose you want to go and join them," she said with a jerk of her bobbed head in the direction of Lady Auriol and Colonel Lackaday. "Perhaps we ought," said I. "They don't want us--you can bet your boots," said she. "How do you know that, young woman of wisdom?" She sniffed. "Look at 'em." I looked at 'em; mole-visioned masculine fifty seeing through the eyes of feminine thirteen; and, seeing very distinctly indeed, I said: "What would you like to do?" "If you wouldn't mind very much," she replied eagerly, her interest in, or her scorn of, elderly romance instantly vanishing, "let us go back to the peaches. That's the beauty of Sundays. That silly old ass Jenkins"--Jenkins was the head gardener--"is giving his family a treat, instead of coming down on me. See?" Evadne linked her arm in mine. Again I saw. She had already eaten two peaches. Who was I to stand in the way of her eating a third or a fourth or a fifth? With the after consequences of her crime against Jenkins, physical and otherwise, I had nothing to do. It was the affair of her parents, her doctor, her Creator. But the sight of the rapturous enjoyment on her face when her white teeth bit into the velvet bloom of the fruit sped one back to one's own youth and procured a delight not the less intense because it was vicarious. "Come along," said I. "You're a perfect lamb," said she. Before the perfect lamb was led to the peach slaughter, he looked again across the lawn. Colonel Lackaday had moved his chair very close to Lady Auriol's wicker lounge, so that facing her, his head was but a couple of feet from hers. They talked not so much animatedly as intimately. Lackaday's face I could not see, his back being turned to me; I saw Lady Auriol's eyes wide, full of earnest interest, and compassionate admiration. I had no idea that her eyes could melt to such softness. It was a revelation. No woman ever looked at a man like that, unless she was an accomplished syren, without some soul-betrayal. I am a _vieux routier_, an old campaigner in this world of men and women. Time was when--but that has nothing to do with this story. At any rate I think I ought to know something about women's eyes. "Did you ever see anything so idiotic?" asked Evadne, dragging me round. "I think I did once," said I. "When was that?" "Ah!" said I. "Do tell me, Uncle Tony." I, who have seen things far more idiotic a thousand times, racked my brain for an answer that would satisfy the child. "Well, my dear," I began, "your father and mother, when they were engaged----" She burst out: "But they were young. It isn't the same thing. Aunt Auriol's as old as anything. And Colonel Lackaday's about sixty." "My dear Evadne," said I. "I happen to know that Colonel Lackaday is thirty-eight." Thirteen shrugged its slim shoulders. "It's all the same," it said. We went to the net-covered wall of ripe and beauteous temptation, trampling over Jenkins's beds of I know not what, and ate forbidden fruit. At least Evadne did, until, son of Adam, I fell. "Do have a bite. It's lovely. And I've left you the blushy side." What could I do? There she stood, fair, slim, bobbed-haired, green-kirtled, serious-eyed, carelessly juicy-lipped, holding up the peach. I, to whom all wall-fruit is death, bit into the side that blushed. She anxiously watched my expression. "Topping, isn't it?" "Yum, yum," said I. "Isn't it?" she said, taking back the peach. That's the beauty of childhood. It demands no elaborate expression. Simplicity is its only coinage. A rhapsody on the exquisiteness of the fruit's flavour would have bored Evadne stiff. Her soul yearned for the establishment between us of a link of appreciation. "Yum, yum," said I, and the link was instantly supplied. She threw away a peach stone and sighed. "Let's go." "Why?" I asked. "I'm not looking for any more trouble," she replied. We returned to the lawn and Lady Auriol and Colonel Lackaday. Not a hole could be picked in the perfect courtesy of their greeting; but it lacked passionate enthusiasm. Evadne and I sat down, and our exceedingly dull conversation was soon interrupted by the advent of the church goers. Towards lunch time Lackaday and I, chance companions, strolled towards the house. "What a charming woman," he remarked. "Lady Verity-Stewart," said I, with a touch of malice--our hostess was the last woman with whom he had spoken--"is a perfect dear." "So she is, but I meant Lady Auriol." "I've known her since she was that high," I said spreading out a measuring hand. "Her development has been most interesting." A shade of annoyance passed over the Colonel's ugly good-humoured face. To treat the radiant creature who had swum into his ken as a subject for psychological observation savoured of profanity. With a smile I added: "She's one of the very best." His brow cleared and his teeth gleamed out my tribute. "I've met very few English ladies in the course of my life," said he half apologetically. "The other day, a brother officer finding me fooling about Pall Mall insisted on my lunching with him at the Carlton. He had a party. I sat next to a Mrs. Tankerville, who I gather is a celebrity." "She is," said I. "And she said, 'You must really come and have tea with me to-morrow. I've a crowd of most interesting people coming.'" "She did," cried Lackaday, regarding me with awestricken eyes, as Saul must have looked at the Witch of Endor. "But I didn't go. I couldn't talk to her. I was as dumb as a fish. Oh, damned dumb! And the dumber I was the more she talked at me. I had risen from the ranks, hadn't I? She thought careers like mine such a romance. I just sat and sweated and couldn't eat. She made me feel as if she was going to exhibit me as the fighting skeleton in her freak museum. If ever I see that woman coming towards me in the street, I'll turn tail and run like hell." I laughed. "You mustn't compare Mrs. Tankerville with Lady Auriol Dayne." "_Mon Dieu!_ I should think not!" he cried with a fervent gesture. "Lady Auriol----" Our passage from the terrace across the threshold of the drawing-room cut short a possible rhapsody. Later in the afternoon, in the panelled Elizabethan entrance hall, I came across Lady Auriol in tweed coat and skirt and business-like walking boots, a felt hat on her head and a stout stick in her hands. "Whither away?" I asked. "Colonel Lackaday and I are off for a tramp, over to Glastonbury." Her lips moved ironically. "Like to come?" "God forbid!" I cried. "Thought you wouldn't," she said, drawing on a wash-leather gauntlet, "but when I'm in Society, I do try to be polite." "My teaching and example for the last twenty years," said I, "have not been without effect." "You're a master of deportment, my dear Tony." I was old enough to be her father, but she had always called me Tony, and had no more respect for my grey hairs than her cousin Evadne. "Tell me," she said, with a swift change of manner, "do you know anything about Colonel Lackaday?" "We met here as strangers," said I, "and I can only say that he impresses me as being a very gallant gentleman." Her face beamed. She held out her hand. "I'm so glad you think so." She glanced at the clock. "Good Lord! I'm a minute late. He's outside. I loathe unpunctuality. So long, Tony." She waved a careless farewell and strode out. In the evening she gave Sir Julius to understand that, for aught she cared, he could go into a corner and play Bridge by himself, thus holding herself free, as it appeared to my amused fancy, for any pleasanter eventuality. In a few moments Colonel Lackaday was sitting by her side. I drew a chair to a bridge-table, and idly looked over my hostess's hand. Presently, being dummy, she turned to me, with a little motion of her head towards the pair and whispered: "Those two--Auriol and ---- don't you think it's rather rapid?" "My dear Selina," said I. "What would you have? '_C'est la guerre_.'" Chapter III It was rather rapid, this intimacy between the odd assorted pair--the high-bred woman of fervid action and the mild and gawky Colonel born in a travelling circus. Holding the key to his early life, and losing myself in conjecture as to his subsequent career until he found himself possessed of the qualities that make a successful soldier, I could not help noticing the little things, unperceived by a generous war society, which pathetically proved that his world and that of Lady Auriol, for all her earth-wide Bohemianism, were star distances apart. Little tiny things that one feels ashamed to record. His swift glance round to assure himself of the particular knife and fork he should use at a given stage of the meal--the surreptitious pushing forward on the plate, of the knife which he had leaned, French fashion, on the edge; his queer distress on entering the drawing-room--his helplessness until the inevitable and unconscious rescue, for he was the honoured guest; the restraint, manifest to me, which he imposed on his speech and gestures. Everyone loved him for his simplicity of manners. In fact they were natural to the man. He might have saved himself a world of worry. But his trained observation had made him aware of the existence of a thousand social solecisms, his sensitive character shrank from their possible committal, and he employed his mimetic genius as an instrument of salvation. And then his English--his drawing-room English--was not spontaneous. It was thought out, phrased, excellent academic English, not the horrible ordinary lingo that we sling at each other across a dinner-table; the English, though without a trace of foreign accent, yet of one who has spent a lifetime in alien lands and has not met his own tongue save on the printed page; of one, therefore, who not being sure of the shade of slang admissible in polite circles, carefully and almost painfully avoids its use altogether. Yet all through that long weekend--we were pressed to stay till the Wednesday morning--no one, so far as I know, suspected that Colonel Lackaday found himself in an unfamiliar and puzzling environment. His appointment to the Brigade came on the Tuesday. He showed me the letter, during a morning stroll in the garden. "Don't tell anybody, please," said he. "Of course not." I could not repress an ironical glance, thinking of Lady Auriol. "If you would prefer to make the announcement your own way." He gasped, looking down upon me from his lean height. "My dear fellow--it's the very last thing I want to do. I've told you because I let the thing out a day or two ago--in peculiar circumstances--but it's in confidence." "Confidence be hanged," said I. Heaven sent me Evadne--just escaped from morning lessons with her governess, and scuttling across the lawn to visit her Sealyhams. I whistled her to heel. She raced up. "If you were a soldier what would you do if you were made a General?" She countered me with the incredulous scorn bred of our familiarity. "You haven't been made a General?" "I haven't," I replied serenely. "But Colonel Lackaday has." She looked wide-eyed up into Lackaday's face. "Is that true?" I swear he blushed through his red sun-glaze. "Since Captain Hylton says so----" She held out her hand with perfect manners and said: "I'm so glad. My congratulations." Then, before the bewildered Lackaday could reply, she tossed his hand to the winds. "There'll be champagne for dinner and I'm coming down," she cried and fled like a doe to the house. At the threshold of the drawing-room she turned. "Does Cousin Auriol know?" "Nobody knows," I said. She shouted: "Good egg!" and disappeared. I turned to the frowning and embarrassed Lackaday. "Your modesty doesn't appreciate the pleasure that news will give all those dear people. They've shown you in the most single-hearted way that they're your friends, haven't they?" "They have," he admitted. "But it's very extraordinary. I don't belong to their world. I feel a sort of impostor." "With this--and all these?" I flourished the letter which I still held, and with it touched the rainbow on his tunic. His features relaxed into his childish ear-to-ear grin. "It's all so incomprehensible--here--in this old place--among these English aristocrats--the social position I step into. I don't know whether you can quite follow me." "As a distinguished soldier," said I, "apart from your charming personal qualities, you command that position." He screwed up his mobile face. "I can't understand it. It's like a nightmare and a fairy-tale jumbled up together. On the outbreak of war I came to England and joined up. In a few months I had a commission. I don't know..." he spread out his ungainly arm--"I fell into the métier--the business of soldiering. It came easy to me. Except that it absorbed me body and soul, I can't see that I had any particular merit. Whatever I have done, it would have been impossible, in the circumstances, not to do. Out there I'm too busy to think of anything but my day's work. As for these things"--he touched his ribbons--"I put them up because I'm ordered to. A matter of discipline. But away from the Army I feel as though I were made up for a part which I'm expected to play without any notion of the words. I feel just as I would have done five years ago if I had been dressed like this and planted here. To go about now disguised as a General only adds to the feeling." "If you'll pardon me for saying so," said I, "I think you're super-sensitive. You imagine yourself to be the same man that you were five years ago. You're not. You're a different human being altogether. Men with characters like yours must suffer a sea-change in this universal tempest." "I hope not," said he, "for what will become of me when it's all over? Everything must come to an end some day--even the war." I laughed. "Don't you see how you must have changed? Here you are looking regretfully to the end of the war. If it were only bloodless you would like it to go on for ever. Who knows whether you wouldn't eventually wear two batons instead of the baton and sword." "I'm not an ambitious man, if you mean that," said he, soberly. "Besides this war business is far too serious for a man to think of his own interests. Suppose a fellow schemed and intrigued to get high rank and then proved inefficient--it would mean death to hundreds or thousands of his men. As it is, I assure you I'm not cock-a-whoop about commanding a brigade. I was a jolly sight happier with a platoon." "At any rate," said I, "other people are cock-a-whoop. Look at them." The household, turned out like a guard by Evadne, emerged in a body from the house. Sir Julius beamed urbanely. Lady Verity-Stewart almost fell on the great man's neck. Young Charles broke into enthusiastic and profane congratulations. From the point of view of eloquent compliment his speech was disgraceful; but I loved the glisten in the boy's eyes as he gazed on his hero. A light also gleamed in the eyes of Lady Auriol. She shook hands with him in her direct fashion. "I'm glad. So very very glad." Perhaps I alone--except Lackaday--detected a little tremor in her voice. "Why didn't you want us to know?" Instinctively I caught Evadne's eye. She winked at me, acknowledging thereby that she had divulged the General's secret. But by what feminine process of divination had she guessed it? Charles came to his chief's rescue. "The General couldn't go around shouting 'I'm to command a brigade mother, I'm to command a brigade,' could he?" "He might have stuck on his badges and walked in as if nothing had happened. It would have been such fun to see who would have spotted them first." Thus Evadne, immediately called to order by Sir Julius. The hero said very little. What in his modesty could the good fellow say? But it was obvious that the sincere and spontaneous tributes pleased him. Sir Julius, after the suppression of Evadne, made him the little tiniest well-bred ghost of an oration. That the gallant soldier under whom his son had the distinguished honour to serve should receive the news of his promotion under his roof was a matter of intense gratification to the whole household. It was a gracious scene--the little group, on the lawn in shade of the old manor house, so intimate, so kindly, so genuinely emotional, yet so restful in its English restraint, surrounding the long, lank, khaki-clad figure with the ugly face, who, after looking from one to the other of them in a puzzled sort of way, drew himself up and saluted. "You're very kind," said he, in reply to Sir Julius. "If I have the same loyalty in my brigade as I had in my old regiment," he glanced at Charles, "I shall be a very proud man." That ended whatever there was of ceremony. Lady Auriol drew me aside. "Come for a stroll." "To see the Sealyhams and the rabbits?" "No, Tony. To talk of our friend. He interests me tremendously." "I'm glad to hear it," said I. We entered the rose garden heavy with the full August blooms. "Well, my dear," said I. "Talk away." "If you have a bit of sense in you, it would be you who would talk. If you were a bit _simpático_ you would at once set the key of the conversation." "All of which implied abuse means that you're dying to know, through the medium of subtle and psychological dialogue, which is entirely beyond my brain power, whether you're not just on the verge of wondering if you're not on the verge of falling in love with Colonel Lackaday." "You put it with your usual direct brutality----" "Well," said I. "Are you?" "Am I what?" "Dying to know etcetera, etcetera--I am not addicted to vain repetition." She sighed, tried to pick a black crimson Victor Hugo, pricked her fingers and said "Damn!" With my penknife I cut the stalk and handed her the rose, which she pinned on her blouse. "I suppose I am," she eventually replied. Then she caught me by the arm. "Look here, Tony, do be a dear. You're old enough to be my ancestor and by all accounts you've had a dreadful past. Do tell me if I'm making an ass of myself. I only did it once," she went on, without giving me time to answer. "You know all about it--Vanucci, the little beast. I needn't put on frills with you. Since then I swore off that sort of thing. I've gone about in maiden meditation and man's breeches, fancy free. I've loved lots of men just as I've loved lots of women--as friends, comrades. I'm level-headed and, I think, level-hearted. I haven't gone about like David in his wrath, saying that all men are liars. They're not. They're just as good as women, if not better. I've no betrayed virgin's grouch against men. But I've made myself too busy to worry about sex. It's no use talking tosh. Sex is the root of the whole sentimental, maudlin----" "But tremulous and bewildering and nerve-racking and delicious and myriad-adjectived soul-condition," I interrupted, "known generally as love. Ninety-nine point nine repeater per cent of the world's literature has been devoted to its analysis. It's therefore of some importance. It's even the vital principle of the continuity of the human race." "I'm perfectly aware of it." "Then why, my dear, resent, as you seem to do, the inevitable reassertion, in your own case, of the vital principle?" She laughed. "_Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop_. But that's just it. Is it a gallop or is it a crawl? I tell you, I thought myself immune for many years. But now, these last two or three days I'm beginning to feel a perfect idiot. A few minutes ago if the whole lot of you hadn't been standing round, I think I should have cried. Just for silly gladness. After all there are thousands of Brigadier-Generals." "To be accurate, not more than a few hundreds." "Hundreds or thousands, what does it matter?" she cried impatiently. "What's Hecuba to me or I to Hecuba?" Few women have the literary sense of apposite quotation--but no matter. She went on. "What's one Brigadier-General to me or I to one Brigadier-General? And yet--there it is. I'm beginning to fear lest this particular Brigadier-General may mean a lot to me. So I come back to my original question. Am I making an ass of myself?" "One can't answer that question, my dear Auriol," said I, "without knowing how far your fears, feelings and all the rest of it are reciprocated." "Suppose I think they are?" "Then all I can say is: 'God bless you my children.' But," I added, after a pause, "I must warn you that your budding idyll is not passing unnoticed." She snapped her fingers. "I've lived my private life in public too long to care a hang for that. I'm only concerned about my own course of action. Shall I go on, or shall I pull myself up with a jerk?" "What would you like to do?" She walked on for a few yards without replying. I glanced at her and saw that the colour had come into her cheeks, and that her eyes were downcast. At last she said: "Now that I'm a woman again, I should like to get some happiness out of it. I should like to give happiness, too, full-handed." She flashed up and took my arm and pressed it. "I could do it, Tony." "I know you could," said I. After which the conversation became more intimate. Anybody, to look at us, as we walked, arm in arm, round the paths of the rose garden, would have taken us for lovers. Of course she wanted none of my advice. Her frank and generous nature felt the imperious need of expansion. I, to whom she could talk as to a sympathetic wooden idol, happened to be handy. I don't think she could have talked in the same way to a woman, I don't think she would have talked so even to me, who had taken her pick-a-back round about her nursery, if I had not with conviction qualified Lackaday as a gallant gentleman. Eventually we came down to the practical aspect of a situation, as old as Romance itself. The valorous and gentle knight of hidden lineage and the Earl's daughter. Not daring to aspire, and ignorant of the flame he has kindled in the high-born bosom, he rides away without betraying his passion, leaving the fair owner of the bosom to pine in lonely ignorance. "At this time of day, it's all such damn nonsense," said Lady Auriol. I pointed out to her that chivalrous souls still beautified God's earth and that such damn nonsense could not be other than the essence of their being. To this knightly company Colonel Lackaday might well belong. On the other hand, there was she, the same old proud Earl's daughter. For all her modernity, her independence, her democratic sympathies, she remained a great lady. She had little fortune; but she had position and an ancient name. Her father, the impoverished fourteenth Earl of Mountshire, and the thirtieth Baron of something else, refused to sit among the canaille of the present House of Peers. He bred shorthorns and Berkshire pigs, which he disposed of profitably, and grew grapes and melons for Covent Garden, read the lessons in church and wrote letters to the _Times_ about the war on which the late Guy Earl of Warwick would have rather prided himself when he took a fancy to make a King. "The dear old idiot," said Lady Auriol. "He belongs to the time of Nebuchadnezzar." But, all the same, in spite of her flouting, her birth assured her a social position from which she could be thrown by nothing less than outrageous immorality or a Bolshevist revolution. That Lackaday, to whom the British Peerage, in the ordinary way, was as closed a book as the Talmud, realized her high estate I was perfectly aware. Dear and garrulous Lady Verity-Stewart had given him at dinner the whole family history--she herself was a Dayne--from the time of Henry I. I was sitting on the other side of her and heard and amused myself by scanning the expressionless face of Lackaday who listened as a strayed aviator might listen to the social gossip of the inhabitants of Mars. Anyhow he left the table with the impression that the Earl of Mountshire was the most powerful noble in England and that his hostess and her cousin, Lady Auriol, regarded the Royal Family as upstarts and only visited Buckingham Palace in order to set a good example to the proletariat. "I'm sure he does," said I, after summarizing Lady Verity-Stewart's monologue. "The family has been the curse of my life," said Auriol. "If I hadn't anticipated them--or is it it?--by telling them to go to the devil, they would have disowned me long ago. Now they're afraid of me, and I've got the whip hand. A kind of blackmail; so they let me alone." "But if you made a _mésalliance_, as they call it," said I, "they'd be down upon you like a cartload of bricks." "Bricks?" she retorted, with a laugh. "A cartload of puff-balls. There isn't a real brick in the whole obsolete structure. I could marry a beggar man to-morrow and provided he was a decent sort and didn't get drunk and knock me about and pick his teeth with his fork, I should have them all around me and the beggar man in a week's time, trying to save face. They'd move heaven and earth to make the beggar man acceptable. They know that if they didn't, I'd be capable of going about with him like a raggle-taggle gipsy--and bring awful disgrace on them." "All that may be true," said I, "but the modest Lackaday doesn't realize it." "I'll put sense into him," replied Lady Auriol. And that was the end, conclusive or not, of the conversation. In the afternoon they went off for a broiling walk together. What they found to say to each other, I don't know. Lady Auriol let me no further into her confidence, and my then degree of intimacy with the General did not warrant the betrayal of my pardonable curiosity as to the amount of sense put into him by the independent lady. Now, from what I have related, it may seem that Lady Auriol had brought up all her storm troops for a frontal attack on the position in which the shy General lay entrenched. This is not the case. There was no question of attack or siege or any military operation whatever on either side. The blessed pair just came together like two drops of quicksilver. Each recognized in the other a generous and somewhat lonely soul; an appreciation of the major experiences of life and, with that, a craving for something bigger even than the war, which would give life its greater meaning. She, born on heights that looked contemptuously down upon a throne, he born almost in a wayside ditch, their intervening lives a mutual mystery, they met--so it seemed to me, then, as I mused on the romantical situation--on some common plane not only of adventurous sympathy but of a humanity simple and sincere. From what I could gather afterwards, they never exchanged a word, during this intercourse, of amorous significance. Nor did they steer the course so dear to modern intellectuals (and so dear too to the antiquated wanderers through the Land of Tenderness) which led them into analytical discussions of their respective sentimental states of being. They talked just concrete war, politics and travel. On their tramps they scarcely talked at all. They kept in step which maintained the rhythm of their responsive souls. She would lay an arresting touch on his arm at the instant in which he pointed his stick at some effect of beauty; and they would both turn and smile at each other, intimately, conscious of harmony. We left the next morning, Lackaday to take over his brigade in France, I to hang around the War Office for orders to proceed on my further unimportant employment. Lady Auriol and Charles saw us off at the station. "It's all very well for your new brigade, sir," said the latter when the train was just coming into the station. "They're in luck. But the regiment's in the soup." He wanted to discuss the matter, but with, elderly tact I drew the young man aside, so that the romantic pair should have a decent leave-taking. But all she said was: "You'll write and tell me how you get on?" And he; with a flash in his blue eyes and his two-year-old grin: "May I really?" "You may--if a General in the field has time to write to obscure females." She looked adorable, provoking, with the rich colour rising beneath her olive cheek--I almost fell in love with her myself and I was glad that the ironical Charles had his back to her. An expression of shock overspread Lackaday's ingenuous features. He shot out both hands in protest, and mumbled something incoherent. She took the hands with a happy laugh, as the train lumbered noisily in. Lackaday was silent and preoccupied during the run to London. At the terminus we parted. I asked him to dinner at my club. He hesitated for a moment, then declined on the plea of military business. I did not see him or the Verity-Stewarts or Lady Auriol till after the Armistice. Chapter IV Like Ancient Gaul, time is nowadays divided into three parts, before, during and after the war. The lives of most men are split into these three hard and fast sections. And the men who have sojourned in the Valley of the Shadow of Death have emerged, for all their phlegm, their philosophy, their passionate carelessness and according to their several temperaments, not the same as when they entered. They have taken human life, they have performed deeds of steadfast and reckless heroism unimagined even in the war-like daydreams of their early childhood. They have endured want and misery and pain inconceivable. They have witnessed scenes of horror one of which, in their former existence, would have provided months of shuddering nightmare. They have made instant decisions affecting the life or death of their fellows. They have conquered fear. They have seen the scale of values upon which their civilized life was so carefully based swept away and replaced by another strange and grim to which their minds must rigidly conform. They return to the world of rest where humanity is still struggling to maintain the old scale. The instinct born of generations of tradition compels a facile reacceptance. They think: "The blood and mud and the hell's delight of the war are things of the past. We take up life where we left it five years ago; we come back to plough, lathe, counter, bank, office, and we shall carry on as though a Sleeping Beauty spell had been cast on the world and we were awakening, at the kiss of the Fairy Prince of peace, to our suspended tasks." Are they right or are they wrong in their surmise, these millions of men, who have passed through the Valley of the Shadow, haunted by their memories, tempered by their plunge into the elemental, illumined by the self-knowledge gained in the fierce school of war? Does the Captain V.C. of Infantry, adored and trusted by his men, from whose ranks he rose by reason of latent qualities of initiative command and inspiration, contentedly return to the selling of women's stockings in his old drapery establishment, to the vulgar tyranny of the oily shopwalker, to the humiliating restrictions and conditions of the salesman's life? Return he must--perhaps. He has but two trades, both of which he knows profoundly; the selling of hosiery and the waging of war. As he can no longer wage war, he sells hosiery. But does he do it contentedly? If his soul, through reaction, is contented at first, will it continue to be so through the long uneventful stocking-selling years? Will not the war change he has suffered cause nostalgias, revolts? Will it bring into his resumed activities a new purpose or more than the old lassitudes? These questions were worrying me, as they were worrying most demobilized men, although I, an elderly man about town, had no personal cause for anxiety, when, one morning, my man brought me in the card of Brigadier-General Lackaday. It was early March. I may mention incidentally that I had broken down during the last wild weeks of the war, and that an unthinkingly beneficent War Office had flung me into Nice where they had forgotten me until a few days before. During my stay in the South I led the lotus life of studious self-indulgence. I lived entirely for myself and neglected my correspondence to such a point that folks ceased to write to me. As a matter of fact I was a very sick man, under the iron rule of doctors and nurses and such like oppressors; but, except to explain why I had lost touch with everybody, that is a matter of insignificant importance. The one or two letters I did receive from Lady Auriol did not stimulate my interest in The Romance. I gathered that she was in continuous relations with General Lackaday, who, it appeared, was in the best of health. But when a man of fifty has his heart and lungs and liver and lights all dislocated he may be pardoned for his chilly enthusiasm over the vulgar robustness of a very young Brigadier. On this March morning, however, when I was beginning, in sober joyousness, to pick up the threads of English social life, the announcement of General Lackaday gave me a real thrill of pleasure. He came in, long, lean, khaki clad, red-tabbed, with, I swear, more rainbow lines on his breast, and a more pathetically childish grin on his face than ever. We greeted each other like old friends long separated, and fell immediately into intimate talk, exchanging our personal histories of seven months. Mine differed only in brevity from an old wife's tale. His had the throb of adventure and the sting of failure. In October his brigade had found immortal glory in heroic death. He had obeyed high orders. The slaughter was no fault of his. But after the disaster--if the capture of an important position can be so called--he had been summarily appointed to a Home Command, and now was demobilized. "Demobilized?" I cried, "what on earth do you mean?" "It appears that there are more Brigadier-Generals in the dissolving Army," said he, "than there are brigades. I can retire with my honorary rank, but if I care to stay on, I must do so with the rank and pay of a Major." I flared up indignant. I presumed that he had consigned the War Office to flamboyant perdition. In his mild way he had. The War Office had looked pained. By offering a permanent Major's commission in the Regular Army, with chance of promotion and pension, it thought it had dealt very handsomely by Lackaday. It hinted that though he had led his brigade to victory, he might have employed a safer, a more Sunday school method. Oh! the hint was of the slightest, the subtlest, the most delicate. The War Office very pointedly addressed him as General, and, regarding his row of ribbons, implicitly declared him an ingrate. But for a certain stoniness of glance developed in places where Bureaucracy would have been very frightened, the War Office would have so proclaimed him in explicit speech. "I would have stayed on as a Brigadier," said he. "But the Major's job's impossible. I should have thought any soldier would have appreciated the position--and it was a soldier, a colonel whom I saw--but it seems that if you stay long enough in that place you're at the mercy of the little girls who run you round, and eventually you arrive at their level of intelligence. However," he grinned and lit a cigarette, "it's all over. I can call myself General Lackaday till the day of my death, but not a sou does it put into my pocket. And, odd as it may appear, I've got to earn my living. Well, I suppose something will turn up." Before I had time to question him as to his plans and prospects, he shifted the talk to our friends, the Verity-Stewarts. He had stayed with them two or three times. Once Lady Auriol had again been a fellow guest. He had met her in London, dined at her tiny house in Charles Street, Mayfair--a little dinner party, doubtless in his honour--and he had called once or twice. Evidently the Romance was in the full idyllic stage. I asked somewhat maliciously what Lady Auriol thought of it. He rose to my question like a simple fish. "She's far more indignant than I am, I've had to stop her writing to the newspapers and sending the old Earl down to the House of Lords." "Lady Auriol ought to be able to pull some strings," said I. "There are not any strings going to be pulled for me in this business," said Lackaday. He rose, stalked about the room--it is a modest bachelor St. James's Street sitting-room, and he took up about as much of its space as a daddy-long-legs under a tumbler--and suddenly halted in front of me. "Do you know why?" I made a polite gesture of enquiring ignorance. "Because it's a damn sight too sacred." I bowed. I understood. "I can find it in my heart to owe many things to Lady Auriol," he continued. "She's a great woman. But even to her I couldn't owe my position in the British Army." "Did you tell her so?" "I did." I pictured the scene, knowing my Auriol. I could see the pride in her dark eyes and masterful lips. His renunciation had in it that of the _beau geste_ which she secretly adored. It put the final stamp on the man. Upon this little emotional outburst he left, promising to dine with me the next day. For a month I saw him frequently, once or twice with Lady Auriol. He was still in uniform, waiting for the final clip of the War Office scissors severing the red tape that still bound him to the Army. Lady Auriol said to me: "I think the day he puts off khaki he'll cry." He stuck to it till the very last day possible. Then he appeared, gaunt and miserable, in an ill-fitting blue serge suit which, in the wind, flapped about his lean body. He had the pathetic air of a lost child. On this occasion--Lady Auriol and he were lunching with me--she adopted a motherly attitude which afforded me both pleasure and amusement. She seemed bent on assuring him that the gaudy vestments of a successful General went for nothing in her esteem; that, like Semele, she felt (had that unfortunate lady been given a second chance) more at ease with her Jupiter in the common guise of ordinary man. How the Romance had progressed I could not tell. Nothing of it was perceptible from their talk, which was that of mutually understanding friends. I hinted a question after the meal, when she and I were alone for a few moments. She shrugged her shoulders, and regarded me enigmatically. "I'm a little more mid-Victorian than I thought I was." "Which means?" "Whatever you like it to." And that is all I had a chance of getting out of her. Well, the relations between Lackaday and Lady Auriol were no business of mine. I had plenty to do and to think about, and anxiety over their tender affairs did not rob me of an hour's slumber. Then came a day when the offer of a humble mission in connection with the Peace Conference sent me to Paris. Before starting I had a last interview with Lackaday. He dined with me alone in my chambers. He looked ill and worried. His scraggy neck rising far above an evening collar too low for him seemed to betray by its stringy workings the perturbation of his spirit. His carroty thatch no longer crisp from the careful military cut had grown into a kind of untamable towslement. The last month or two had aged him. He was the last person one would have imagined to be a distinguished soldier in the Great War. We talked pleasantly of indifferent things till the cigars were lit--he was always a charming companion, possessing a gentle and somewhat plaintive humour--and then he began, against his habit, to speak of himself. Like thousands of demobilized officers he was looking around for some opening in civil life. As to what particular round hole his square peg could fit he was most vague. Perhaps a position in one of the far-away regions that were to be administered by the League of Nations. Something in Syria or German East Africa. "Look here, my dear fellow," I said at last, "I presume I'm the very oldest surviving acquaintance you have in the world. And you can't accuse me of indiscreet curiosity. But surely you must have had some kind of profession before the war." "Of course I had." "Then why not go back to it?" It was the first time I had ventured to question him on his antecedents. For all his gentleness, he had a personal dignity which was enhanced by the symbolism of his uniform and forbade impertinent questioning. As he had kept the shutters pulled down over his pre-war career, having in all our intercourse given me no hint of the avocations that had led him to know the Inns of France with the accuracy of a Michelin guide, it was obvious that he had done so for his own good and deliberate reasons. I had got it into my stupid head that the qualities which had raised him from private to Brigadier-General had served him in a commercial pursuit; that he had been, at the time of his pilgrimage through the country, the agent of some French business house. On my question he stared at his cigar, twisting it backwards and forwards between his delicate thumb and two fingers, with the air of a man hesitating on a decision, until the inevitable happened; the long ash of the cigar fell over his trousers. He rose with a laugh and a damn and brushed himself. Then he said: "Did you ever hear of Les Petit Patou?" "No," said I, mystified. "Scarcely anyone in this country ever has. That's the advantage of obscurity." He reflected for a moment then he said: "I never realized, until I went very shyly among them, the exquisite delicacy of English gentlefolk. Not one of you, not even Lady Auriol who has given me the privilege of her intimate friendship, has ever pressed me to give an account of myself. I'm not ashamed of Les Petit Patou. But it seems so--so----" he snapped his fingers for the word--"so incongruous. My military rank demanded that I should preserve it from ridicule--you'll remember I asked you to say nothing of the circus." "Still," said I, "the name Petit Patou conveys nothing to me." "I'm the original Petit Patou. When I took a partner we became plural. _Regardez un instant._" It was only later that I saw the significance of the instinctive French phrase. He rose, glanced around him, pounced on a little silver match-box and an empty wire waste-paper basket, and contorting his mobile face into a hideous grimace of imbecility, began to juggle with these two objects and his cigar, displaying the faultless technique of the professional. After a few throws, the cigar flew into his mouth, the matchbox fell into the opened pocket of his dinner jacket and the waste-paper basket descended over his head. For a second he stood grinning through the wire cage, in the attitude of one waiting for applause. Then swiftly he disembarrassed himself of the basket and threw the insulted cigar into the fire. "Do you think that's a dignified way for General Andrew Lackaday, C.B., to make his living--in the green skin tights of Petit Patou?" We talked far into the night. My sleep was haunted by the nightmare of the six foot four of the stringy, bony emaciation of General Lackaday in green skin tights. Chapter V To realize Petit Patou in the British General of Brigade, we must turn to the manuscript mentioned at the beginning of this story. We meet him, a raw youth, standing, one blazing summer day on the Bridge of Avignon. He insists on this episode, because, says he, the bridge is associated with important events in his life. It was not, needless to remark, the Pont d'Avignon of the gay old song, for the further arch of that was swept away by floods long ago, and it now remains a thing of pathetic uselessness. Three-quarters of the way across the Rhone might you go, and then you would come to abrupt nothingness, just the swirling river far below your arrested feet. It was the new suspension bridge, some three hundred yards further up, sadly inharmonious with the macchiolated battlements of the city and the austere mass, rising above them, of the Palace of the Popes on the one side, and, on the other, the grey antiquity of the castle of Villeneuve brooding like an ancient mother over its aged offspring, the clustering sun-baked town. The joyous generation of the Old Bridge has long since passed away, but to the present generation the New Bridge affords the same wonder and delight. For it entices like the old, from stifling streets to the haunts of Pan. There do you find leafy walks, and dells of shade, and pathways by the great cool river leading to sequestered spots where you may sit and forget the clatter of flagstones and the stuffy apartment above them for which the rent is due; where the air of early June is perfumed by wild thyme and marjoram and the far-flung sweetness of new mown hay, and where the nightingales sing. So, whenever it can, all Avignon turns out, as it has turned out for hundreds of years, on its to and fro adventure across the Bridge of Promise. It was on a Sunday afternoon when young Lackaday stood there, leaning moodily over the parapet, regarding it not as a bridge of Promise, but as a Bridge of Despair. He had fled from the dressing-room of the little music-hall just outside the city walls, which he shared with three others of the troupe, from its horrible reek of escaping gas and drainage and grease-paint and the hoarded human emanations of years, and had come here instinctively to breathe the pure air that swept down the broad stream. He had come for rest of mind and comfort of soul; but only found himself noisily alone amid an unsympathetic multitude. He had failed. He had learned it first from the apathy of the audience. He had learned it afterwards from the demeanour and the speech far from apathetic of the manager and leader of the troupe. They were a company of six, Les Merveilleux, five jugglers, plate spinners, eccentric musicians, ventriloquists, and one low comedian. Lackaday was the low comedian, his business to repeat in burlesque most of the performance of his fellow artists. It was his first engagement, outside the Cirque Rocambeau, his first day with the troupe. Everything had gone badly. His enormous lean length put the show out of scale. The troupe, accustomed to the business of a smaller man, whose sudden illness caused the gap which Lackaday came from Paris to fill, resented the change, and gave him little help. They demanded impossibilities. Although they had rehearsed--and the rehearsals had been a sufficient nightmare of suffering--everybody had seemed to devote a ferocious malice to his humiliation. Where the professional juggler is accustomed to catch things at his hip, they threw them at his knees; they appeared to decide that his head should be on the level of his breast. The leading lady, Madame Coinçon, wife of the manager, a compact person of five foot two, roundly declared that she could not play with him, and in his funniest act, dependent on her co-operation, she left him to be helplessly funny by himself. The tradition of the troupe required the comedian to be attired in a loud check suit, green necktie and white felt bowler hat. On the podgy form of Lackaday's predecessor it produced its comic effect. On the lank Lackaday it was characterless. In consequence of all this, he had been nervous, he had missed cues, he had fumbled when he ought to have been clear, and been clear when he ought comically to have fumbled. He had gone about his funny business with the air of a curate marrying his vicar to the object of his hopeless affections. And Coinçon had devastatingly insulted him. What worm was in the head of Moignon (the Paris music-hall agent) that he should send him such a monstrosity? He wasn't, _nom de Dieu_, carrying about freaks at a fair. He wanted a comedian and not a giant. No wonder the Cirque Rocambeau had come to grief, if it depended on such canaries as Lackaday. Didn't he know he was there to make the audience laugh?--not to give a representation of Monsieur Mounet-Sully elongated by the rack. "_Hop, man petit_," said he at last. "_F---- moi le camp_," which is a very vulgar way of insisting on a person's immediate retirement. "Here is your week's salary. I gain by the proceeding. The baggage-man will see us through. He has done so before. As for Moignon--" Although Lackaday regarded Moignon as a sort of god dispensing fame and riches, enthroned on unassailable heights of power, he trembled at the awful destiny that awaited him. He would be cast, like Lucifer from heaven. He would be stripped of authority. Coinçon's invective against him was so terrible that Lackaday pitied him even more than he pitied himself. Yet there was himself to consider. As much use to apply to the fallen Moignon for an engagement as to the Convent of the Daughters of Calvary. He and Moignon and their joint fortunes were sent hurtling down into the abyss. On the parapet of the Bridge of Despair leant young Lackaday, gazing unseeingly down into the Rhone. His sudden misfortune had been like the stunning blow of a sandbag. His brain still reeled. What had happened was incomprehensible. He knew his business. He could conceive no other. He had been trained to it since infancy. There was not a phase of clown's work with which he was not familiar. He was a passable gymnast, an expert juggler, a trick musician, an accomplished conjurer. All that the Merveilleux troupe act required from him he had been doing successfully for years. Why then the failure? He blamed the check suit, the ill-will of the company, the unreason of Madame Coinçon.... It did not occur to him that he had emerged from an old world into a new. That between the old circus public and the new music-hall public there was almost a generation's change of taste and critical demand. The Cirque Rocambeau had gone round without perceiving that the world had gone round too. It wondered why its triumphant glory had declined; and it could not take steps to adapt itself to the new conditions which it could not appreciate. Everyone grew old and tradition-bound in the Cirque Rocambeau, even the horses, until gradually it perished of senile decay. Andrew Lackaday carrying on the traditions of his foster father, the clown Ben Flint, had remained with it, principal clown, to the very end. Now and then, rare passers through from the outer world, gymnasts down on their luck, glad to take a makeshift engagement while waiting for better things, had counselled him to leave the antiquated concern. But the Cirque Rocambeau had been the whole of his life, childhood, boyhood, young manhood; he was linked to it by the fibres of a generous nature. All those elderly anxious folk were his family. Many of the children, his contemporaries, trained in the circus, had flown heartlessly from the nest, and the elders had fatalistically lamented. Madame Rocambeau, bowed, wizened, of uncanny age, yet forceful and valiant to the last--carrying on for the old husband now lying paralysed in Paris who had inherited the circus from his father misty years ago, would say to the young man, when one of these defections occurred: "And you André, you are not going to leave us? You have a fine position, and if you are dissatisfied, perhaps we can come to an arrangement. You are a child of the circus and I love you like my own flesh and blood. We shall turn the corner yet. All that is necessary is faith--and a little youth." And Andrew, a simple soul, who had been trained in the virtues of honour and loyalty by the brave Ben Flint, would repudiate with indignation the suggestion of any selfish desire to go abroad and seek adventure. At last, one afternoon, when the tent, a miserable gipsy thing compared with the proud pavilion of the days of the glory of Billy the pig, was pitched on the outskirts of a poor little town, they found Madame Rocambeau dead in the canvas box-office which she had occupied for fifty years, the heartbreaking receipts in front of her, counted out into little piles of bronze and small silver. The end had come. The circus could not be sold as a going concern. It crumbled away. Somebody bought the old horses, Heaven knows for what purpose. Somebody bought the antiquated harness and moth-eaten trappings. Somebody else bought the tents and fittings. But nobody bought the old careworn human beings, riders and gymnasts and stable hands who crept away into the bright free air of France, dazed and lost, like the prisoners released from the Bastille. It was not so long ago; long enough ago, however, for young Andrew Lackaday to have come perilously near the end of his savings in Paris, before the Almighty Moignon (now curse-withered), but then vast and unctuous, reeking of fat food and diamonds and great cigars, had found him this engagement at Avignon. He had journeyed thither full of the radiant confidence of twenty. He stood on the bridge overwhelmed by the despair whose Tartarean blackness only twenty can experience. Not a gleam anywhere of hope. His humiliation was absolute. The maniacal Coinçon had not even given him an opportunity of redeeming his failure. He had been paid to go away. The disgusting yet necessary price of his shame rattled in his pockets. To-night the baggage man would play his part--a being once presumably trained, yet sunk so low in incompetence that he was glad to earn his livelihood as baggage man. And he, Andrew Lackaday, was judged more incompetent even than this degraded outcast. Why? How could it be? What was the reason? He dug his nails into his burning temples. The summer sun beat down on him, and set a-glitter the currents in the Rhone. The ceaseless, laughing stream of citizens passed him by. Presently youth's need of action brought him half-unconsciously to an erect position. He glanced dully this way and that, and then slowly moved along the bridge towards the Villeneuve bank. Girls bare-headed, arm-in-arm, looked up at him and laughed, he was so long and lean and comical with his ugly lugubrious face and the little straw hat perched on top of his bushy carroty poll. He did not mind, being used to derision. In happier days he valued it, for the laugh would be accompanied by a nudge and a "_Voilà Auguste!_" He took it as a tribute. It was fame. Now he was so deeply sunk in his black mood that he scarcely heeded. He walked on to the end of the bridge, and turned down the dusty pathway by the bank. Suddenly he became aware of sounds of music and revelry, and a few yards further on he came to a broad dell shaded by plane trees and set out as a restaurant garden, with rude tables and benches, filled with good-humoured thirsty folk; on one side a weather-beaten wooden châlet, having the proud title of Restaurant du Rhône, served apparently but to house the supply of drinks which nondescript men and sturdy bare-headed maidens carried incessantly on trays to the waiting tables. On the dusty midway space--the garden boasted no blade of grass--couples danced to the strains of a wheezing hurdy-gurdy played by a white bearded ancient who at the end of each tune refreshed himself with a draught from a chope of beer on the ground by his side, while a tiny anæmic girl went round gathering sous in a shell. When the music stopped you could hear the whir and the click of the bowls in an adjoining dusty and rugged alley and the harsh excited cries of the players. During these intervals the serving people in an absent way would scatter an occasional carafe-full of water on the dancing floor to lay the dust. Young Lackaday hung hesitatingly on the outskirts under the wooden archway that was at once the entrance and the sign-board. The music had ended. The tables were packed. He felt very thirsty and longed to enter and drink some of the beer which looked so cool in the long glasses surmounted by its half inch of white froth--inviting as sea-foam. Shyness held him. These prosperous, care-free bourgeois, almost indistinguishable one from the other by racial characteristics, and himself a tragic failure in life and physically unique among men, were worlds apart. It had never occurred to him before that he could find himself anywhere in France where the people were not his people. He felt heart-brokenly alien. Presently the hurdy-gurdy started the ghostly tinkling of the _Il Bacio_ waltz, and the ingenuous couples of Avignon rose and began to dance. The thirst-driven Lackaday plucked up courage, and strode to a deserted wooden table. He ordered beer. It was brought. He sipped luxuriously. One tells one's thirst to be patient, when one has to think of one's sous. He was half-way through when two girls, young and flushed from dancing together, flung themselves down on the opposite bench--the table between. "We don't disturb you, Monsieur?" He raised his hat politely. "By no means, Mesdemoiselles." One of them with a quick gesture took up from the table a forgotten newspaper and began to fan herself and her companion, to the accompaniment of giggling and chatter about the heat. They were very young. They ordered grenadine syrup and eau-de-seltz. Andrew Lackaday stared dismally beyond them, at the dancers. In the happy, perspiring girls in front of him he took no interest, for all their youth and comeliness and obviously frank approachability. He saw nothing but the fury-enflamed face of Coinçon and heard nothing but the rasping voice telling him that it was cheaper to pay him his week's salary than to allow him to appear again. And "_f---- moi le camp!_" Why hadn't he taken Coinçon by the neck then and there with his long strong fingers and strangled him? Coinçon would have had the chance of a rabbit. He had the strength of a dozen Coinçons--he, trained to perfection, with muscle like dried bull's sinews. He could split an apple between arm and forearm, in the hollow of his elbow. Why shouldn't he go back and break Coinçon's neck? No man alive had the right to tell him to _f---- le camp!_ "You don't seem very gay," said a laughing voice. With a start he recovered consciousness of immediate surroundings. Instead of two girls opposite, there was only one. Vaguely he remembered that a man had come up. "_Un tour de valse, Mademoiselle?_" "_Je vieux bien_." And one of the girls had gone, leaving her just sipped grenadine syrup and seltzer-water. But it had been like some flitting unreality of a dream. At his blinking recovery the remaining girl laughed again. "You look like a somnambulist." He replied: "I beg pardon, Mademoiselle, but I was absorbed in my reflections." "Black ones--_hein?_ They have made you little infidelities?" He frowned. "They? Who do you mean--they?" "_Un joli garçon is not absorbed in his reflections_"--she mimicked his tone--"unless there is the finger of a _petite femme_ to stir them round and darken them." "Mademoiselle," said he, seriously. "You are quite mistaken. There's not a woman in the world against whom I have the slightest grudge." He spoke truly. It was a matter of love, and Mme Coinçon's hostility did not count. "Word of honour," he added looking into the smiling ironical face. Love had entered very little into his serious scheme of life. He had had his entanglements of course. There was Francine Dumesnil, who had fluttered into the Cirque Rocambeau as a slack wire artist, and after making him vows of undying affection, had eloped a week afterwards with Hans Petersen, the only man left who could stand on the bare back of a horse that was not thick with resin. But the heart of Andrew Lackaday had nothing to do with the heart of Francine Dumesnil. He had agreed with the aged Madame Rocambeau. _Sales types_, both of them. "If it had been _chagrin d'amour_--sorrow of love, Mademoiselle," said he, "I should not have been so insensible to the presence of two such charming young ladies." "We are polite, all the same," she remarked approvingly. She sipped her grenadine. Having nothing further to say he sipped his beer. Presently she said: "I saw you this afternoon at the _boite_." He looked at her with a touch of interest. No one would allude to the music-hall as the "box" except a fellow professional engaged there. "You too?" he asked. She nodded. She belonged to a troupe of dancing girls. As they were the first number, they got away early. She and her friend had gone for a walk and found this restaurant. It was gay, wasn't it? He said, soberly: "You were dancing at rehearsal this morning. You've danced at the music-hall this afternoon, you'll be dancing again this evening--why do you dance here?" "One can only be young once," she replied. "How old are you?" "Seventeen. And you?" "Twenty-two." She would have given him thirty, she said, he looked so serious. And he, regarding her more narrowly, would have given her fifteen. She was very young, slight, scarcely formed, yet her movements were lithe and complete like those of a young lizard. She had laughing, black eyes and a fresh mouth set in a thin dark face that might one day grow haggard or coarse, according to her physical development, but was now full with the devil's beauty of youth. A common type, one that would not arrest masculine eyes as she passed by. Dozens of the girls there round about might have called her sister. She was dressed with cheap neatness, the soiled white wing of a bird in her black hat being the only touch of bravura. She spoke with the rich accent of the South. "You are of the _Midi?_" he said. Yes. She came from Marseilles. Ingenuously chattering she gave him her family history. In the meanwhile her companions and her partner having finished their dance had retired to a sequestered corner of the restaurant, leaving the pair here to themselves. Lackaday learned that her name was Elodie Figasso. Her father was dead. Her mother was a dressmaker, in which business she, too, had made her apprenticeship. But an elderly man, a _huissier_, one of those people who go about with a tricolour-rosetted cocked hat, and steel buttons and canvas trousers and a leather satchel chained to their waist, had lately diverted from Elodie the full tide of maternal affection. As she hated the _huissier_, a vulgar man who thought of nothing but the good things that the Veuve Figasso could put into his stomach, and as her besotted mother starved them both in order to fulfil the _huissier's_ demands, and as she derived no compensating joy from her dressmaking, she had found, thanks to a friend, a positron as _figurante_ in a Marseilles Revue, and, _voilà_--there she was free, independent, and, since she had talent and application, was now earning her six francs a day. She finished her grenadine. Then with a swift movement she caught a passing serving maid and slipped into her hand the money for her companion's scarcely tasted drink and her own. Instantly Andrew protested--Mademoiselle must allow him to have the pleasure. But no--never in life, she had not intruded on his table to have free drinks. As for the _consommation_ of the feather-headed Margot--from Margot herself would she get reimbursement. "But yet, Mademoiselle," said he, "you make me ashamed. You must still be thirsty--like myself." "_Ça ne vous gênera pas?_" She asked the question with such a little air of serious solicitude that he laughed, for the first time. Would it upset his budget, involve the sacrifice of a tram ride or a packet of tobacco, if he spent a few sous on more syrup for her delectation? And yet the delicacy of her motive appealed to him. Here was a little creature very honest, very much of the people, very proud, very conscientious. "On the contrary, Mademoiselle," said he, "I shall feel that you do me an honour." "It is not to be refused," said she politely, and the serving maid was despatched for more beer and syrup. "I waited to see your turn," she said, after a while. "Ah!" he sighed. She glanced at him swiftly. "It does not please you that I should talk about it?" "Not very much," said he. "But I found you admirable," she declared. "Much better than that _espèce de poule mouillée_--I already forget his name--who played last week. Oh--a wet hen--he was more like a drowned duck. So when I heard a comedian from Paris was coming, I said: 'I must wait' and Margot and I waited in the wings--and we laughed. Oh yes, we laughed." "It's more than the audience did," said the miserable Andrew. The audience! Of Avignon! She had never played to such an audience in her her life. They were notorious, these people, all over France. They were so stupid that before they would laugh you had to tell them a thing was funny, and then they were so suspicious that they wouldn't laugh for fear of being deceived. All of which, of course, is a libel on the hearty folk of Avignon. But Elodie was from Marseilles, which naturally has a poor opinion of the other towns of Provence. She also lied for the comforting of Lackaday. "They are so unsympathetic," said he, "that I shall not play any more." She knitted her young brow. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I play neither to-night nor to-morrow night, nor ever again. To-morrow I return to Paris." She regarded him awe-stricken. "You throw up an engagement--just like that--because the audience doesn't laugh?" She had heard vague fairy-tales of pampered opera-singers acting with such Olympian independence; but never a music-hall artist on tour. He must be very rich and powerful. Lackaday read the thought behind the wide-open eyes. "Not quite like that," he admitted honestly. "It did not altogether depend on myself. You see the _patron_ found that the audience didn't laugh and the _patronne_ found that my long body spoiled her act--and so--I go to Paris to-morrow." She rose from the depths of envying wonder to the heights of pity. She flashed indignation at the abominable treatment he had received from the Coinçons. She scorched them with her contempt. What right had that _tortoise_ of a Madame Coinçon to put on airs? She had seen better juggling in a booth at a fair. Her championship warmed Andrew's heart, and he began to feel less lonely in a dismal and unappreciative world. Longing for further healing of an artist's wounded vanity he said: "Tell me frankly. You did see something to admire in my performance?" "Haven't I always said so? _Tiens_, would you like me to tell you something? All my life I have loved Auguste in a circus. You know Auguste--the clown? Well, you reminded me of Auguste and I laughed." "Until lately I was Auguste--in the Cirque Rocambeau." She clapped her hands. "But I have seen you there--when I was quite little--three--four years ago at Marseilles." "Four years," said Andrew looking into the dark backward and abysm of time. "Yes, I remember you well, now. We're old friends." "I hope you'll allow me to continue the friendship," said Andrew. They talked after the way of youth. He narrated his uneventful history. She added details to the previous sketch of her own career. The afternoon drew to a close. The restaurant garden emptied; the good folks of Avignon returned dinnerwards across the bridge. They looked for Margot, but Margot had disappeared, presumably with her new acquaintance. Elodie sniffed in a superior manner. If Margot didn't take care, she would be badly caught one of these days. For herself, no, she had too much character. She wouldn't walk about the streets with a young man she had only known for five minutes. She told Andrew so, very seriously, as they strolled over the bridge arm-in-arm. They parted, arranging to meet at 10 o'clock when she was free from the music-hall, at the Café des Négociants or the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville. Andrew, shrinking from the table d'hôte in the mangy hotel in a narrow back street where the Merveilleux troupe had their crowded being, dined at a cheap restaurant near the railway station, and filled in the evening with aimless wandering up and and down the thronged Avenue de la Gare. Once he turned off into the quiet moonlit square dominated by the cathedral and the walls and towers of the Palace of the Popes. The austere beauty of it said nothing to him. It did not bring calm to a fevered spirit. On the contrary, it depressed a spirit longing for a little fever, so he went back to the broad, gay Avenue where all Avignon was taking the air. A girl's sympathy had reconciled him with his kind. She came tripping up to him, almost on the stroke of ten, as he sat at the outside edge of the café terrace, awaiting her. The reconciliation was complete. Like most of the young men there, he too had his maid. They met as if they had known each other for years. She was full of an evil fellow, _un gros type_, with a roll of fat at the back of his neck and a great diamond ring which flashed in the moonlight, who had waited for her at the stage door and walked by her side, pestering her with his attentions. "And do you know how I got rid of him? I said: 'Monsieur, I can't walk with you through the streets on account of my comrades. But I swear to you that you will find me at the Café des Négotiants at a quarter past ten.' And so I made my escape. Look," said she excitedly, gripping Andrew's arm, "here he is." She met the eyes of the _gros type_ with the roll of fat and the diamond ring, who halted somewhat uncertainly in front of the cafe. Whereupon Andrew rose to his long height of six foot four and, glaring at the offender, put him to the flight of over-elaborated unconcern. Elodie was delighted. "You could have eaten him up alive, _n'est-ce pas_, André?" And Andrew felt the thrill of the successful Squire of Dames. For the rest of the evening, there was no longer any 'Monsieur' or 'Mademoiselle.' It was André and Elodie. Yes, he would write to her from Paris, telling her of his fortunes. And she too would write. The Agence Moignon would always find him. It is parenthetically to be noted how his afternoon fears of the impermanence of the Agence Moignon had vanished. Time flew pleasantly. She seemed to have set herself, her youth and her femininity, to the task of evoking the wide baby smile on his good-natured though dismal face. It was only on their homeward way, after midnight, that she mentioned the '_boîle_.' There had been discussions. Some had said this and some had said that. There had been partisans of the Coinçons and partisans of André. There was subject matter for one of the pretty quarrels dear to music-hall folk. But Elodie summed up the whole matter, with her air of precocious wisdom--a wisdom gained in the streets and sewing-rooms and cafés-concerts of Marseilles. "What you do is excellent, _mon cher_; but it is _vieux jeu_. The circus is not the music-hall. You must be original." As originality was banned from the circus tradition, he stood still in the narrow, quiet street and gasped. "Original?" "You are so long and thin," she said. "That has always been against me; it was against me to-day." "But you could make it so droll," she declared. "And there would be no one else like you. But you must be by yourself, not with a troupe like the Merveilleux. _Tiens_," she caught him by the lapels of his jacket and a passer-by might have surmised a pleading stage in a lovers' discussion, "I have heard there is a little little man in London--oh, so little, _et pas du tout joli_." "I know," said Andrew, "but he is a great artist." "And so are you," she retorted. "But as this little man gets all the profit he can out of his littleness--it was _la grosse_ Léonie--the _brune_, number three, you know--ah, but you haven't seen us--anyhow she has been in London and was telling me about him this evening--all that nature has endowed him with he exaggerates--_eh bien!_ Why couldn't you do the same?" The street was badly lit with gas; but still he could see the flash in her dark eyes. He drew himself up and laid both his hands on her thin shoulders. "My little Elodie," said he--and by the dim gaslight she could see the flash of his teeth revealed by his wide smile--"My little Elodie, you have genius. You have given me an idea that may make my fortune. What can I give you in return?" "If you want to show me that you are not ungrateful, you might kiss me," said Elodie. Chapter VI A kiss must mean either very much or very little. There are maidens to whom it signifies a life's consecration. There are men whose blood it fires with burning passion. There are couples of different sex who jointly consider their first kiss a matter of supreme importance, and, the temporary rapture over, at once begin to discuss the possibilities of parental approbation and the ways and means of matrimony. A kiss may be the very devil of a thing leading to two or three dozen honourably born grandchildren, or to suicide, or to celebate addiction to cats, or to eugenic propaganda, or to perpetual crape and the boredom of a community, or to the fate of Abelard, or to the Fall of Troy, or to the proud destiny of a William the Conqueror. I repeat that it is a ticklish thing to go and meddle with it without due consideration. And in some cases consideration only increases the fortuity of its results. Volumes could be written on it. If you think that the kiss exchanged between Andrew and Elodie had any such immediate sentimental or tragical or heroical consequences you are mistaken. Andrew responded with all the grace in the world to the invitation. It was a pleasant and refreshing act. He was grateful for her companionship, her sympathy, and her inspired counsel. She carried off her frank comradeship with such an air of virginal innocence, and at the same time with such unconscious exposure of her half fulfilled womanhood, that he suffered no temptations of an easy conquest. The kiss therefore evoked no baser range of emotion. As his head was whirling with an artist's sudden conception--and, mark you, an artist's conception need no more be a case of parthenogenesis than that of the physical woman--it had no room for the higher and subtler and more romantical idealizations of the owner of the kissed lips. You may put him down for an insensible young egoist. Put him down for what you will. His embrace was but gratefully fraternal. As for Elodie, if it were not dangerous--she had the street child's instinct--what did a kiss or two matter? If one paid all that attention to a kiss one's life would be a complicated drama of a hundred threads. "A kiss is nothing"--so ran one of her _obiter dicta_ recorded somewhere in the manuscript--"unless you feel it in your toes. Then look out." Evidently this kiss Elodie did not feel in her toes, for she walked along carelessly beside him to the door of her hotel, a hostelry possibly a shade more poverty-stricken in a flag paved by-street, a trifle staler-smelling than his own, and there put out a friendly hand of dismissal. "We will write to each other?" "It is agreed." "Alors, au revoir." "Au revoir, Elodie, et merci." And that was the end of it. Andrew went back to Paris by the first train in the morning, and Elodie continued to dance in Avignon. If they had maintained, as they vaguely promised, an intimate correspondence, it might have developed, according to the laws of the interchange of sentiment between two young and candid souls, into a reciprocal expression of the fervid state which the kiss failed to produce. A couple of months of it, and the pair, yearning for each other, would have effected by hook or crook, a delirious meeting, and young Romance would have had its triumphant way. But to the gods it seemed otherwise. Andrew wrote, as in grateful duty bound. He wrote again. If she had replied, he would have written a third time; but as there are few things more discouraging than a one-sided correspondence, he held his hand. He felt a touch of disappointment. She was such a warm, friendly little creature, with a sagacious little head on her--by no means the _tête de linotte_ of so many of her sisters of song and dance. And she had forgotten him. He shrugged philosophic shoulders. After all, why should she trouble herself further with so dull a dog? Man-like he did not realize the difficulties that beset even a sagacious-headed daughter of song and dance in the matter of literary composition, and the temptation to postpone from day to day the grappling with them, until the original impulse has spent itself through sheer procrastination. It is all very well to say that a letter is an easy thing to write, when letter-writing is a daily habit and you have writing materials and table all comfortably to hand. But when, like Elodie, you would have to go into a shop and buy a bottle of ink and a pen and paper and envelopes and take them up to a tiny hotel bedroom shared with an untidy, space-usurping colleague, or when you would have to sit at a café table and write under the eyes of a not the least little bit discreet companion--for even the emancipated daughters of song and dance cannot, in modesty, show themselves at cafés alone; or when you have to stand up in a post office--and then there is the paper and envelope difficulty--with a furious person behind you who wants to send a telegram--Elodie's invariable habit when she corresponded, on the back of a picture post card, with her mother; when, in fact, you have before you the unprecedented task of writing a letter--picture post cards being out of the question--and a letter whose flawlessness of expression is prescribed by your vanity, or better by your nice little self-esteem, and you are confronted by such conditions as are above catalogued, human frailty may be pardoned for giving it up in despair. With this apologia for Elodie's unresponsiveness, conscientiously recorded later by Andrew Lackaday, we will now proceed. The fact remains that they faded pleasantly and even regretlessly from each other's lives. There now follow some years, in Lackaday's career, of high endeavour and fierce struggle. He has taken to heart Elodie's suggestion of the exploitation of his physical idiosyncracy. He seeks for a formula. In the meanwhile he gains his livelihood as he can. His powers of mimicry stand him in good stead. In the outlying café-concerts of Paris, unknown to fashion or the foreigner, he gives imitations of popular idols from Le Bargy to Polin. But the Ambassadeurs, and the Alcazar d'Eté and the Folies Marigny and Olympia and such-like stages where fame and fortune are to be found, will have none of him. Paris, too, gets on his vagabond nerves. But what is the good of presenting the unsophisticated public of Brest or Béziers with an imitation of Monsieur le Bargy? As well give them lectures on Thermodynamics. Sometimes he escapes from mimicry. He conjures, he juggles, he plays selections from Carmen and Cavaleria Rusticana on a fiddle made out of a cigar box and a broom-handle. The Provinces accept him with mild approbation. He tries Paris, the Paris of Menilmontant and the Outer Boulevards; but Paris, not being amused, prefers his mimicry. He is alone, mind you. No more Coinçon combinations. If he is to be insulted, let the audience do it, or the vulgar theatre management; not his brother artists. Away from his imitations he tries to make the most of his grotesque figure. He invents eccentric costumes; his sleeves reach no further than just below his elbows, his trouser hems flick his calves; he wears, inveterate tradition of the circus clown, a ridiculously little hard felt hat on the top of his shock of carroty hair. He paints his nose red and extends his grin from ear to ear. He racks his brain to invent novelties in manual dexterity. For hours a day in his modest _chambre garnie_ in the Faubourg Saint Denis he practises his tricks. On the dissolution of the Cirque Rocambeau, where as "Auguste" he had been practically anonymous, he had unimaginatively adopted the professional name of Andrew-André. He is still Andrew-André. There is not much magic about it on a programme. But, _que voulez-vous?_ It is as effective as many another. During this period we see him a serious youth, absorbed in his profession, striving towards success, not for the sake of its rewards in luxurious living, but for the stamp that it gives to efficiency. The famous mountebank of Notre Dame did not juggle with greater fervour. Here and there a woman crosses his path, lingers a little and goes her way. Not that he is insensible to female charms, for he upbraids himself for over-susceptibility. But it seems that from the atavistic source whence he inherited his beautiful hands, there survived in him an instinct which craved in woman the indefinable quality that he could never meet, the quality which was common to Melisande and Phèdre and Rosalind and Fédora and the child-wife of David Copperfield. It is, as I have indicated, the ladies who bid him _bonsoir_. Sometimes he mourns for a day or two, more often he laughs, welcoming regained freedom. None touches his heart. Of men, he has acquaintances in plenty, with whom he lives on terms of good comradeship; but he has scarcely an intimate. At last he makes a friend--an Englishman, Horatio Bakkus; and this friendship marks a turning-point in his history. They met at a café-concert in Montmartre, which, like many of its kind, had an ephemeral existence--the nearest, incidentally, to the real Paris to which Andrew Lackaday had attained. It tried to appeal to a catholicity of tastes; to outdo its rivals inscabrousness--did not Farandol and Lizette Blandy make their names there?--and at the same time to offer to the purer-minded an innocent entertainment. To the latter both Lackaday, with his imitations, and Horatio Bakkus, with his sentimental ballads, contributed. Somehow the mixture failed to please. The one part scared the virtuous, at the other the deboshed yawned. _La Boîte Blanche_ perished of inanition. But during its continuance, Lackaday and Bakkus had a month's profitable engagement. They bumped into each other, on their first night, at the stage-door. Each politely gave way to the other. They walked on together and turned down the Rue Pigalle and, striking off, reached the Grands Boulevards. The Brasserie Tourtel enticed them. They entered and sat down to a modest supper, sandwiches and brown beer. "I wish," said Andrew, "you would do me the pleasure to speak English with me." "Why?" cried the other. "Is my French so villainous?" "By no means," said Andrew, "but I am an Englishman." "Then how the devil do you manage to talk both languages like a Frenchman?" "Why? Is my English then so villainous?" He mimicked him perfectly. Horatio Bakkus laughed. "Young man," said he, "I wish I had your gift." "And I yours." "It's the rottenest gift a man can be born with," cried Bakkus with startling vindictiveness. "It turns him into an idle, sentimental, hypocritical and dissolute hound. If I hadn't been cursed young with a voice like a Cherub, I should possibly be on the same affable terms with the Almighty as my brother, the Archdeacon, or profitably paralysing the intellects of the young like my brother, the preparatory schoolmaster." He was a lean and rusty man of forty, with long black hair brushed back over his forehead, and cadaverous cheeks and long upper lip which all the shaving in the world could not redeem for the blue shade of the strong black beard which at midnight showed almost black. But for his black, mocking eyes, he might have been taken for the seedy provincial tragedian of the old school. "Young man----" said he. "My name," said Andrew, "is Lackaday." "And you don't like people to be familiar and take liberties." Andrew met the ironical glance. "That is so," said he quietly. "Then, Mr. Lackaday----" "You can omit the 'Mr.,'" said Andrew, "if you care to do so." "You're more English than I thought," smiled Horatio Bakkus. "I'm proud that you should say so," replied Andrew. "I was about to remark," said Bakkus, "when you interrupted me, that I wondered why a young Englishman of obviously decent upbringing should be pursuing this contemptible form of livelihood." "I beg your pardon," said Andrew, pausing in the act of conveying to his mouth a morsel of sandwich. He was puzzled; comrades down on their luck had cursed the profession for a _sale métier_ and had wished they were road sweepers; but he had never heard it called contemptible. It was a totally new conception. Bakkus repeated his words and added: "It is below the dignity of one made in God's image." "I am afraid I do not agree with you," replied Andrew, stiffly. "I was born in the profession and honourably bred in it and I have known no other and do not wish to know any other." "You were born an imitator? It seems rather a narrow scheme of life." "I was born in a circus, and whatever there could be learned in a circus I was taught. And it was, as you have guessed, a decent upbringing. By Gum, it was!" he added, with sudden heat. "And you're proud of it?" "I don't see that I've got anything else to be proud of," said Andrew. "And you must be proud of something?" "If not you had better be dead," said Andrew. "Ah!" said Bakkus, and went on with his supper. Andrew, who had hitherto held himself on the defensive against impertinence, and was disposed to dislike the cynical attitude of his new acquaintance, felt himself suddenly disarmed by this "Ah!" Perhaps he had dealt too cruel a blow at the disillusioned owner of the pretty little tenor voice in which he could not take very much pride. Bakkus broke a silence by remarking: "I envy you your young enthusiasm. You don't think it better we were all dead?" "I should think not!" cried Andrew. "You say you know all that a circus can teach you. What does that mean? You can ride bare back and jump through hoops?" "I learned to do that--for Clown's business," replied Andrew. "But that's no good to me now. I am a professional juggler and conjurer and trick musician. I'm also a bit of a gymnast and sufficient of a contortionist to do eccentric dancing." Bakkus took a sip of beer, and regarded him with his mocking eyes. "And you'd sooner keep on throwing up three balls in the air for the rest of your natural life than just be comfortably dead? I should like to know your ideas on the point. What's the good of it all? Supposing you're the most wonderful expert that ever lived--supposing you could keep up fifty balls in the air at the same time, and could balance fifty billiard cues, one on top of another, on your nose--what's the good of it?" Andrew rubbed his head. Such problems had never occurred to him. Old Ben Flint's philosophy pounded into him, at times literally with a solid and well-deserved paternal cuff, could be summed up in the eternal dictum: "That which thou hast to do, do it with all thy might." It was the beginning and end of his rule of life. He looked not, nor thought of looking, further. And now came this Schopenhaurian with his question. "What's the good of it?" "I suppose I'm an artist, in my way," he replied, modestly. "Artist?" Bakkus laughed derisively. "Pardon me, but you don't know what the word means. An artist interprets nature in concrete terms of emotion, in words, in colour, in sound, in stone--I don't say that he deserves to live. I could prove to you, if I had time, that Michael Angelo and Dante and Beethoven were the curses of humanity. Much better dead. But, anyhow, they were artists. Even I with my tinpot voice singing 'Annie Laurie' and 'The Sands of Dee' and such-like clap-trap which brings a lump in the throat of the grocer and his wife, am an artist. But you, my dear fellow--with your fifty billiard cues on top of your nose? There's a devil of a lot of skill about it of course--but nothing artistic. It means nothing." "Yet if I could perform the feat," said Andrew, "thousands and thousands of people would come to see me; more likely a million." "No doubt. But what would be the good of it, when you had done it and they had seen it? Sheer waste of half your lifetime and a million hours on the part of the public, which is over forty thousand days, which is over a hundred years. Fancy a century of the world's energy wasted in seeing you balance billiard cues on the end of your nose!" Andrew reflected for a long time, his elbow on the cafe table, his hand covering his eyes. There must surely be some fallacy in this remorseless argument which reduced his life's work to almost criminal futility. At last light reached him. He held out his other hand and raised his head. "_Attendez_. I must say in French what has come into my mind. Surely I am an artist according to your definition. I interpret nature, the marvellous human mechanism in terms of emotion--the emotion of wonder. The balance of fifty billiard cues gives the million people the same catch at the throat as the song or the picture, and they lose themselves for an hour in a new revelation of the possibilities of existence, and so I save the world a hundred years of the sorrow and care of life." Bakkus looked at him approvingly. "Good," said he. "Very good. Thank God, I've at last come across a man with a brain that isn't atrophied for want of use. I love talking for talking's sake--good talk--don't you?" "I cannot say that I do," replied Andrew honestly, "I have never thought of it.' "But you must, my dear Lackaday. You have no idea how it stimulates your intellect. It crystallizes your own vague ideas and sends you away with the comforting conviction of what a damned fool the other fellow is. It's the cheapest recreation in the world--when you can get it. And it doesn't matter whether you're in purple and fine linen or in rags or in the greasy dress-suit of a café-concert singer." He beckoned the waiter. "Shall we go?" They parted outside and went their respective ways. The next night they again supped together, and the night after that, until it became a habit. In his long talks with the idle and cynical tenor, Andrew learned many things. Now, parenthetically, certain facts in the previous career of Andrew Lackaday have to be noted. Madame Flint had brought him up nominally in the Roman Catholic Faith, which owing to his peripatetic existence was a very nebulous affair without much real meaning; and Ben Flint, taking more pains, had reared him in a sturdy Lancashire Fear of God and Duty towards his Neighbour and Duty towards himself, and had given him the Golden Rule above mentioned. Ben had also seen to his elementary education, so that the _régime du participe passé_ had no difficulties for him, and Racine and Bossuet were not empty names, seeing that he had learned by heart extracts from the writings of these immortals in his school primer. That they conveyed little to him but a sense of paralysing boredom is neither here nor there. And Ben Flint, most worthy and pertinacious of Britons, for the fourteen impressionable years during which he was the arbiter of young Andrew's destiny, never for an hour allowed him to forget that he was an Englishman. That Andrew should talk French, his stepmother tongue, to all the outside world was a matter of necessity. But if he addressed a word of French to him, Ben Flint, there was the devil to pay. And if he picked up from the English stable hands vulgarisms and debased vowel sounds, Ben Flint had the genius to compel their rejection. "My father," writes Lackaday--for as such he always regarded Ben Flint--"was the most remarkable man I have ever known. That he loved me with his whole nature I never doubted and I worshipped the ground on which he trod. But he was remorseless in his enforcement of obedience. Looking back, I am lost in wonder at his achievement." Still, even Ben Flint could not do everything. The eternal precepts of morality, the colloquial practice of English speech, the ineradicable principles of English birth and patriotism, the elementary though thorough French education, the intensive physical training in all phases of circus life, took every hour that Ben Flint could spare from his strenuous professional career as a vagabond circus clown. I who knew Ben Flint, and drank of his wisdom gained in many lands, have been disposed to wonder why he did not empty it to broaden the intellectual and æsthetic horizon of his adopted son. But on thinking over the matter--how could he? He had spent all his time in filling up the boy with essentials. Just at that time when Andrew might have profited by the strong, rough intellectuality that had so greatly attracted me as a young man, Ben Flint died. In the realm of gymnasts, jugglers, circus-riders, dancers in which Andrew had thence found his being, there was no one to replace the mellow old English clown, who travelled around with Sterne and Montaigne and Shakespeare and Bunyan and the Bible, as the only books of his permanent library. Such knowledge as he possessed of the myriad activities of the great world outside his professional circle he had picked up in aimless and desultory reading. In Horatio Bakkus, therefore, Andrew met for the first time a human being interested in the intellectual aspect of life; one who advanced outrageous propositions just for the joy of supporting them and of refuting counter-arguments; one, in fact, who, to his initial amazement, could juggle with ideas as he juggled with concrete objects. In this companionship he found an unknown stimulus. He would bid his friend adieu and go away, his brain catching feverishly at elusive theories and new conceptions. Sometimes he went off thrilled with a sense of intellectual triumph. He had beaten his adversary. He had maintained his simple moral faith against ingenious sophistry. He realized himself as a thinking being, impelled by a new force to furnish himself with satisfying reasons for conduct. It was through Horatio Bakkus that he discovered The Venus of Milo and Marcus Aurelius and Longchamps races.... From the last he derived the most immediate benefit. "If you've never been to a race-meeting," said Bakkus, "you've missed one of the elementary opportunities of a liberal education. Nowhere else can you have such a chance of studying human imbecility, knavery and greed. You can also glut your eyes with the spectacle of useless men, expensive women, and astounded, sensitive animals." "I prefer," replied Andrew, with his wide grin, "to keep my faith in mankind and horses." "And I," said Bakkus, "love to realize myself for what I really am, an imbecile, a knave, and a useless craver of money for which I've not had the indignity of working. It soothes me to feel that for all my heritage of culture I am nothing more or less than one of the rabble-rout. I've backed horses ever since I was a boy and in my time I've had a pure delight in pawning my underwear in order to do so." "It seems to be the height of folly," said sober Andrew. Bakkus regarded him with his melancholy mocking eyes. "To paraphrase a remark of yours on the occasion of our first meeting--if a man is not a fool in something he were better dead. At any rate let me show you this fool's playground." So Andrew assented. They went to Longchamps, humbly, on foot, mingling with the Paris crowd. Bakkus wore a sun-stained brown and white check suit and an old grey bowler hat and carried a pair of racing-glasses slung across his shoulders, all of which transformed his aspect from that, in evening dress, of the broken old tragedian to that of the bookmaker's tout rejected of honest bookmaking men. As for Andrew, he made no change in his ordinary modest ill-fitting tweeds, of which the sleeves were never long enough; and his long red neck mounted high above the white of his collar and his straw hat was, as usual, clamped on the carroty thatch of his hair. For them no tickets for stands, lawn or enclosure. The far off gaily dressed crowd in these exclusive demesnes shimmered before Andrew's vision as remote as some radiant planetary choir. The stir on the field, however, excited him. The sun shone through a clear air on this late meeting of the season, investing it with an air of innocent holiday gaiety which stultified Bakkus's bleak description. And Andrew's great height overtopping the crowd afforded him a fair view of the course. Bakkus came steeped in horse-lore and confidently prophetic. To the admiration of Andrew he ran through the entries for each race, analysing their histories, summarizing their form, and picking out dead certainties with an esoteric knowledge derived from dark and mysterious sources. Andrew followed him to the booths of the _Pari Mutuel_, and betting his modest five franc piece, on each of the first two events, found Bakkus infallible. But on looking down the list of entries for the great race of the day he was startled to find a name which he had only once met with before and which he had all but forgotten. It was "Elodie." "My friend," said Bakkus, "now is the time to make a bold bid for a sure fortune. There is a horse called Goffredo who is quoted in the sacred inner ring of those that know at 8 to 1. I have information withheld from this boor rabble, that he will win, and that he will come out at about 15 to 1. I shall therefore invest my five louis in the certain hope of seventy-five beautiful golden coins clinking into my hand. Come thou and do likewise." "I'm going to back Elodie," said Andrew. Bakkus stared at him. "Elodie--that ambulatory assemblage of cat's meat! Why she has never been placed in a race in her life. Look at her." He pulled Andrew as near the railings as they could get and soon picked her out of the eight or nine cantering down the straight--a sleek, mild, contented bay whose ambling gentleness was greeted with a murmur of derision. "Did you ever see such a cow?" "I like the look of her," said Andrew. "Why--in the name of----" "She looks as if she would be kind to children," replied Andrew. They rushed quickly to the _Pari Mutuel_. Bakkus paid his five louis for his Goffredo ticket. He turned to seek Andrew, but Andrew had gone. In a moment or two they met among the scurrying swarm about the booths. "What have you done?" "I've put a louis on Elodie," said Andrew. "The next time I want to give you a happy day I'll take you to the Young Men's Christian Association," said Bakkus witheringly. "Let us see the race," said Andrew. They paid a franc apiece for a stand on a bench and watched as much of the race as they could see. And Bakkus forgot to share his glasses with Andrew, who caught now and then an uncomprehending sight of coloured dots on moving objects and gaped in equally uncomprehensible bewilderment when the racing streak flashed home up the straight. A strange cry, not of gladness but of wonder, burst from the great crowd. Andrew turned to Bakkus, who, with glasses lowered, was looking at him with hollow eyes from which the mockery had fled. "What's the matter?" asked Andrew. "The matter? Your running nightmare has won. Why the devil couldn't you have given me the tip? You must have known something. No one could play such a game without knowing. It's damned unfriendly." "Believe me, I had no tip," Andrew protested. "I never heard of the beast before." "Then why the blazes did you pick her out?" "Ah!" said Andrew. Then realizing that his philosophical and paradoxical friend was in sordid earnest he said mildly: "There was a girl of that name who once brought me good luck." The gambler, alive to superstitious intuitions, repented immediately of his anger. "That's worth all the tips in the world. Why didn't you tell me?" "I don't wear my heart upon my sleeve," replied Andrew. So peace was made. They joined the thin crowd round their booth of the _Pari Mutuel_, mainly composed of place winners, and when the placards of the odds went up, Bakkus gripped his companion's arm. "My God! A hundred and three to one. Why didn't you plank on your last penny." "I'm very well content with two thousand francs," said Andrew. "It's something against a rainy day." They reached the _guichet_ and Andrew drew his money. "Suppose the impossible animal hadn't won--you would have been rather sick." "No," Andrew replied, after a moment's thought. "I should have regarded my louis as a tribute to the memory of one who did me a great service." "I believe," said Bakkus, "that if I could only turn sentimentalist, I should make my fortune." "Let us go and find a drink," said Andrew. For the second time Elodie brought him luck. This time in the shape of a hundred and three louis, a goodly sum when one has to live from hand to mouth. And the time came, at the end of their engagement at _La Boîte Blanche_, when they lost even that precarious method of existence. For the first time in his life Andrew spent a month in vain search for employment. Dead season Paris had more variety artists than it knew what to do with. The provinces, so the rehabilitated Moignon and his confrères, the other agents, declared, in terms varying from apologetic stupor to frank brutality, had no use for Andrew-André and his unique entertainment. "But what shall I do?" asked the anxious André. "Wait, _mon cher_, we shall soon well arrange it," said Moignon. "?" pantomimed the other agents, with shrugged shoulders and helplessly outspread hands. And it happened too that Bakkus, the sweet ballad-monger, found himself on the same rocks of unemployment. "I have," said he, one evening, when the stranded pair were sitting outside a horrid little liquor retreat with a zinc bar in the Faubourg Saint-Denis--the luxury of _consommations_ at sixty centimes on the Grands Boulevards had faded from their dreams--"I have, my dear friend, just enough to carry me on for a fortnight." "And I too," said Andrew. "But your hundred louis at Longchamps?" "They're put away," said Andrew. "Thank God," said Bakkus. Andrew detected a lack of altruism in the pious note of praise. He did not love Bakkus to such a pitch of brotherly affection as would warrant his relieving him of responsibility for self support. He had already fed Bakkus for three days. "They're put away," he repeated. "Bring them out of darkness into the light of day," said Bakkus. "What are talents in a napkin? You are a capitalist--I am a man with ideas. May I order another of this _mastroquet's_ bowel-gripping absinthes in order to expound a scheme? Thank you, my dear Lackaday. _Oui, encore une_. Tell me have you ever been to England?" "No," said Lackaday. "Have you ever heard of Pierrots?" "On the stage--masked balls--yes." "But real Pierrots who make money?" "In England? What do you mean?" "There is in England a blatant, vulgar, unimaginative, hideous institution known as the Seaside." "Well?" said Andrew. The dingy proprietor of the "Zingue" brought out the absinthe. Bakkus arranged the perforated spoon, carrying its lump of sugar over the glass and began to drop the water from the decanter. "If you will bear with me for a minute or two, until the sugar's melted, I'll tell you all about it." Chapter VII It was a successful combination. Bakkus sang his ballads and an occasional humorous song of the moment to Andrew's accompaniment on mandolin or one-stringed violin, and Andrew conjured and juggled comically, using Bakkus as his dull-witted foil. A complete little performance, the patter and business artistically thought out and perfectly rehearsed. They wore the conventional Pierrot costume with whited faces and black skull caps. Bakkus, familiar with English customs, had undertaken to attend to the business side of their establishment on the sands of the great West Coast resort, Andrew providing the capital out of his famous hundred louis. But it came almost imperceptibly to pass that Andrew made all the arrangements, drove the bargains and kept an accurate account of their varying finances. "You'll never be a soldier of fortune, my dear fellow," said Bakkus once, when, returning homewards, he had wished to dip his hand into the leather bag containing the day's takings in order to supply himself lavishly with comforting liquid. "It's the very last thing I want to be," replied Andrew, hugging the bag tight under his long arm. "You're bourgeois to your finger-tips, your ideal of happiness is a meek female in a parlour and half a dozen food-sodden brats." Andrew hunched his shoulders good-naturedly at the taunt. A home, and wife and offspring seemed rather desirable of attainment. "You've lots of money in your pocket to pay for a drink," said he. "It's mere perversity that makes you want to touch the takings. We haven't counted them." "Perversity is the only thing that makes this rotten life worth living," retorted Bakkus. It was his perversity, thus exemplified, which compelled Andrew to constitute himself the business manager of the firm. He had a sedate, inexorable way with him, a grotesque dignity, to which, for all his gibes, Bakkus instinctively submitted. Bakkus might provide ideas, but it was the lank and youthful Andrew who saw to their rigid execution. "You've no more soul than a Prussian drill sergeant," Bakkus would say. "And you've no more notion of business than a Swiss Admiral," Andrew would reply. "Who invented this elegant and disgustingly humiliating entertainment?" Andrew would laugh and give him all the credit. But when Bakkus, in the morning, clamouring against insane punctuality, and demanding another hour's sloth, refused to leave his bed, he came up against an incomprehensible force, and, entirely against his will, found himself on the stroke of eleven ready to begin the performance on the sands. Sometimes he felt an almost irresistible desire to kick Andrew, so mild and gentle, with his eternal idiotic grin; but he knew in his heart that Andrew was not one of the idiots whom people kicked with impunity. He lashed him, instead, with his tongue, which Andrew, within limits, did not mind a bit. To Bakkus, however, Andrew owed the conception of their adventure. He also owed to him the name of the combination, and also the name which was to be professionally his for the rest of his stage career. It all proceeded from the miraculous winning of the mare Elodie. Bakkus had made some indiscreet remark concerning her namesake. Andrew, quick in his dignity, had made a curt answer. Ironical Bakkus began to hum the old nursery song: _Il était une bergère Et ron, ron, ron, petit patapon_. Suddenly he stopped. "By George! I have it! The names that will _épater_ the English bourgeois. Ron-ron-ron and Petit Patapon. I'll be Ron-ron-ron and you'll be dear little Patapon." As the English seaside public, however, when he came to think of it, have never heard of the shepherdess who guarded her muttons and still less of the refrain which illustrated her history, he realized that the names as they stood would be ineffective. Ron-ron and Patapon therefore would they be. But Andrew, remembering Elodie's wise counsel, stuck to the "petit." His French instinct guiding him, he rejected Patapon. Bakkus found Ron-ron an unmeaning appellation. At last they settled it. They printed it out in capital letters. THE GREAT PATAPON AND LITTLE PATOU So it came to pass that a board thus inscribed in front of their simple installation on the sands advertised their presence. Now, Lackaday in his manuscript relates this English episode, not so much as an appeal to pity for the straits to which he was reduced, although he winces at its precarious mountebankery, and his sensitive and respectable soul revolts at going round with the mendicant's hat and thanking old women and children for pennies, as in order to correlate certain influences and coincidences in his career. Elodie seems to haunt him. So he narrates what seems to be another trivial incident. Andrew was a lusty swimmer. In the old circus summer days Ben Flint had seen to that. Whenever the Cirque Rocambeau pitched its tent by sea or lake, Ben Flint threw young Andrew into the water. So now every morning, before the world was awake, did Andrew go down to the sea. Once, a week after their arrival, did he, by some magnetic power, drag the protesting Bakkus from his bed and march him down, from the modest lodgings in a by-street, to the sea front and the bathing-machines. Magnetic force may bring a man to the water, but it can't make him go in. Bakkus looked at the cold grey water--it was a cloudy morning--took counsel with himself and, sitting on the sands, refused to budge from the lesser misery of the windy shore. He smoked the pipe of disquiet on an empty stomach for the half-hour during which Andrew expended unnecessary effort in progressing through many miles in an element alien to man. In the cold and sickly wretchedness of a cutting wind, he cursed Andrew with erudite elaboration. But when Andrew eventually landed, his dripping bathing-suit clinging close to his gigantic and bony figure, appearing to derisive eyes like the skin covered fossil of a prehistoric monster of a man, his bushy hair clotted, like ruddy seaweed, over his staring, ugly face, Bakkus forgot his woes and rolled on his back convulsed with vulgar but inextinguishable laughter. "My God!" he cried later, when summoned by an angry Andrew to explain his impolite hilarity. "You're the funniest thing on the earth. Why hide the light of your frame under a bushel of clothing? My dear boy, I'm talking sense"--this was at a hitherto unfriendly breakfast-table--"You've got an extraordinary physique. If I laughed, like a rude beast, for which I apologize, the public would laugh. There's money in it. Skin tights and your hair made use of, why--you've got 'em laughing before you even begin a bit of business. Why the devil don't you take advantage of your physical peculiarities? Look here, don't get cross. This is what I mean." He pulled out a pencil and, pushing aside plates and dishes, began to sketch on the table-cloth with his superficial artistic facility. Andrew watched him, the frown of anger giving way to the knitted brow of interest. As the drawing reached completion, he thought again of Elodie and her sage counsel. Was this her mental conception which he had been striving for years to realize? He did not find the ideal incongruous with his lingering sense of romance. He could take a humorous view of anything but his profession. That was sacred. Everything did he devote to it, from his soul to his skinny legs and arms. So that, when Bakkus had finished, and leaned back to admire his work, Andrew drew a deep breath, and his eyes shone as if he had received an inspiration from on High. He saw himself as in an apotheosis. There he was, self-exaggeratingly true to life, inordinately high, inordinately thin, clad in tights that reached to a waistband beneath his armpits giving him miraculous length of leg, a low-cut collar accentuating his length of neck, his hair twisted up on end to a fine point. "And I could pad the feet of the tights and wear high heels that would give me another couple of inches," he cried excitedly. "By Gum!" said he, clutching Bakkus's shoulder, a rare act of demonstrativeness, "what a thing it is to have imagination." "Ah!" said Bakkus, "what a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!" "What the devil do you mean?" asked Andrew. Bakkus waved a hand towards the drawing. "If only I had your application," said he, "I should make a great name as an illustrator of Hamlet." "One of these days," said Andrew, the frown of anger returning to his brow, "I'll throw you out of the window." "Provided it is not, as now, on the ground floor, you would be committing an act of the loftiest altruism." Andrew returned to his forgotten breakfast, and poured out a cup of tepid tea. "What would you suggest--just plain black or red--Mephisto--or stripes?" He was full of the realization of the Elodesque idea. His brain became a gushing fount of inspiration. Hundreds of grotesque possibilities of business, hitherto rendered ineffective by flapping costume, appeared in fascinating bubbles. He thought and spoke of nothing else. "Once I denied you the rank of artist," said Bakkus. "I retract. I apologize. No one but an artist would inflict on another human being such intolerable boredom." "But it's your idea, bless you, which I'm carrying out, with all the gratitude in the world." "If you want to reap the tortures of the damned," retorted Bakkus, "just you be a benefactor." Andrew shrugged his shoulders. That was the way of Horatio Bakkus, perhaps the first of his fellow-creatures whom he had deliberately set out to study, for hitherto he had met only simple folk, good men and true or uncomplicated fools and knaves, and the paradoxical humour of his friend had been a puzzling novelty demanding comprehension; the first, therefore, who put him on the track of the observation of the twists of human character and the knowledge of men. That was the way of Bakkus. An idea was but a toy which he tired of like a child and impatiently broke to bits. Only a week before he had come to Andrew: "My dear fellow, I've got a song. I'm going to write it, set it and sing it myself. It begins:-- _I crept into the halls of sleep And watched the dreams go by._ I'll give you the accompaniment in a day or two and we'll try it on the dog. It's a damned sight too good for them--but no matter." Andrew was interested. The lines had a little touch of poetry. He refrained for some time from breaking through the gossamer web of the poet's fancy. At last, however, as he heard nothing further, he made delicate enquiries. "Song?" cried Bakkus. "What song? That meaningless bit of moonshine ineptitude I quoted the other day? I have far more use for my intellect than degrading it to such criminal prostitution." Yes, he was beginning to know his Bakkus. His absorption in his new character was not entirely egotistic. Both his own intelligence and his professional experience told him that here, as he had worked out-the business in his mind, was an entirely novel attraction. In his young enthusiasm he saw hundreds crowding round the pitch on the sands. It was as much to Bakkus's interest as to his own that the new show should succeed. And even before he had procured the costume from Covent Garden, Bakkus professed intolerable boredom. He shrugged his shoulders. Bored or not, Bakkus should go through with it. So again under the younger man's leadership Bakkus led the strenuous life of rehearsal. It took quite a day for their fame to spread. On the second day they attracted crowds. Money poured in upon them. Little Patou, like a double-tailed serpent rearing himself upright on his tail tips, appeared at first a creature remote, of some antediluvian race--until he talked a familiar, disarming patter with his human, disarming grin. The Great Patapon, contrary to jealous anticipation, saw himself welcomed as a contrast and received more than his usual meed of applause. This satisfied, for the time, his singer's vanity which he professed so greatly to despise. They entered on a spell of halcyon days. The brilliant sunny season petered out in hopeless September, raw and chill. A week had passed without the possibility of an audience. Said Bakkus: "Of all the loathsome spots in a noisome universe this is the most purulent. In order to keep up our rudimentary self-respect we have done our best to veil our personal identity as images of the Almighty from the higher promenades of the vulgar. Our sole associates have been the blatant frequenters of evil smelling bars. We've not exchanged a word with a creature approaching our intellectual calibre. I am beginning to conceive for you the bitter hatred that one of a pair of castaways has for the other; and you must regard me with feelings of equal abhorrence." "By no means," replied Andrew. "You provide me with occupation, and that amuses me." As the occupation for the dismal week had mainly consisted in dragging a cursing Bakkus away from public-house whisky on damp and detested walks, and in imperturbably manoeuvring him out of an idle--and potentially vicious--intrigue with the landlady's pretty and rather silly daughter, his reply brought a tragic scowl to Bakkus's face. "There are times when I lie awake, inventing lingering deaths for you. You occupy yourself too much with my affairs. It's time our partnership in this degrading mountebankery should cease." "Until it does, it's going to be efficient," said Andrew. "It's a come down for both of us to play on the sands and pass the hat round. I hate it as much as you do, but we've done it honourably and decently--and we'll end up in the same way." "We end now," said Bakkus, staring out of their cheap lodging house sitting-room window at the dismal rain that veiled the row of cheap lodging houses opposite. Andrew made a stride across the room, seized his shoulder and twisted him round. "What about our bookings next month?" For their success had brought them an offer of a month certain from a northern Palladium syndicate, with prospects of an extended tour. "Dust and ashes," said Bakkus. "You may be dust," cried Andrew hotly, "but I'm damned if I'm ashes." Bakkus bit and lighted a cheap cigar and threw himself on the dilapidated sofa. "No, my dear fellow, if it comes to that, I'm the ashes. Dead! With never a recrudescent Phoenix to rise up out of them. You're the dust, the merry sport of the winds of heaven." "Don't talk foolishness," said Andrew. "Was there ever a man living who used his breath for any other purpose?" "Then," said Andrew, "your talk about breaking up the partnership is mere stupidity." "It is and it isn't," replied Bakkus. "Although I hate you, I love you. You'll find the same paradoxical sentimental relationship in most cases between man and wife. I love you, and I wish you well, my dear boy. I should like to see you Merry-Andrew yourself to the top of the Merry-Andrew tree. But for insisting on my accompanying you on that uncomfortable and strenuous ascent, without very much glory to myself, I frankly detest you." "That doesn't matter a bit to me," said Andrew. "You've got to carry out your contract." Bakkus sighed. "Need I? What's a contract? I say I am willing to perform vocal and other antics for so many shillings a week. When I come to think of it, my soul revolts at the sale of itself for so many shillings a week to perform actions utterly at variance with its aspirations. As a matter of fact I am tired. Thanks to my brain and your physical cooperation, I have my pockets full of money. I can afford a holiday. I long for bodily sloth, for the ragged intellectual companionship that only Paris can give me, for the resumption of study of the philosophy of the excellent Henri Bergson, for the absinthe that brings forgetfulness, for the Tanagra figured, broad-mouthed, snub-nosed shrew that fills every day with potential memories." "Oh that's it, is it?" cried Andrew, with a glare in his usually mild eyes and his ugly jaw set. They had had many passages at arms. Bakkus's sophistical rhetoric against Andrew's steady common sense; and they had sharpened Andrew's wit. But never before had they come to a serious quarrel. Feeling his power he had hitherto exercised it with humorous effectiveness. But now the situation appeared entirely devoid of humour. He was coldly and sternly angry. "That's the beginning and end of the whole thing? It all comes down to a worthless little Montmartroise? For a little thing of _rien du tout,_ the artist, the philosopher, the English public school man will throw over his friend, his partner, his signed word, his honour? _Mon Dieu!_ Well go--I can easily--No, I'll not say what I have in my mind." Bakkus turned over on his side, facing his adversary, his under arm outstretched, the cigar in his fingers. "I love to see youth perspiring--especially with noble rage. It does it good, discharges the black humours of the body. If I could perspire more freely I should be singing in Grand Opera." "You can break your contract and I'll do without you," cried the furious Andrew. "I'm not going to break the contract, my young friend," replied Bakkus, peering at him through lowered eyelids. "When did I say such a thing? We end the damp and dripping folly of the sands." "We don't," said Andrew. "As you will," said Bakkus. "Again I prophesy that you'll be drilling awkward squads in barrack yards before you've done. It's all you're fit for." Andrew smiled or grinned with closed lips. It was his grim smile, many years afterwards to become familiar to larger bodies of men than awkward squads. Once more he had won his little victory. So peace was made. They finished up the miserable fag end of the season and with modest success carried out their month's contract in the northern towns. But even Andrew's drastic leadership could not prevail on Bakkus's indolence to sign an extension. Montmartre called him. An engagement. He also spoke vaguely of singing lessons. Now that Parisians had returned to Paris, he could not afford to lose his connections. With cynical frankness he also confessed his disinclination to be recognized in a music-hall Punch and Judy show by his brother the Archdeacon. "Archdeacons," said Andrew--he had a confused idea of their prelatical status, "don't go to music-halls." "They do in this country," said Bakkus. "They're everywhere. They infest the air like microbes. You only have to open your mouth and you get your lungs filled with them. It's a pestilential country and I've done with it." "All right," replied Andrew, "I'll run the show on my own." But the Palladium syndicate, willing to book "The Great Patapon and Little Patou" for a further term, declined to rebook Little Patou by himself. He returned to Paris, where he found Bakkus wallowing in absinthe and philosophic sloth. "We might have made our fortune in England," said he. Said Bakkus coolly sipping his absinthe, "I have no desire to make my fortune. Have you?" "I should like to make my name and a big position," replied Andrew. "And I, my young friend? As the fag end of the comet's tail should I have made my name and a big position? Ah egotist! Egotist! Sublime egotist! The true artist using human souls as the rungs of his ladder! Well, go your ways. I have no reproach against you. Now that I'm out of your barrack square, my heart is overflowing with love for you. You have ever a friend in Horatio Bakkus. When you fall on evil days and you haven't a sou in your pocket, come to me--and you'll always find an inspiration." "I wish you would give me one now," said Andrew, who had spent a fruitless morning at the Agence Moignon. "You want a foil, an intelligent creature who will play up to you--a creature far more intelligent than I am. A dog. Buy a dog. A poodle." "By Gum!" cried Andrew, "I believe you're right again." "I'm never wrong," said Bakkus. "Garcon!" He summoned the waiter and waved his hand towards the little accusing pile of saucers. "Monsieur always pays for my inspirations." Chapter VIII We behold Petit Patou now definitely launched on his career. Why the execution of Bakkus's (literally) cynical suggestion should have met with instant success, neither he nor Andrew nor Prépimpin, the poodle, nor anyone under heaven had the faintest idea. Perhaps Prépimpin had something to do with it. He was young, excellently trained, and expensive. As to the methods of his training Andrew made no enquiries. Better not. But, brought up in the merciful school of Ben Flint, in which Billy the pig had many successors, both porcine and canine, he had expert knowledge of what kind firmness on the part of the master and sheer love on that of the animal could accomplish. Prépimpin went through his repertoire with the punctilio of the barrack square deprecated by Bakkus. "I buy him," said Andrew. "_Viens, mon ami_." Prépimpin cast an oblique glance at his old master. "_Va-t-en_," said the latter. "_Allons_" said Andrew with a caressing touch on the dog's head. Prépimpin's topaz eyes gazed full into his new lord's. He wagged the tuft at the end of his shaven tail. Andrew knelt down, planted his fingers in the lion shagginess of mane above his ears and said in the French which Prépimpin understood: "We're going to be good friends, eh? You're not going to play me any dirty tricks? You're going to be a good and very faithful colleague?" "You mustn't spoil him," said the vendor, foreseeing, according to his lights, possible future recriminations. Andrew, still kneeling, loosed his hold on the dog, who forthwith put both paws on his shoulder and tried to lick the averted human face. "I've trained animals since I was two years old, Monsieur Berguinan. Please tell me something that I don't know." He rose. "_Alors_, Prépimpin, we belong to each other. _Viens_." The dog followed him joyously. The miracle beyond human explanation was accomplished, the love at first sight between man and dog. Now, in the manuscript there is much about Prépimpin. Lackaday, generally so precise, has let himself go over the love and intelligence of this most human of animals. To read him you would think that Prépimpin invented his own stage business and rehearsed Petit Patou. As a record of dog and man sympathy it is of remarkable interest; it has indeed a touch of rare beauty; but as it is a detailed history of Prépimpin rather than an account of a phase in the career of Andrew Lackaday, I must wring my feelings and do no more than make a passing reference to their long and, from my point of view, somewhat monotonous partnership. It sheds, however, a light on the young manhood of this earnest mountebank. It reveals a loneliness ill-becoming his years--a loneliness of soul and heart of which he appears to be unconscious. Again, we have here and there the fleeting shadow of a petticoat. In Stockholm--during these years he went far afield--he fancies himself in love with one Vera Karynska of vague Mid-European nationality, who belongs to a troupe of acrobats. Vera has blue eyes, a deeply sentimental nature, and, alas! an unsympathetic husband who, to Andrew's young disgust depends on her for material support, seeing that every evening he and various other brutes of the tribe form an inverted pyramid with Vera's amazonian shoulders as the apex. He is making up a besotted mind to say, "Fly with me," when the Karinski troupe vanishes Moscow-wards and an inexorable contract drives him to Dantzic. In that ancient town, looking into the faithful and ironical eyes of Prépimpin, he thanks God he did not make a fool of himself. You see, he succeeds. If you credited his modesty, you would think that Prépimpin made Petit Patou. _Quod est absurdum_. But the psychological fact remains that Andrew Lackaday needed some magnetic contact with another individuality, animal or human, to exhibit his qualities. There, in counselling splendid isolation, Elodie Figasso, the little Marseilles gutter fairy was wrong. She saw, clearly enough, that, subordinated to others, with no chance of developing his one personality he must fail. But she did not perceive--and poor child, how could she?--that given the dominating influence over any combination, even over one poodle dog, he held the key of success. So we see him, the born leader, unconscious of his powers for lack of opportunity, instinctively craving their exercise for his own spiritual and moral evolution, and employing them in the benign mastery of the dog Prépimpin. They were happy years of bourgeois vagabondage. At first he felt the young artist's soreness that, with the exception of rare, sporadic engagements, neither London nor Paris would have him. Once he appeared at the Empire, in Leicester Square, an early turn, and kept on breaking bits of his heart every day, for a week, when the curtain went down in the thin applause that is worse than silence. "Prépimpin felt it," he writes, "even more than I did. He would follow me off, with his head bowed down and his tail-tuft sweeping the floor, so that I could have wept over his humiliation." Why the great capitals fail to be amused is a perpetual mystery to Andrew Lackaday. Prépimpin and he give them the newest things they can think of. After weeks and weeks of patient rehearsal, they bring a new trick to perfection. It is the _clou_ of their performance for a week's engagement at the Paris Folies-Bergère. After a conjuring act, he retires. Comes on again immediately, Petit Patou, apparently seven foot high, in the green silk tights reaching to the arm-pit waist, a low frill round his neck, his hair up to a point, a perpetual grin painted on his face. On the other side enters Prépimpin on hind legs, bearing an immense envelope. Petit Patou opens it--shows the audience an invitation to a ball. "Ah! dress me, Prépimpin." The dog pulls a hidden string and Petit Patou is clad in a bottle green dress-coat. Prépimpin barks and dances his delight. "But _nom d'un chien_, I can't go to a ball without a hat." Prepimpin bolts to the wings and returns with an opera hat. "And a stick." Prepimpin brings the stick. "And a cigar." Prépimpin rushes to a little table at the back of the stage and on his hind legs offers a box of cigars to his master, who selects one and lights it. He begins the old juggler's trick of the three objects. The dog sits on his haunches and watches him. There is patter in which the audience is given to understand that Prépimpin, who glances from time to time over the footlights, with a shake of his leonine mane, is bored to death by his master's idiocy. At last the hat descends on Petit Patou's head, the crook-handled stick falls on his arm, and he looks about in a dazed way for the cigar, and then he sees Prépimpin, who has caught it, swaggering off on his hind legs, the still lighted cigar in his mouth. "No," writes Lackaday, "it was a failure. Poor Prépimpin and I left Paris with our tails between our legs. We were to start a tour at Bordeaux. '_Mon pauvre ami_,' said I, on the journey--Prépimpin never suffered the indignity of a dog cage--'There is only one thing to be done. It is you who will be going to the ball and will juggle with the three objects, and I who will catch the cigar in my mouth.' But it was not to be. At Bordeaux and all through the tour we had a _succès fou_." Thus Andrew washed his hands of Paris and London and going where he was appreciated roved the world in quiet contentment. He was young, rather scrupulously efficient within his limits, than ambitious, and of modest wants, sober habits, and of a studious disposition which his friendship with Horatio Bakkus had both awakened and stimulated. Homeless from birth he never knew the nostalgia which grips even the most deliberately vagrant of men. As his ultimate goal he had indeed a vague dream of a home with wife and children--one of these days in the future, when he had put by enough money to justify such luxuries. And then there was the wife to find. In a wife sewing by lamp-light between a red-covered round table and the fire, a flaxen haired cherub by her side--for so did his ingenuous inexperience picture domestic happiness--he required the dominating characteristic of angelic placidity. Perhaps his foster-mother and the comfort Ben Flint found in her mild and phlegmatic devotion had something to do with it. In his manuscript he tries to explain--and flounders about in a psychological bog--that his ideal woman and his ideal wife are two totally different conceptions. The woman who could satisfy all his romantic imaginings was the Princesse Lointaine--the Highest Common Factor of the ladies I have already mentioned--Mélisande, Phèdre, Rosalind, Fédora, and Dora Copperfield--it is at this stage that he mentions them by name, having extended his literary horizon. Her he did not see sewing, in ox-eyed serenity, by a round table covered with a red cloth. With Her it was a totally different affair. It was a matter of spring and kisses and a perfect spiritual companionship.... As I have said, he gets into a terrible muddle. Anyhow, between the two conflicting ideals, he does not fall to the ground of vulgar amours. At the risk of tedium I feel bound to insist on this aspect of his life. For in the errant cosmopolitan world in which he, irresponsible and now well salaried bachelor had his being, he was thrown into the free and easy comradeship of hundreds of attractive women, as free and irresponsible as himself. He lived in a sea of temptation. On the other hand, I should be doing as virile a creature as ever walked a great wrong if I presented him to you under the guise of a Joseph Andrews. He had his laughter and his champagne and his kisses on the wing. But it was: "We'll meet again one of these days." "One of these days when our paths cross again." And so--in effect--_Bon soir_. It is difficult to compress into a page or two the history of several years. But that is what I have to do. He is not wandering all the time over France, or flashing meteor-like about Europe. He has periods of repose, enforced and otherwise. But his position being ensured, he has no anxieties. Paris is his headquarters. He lives still in his old _hôtel meublé_ in the Faubourg Saint-Denis. But instead of one furnished room on the fifth floor, he can afford an apartment, salon, salle à manger, bedrooms, cabinet de toilette, on the prosperous second, which he retains all the year round. And Petit Patou can now stride through the waiting crowd in Moignon's antechamber and enter the sacred office, cigar in mouth, and with a "look here, _mon vieux_," put the fear of God into him. Petit Patou and Prépimpin, the idols of the Provinces, have arrived. In Paris, when their presences coincide, he continues to consort with Bakkus, whose exquisite little tenor voice still affords him a means of livelihood. In fact Bakkus has had a renewed lease of professional activity. He sings at watering places, at palace hotels; which involves the physical activity which he abhors. "Bound to this Ixion wheel of perpetual motion," says he, "I suffer tortures unimagined even by the High Gods. Compared with it our degrading experience on the sands seven years ago was a blissful idyll." "By Gum!" says Andrew, "seven years ago. Who would have thought it?" "Yes, who?" scowled the pessimist, now getting grey and more gaunt of blue, ill-shaven cheek. "To me it is seven æons of Promethean damnation." "To me it seems only yesterday," says Andrew. "It's because you have no brain," says Bakkus. But they are good friends. Away from Paris they carry on a fairly regular correspondence. Such of Bakkus's letters as Lackaday has kept and as I have read, are literary gems with--always--a perverse and wilful flaw ... like the man's life. * * * * * From Paris, after this particular meeting with Bakkus, Andrew once more goes on tour with Prépimpin. But a Prépimpin grown old, and, though pathetically eager, already past effective work. Nine years of strenuous toil are as much as any dog can stand. Rheumatism twinged the hind legs of Prépimpin. Desire for slumber stupefied his sense of duty. He could no longer catch the lighted cigar and swagger off with it in his mouth, across the stage. "And yet, I'm sure," writes Lackaday, "that every time I cut his business, it nearly broke his heart. And it had come to Prépimpin's business being cut down to an insignificant minimum. I could, of course, have got another dog. But it would have broken his heart altogether. And one doesn't break the hearts of creatures like Prépimpin. I managed to arrange the performance, at last, so that he should think he was doing a devil of a lot...." Then the end came. It was on the Bridge of Avignon, which, if you will remember, Lackaday superstitiously regards as a spot fraught with his destiny. Fate had not taken him to the town since his last disastrous appearance. No one recognized in the Petit Patou of provincial fame the lank failure of many years ago. Besides, this time, he played not at the wretched music-hall without the walls, but at the splendid Palace of Varieties in the Boulevard de la Gare. He was a star--_en vedette_, and he had a dressing-room to himself. He stayed at the Hôtel d'Europe, the famous hostelry by the great entrance gates. To avoid complication, he went everywhere now as Monsieur Patou. Folks passing by the open courtyard of the hotel where he might be taking the air, pointed him out to one another. "_Le voilà--Petit Patou_" It was in the middle of his week's engagement--once more in summer time. He lunched, saw to Prépimpin's meal, smoked the cheap cigar of content, and then, crossing the noisy little flagged square, went through the gates, Prépimpin at his heels, and made his way across the dusty road to the bridge. The work-a-day folk, on that week-day afternoon, had all returned to their hives in the town, and the pathways of the bridge contained but few pedestrians. In the roadway, too, there was but lazy life, an occasional omnibus, the queer old diligence of Provence with its great covered hood in the midst of which sat the driver amid a cluster of peasants, hidden like the queen bee by the swarm, a bullock cart bringing hay into the city, a tradesman's cart, a lumbering wine waggon, with its three great white horses and great barrels. Nothing hurried in the hot sunshine. The Rhone, very low, flowed sluggishly. Only now and then did a screeching, dust-whirling projectile of a motor-car hurl itself across this bridge of drowsy leisure. Andrew leaned over the parapet, finding rest in a mild melancholy, his thoughts chiefly occupied with the decay of Prépimpin who sat by his heels gazing at the roadway, occupied possibly by the same sere reflections. Presently the flea-catching antics of a ragged mongrel in the middle of the roadway disturbed Prépimpin's sense of the afternoon's decorum. He rose and with stiff dignity stalked towards him. He stood nose to nose with the mongrel, his tufted tail in straight defiance up in the air. Then suddenly there was a rush and a roar and a yell of voices--and the scrunch of swiftly applied brakes. Andrew turned round and saw a great touring car filled with men and women--and the men were jumping out. And he saw a mongrel dog racing away for dear life. And then at last he saw a black mass stretched upon the ground. With horror in his heart he rushed and threw himself down by the dog's body. He was dead. He had solved the problem--_solverat ambulando_. Andrew heard English voices around him; he raised a ghastly face. "You brutes, you have killed my dog." He scarcely heard the explanations, the apologies. The dog seeing the car far off, had cleared himself. Then without warning he had flung himself suicidally in the path of the car. What could they do now by way of amends? The leader of the little company of tourists, a clean-shaven, florid man, obviously well bred and greatly distressed, drew a card from his pocket-book. "I am staying a couple of days at the Hôtel Luxembourg at Nîmes--I know that nothing can pay for a dog one loves--but--" "Oh, no, no, no," said Andrew waving aside the card. "Can we take the dog anywhere for you?" "You're very kind," said Andrew, "but the kindest thing is to leave me alone." He bent down again and took Prépimpin in his arms and strode with him through the group of motorists and the little clamouring crowd that had gathered round. One of the former, a girl in a blue motor veil, ran after him and touched his arm. Her eyes were full of tears. "It breaks my heart to see you like that. Oh can't I do anything for you?" Andrew looked at her. Through all his stunning grief he had a dim vision of the Princesse Lointaine. He said in an uncertain voice: "You have given me your very sweet sympathy. You can't do more." She made a little helpless gesture and turned and joined her companions, who went on their way to Nîmes. Andrew carried the bleeding body of Prépimpin, and there was that in his face which forbade the idle to trail indiscreetly about his path. He strode on, staring ahead, and did not notice a woman by the pylon of the bridge who, as he passed, gave a bewildered gasp, and after a few undecided moments, followed him at a distance. He went, carrying the dog, up the dirty river bank outside the walls, where there was comparative solitude, and sat down on a stone seat, and laid Prépimpin on the ground. He broke down and cried. For seven years the dog's life and his had been inextricably interwoven. Not only had they shared bed and board as many a good man and dog have done, but they had shared the serious affairs of life, its triumphs, its disillusions. And Prépimpin was all that he had to love in the wide world. "_Pardon, monsieur_," said a voice. He looked up and saw the woman who had followed him. She was dark, of the loose build of the woman predisposed to stoutness who had grown thin, and she had kind eyes in which pain seemed to hold in check the promise of laughter and only an animal wistfulness lingered. Her lips were pinched and her face was thin and careworn. And yet she was young--obviously under thirty. Her movements retained all the lissomeness of youth. Although dressed more or less according to the fashion of the year, she looked poor. Yet there was not so much of threadbare poverty in her attire, as lack of interest--or pathetic incongruity; the coat and skirt too heavy for the sultry day; the cheap straw hat trimmed with uncared for roses; the soiled white gloves with an unmended finger tip. "Madame?" said he. And as he saw it, the woman's face and form became vaguely familiar. He had seen her somewhere. But in the last few years he had seen thousands of women. "You have had a great misfortune, monsieur?" "That is true, madame." She sat on the bench beside him. "_Vous pleurez_. You must have loved him very much." It was not a stranger speaking to him. Otherwise, he would have risen and, as politely as anguished nerves allowed, would have told her to go to the devil. She made no intrusion on his grief. Her voice fell with familiar comfort on his ear. He was vaguely conscious of her right to offer sympathy. He regarded her, grateful but perplexed. "You don't recognize me? _Enfin_, why should you?" She shrugged her shoulders. "We only met for a few hours many years ago--here in Avignon--but we were good friends." Then Andrew drew a deep breath and turned swiftly round on the bench and shot out both his hands. "_Mon Dieu!_ Elodie!" She smiled sadly. "Ah," said she, "I'm glad you remember." Chapter IX They sat awhile and talked of the tragedy, the dead Prépimpin, at once a link and a barrier between them, lying at their feet. Her ready sympathy brought her near; but while the dog lay there, mangled and bloody, he could think of nothing else. It was Elodie who suggested immediate and decent burial. Why should he not go to the hotel for a workman and a spade? He smiled. "You always seem to come to my help in time of trouble. But while I am absent, what will happen to him?" "I will guard him, my friend," said Elodie. He marched off. In a few minutes he came back accompanied by one of the hotel baggage porters. The grave, on the waste land by the Rhone, was quickly dug, and Prépimpin covered over for ever with the kindly earth. As soon as the body was hidden, Andrew turned away, the tears in his eyes. "And now," said he, "let us sit somewhere else and you shall tell me about yourself. I have been selfish." The tale she had to tell was very old and very sad. She did not begin it, however, until, drawing off her old gloves, for coolness' sake, she disclosed a wedding ring on her finger. His eye caught it at once. "Why, you are married." "Yes," she said, "I am married." "You don't speak in the tone of a happy woman." She shrugged hopeless shoulders. "A woman isn't happy with a _goujat_ for a husband." Now a _goujat_ is a word for which scoundrel, and miscreant, are but weak translations. It denotes lowest depths of infamy. Andrew frowned terribly. "He ill-treats you?" "He did. But that is past. Fortunately I am alone. He has deserted me." "Children?" "Thank God, no," replied Elodie. And then it all came out in the unrestrained torrent of the south. She had been an honest girl, in spite of a thousand temptations. When André met her, she was as pure as any young girl in a convent. It wasn't that she was ignorant. Oh no. The girl who had gone through the workrooms of Marseilles and the music-halls of France and could retain virginal innocence would be either a Blessed Saint or an idiot. It was knowledge that had kept her straight; knowledge and pride. She was not for sale. _Grand Dieu_, no! And love? If a man's love fell short of the desire for marriage, well, it didn't amount to a row of pins. Besides, even where there could be a love quite true without the possibility of marriage, she had seen enough of the world to know the unhappinesses that could happen to women. No. André must not think she was cold or prudish. She had set out to be merely reasonable. To André the girl's apology for preserving her chastity seemed perfectly natural. In her world it was somewhat of an eccentric feat. "_Et puis, enfin._" And then, at last, came the conquering male, a singer in a light opera touring company in the chorus of which she was engaged. He was young, handsome--played secondary parts; one of the great ones, in fact, in her limited theatrical hierarchy. He fell in love with her. She, flattered, responded. Of course, he suggested setting up house together, then and there. But she had her aforesaid little principles. His infatuation, however, was such that he consented to run the terrific gauntlet of French matrimonial procedure. Why people in France go to the nerve-racking trouble of getting married Heaven only knows. Camels can gallop much more easily through needles' eyes. Anybody can be born in France, anybody can die; against these phenomena the form-multiplying and ream-writing _Ad-min-is-tra-tion_ is powerless. But when you come to the intermediate business of world population, then bureaucracy steps in and plays the very devil. Elodie and Raoul Marescaux desired to be married. In England they would have got a special license, or gone to a registry office, and the thing would have been over. But in France, Monsieur and Madame Marescaux, and Madame Figasso, and the _huissier_ Boudin, who insisted on coming forward although he was not legally united to Madame, and lawyers representing each family, were set all agog, and there were meetings and quarrels, and delays--Elodie had not a cent to her dowry--which of course was the stumbling-block--with the final result that nothing was done which might not have been done at once, namely, that the pair were doubly married--once by Monsieur le Maire and then by Monsieur le Curé. For a few months she was happy. Then the handsome Raoul became enamoured of a fresh face. Then Elodie fell ill, oh, so ill, they thought she was going to die. And during her illness and slow recovery Raoul became enamoured of every fresh face he saw. A procession. If it had been one, said Elodie philosophically, she could perhaps have arranged matters. But they had been endless. And what little beauty she had her illness had taken away, so her only weapon was gone; and Raoul jeered at her and openly flaunted his infidelities in her presence. When she used beyond a certain point the ready tongue with which Providence had endowed her, she was soundly beaten. "_Le goujat!_" cried Andrew. Ah! It was a life of hell. But they had kept nominally together, in the same companies, she singing in the chorus, he playing his second rôles. And then there came a day when he obtained an engagement in the Opera at Buenos Ayres. She was to accompany him. Her berth was booked, her luggage packed. He said to her, "I have to go away for a day or two on business. Meet me at the boat train for Havre on Wednesday." She went to the Gare St. Lazare on Wednesday to find that the boat train had gone on Tuesday. _Un sale tour_--eh? Did ever anyone hear of such a dirty trick? And later she learned that her berth was occupied by a little modiste of the Place de la Madeleine with whom he had run away. That was two years ago. Since then she had not heard of him; and she wished never to hear of him again. "And you have been supporting yourself all the time, on the stage?" "Yes, I have lived. But it has been hard. My illness affected my voice. No one wants me very much. But still"--she smiled wanly--"I can manage. And now, you. I saw you yesterday at the Palace. They know me there and give me my _entrée_. You have had a _beau succès_. You are famous. I am so glad." Modestly he depreciated the fame, but acknowledged the success which was due to her encouragement. He told her of the racehorse Elodie and his lucky inspiration. For the first time she laughed and clapped her hands. "Oh, I am flattered! Yes, and greatly touched. Now I know that you have remembered me. But if the horse had lost wouldn't you have pested against me? Say?" Andrew replied soberly: "I could not possibly have lost. I knew it would win, just as I know that five minutes hence the sun will continue to shine. I had faith in your star, Elodie." "My star--it's not worth very much, my star." "It has been to me," said Andrew. They talked on. By dint of questioning she learned most of his not over-eventful history. He told her of Horatio Bakkus, and of the season on the sands, when first he realized her original idea of exploiting his figure; of Prépimpin in his prime and their wanderings about Europe. And now alas! there was no longer a Prépimpin. "But how will you give the performance this evening without him?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. He had not given a thought to that yet. It was the loss of his friend that wrung his heart. "You are so gentle and sympathetic. Why is it that no woman has loved you?" "Perhaps because I've not found a woman I could love," said he. She did not pursue the subject, but sighed and looked somewhat drearily in front of her. It was then that he became aware of the cruel treatment that the years had inflicted on her youth. He knew that she was under thirty, yet she looked older. The colour had gone from her olive skin, leaving it sallow; her cheeks were drawn; haggard lines appeared beneath her eyes; her cheekbones and chin were prominent. It struck him that she might be fighting a hard battle against poverty. She looked underfed. He asked her. "Have you an engagement here in Avignon?" She shook her head. No, she was resting. "How long have you been out?" She couldn't tell. Many weeks. And prospects for the immediate future? The Tournée Tardieu was coming next Monday to Avignon. She knew the manager. Possibly he would give her a short engagement. "And if he doesn't?" "I will arrange," said Elodie with a show of bravery. Andrew frowned again, and his mild blue eyes narrowed keenly. He stretched out his arm and put his delicate fingers on her hand. "You have given me your help and sympathy. Do you refuse mine? Why does your pride forbid you to tell me that you are in great distress?" "What would be the good?" she replied with averted face. "How could you help me? Money? Oh no. I would sooner fling myself in the river." "You're talking foolishness," said he. "You know that you are in debt for your little room, and that the _propriétaire_ won't let you stay much longer. You know that you have not sufficient food. You know that you have had nothing to-day but a bit of bread and a cup of coffee, if you have had that. Confess!" The corners of her mouth worked pathetically. In spite of heroic effort, a sob came into her throat and tears into her eyes. Then she broke down and wept wretchedly. Yes, it was true. She had but a few sous in the world. No other clothes but those she wore. Oh, she was ashamed, ashamed that he should guess. If she had not been weak, he would have gone away and never have known. And so on, and so forth. The situation was plain as day to Andrew. Elodie, if not his guardian angel, at any rate his mascot, was down and out. While she was crying, he slipped, unperceived, a hundred-franc note into the side pocket of her jacket. At all events she should have a roof over her head and food to eat for the next few days, until he could devise some plan for her future welfare. Her future welfare! For all his generous impulses, it gave him cause for cold thought. How the deuce could a wandering, even though successful, young mountebank assure the future of a forlorn and untalented young woman? "_Voyons, chère amie_," said he comfortingly, "all is not yet lost. If the theatre does not give you a livelihood, we might try something else. I have my little savings. I could easily lend you enough to buy a _petit commerce_, a little business. You could repay me, bit by bit, at your convenience. _Tiens!_ Didn't you tell me you were apprenticed to a dressmaker?" But Elodie was hopeless. All that she had learned as a child she had forgotten. She was fit for nothing but posturing on the stage. If André could get her a good engagement, that was all the aid she would accept. Andrew looked at his watch. The afternoon had sped with magical rapidity. He reflected that not only must he dine, but he must think over and rehearse the evening's performance with Prépimpin's part cut out. He dared not improvise before the public. He rose with the apologetic explanation-- "My little Elodie," said he, as they walked along the battlemented city walls towards the great gate, "have courage. Come to the Palace to-night. I will arrange that you shall have a loge. You only have to ask for it. And after my turn, you shall meet me, as long ago, at the Café des Négociants, and we shall sup together and talk of your affairs." She meekly consented. And when they parted at the entrance to the Hôtel d'Europe, he said: "If I do not ask you to dine, it is because I have to think and work. You understand? But in your pocket you will find _de quoi bien dîner. Au revoir, chère amie_." He put out his hand. She held it, while her eyes, tragically large and dark, searched his with painful intensity. "Tell me," she said, "is it better that I should come and see you to-night or that I should throw myself over the bridge into the Rhone?" "If you meet me to-night," said Andrew, "you will still be alive, which, after all, is a very good thing." "_Je viendrai,_" said Elodie. "The devil!" said Andrew, entering the courtyard of the hotel, and wiping a perspiring brow, "here am I faced with a pretty responsibility!" Experience enabled him to give a satisfactory performance; and his manager prepared his path by announcing the unhappy end of Prépimpin and craving the indulgence of the audience. But Andrew passed a heartbroken hour at the music-hall. In his dressing-room were neatly stored the dog's wardrobe and properties--the gay ribbons, the harness, the little yellow silk hat which he wore with such a swaggering air, the little basket carried over his front paw into which he would sweep various objects when his master's back was turned, the drinking dish labelled "Dog" ... He suffered almost a human bereavement. And then, the audience, for this night, was kind. But, as conscientious artist, he was sensitively aware of makeshift. A great element of his success lay in the fact that he had trained the dog to appear the more clever of the two, to score off his pretended clumsiness and to complete his tricks. For years he had left uncultivated the art of being funny by himself. Without Prépimpin he felt lost, like a man in a sculling race with only one oar. He took off his make-up and dressed, a very much worried man. Of course he could obtain another trained dog without much difficulty, and the special training would not take long; but he would have to love the animal in order to establish that perfect partnership which was essential to his performance. And how could he love any other dog than Prépimpin? He felt that he would hate the well-meaning but pretentious hound. He went out filled with anxieties and repugnances. Elodie was waiting for him by the stage door. She said: "You got out of the difficulty marvellously." "But it was nothing like the performance you saw yesterday." "_Ah non_" she replied frankly. "_Voilà_," said he, dejectedly. They walked, almost in silence, along the Avenue de la Gare, thronged, as it was at the time of their first meeting, with the good citizens of Avignon, taking the air of the sultry summer evening. She told him afterwards that she felt absurdly small and insignificant trotting by the side of his gaunt height, a feeling which she had not experienced years before when their relative positions were reversed. But now she regarded him as a kind of stricken god; and womanlike she was conscious of haggard face and shrunken bosom, whereas before, she had stepped beside him proud of the ripe fulness of her youth. Whither the commonplace adventure was leading them neither knew. For his part pity compelled superstitious sentiment to the payment, in some vague manner, of a long-standing obligation. She had also given him very rare sympathy that afternoon, and he was grateful. But things ended there, in a sort of blind alley. For her part, she let herself go with the current of destiny into which, by strange hazard, she had drifted. She had the humility which is the fiercest form of pride. Although she clung desperately to him, as to the spar that alone could save her from drowning, although the feminine within her was drawn to his kind and simple manliness, and although her heart was touched by his grief at the loss of the dog, yet never for a moment did she count upon the ordinary romantic _dénouement_ of such a situation. The idea came involuntarily into her mind. Into the mind of what woman of her upbringing would not the idea come? But she banished it savagely. Who was she, waste rag of a woman, to attract a man? And even had she retained the vivid beauty and plenitude of her maidenhood, it would have been just the same. Elodie Figasso had never sold herself. No. All that side of things was out of the question. She wished, however, that he was less of an enigmatic, though kindly, sphinx. Over their modest supper of sandwiches and Côtes du Rhône wine, in an inside corner of the Café des Négociants--it was all the café could offer, and besides she swore to a plentiful dinner--they discussed their respective forlorn positions. Adroitly she tacked away from her own concerns towards his particular dilemma. If he shrank from training another dog and yet distrusted a solo performance, what was he going to do? Take a partner like his friend--she forgot the name--yes, Bakkus, on whom perhaps he couldn't rely, and who naturally would demand half his salary? "Never again," Andrew declared, feeling better after a draught of old Hermitage. "The only thing I can think of is to engage a competent assistant." Then Elodie's swift brain conceived a daring idea. "You would have to train the assistant." "Of course. But," he added in a dismal tone, "most of the assistants I have seen are abysmally stupid. They are dummies. They give nothing of themselves, for the performer to act up to." "In fact," said Elodie, trying hard to steady her voice, "you want someone entirely in sympathy with you, who can meet you half-way--like Prépimpin." "Precisely," said Andrew. "But where can I find a human Prépimpin?" She abandoned knife and fork and, with both arms resting on the table, looked across at him, and it suddenly struck him that her great dark eyes, intelligent and submissive, were very much like the eyes of Prépimpin. And so, womanlike, she conveyed the Idea from her brain to his. He said very thoughtfully, "I wonder--" "What?" "What have you done on the stage? What can you do? Tell me. Unfortunately I have never seen you." She could sing--not well now, because her voice had suffered--but still she sang true. She had a musical ear. She could accompany anyone on the piano, _pas trop mal_. She could dance. Oh, to that she owed her first engagement. She had also learned to play the castagnettes and the tambourine, _à l'Espagnole_. And she was accustomed to discipline.... As she proceeded with the unexciting catalogue of her accomplishments she lost self-control, and her eyes burned and her lips quivered and her voice shook in unison with the beatings of a desperately anxious heart. Our Andrew, although an artist dead set on perfection and a shrewd man of business, was young, pitiful and generous. The pleading dog's look in Elodie's eyes was too much for him. He felt powerless to resist. His brain worked swiftly, devising all kinds of artistic possibilities. Besides, was not Fate accomplishing itself by presenting this solution of both their difficulties? "I wonder whether you would care to try the experiment?" With an effort of feminine duplicity she put on a puzzled and ingenuous expression. "What experiment?" He was somewhat taken aback: surely he must have misinterpreted her pleading. From the dispenser of fortune, he became the seeker of favours. "I know it's not much of a position to offer you," said he, almost apologetically, "but if you care to accept it----" "Of your assistant?" she asked, as though the idea had never entered her head. "Why, yes. If you will consent to a month of very hard work. You would have to learn a little elementary juggling. You would have to give me instantaneous replies in act and speech. But if you would give yourself up to me I could teach you." "But, _mon pauvre André_," she said, with an astonished air, "this is the last thing I ever dreamed of. I am so ignorant. I should put you to shame." "Oh no, you wouldn't," said he, confidently. "I know my business. Wait. _Les affaires sont les affaires_. I should have to give you a little contract. Let us see. For the remainder of my tour--ten weeks--ten francs a day with hotel _en pension_ and railway fares." To Elodie, independent waif in theatre-land, this was wealth beyond her dreams. She stretched both hands across the table. "Do you mean that? It is true? And, if I please you, you will keep me always?" "Why not?" said Andrew. "And, if you show talent, we may come to a better arrangement for the next tour." "And if I show no talent at all?" He made a deprecating gesture and grinned in his charming way. But Elodie's intuition taught her that there was the stern purpose of a man behind the grin. She had imposed her helplessness on him this once. But if she failed him she would not have, professionally, a second chance. "I insist on your having talent," said Andrew. The walk home to her dingy lodgings repeated itself. She felt very humble yet triumphant. More than ever did she regard him as a god who had raised her, by a touch, from despair and starvation to hope and plenty, and in her revulsion of gratitude she could have taken both his hands and passionately kissed them. And yet she was proudly conscious of something within her, unconquerably feminine, which had touched his godship and wrought the miracle. They halted in the narrow, squalid street, before the dark entry of the house where she lodged. Andrew eyed the poverty-stricken hole in disgust. Obviously she had touched the depths. "To-morrow you must move," said he. "I shall arrange a room for you at the hotel. We shall have much business to discuss. Can you be there at ten o'clock?" "Whatever you say shall be done," she replied humbly. He put out his hand. "Good-night, Elodie. Have courage and all will be well." She murmured some thanks with a sob in her voice and, turning swiftly, disappeared up the evil-smelling stone stairs. The idea of kissing her did not occur to him until he found himself alone and remembered the pretty idyll of their leave-taking long ago. He laughed, none too gaily. Between boy and girl and man and woman there was a vast difference. Chapter X That was the beginning of the combination known a little while afterwards as _Les Petit Patou_. Elodie, receptive, imitative, histrionic, showed herself from the start an apt pupil. To natural talent she added the desire, born of infinite gratitude, to please her benefactor. She possessed the rare faculty of perfect surrender. Andrew marvelled. Had he hypnotized her she could not have more completely executed his will. And yet she was no automaton. She was artist enough to divine when her personality should be effaced and when it should count. She spoke her patter with intelligent point. She learned, thanks to Andrew's professional patience, and her own vehement will, a few elementary juggling tricks. Andrew repeated the famous Prépimpin cigar-act. Open-mouthed, Elodie followed his manipulations. When he threw away the cigar it seemed to enter her mouth quite naturally, against her will. She removed it with an expression of disgust and hurled it at Andrew, who caught it between his lips, smoked it for a second or two and grinned his thanks. With a polite gesture he threw it, as the audience thought, back to her; but by a sleight-of-hand trick the cigar vanished and she caught, to her delighted astonishment, a pearl necklace, which, as she clasped it round her neck, vanished likewise. After which he overwhelmed her with disappearing jewels. At once it became a popular item in their entertainment. In the course of a few months he swore she was worth a hundred Prépimpins. He could teach her anything. By the end of the year he evolved the grotesque performance that made Les Petit Patou famous in provincial France, brought them for a season to Paris at the Cirque Médrano, to London (for a week) at the Hippodrome, to the principal cities of Italy, and doubled and trebled the salary which he enjoyed as Petit Patou all alone with the dog. Meanwhile it is important to note a very swift physical change in Elodie. When a young woman, born to plumpness, is reduced by misery to skin and bone, a short term of succulent nourishment and absence of worry, will suffice to restore her to a natural condition. She had no beauty, save that of her dark and luminous eyes and splendid teeth. Her features were coarse and irregular. Her uncared for skin gave signs of future puffiness. But still--after two or three happy months, she more or less regained the common attractiveness and the audacious self-confidence of the Marseilles _gamine_ who had asked him to kiss her long ago. Thus, imperceptibly, she became less an assistant than a partner, less a paid servant on the stage than a helpmeet in his daily life. Looking at the traditions of their environment and at the enforced intimacy of their vagabondage, one sees the inevitability of this linking of their fortunes. That there was any furious love about the affair I have very grave doubts. Andrew in his secret soul still hankered after the Far-away Princess, and Elodie had spent most of her passionate illusions on the unspeakable Raoul. But they had a very fair basis of mutual affection to build upon. Philosophers will tell you that such is the basis of most happy marriages. You can believe them or not, as you please. I am in no position to dogmatise.... At any rate Les Petit Patou started off happily. If Elodie was not the perfect housewife, you must remember her upbringing and her devil-may-care kind of theatrical existence. Andrew knew that hers were not the habits of the Far-away One, who like himself would be a tidy soul, bringing into commonplace tidiness an exquisitely harmonious sense of order; but the Far-away One was a mythical being endowed with qualities which it would be absurd to look for in Elodie. Besides, their year being mainly spent in hotels, she had little opportunity of cultivating housewifely qualities. If she neglected the nice conduct of his underlinen after the first few months of their partnership, he could not find it in his heart to blame her. Professional work was tiring. Her own clothes needed her attention. But still, the transient comfort had been very agreeable.... In Paris, too, at first she had played at house-keeping in the apartment of the Faubourg Saint-Denis. But Elodie did not understand the _bonne_, and the _bonne_ refused to understand Elodie in the matter of catering, and they emphasized their mutual misunderstanding with the unrestrained speech of children of the people. Once or twice Andrew went hungry. In his sober and dignified way he drew Elodie's attention to his unusual condition. It led to their first quarrel. After that they ate, very comfortably, at a little restaurant round the corner. It was not the home life of which Andrew had dreamed--not even the reincarnation of Madame Flint sitting by the round table darning socks by the light of the shaded lamp. Elodie loathed domestic ideals. "_Mon vieux_," she would declare, "I had enough sewing in my young days. My idea of happiness would be a world without needles and thread." He noted in her, too, a curious want of house-pride. Dust gave her no great concern. She rather loved a litter of periodicals, chiffons, broken packets of cigarettes, tobacco and half-eaten fruit on the tables. A picture askew never attracted her attention. To remain in the house, dressed in her out-of-door clothes, seemed to her vain extravagance and discomfort. A wrapper and slippers, the more soiled and shapeless the better, were the only indoor wear. Andrew deplored her lack of literary interest. She would read the feuilletons of the _Petit Journal_ and the _Matin_ in a desultory fashion; but she could not concentrate her mind on the continuous perusal of a novel. She spent hours over a pack of greasy cards, telling her fortune by intricate methods. The same with music; though in this case she had a love for it in the open air when a band was playing, and was possessed of a natural ear, and could read easy pieces and accompaniments at sight with some facility. But she would never try to learn anything difficult; would never do more than strum a popular air or two until swift boredom paralysed her nerves. Yet, for all her domestic slatternness, the moment she emerged from private into professional life, her phlegmatic indolence was transformed into quick energy. No rehearsal wearied her. Into every performance she concentrated the whole of her being. If it were a question of mastering a grotesque accompaniment to a new air on Andrew's one-string fiddle, she would slave for hours until it was perfect. She kept her stage costume in scrupulous repair. Her make-up box was a model of tidiness. She would be late for lunch, late for dinner, late for any social engagement, but never once was she late for a professional appointment. On the stage her loyalty to Andrew never wavered. No man could have a more ideal co-worker. She never lost her head, demanded a more prominent position, or grudged him the lion's share of the applause. In her praiseworthy lack of theatrical vanity, writes Lackaday, by way of encomium, she was unique among women. A pearl of great price. Also, when they walked abroad, she dressed with neatness. Her hair, a stringy bush at home, appeared a miracle of coiffure. Lips and eyes received punctilious attention. The perfection of her high-heeled shoes was a matter of grave concern. Whatever may have been underneath, the outside of her toilette received anxious care. She thought much of externals. Andrew came within her purview. She did her best to remodel his outer man more in accordance with his prosperity; but what woman can have sartorial success with the man who is the tailor's despair? Lackaday is pathetically insistent on her manifold virtues. She retains all through the years her street-child's swift intelligence. She has _flair_. She predicts instinctively the tastes of varying audiences. She has a vivid imagination curiously controlled by the most prosaic common sense. He rarely errs in taking her advice.... To her further credit balance, she is more saving than extravagant. Bits of jewellery please her, but she does not crave inordinate adornment. When he buys a touring-car for the greater comfort of their vagrant life, she is appalled by the cost and upbraids him with more than a touch of shrewishness. Her tastes do not rise with her position. She would sooner have a _chou-croûte garnie_ than a fore-quarter of Paris lamb or a duck _à la presse_. She could never understand why Andrew should pay four or five francs for a bottle of wine, when they could buy a good black or grey for three sous a litre. On tour gaieties were things unthought of. But during periods of rest, in Paris, she cared little for excitement. With an income relieving her from the necessity of work, she would have been content to lounge slipshod about the house till the day of her death. Once Andrew, having to entertain, for politic reasons, the director of a Paris music-hall, took her to the Café de Paris. The guest, in a millionaire way, had suggested that resort of half-hungry wealth. Modest Andrew had never entered such a place in his life; nor, naturally, had Elodie. Knowing, however, that one went there in full dress, he disinterred a dress-suit which he had bought three years before in order to attend the funeral of a distinguished brother artist, and sent Elodie with a thousand-franc note to array herself in an adequate manner, at the Galeries La Fayette. Elodie's economical soul shrank in horror from the expenditure, at one fell swoop, of a thousand francs. She bought God knows what for less than half the money. Proud of her finery, secretly exulting also that she had a matter of twenty pounds or so put away in her private stocking, she flaunted down the crowded restaurant, followed by the little fat director, only remarkable for a diamond flash-light in his shirt-front, and by Andrew, inordinately long and gawky, in his ill-fitting, short-sleeved evening suit, his ready made white tie already wandering in grievance towards a sympathetic ear. Women in dreams of diaphanous and exiguous raiment stared derisively at the trio as they passed their tables. Elodie stared back at them. Now, Lackaday, honest soul, had, not the remotest notion of what was wrong with her attire. In his eyes she was dressed like a queen. She wore, says he, a beautiful emerald green dress, and a devil of a hat with a lot of dark blue feathers in it. But, as she was surrendering her cloak to the white-capped lady of the vestiare, there came from a merry adjoining table the clear-cut remark of a young woman, all bare arms, back and bosom, but otherwise impeccably vestured: "They oughtn't to allow it, in a place like this--_des grues des Batignolles_." Unsuccessful ladies of easy virtue from Whitechapel, perhaps, is the nearest rendering of the phrase. Elodie had quick ears. She also had the quick temper and tongue of Marseilles. She hung behind the two men, who proceeded to their table unconscious of drama. "In these places," she spat, "they pay naked women like you to come to attract men. You fear the competition of the modest, _ma fille_." The indiscreet young woman had no retort. She flushed crimson over neck and shoulders, while Elodie, triumphant, swept away. But the ensuing dinner was not an exhilarating meal. She burned with the insult, dilated upon it, repeated over and over again her repartee, offered her costume to the frank criticism of Andrew and their guest. Did she look like a _grue?_ Did her toilette in any way suggest the Batignolles? In vain did the fat director proclaim her ravishing. Andrew, at first indignant, assured her that the insulter had been properly set down. If it had been a man, he would have lifted the puppy from his chair and beaten him before the whole restaurant. But a woman! She had met her match in Elodie. In vain he confirmed the director's opinion. Elodie could not eat. Food stuck in her throat; she could only talk interminably of the outrage. The little fat director made his escape as soon as he had eaten the last mouthful of dinner. "_Eh bien_," said Elodie, as they were driving home to the Faubourg Saint-Denis, "and is it all fixed up, the Paris contract?" "My dear," replied Andrew gently, "you gave us little chance to discuss it." "I prevented you?" cried Elodie. "I? _Bon Dieu!_ Oh no. It is too much. You first take me to a place where I am insulted, and then reproach me for being an obstacle between you and your professional success. No doubt the naked woman would be a better partner for you. She could wheedle and coax that little horror of a manager. I, who am an honest woman, am a drag on you--" And so on, with a whirling unreason, with which Andrew had grown familiar. But the episode of the Café de Paris marks the beginning and the end of Elodie's acquaintance with the smart world. She hates it with a fierce jealousy, knowing that it is a sphere beyond her ken. Herein lay a fundamental principle of her character. The courtesan, with her easy adaptability to the glittering environment which she craves, and Elodie, essentially child of the people, proud, and virtuous according to her lights, were worlds apart. A bit of a socialist, Elodie, she stuck fiercely to her class. People she was. People she would remain. A daw of the people, she had tried to peacock it among the gentry. She had been detected in her borrowed plumes. At the stupid reference to her supposed morals she snapped her fingers. It was idiotic. It was the detection of the plumage that rankled in her soul. From that moment she hated society and every woman in it with an elaborate ostentation. The very next day she sold the emerald green dress and the devil of a hat and, with a certain grim satisfaction, stuffed the proceeds into the stocking of economy. In spite of the disastrous dinner, Andrew obtained the Paris engagement. He was not, however, greatly surprised--so far had his education advanced--when Elodie claimed the credit. "At that dinner--what did you do? You sat silent as the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde. It was I who made all the conversation. Monsieur Wolff was very enchanted." Andrew grinned. "I don't know what I should do without you, Elodie," said he. Now, in sketching the life of Andrew Lackaday and Elodie, I again labour under the difficulty of having to compress into a few impressionistic strokes the history of years. The task is in one way made easier, in that these years of work and wandering scarcely show the development of anything. What was true at the end of the first year of their partnership seems to be true at the end of the second, third, fourth and fifth. After a time when their grotesque performance was a fixed and settled thing, there was little need for the invention of novelty or for rehearsal. Week after week, month after month, year after year, they reproduced their almost stereotyped entertainment. Here and there, according to the idiosyncrasy of the audience, they introduced some variety. But the very variations, in course of time, became stereotyped. Too violent a change proved disastrous. The public demanded the particular antics with which the name of Les Petit Patou was identified. Thus life was reduced to terms of beautiful simplicity. Yet, perhaps, after all, their sentimental relations did undergo an imperceptible development, as subtle as that which led in the first place to their union. This union had its original promptings in a not unromantic chain of circumstances. Of vulgarity or sordidness it had nothing. Had Elodie been free it would never have entered Andrew's head not to marry her, and she would have married him offhand. Lackaday insists on our remembering this vital fact. Sincere affection drew them together. Then the first couple of years or so were devoted to mutual discoveries. There was no question on either part of erring after strange fancies. Elodie carried her air of propriety in the happy-go-lucky music-hall world almost to the point of the absurd. As for Andrew, he had ever shown himself the most lagging Lothario of his profession. Indeed, for a period during which she suffered an exaggeration of her own sentiments, she upbraided him for not being the perfect lover of her half-forgotten dreams.... "Why don't you love me any longer, André?" "But I love you, surely. That goes without saying." "Then why do you go on reading, reading all the time instead of telling me so?" She would be lying on a couch, dressed in her soiled wrapper and old bedroom slippers, occupied with nothing but boredom, while Andrew devoted himself to the unguided pursuit of knowledge, the precious pleasure of his life. He would put the book face downwards on his knee and pucker his brows. "_Mon Dieu, ma chérie_, what do you want me to say?" "That you love me." "I've just said it." "Say it again." "_Je l'aime bien. Voilà!_" "And that's all?" "Of course it's all. What remains to be said?" The honest fellow was mystified. He could not keep on repeating the formula for the two or three hours of their repose. It would be the monotonous reiteration of the idiot. And he could no more have knelt by her side and poured out his adoration in the terms, let us say, of Chastelard, than he could have lectured her on Hittite inscriptions. What did she want? She sighed. He cared for his old book much more than for her. "My dear," said he, "if you would only read a bit you would find it a great comfort and delight." You see, at this rather critical period, each had their grievance--Elodie only, of course, as far as their private lives were concerned. Elodie, somewhat romantically inclined, wanted she knew not what. Perhaps a recrudescence of the fine frenzy of the early days of her marriage with Raoul. Sober Andrew craved some kind of intellectual companionship. If Elodie grudged him the joy of books and he yielded to her resentment, he was a lost mountebank. And the very devil of it was that, just at this time, he had discovered the most fascinating branch of literature imaginable. Creasy's _Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World_, picked up in a cheap edition, had put him on the track. He procured Kinglake's _Crimea_. He was now deep in the study of Napier's _Peninsular War_. He studied it, pencil in hand and notebook by his side, filled with diagrams and contours of country and little parallelograms all askew denoting Army Corps or divisions. Of course, he did not expect Elodie to interest herself in military history, but he deplored her unconcealed hatred of his devotion to a darling pursuit. Why could not she find pleasure in some intelligent occupation? To spend one's leisure in untidy sloth did not consort with the dignity of a human being. Why didn't she do this or that? She rejected all suggestions. Retorted: Why couldn't he spend a few hours in relaxation like everybody else? If only he would go and play billiards at the café. That he should amuse himself outside among men was only natural. Sitting at home, in her company, over a book, got on her nerves. Horatio Bakkus encouraged her maliciously. In Paris he made the flat in the Faubourg Saint-Denis his habitual resting-place, and ate his meals in their company at the café round the corner. "If there is one thing, my dear Elodie, more futile than fighting battles, it is reading about them," he declared at one of their symposia. "_Voilà!_ You hear what Horace says! An educated man who knows what he is talking about." "It's a kind of disease, like chess or the study of the Railway Guide. And when he prefers it to the conversation of a beautiful and talented woman, it's worse than a disease, it's a crime. My dear fellow," he cried with an ironical gleam in his dark eyes, "you're blind to the treasure the gods have given you. Any ass can write a text-book, but the art of conversation is a gift bestowed by Heaven upon the very few." Elodie, preening herself, asked: "Is it true that I have that gift?" "You have the flow of words. You have wit. You talk like a running brook. You talk like no book that ever was written. I would sooner, my dear, listen to the ripple of your speech than read all the manuals of military science the world has produced." Andrew saw her flattered to fluttering point. "Don't you know that he is the greatest _blagueur_ an existence?" he asked. But Elodie had fallen under the spell of Bakkus. Like him she loved talk, although her education allowed her only the lightest kind. She loved its give-and-take, its opportunities for the flash of wit or jest. Bakkus could talk about an old boot. She too. He could analyse sentiment in his mordant way. She could analyse it in her own unsophisticated fashion. Now Andrew, though death on facts and serious argument, remained dumb and bewildered in a passage-at-arms about apparently nothing at all; and while Bakkus and Elodie enjoyed themselves prodigiously, he gaped at them, wondering what the deuce they found to laugh at. He was for ever warning Elodie not to put a too literal interpretation on Bakkus's sayings. The singer had gone grey, and that touch of venerability gave him an air of greater distinction, as a broken down tragedian, than he possessed when Andrew had first met him ten years or so before. Elodie could bandy jests with him, but when he spoke with authority she listened overawed. "My dear André," she replied to his remark. "I am not a fool. I know when Horace is talking nonsense and when he means what he says." "And I maintain," said Bakkus, "that this most adorable woman is being sacrificed on the altar of Cæsar's Commentaries and the latest French handbook on scientific slaughter." "I think," said Andrew, who had imprudently sketched his course of reading to the cynic, "that _The Art of War_ by Colonel Foch is the most masterly thing ever written on the subject of warfare." "But who is going to war, these days, my good fellow?" "They're at it now," said Andrew. "The Balkans--Turkey--Bulgaria? Barbarians. What's that got to do with civilized England and France?" "What about Germany?" "Germany's never going to sacrifice her commercial position by going to war. Among great powers war is a lunatic anachronism." "Oh, _mon Dieu_," cried Elodie, "now you're talking politics." Bakkus took her hand which held a fork on which was prodded a gherkin--they were at lunch--and raised it to his lips. "_Pardon, chère madame_. It was this maniac of an André. He is mad or worse. Years ago I told him he ought to be a sergeant in a barrack square." "Just so!" cried Elodie. "Look at him now. Here he is as soft as two pennyworth of butter. But in the theatre, if things do not go quite as he wants them--oh la la! It is Right turn--Quick march! Brr! And I who speak have to do just the same as the others." "I know," said Bakkus. "A Prussian without bowels. Ah, my poor Elodie! My heart bleeds for you." "Where do you keep it--that organ?" asked Andrew. "He keeps it," retorted Elodie, "where you haven't got it. Horace understands me. You don't. Horace and I are going to talk. You smoke your cigar and think of battles and don't interfere." It was said laughingly, so that Andrew had no cause for protest; but beneath the remark ran a streak of significance. She resented the serious tone at which Andrew had led the conversation. He and his military studies and his war of the future! They bored her to extinction. She glanced at him obliquely. A young man of thirty, he behaved himself like the senior of this youthful, flashing, elderly man who had the gift of laughter and could pluck out for her all that she had of spontaneity in life. This conversation was typical of many which filled Elodie's head with an illusion of the brilliant genius of Horatio Bakkus. In spite of her peevishness she had a wholesome respect for Andrew--for his honesty, his singleness of purpose, his gentle masterfulness. But, all the same, their common detection of the drill-sergeant in his nature formed a sympathetic bond between Bakkus and herself. In the back of her mind, she set Andrew down as a dull dog. For all his poring over books, Bakkus could defeat him any day in argument. The agreeable villain's mastery of phrase fascinated her. And what he didn't know about the subtle delicacies of women's temperament was not worth knowing. She could tell him any thing and count on sympathy; whereas Andrew knew less about women than about his poodle dog. There was, I say, this mid-period of their union when they grew almost estranged. Andrew, in spite of his loyalty, began to regret. He remembered the young girl who had rushed to him so tearfully as he was bending over the body of Prépimpin--the flashing vision of the women of another world. In such a one would he find the divine companionship. She would stand with him, their souls melting together in awe before the majesty of Chartres, in worship before the dreaming spires of Rheims, in joy before the smiling beauty of Azay-le-Rideau. They would find a world of things to say of the rugged fairyland of Auvergne or the swooning loveliness of the Côte d'Azur. They would hear each other's heart beating as they viewed great pictures, their pulses would throb together as they listened to great opera. He would lie at her feet as she read the poets that she loved. She would also take an affectionate interest in military strategy. She would be different, oh, so different from Elodie. To Elodie, save for the comfort of inns, the accommodation of dressing-rooms and the appreciation of audiences, one town was exactly the same as another. She found amusement in sitting at a café with a glass of syrup and water in front of her, and listening to a band; otherwise she had no æsthetic sense. She used terms regarding cathedrals and pictures for which boredom is the mildly polite euphemism. A busy street gay with shop windows attracted her far more than any grandeur of natural scenery. She loved displays of cheap millinery and underwear. Andrew could not imagine the Other One requiring his responsive ecstasy over a fifteen-franc purple hat with a green feather, or a pile of silk stockings at four francs fifty a pair ... The Other One, in a moment of delicious weakness, might stand enraptured before a dream of old lace or exquisite tissue or what not, and it would be his joy to take her by the hand, enter the shop and say "It is yours." But Elodie had no such moments. Her economical habits gave him no chance of divine extravagance. Even when he took her in to buy the fifteen-franc hat, she put him to shame by trying to bargain. So they lost touch with each other until a bird or two brought them together again. Figuratively it is the history of most unions. In theirs, the birds were corporeal. It was at Montpellier. An old man had a turn with a set of performing birds, canaries, perroquets, love-birds, beauregards. Elodie came across him rehearsing on the stage. She watched the rehearsal fascinated. Then she approached the cages. _"Faites attention, Madame,"_ cried the old man in alarm. "You will scare them. They know no one but me." _"Mais non, mais non,"_ said Elodie. _"Voyons, ça me connaît."_ She spoke from idle braggadocio. But when she put her hands on the cages, the birds came to her. They hopped about her fearlessly. She fished in her pockets for chocolate--her only extravagant vice--and bird after bird pecked at the sweet from her mouth. The old man said: "Truly the birds know you, Madame. It is a gift. No one can tell whence it comes--and it comes to very few. There are also human beings for whom snakes have a natural affinity." Elodie shuddered. "Snakes! I prefer birds. Ah, _le petit amour. Viens donc!_" She had them all about her, on head and shoulders and arms, all unafraid, all content; then all fluttering with their clipped wings, about her lips, except a grey parrot who rubbed his beak against her ear. Andrew, emerging suddenly from the wings, stood wonder-stricken. "But you are a bird-woman," said he. "I have heard of such, but never seen one." From that moment, the town-bred, town-compelled woman who had thought of bird-life only in terms of sparrows, set about to test her unsuspected powers. And what the old man and Andrew had said was true.... They wandered to the Peyrou, the beautiful Louis XIV terraced head of the great aqueduct, and sat in the garden--she alone, Andrew some yards apart--and once a few crumbs attracted a bird, it would hop nearer and nearer, and if she was very still it would light on her finger and eat out of the palm of her hand, and if she were very gentle, she could stroke the wild thing's head and plumage. A new and wonderful interest came into her life. To find birds, Elodie, who by this time hated walking from hotel to music-hall, so had her indolence grown accustomed to the luxurious car, tramped for miles through the woods accompanied by Andrew almost as excited as herself at the new discovery. And he bought her books on birds, from which she could learn their names, their distinguishing colours and marks, their habits and their cries. It must be remarked that the enthusiastic search for knowledge, involving, as it did, much physical exertion, lasted only a summer. But it sufficed to re-establish friendly relations between the drifting pair. She found an interest in life apart from the professional routine. During the autumn and winter she devoted herself to the training of birds, and Andrew gave her the benefit of his life's experience in the science. They travelled about with an aviary. And while Andrew, now unreproached, frowned, pencil in hand and notebook by his side, over the strategics of the Franco-Prussian War, Elodie, always in her slatternly wrapper, spent enraptured hours in putting her feathered troupe through their pretty tricks or in playing with them foolishly as one plays with a dog. Thus their midway mutual grievances imperceptibly vanished. The positive was eliminated from their relations. They had been beginning to hate each other. Hatred ceased. Perhaps Elodie dreamed now and then of the Perfect Lover. Andrew had ever at the back of his soul the Far-away Princess, the Other One, the Being who would enable him to formulate a mode of nebulous existence and spiritual chaos, and then to live the wondrous life recalled by the magical formula. I must insist on this, so that you can recognize that the young and successful mountebank, although dead set on the perfection of his mountebankery, and, in serious fact, never dreaming of a work-a-day existence outside the walls of a Variety Theatre yet had the tentacles of his being spread gropingly, blindly, octopus-like, to the major potentialities of life. Even when looking back upon himself, as he does in the crude manuscript, he cannot account for these unconscious, or subconscious, feelings. He has no idea of the cause of the fascination wrought on him by military technicalities. It might have been chess, it might have been conchology, it might have been heraldry. Hobbies are more or less unaccountable. In view of his later career it seems to me that he found in the unalluring textbooks of Clausewitz and Foch and those bound in red covers for the use of the staff of the British Army, some expressions of a man's work--which was absent from the sphere into which fate had set him clad in green silk tights. The subject was instinct with the commanding brain. If his lot had been cast in the theatre proper, instead of in the music-hall, he might have become a great manager. However, all that is by the way. The important thing, for the time we are dealing with, is his relations with Elodie for the remainder half of their union before the war. These, I have said, ceased to be positive. They accepted their united life as they accepted the rain and the sunshine and the long motor journeys from town to town. Spiritually they went each their respective ways, unmolested by the other. But they each formed an integral part of the other's existence. They were bound by the indissoluble ties of habit. And as Elodie, now that she had got her birds to amuse her, made no demands on Andrew, and as Andrew, who had schooled his tidy soul to toleration of her slovenliness, made no demands on Elodie, they were about as happy as any pair in France. When she passed thirty, her face coarsened and her uncared-for figure began to spread. And then the war broke out. Chapter XI The outbreak of war knocked the Petit Patou variety combination silly, as it knocked many thousands of other combinations in France. One day it was a going concern worth a pretty sum of money; the next day it was gone. They happened to be in Paris, putting in a fortnight's rest after an exhausting four months on the road, and waiting for the beginning of a beautiful tour booked for Aix-les-Bains, for the race-weeks at Dieppe and Deauville, for Biarritz--the cream of August and September resorts of the wealthy.... Then, in a dazzling flash, mobilization. No more actors, no more stage hands, no more croupiers, no more punters, no more theatre-goers. No more anything but all sorts and conditions of men getting into uniform and all sorts and conditions of women trying to smile but weeping inward blood. Contracts, such as Andrew's, were blown away like thistledown. Peremptory authorities required Andrew's papers. They had done so years before when he reached the age of military service. But now, as then, they proved Andrew indisputably to be a British subject--he had to thank Ben Flint for that--and the authorities went their growling way. "What luck!" cried Elodie, when she heard the result of the perquisition. "Otherwise you would have been taken and sent off to this _sale guerre._" "I'm not so sure," replied Andrew, with a grim set of his ugly jaw, "that I'm not going off to the _sale guerre,_ without being sent." "But it is idiotic, what you say!" cried Elodie, in consternation. "What do you think, Horace?" Bakkus threw a pair of Elodie's corsets which encumbered the other end of the sofa on which he was lounging on to the floor and put up his feet and sucked at his cigar, one of Andrew's best--the box, by the way, Elodie, who kept the key of a treasure cupboard, seldom brought out except for Bakkus--and said: "Andrew isn't a very intellectual being. He bases his actions on formulas. Such people in times of stress even forget the process of thought that led to the establishment of the formulas. They shrink into a kind of trained animal. Andrew here is just like a little dog ready to do his tricks. Some voice which he can't resist will soon say, 'Bingo, die for your country.' And our good friend, without changing a muscle of his ugly face, will stretch himself out dead on the floor." "Truth," said Andrew, with a hard glint in his eyes, "does sometimes issue from the lips of a fool." Bakkus laughed, passing his hand over his silvering locks; but Elodie looked very serious. Absent-mindedly she picked up her corsets, and, the weather being sultry, she fanned herself with them. "You are going to enlist in the Legion?" "I am an Englishman, and my duty is towards my own country." "Bingo is an English dog," said Bakkus. Reaction from gladness made Elodie's heart grow cold, filled it with sudden dread. It was hard. Most of the women of France were losing their men of vile necessity. She, one of the few privileged by law to retain her man, now saw him swept away in the stream. Protest could be of no avail. When the mild Andrew set his mug of a face like that--his long smiling lips merged into each other like two slugs, and his eyes narrowed to little pin points, she knew that neither she nor any woman nor any man nor the _bon Dieu_ Himself could move him from his purpose. She could only smile rather miserably. "Isn't it a little bit mad, your idea?" "Mad? Of course he is," said Bakkus. "Much reading in military text-books has made him mad. A considerably less interesting fellow than Andrew, who, after all, has a modicum of brains, one Don Quixote, achieved immortality by proceeding along the same lunatic lines." Then Elodie flashed out. She understood nothing of the allusion, but she suspected a sneer. "If I were a man I should fight for France. If Andre thinks it is his duty to fight for England, it may be mad, but it is fine, all the same. Yesterday, in the street, I sang the Marseillaise with the rest. _'Amour sacré de la Patrie.' Eh bien!_ There are other countries besides France. Do you deny that the _amour sacré_ exists for the Englishman?" Andrew rose and gravely took Elodie's face in his delicate hands and kissed her. "I never did you the wrong, my dear, of thinking you would feel otherwise." "Neither did I, my good Elodie," said Bakkus, hurriedly opportunist. "If I have had one ambition in my life it is to sun myself in the vicarious glamour of a hero." The corsets rolled off Elodie's lap as she turned swiftly. "You really think André if he enlists in the English Army will be a hero?" "Without doubt," replied Bakkus. "I am glad," said Elodie. "You have such a habit of mocking all the world that when you are talking of serious things one doesn't know what you mean." So peace was made. In the agitated days that followed she saw that a profound patriotism underlay Bakkus's cynicism, and she relied much on his counsel. Every man that England could put into the field was a soldier fighting for France. She glowed at the patriotic idea. Andrew, to his great gladness, noted that no hint of the cry "What is to become of me?" passed her lips. She counted on his loyalty as he had counted on hers. When he informed her of the arrangement he had made with her lawyer for her support during his absence, all she said was: _"Mon cher,_ it is far too much! I can live on half. And as for the will--let us not talk of it. It makes me shiver." Here came out all that was good in Elodie. She took the war and its obligations, as she had taken her professional work. Through all her flabbiness ran the rod of steel. She suffered, looking forward with terror to the unthinkable future. Already one of her friends, Jeanne Duval, comedienne, was a widow ... What would life be without André? She trembled before the illimitable blankness. The habit of him was the habit of her life, like eating and drinking; his direction her guiding principle. Yet she dominated her fears and showed a brave face. Often a neighbour, meeting her in the quarter, would say: "You are fortunate, Madame. You will not lose your husband." To the quarter, as indeed to all the world, they were Monsieur and Madame Patou. "He is an Englishman and won't be called up." She would flash with proud retort:-- "In England men are not called up. They go voluntarily. Monsieur Patou goes to join the English army." She was not going to make her sacrifice for nothing. To Bakkus Andrew confided the general charge of Elodie. "My dear fellow," said the cynic, "isn't it rather overdoing your saintly simplicity? Do you remember the farce 'Occupe-toi d'Amélie?' Do I appeal to you as a squire of deserted dames, grass-widows endowed with plenty? I--a man of such indefinite morals that so long as I have mutton cutlets I don't in the least care who pays for them? Aren't you paying for this very mouthful now?" "You are welcome," replied Andrew with a grin, "to all the mutton that Elodie will give you." Elodie's only proclaimed grievance against Bakkus, whom otherwise she vastly admired, was his undisguised passion for free repasts. When it came to parting, Elodie wept and sobbed. He marvelled at her emotion. "You love me so much, my little Elodie?" _"Mais tu es ma vie toute entière._ Haven't you understood it?" In that sense--no. He had not understood. They had arranged their lives so much as business partners, friends, fate-linked humans dependent on each other for the daily amenities of a joint existence. He had never suspected; never had cause to suspect, this hidden flood of sentiment. The simple man's heart responded. For such love she must be repaid. In the packed train which sped him towards England he carried with him no small remorse for past indifference. Now, what next happened to Andrew, is, as I have said before, omitted from his manuscript. Nor has he vouchsafed to me, in conversation, anything but the rudest sketch. All we know is that he enlisted straight into the regular Army, the Grenadier Guards. Millions of Tommies have passed through his earlier experiences. His gymnastic training, his professional habits of accuracy and his serious yet alert mind bore him swiftly through preliminary stages to high efficiency. In November, 1914, he found himself in Flanders. Wounded, a few months afterwards, he was sent home, patched up, sent back again. Late in 1915, a sergeant, he had his first leave, which he spent in Paris. Elodie received him with open arms. She was impressed by the martial bearing of her ramrod of a man, and she proudly fingered the three stripes on his sleeve and the D.C.M. ribbon on his breast. She took him for walks, she who, in her later supineness, hated to put one foot before the other--by the Grands Boulevards, the Rue Royale, the Place de la Concorde, the Champs Elysées, hanging on his arm, with a recrudescence of the defiant air of the Marseilles _gamine._ She made valiant efforts to please her hero who had bled in great battles and had returned to fight in great battles again. She had a thousand things to tell him of her life in Paris, to which the man, weary of the mud and blood of war, listened as though they were revelations of Paradise. Yet, she had but existed idly day in and day out, in the eternal wrapper and slippers, with her cage of birds. The little beasts kept her alive--it was true. One was dull in Paris without men. And the women of her acquaintance, mostly professional, were in poverty. They had the same cry, "My dear, lend me ten francs." "My little Elodie, I am on the rocks, my man is killed." _"Ma bien aimée,_ I am starving. You who are at ease, let me come and eat with you"--and so on and so on. Her heart grieved for them; but _que veux-tu?_--one was not a charitable institution. So it was all very sad and heartrending. To say nothing of her hourly anxiety. If only the _sale guerre_ would cease and they could go on tour again! Ah, those happy days! "Were they, after all, so very happy?" asked Andrew. "One was contented, free from care." "But now?" "May they not come to tell me at any minute that you are killed?" "That's true," said Andrew gravely. "And besides--" She paused. "Besides, what?" "I love you more now," replied Elodie. Which gave Andrew food for thought, whenever he had time at the front to consider the appetite. When next he had a short leave it was as a Lieutenant; but Elodie had gone to Marseilles, braving the tedious third-class journey, to attend her mother's funeral. There Madame Figasso having died intestate, she battled with authorities and lawyers and the _huissier_ Boudin who professed heartbreak at her unfilial insistence on claiming her little inheritance. With the energy which she always displayed in the serious things of life she routed them all. She sold the furniture, the dressmaking business, wrested the greasy bag of savings from the hands of a felonious and discomfited Boudin, and returned to Paris with some few thousand francs in her pocket. Horatio Bakkus, meanwhile, had moved into the Saint-Denis flat to take care of the birds. Nobody in France craving the services of a light tenor, he would have starved, had not his detested brother the Archdeacon, a rich man, made him a small allowance. It was a sad day for him when, after a couple of months' snug lying, he had to betake himself to his attic under the roof, where he shivered in the coalless city. "I die of convention," said he. "Behold, you have a spare room centrally heated. You are virtue itself. I not only occupy the sacred position of your guardian, but am humiliatingly aware of my supreme lack of attraction. And yet--" _"Fich'-moi le camp,"_ laughed Elodie. And Bakkus took up his old green valise and returned to his eyrie. There should be no scandal in the Faubourg Saint-Denis if Elodie could help it. But a few days later-- "_Ah, je m'ennuie, je m'ennuie_," she cried in an accent of boredom. Then Bakkus elaborated a Machiavellian idea. Why shouldn't she work? At what? Why, hadn't she a troupe of trained birds? Madame Patou was not the first comer in the variety world. She could get engagements in the provinces. How did she know that the war would not last longer than Andrew's savings? "_Mon Dieu_, it is true," she said. Forthwith she went to the agent Moignon. After a few weeks she started on the road with her aviary, and Bakkus once more left his eyrie to take charge of the flat in the Faubourg St. Denis. It came to pass that the next time Andrew and Elodie met in their Paris house, he wore a Major's crown and the ribbons of the Distinguished Service Order, the Military Cross and the Legion of Honour. From his letters she had grasped but little of his career and growing distinction; but the sight of him drove her mad with pride. If she had loved to parade the Paris streets with him as a Sergeant, now she could scarcely bear to exist with him otherwise than in public places. Not only an officer, but almost a Colonel. And decorated--he, an English officer, with the Legion of Honour! The British decorations she scarcely understood--but they made a fine display. The salutes from uniformed men of every nation almost turned her head. The little restaurant round the corner, where they had eaten for so many years, suddenly appeared to her an inappropriate setting for his exalted rank. She railed against its meanness. "Let us eat then," laughed Andrew, who had not given the matter a thought, "on the Place de la Madeleine." But if the Restaurant Mangin in the Faubourg Saint-Denis was too lowly, the Restaurant Weber frightened her by its extravagance. She hit upon the middle course of engaging a cook for the wonderful fortnight of his leave and busying herself with collaborating in the preparation of succulent meals. "My dear child," said Andrew, sitting at his own table in the tiny and seldom-used _salle à manger_ for the first time since their early disastrous experience of housekeeping, "why in the world haven't we had this cosiness before?" He seemed to have entered a new world of sacred domesticity. The outward material sign of the inward grace drew him nearer to her than all protestations of affection. "Why have you waited all these years?" he asked. Elodie, expansive, rejoicing in the success of the well-cooked dinner, reproached herself generously. It was all her fault. Before the war she had been ignorant, idle. But the war had taught her many things. Above all it had taught her to value her _petit homme_. "Because you now see him in his true colours," observed Bakkus, who took for granted a seat at the table as the payment for his guardianship. "The drill sergeant I always talked to you about." "Sergeant!" Elodie flung up her head in disdain. "He is _Commandant_. And see to it that you are not wanting in respect." "From which outburst of conjugal ferocity, my dear fellow," said Bakkus, "you can gauge the conscientiousness of my guidance of Elodie during your absence." Andrew grinned happily. He was full of faith in both of them--loving woman, loyal friend. "It is true," said he, "that I have found my vocation." "What are you going to do when the war is over and Othello's occupation is gone?" "I don't think the war will ever be over," he laughed. "It's no good looking ahead. For the present one has to regard soldiering as a permanent pursuit." "I thought so," said Bakkus. "He'll cry when it's over and he can't move his pretty soldiers about." "That is true?" asked Elodie, in the tone of one possessed of insight. Andrew shrugged his shoulders, a French trick out of harmony with his British uniform. "Perhaps," said he with a sigh. "I too," said Elodie, "will be sorry when you become _Petit Patou_ again." He touched her cheek caressingly with the back of his hand, and smiled. Strange how the war had brought her the gift of understanding. Never had he felt so close to her. "All the same," added Elodie, "it is very dangerous _là-bas, mon chéri_--and I don't want you to get killed." "All the glory and none of the death," said Bakkus. "Conducted on those principles, warfare would be ideal employment for the young. But you would be going back to the Middle Ages, when, if a knight were killed, he was vastly surprised and annoyed. Personally I hate the war. It prevents me from earning a living, and insults me with the sense of my age, physical decay and incapacity. I haven't a good word to say for it." "If you only went among the wounded in the Paris hospitals," replied Andrew, with some asperity, "and sang to them--" "My good fool," said Bakkus, "I've been doing that for about four or five hours a day since the war began, till I've no voice left." "Didn't you know?" cried Elodie. "Horace has never worked so hard in his life. And for nothing. In his way he is a hero like you." "Why the devil didn't you tell me?" cried Andrew. Bakkus flung a hand. "If you hadn't to dress the part what should I have known of your rank and orders? Would you go about saying 'I'm a dam fine fellow'?" "I'm sorry," said Andrew, filling his guest's glass. "I ought to have taken it for granted." "We give entertainments together," said Elodie. "He sings and I take the birds. Ah! the poilus. They are like children. When Riquiqui takes off Paulette's cap they twist themselves up with laughing. _Il faut voir ça."_ This was all news to Andrew, and it delighted him beyond measure. He could take away now to the trenches the picture of Elodie as ministering angel surrounded by her birds--an exquisite, romantic, soul-satisfying picture. "But why," he asked again, "didn't you tell me?" _"Ah, tu sais_--letters--I am not very good at letters. _Fante d'éducation._ I want so much to tell you what I feel that I forget to tell you what I do." Bakkus smiled sardonically as he sipped his liqueur brandy. She had given her bird performance on only two occasions. She had exaggerated it into the gracious habit of months or years. Just like a woman! Anyhow, the disillusionment of Andrew was none of his business. The dear old chap was eating lotus in his Fool's Paradise, thinking it genuine pre-war lotus and not war _ersatz._ It would be a crime to disabuse him. For Andrew the days of leave sped quickly. Not a domestic cloud darkened his relations with Elodie. Through indolent and careless living she had grown gross and coarse, too unshapely and unseemly for her age. When the news of his speedy arrival in Paris reached her, she caught sight of herself in her mirror and with a sudden pang realized her lack of attraction. In a fever she corseted herself, creamed her face, set a coiffeur to work his will on her hair. But what retrieval of lost comeliness could be effected in a day or two? The utmost thing of practical value she could do was to buy a new, gay dressing-gown and a pair of high-heeled slippers. And Andrew, conscious of waning beauty, overlooked it in the light of her new and unsuspected coquetry. Where once the slattern lolled about the little salon, now moved an attractively garbed and tidy woman. Instead of the sloven, he found a housewife who made up in zeal for lack of experience. The patriotic soldier's mate replaced the indifferent and oft-times querulous partner of Les Petit Patou. It is true that, when, in answer to the question, "A battle--what is that like?" he tried to interest her in a scientific exposition, she would interrupt him, a love-bird on her finger and its beak at her lips, with: "Look, isn't he sweet?" thereby throwing him out of gear; it is true that she yawned and frankly confessed her boredom, as she had done for many years when the talk of Andrew and Bakkus went beyond her intellectual horizon; but--_que voulez-vous?_--even a great war cannot, in a few months, supply the deficiencies of thirty uneducated years. The heart, the generous instinct--these were the things that the war had awakened in Elodie--and these were the things that mattered and made him so gracious a homecoming. And she had grasped the inner truth of the war. She had accepted it in the grand manner, like a daughter of France. So at least it seemed to Andrew. The depth of her feelings he did not try to gauge. Into the part in her demonstrativeness played by vanity or by momentary reaction from the dread of losing him, her means of support, it never entered his head to enquire. That she should sun herself in reflected splendour for the benefit of the quarter and of such friends as she had, and that she should punctiliously exact from them the respect due to his military rank, afforded him gentle amusement. He knew that, as soon as his back was turned, she would relapse into slipshod ways. But her efforts delighted him, proved her love and her loyalty. For the third time he parted from her to go off to the wars, more impressed than ever by the sense of his inappreciation of her virtues. He wrote her a long letter of self-upbraiding for the past, and the contrast between the slimy dug-out where he was writing by the light of one guttering candle, and the cosy salon he had just quitted being productive of nostalgia, he expressed himself, for once in his life, in the terms of an ardent lover. Elodie, who found his handwriting difficult to read at the best of times, and undecipherable in hard pencil on thin paper, handed the letter over to the faithful Bakkus, who read it aloud with a running commentary of ironic humour. This Andrew did not know till long afterwards. In a few weeks he got the command of his battalion. Bakkus wrote:-- "How you'll be able to put up with us now I know not. Elodie can scarcely put up with herself. She gives orders in writing to tradesmen now and subscribes herself 'Madame La Colonelle Patou.' She has turned down a bird engagement offered by Moignon, as beneath her present dignity. You had better come home as soon as you can." Andrew laughed and threw the letter away. He had far more serious things to attend to than Elodie's pretty foibles. And when you are commanding a crack regiment in a famous division in the line you no more think of leave than of running away from the enemy. Months passed--of fierce fighting and incessant strain, and he covered himself with glory and completed the rainbow row of ribbons on his breast, until Petit Patou and Elodie and Bakkus and the apartment in the Faubourg Saint-Denis became things of a far-off dream. And before he saw Elodie again, he had met Lady Auriol Dayne. Chapter XII That was the devil of it. He had met Lady Auriol Dayne. He had found in that frank and capable young woman--or thought he had found, which comes to the same thing--the Princesse Lointaine of his dreams. If she differed from that nebulous and characterless paragon, were less ethereal, more human nature's daily food, so much the better. She possessed that which he had yearned for--_quality._ She had style--like the prose of Theophile Gautier, the Venus of Milo, the Petit Trainon. She suggested Diana, who more than all goddesses displayed this gift of distinction; yet was she not too Diana-ish to be unapproachable. On the contrary, she blew about him as free as the wind.... That, in a muddle-headed way, was his impression of her: a subtle mingling of nature and artistry. On every side of her he beheld perfection. Physically, she was as elemental as the primitive woman superbly developed by daily conditions of hardship and danger; spiritually, as elemental as the elves and fairies; and over her mind played the wisdom of the world. Thus, in trying to account for her to himself, did the honest Lackaday flounder from trope to metaphor. "To love her," he quotes from Steele, "is a liberal education." The last time he met her in England, was after my departure for Paris. You will remember that just before then he had confided to me his identity as Petit Patou and had kept me up half the night. It was a dismal April afternoon, rain and mud outside, a hopeless negation of the spring. They had the drawing-room to themselves--to no one, the order had gone forth, was her ladyship at home--that drawing-room of Lady Auriol which Lackaday regarded as the most exquisite room in the world. It had comfort of soft chairs and bright fire and the smell of tea and cigarettes; but it also had the style, to him so precious, with which his fancy invested her. The note of the room was red lacquer partly inherited, partly collected, the hangings of a harmonious tone, and the only pictures on the distempered walls the colour-prints of the late eighteenth century. It had the glow of smiling austerity, the unseizable, paradoxical quality of herself. An old Sèvres tea-service rested on a Georgian silver tray, which gleamed in the firelight. Wherever he looked, he beheld perfection. And pouring out the tea stood the divinity, a splendid contrast to the shrine, yet again paradoxically harmonious; full-bosomed, warm and olive, wearing blue serge coat and skirt, her blouse open at her smooth throat, her cheeks flushed with walking through the rain, her eyes kind. For a while, like a Knight in the Venusberg, he gave himself up to the delight of her. Then suddenly he pulled himself together, and, putting down his teacup, he said what he had come to say:-- "This is the last time that I shall ever see you." She started. "What on earth do you mean? Are you going off to the other end of the world?" "I'm going back to France." "When?" "To-morrow morning." She twisted round in her chair, her elbow on the arm and her chin in her hand and looked at him. "That's sudden, isn't it?" He smiled rather sadly. "When once you've made up your mind, it's best to act, instead of hanging on." "You're sure there's no hope in this country?" "I know I'm as useful as a professional wine-taster will soon be in the United States." They laughed, resumed the discussion of many previous meetings. Had he tried this, that or the other opening? He had tried everything. No one wanted him. "So," said he, "I'm making a clean cut and returning to France." "I'm sorry." She sighed. "Very sorry. You know I am. I hoped you would remain in England and find some occupation worthy of you--but, after all--France isn't Central China. We shall still be next-door neighbours. The Channel can be easily crossed by one of us. You used the word 'ever,' you know," she added with an air of challenge. "I did." "Why?" "That would take a lot of telling," said Andrew grimly. "We've got hours, if you choose, in front of us." "It's not a question of time," said he. "Then, my good Andrew, what are you talking about?" "Only that I must return to the place I came from, my dear friend. Let it rest at that." She lit a cigarette. "Rather fatalistic, isn't it?" "Four years of fighting make one so." "You speak," said she, after a little reflection occasioning knitting of the brows, "you speak like the Mysterious Unknown of the old legends--the being sent from Hell or Heaven or any other old place to the earth to accomplish a mission. You know what I mean. He lives the life of the world into which he is thrown and finds it very much to his liking. But when the mission is fulfilled--the Powers that sent him say: 'Your time is up. Return whence you came.' And the poor Make-believe of a human has got to vanish." "You surely aren't jesting?" he asked. "No," she said. "God forbid! I've too deep a regard for you. Besides, I believe the parable is applicable. Otherwise how can I understand your 'for ever'?" "I'm glad you understand without my blundering into an explanation," he replied. "It's something, as you say. Only the legendary fellow goes back to cool his heels--or the reverse--in Shadow Land, whereas I'll still continue to inhabit the comfortable earth. I'm as Earth-bound as can be." He paused for a moment, and continued:-- "Fate or what you will dragged me from obscurity into the limelight of the war to play my little part. It's over. I've nothing more to do on the stage. Fate rings down the curtain. I must go back into obscurity. _La commedia è finita_." "It's more like a tragedy," said she. Andrew made a gesture with his delicate hands. "A comedy's not a farce. Let us stick to the comedy." "Less heroically--let us play the game," she suggested. "If you like to put it that way." She regarded him searchingly out of frank eyes; her face had grown pale. "If you gave me the key to your material Shadow Land, it would not be playing the game?" "You are right, my dear," said he. "It wouldn't." "I thought as much," said Lady Auriol. He rose, mechanically adjusted his jacket, which always went awry on his gaunt frame. "I want to say something," he declared abruptly. "You're the only lady--highly-bred woman--with whom I've been on terms of friendship in my life. It has been an experience far more wonderful than you can possibly realize. I'll keep it as an imperishable memory"--he spoke bolt upright as though he were addressing troops on parade before a battle--"it's right that you should know I'm not ungrateful for all you have done for me. I've only one ambition left--that you should remember me as a soldier--and--in my own way--a gentleman." "A very gallant gentleman," she said with quivering lips. He held out his hand, took hers, kissed it French fashion. "Good-bye and God bless you," said he, and marched out of the room. She stood for a while, with her hand on her heart--suffering a pain that was almost physical. Then she rushed to the door and cried in a loud voice over the balustrade of the landing: "Andrew, come back." But the slam of the front door drowned her call. She returned to the drawing-room and threw up the window. Andrew was already far away, tearing down the rainswept street. Now, if Andrew had heard the cry, he would have heard that in it which no man can hear unmoved. He would have leaped up the stairs and there would have been as pretty a little scene of mutual avowals as you could wish for. Auriol knew it. She has frankly told me so. Not until this last interview was she certain of his love. But then, although he said nothing, any fool of a woman could have seen it as clear as daylight. And she had been planted there like a stuck pig all the time--her _ipsissima verba_ (O Diana distinction of lover's fancy!) and when common sense came to her aid, she just missed him by the fraction of a second.... Yet, after all, my modern Diana--or Andrew's, if you prefer it--had her own modern mode of telling an elderly outsider about her love affairs--the mode of the subaltern from whom is dragged the story of his Victoria Cross. Andrew Lackaday's quaintly formulated idealizations had their foundations in fact. This is by the way. What happened next was Lady Auriol's recovery of real common sense when she withdrew her head and her rained-upon hat from the window and drew down the sash. She flew to her bedroom, stamped about with clenched fists until she had dried up at their source the un-Auriol like tears that threatened to burst forth. Her fury at her weakness spent, she felt better and strangled the temptation to write him then and there a summons to return that evening for a full explanation. My God! Hadn't they had their explanation? If he could in honour have said, "I am a free live man as you are a free live woman, and I love you as you love me"--wouldn't he have said it? He was the last man in the world to make a mystery about nothing. Into the mystery she was too proud to enquire. Enough for her to know in her heart that he was a gallant gentleman. She should have stopped at her parable.... Meanwhile she let Andrew return to France unaware of the tumult he had raised. That he had won her interest, her respect, her friendship--even her affectionate friendship--he was perfectly aware. But that his divinity was just foolishly and humanly in love with him he had no notion. He consoled himself with reflections on her impeccability, her wondrous intuition, her Far-away Princess-like delicacy. Who but she could have summed up in a parable the whole dismal situation? Well, the poor Make-believe had to vanish. The last time he travelled to Boulogne it was in a military train. He had a batman who looked after his luggage. He wore a baton and sword on his shoulder-straps. Only now, a civilian in a packed mass of civilians, did he recognize what a mighty personage he then was--a cock of the walk, saluted, "sired," treated with deference. None of the old-fashioned pit-of-the-theatre scrum for passport inspection, on the smoking-room deck. And there, on the quay, were staff officers and R.T.O.'s awaiting him with a great car--no worry about Customs or luggage or anything--everything done for him by eager young men without his bidding--and he had thought nothing of it. Indeed, if there had been a hitch in the machinery which conveyed him to his brigade, he would have made it hot for the defaulter. And now--with a third share in a porter he struggled through the Customs in the midst of the perspiring civilian crowd, and, emerging on to the platform, found a comfortless middle seat in an old German first-class carriage built for four. There were still many men in uniform, English, French and American, doing Heaven knows what about the busy station. But none took notice of him, and he lounged disconsolately by the carriage door waiting for the train to start. He scarcely knew which of his experiences, then or now, was an illusion. In spite of the civilian horde, women, young girls, mufti-clad men, the station still preserved a military aspect. A company of blue-clad poilus sat some way off, in the middle of their packs, eating a scratch meal. Here and there were bunches of British Tommies, with a sergeant and a desultory officer, obviously under discipline. It seemed impossible that the war should be ended--that he, General Lackaday, should have finished with it for ever. At last, a young subaltern passed him by, recognized him after a second, saluted and paused undecided. A few months ago, Andrew would have returned his salute with brass-hatted majesty, but now he smiled his broad ear-to-ear smile, thrust out his long arm and gripped the young man's hand. It was Smithson, one of his brigade staff--a youth of mediocre efficiency, on whom, as the youth remembered, he was wont most austerely to frown. But all this Andrew forgot. "My dear boy," he cried. "How glad I am to see you." It was as if a survivor from a real world had appeared before him in a land of dreams. He questioned him animatedly on his doings. The boy responded wonderingly. At last:-- "When are you going to be demobilized?" The subaltern smiled. "I hope never, sir. I'm a regular." "Lucky devil," said Andrew. "Oh, you lucky devil! I'd give anything to change places with you." "I'm on, sir," laughed Smithson. "I'm all for being a Brigadier-General." "Not on the retired list--out of the service," said Andrew. The train began to move. Andrew jumped hastily into his compartment and, leaning out of the window before the stout Frenchman, waved a hand to the insignificant young man in the King's uniform. With all his soul he envied him the privilege of wearing it. He cursed his stiff-neckedness in declining the Major's commission offered by the War Office. A line of Tennyson reminiscent of the days when Bakkus had guided his reading came into his head. Something about a man's own angry pride being cap and bells for a fool. He tried to find repose against the edge of the sharp double curve that divided the carriage side into two portions. The trivial discomfort irritated him. The German compartment might be a symbol of victory, but it was also a symbol of the end of the war, the end of the only intense life full of meaning which he had ever known. As the train went on, he caught sight from the window of immense stores of war--German waggons with their military destinations still marked in chalk, painted guns of all calibres, drums of barbed wire, higgledy-piggledy truck-loads of scrap, all sorts of flotsam and jetsam of the great conflict. All useless, done with, never to be thought of again, so the world hoped, in the millennium that was to be brought about by the League of Nations. Yet it seemed impossible. In wayside camps, at railway stations, he saw troops of the three great countries. Now and then train-loads of them passed. It was impossible that the mighty hosts they represented should soon melt away into the dull flood of civil life. The war had been such a mighty, such a gallant thing. Of course the genius of mankind must now be bent to the reconstruction of a shattered world. He knew that. He knew that regret at the ending of the universal slaughter would be the sentiment of a homicidal lunatic. Yet deep down in his heart there was some such regret, a gnawing nostalgia. After Amiens they passed by the battle-fields. A young American officer sitting by the eastern window pointed them out to him. He explained to Andrew what places had been British gun emplacements, pointed to the white chalk lines that had been British trenches. Told him what a trench looked like. Andrew listened grimly. The youth had pointed out of window again. Did he know what those were? Those were shell-holes. German shells.... Presently the conductor came through to examine tickets. Andrew drew from his pocket his worn campaigning note-case and accidently dropped a letter. The young American politely picked it up, but the typewritten address on the War Office envelope caught his eye. "Brigadier-General Lackaday, C.B." He handed it to Andrew, flushing scarlet. "Is that your name, sir?" "It is," said Andrew. "Then I reckon, sir, I've been making a fool of myself." "Every man," said Andrew, with his disarming smile, "is bound to do that once in his life. It's best to get it over as soon as possible. That's the way one learns. Especially in the army." But the young man's talk had rubbed in his complete civiliandom. As the train neared Paris, his heart sank lower and lower. The old pre-war life claimed him mercilessly, and he was frozen with a dread which he had never felt on the fire-step in the cold dawn awaiting the lagging hour of zero. On the entrance to the Gare du Nord he went into the corridor and looked through the window. He saw Elodie afar off. Elodie, in a hat over her eyes, a fur round her neck, her skirt cut nearly up to her knees showing fat, white-stockinged calves. She had put on much flesh. The great train stopped and vomited forth its horde of scurrying humans. Elodie caught sight of him and rushed and threw herself into his arms, and embraced him rapturously. "Oh, my André, it is good to have you back. _O mon petit homme_--how I have been longing for this moment. Now the war is finished, you will not leave me again ever. _Et te voilà Général_. You must be proud, eh? But your uniform? I who had made certain I should see you in uniform." He smiled at her characteristic pounce on externals. "I no longer belong to the Army, my little Elodie," he replied, walking with her, his porter in front, to the barrier. "_Mais tu es toujours Général?_" she asked anxiously. "I keep the rank," said Andrew. "And the uniform? You can wear it? You will put it on sometimes to please me?" They drove home through twilight Paris, her arm passed through his, while she chattered gaily. Was it not good to smell Paris again after London with its fogs and ugliness and raw beefsteaks? To-night she would give him such a dinner as he had never eaten in England--and not for two years. Did he realize that it was two years since he had seen her? "_Mon Dieu_," said he, "so it is." "And you are pleased to have me again?" "Can you doubt it?" he smiled. "Ah, one never knows. What can't a man do in two years? Especially when he becomes a high personage, a great General full of honours and decorations." "The gods of peace have arrived, my little Elodie," said he with a touch of bitterness, "and the little half-gods of war are eclipsed. If we go to a restaurant there's no reason why the waiter with his napkin under his arm shouldn't be an ex-colonel of Zouaves. All the glory of the war has ended, my dear. A breath. Phew! Out goes the candle." But Elodie would have none of this pessimistic philosophy. "You are a General to the end of your days." They mounted to the flat in the Faubourg Saint-Denis. To Andrew, accustomed of late months to the greater spaciousness of English homes, it seemed small and confined and close. It smelt of birds--several cages of which occupied a side of the salon. Instinctively he threw open a window. Instinctively also: "The _courant d'air!_" cried Elodie. "Just for a minute," said Andrew--and added diplomatically, "I want to see what changes there are in the street." "It's always the same," said Elodie. "I will go and see about dinner." So till she returned he kept the window open and looked about the room. It was neat as a new pin, redded-up against his arrival. His books had been taken from their cases and dusted; the wild displacement of volumes that should have gone in series betrayed the hand of the zealous though inexpert librarian. The old curtains had been cleaned, the antimacassars over the backs of chairs and sofa had been freshly washed, the floor polished. Not a greasy novel or a straggling garment defiled the spotlessness of the room, which, but for the row of birds and the books, looked as if it subserved no human purpose. A crazy whatnot, imitation lacquer and bamboo, the only piece of decorative furniture, was stacked with photographs of variety artists, male and female, in all kinds of stage costumes, with sprawling signatures across, the collection of years of touring,--all scrupulously dusted and accurately set out. The few cheap prints in maple frames that adorned the walls (always askew, he remembered) had been adjusted to the horizontal. On the chenille-covered table in the middle of the room stood a vase with artificial flowers. The straight-backed chairs upholstered in yellow and brown silk stood close sentry under the prints, in their antimacassar uniforms. Two yellow and brown arm-chairs guarded the white faience stove. The sofa against the wall frowned sternly at the whatnot on the opposite side. Andrew's orderly soul felt aghast at this mathematical tidiness. Even the old slovenly chaos was better. At least it expressed something human. And then the picture of that other room, so exquisite, so impregnated with the Far-away Princess spirit of its creator, rose up before him, and he sighed and rubbed his fingers through his red stubbly hair, and made a whimsical grimace, and said, "Oh Damn!" And Elodie then bursting in, with a proud "Isn't it pretty, _ton petit chez-toi!_" What could he do but smile, and assure her that no soldier home from the wars could have a more beautifully regulated home? "And you have looked enough at the street?" Andrew shut the window. Chapter XIII Through one of the little ironies of fate, my mission at the Peace Conference ended a day or two after Andrew's arrival in Paris, so that when he called at my hotel I had already returned to London. A brief note from him a day or two later informed me of his visit and his great regret at missing me. Of his plans he said nothing. He gave as his address "c/o Cox's Bank." You will remark that this was late April, and I did not receive his famous manuscript till June. Of his private history I knew nothing, save his beginnings in the Cirque Rocambeau and his identity with a professional mountebank known as Petit Patou. Soon afterwards I spent a week-end with the Verity-Stewarts. Before I could have a private word with Lady Auriol, whom I found as my fellow-guest, Evadne, as soon as she had finished an impatient though not unsubstantial tea, hurried me out into the garden. There were two litters of Sealyhams. Lady Verity-Stewart protested mildly. "Uncle Anthony doesn't want to see puppies." "It's the only thing he's interested in and the only thing he knows anything about," cried Evadne. "And he's the only one that's able to pick out the duds. Come on." So I went. Crossing the lawn, she took my arm. "We're all as sick as dogs," she remarked confidentially. "Indeed? Why?" "We asked----" Note the modern child. Not "Papa" or "Mamma," as a well-conducted little girl of the Victorian epoch would have said, but "we," _ego et parentes_--"we asked," replied Evadne, "General Lackaday down. And crossing our letter came one from Paris telling us he had left England for good. Isn't it rotten?" "The General's a very good fellow," said I, "but I didn't know he was a flame of yours." "Oh, you stupid!" cried Evadne, with a protesting tug at my arm "It's nothing to do with me. It s Aunt Auriol." "Oh?" said I. She shook her fair bobbed head. "As if you didn't know!" "I'm not so senile," said I, "as not to grasp your insinuation, my dear. But I fail to see what business it is of ours." "It's a family affair--oh, I forgot, you're not real family--only adopted." I felt humiliated. "Anyhow you're as near as doesn't matter." I brightened up again. "I've heard 'em talking it over--when they thought I wasn't listening. Father and mother and Charles. They're all potty over General Lackaday. And so's Aunt Auriol. I told you they had clicked ages ago." "Clicked?" "Yes. Don't you know English?" "To my sorrow, I do. They clicked. And father and mother and Charles and Aunt Auriol are all potty." "And so am I," she declared, "for he's a dear. And they all say it's time for Aunt Auriol to settle down. So they wanted to get him here and fix him. Charles says he's a shy bird----" "But," I interrupted, "you're talking of the family. Your Aunt Auriol has a father, Lord Mountshire." "He's an old ass," said Evadne. "He's a peer of the realm," said I rebukingly, though I cordially agreed with her. "He's not fit to be General Lackaday's ancient butler," she retorted. "Is that your own?" "No. It's Charles's. But I can repeat it if I like." "And all this goes to prove----" said I. "Well, don't you see? You are dense. The news that the General had gone to France knocked them all silly. Aunt Auriol's looking rotten. Charles says she's off her feed. You should have seen her last night at dinner, when they were talking about him." "Again, my dear Evadne," said I, opening the gate of the kitchen garden for her to pass through, "this is none of my business." She took my arm again. "It doesn't matter. But oh, darling Uncle Tony, couldn't we fix it up?" "Fix up what?" I asked aghast. "The wedding," replied this amazing young person, looking up at me so that I had only a vision of earnest grey eyes, and a foreshortened snub nose and chin. "He's only shy. You could bring him up to the scratch at once." She went on in a whirl of words of which I preserve but a confused memory. Of course it was her own idea. She had heard her mother hint that Anthony Hylton might be a useful man to have about--but all the same she had her plan. Why shouldn't I go off to Paris and bring him back? I gasped. I fought for air. But Evadne hurried me on, talking all the time. She was dying for a wedding. She had never seen one in her life. She would be a bridesmaid. She described her costume. And she had set her heart on a wedding present--the best of the bunch of Sealyham puppies. Why, certainly they were all hers. Tit and Tat, from whom the rather extensive kennels had originally sprung, were her own private property. They had been given to her when she was six years old. Tat had died. But Tit. I knew Tit? Did I not? No one could spend an hour in Mansfield Court without making the acquaintance of the ancient thing on the hearthrug, with the shape of a woolly lamb and the eye of a hawk and the smile of a Court jester. Besides, I had known him since he was a puppy. I, _moi qui parle_, had been the donor of Tit and Tat. I reminded her. I was a stupid. As if she didn't know. But I was to confirm her right to dispose of the pups. I confirmed it solemnly. So we hastened to the stable yard and inspected the kennels, where the two mothers lay with their slithery tail-wagging broods. We discussed the points of each little beast and eventually decided on the one which should be Evadne's wedding present to General Lackaday and Lady Auriol Dayne. "Thanks ever so much, darling," said Evadne. "You are _so_ helpful." I returned to the drawing-room fairly well primed with the family preoccupations, so that when Lady Verity-Stewart carried me off to her own little den on the pretext of showing me some new Bristol glass, and Sir Julius came smoking casually in her wake, I knew what to expect. They led up to the subject, of course, very diplomatically--not rushing at it brutally like Evadne, but nothing that the child said did they omit--with the natural exception of the bridesmaid's dress and the wedding present. And they added little more. They were greatly concerned, dear elderly folk, about Auriol. She and General Lackaday had been hand in glove for months. He evidently more than admired her. Auriol, said Sir Julius, in her don't-care-a-dam-for-anybody sort of way made no pretence of disguising her sentiments. Any fool could see she was in love with the man. And they had _affichéd_ themselves together all over the place. Other women could do it with impunity--if they didn't have an infatuated man in tow at a restaurant, they'd be stared at, people would ask whether they were qualifying for a nunnery--but Auriol was different. Aphrodite could do what she chose and no one worried; but an indiscretion of Artemis set tongues wagging. It was high time for something definite to happen. And now the only thing definite was Lackaday's final exodus from the scene, and Auriol's inclination to go off and bury herself in some savage land. Lady Verity-Stewart thought Borneo. They were puzzled. General Lackaday was the best of fellows---so simple, so sincere--such a damned fine soldier--such a gentle, kindly creature--so scurvily treated by a disgraceful War Office--just the husband for Auriol--etcetera, etcetera in strophe and antistrophe of eulogy. All this was by way of beginning. Then came the point of the conclave. It was obvious that General Lackaday couldn't have trifled with Auriol's affections and thrown her off. I smiled at the conception of the lank and earnest Lackaday in the part of Don Juan. Besides, they added sagely, Auriol had been known to make short work of philanderers. It could only be a question of some misunderstanding that might easily be arranged by an intelligent person in the confidence of both parties. That, it appeared, was where I came in. I, as Evadne had said, was a useful man to have about. "Now, my dear Anthony," said Sir Julius, "can't you do something?" What the deuce was I to do? But first I asked: "What does Auriol say about it?" They hadn't broached the subject. They were afraid. I knew what Auriol was. As likely as not she would tell them to go to the devil for their impertinence. "And she wouldn't be far wrong," said I. "Of course it seems meddlesome," said Sir Julius, tugging at his white moustache, "but we're fond of Auriol. I've been much more of a father to her than that damned old ass Mountshire"--Evadne, again; though for once in her life she had exercised restraint--"and I hate to see her unhappy. She's a woman who ought to marry, hang it all, and bring fine children into the world. And her twenties won't last for ever--to put it mildly. And here she is in love with a fine fellow who's in love with her or I'll eat my hat, and--well--don't you see what I mean?" Oh yes. I saw perfectly. To soothe them, I promised to play the high-class Pandarus to the best of my ability. At any rate, Lady Auriol, having taken me into her confidence months ago, couldn't very well tell me to go to the devil, and, if she did, couldn't maintain the mandate with much show of outraged dignity. I did not meet her till dinner. She came down in a sort of low cut red and bronze frock without any sleeves--I had never seen so much of her before--and what I saw was exceedingly beautiful. A magnificent creature, with muscular, shapely arms and deep bosom and back like a Greek statue become dark and warm. Her auburn hair crowned her strong pleasant face. As far as appearances went I could trace no sign of the love-lorn maiden. Only from her talk did I diagnose a more than customary unrest. The war was over. Hospitals were closed. Her occupation (like Lackaday's) was gone. England was no place for her. It was divided into two social kingdoms separated by a vast gulf--one jazzing and feasting and otherwise Sodom-and-Gomorrah-izing its life away, and the other growling, envious, sinister, with the Bolshevic devil in its heart. What could a woman with brains and energy do? The Society life of the moment made her sick. A dance to Perdition. The middle classes were dancing, too, in ape-like imitation, while the tradesman class were clinging for dear life on to their short skirts, with legs dangling in the gulf. On the other side, seething masses howling worship of the Goddess of Unreason. Cross the gulf--one would metaphorically be torn to pieces. Remain--no outlet for energy but playing the wild Cassandra. Her pessimism was Tartarean. "General Lackaday, the last time I saw him, agreed with me that the war was a damned sight better than this." It was the first time she had mentioned him. Lady Verity-Stewart and I exchanged glances. She went on. Not a monologue. We all made our comments, protests and what not. But in the theatre phrase we merely fed her, instinctively feeling for the personal note. On ordinary occasions very subtly aware of such tactics, she seemed now to ignore them. She rose to every fly. Public life for women? Parliament? The next election would result in a Labour Government. Women would stand no chance. Labour counted on cajoling the woman's vote. But it would have no truck with women as legislators. If there was one social class which had the profoundest contempt for woman as an intelligent being it was the labouring population. For Heaven's sake remember, I am only giving you Lady Auriol's views, as expressed over the dinner table. What mine are, I won't say. Anyhow they don't amount to a row of pins. Lady Auriol continued her Jeremiad. Suppose she did stand for Parliament, and got in for a safe Conservative constituency. What would happen? She would be swept in to the muddiest and most soul-destroying game on God's earth. No, my dear friends, no. No politics for her. Well, what then? we asked. "Didn't you say something about--what was it, dear--Borneo?" asked Lady Verity-Stewart. "I don't care where it is, Aunt Selina," cried Lady Auriol. "Anywhere out of this melting-pot of civilization. But you can't get anywhere. There aren't any ships to take you. And there's nowhere worth going to. The whole of this miserable little earth has been exploited." "Thibet has its lonely spots." "And it's polyandrous--so a woman ought to have a good time--" she laughed. "Thanks for the hint. But I'm not taking any. Seriously, however, as you all seem to take such an interest in me, what s a woman like me to do in this welter? Oh, give me the good old war again!" Lady Verity-Stewart lifted horrified hands. Sir Julius rebuked her unhumorously. Lady Auriol laughed again and the Jeremiad petered out. "She's got it rather badly," Charles murmured to me when the ladies had left the dining-room. But I was not going to discuss Lady Auriol with Charles. I grunted and sipped my port and told a gratified host that I recognized the '81 Cockburn. Sir Julius and Lady Verity-Stewart went to bed early after the sacramental game of bridge. Charles, obeying orders, followed soon afterwards. Lady Auriol and I had the field to ourselves. "Well?" said she. "Well?" said I. "You don't suppose these subtle diplomatists have left us alone to discuss Bolshevism or Infant Welfare?" There was the ironical gleam in her eyes and twist in her lips that had attracted me since her childhood. I have always liked intelligent women. "Have they been badgering you?" "Good Lord, no. But a female baby in a pink sash would see what they're driving at. Haven't they been discussing me and Andrew Lackaday?" "They have," said I, "and they're perfect dears. They've built up a fairy-tale around you and have taken long leases in it and are terribly anxious that the estate shan't be put into liquidation." "That's rather neat," she said. "I thought so, myself," said I. Stretched in an arm-chair she looked for some minutes into the glow of the wood fire. Then she turned her head quickly. "You haven't given me away?" "My good girl!" I protested, "what do you take me for?" She laughed. "That's all right. I opened out to you last year about Andrew. You remember? You were very sympathetic. I was in an unholy sort of fog about myself then. I'm in clear weather now. I know my own mind. He's the only man in the world for me. I suppose I've made it obvious. Hence the solicitude of these pet lambs--and your appointment as Investigator. Well, my dear Tony, what do they want to know?" "They're straining their dear simple ears to catch the strain of wedding bells and they can't do it. So they're worried." "Well, you can tell them not to worry any longer. There aren't going to be any wedding bells. They've made sentimental idiots of themselves. General Lackaday and I aren't marrying folks. The question hasn't arisen. We're good intimate friends, nothing more. He's no more in love with me than I am with him. Savvy?" I savvied. But-- "That's for the pet lambs," said I. "What for me?" "I've already told you." "And that's the end of it?" "As far as you are concerned--yes." "As you will," I said. I put a log on the fire and took up a book. All this was none of my business, as I had explained to Evadne. "I'm sorry you're not interested in my conversation," she remarked after a while. "You gave me to understand that it was over--as far as I was concerned." "Never mind. I want to tell you something." I laid down my book and lit a cigar. "Go ahead," said I. It was then that she told me of her last interview with Lackaday. Remember I had not yet read his version. "It's all pretty hopeless," she concluded. For myself I knew nothing of the reasons that bade him adopt the attitude of the Mysterious Unknown--except his sensitiveness on the point of his profession. He would rather die than appear before her imagination in the green silk tights of Petit Patou. I asked tentatively whether he had spoken much of his civilian life. "Very little. Except of his knowledge of Europe. He has travelled a great deal. But of his occupation, family and the rest, I know nothing. Oh yes, he did once say that his father and mother died when he was a baby and that he had no kith or kin in the world. If he had thought fit to tell me more he would have done so. I, of course, asked no questions." "But all the same," said I, "you're dying to know the word of the enigma." She laughed scornfully. "I know it, my friend." "The deuce you do!" said I, thinking of Petit Patou and wondering how she had guessed. "What is it?" "A woman of course." "Did he tell you?" I asked, startled, for that shed a new light on the matter. "No." She boomed the word at me. "What on earth do you suppose was the meaning of our talk about playing the game?" "Well, my dear," said I, "if it comes to that, do you think it was playing the game for him, a married man with possibly a string of children, to come down here and make love to you?" She flared up. "He never made love to me. You've no right to say such a thing. If there was any love-making, it was I that made it. Ninety per cent of the love-making in the world is the work of women. And you know it, although you pretend to be shocked. And I'm not ashamed of myself in the least. As soon as I set my eyes on him I said 'That's the man I want,' and I soon saw that I could give him what he never had before--and I kept him to me, so that I could give it him. And I gloried in it. I don't care whether he has ten wives or twenty children. I'm telling you because"--she started up and looked me full in the face--"upon my word I don't know why--except that you're a comfortable sort of creature, and if you know everything you'll be able to deal with the pet lambs." She rose, held out her hand. "You must be bored stiff." "On the contrary," said I, "I'm vastly interested--and honoured, my dear Auriol. But tell me. As all this sad, mad, glad affair seems to have come to a sudden stop, what do you propose to do?" "I don't know," she replied with a half laugh. "What I feel like doing is to set out for Hell by the most adventurous route." She laughed again, shook hands. "Good night, Tony." And she passed out through the door I held open for her. I finished my cigar before the fire. It was the most unsatisfactory romance I had come across in a not inexperienced career. Was it the green silk tights or the possible woman in the background that restrained the gallant General? Suppose it was only the former? Would my Lady Auriol jib at them? She was a young woman with a majestic scorn for externals. In her unexpectedness she might cry "Motley's the only wear" and raise him ever higher in his mountebankic path.... I was sorry for both of them. They were two such out-of-the-way human beings--so vivid, so real. They seemed to have a preordained right to each other. He, dry, stern, simple stick of a man needed the flame-like quality that ran through her physical magnificence. She, piercing beneath the glamour of his soldierly achievements, found in him the primitive virility she could fear combined with the spiritual helplessness to which she could come in her full womanly and maternal aid. To her he was as a rock, but a living rock, vitalized by a myriad veins of sensitiveness. To him--well, I knew my Auriol--and could quite understand what Auriol in love could be to any man. Auriol out of love (and in her right mind) had always been good enough for me. So I mused for a considerable time. Then, becoming conscious of the flatness, staleness and unprofitableness of it all, as far as my elderly selfishness was concerned, I threw my extinct cigar end into the fire, and thanking God that I had come to an age when all this storm and fuss over a creature of the opposite sex was a thing of the past, and yet with an unregenerate pang of regret for manifold what-might-have-beens, I put out the lights and went to bed. The next day I succeeded by hook or by crook in guiding the pet lambs, Evadne included, in the way they should go. I reported progress to Lady Auriol. "Good dog," she said. I returned to London on Monday morning. When next I heard of her, she was, I am thankful to say, not on the adventurous path to the brimstone objective of her predilection, but was fooling about, all by herself, in a five-ton yacht, somewhere around the Outer Hebrides, in the foulest of weather. In the days of my youth I was the victim of a hopeless passion and meditated suicide. A seafaring friend of mine suggested my accompanying him on his cargo steamer from the Port of London to Bordeaux. It was blazing summer. But I was appallingly sea-sick all the way, and when I set foot on land I was cleansed of all human emotion save that of utter thankfulness that I existed as an entity with an un-queasy stomach. I was cured for good and all. But a five-ton yacht off the Outer Hebrides in bleak tempests--No, it was too heroic. Even my dear old friend Burton for all his wit and imagination had never devised such a _remedia amoris_, such a remedy for Love Melancholy. And then came June and with it the manuscript and all the flood of information about the Agence Moignon and Bakkus and Petit Patou and Prépimpin and Elodie and various other things that I have yet to set down. Chapter XIV While Lady Auriol Dayne was rocking about the Outer Hebrides, we find Andrew Lackaday in Paris confronted with the grim necessity of earning a livelihood. His pre-war savings had amounted to no fortune, and in spite of Elodie's economy and occasional earnings with her birds, they were well-nigh spent. The dearness of everything! Elodie wrung her hands. Where once you had change out of a franc, now you had none out of a five-franc note. He could still carry on comfortably for a year, but that would be the end of it. When he propounded the financial situation, Elodie did not understand. "I must work," said he. "But Generals don't work," she protested incredulously. Even the war had developed little of the Marseilles _gamine's_ conceptions of life. A General--she knew no grades--a modest Brigadier ranking second only to a Field Marshal--was a General. He commanded an army. A military demigod invested with a glamour and glory which, _ipso facto_, of its own essence, provided him with ample wealth. And once a General, always a General. The mere fact of no longer being employed in the command of armies did not matter. The rank remained and with the rank the golden stream to maintain it. According to popular legend the Oriental ascetic who concentrates his gaze on the centre of his body and his thoughts on the syllable "Om" arrives at a peculiar mental condition. So the magic word on which she had so long meditated, had its hypnotic effect on Elodie. And when he had patiently explained-- "They give you nothing at all for being a General?" she almost screamed. "Nothing at all," said Andrew. "Then what's the good of being a General?" "None that I can see," he replied with his grim smile. Elodie's illusions fell clattering round about her ears. Not her illusions as to Generals, but her illusions as to Andrew and British military prestige. It was a strange army that no longer acknowledged its high commanders--a strange country that could scrap them. Were British Generals real, like French Generals, Lyautey and Manoury and Foch before he became _Maréchal?_ She was bitterly disappointed. She had lived for nearly a year in Andrew's glory. Now there seemed to be no shine in it whatever. He wore no uniform. He received no pay. He was a mere civilian. He had to work for his living like any demobilized poilu who returned to his counter or his conductor's step on the tramway. And she had made such a flourish among all her acquaintance over _son mari le général_. She went off by herself and wept. The cook whom she had engaged, coming to lay the cloth in the tiny dining-room found her sobbing with her arms on the table. What was the matter with Madame? "_Ah, ma pauvre Ernestine, je suis bien malheureuse_." Ernestine could think of only one cause for a lady's unhappiness. Had Monsieur le Général then been making her infidelities? All allowances should be made for the war. On every side she had heard tales of the effects of such long separations. But, on the other hand, she had heard of many reconciliations. Apply a little goodwill--that was all. Monsieur le Général was a man, _comme tout le monde_. She was certain that the object of his warrior fancy was not worth Madame--and he would quickly realize the fact. She only had to make much of him and give him everything he liked to eat. As soon as the stream of words ceased Elodie vehemently denounced the disgusting state of her mind. She must have a foul character to think such things. She bade her haughtily to mind her own business. Why then, asked the outraged Ernestine, did Madame declare she was miserable? To invite sympathy and then reject it did not argue a fine character on the part of Madame. Also when a woman sits down and weeps like a cow, _mon Dieu_, there must be a reason. Perhaps if Monsieur was not at fault, then-- "I order you to be silent," stormed Elodie, interrupting the intolerable suggestion. "My reasons you couldn't possibly understand. Get on with your work and set the table." She made a dignified exit and returned to the _salon_ where Andrew was writing. "Ah, these servants--since the war! The insolence of them!" "What have they been doing now?" he asked sympathetically. She would not say. Why worry him with such vulgarities? But the housekeeper's life, these days, was not an easy one. "_Tiens_," she cried, with a swift resolve, "I'll tell you all. What you said about yourself, a general only in name, rejected and cast on the world without money made me very unhappy. I didn't want you to see me cry. So I went into the _salle à manger_--" And then a dramatic reproduction of the scene. The insolence of the woman! Andrew rose and drew out his pocket-book. "She shall go at once. What's her wages?" But Elodie looked at him aghast. What? Dismiss Ernestine? He must be mad. Ernestine, a treasure dropped from Heaven? Didn't he know that servants did not grow like the leaves on the trees in the Champs Elysées? And cooks--they were worth their weight in gold. In the army he could say to an orderly "_Fiche-moi le camp_," because there were plenty of others. But in civil life--no. She forbade him to interfere in domestic arrangements, the nice conduct of which she had proved herself perfectly capable of determining. And then, in her queer, twisted logic, she said, clutching the lapels of his coat and looking up into his face: "And it's not true what she said? You have never made me infidelities?" He passed his delicate hand over her forehead, and smiled somewhat wearily. "You may be sure, my dear, I have been faithful to you." She glanced away from him, somewhat abashed. Now and then his big simplicity frightened her. She became dimly aware that the report of the cook's chatter had offended the never comprehended delicacies of his soul. She murmured: "_Je te demande bien pardon, André_." "There's no reason for that, my dear," said he. She went over to her birds. Andrew resumed his writing. But after a minute or two his pen hung idle in his hand. Yes. He had spoken truly. He had been faithful to her in that he had fled from divine temptation. For her sake he had put the other woman and the glory that she signified out of his life. All through the delicious intercourse, Elodie had hung at the bottom of his heart, a dead-weight, maybe, but one which he could not in honour or common humanity cut off. For Elodie's sake he had held himself in stern restraint, had uttered no word that might be interpreted as that of a lover. As far as Lady Auriol Dayne knew, as far as anyone on this earth knew, his feelings towards her were nothing more than those of a devoted and grateful friend. So does the well-intentioned ostrich, you may say, bury its head and imagine itself invisible. But the ostrich is desperately sincere--and so was Andrew. Presently he turned. "If that woman says such vulgarities again, she must go at once." "I shall see that she has no opportunity," said Elodie. * * * * * For a time Andrew sought in France that which he had failed to find in England; but with even less chance of success. The gates to employment in England had been crowded with demobilized officers. Only the fortunate, the young content with modest beginnings, those with money enough to start new avocations, had pushed through. These had been adventurers like himself. The others had returned to the office or counting-house or broad acres from which they had sprung. In France he found no employment at all; the gates round which the demobilized wistfully gathered, led no whither. As at the War Office, so at military head-quarters in Paris. Brass-hatted friends wrung him warmly by the hand, condoled with his lot, and genially gave him to understand that he stood not a dog's chance of getting in anywhere. Why hadn't he worried the people at home for a foreign billet? There were plenty going, but as to their nature they confessed vagueness. He had put in for several, said he, but had always been turned down. The friends shook their heads. In Paris nothing doing. Andrew walked away sadly. Perhaps a spirit proof against rebuffs, a thick-skinned persistence, might have eventually prevailed in London to set him on some career in the social reconstruction of the world. His record stood, and needed only unblushing flaunting before the eyes of Authority for it to be recognized. But Andrew Lackaday, proud and sensitive, was a poor seeker after favour. All his promotion and his honour had come unsought. He had hated the braggadocio of the rainbow row of ribbons on his khaki tunic, which Army discipline alone forced him to wear. It was Elodie, too, who had fixed into his buttonholes the little red rosette of the Officer of the Legion. That at least he could do for her.... Success, such as it was, before the war, he had attained he knew not how. The big drum of the showman had ever been an engine of abhorrence. Others had put him on the track of things, Elodie, Bakkus.... He had sternly suppressed vulgarity in posters. He had never intrigued like most of his craft for press advertisement. Over and over again had Bakkus said: "Raise a thousand or two and give it to me or Moignon to play with and we'll boom you into all the capitals of the earth. There's a fortune in you." But Andrew, to whom publicity was the essence of his calling, would have none of it. He did his work and conducted his life in his own way, earnest and efficient. In the war, of course, he found his real vocation. But he passed out of the war as unknown to the general public as any elderly Tommy in a Labour battalion. Never a photograph of him had appeared in the illustrated papers. The head of a great Government department, to whom Lady Auriol had mentioned his name, had never heard of it. And when she suggested that the State should hasten to secure the services of such men, he had replied easily: "Men of his distinction are as thick as blackberries. That's how we won the war." Unknown to Lackaday she had tried to see what influence she could command. Socially, as the rather wild-headed daughter of an impoverished and obscure Earl, she could do but little. She too was a poor intriguer. She could only demand with blatant vividness. Once on a flying visit to Lord Mountshire, she tried to interest him in the man whom, to her indignation, he persisted in styling her protégé. He still, she urged, had friends in high places, even in the dreadful Government at which he railed. "Never heard of the man," he growled. "Lackaday--Lackaday--" he shook his white head. "Who was his father?" She confessed that she didn't know. He was alone in the world. He had sprung from Nowhere. The old Earl refused to take any interest in him. Such fellows always fell on their feet. Besides, he had tried to put in a word for young Ponsonby--and had got snubbed for his pains. He wasn't going to interfere any more. She learned that the appointment of a soldier would be made to a vacant colonial governorship. A certain general's recommendation would carry weight. She passed the information on to Andrew. This she could do without offending his pride. "Very sorry, my dear fellow," said the General. "You're the very man for the job. But you know what these Colonial office people are. They will have an old regular." As a matter of fact they appointed another Brigadier who had started the war with a new Yeomanry commission, a member of a well-known family with a wife who had seen to it that neither his light nor hers should be hidden under a bushel. In the frantic scramble for place, the inexperienced in the methods of the scrum were as much left out in the cold as a timid old maid at what Americans call a bargain counter. He stood lost behind the throng and his only adviser Lady Auriol stood by his side in similar noble bewilderment. On his appointment to a Brigade, Bakkus had written: "I'm almost tempted to make your fortune in spite of yourself. What a sensation! What headlines! 'Famous Variety Artist becomes a General.' Companion pictures in the _Daily Mail_, Petit Patou and Brigadier-General Lackaday. Everybody who had heard of Petit Patou would be mad to hear of General Lackaday, and all who had heard of soldier Andrew would be crazy to know about Petit Patou. You'd wake up in the morning like Byron and find yourself famous. You'd be the darling hero of the British Empire. But you always were a wooden-headed idiot...." To which Andrew had replied in raging fury, to the vast entertainment of Horatio Bakkus. All of this to show that, notwithstanding his supreme qualities of personal courage, command and military intuition, Andrew Lackaday as a would-be soldier of fortune proved a complete failure. For him, as he presented himself, the tired world, in its nebulous schemes of reconstruction, had no place. Every day, when he got home, Elodie would ask: "_Eh bien?_ Have you found anything?" And he would say, gaunt and worried, but smiling: "Not yet." As the days passed her voice grew sharper, until it seemed to carry the reproach of the wife of the labourer out of work. But she never pressed him further. She knew his moods and his queer silences and the inadvisability of forcing his confidence. In spite of her disappointment and disillusion, some of the glamour still invested him. A man of mystery, inspiring a certain awe, he frightened her a little. A No Man's Land, unknown, terrifying, on which she dared not venture a foot, lay between them. He was the kind and courteous ghost of the Sergeant and the Major with whom she had made high festival during the war. At last, one afternoon, he cast the bomb calmly at her feet. "I've just been to see Moignon," said he. "_Eh bien?_" "He says there will be no difficulty." She turned on him her coarse puzzled face. "No difficulty in what?" "In going back to the stage." She sank upon the yellow and brown striped sofa by the wall and regarded him open-mouthed. "_Tu dis?_" "I must do like all other demobilized men--return to my trade." Elodie nearly fainted. For months the prospect had hung over them like a doom; ever since the brigade which he commanded in England had dissolved through demobilization, and he, left in the air, had applied disastrously to the War Office for further employment. He had seen others, almost his equal in rank, swept relentlessly back to their old uninspiring avocations. A Bayard of a Colonel of a glorious battalion of a famous regiment, a fellow with decorations barred two or three times over, was now cooped up in his solicitor's office in Lothbury, E.C., breaking his heart over the pettifoggery of conveyances. A gallant boy, adjutant at twenty-two in the company of which he was captain, a V.C. and God knows what else besides, was back again in the close atmosphere of the junior department of a Public School. One of his old seconds in command was resuming his awful frock-coated walk down the aisles of a suburban drapery store. The flabby, soulless octopus of civil life reached out its tentacles and dragged all these heroic creatures into its maw of oblivion. Then another, a distinguished actor, and a more distinguished soldier, a man with a legendary record of fearlessness, had sloughed his armour and returned to the theatre. That, thought he, was his own case. But no. The actor took up the high place of histrionic fame which he had abandoned. He was the exponent of a great art. The dual supremacy brought the public to his feet. His appearance was the triumph both of the artist and the soldier. No. He, Lackaday, held no such position. He recalled his first talk with Bakkus, in which he had insisted that his mountebanking was an art, and with his hard-gained knowledge of life rejected the sophistry. To hold an audience spell-bound by the interpretation of great human emotion was a different matter from making a zany of oneself and, upside down, playing a one-stringed fiddle behind one's head, and uttering degraded sounds through painted grinning lips in order to appeal to the inane sense of humour of the grocer and his wife. No. There was all the difference in the world. The comparison filled him less with consolation than with despair. The actor, mocking the octopus below, had calmly stepped from one rock pinnacle to another. He himself, Andrew Lackaday, in the depths, felt the irresistible grip of the horror twining round his middle. Put him in the midst of a seething mass of soldiery, he could command, straighten out chaos into mechanical perfection of order, guide willing men unquestioned into the jaws of Hell; put him on the stage of a music-hall and he could keep six plates in the air at a time. Outside these two spheres he could, as far as the world would try him, do nothing. He had to live. He was young, under forty. The sap of life still ran rich in his veins. And not only must he live, but the woman bound to him by a hundred ties, the woman woven by an almost superstitious weft into his early career, the woman whose impeccable loyalty as professional partner had enabled him to make his tiny fortune, the woman whose faithful affection had persisted through the long years of the war's enforced neglect, the woman who without his support--unthinkable idea--would perish from inanition--he knew her--Elodie must live, in the comfort and freedom from anxiety to which the years of unquestioning dependence had accustomed her. Cap and bells again; there was no other way out. After all, perhaps it was the best and most honest. Even if he had found a semi-military or administrative career abroad, what would become of Elodie? Not in a material sense, of course. The same provision would be made for her welfare as during the last five years. But the abnormal state of war had made normal their separation. In altered circumstances would she not have the right to cry out against his absence? Would she not be justified in the eyes of every right-thinking man? Yet the very conditions of such an appointment would prevent her accompanying him. The problem had appeared insoluble. Desperately he had put off the solution till the crisis should come. But he had felt unhappy, shrinking from the possibility of base action. The thought of Elodie had often paralysed his energy in seeking work. Now, however, he could face the world with a clear conscience. He had cut himself adrift from Lady Auriol and her world. Fate linked him for ever to Elodie. All that remained was to hide his honours and his name under the cloak of Petit Patou. It took him some time to convince Elodie of the necessity of returning to the old life. She repeated her cry that Generals do not perform on the music-hall stage. The decision outraged her sense of the fitness of things. She yielded as to an irresistible and unreasoning force. "And I then? Must I tour with you, as before?" she asked in dismay, for she was conscious of increased coarseness of body and sluggishness of habit. He frowned. "It is true I might find another assistant." But she quickly interrupted the implied reproach. She could not fail him in her duty. "No, no, I will go. But you will have to teach me all over again. I only asked for information." "We'll begin rehearsals then as soon as possible," he replied with a smile. A few days afterwards, Bakkus, who had been absent from Paris, entered the _salon_, with his usual unceremoniousness, and beheld an odd spectacle. The prim chairs had been piled on the couch by the wall, the table pushed into a corner, and on the vacant space, Elodie, in her old dancer's practising kit, bodice and knickerbockers, once loose but now skin tight to grotesqueness, and Andrew in under vest and old grey flannels, were perspiringly engaged with pith balls in the elementary art of the juggler. Elodie, on beholding him, clutched a bursting corsage with both hands, uttered a little squeak and bolted like an overfed rabbit. Bakkus laughed out loud. "What the devil----? Is this the relaxation of the great or the aberrations of the asylum?" Andrew grinned and shook hands. "My dear old chap. I'm so glad you've come back. Sit down." He shifted the table which blocked the way to the two arm-chairs by the stove. "Elodie and I are getting into training for the next campaign." He mopped his forehead, wiped his hands and, with the old acrobat instinct, jerked the handkerchief across the room. "You're looking very well," said he. "I'm splendid," said Bakkus. The singer indeed had a curiously prosperous and distinguished appearance, due not only to a new brown suit and clean linen and well-fitting boots, but also to a sleekness of face and person which suggested comfortable living. His hair, now quite white, brushed back over the forehead, was neatly trimmed. His sallow cheeks had lost their gaunt hollows, his dark eyes, though preserving their ironical glitter, had lost the hunger-lit gleam of wolfishness. "Have you signed a Caruso contract for Covent Garden?" laughed Andrew. "I've done better. At Covent Garden you've got to work like the devil for your money. I've made a contract with my family--no work at all. Agreement--just to bury the hatchet. Theophilus--that's the Archdeacon--performed the Funeral Service. He has had a stroke, poor chap. They sent for me." "Elodie told me," said Andrew. "He has been very good to me during the war. Otherwise I should have been reduced to picking up cigar ends with a pointed stick on the Boulevards--and a damn precarious livelihood too, considering the shortage of tobacco in this benighted country. He took it into his venerable head that he was going to die and desired to see me. Voltaire remorse on his death-bed, you know." "I fail to follow," said the literal Andrew. "All his life he had lived an unbeliever in ME. Now your military intelligence grasps it. My brother Ronald, the runner of the Pawnee Indian, head-flattening system of education, and his wife, especially his wife, the daughter of a lay brother of a bishop who has got a baronetcy for making an enormous fortune out of the war, wouldn't have me at any price. But Theophilus must have muttered some incantation which frightened them, so they surrendered. Poor old Theophilus and I had a touching meeting. He's about as lonely a thing as you could wish to meet. He married an American heiress, who died about eight years ago, and he's as rich as Croesus. We're bosom friends now. As for Mrs. Ronald I sang her songs of Araby including Gounod's 'Ave Maria' with lots of tremolo and convinced her that I'm a saintly personage. It's my proud boast that, on my account, Ronald and herself never spoke for three days. I spent a month in the wilds of Westmorland with them, and as soon as Theophilus got on the mend--he's already performing semi-Archidiaconal functions--I put my hands over my eyes and fled. My God, what a crowd! Give me a drink. I've got four weeks' arrears to make up." Andrew went into the _salle à manger_ and returned with brandy, syphon and glasses. Helping Bakkus he asked: "And now, what are you going to do?" "Nothing, my friend, absolutely nothing. I wallow in the ill-gotten matrimonial gains of Theophilus and Ronald. I wallow modestly, it is true. The richer strata of mire I leave to hogs with whom I'm out of sympathy. You'll have observed that I'm a man of nice discrimination. I choose my hogs. It is the Art of Life." "Well, here's to you," said Andrew, lifting up his glass. "And to you." Bakkus emptied his glass at a draught, breathed a sigh of infinite content and held it out to be refilled. "And now that I've told you the story of my life, what about you? What's the meaning of this--" he waved a hand--"this reversion to type?" "You behold Petit Patou redivivus," said Andrew. Bakkus regarded him in astonishment. "But, my dear fellow, Generals can't do things like that." "That's the cry of Elodie." "She's a woman with whom I'm in perfect sympathy," said Bakkus. Elodie entered, cooler, less dishevelled, in her eternal wrapper. She rushed up to Bakkus and wrung both his hands, overjoyed to see him. He must pardon her flight, but really--she was in a costume--and not even till she took it off did she know that it was split--Oh, _mon Dieu!_ Right across. With a sweep of the hand she frankly indicated the locality of the disaster. She laughed. Well, it was good that he had arrived at last. He would be able to put some sense into André. He a General, to go back to the stage. It was crazy! He would give André advice, good counsel, that was what he needed! How André could win battles when he was so helpless in other things, she could not understand. She seized him by the shoulders and smiled into his face. "_Mais toi qui es si intelligent, dis quelque chose_." "To say anything, my dear Elodie, while you are speaking," remarked Bakkus, "is beyond the power of mortal man. But now that you are silent I will say this. It is time for _déjeuner_. I am intoxicated with the sense of pecuniary plenitude, I invite you both to eat with me on the Boulevards where we can discuss these high matters." "But it is you that are crazy," cried Elodie, gasping at the unprecedented proposal which in itself shook, like an earthquake, her intimately constructed conception of Horatio Bakkus. And on the Boulevards, too! Her soul rose up in alarm. "You are wanting in your wits. One can't eat anywhere--even at a restaurant of the second class--under a hundred francs for three persons." Bakkus, with an air Louis Seize, implied that one, two or three hundred francs were as dirt in his fingers. But Elodie would have none of it. She would be ashamed to put so much money in her stomach. "I have," said she, "for us two, eggs _au beurre noir_ and a _blanquette de veau_, and what is enough for two is enough for three. And you must stay and eat with us as always." "I wonder," said Bakkus, "whether Andrew realizes what a pearl you are." So he stayed to lunch and repeated the story of his good fortune, to which Elodie listened enraptured as to a tale of hidden treasure of which he was the hero, but never a word could he find in criticism of Andrew's determination. The quips and causticities that a couple of years ago would have flowed from his thin, ironical lips, were arrested unformulated at the back of his brain. He became aware, not so much of a change as of a swift development of the sterner side of Andrew's character. Of himself he could talk sardonically enough. He could twit Elodie with her foibles in his old way. But of Andrew with his weather-beaten mug of a face marked with new, deep lines of thought and pain, sitting there courteous and simple, yet preoccupied, strangely aloof, the easy cynic felt curiously afraid. And when Elodie taxed him with pusillanimity he glanced at Andrew. "He has made up his mind," he replied. "Some people's minds are made up of sand and water. Others of stuff composed of builders' weird materials that harden into concrete. Others again have iron bars run through the mass--reinforced concrete. That's Andrew. It's a beast of a mind to deal with, as we have often found, my dear. But what would you have? The animal is built that way." "You flatter me," grinned Andrew, "but I don't see what the necessity of earning bread and butter has to do with a reinforced-concrete mind." "It's such an undignified way of earning it," protested Elodie. "I think," said Bakkus, "it will take as much courage for our poor friend to re-become Petit Patou, as it took for him to become General Lackaday." Andrew's face suddenly glowed and he shot out his long arm with his bony wrists many inches from his cuff and put his delicate hand on Bakkus's shoulder. "My dear fellow, why can't you always talk like that?" "I'm going to," replied Bakkus, pausing in the act of lighting one of Elodie's special reserve of pre-war cigars. "Don't you realize I'm just transplanted from a forcing bed of High Anglican platitude?" But Elodie shrugged her fat shoulders in some petulance. "You men always stick together," she said. Chapter XV The unventilated dressing-room of the Olympia Music-Hall in Marseilles reeked of grease paint, stale human exhalations, the acrid odour, creeping up the iron stairs, of a mangy performing lion, and all manner of unmentionable things. The month of June is not the ideal month to visit Marseilles, even if one is free to pass the evening at a café table on the Cannebière, and there is a breeze coming in from over the sea; but in copper-skied thundery weather, the sirocco conditions of more southerly latitudes, especially when one is cooped up in a confined and airless space, Marseilles in June can be a gasping inferno. Andrew, in spite of hard physical training, was wet through. His little white-jacketed dresser, says he, perspired audibly. There was not so much air in the dressing-room as tangible swelter. He sat by the wooden table, in front of a cracked and steaming mirror, the contents of his make-up box laid out before him, and (save for one private dress rehearsal carried out in surroundings of greater coolness and comfort) transformed himself, for the first time, from General Lackaday into the mountebank clown, Petit Patou. The electric lights that should have illuminated the mirror were not working--he had found, to his discomfort, that manifold things in post-war France refused to work--and two candles fainting into hopeless curves took their place. Anxiously over a wet skin he painted the transfiguring lines, from lip corner to ear, from nostril to eye, from eye to brow, once the mechanical hand-twist of a few moments--now the painfully concentrated effort of all his faculties. He finished at last. The swart and perspiring dresser dried his limbs, held out the green silk high-heeled tights which reached to his armpits. Then the grotesque short-sleeved jacket. Then the blazing crimson wig rising to the point of its extravagant foot height. He felt confined within a red-hot torture-skin, a Nessus garment specially adapted to the use of discarded Brigadier-Generals. He sat on the straight-backed chair and looked round the nine foot square flyblown room, with its peeling paper and its strained, sooty skylight, which all the efforts of himself and the dresser had failed to open. It was Mademoiselle Chose, the latter at last remembered, an imperious lady with a horror of draughts and the ear (and--who knows?--perhaps the heart of the management) who had ordered it, in the winter, to be nailed down from the outside. As proof, the broken cords. "Tell the manager that if it is not unnailed tomorrow, I shall smash a hole in it," said Andrew. It did not matter now. In a few moments he would be summoned from the suffocating den, and then, his turn over, he would dress quickly and emerge into the open air. Meanwhile, however, he gasped in the heat and the heavy odour of the place; his head ached with an intolerable pain round his temples and at the back of his eyeballs; and acute nervousness gripped his vitals. Presently the call-boy put his head in the doorway. Andrew rose, descended the iron stairs to the wings. Instinctively he went to the waiting table, covered with green velvet and gold, on which lay piled the once familiar properties--the one-stringed fiddle, the pith balls, the rings, the cigar, the matches, the trick silk hat, the cards, the coins, and the rest of the juggler's apparatus, and methodically checked them. In the visible shaft of brilliantly lit stage he could see the back of the head and the plump shoulders and tournure of a singer rendering in bravura fashion the Jewel Song from "Faust." The stillness whence arose this single flood of sound seemed almost uncanny. The superheated air thickened with hot human breath and tobacco smoke stood stagnant like a miasma in the unventilated wings and back of the stage. The wild beast smell of the lion, although his cage had been hurriedly wheeled out through the scenery door, still persisted and caught the throat, and in the dim white-washed bareness, a few figures, stagehands in shirt-sleeves, and vague pale men in hard felt hats tiptoed about like perspiring ghosts. One of the latter approached Andrew. Monsieur Patou need have no fear, he whispered. Everything was arranged--the beautiful ballroom interior--the men who were to set the stage had their orders, also the lime-light operators. Andrew nodded, already having given explicit instructions. The singer vanished from the quivering streak of stage, in order to give her finale close to the footlights. She ceased. Rapturous applause. She appeared panting, perspiring, beaming in the wings; went on again to bow her acknowledgments, amid hoarse cries of "_bis, bis!_" She reappeared, glowing vaporously in her triumph, and spread out her arms before the pallid man in the hard felt hat. "Well! What did I say? You made difficulties about offering me an engagement. I told you I could make these little birds eat out of my hand. You hear?"--the clamour would have been perceptible to a deaf mute--"They are mad about me. I go on again." "_Mais non, madame_. Three songs. That is your contract. The programme is long." So spake the assistant manager. But the lady snapped her fingers, heard like a pistol shot amid the uproar, and made a vast gesture with her arms. "If I am not allowed to have my encore, I tear up my contract." The assistant manager released himself from responsibility, yielded to woman's unreason, and the lady, who had arranged the matter with the leader of the orchestra, returned in contemptuous triumph to the stage. Elodie, meanwhile, had descended and stood by Andrew's side. She wore a very low-cut and short-skirted red evening frock, so tight that she seemed to ooze distressingly from every aperture. A red rose drooped in her thick black hair. Like the lank green-clad Andrew, she betrayed anxiety beneath her heavy make-up. The delay to their turn, prolonging her suspense, caused her to stamp her foot with annoyance. "The _sale grue!_ and she sings like a duck." "She pleases the audience," whispered Andrew. "And ruins our reception. It is the last straw." "It can't be helped," said Andrew. The singer gave as her encore a song from "La Traviata." She certainly had the mechanical technique so beloved by French audiences. That of Olympia listened spell-bound to her trills and when she had finished broke once more into enthusiastic cheering, calling and recalling her two or three times. At last the curtain came finally down and she disappeared up the iron staircase. The interior backcloth and wings provided for Les Petit Patou were let down, stage hands set the table and properties, Andrew and Elodie anxiously supervising, and when all was clear the curtain went up. Andrew went on alone and grinned familiarly, his old tradition, before the sea of faces. A few faint hand-claps instead of the old expectant laughter welcomed him. A generation had apparently risen that knew not Petit Patou. His heart sank. The heat of the footlights shimmered like a furnace and smote him with sudden lassitude. He began his tricks. Took his tiny one-stringed broomstick handled fiddle and played it with his hands encased in grotesquely long cotton gloves. Presently, with simulated impatience, he drew off the gloves, threw them, conjurer fashion, vanishing into the air, and then resumed his violin to find himself impeded now and then by various articles cunningly fixed to his attire, one after another of which he disposed of like the gloves. Finally in his perplexity he made as if to undo his tights (a certain laugh in former days) but thinking better of it, threw fiddle and bow as in disgust across the stage into the wings, where they were caught by the waiting Elodie. The act, once arousing merriment, fell flat. Andrew's heart sank lower. In itself the performance, which he had carried through with skilful cleanness, contained nothing risible; for laughter it depended solely on a personal note of grotesquerie, of exaggerated bewilderment and impatience and of appealingly idiotic self-satisfaction when each impediment was discovered and discarded. Had he lost that personal touch, merely gone through his conjuring with the mechanical precision of a soldier on parade? Heavens, how he hated himself and his aching head and the audience and the lay out of futile properties! Elodie appeared. The performance must continue. He threw into it all his energy. Elodie gave him her old loyal support. They did their famous cigar trick, developed from the act of Prépimpin. He had elaborated much of the comic business. The new patter, with up-to-date allusions, had resulted from serious conclave with Horatio Bakkus, whose mordant wit supplied many a line that should have convulsed the house. But the house refused to be convulsed. His look of vacant imbecility when one after another of a set of plates with which he juggled, disappeared, being fastened to an elastic contrivance to his back, and his expression of reproach when, turning Elodie round, he discovered her wearing the plates as a sort of basque, which once excited, on no matter what stage, rolling guffaws of mirth, now passed by unappreciated. The final item in the programme was one invented and brought to mechanical perfection just before the war broke out. He insisted on playing his cigar box and broom-handle fiddle in spite of Elodie's remonstrances. There was a pretty squabble. He pulled and she pulled, with the result that both bow and handle, by a tubular device, aided by a ratchet apparatus for the strings, assumed gigantic proportions. Petit Patou prevailing, after an almost disastrous fall, perched his great height on chair superimposed on table, and, with his long lean legs and arms, looking like a monstrous and horrible spider, began to work the heavy bow across the long strings. He had rehearsed it to perfection. In performance, something happened. His artist's nerve had gone. His fingers fumbled impotently for the stops. His professional experience saved a calamitous situation. With an acrobat's stride he reached the stage, telescoped fiddle and bow to normal proportions, and after a lightning nod to the _chef d'orchestre_, played the Marseillaise. At the end there was half-hearted perfunctory applause. A light hearted section of every audience applauds anything. But mingled with it there came from another section a horrible sibilant sound, the stage death warrant of many an artist's dreams, the modern down-turned thumb of the Roman populace demanding a gladiator's doom. The curtain fell. Blank silence now from its further side. A man swiftly bundled together the properties and drew them off. A tired looking man in evening dress, with a hideously painted face and long waxed moustaches, stood in the wings amid performing dogs, some free, some in basket cages, and amid the waiting clutter of apparatus that at once was rushed upon the stage. Andrew and Elodie moved clear and at the bottom of the iron staircase he motioned to her to ascend first. She clutched him by the arm and gulped down a sob. "Mon pauvre vieux!" He tried to smile. "Want of habit. We'll get it all back soon. _Voyons_"--he took her fat chin in his hand and turned up her face, on which make-up, perspiration and tears melted into one piteous paste. "This is not the way that battles are won." On the landing they separated. Andrew entered his sweltering dressing-room and gave himself over to the little dresser who had just turned out the dog-trainer in his shabby evening suit. "Monsieur had a good reception?" "Good enough," said Andrew, stretching himself out for the slipping off of his tights. "Ah," said the intuitive little man in the white jacket. "It is the war. Audiences are no longer the same. They no longer care for subtlety. Monsieur heard the singer before his turn? Well. Before the war Olympia wouldn't have listened to her. One didn't pay to hear a bad gramophone. And, on the other hand, a performance really artistic"--the little man sighed--"it was heart-breaking." Andrew let him talk; obviously the hisses had mounted from the wings to the dressing-room corridors; the man meant well and kindly. When he had dressed and appeared in his own Lackaday image, he put a twenty-franc note into the dresser's hand with a "Thank you, my friend," and marched out and away into the comparatively fresh air of the sulphurous night. He lit a cigarette and sat down at the corner of a little obscure café, commanding a view of the stage-door and waited for Elodie. His nervousness, even his headache, had gone. He felt cold and grim and passionless, like a man measuring himself against fate. When Elodie came out, a while later, he sat her down at the table, and insisted on her drinking a _Grog Américain_ to restore her balance. But iced rum and water could not medicine an overwrought soul. In her native air, nothing could check her irrepressibility of expression. She had to spend her fury with the audience. In all her life never had she encountered such imbecility--such bestial stupidity. Like the dresser, she upbraided the war. It had changed everything. It had changed the heart of France. She, Marseillaise of the Marseillais, was ashamed of being of Marseilles. Once the South was warm and generous and responsive. Now it was colder than Paris. She had never imagined that the war could press like a dead hand on the heart of the people of Provence. Now she knew it was true what Bakkus had once said--she had been very angry, but he was right--that through the sunny nature of every child of the Midi swept the _mistral_. She was not very consecutive or coherent or logical. She sought clamorously for every evil influence, postwar, racial, political, that could account for the frozen failure of the evening's performance. No thought disloyal to André hovered on the outskirts of her mind. He perceived it, greatly touched. When she paused in her vehement outburst, he leaned towards her, elbow on table, and his delicate hand at the end of his long bony wrist held up as a signal of arrest: "The fault is not that of France, or Marseilles, my dear Elodie. Perhaps the war may have something to do with it. But the fault is mine." She waved away so insane a suggestion. Went into details. How could it be his fault when the night's tricks were as identical with the tricks which used to command applause as two reproductions of the same cinema film? As for the breakdown of the new trick with the elongated violin and bow, she had seen where the mechanism had not worked properly. A joint had stuck; the audience had seen it too; an accident which could happen anywhere; that had nothing to do with the failure of the entertainment. The failure lay in the mental and moral condition of the degraded post-war audience. For all her championing, Andrew shook his head sadly. "No. Your cinema analogy won't hold. The fault's in me, and I'm sorry, my dear."' He tried to explain. She tried to understand. It was hopeless. He knew that he had lost, and had not yet recovered, that spiritual or magnetic contact with his audience which is the first element in artistic success, be the artistry never so primitive. The audience, he realized full well, had regarded him as a mechanical figure executing mechanical antics which in themselves had no particular claim on absorbing human interest. The eternal appeal, the "held me with his eye" of the Ancient Mariner, was wanting. And the man trained in the school of war saw why. They walked to their modest hostelry. He had shrunk from the great hotels where the lounges were still full of men in khaki going or coming from overseas--among whom he would surely find acquaintances. But he no longer desired to meet them. He had cut himself clean adrift from the old associations. He told me that Bakkus and I were his only correspondents. Henceforth he would exist solely as Petit Patou, flinging General Lackaday dead among the dead things of war.... Besides, the great hotels of Marseilles cost the eyes of your head. The good old days of the comfortable car and inexpensive lodging had gone apparently for ever, and he had to fall back on the travel and accommodation of his early struggling days. Elodie continued the discussion of the disaster. His face wore its wry grin of discomfiture; but he said little. They must go on as they had begun. Perhaps things would right themselves. He would lose his loathing of his mountebank trade and thus win back the sympathy of his audience. Before they separated for the night she flung her arm protectingly round him and kissed him. "They shall applaud you, _mon vieux_, I promise you." He laughed. Again her faith touched him deeply. "You have not changed since our first meeting in the Restaurant Garden at Avignon. You are always my mascot, Elodie!" The menacing thunder broke in the night, and all the next day it rained pitilessly. Two or three morning hours they spent at the music-hall, rehearsing, so that no physical imperfection should mar the evening performance. The giant violin worked with the precision of a Stradivarius. All that human care could do was done. They drove back to the hotel to lunch. Elodie lounged for the rest of the afternoon in her room, with a couple of love-birds for company--the rest of the aviary in the Saint-Denis flat being under the guardianship of Bakkus; and Andrew, with his cleared dressing-table for a desk, brought up-to-date the autobiographical manuscript which for the past few months had solaced so many hours of enforced leisure. Then they dined and proceeded to the music-hall, Elodie defiant, with a flush on her cheek, Andrew with his jaw set in a sort of hopeless determination. The preparations of the preceding evening repeated themselves. The rain had slightly cooled the air, but the smell of drains and humanity and leaky gas-pipes and the mangy lion, still caught at Andrew's throat. The little dresser, while investing him in the hated motley, pointed proudly to the open skylight. He himself had mounted, at great personal peril, to the roof. One was not a Chasseur Alpin for nothing. O yes, he had gone all through the war. He had the military medal, and four chevrons. Had Monsieur Patou seen any service? Like everybody else, said Andrew. It was good to get back to civil life and one's ordinary tasks, said the dresser whom the change in the weather perhaps had rendered more optimistic. Was not Monsieur Patou glad to return to the stage? A man's work, what? The war was for savages and wild beasts--not for human beings. Andrew let him talk on, wondering idly how he had sloughed his soldier's life without a regret. He stood up, once more, in his zany garb, and, looking in the mirror, lost sight of himself for a poignant second while the dressing-room changed into an evil-smelling dug-out, dark save for one guttering candle stuck in a bottle, and in the shadows he saw half a dozen lean, stern faces lit with the eyes of men whom he was sending forth to defy death. And every one of them hung upon his words as though they were a god's. The transient vision faded, and he became aware again of the grotesque and painted clown gibbering meaninglessly out of the glass. He strode down the iron stairs. There was the table of properties waiting in the wings. There came Elodie to join him. There, in the fiercely lighted strip of stage, the back, cut by the wing, of the singer with the voice of the duck, ending the "Jewel Song." Then came the applause, the now undisputed encore, the weary nervous wait.... Such had been his life night after night in unconsidered, undreamed-of monotony--before the war...such would be his life henceforward--changeless, deadly, appalling. At last, he went on. Through the mysterious psychological influence which one audience has on another, his reception was even more frigid than before. Elodie made her entrance. The house grew restless, inattentive, Andrew flogged his soul until he seemed to sweat his heart's blood. Here and there loud talking and hoarse laughter rose above the buzz and rustle of an unappreciative audience. Elodie's breast heaved and her face grew pallid beneath its heavy paint, but her eyes were bright. "_Allons toujours_," Andrew whispered. But in the famous cigar act he missed, for the first time since the far off rehearsals after the death of Prépimpin, when the fault was due to Elodie's lack of skill. But now, she threw it fair. It was he who missed. The lighted cigar smote him on the cheek. The impossibility of the occurrence staggered him for a second. But a second on the stage is an appreciable space of time, sufficient for the audience to pounce on his clumsiness, to burst into a roar of jeering laughter, to take up the cruelty of the hiss. But before he could do anything Elodie, coarse and bulging out of her short red bodice and skirt, her features contorted with anger, was in front of the footlights, defying the house. "_Lâches!_" she cried. The word which no Frenchman can hear unperturbed cut the clamour like a trumpet call. There was sudden silence. "Yes. Cowards. You make me ashamed that I am of Marseilles. To you a demobilized hero is nothing. But instead of practising his tricks during the war to amuse you, he has been fighting for his country. And he has earned this." She flashed from her bosom a white-enamelled cross depending from a red ribbon. "_Voilà!_ Not _Chevalier_--but _Officier de la Légion d'Honneur!_" With both pudgy arms outstretched she held the audience for the tense moment. "And from simple soldier to General of Brigade. And that is the Petit Patou whom you insult." She threatened them with the cross. "You insult France!" Reaction followed swift on her lightning speech. The French audience, sensitive to the dramatic and the patriotic, burst into tumultuous acclamation. Elodie smiled at them triumphantly and turned to Andrew, who stood at the back of the stage, petrified, his chin in the air, at the full stretch of his inordinate height, his eyes gleaming, his long thin lips tightened so that they broke the painted grin, his hands on his hips. Now if Elodie had carried out the plan developed during the night she could then and there have died happily. Exulting in her success, she tripped up the stage to Andrew, the clasp of the decoration between finger and thumb, hoping to pin it on his breast. The applause dropped, the house hovering for an instant on the verge of anti-climax. But Andrew, with a flash of rage and hatred, waved her away, and strode down to the footlights, tearing off his grotesque wig and revealing his shock of carroty hair. His soul was sick with horror. Only the swift silence made him realize that he was bound to address the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," said he, "I thank you for your generosity to me as a soldier. But I am here to try to merit your approbation as an artist. For what has just happened I must ask you to pardon a woman's heart." He remaned for a while glaring at them. Then, when the applause came to an end, he bowed, half ironically and gave a quick, imperious order, at which the curtain was rung down amid an uproar of excitement. He strode into the wings followed by Elodie starry-eyed, and stood panting. The curtain rose as if automatically. The manager thrust him towards the stage. "They want you," he cried. "They can go to the devil," said Andrew. Regardless of the clamour, he stalked with Elodie to the foot of the iron stairs. On their way they passed the waxed moustachioed trainer of the performing dogs. "A good _coup de théâtre_, Madame," he remarked jealously. Andrew glowered down on him. "You say, Monsieur----?" But the dog trainer meeting the eyes burning in the painttd face, thought it best to say nothing, and Andrew mounted the stairs. Elodie followed him into his dressing-room palpitating with excitement and perplexity and clutching both his arms looked wildly into his face. "You are not pleased with me?" For a moment or two he regarded her with stupid hostility; then, getting a grip on himself, he saw things from her point of view and realized her wit and her courage and her devotion. It was no fault of hers that she had no notion of his abhorrence of the scene. He smiled. "It is only you who could have dared," he said. "I told you last night they should applaud you." "And last night I told you you are always my mascot." "If it only weren't true that you love me no longer," said Elodie. The dresser entered. Elodie slipped out. Andrew made a step, after her to the threshold. "What the devil did she mean by that?" said he, after the manner of men. Chapter XVI She did not repeat the reproach, nor did Andrew put to her the question which he had asked himself. The amicable placidity unruffled by quarrel, which marked their relations, was far too precious to be disturbed by an unnecessary plumbing of emotional depths. As far as he could grapple with psychological complexities, there had been nothing between them, through all the years, of the divine passion. She had come to him disillusioned and weary. He had come to her with a queer superstitious gratitude for help in the past and a full recognition of present sympathy and service. As the French say, they had made together _un bon ménage_. Save for a few half-hysterical days during the war--and in that incomprehensible pre-war period at the end of which the birds came to her rescue, there had been little talk of love and dreams of delight and the rest of the vaporous paradise of the mutually infatuated. He could not manifest, nor did she demand, a lover's ardour. It had all been as comfortable and satisfactory as you please. And now, at the most irrelevant moment, according to his masculine mind, came this cry of the heart. But was it of the heart? Did it not rather proceed from childish disappointment at his lack of enthusiastic praise of her splendid exploit? As I say, he judged it prudent to leave the problem unsolved. Of the exploit itself, needless to remark, she talked interminably. Generous and kind-hearted, he agreed with her arguments. Of the humiliation she had wrought for him, he allowed her to have no notion. He shivered all night at the degradation of his proudest honour. It had been gained, not as one of a batch of crosses handed over to the British military authorities for distribution, but on the field. He had come, with a handful of men, to the relief of a sorely pressed village held by the French; somehow he had rallied the composite force, wiped out two or three nests of machine guns and driven out the Germans; as officer in command he had consolidated the village, so that, when the French came up, he had handed it over to them as a victor. A French general had pinned the cross on his breast on a day of wind and rain and bursting shell, on a vast plain of unutterable devastation. The upholding of it before the mob of Marseilles had been a profanation. In these moments of anguished amazement he had suffered as he had never suffered in his life before. And he had been helpless. Before he realized what was being done, Elodie, in her tempestuous swiftness, had done it. It was only when she came to fix the cross on his breast that his soul sprang to irresistible revolt. He could have taken her by the throat and wrung it, and flung her away dead. Thus, they were infinite leagues asunder. She met what amounted to wearily indulgent forgiveness when she had fully expected to reap the golden meed of heroism. The next morning, she went about silent, perplexed, unhappy. By her stroke of genius she had secured for him a real success. If he had allowed her to crown the dramatic situation by pinning on the cross, his triumph had been such as the stage had never seen. "Why didn't you let me do it?" she asked. "To complete a work of art," said he, "is always a mistake. You must leave something to the imagination." "But I did right. Tell me I did right." Denial would have been a dagger thrust through a loyal heart. "You acted, my dear," said he, "like a noble woman." And she was aware of a shell which she could not pierce. From their first intimate days, she had always felt him aloof from her; as a soldier during the war she had found him the counterpart of the millions of men who had heroically fought; as an officer of high rank, as a General, she had stood, in her attitude towards him, in uneducated awe; as a General demobilized and a reincarnation of Petit Patou, he had inspired her with a familiarity bred not of contempt--that was absurd--but of disillusion. And now, to her primitive intelligence, he loomed again as an incomprehensible being actuated by a moral network of motives of which she had no conception. He escaped early from the little hotel and wandered along the quays encumbered with mountains of goods awaiting transport, mighty crates of foodstuffs, bales of hay, barrels of wine from Algiers. Troops and sailors of all nations mingled with the dock employees who tried to restore order out of chaos. Calm goods trains whistled idly by the side of ships or on sidings, the engine drivers lounging high above the crowd in Olympian indifference. The broken down organization had nothing to do with them. Here, in the din and the clatter and the dust and the smell of tar and other sea-faring things reeking shorewards under the blazing sun, Andrew could hide himself from the reputable population of the town. In the confusion of a strange world he could think. His life's unmeaningness overwhelmed him; he moved under the burden of its irony. In that she had hurled insulting defiance at a vast, rough audience, Elodie had done a valiant thing. She had done it for love of him. His failure to respond had evoked her reproach. But the very act for which she claimed due reward was a stab to the heart of any lingering love. And yet, he must go on. There was no way out. He had faced facts ever since the days of Ben Flint--and Elodie was a fact, the principal fact in his life. Curious that she should have faded into comparative insignificance during the war--especially during the last two years of it when he had not seen her. She seemed to have undergone a vehement resurrection. The shadow of the war had developed into the insistent flesh and blood of peace. He wandered far over the quay, where the ancient Algiers boat was on the point of departure, crammed with red-tarbooshed troops, zouaves, colonials, swarthy Turcos and Spahis, grinning blacks with faces like polished boots, all exultant in the approaching demobilization. The grey-blue mass glistened with medals. The blacks were eating--with the contented merriment of children at a Sunday School treat. Andrew smiled at many memories. Black troops seemed always to be eating. As he stood watching, porters and pack-laden blue helmeted poilus jostled him, until he found a small oasis of quiet near the bows. Here a hand was clapped on his shoulder and a voice said: "Surely you're Lackaday?" He turned and beheld the clean-cut bronzed face of a man in civilian dress. As often happens, what he had sought to avoid in the streaming streets of the town, he had found in the wilderness--an acquaintance. It was one Arbuthnot, an Australian colonel of artillery who, through the chances of war, had rendered his battalion great service. A keen, sparely built man made of leather and whipcord, with the Australian's shrewd blue eyes. They exchanged the commonplaces of greeting. "Demobilized?" said Andrew. "Thank Heaven." "You seem glad." "Good Lord! I should think so. Aren't you glad it's all over?" "I don't quite know," said Andrew, smiling wistfully. "Well, I am," declared Arbuthnot. "It was a beastly mess that had to be cleared up, and now it's done as far as my little responsibility is concerned. I'm delighted. I want to get back to my wife and family and lead the life of a human being. War's a dog's life. It has nothing to recommend it. It's as stupid and senseless as a typhoon." He laughed. "What are you doing here?" Andrew waved a hand. "Putting in time." "So am I. Till my boat sails. I thought before I left I'd look at a merrier end of France. By Gosh! They're a happy crowd"--he pointed to the packed mass on board the ancient tub of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique. "You share their feelings," said Andrew. Arbuthnot glanced at him keenly. "I heard they made you a Brigadier. Yes? And you've chucked it?" "I'm a civilian, even as you are," said Andrew. Arbuthnot pushed back his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "For goodness' sake let us get out of this and sit down somewhere and have a talk." He moved away, Andrew following, and hailed a broken down cab, a victoria which had just deposited a passenger by the steamer's side. "To the Cannebière," said he, and they drove off. "If you have anything to do, please tell me. But I know nobody in this furnace of a town. You're a godsend." A while afterwards they were seated beneath the awning of a crowded café on the Cannebière. Ceaseless thousands of the globe's population passed by, from the bare-headed, impudent work girls of Marseilles, as like each other and the child Elodie as peas in a pod, to the daintily costumed maiden; from the feathered, flashing quean of the streets to the crape encumbered figure of the French war-widow; from the abject shuffler clad in flapping rags and frowsy beard to the stout merchant dressed English fashion, in grey flannels and straw hat, with two rolls of comfortable fat above his silk collar; from the stray British or American private perspiring in khaki to splendid officers, French, Italian, Roumanian, Serbian, Czecho-Slovak, be-medalled like the advertisements of patent foods; from the middle aged, leaden pipe laden Marseilles plumber, in his blue smock, to the blue-uniformed Senegalese private, staring with his childish grin, at the multitudinous hurrying sights of an unfamiliar crowd. Backwards and forwards they passed in two thick unending streams. And the roadway clashed with trams following each other, up and down, at fraction of a second intervals, and with a congestion of waggons, carts, cabs, automobiles, waiting patiently on the pleasure of these relentless, strident symbols of democracy. In his troubled mood, Andrew found Arbuthnot also a godsend. It was good to talk once more with a man of his own calibre about the things that had once so intensely mattered. He lost his shyness and forgot for a time his anxieties. The rushing life before him had in its way a soothing charm to one resting, as it were, on the quiet bank. It was good, too, to talk English--or listen to it; for much of the talking was done by his companion. Arbuthnot was full of the big, beloved life that lay before him. Of the wife and children whom he had not seen for four years. Of his home near Sydney. Of the Solomon Islands, where he spent the few healthy months of the year growing coco-nuts for copra and developing a pearl fishery. A glorious, free existence, said he. And real men to work with. Every able-bodied white in the Solomon Islands had joined up--some hundred and sixty of them. How many would be going back, alas! he did not yet know. They had been distributed among so many units of the Australian Forces. But he was looking forward to seeing some of the old hard-bitten faces in those isles of enchantment. "I thought," said Andrew, "that it rained all the year round on the Solomon Islands; that they were so depressing, in fact, that the natives ate each other to keep up their spirits." Arbuthnot protested vehemently. It was the loveliest climate in the world during the time that white folk stayed there. Of course, there was a rainy season, but then everybody went back to Australia. As for cannibals--he laughed. "If you're at a loose end," said he, "come out with me and have a look round. It will clear the war out of your system." Andrew held a cigarette between the tips of his fingers and looked at the curling smoke. The picture of the reefs and surfs and white sands and palm-trees of these far off islands rose, fascinating, before his eyes. And then he remembered that he had once a father and mother--and a birth-place. "Curiously enough," said he, "I am Australian born." He had scarcely ever realized the fact. "All the more reason," said Arbuthnot heartily. "Come with me on the Osway. The captain's a pal of mine. He'll fix up a bunk for you somewhere." He offered boundless hospitality. Andrew grew more wistful. He thanked Arbuthnot. But---- "I'm a poor man," said he, "and have to earn my living at my old job." "And what's that?" "I'm a music-hall artist," said Andrew. "You? Good Lord! I thought you had been a soldier all your life. One of the old contemptibles." "I enlisted as a private in the Grenadier Guards," smiled Andrew. "And came to be a General in a brass hat--and now you're back on the stage. Somehow it doesn't fit. Do you like it?" Andrew winched at the intimate question of the frank and direct Australian. Last night's scene swept across his vision, hateful and humiliating. "I have no choice," said he. As before, on the quay, Arbuthnot looked at him, keenly. "I don't think you do like it. I've met hundreds of fellows who feel just the same as you. I'm different, as I told you. But I can understand the other point of view. Perhaps I should kick if I had to go back to a poky office, instead of a free, open-air life. After all, we're creatures of circumstance." He paused to light a cigar. Andrew made no reply, and the conversational topic died a natural death. They talked of other things--went back to Arras, the Somme, Saint Quentin. Presently Arbuthnot, pulling out his watch, suggested lunch. Andrew rose, pleading an engagement--his daily engagement with Elodie at the stuffy little hotel table d'hôte. But the other begged him for God's sake not to desert him in this lonely multitude. It would not be the act of a Christian and a comrade. Andrew was tempted, feeling the charm and breeziness of the Australian like a breath of the free air of Flanders and Picardy. He went indoors to the telephone. Elodie, eventually found, responded. Of course, her poor André must have his little pleasure. He deserved it, _mon Dieu!_ It was _gentil_ of him to consult her. And it had fallen out quite well, for she herself could not eat. The stopping had dislodged itself from one of her teeth which was driving her mad with pain and she was going to a dentist at one o'clock. He commiserated with her on her misadventure. Elodie went into realistic details of the wreck of the gold stopping on the praline stuffing of a chocolate. Then an anguished "_Ne me coupez pas, Mademoiselle_." But Mademoiselle of the Exchange cut ruthlessly, and Andrew returned to Arbuthnot. "I'm at your service," said he. Arbuthnot put himself into Lackaday's hands. The best place. The best food. It was not often he had the honour of entertaining a British General unawares. Andrew protested. The other insisted. The General was his guest. Where should they go? Somewhere characteristic. He was sick of the food at grand hotels. It was the same all the world over--Stockholm, Tokio, Scarborough, Melbourne, Marseilles. "Marseilles has nothing to boast of in the way of cookery," said Andrew, "save its bouillabaisse." "Now what's that?" cried Arbuthnot. "I've sort of heard of it." "My dear fellow," said Andrew, with his ear-to-ear grin. "To live in Marseilles and be innocent of bouillabaisse is like having gone through the war without tasting bully beef." He was for dragging him to the little restaurant up a side street in the heart of the town which is the true shrine of bouillabaisse. But Arbuthnot had heard vaguely of another place, celebrated for the dish, where one could fill one's lungs as well as one's stomach. "The Reserve." "That's it. Taxi!" cried Arbuthnot. So they drove out and sat in the cool gallery of the Reserve, by a window table, and looked on the blue Mediterranean, and the wonderous dish was set before them and piously served by the maître d'hôtel. Rascasse, Loup-de-mer, mostelle, langouste ... a studied helping of each in a soup plate, then the sodden toast from the tureen and the ladles of clear, rich, yellow liquid flavoured with saffron and with an artist's inspiration of garlic, the essence of the dozen kinds of fish that had yielded up their being to the making of the bouillabaisse. The perfect serving of it is a ceremonial in the grand manner. Arbuthnot, regarding his swimming plate, looked embarrassed. "Knife, fork and spoon," said Andrew. They ate for a while in silence. Then Arbuthnot said: "Do you remember that wonderful chapter in Meredith's _Egoist_ when Sir Willoughby Patterne offers the second bottle of the Patterne Port to Doctor Middleton, Clara's father--and the old fellow says: 'I have but a girl to give?' Well, I feel like that. This is the most wonderful eating that humanity has ever devised. I'm not a glutton. If I were I should have sampled this before. I'm just an uncivilized man from the bush overwhelmed by a new sensation. I'm your debtor, General, to all eternity. And your genius in recommending this wine"--he filled Andrew's glass with Cinzano's Asti Spumante--"is worthy of the man who saw us out at Bourdon Wood. By the way," he added, after a pause, "what really happened afterwards? I knew you got through. But we poor devils of gunners--we do our job--and away we go to loose off Hell at another section and we never get a clear knowledge of the results." "I'll tell you in a minute," said Andrew, emptying the salt cellars and running a trench-making finger through the salt, and disposing pepper pots, knives and spoons and supplementing these material objects with lead pencil lines on the table-cloth--all vestiges of the bouillabaisse had been cleared away--"You see, here were the German lines. Here were their machine-guns." "And my little lot," said Arbuthnot, tapping a remote corner, "was somewhere over here." They worked out the taking of Bourdon Wood. A médallion de veau perigourdine, a superimposition of toast, foie gras, veal and truffles, interrupted operations. They concluded them, more languidly, before the cheese. The mild mellow Asti softened their hearts, so that at the end of the exquisite meal, in the mingled aroma of coffee, a cigarette, and the haunting saltness of the sea, they spoke (with Andrew's eternal reserve) like brothers. "My dear fellow," said Arbuthnot, "the more I talk to you the more impossible does it seem that you should settle down to your pre-war job. Why don't you chuck it and come out with me on a business footing?" "I have no capital," said Andrew. "You don't need much--a few thousands." He might have said a few millions for all Andrew's power to command such a sum. The other continued his fairy-tale of the islands. They were going to boom one of these near days. Fortune lay to the hand of the man who came in first. Labour was cheap, the world was shrieking for copra, the transport difficulty would soon adjust itself---and then a dazzling reward. It was quite possible, he suggested with some delicacy, to find financial aid, and in the meantime to do management work on a salary, so as to keep himself going. The qualities which made him a General were just those which out there would command success. And, Australian born, as he was, he could claim a welcome among his own people. "I can guarantee you a living, anyhow," said the enthusiast. "Think it over, and let me know before the Osway sails." It was a great temptation. If he were a free man, he would have cast off the garb of Petit Patou for ever and gone to seek fortune in a new world where he could unashamedly use his own name and military rank among men who did men's work and thought all the better of a man for doing the same. And also he became conscious of a longing to leave France for a season. France was passing through a post-war stage of disgruntlement and suspicion, drawing tight around her feet her tri-coloured skirts so that they should not be touched by the passing foreigner. France was bleeding from her wounds--weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted. The Englishman in Andrew stood hurt and helpless before this morbid, convulsive nationalism. Like a woman in certain emotional states she were better left alone for awhile, till she recovered and smiled her benevolent graciousness again. Yet if he remained Petit Patou he must stay in France, the land of his professional adoption. From appearing on the English stage he shrank, with morbid sensitiveness. There was America, where he was unknown.... Already Moignon was in touch, on his behalf, with powerful American agencies. Just before he left Paris Moignon had said: "They are nibbling for the winter." But it was all vague. France alone appeared solid--in spite of the disasters of these first two nights. "I wish to God," he cried suddenly, after a long silence, "I wish to God I could cut everything and come with you." "What prevents you?" asked Arbuthnot. "I have ties," said he. Arbuthnot met the grim look on his face which forbade further questioning. "Ah!" said he. "Still," he added with a laugh, "I'm at the Hôtel de Noailles till Friday. That is to say----" He explained that he was going the next day to Monte Carlo, which he had never seen, to spend a night or two, but would return in good time for the sailing of the Osway and the hearing of General Lackaday's final decision. On their drive back to Marseilles, Arbuthnot, during a pause in their talk, said: "What I can't understand is this. If you're on the music-hall stage, what the deuce are you doing in Marseilles?" "I'm here on business with my partner," Andrew replied curtly. "If it weren't for that--a business engagement--I would ask you to spend the evening with me," he added. "What are you going to do?" "I went to the theatre last night. What else is there?" "They have an excellent Revue at the El Dorado. Go there." "I will," said Arbuthnot. Andrew breathed freely, relieved from the dread lest this genial and unsuspecting brother in arms should wander into Olympia and behold--what? What kind of a performance? What kind of a reception? All apart from beholding him in his green silk tights and painted face. They parted at the Hôtel de Noailles. The Australian shook him warmly by the hand. "This has been one of the great days of my life," said he, with his frank smile. "The day when I return and you tell me you're coming with me, will be a greater." Andrew walked away in a glow. Here was a man of proved worth, proved in the furnace in which they had met, straight as his eyes, sincere to his soul, who had claimed him as a leader of the Great Brotherhood, who, with a generosity acceptable under the unwritten law of that 'Brotherhood's Freemasonry, had opened his way to freedom and a man's hie. Whether he could follow the way or not was another matter. The fact of the generous opening remained; a heartening thing for all time. You may perhaps remember that, in the introductory letter which accompanied the manuscript and is quoted at the beginning of this record of the doings of Andrew Lackaday, he remarks: "At the present moment I am between the devil and the deep sea. I am hoping that the latter will be the solution of my difficulties." This was written in his hotel room, as soon as he returned. Elodie, unnerved by an over-driven dentist's torture, lay resting in her bedroom with closed windows and drawn shutters. He was between the Devil of Petit Patou-ism and the Deep Sea beyond which lay the Fortunate Isles where men were men and coco-nuts were gold and where the sweat could roll down your leather skin undefiled with greasepaint. When he had finished writing, he dined with a curiously preoccupied though pain-relieved Elodie. He attributed her unusual mood either to anxiety as to their reception at Olympia, after the previous night's performance, or to realization of the significance of her indiscretion. She ate little, drank less, and scarcely spoke at all. They reached the music-hall. Andrew changed into his tights. The little dresser retailed the gossip of the place. Elodie had undoubtedly caused a sensation. The dresser loudly acclaimed Madame's action as a _beau geste_. "In these days of advertisement one can't afford to be so modest, _mon général_," said he. "And I, for example, who committed the stupidity of asking whether you had served in the war! To-night we are going to see something quite different." Andrew laughed. Haunted by the great seas and the Solomon Islands and the palm trees, he found himself scarcely interested in his reception. The audience could talk and cough and hiss as much as they liked. He had practically told them to go to the devil last night. He was quite ready, if need be, to do it again. He was buoyed up by a sublime indifference. The singer was ending her encore from "La Traviata" when he went down the iron stairs. Elodie met him punctually, for they had agreed to avoid the dreary wait. As soon as the stage was set and the curtain up, he went on and was greeted by a round of applause. Somehow the word had been passed round the populace that formed the Olympia clientèle. Thenceforward the performance went without a hitch, to the attentive gratification of the audience. There was no uproarious demonstration; but they laughed in the right places and acclaimed satisfactorily his finale on the giant violin. They gave him a call, to which he responded, leading Elodie by the hand. For himself, he hardly knew whether to feel relief or contempt, but Elodie, blindly stumbling through the cages of the performing dogs in the wings, almost broke down. "Now all goes well. Confess I was right." He turned at the bottom of the stairs. "Yes. I confess. You did what was right to make it go well." She scanned his face to read his meaning. Of late he had grown so remote and difficult to understand. He put his arm round her kindly and smiled--and near by his smile, painted to the upper tip of each ear, was grotesquely horrible. "Why yes, little goose. Now everything will go on wheels." "That is true?" she asked anxiously. "I swear it," said he. When they reached the hotel, she swiftly discarded the walking clothes and slipped on her wrapper in which only was she the real Elodie, and went to his room and sat on the little narrow bed. "_Mon ami_," said she, "I have something to tell you. I would not speak this afternoon because it was necessary that nothing should disturb your performance." Andrew lit a pipe and sat down in the straight-backed arm-chair. "What's the matter?" "I had to wait an hour at the dentist's. Why those people say one o'clock when they mean two, except to make you think they are so busy that they do you a favour to look inside your mouth, and can charge you whatever they like--thirty francs, the monster charged me--you ought to go and tell him it was a robbery--" "My dear," he interrupted, thus cutting out the predicate of her rhetorical sentence, "you surely couldn't have thought a dentist's fee of thirty francs would have put me off my work?" She threw up her arms. "Mon Dieu! Men are stupid! No. Listen. I had to wait an hour. I had to distract myself--well--you know the supplement to _L'Illustration_ that has appeared every week during the war--the pages of photographs of the heroes of France. I found them all collected in a portfolio on the table. Ah! Some living, but mostly dead. It was heart-breaking. And do you know what I found? I found this. I stole it." She drew from her pocket peignoir a crumpled page covered with vignette photographs of soldiers, a legend underneath each one, and handed it to Andrew, her thumb indicating a particular portrait. "There! Look!" And Andrew looked and beheld the photograph of a handsome, vast mustachioed, rake-helly officer of Zouaves, labelled as Captain Raoul Marescaux, who had died gloriously for France on the twenty-sixth of March, 1917. For a second or two he groped for some association with a far distant past. "But don't you see?" cried Elodie. "It is my husband. He has been dead for over two years." Chapter XVII The real discussion between them of the change that the death of Raoul Marescaux might bring about in their relations, did not take place till the next day. Each felt it as a sudden shock which, as in two chemicals hitherto mingling in placid fluidity, might cause crystallization. Up to this point, the errant husband, vanishing years before across the seas in company with a little modiste of the Place de la Madeleine, had been but a shadow, less a human being than a legal technicality which stood in way of their marriage. Occasionally during the war each had contemplated the possibility of the husband being killed. A mere fleeting speculation. As Elodie had received no official news of his death--which is astonishing in view of the French Republic's accuracy in tracing the _état civil_ of even her obscurest citizens--she presumed that he was still alive somewhere in the Shadow Land in which exist monks and Papuans and swell-mobsmen and other members of the human race with whom she had no concern. And Andrew had been far too busy to give the fellow whose name he had all but forgotten, more than a passing thought. But now, there he was, dead, officially reported, with picture and description and distinction and place and date all complete. The shadow had melted into the definite Eternity of Shadows. Andrew rose early, dressed, and, according to his athletic custom, took his swinging hour's walk through the streets still fresh with the lingering coolness of the night, and then, after breakfast, entered Elodie's room. But she was still fast asleep. She seldom rose till near midday. It was only after lunch, a preoccupied meal, that they found the opportunity for discussion, in the little stuffy courtyard of the hotel, set round with dusty tubs of aloes and screened with a trellis of discontented vine. They sat on a rustic bench by a door and then coffee was served on a blistered iron table once painted yellow. There were many flies which disturbed the slumbers of an old mongrel Newfoundland sprawling on the cobbles. And there he put to her the proposition which he had formulated during the night. "My dear," said he, "I have something very important to say to you. You will listen--eh? You won't interrupt?" Coffee-cup in hand, she glanced at him swiftly before she sipped. "As you will." "Yesterday," said he, "I met a comrade of the war, a Colonel of Australian artillery. I lunched with him, as you know." "_Bien_," said Elodie. "I had a long talk with him. He made certain propositions." He repeated his conversation with Arbuthnot, described at second hand the Solomon Islands, the beauties of reef and palm, the delights of a new, free life and laid before her the guarantee of a competence and the possibilities of a fortune. As he talked, Elodie's dark face grew sullen and her eyes hardened. When he paused, she said: "You are master of your affairs. If you wish to go, you are free. I have no right to say anything." "You don't allow me to finish," said he, smiling patiently. "I would not go there without you." "_Moi?_" She shifted round on her seat with Southern excitability and pointed her finger at her bosom. "I go to the other end of the world and live among savages and Australians who don't talk French--and I who know no word of English or any other savage tongue? No, my friend. Ask anything else of me--I give it freely, as I have given it all these years. But not that." "You would go with me as my wife, Elodie. We will get married." "_Pouf!_" said Elodie, contemptuously. Without any knowledge of the terminal values so precious to women, Andrew felt a vague apprehension lest he had begun at the wrong end. "Surely," said he, by way of reparation. "The death of your husband makes a great difference. Now there is nothing to prevent our marriage." "There is everything to prevent it," she replied. "You no longer love me." "The same affection exists," said he, "that has always been between us." "Then we go on leading the life that we always have led." "I don't think it very satisfactory," said Andrew. "I do, if it pleases us to remain together, we remain. If we want to say 'Good-bye' we are free to do so." He noticed that she wrung her hands nervously together. "You don't wish to say 'good-bye,' Elodie?" he asked gently. "Oh, no. It is only not to put ourselves into the impossibility of saying it." "While you live, my dear," he replied, "I could never say it to you." "If you went away to the Antipodes, you would have to say good-bye, my dear André, for I could not accompany you--never in life. I have heard of these countries. They may be good for men, but for women--no. Unless one is archimillionaire, one has no servants. The woman has to keep the house and wash the floor and cook the meals. And that--you know well--I can't do. It may be selfish and a little unworthy but _mon Dieu!_--I have always been frank--that's how I am. And except on tour abroad where we have lived in hotels where everybody spoke French I have never lived out of France. That is what I was always saying to myself when you were seeking an occupation. 'What will happen to me if he does get a foreign appointment?' I was afraid, oh, terribly afraid. But I said nothing to you. I loved you too much. But now it is necessary for me to tell you what I have in my heart. You are free to go to what wild island you like--that is why it would be absurd for us to marry--but it would be all finished between us." "That couldn't be," said Andrew. "What would become of you?" She averted her head and said abruptly, "Don't think of it." "But I must think of it. During the war----" "During the war, it was different. _A la guerre comme à la guerre._ We knew it could not last for ever. You loved me. It was natural for me to accept the support of _mon homme_, like all other women. But now, if you leave me--no. _N-i-n-i, nini, c'est fini._" So all Andrew's beautiful dreams faded into mist. He rose and crossed the little cobbled courtyard and looked out for a while into the shabby by-street in which the hotel was situated. That Elodie should accompany him was the only feasible way, from the pecuniary point of view, of carrying out the vague scheme. It would be a life, at first, of some roughness and privation. Arbuthnot had laid the financial side quite clearly before him. He could not expect to land on the Solomon Islands without capital (and even a borrowed capital) and expect an income of a thousand pounds a year to drop into his mouth. If Elodie, although refusing to accompany him, would accept his allowance, that allowance, would, of arithmetical necessity, be far, far less than she had enjoyed during the war. Besides, although he was bound tentatively to suggest it, he knew the odd pride, the rod of steel through her nature, which he had come up against, to his own great advantage, time after time during their partnership, and he would have been the most astonished man in the world had she answered otherwise. Yes, the dream of coco-nuts and pearls had melted. She was right. Even had she consented, she would have been a ghastly failure in pioneer Colonial life. Their existence would have been mildewed and moth-eaten with misery. She knew herself and her limitations. To go and leave her to starve or earn a precarious livelihood with her birds, on this post-war music-hall stage avid for novelty of sensation, were an act as dastardly as that of the late Raoul Mares-caux who planted her there on the platform of the Gare St. Lazare while he was on his ways overseas with the modiste of the Place de la Madeleine. He turned to find her dabbing her eyes with a couple of square inches of chiffon which, in spite of its exiguity, had smeared the powder on her face. He sat down beside her, with his patient smile, and took her hand and patted it. "Come, come, my little Elodie. I am not going to leave you. It was only an idea. If it had attracted you, well and good. But as it doesn't, let us say no more about it." "I don't want to hinder you in your life, André," she said brokenly. "_Ça me donne beaucoup de peine_. But you see, don't you, that I couldn't do it?" He soothed her as best he could. Les Petit Patou would invent new business, of a comicality that would once more make their fortunes. That being so, why should they not be married? She looked at him searchingly. "You desire it as much as that?" "I desire earnestly," said he, "to do what is right." "Are you sure that it doesn't come from the respectability of an English General?" "I don't know how it comes," he replied, hiding the sting of the shrewd thrust with a laugh, "but it's there, all the same." "Well, I'll think of it," said Elodie, "but give me time. _Ne m'embête pas._" He promised not to worry her. "But tell me," he said, after a few moments' perplexity, "why were you so agitated all yesterday after you had seen that photograph?" Elodie let her hand fall on her lap and regarded him with pitying astonishment. "_Mon Dieu!_ What do you expect a woman to be when she learns that her husband, whom she thinks alive, has been killed two years ago?" Andrew gave it up. On the morning of the sailing of the Osway from Marseilles, he called on Arbuthnot at the Hôtel de Noailles, and told him of his decision. "I'm sorry," said Arbuthnot, "as sorry as I can be. But in case you care to change your mind, here's my card." "And here's mine," said Andrew, and he handed him his card thus inscribed MONSIEUR PATOU (_Combinaison des Petit Patou_) 3 rue Falda Faubourg Saint-Denis Paris Arbuthnot looked from the card to Andrew and from Andrew to the card, in some perplexity. "Why," said he, "I've seen your bills about the town. You're playing here! Why the deuce didn't you let me know?" "I gave a better performance at Bourdon Wood," said Andrew. Now hereabouts, I ought to say, the famous manuscript ends. Indeed, this late Marseilles part of it was very hurried and sketchy. The main object which he had in view--or rather which, in the first inception of the idea, I had suggested he should have in view--namely, "to interest, perhaps encourage, at any rate to stimulate the thoughts of many of my old comrades who have been placed in the same predicament as myself" (as he says in the letter which accompanied the manuscript) he had abandoned as hopeless. He had merely jotted things down helter-skelter, diary fashion. I have had to supplement these notes from his letters and from the confidential talks which we had, not very long after he had left Marseilles. From these letters and these talks also, it appears that the tour booked by Moignon did not prove the disastrous failure prognosticated by the first two nights at Marseilles. Nowhere did he meet a prewar enthusiasm; but, on the other hand, nowhere did he encounter the hostility of the Marseilles audience. At Lyons, owing to certain broad effects, which he knew of old to be acceptable to that unique, hard-headed, full-bellied, tradition-bound bourgeoisie, he had an encouraging success. He felt the old power return to him--the power of playing on the audience as on a musical instrument. But at Saint-Etienne--a town of operatives--the performance went disappointingly flat. Before a dull or discontented audience he stood helpless. No, the old magnetic power had gone. However, he had recovered the faculty of making his livelihood somehow or other as Petit Patou, which, he began desperately to feel, was all that mattered. His soul revolted, but his will prevailed. Elodie accompanied him in serene content, more flaccid and slatternly than ever in her hotel room, keenly efficient on the stage. Now it happened that, a while later, during a visit to some friends in Shropshire who have nothing to do with this story, I broke down in health. I have told you before, that liaison work during the war had put out of action the elderly crock that is Anthony Hylton. Doctors drew undertakers' faces between the tubes of their stethoscopes as they jabbed about my heart, and raised their eyebrows over my blood pressure. Just at this time I had a letter from Lackaday. Incidentally he mentioned that he was appearing in August at Clermont-Ferrand and that Horatio Bakkus (who, in his new prosperity, could afford to choose times and seasons) had arranged to accept a synchronous engagement at the Casino of Royat. So while my medical advisers were wringing their hands over the practical inaccessibility and the lack of amenity of Nauheim, whither they had despatched me unwilling in dreary summers before the war, and while they were suggesting even more depressing health resorts in the British Isles, it occurred to me to ask them whether Royat-les-Bains did not contain broken-down heart repairing works of the first order. They brightened up. "The place of all places,' said they. "Write me a chit to a doctor there," said I, "and I'm off at once." I did not care much about my heart. It has always been playing me tricks from the day I fell in love with my elder sister's French governess. But I did care about seeing my friend Lackaday in his reincarnation as Petit Patou, and I was most curious to make the acquaintance of Elodie and Horatio Bakkus. Soon afterwards, therefore, behold me on my way to Clermont-Ferrand, of which manufacturing town Royat is a suburb. Chapter XVIII Without desiring to interfere with the sale of guide-books, I may say that Clermont-Ferrand is a great big town, the principal city of Auvergne, and devotes itself to turning out all sorts of things from its factories such as Michelin and Berguignan tyres, and all sorts of young lawyers, doctors and schoolmasters from its university. It proudly claims Blaise Pascal as its distinguished son. It has gardens and broad walks and terraces along the old ramparts, whence one can see the round-backed pride (with its little pip on the top) of the encircling mountain range, the Puy de Dôme; and it also has a wilderness of smelly, narrow little streets with fine old seventeenth-century mansions hidden in mouldering court-yards behind dilapidated portes cochères; it has a beautiful romanesque Church in a hollow, and, on an eminence, an uninteresting restored cathedral whose twin spires dominate the town for miles around. By way of a main entrance, it has a great open square, the Place de Jaude, the clanging ganglion of its tramway system, about which are situated the municipal theatre and the chief cafés, and from which radiate the main arteries of the city. On the entrance side rises a vast mass of sculpture surmounted by a statue of Vercingetorix, the hero of those parts, the gentleman over whose name we have all broken our teeth when learning to construe Cæsar "_De Bello Gallico_." Passing him by for the first time, I should have liked to shake hands with him for old times' sake, to show my lack of ill feeling. Now that you all know about Clermont-Ferrand, as the ancient writers say, I will tell you about Royat. You take a tram from Vercingetorix and after a straight mile you are landed at the foot of a cup of the aforesaid encircling mountains, and, looking around, when the tram refuses to go any further owing to lack of rails, you perceive that you are in Royat-les-Bains. It consists, on the ground floor, as it were, of a white Etablissement des Bains surrounded by a little park, which is fringed on the further side by an open-air concert platform and a theatre, of a few rows of shops, and a couple of cafés. You could play catch with a cricket ball across it. The hotels are perched around on the slopes of the hills, so that you may enter stately portals among the shops, but shall be whirled upwards in a lift to the main floor, whence you look down on the green and tidy miniature place. From my room in the Royat Palace Hotel I had a view across the Park, beyond which I could see the black crowds pouring out of the Clermont-Ferrand trams. The reason for this frenzied going and coming of human beings between Clermont-Ferrand and Royat, I could never understand. I believe tram-riding is a hideous vice. Just connect up by tramlines a place no one ever wants to go to with another no one ever wants to go from, and in a week you will have the inhabitants of those respective Sleepy Hollows running to and fro with the strenuous aimlessness of ants. Progressive politicians will talk to you of the wonders of transport. Well, transport or madness, what does it matter? I mean what does it matter to the course of this narrative? I had a pleasant room, I say, with a good view blocked above the tram terminus by a vine-clad mountain. I called on a learned gentleman who knew all about hearts and blood pressures, he prescribed baths and unpleasant waters, and my cure began. All this by way of preamble to the statement that I had comfortably settled down in Royat a week before Les Petit Patou were billed to appear in Clermont-Ferrand. Having nothing in the world to do save attend to my internal organs, I spent much time in the old town, which I had not visited for many years, match-hunting (with indifferent success) being at first my main practical pursuit. Then a natural curiosity leading me to enquire the whereabouts of the chief music-halls and vacant ignorance manifesting itself on the faces of the policemen and waiters whom I interrogated, I abandoned matches for the chase of music-halls. Eventually I became aware that I was pursuing a phantom. There were no music-halls. All had been perverted into picture palaces. I read Lackaday's letter again. There it was as clear as print. "So we proceed on our pilgrimage; we are booked for Clermont-Ferrand for the third week in August. I hate it--because I hate it. But I'm looking forward to it because my now prosperous friend Bakkus has arranged to sing during my stay there, at the Casino of Royat." And sure enough the next day, they stuck up bills by the park gates announcing the coming of the celebrated tenor, Monsieur Horatio Bakkus. It was only later that the great flaming poster of a circus--The Cirque Vendramin--which had pitched its tent for a fortnight past at Clermont-Ferrand, caught my eye. There it was, amid announcements of all sorts of clowns and trapezists and Japanese acrobats: "Special engagement of the world famed eccentrics, Les Petit Patou." If I uttered profane words, I am sure the Recording Angel followed an immortal precedent. In order to spy out the land, I went then and there to the afternoon performance. The circus was pitched in a disgruntled field somewhere near the dismally remote railway station. The tent was crowded with the good inhabitants of Clermont-Ferrand who, since they could not buy sugar or matches or coal for cooking, must spend their money somewhere. I scarcely had entered a circus since the good old days of the Cirque Rocambeau. And what a difference! They had a few uninspiring horses and riders for convention sake. But the _haute école_ had vanished. Not even a rouged and painted ghost of Mademoiselle Renée Saint-Maur remained. It was a ragged, old-fashioned acrobatic entertainment, with the mildewed humour of antiquated clowns. But they had a star turn--a juggler of the school of Cinquevallis--an amazing fellow. And then I remembered having seen the name on the last week's bill, printed in the great eighteen inch letters which were now devoted to Les Petit Patou. Next week Lackaday would be the star turn. But still... I went back to Royat feeling miserable. I was not elated by finding a letter from Lady Auriol which had been forwarded from my St. James's Street chambers. She was in Paris organising something in connection with the devastated districts. She reproached me for not having answered a letter written a month ago, written at her ancestral home where she had been summoned to her father's gouty chair side. I might, she said, have had the politeness to send a line of condolence.... Well, I might: but whether to her or to Lord Mountshire, whose gout was famous in the early nineties, I did not know. Yes, I ought to have answered her letter. But then, you see, I am a villainous correspondent: I was running about, and doctors were worrying me: and I could not have answered without lying about Andrew Lackaday who, leaving her without news of himself, had apparently vanished from her ken. She had asked me all sorts of pointed questions about Lackaday which I, having by that time read his manuscript, found very embarrassing to answer. Of course I intended to write. One always does, in such cases. There was nothing for it now but to make immediate and honourable amends. I explained my lack of courtesy, as best I could, bewailed her father's gout and her dreary ministrations on that afflicted nobleman, regretted incidentally her lack of news of the gallant General and spread myself over my own sufferings and my boredom in a little hole of a place, where no one was to be seen under the age of seventy-three--drew, I flattered myself, rather a smart picture of the useless and gasping ancients flocking pathetically to the futile _Fons Juventutis_ (and what business had they to be alive anyhow during this world food shortage?) and then, commending her devotion to the distressed and homeless, expressed the warm hope that I should meet her in Paris on my way back to England. It was the letter of a friend and a man of the world. It put me into a better humour with myself. I dined well on the broad terrace of the hotel, smoked a cigar in defiance of doctor's orders, and after an instructive gastronomical discussion with a comfortable old Bordeaux merchant with whom I had picked acquaintance, went to bed in a selfishly contented frame of mind. Two or three mornings later, going by tram into Clermont-Ferrand and passing by the great cafe on the east side of the Place de Jaude opposite the statue of Vercingetorix, I ran literally, stumbling over long legs outstretched from his chair to the public danger, into Andrew Lackaday. It was only at the instant of disentanglement and mutual apologies that we were aware of each other. He sprang to his great height and held out-both his long arms, and grinned happily. "My dear fellow, what a delight. Fancy seeing you here! Elodie----" If he had given me time, I should have recognized her before he spoke. There she was in the flesh--in a great deal of flesh--more even than I had pictured. She had a coarse, dark face, with the good humour written on it that loose features and kind soft eyes are able so often to express--and white teeth rather too much emphasized by carmined lips above which grew the faint black down of many women of the South. She was dressed quite tastefully: white felt hat, white skirt, and a silken knitted yellow _chandail_. "Elodie--I present Monsieur le Capitaine Hylton, of whom you have heard me speak so much." To me--"Madame Patou," said he. "Madame," said I. We shook hands. I professed enchantment. "I have spoken much about you to Captain Hylton," said Lackaday quickly. "So it seems," said I, following the good fellow's lead, "as if I were renewing an old acquaintance." "But you speak French like a Frenchman," cried Elodie. "It is my sole claim, Madame," said I, "to your consideration." She laughed, obviously pleased, and invited me to sit. The waiter came up. What would I have? I murmured "Amer Picon--Curaçoa," the most delectable ante-meal beverage left in France now that absinthe is as extinct as the stuff wherewith the good Vercingetorix used to gladden his captains after a successful bout with Cæsar. Elodie laughed again and called me a true Parisian. I made the regulation reply to the compliment. I could see that we became instant friends. "_Mais, mon cher ami_," said Lackaday, "you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here in Clermont-Ferrand?" "Didn't I write to you?" "No----" I hadn't. I had meant to--just as I had meant to write to Auriol Dayne. I wonder whether, in that Final Court from which I have not heard of any theologian suggesting the possibility of Appeal, they will bring up against me all the unanswered letters of my life? If they do, then certainly shall I be a Condemned Spirit. I explained airily--just as I have explained to you. "Coincidences of the heart, Madame," said I. She turned to Andrew. "He has said that just like Horace." I realized the compliment. I liked Elodie. Dress her at whatever Rue de la Paix rag-swindler's that you pleased, you would never metamorphose the daughter of the people that she was into the lady at ease in all company. She was a bit _mannièrée_--on her best behaviour. But she had the Frenchwoman's instinctive knowledge of conduct. She conveyed, very charmingly, her welcome to me as a friend of Andrew's. "Horace--that's my friend Bakkus I've told you about," said Lackaday. "He'll be here to-morrow. I should so much like you to meet him." "I'm looking forward," said I, "to the opportunity." We talked on indifferent subjects; and in the meanwhile I observed Lackaday closely. He seemed tired and careworn. The bush of carroty hair over his ears had gone a yellowish grey and more lines seamed his ugly and rugged face. He was neatly enough dressed in grey flannels, but he wore on his head the latest model of a French straw hat--the French hatter, left to his own devices, has ever been the maddest of his tribe--a high, coarsely woven crown surrounded by a quarter inch brim which related him much more nearly to Petit Patou than to the British General of Brigade. His delicate fingers nervously played with cigarette or glass stem. He gave me the impression of a man holding insecurely on to intelligible life. Mild hunger translating itself into a conception of the brain, I looked at my watch. I waved a hand to the row of waiting cabs with linen canopies on the other side of the blazing square. "Madame," said I, "let me have the pleasure of driving you to Royat and offering you _déjeuner_." "My dear chap," said Andrew, "impossible. We play this afternoon. Twice a day, worse luck. We have all sorts of things to arrange." Elodie broke in. They had arranged everything already that morning. Their turn did not arrive till three-forty. There was time for a dozen lunches; especially since she would go early and see that everything was prepared. She excused herself to me in the charmingest way possible. Another day she might perhaps, with my permission, have the pleasure. But to-day she insisted on Andre lunching with me alone. We must have a thousand things to say to each other. "_Tenez_," she smiled, rising. "I leave you. There's not a word to be said. Monsieur le Capitaine, see that the General eats instead of talking too much." She beamed. "_Au grand plaisir de vous revoir._" We stood bare-headed and shook hands and watched her make a gracious exit. As soon as she crossed the tram-lines, she turned and waved her fingers at me. "A charming woman," said I. Lackaday smiled in his sad babyish way. "Indeed she is," said he. We drove into Royat in one of the cool, white canopied victorias. "You know we are playing in a circus," he said, indicating a huge play bill on the side of a wall. "Yes," said I. "_On revient toujours à ses premières amours._" "It's not that, God knows," he replied soberly. "But we were out for these two weeks of our tour. One can't pick and choose nowadays. The eccentric comedian will soon be as dead as his ancestor, the Court Jester. The war has almost wiped us out. Those music-halls--of the Variety type--that have not been turned, through lack of artists, into picture palaces, are now given over to Revue. I have been here at Clermont-Ferrand many times--but now," he shrugged his shoulders. "I had an engagement--at my ordinary music-hall terms--offered me at the Cirque Vendramin to fill in the blank weeks, and I couldn't afford to refuse. That's why, my friend, you see me now, where you first met me, in a circus." "And Madame Patou?" said I. "I'm afraid," he sighed, "it is rather a come down for Elodie." We reached the hotel and lunched on the terrace, and I did my best, with the aid of the maître d'hôtel, to carry out the lady's injunctions. As a matter of fact, she need not have feared that he should miss sustenance through excessive garrulity. He seemed ill at ease during the meal and I did most of the talking. It was only after coffee and the last drop of the last bottle in the hotel--one of the last, alas! in France--of the real ancient Chartreuse of the Grand Chartreux, that he made some sort of avowal or explanation. After beating about the bush a bit, he came to the heart of the matter. "I thought the whole war was axed out of my life--with everyone I knew in it or through it. I wrote all that stuff about myself because I couldn't help it. It enabled me to find my balance, to keep myself sane. I had to bridge over--connect somehow--the Andrew Lackaday of 1914 with the Andrew Lackaday of 1919. A couple of months ago, I thought of sending it to you. You know my beginnings and my dear old father Ben Flint and so forth. You came bang into the middle of my most intimate life. I knew in what honour and affection you were held among those whom I--to whom I--am infinitely devoted. I..." He paused a moment, and tugged hard at his cigar and regarded me with bent brows and compressed lips of his parade manner. "I am a man of few friendships. I gave you my unreserved friendship--it may not be worth much--but there it is." He glared at me as though he were defying me to mortal combat, and when I tried to get in a timid word he wiped it out of my mouth with a gesture. "I wanted you to know the whole truth about me. Once I never thought about myself. I wasn't worth thinking about. But the war came. And the war ended. And I'm so upside down that I'm bound to think about myself and clear up myself, in the eyes of the only human being that could understand--namely you--or go mad. But I never reckoned to see you again in the flesh. Our lives were apart as the poles. It was in my head to write to you something to that effect, when I should receive an answer to my last letter. I never dreamed that you should meet me now, as I am." "It never occurred to you that I might value your friendship and take a little trouble to seek you out?" "I must confess," said he, "that I did not suspect that anyone, even you, would have thought it worth while." I laughed. He was such a delicious simpleton. So long as he could regard me as someone on the other side of the grave, he could reveal to me the intimacies of his emotional life; but as soon as he realized his confidant in the flesh, embarrassment and confusion overwhelmed him. And, ostrich again, thinking that, once his head was hidden in the sands of Petit Patouism, he would be invisible to mortal eye, he had persuaded himself that his friends would concur in his supposed invisibility. "My dear fellow," I said, "why all this apologia? As to your having ever told me or written to me about yourself I have kept the closest secrecy. Not a human soul knows through me the identity of General Lackaday with Petit Patou. No," I repeated, meeting his eyes under his bent brows, "not a human being knows even of our first meeting in the Cirque Rocambeau--and as for Madame Patou, whom you have made me think of always as Elodie--well--my discretion goes without saying. And as for putting into shape your reminiscences--I shouldn't dream of letting anyone see my manuscript before it had passed through your hands. If you like I'll tear the whole thing up and it will all be buried in that vast oblivion of human affairs of which I am only too temperamentally capable." He threw his cigar over the balustrade of the terrace and stretched out his long legs, his hands in his pockets and grinned. "No, don't do that. One of these days I might be amused to read it. Besides, it took me such a devil of a time to write. It was good of you to keep things to yourself although I laid down no conditions of secrecy. I might have known it." He stared at the hill-side opposite, with its zigzag path through the vines marked by the figures of zealous pedestrians, and then he said suddenly: "If I asked you not to come and see our show you would set me down as a fantastical coward." I protested. "How could I, after all you have told me?" "I want you to come. Not to-day. Things might be in a muddle. One never knows. But to-morrow. It will do me good." I promised. We chatted a little longer and then he rose to go. I accompanied him to the tram, his long lean body overwhelming my somewhat fleshy insignificance. And while I walked with him I thought: "Why is it that I can't tell a man who confides to me his inmost secrets, to buy, for God's sake, another hat?" The following afternoon, I went to the Cirque Vendramin. I sat in a front seat. I saw the performance. It was much as I have already described to you. Except perhaps for his height and ungainliness no one could have recognized Andrew Lackaday in the painted clown Petit Patou. His grotesquery of appearance was terrific. From the tip of his red pointed wig to the bottom of his high heels he must have been eight feet. I should imagine him to have been out of scale on the music-hall stage. But in the ring he was perfect. The mastery of his craft, the cleanness of his jugglery, amazed me. He divested himself of his wig and did a five minutes' act of lightning impersonation with a trick felt hat, the descendant of the _Chapeau de Tabarin:_ the ex-Kaiser, Foch, Clemenceau, Lloyd George, President Wilson--a Boche prisoner, a helmeted Tommy, a Poilu--which was marvellous, considering the painted Petit Patou face. For all assistance, Elodie held up a cheap bedroom wall-mirror. He played his one-stringed fiddle. I admired the technical perfection of the famous cigar-act. I noted the stupid bewilderment with which he received a typhoon of hoops thrown by Elodie, and his waggish leer when, clown-wise, he had caught them all. If the audience packed within the canvas amphitheatre had gone mad in applause over this exhibition of exquisite skill interlarded with witty patter, I might have been carried away into enthusiastic appreciation of a great art. But the audience, as far as applause could be the criterion, missed the exquisiteness of it, guffawed only at the broadest clowning and applauded finally just enough to keep up the heart of the management and Les Petit Patou. I have seen many harrowing things in the course of a complicated life; but this I reckon was one of the chief among them. I thought of the scene a year ago, at Mansfield Park. The distinguished soldier with his rainbow row of ribbons modestly confused by Evadne's summons to the household on his appointment to the Brigade; the English setting; the old red gabled Manor house; the green lawn; the bright English faces of old Sir Julian and his wife, of young Charles the hero worshipper; the light in Auriol's eyes; the funny little half-ashamed English ceremony; again the gaunt, grim, yet childishly smiling figure in khaki, the ideal of the scarred and proven English leader of men.... The scene shimmered before me and then I realized the same man in his abominable travesty of God's image, bowing before the tepid plaudits of an alien bourgeoisie in a filthy, smelly canvas circus, and I tell you I felt the agony that comes when time has dried up within one the fount of tears. Chapter XIX Soon afterwards I met Horatio Bakkus. With his white hair, ascetic, clean-shaved face and deep dark eyes he looked like an Italian ecclesiastic. One's glance instinctively sought the tonsure. He would come forward on to the open-air platform beneath the thick foliage of the park with the detached mien of a hierophant; and there he would sing like an angel, one of those who quire to the youngest-eyed cherubim so as not to wake them. When I made him my modest compliment he said: "Trick, my dear sir. Trick and laziness. I might have had the _bel canto_, if I had toiled interminably; but, thank God, I've managed to carry through on self-indulgent sloth." As he lived at Royat I saw much of him alone, Royat being such a wee place that if two sojourners venture simultaneously abroad they must of necessity meet. I found him as Lackaday had described him, a widely read scholar and an amiable and cynical companion. But in addition to these casual encounters, I was thrown daily into his society with Lackaday and Elodie. We arranged always to lunch together, Lackaday, Bakkus and myself taking it in turns to be hosts at our respective hotels. Now and then Elodie insisted on breaking the routine and acting as hostess at a restaurant in Clermont-Ferrand. It was all very pleasant. The only woman to three men, Elodie preened herself with amusing obviousness and set out to make herself agreeable. She did it with a Frenchwoman's natural grace. But as soon as the talk drifted into anything allusive to war or books or art or politics, she manifested an ignorance abysmal in its profundity. I was amazed that a woman should have been for years the intimate companion of two men like Lackaday and Bakkus without picking up some superficial knowledge of the matters they discussed. And I was interested, even to the pitch of my amazement, to behold the deference of both men, when her polite and vacant smile proclaimed her inability to follow the conversation. Invariably one of them would leave me to the other and turn to Elodie. It was Bakkus more often who thus broke away. He had the quick impish faculty, one of the rarest of social gifts, of suddenly arresting a woman's attention by a phrase, apparently irrelevant, yet to her woman's jumping mind relevant to the matter under dispute and of carrying it off into a pleasant feminine sphere. It was impish, and I believe deliberately so, for on such occasions one could catch the ironic gleam in his eyes. The man's sincere devotion to both of them was obvious. "Madame Patou..." I began one day, at lunch--we were talking of the tyranny of fashion, even in the idyllic lands where ladies are fully dressed in teeth necklaces and yellow ochre--"Madame Patou..." She threw up her hands. We were lunching very well--the _petit vin_ of Auvergne is delicious--"_Mais voyons donc_--why all this ceremony among friends? Here we are, we three, and it is André, Horace, Elodie--and here we are, we four, and it is Monsieur Bakkus, and Lackaday--never will I be able to pronounce that word--and Madame Patou and Monsieur le Capitaine Hylton. Look. To my friends I am Elodie _tout court_--and you?" It was an embarrassing moment. Andrew's mug of a face was as expressionless as that of a sphinx. He would no more have dreamed of addressing me by my Christian name than of hailing Field-Marshal Haig as Douglas. White-haired, thin-lipped Bakkus smiled sardonically. But there was no help for it. "My very intimate friends call me Tony," said I. "To-ny," she echoed. "But it is charming, To-ny. A _votre santé_, To-ny." She held put her glass--I was sitting next to her. I clinked mine politely. "To the health of the charming Elodie." She was delighted. Made us all clink glasses. Bakkus said, in English: "To the abolition of Misters, in obedience to the Lady." "And now," cried Elodie, "what were you going to say about fashions in necklaces made of dogs' teeth?" We pursued our frivolous talk. Bakkus said: "The whole of the Fall of Man arose from Eve pestering Adam for a russet-brown fig-leaf in spring time." "It was after the fall that they made themselves aprons," said Lackaday. "She had her eye on those fig-leaves long before," retorted Bakkus. We laughed. There was no great provocation to mirth. But we were attuned to gaiety. My three friends were lunching with me on the terrace of the Royat Palace Hotel. It is a long, wide terrace, reaching the whole width of the façade of the building, and doors lead on to it from all the public rooms. Only half of it, directly accessible from the _salle à manger_ is given over to restaurant tables. Ours was on the outskirts. I like to be free, to have plenty of room and air; especially on a broiling August day. We were in cool shade. A few feet below us stretched a lower terrace, with grass-plots and flowers and a fountain and gaily awned garden seats and umbrella-shaded chairs. And there over the parapet the vine-clad hill quivered in the sunshine against the blue summer sky, and around us were cheerful folk at lunch forgetful of hearts and blood-pressure in the warm beauty of the day. Perhaps now and then a stern and elderly French couple--he stolid, strongly bearded and decorated, she thin and brown, over-coiffured and over-ringed--with an elderly angular daughter, hard to marry, regarded us with eyes of disapproval. Elodie in happy mood threw off restraint, as, in more private and intimate surroundings, she would have thrown off her corset. But we cared not for the disapproval of the correct French profiteers.... "If they tried to smile," said Elodie, incidentally, "they would burst and all the gold would drop out." Lackaday threw back his head and laughed--the first real, hearty laugh I had seen him exhibit since I had met him in France. You see the day, the food, the wine, the silly talk, the dancing wit of Bakkus, the delightful comradeship, had brought the four of us into a little atmosphere of joyousness. There was nothing very intellectual about it. In the hideous realm of pure intellectuality there could not exist even the hardiest ghost of a smile. Laughter, like love, is an expression of man's vehement revolt against reason. So Andrew Lackaday threw himself back in his chair and laughed at Elodie's quip. But suddenly, as if some blasting hand had smitten him, his laughter ceased. His jaw dropped for a second and then snapped like a vice. He was sitting on my left hand, his back to the balustrade, and facing the dining-room. At the sight of him we all instinctively sobered and bent forward in questioning astonishment. He recovered himself quickly and tried to smile as if nothing had happened--but, seeing his eyes had been fixed on something behind me, I turned round. And there, calmly walking up the long terrace towards us, was Lady Auriol Dayne. I sprang from my chair and strode swiftly to meet her. From a grating sound behind me I knew that Lackaday had also risen. I stretched out my hand mechanically and, regardless of manners, I said: "What the devil are you doing here?" She withdrew the hand that she too had put forward. "That's a nice sort of welcome." "I'm sorry," said I. "Please consider the question put more politely." "Well, I'm here," she replied, "because it happens to be my good pleasure." "Then I hope you'll find lots of pleasure, my dear Auriol." She laughed, standing as cool as you please, very grateful to the eye in tussore coat and skirt, with open-necked blouse, and some kind of rakish hat displaying her thick auburn hair in defiance of the fashion which decreed concealment even of eyebrows with flower-pot head gear. She laughed easily, mockingly, although she saw plainly the pikestaff of a Lackaday upright a few yards away from her, in a rigid attitude of parade. "Anyhow," she said, "I must go and say how d'ye do to the General." I gave way to her. We walked side by side to the table. She advanced to him in the most unconcerned manner. Bakkus rose politely. "My dear General, fancy seeing you here! How delightful." I have never seen a man's eyes devour a woman with such idiotic obviousness. "Lady Auriol," said he, "you are the last person I ever thought of meeting." He paused for a second. Then, "May I have the pleasure of introducing--Madame Patou--Lady Auriol Dayne--Mr. Bakkus--" "Do sit down, please, everybody," said Auriol, after the introductions. "I feel like a common nuisance. But I came by the night train and went to sleep and only woke up to find myself just in time for the fag-end of lunch." "I am host," said I. "Won't you join us?" What else was there to do? She glanced at me with smiling inscrutability. "You're awfully kind, Tony. But I'm disturbing you." The maitre d'hôtel and waiter with a twist of legerdemain set her place between myself and Lackaday. "This is a charming spot, isn't it, Madame Patou?" she remarked. Elodie, who had regarded her wonderingly as though she had bean a creature of another world, bowed and smiled. "We all talk French, my dear Auriol," said I, "because Madame Patou knows no English." "Ah!" said Lady Auriol. "I never thought of it." She translated her remark. "I'm afraid my French is that of the British Army, where I learned most of it. But if people are kind and patient I can make myself understood." "Mademoiselle speaks French very well," replied Elodie politely. "You are very good to say so, Madame." I caught questioning, challenging glances flashing across the table, each woman hostilely striving to place the other. You see, we originally sat: Elodie on my right hand, then Bakkus facing straight down the terrace, then Lackaday, then myself. It occurred to me at once that, with her knowledge of my convention-trained habits, she would argue that, at a luncheon party, either I would not have placed the lady next the man to whom she belonged, or that she was a perfectly independent guest, belonging, so to speak, to nobody. But on the latter hypothesis, what was she doing in this galley? I swear I saw the wrinkle on Lady Auriol's brow betokening the dilemma. She had known me from childhood's days of lapsed memory. I had always been. Romantically she knew Lackaday. Horatio Bakkus, with his sacerdotal air and well-bred speech and manner, evidently belonged to our own social class. But Madame Patou, who mopped up the sauce on her plate with a bit of bread, and made broad use of a toothpick, and leaned back and fanned herself with her napkin and breathed a "_Mon Dieu, qu'ilfait chaud_" and contributed nothing intelligent to the conversation, she could not accept as the detached lady invited by me to charm my two male guests. She was then driven to the former hypothesis. Madame Patou belonged in some way to the man by whose side she was not seated. Of course, there was another alternative. I might have been responsible for the poor lady. But she was as artless as a poor lady could be. Addressing my two friends it was always André and Horace, and instinctively she used the familiar "_tu_." Addressing me she had affrightedly forgotten the pact of Christian names, and it was "Monsieur le Capitaine" and, of course, the "_vous_" which she had never dreamed of changing. Even so poor a French scholar as Lady Auriol could not be misled into such absurd paths of conjecture. She belonged therefore, in some sort of fashion, to General Lackaday. An elderly man of the world, with his nerves on edge, has no need of wizardry to divine the psychology of such a situation. Mistress of social forms, Lady Auriol, after sweeping Elodie into her net, caught Horatio Bakkus and through reference to her own hospital experiences during the war, wrung from him the avowal of his concerts for the wounded in Paris. "How splendid of you! By the way, how do you spell your name? It's an uncommon one." "With two k's." "I wonder if you have anything to do with an old friend of my fattier, Archdeacon Bakkus?" "My eldest brother." "No, really? One of my earliest recollections is his buying a prize boar from my father." "Just like the dear fellow's prodigality," said Bakkus. "He had a whole Archdeaconry to his hand for nothing. I've lately spent a couple of months with him in Westmorland, so I know." "How small the world is," said Lady Auriol to Lackaday. "Too small," said he. "Oh," said Auriol blankly. "Have you seen our good friends, the Verity-Stewarts lately?" She had. They were in perfect health. They were wondering what had become of him. "And indeed, General," she flashed, "what _has_ become of you?" "It is not good," said Elodie, in quick anticipation, "that the General should neglect his English friends." There sounded the note of proprietorship, audible to anybody. Auriol's eyes dwelt for a second on Elodie; then she turned to Lackaday. "Madame Patou is quite right." Said he, with one of his rare flights into imagery, "I was but a shooting star across the English firmament." "Encore une étoile qui file, File, file et disparait!" "Oh no, my dear friend," laughed Bakkus. "He can't persuade us, Lady Auriol, that he is afflicted with the morbidezza of 1830." "_Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela?_" asked Elodie, sharply. "It was a fashion long ago, my dear, for poets to assume the gaiety of a funeral. Even Béranger who wrote _Le Roi d'Yvetot_--you know it--" "Naturally, '_Il était un roi d'Yvetot!_'"--cried Elodie, who had learned it at school. "Well--of course. Even Béranger could not escape the malady of his generation. Do you remember"--his swift glance embraced us all--"Longfellow's criticism of European poets of that epoch, in his prose masterpiece, _Hyperion?_ He refers to Salis and Matthisson, but Lamartine and people of his kidney come in--'Melancholy gentlemen' pardon, my dear Elodie, if I quote it in English--'Melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing and making signals to Death to come and ferry them over the lake.' _Cela veut dire_," he made a marvellous French paraphrase for Elodie's benefit. "_Comprends pas_," she shrugged at the boredom of literary allusion. "I don't see what all that has to do with André. I shall see, Mademoiselle, that he writes to his friends." "You will be doing them a great service, Madame," replied Auriol. There was a stiff silence. If Bakkus had stuck to his intention of driving the conversation away from embarrassing personal questions, instead of being polite to Elodie, we should have been spared this freezing moment of self-consciousness. I asked Auriol whether she had had a pleasant journey, and we discussed the discomfort of trains. From then to the end of the meal the conversation halted. It was a relief to rise and fall into groups as we strolled down the terrace to coffee. I manoeuvred Elodie and Bakkus to the front leaving Auriol and Lackaday to follow. I sought a table at the far end, for coffee; but when I turned round, I discovered that the pair had descended by the mid-way flight of three or four steps to the grass-plotted and fountained terrace below. We sat down. Elodie asked: "Who is that lady?" I explained as best I could. "She is the daughter of an English nobleman, whence her title. The way to address her is 'Lady Auriol.' She did lots of work during the war, work of hospital organization in France, and now she is still working for France. I have known her since she was three years old; so she is a very great friend of mine." Her eyes wandered to the bit of red thatched head and the gleam of the crown of a white hat just visible over the balustrade. "She appears also to be a great friend of André." "The General met many charming ladies during his stay in England," I lied cheerfully. "Which means," she said with a toss of her head and an ironical smile, "that the General behaved like a real--who was it, Horace, who loved women so much? _Ah oui_--like a real Don Juan." She wagged her plump forefinger. "Oh no, I know my André." "I could tell you stories--" said I. "Which would not be true." She laughed in a forced way--and her eyes again sought the tops of the couple promenading in the sunshine. She resumed her catechism. "How old is she?" "I don't know exactly." "But since you have known her since she was three years old?" "If I began to count years at my time of life," said I, "I should die of fright." "She looks about thirty. Wouldn't you say so, Horace? It is droll that she has not married. Why?" "Before the war she was a great traveller. She has been by herself all over the world in all sorts of places among wild tribes and savages. She has been far too busy to think of marriage." Elodie looked incredulous. "One has always one's _moments perdus._" "One doesn't marry in odd moments," said I. "You and Horace are old bachelors who know nothing at all about it. Tell me. Is she very rich?" "None of our old families are very rich nowadays," I replied, rather at a loss to account, save on the score of feminine curiosity, for this examination. If it had not been for her mother who left her a small fortune of a thousand or so a year, Auriol would have been as penniless as her two married sisters. Her brother, Lord Vintrey, once a wastrel subaltern of Household Cavalry, and, after a dashing, redeeming war record, now an expensive Lieutenant-Colonel, ate up all the ready money that Lord Mountshire could screw out of his estates. With Elodie I could not enter into these explanations. "All the same she is passably rich," Elodie persisted. "One does not buy a costume like that under five hundred francs." The crimson vested and sashed and tarbooshed Algerian negro brought the coffee, and poured out the five cups. We sipped. I noticed Elodie's hand shake. "If their coffee gets cold, so much the worse." Bakkus, who had maintained a discreet silence hitherto, remarked:-- "Unless Andrew's head is particularly thick, he'll get a sunstroke in this blazing sun." "That's true," cried Elodie and, rising with a great scraping of chair, she rushed to the balustrade and addressed him shrilly. "_Mais dis donc André, tu veux attraper un coup de soleil?_" We heard his voice in reply: "_Nous rentrons_." A few moments afterwards they mounted from the lower terrace and came towards us. Lackaday's face was set in one of its tight-lipped expressionless moods. Lady Auriol's cheek was flushed, and though she smiled conventional greeting, her eyes were very serious. "I am sorry to have put into danger the General's health, madame," said she in her clear and British French. "But when two comrades of the Great War meet for the first time, one is forgetful." She gave me a little sign rejecting the offered coffee. Lackaday took his cup and drank it off at one gulp. He looked at his wrist watch, the only remaining insignia of the British soldier. "Time for our tram, Elodie." "_C'est vrai?_" He held his wrist towards her. "_Oui, mon Dieu! Miladi--_" She funked the difficult "Lady Auriol." "_Au revoir, Madame,_" said Auriol shaking hands. "_Trop honorée,_" said Elodie, somewhat defiantly. "_Au revoir, Miladi._" She made an awkward little bow. "_Et toi,_" she extended a careless left hand to Bakkus. "I will see you to the lift," said I. We walked down the terrace in silence to the _salon_ door just inside which was the lift which took one down some four stories to the street. Two things were obvious: the perturbation of the simple Lackaday and the jealousy of Elodie. "_Au revoir, monsieur, et merci,_" she said, with over emphasized politeness, as we stood at the lift gates. "Good-bye, old chap," said Lackaday and gripped my hand hard. As soon as I returned to the end of the terrace, Bakkus rose and took his leave. Auriol and I were alone. Of course other humans were clustering round tables all the length of the terrace. But we had our little end corner to ourselves. I sat down next to her. "Well?" said I. She bent forward, and her face was that of the woman whom I had met in the rain and mud and stark reality of the war. "Why didn't you tell me?" Chapter XX If a glance could destroy, if Lady Auriol had been a Gorgon or a basilisk or a cockatrice, then had I been a slain Anthony Hylton. "Why didn't you tell me?" The far-flung gesture of her arm ending in outspread fingers might have been that of Elodie. "Tell you what, my dear?" said I. "The whole wretched tragedy. I came to you a year ago with my heart in my hand--the only human creature living who I thought could help me. And you've let me down like this. It's damnable!" "An honourable man," said I, nettled, "doesn't betray confidences." "An honourable man! I like that! I gave you my confidences. Haven't you betrayed them?" "Not a bit," said I. "Not the faintest hint of what you have said to me have I whispered into the ear of man or woman." She fumed. "If you had, you would be--unmentionable." "Precisely. And I should have been equally undeserving of mention, if I had told you of the secret, or double, or ex-war--however you like to describe it--life of our friend." "The thing is not on all fours," she said with a snap of her fingers. "You could have given me the key to the mystery--such as it is. You could have prevented me from making a fool of myself. You could, Tony. From the very start." "At the very start, I knew little more than you did. Nothing save that he was bred in a circus, where I met him thirty years ago. I knew nothing more of his history till this April, when he told me he was Petit Patpu of the music-halls. His confidence has been given me bit by bit. The last time I saw you I had never heard of Madame Patou. It was you that guessed the woman in his life. I had no idea whether you were right or wrong." "Yet you could have given me a hint--the merest hint--without betraying confidences--as you call it," she mouthed my phrase ironically. "It was not playing the game." "I gathered," said I, "that playing the game was what both of you had decided to do, in view of the obviously implied lady in the background." "Well?" she challenged. "If it's a question of playing the game"--I had carried the war into the enemy's quarters--"may I repeat my original rude question this morning? What the devil are you doing here?" She turned on me in a fury. "How dare you insinuate such a thing?" "You've not come to Royat for the sake of my beautiful eyes." "I'm under no obligation to tell you why I've come to Royat. Let us say my liver's out of order." "Then my dear," said I, "you have come to the wrong place to cure it." She glanced at me wrathfully, took out a cigarette, waved away with an unfriendly gesture the briquette I had drawn from my pocket, and struck one of her own matches. There fell a silence, during which I sat back in my chair, my arms on the elbow and my fingers' tips joined together, and assumed an air of philosophic meditation. Presently she said: "There are times, Tony, when I should like to kill you." "I am glad," said I, "to note the resumption of human relations." "You are always so pragmatically and priggishly correct," she said. "My dear," said I, "if you want me to sympathize with you in this impossible situation, I'll do it with all my heart. But don't round on me for either bringing it about or not preventing it." "I was anxious to know something about Andrew Lackaday--I don't care whether you think me a fool or not"--she was still angry and defiant--"I wrote you pointedly. You did not answer my letter. I wrote again reminding you of your lack of courtesy. You replied like a pretty fellow in a morning coat at the Foreign Office and urbanely ignored my point." She puffed indignantly. The terrace began to be deserted. There was a gap of half a dozen tables between us and the next group. The flamboyant Algerian removed the coffee cups. When we were alone again, I reiterated my explanation. At every stage of my knowledge I was held in the bond of secrecy. Lackaday's sensitive soul dreaded, more than all the concentrated high-explosive bombardment of the whole of the late German Army, the possibility of Lady Auriol knowing him as the second-rate music-hall artist. "You are the woman of his dreams," said I. "You're an unapproachable star in mid ether, or whatever fanciful lover's image you like to credit him with. The only thing for his salvation was to make a clean cut. Don't you see?" "That's all very pretty," said Auriol. "But what about me? A clean cut you call it? A man cuts a woman in half and goes off to his own life and thinks he has committed an act of heroic self-sacrifice!" I put my hand on hers. "My dear child," said I, "if Andrew Lackaday thought you were eating out your heart for him he would be the most flabbergasted creature in the world." She bent her capable eyes on me. "That's a bit dogmatic, isn't it? May I ask if you have any warrant for what you're saying?" "In his own handwriting." I gave a brief account of the manuscript. "Where is it?" she asked eagerly. "In my safe in London--I'm sorry----" In indignation she flashed: "I wouldn't read a word of it." "Of course not," said I. "Nor would I put it into your hands without Lackaday's consent. Anyhow, that's my authority and warrant." She threw the stub of her cigarette across the terrace and went back to the original cry: "Oh Tony, if you had only given me some kind of notion!" "I've tried to prove to you that I couldn't." "I suppose not," she admitted wearily. "Men have their standards. Forgive me if I've been unreasonable." When a woman employs her last weapon, her confession of unreason, and demands forgiveness, what can a man do but proclaim himself the worm that he is? We went through a pretty scene of reconciliation. "And now," said I, "what did Lackaday, in terms of plain fact, tell you down there?" She told me. Apparently he had given her a précis of his life's history amazingly on the lines of a concentrated military despatch. "Lady Auriol," said he, as soon as they were out of earshot, "you are here by some extraordinary coincidence. In a few hours you will be bound to hear all about me which I desired you never to know. It is best that I should tell you myself, at once." It was extraordinary what she had learned from him in those few minutes. He had gone on remorselessly, in his staccato manner, as if addressing a parade, which I knew so well, putting before her the dry yet vital facts of his existence. "I knew there was a woman--wife and children--what does it matter? I told you," she said. "But--oh God!" She smote her hands together hopelessly, fist into palm. "I never dreamed of anything like this." "I am in a position to give you chapter and verse for it all," said I. "Oh I know," she said, dejectedly, and the vivid flower that was Auriol, in a mood of dejection, suggested nothing more in the world than a drought-withered hybiscus--her colour had faded, the sweeping fulness of her drooped, her twenties caught the threatening facial lines of her forties--what can I say more? The wilting of a tropical bloom--that was her attitude--the sap and the life all gone. "Oh I know. There's nothing vulgar about it. It goes back into the years. But still ..." "Yes, yes, my dear," said I, quickly. "I understand." We were alone now on the terrace. Far away, a waiter hung over the balustrade, listening to the band playing in the Park below. But for the noise of the music, all was still on the breathless August air. Presently she drew her palms over her face. "I'm dog-tired." "That abominable night journey," said I, sympathetically. "I sat on a _strapontin_ in the corridor, all night," she said. "But, my dear, what madness!" I cried horrified, although in the war she had performed journeys compared with which this would be the luxury of travel. "Why didn't you book a _coupé-lit_, even a seat, beforehand?" She smiled dismally. "I only made up my mind yesterday morning. I got it into my head that you knew everything there was to be known about Andrew Lackaday." "But how did you get it?" My question was one of amazement. No man had more out-rivalled an oyster in incommunicativeness. It appeared that I suffered from the defects of my qualities. I had been over-diplomatic. My innocence had been too bland for my worldly years. My evasions had proclaimed me suspect. My criticism of Royat made my fear of a chance visit from her so obvious. My polite hope that I should see her in Paris on my way back, rubbed in it. If there had been no bogies about, and Royat had been the Golgotha of my picture, would not my well-known selfishness, when I heard she was at a loose end in August Paris, have summoned her with a "Do for Heaven's sake come and save me from these selected candidates for burial?" I had done it before, in analogous circumstances, I at Nauheim, she at Nuremberg. No. It was, on the contrary: "For Heaven's sake don't come near me. I'll see you in Paris if by misfortune you happen to be there." "My dear," said I, "didn't it occur to you that your astuteness might be overreaching itself and that you might find me here--well--in the not infrequent position of a bachelor man who desires to withdraw himself from the scrutiny of his acquaintance?" She broke into disconcerting laughter. "You? Tony?" "Hang it all!" I cried angrily, "I'm not eighty yet!" However virtuous a man may be, he resents the contemptuous denial to his claim to be a potential libertine. She laughed again; then sobered down and spoke soothingly to me. Perhaps she did me injustice, but such a thing had never entered her mind engaged as it was with puzzlement over Lackaday. When people are afflicted with fixed ideas, they grow perhaps telepathic. Otherwise she could not account for her certainty that I could give her some information. She knew that I would not write. What was a flying visit--a night's journey to Royat? In her wander years, she had travelled twelve hours to a place and twelve back in order to buy a cabbage. Her raid on me was nothing so wonderful. "So certain was I," she said, "that you were hiding things from me, that when I saw him this morning at your table, I was scarcely surprised." "My dear Auriol," said I, when she had finished the psychological sketch of her flight from Paris, "I think the man who unlearned most about women as the years went on, was Methuselah." "A woman only puts two and two together and makes it five. It's as simple as that." "No," said I, "the damnable complex mystery of it, to a man's mind, is that five should be the right answer." She dismissed the general proposition with a shrug. "Well, there it is. I was miserable--I've been miserable for months--I was hung up in Paris. I had this impulse, intuition--call it what you like. I came--I saw--and I wish to goodness I hadn't!" "I wasn't so wrong after all, then," I suggested mildly. She laughed, this time mirthlessly. "I should have taken it for a warning. Blue Beard's chamber...." We were silent for a while. The waiters came scurrying down with trays and cloths and cups to set the little tables for tea. The western sun had burst below the awning and flooded half the length of the terrace with light leaving us by the wall just a strip of shade. I said as gently as I could: "When you two parted in April, I thought you recognized it as final." "It would have been, if only I had known," she said. "Known what?" She answered me with weary impatience. "Anything definite. If he had gone to his death I could have borne it. If he had gone to any existence to which I had a clue, I could have borne it. But don't you see?" she cried, with a swift return of vitality. "Here was a man whom any woman would be proud to love--a strong thing of flesh and blood--disappearing into the mist. I said something heroical to him about the creatures of the old legends. One talks high-falutin' nonsense at times. But I didn't realize the truth of it till afterwards. A woman, even though it hurts her like the devil, prefers to keep a mental grip of a man. He's there--in Paris, Bombay, Omaha, with his wife and family, doing this, that and the other. He's still alive. He's still in some kind of human relation with you. You grind your teeth and say that it's all in the day's work. You know where you are. But when a man fades out of your life like a wraith--well--you don't know where you are. It has been maddening--the ghastly seriousness of it. I've done my best to keep sane. I'm a woman with a lot of physical energy--I've run it for all it's worth. But this uncanny business got on my nerves. If the man had not cared for me, I would have kicked myself into sense. But--oh, it's no use talking about that--it goes without saying. Besides you know as well as I do. You've already told me. Well then, you have it. The man I loved, the man who loved me, goes and disappears, like the shooting star he talked about, into space. I've done all sorts of fool things to get on his track, just to know. At last I came to you. But I had no notion of running him down in the flesh. You're sure of that, Tony, aren't you?" The Diana in her flashed from candid eyes. "Naturally," I answered. How could she know that Lackaday was here? I asked, in order to get to the bottom of this complicated emotional condition: "But didn't you ever think of writing--oh, as a friend of course--to Lackaday, care of War Office, Cox's...?" She retorted: "I'm not a sloppy school-girl, my friend." "Quite so," said I. I paused, while the waiter brought tea. "And now that there's no longer any mystery?" Her bosom rose with a sigh. "I mourn my mystery, Tony." She poured out tea. I passed the uninspiring food that accompanied it. We conversed in a lower key of tension. At last she said: "If I don't walk, I'll break something." A few moments afterwards we were in the street. She drew the breath of one suffering from exhausted air. "Let us go up a hill." Why the ordinary human being should ever desire to walk up hill I have never been able to discover. For me, the comfortable places. But with Lady Auriol the craving was symbolical of character. I agreed. "Choose the least inaccessible," I pleaded. We mounted the paths through the vines. At the top, we sat down. I wiped a perspiring brow. She filled her lungs with the air stirred by a faint breeze. "Whereabouts is this circus?" she asked suddenly. I told her, waving a hand in the direction of Clermont-Ferrand. "How far?" "About two or three miles." "I'll go there this evening," she announced calmly. "What?" I nearly jumped off the wooden bench. "My dear Auriol," said I, "my heart's dicky. You oughtn't to spring things like that on me." "I don't see where the shock comes in. Why shouldn't I go to a circus if I want to?" "It's your wanting to go that astonishes me." "You're very easily surprised," she remarked. "You ought to take something for it." "Possibly," said I. "But why on earth do you want to see the wretched Lackaday make a fool of himself?" "If you take it that way," she said icily, "I'm sorry I mentioned it. I could have gone without your being a whit the wiser." I lifted my shoulders. "After all, it's entirely your affair. You talked a while ago about mourning your mystery--which suggested a not altogether unpoetical frame of mind." "There s no poetry at all about it," she declared. "That's all gone. We've come to facts. I'm going to get all the facts. Crucify myself with facts, if you like. That's the only way to get at Truth." When a woman of Auriol's worth talks like this, one feels ashamed to counter her with platitudes of worldly wisdom. She was going to the Cirque Vendramin. Nothing short of an Act of God could prevent her. I sat helpless for a few moments. At last, taking advantage of a gleam of common sense, I said: "It's all very well for you to try to get to the bedrock of things. But what about Lackaday?" "He's not to know." "He'll have to know," I insisted warmly. "The circus tent is but a small affair. You'll be there under his nose." I followed the swift change on her face. "Of course--if you don't care if he sees you..." She flashed: "You don't suppose I'm capable of such cruelty!" "Of course not," said I. She looked over at the twin spires of the cathedral beneath which the town slumbered in the blue mist of the late afternoon. "Thanks, Tony," she said presently. "I didn't think of it. I should naturally have gone to the best seats, which would have been fatal. But I've been in many circuses. There's always the top row at the back, next the canvas...." "My dear good child," I cried, "you couldn't go up there among the lowest rabble of Clermont-Ferrand!" She glanced at me in pity and sighed indulgently. "You talk as if you had been born a hundred years ago, and had never heard of--still less gone through--the late war. What the----" she paused, then thrust her face into mine, so that when she spoke I felt her breath on my cheek, "What the _Hell_ do you think I care about the rabble of Clermont-Ferrand?" That she would walk undismayed into a den of hyenas or Bolsheviks or Temperance Reformers or any other benighted savages I was perfectly aware. That she would be perfectly able to fend for herself I have no doubt. But still, among the uneducated dregs of the sugar-less, match-less, tobacco-less populace of a French provincial town who attributed most of their misfortunes to the grasping astuteness of England, we were not peculiarly beloved. This I explained to her, while she continued to smile pityingly. It was all the more incentive to adventure. If I had assured her that she would be torn limb from limb, like an inconvincible aristocrat flaunting abroad during the early days of the French Revolution, she would have grown enthusiastic. Finally, in desperation because, in my own way, I was fond of Auriol, I put down a masculine and protecting foot. "You're not going there without me, anyhow," said I. "I've been waiting for that polite offer for the last half hour," she replied. What I said, I said to myself--to the midmost self of my inmost being. I am not going to tell you what it was. This isn't the secret history of my life. A cloud came up over the shoulder of the hills. We descended to the miniature valley of Royat. "It's going to rain," I said. "Let it," said Auriol unconcerned. Then began as dreary an evening as I ever have spent. We dined, long before anybody else, in a tempest of rain which sent down the thermometer Heaven knows how many degrees. Half-way through dinner we were washed from the terrace into the empty dining-room. There was thunder and lightning _ad libitum._ "A night like this--it's absurd," said I. "The absurder the better," she replied. "You stay at home, Tony dear. You're a valetudinarian. I'll look after myself." But this could not be done. I have my obstinacies as mulish as other people's. "If you go, I go." "As you have, according to your pampered habit, bought a car from now till midnight, I don't see how we can fail to keep dry and warm." I had no argument left. Of course, I hate to swallow an early and rapid dinner. One did such things in the war, gladly dislocating an elderly digestion in the service of one's country. In peace time one demands a compensating leisure. But this would be comprehensible only to a well-trained married woman. My misery would have been outside Auriol's ken. I meekly said nothing. The world of young women knows nothing of its greatest martyrs. When it starts thundering and lightening in Royat, it goes on for hours. The surrounding mountains play an interminable game of which the thunderbolt is the football. They make an infernal noise about it, and the denser the deluge the more they exult. Amid the futile flashes and silly thunderings--no man who has been under an intensive bombardment can have any respect left for the pitiful foolery of a thunderstorm--and a drenching downpour of rain (which is solid business on the part of Nature) we scuttled from the hired car to the pay-desk of the circus. We were disguised in caps and burberrys, and Lady Auriol had procured a black veil from some shop in Royat. We paid our fifty centimes and entered the vast emptiness of the tent. We were far too early, finding only half a dozen predecessors. We climbed to the remotest Alpine height of benches. The wet, cold canvas radiated rheumatism into our backs. A steady drip from the super-saturated tent above us descended on our heads and down our necks. Auriol buttoned the collar of her burberry and smiled through her veil. "It's like old times." "Old times be anythinged," said I, vainly trying to find comfort on six inches of rough boarding. "It's awfully good of you to come, Tony," she said after a while. "You can't think what a help it is to have you with me." "If you think to mollify me with honeyed words," said I, "you have struck the wrong animal." It is well to show a woman, now and then, that you are not entirely her dupe. She laid her hand on mine. "I mean it, dear. Really. Do you suppose I'm having an evening out?" We continued the intimate sparring bout for a while longer. Then we lapsed into silence and watched the place gradually fill with the populace of Clermont-Ferrand. The three top tiers soon became crowded. The rest were but thinly peopled. But there was a sufficient multitude of garlic-eating, unwashed humanity, to say nothing of the natural circus smell, to fill unaccustomed nostrils with violent sensations. A private soldier is a gallant fellow, and ordinarily you feel a comfortable sense of security in his neighbourhood; but when he is wet through and steaming, the fastidious would prefer the chance of perils. And there were many steaming warriors around us. There we sat, at any rate, wedged in a mass as vague and cohesive as chocolate creams running into one another. I had beside me a fat, damp lady whose wet umbrella dripped into my shoes. Lady Auriol was flanked by a lean, collarless man in a cloth-cap who made sarcastic remarks to soldier friends on the tier below on the capitalist occupiers of the three-franc seats. The dreadful circus band began to blare. The sudden and otherwise unheralded entrance of a lady on a white horse followed by the ring master made us realize that the performance had begun. The show ran its course. The clowns went through their antiquated antics to the delight of the simple folk by whom we were surrounded. A child did a slack wire act, waving a Japanese umbrella over her head. Some acrobats played about on horizontal bars. We both sat forward on our narrow bench, elbows on knees and face in hands, saying nothing, practically seeing nothing, aware only of a far off, deep down, infernal pit in which was being played the Orcagnesque prelude to a bizarre tragedy. I, who had gone through the programme before, yet suffered the spell of Auriol's suspense. Long before she had thrown aside the useless veil. In these dim altitudes no one could be recognized from the ring. Her knuckles were bent into her cheeks and her eyes were staring down into that pit of despair. We had no programme; I had not retained in my head the sequence of turns. Now it was all confused. The pervasive clowns alone seemed to give what was happening below a grotesque coherence. Suddenly the ring was empty for a second. Then with exaggerated strides marched in a lean high-heeled monster in green silk tights reaching to his armpits, topped with a scarlet wig ending in a foot high point. He wore white cotton gloves dropping an inch from the finger tips, and he carried a fiddle apparently made out of a cigar box and a broom handle. His face painted red and white was made up into an idiot grin. He opened his mouth at the audience, who applauded mildly. Lady Auriol still sat in her bemused attitude of suspense. I watched her perplexedly for a second or two, and then I saw she had not recognized him. I said: "That's Lackaday." She gasped. Sat bolt upright, and uttered an "Oh-h!" a horrible little moan, not quite human, almost that of a wounded animal, and her face was stricken into tense ugliness. Her hand, stretched out instinctively, found mine and held it in an iron grip. She said in a quavering voice: "I wish I hadn't come." "I wish I could get you out," said I. She shook her head. "No, no. It would be giving myself away. I must see it through." She drew a deep breath, relinquished my hand, turned to me with an attempt at a smile. "I'm all right now. Don't worry." She sat like a statue during the performance. It was quite a different performance from the one I had seen a few days before. It seemed to fail not only in the magnetic contact between artist and audience, but in technical perfection. And Elodie, whom I had admired as a vital element in this combination, so alive, so smiling, so reponsive, appeared a merely mechanical figure, an exactly regulated automaton. My heart sank into my shoes, already chilled with the drippings of my fat neighbour's umbrella. If Lackaday had burst out on Lady Auriol as the triumphant, exquisite artist, there might, in spite of the unheroic travesty of a man in which he was invested, have been some cause for pride in extraordinary, crowd-compelling achievement. The touch of genius is a miraculous solvent. But here was something second-rate, third-rate, half-hearted--though I, who knew, saw that the man was sweating blood to exceed his limitations. Here was merely an undistinguished turn in a travelling circus which folk like Lady Auriol Dayne only visited in idle moods of good-humoured derision. He went through it not quite to the bitter end, for I noted that he cut out the finale of the elongated violin. There was perfunctory applause, a perfunctory call. After he had made his bow, hand in hand with Elodie, he retired in careless silence and was nearly knocked down by the reappearing lady on the broad white horse. "Let us go," said Auriol. We threaded our way down the break-neck tiers of seats and eventually emerged into the open air. Our hired car was waiting. The full moon shone down in a clear sky in the amiable way that the moon has--as though she said with an intimate smile--"My dear fellow--clouds? Rain? I never heard of such a thing. You must be suffering from some delusion. I've been shining on you like this for centuries." I made a casual reference to the beauty of the night. "It ought to be still raining," said Lady Auriol. We drove back to Royat in silence. I racked my brains for something to say, but everything that occurred to me seemed the flattest of uncomforting commonplaces. Well, it was her affair entirely. If she had given me some opening I might have responded sympathetically. But there she sat by my side in the car, rigid and dank. For all that I could gather from her attitude, some iron had entered into her soul. She was a dead woman. The car stopped at the hotel door. We entered. A few yards down the hall the lift waited. We went up together. I shall never forget the look on her face. I shall always associate it with the picture of Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse. The lift stopped at my floor. Her room was higher. I bade her good night. She wrung my hand. "Good night, Tony, and my very grateful thanks." I slipped out and watched her whisked, an inscrutable mystery, upwards. Chapter XXI The first sign of commotion in the morning was a note from Bakkus, whose turn it was to act as luncheon host. Our friends at Clermont-Ferrand, said he, had cried off. They had also asked him to go over and see them. Would I be so kind as to regard this as a _dies non_ in the rota of our pleasant gatherings? I dressed and bought some flowers, which I sent up to Lady Auriol with a polite message. The chasseur returned saying that Miladi had gone out about half an hour before. "You don't mean that she has left the hotel with her luggage?" The boy smiled reassurance. She had only gone for a walk. I breathed freely. It would have been just like her to go off by the first train. I suffered my treatment, drank my glasses of horrible water and again enquired at the hotel for Lady Auriol. She had not yet returned. Having nothing to do, I took my _Moniteur du Puy de Dôme_, which I had not read, to the café which commands a view of the park gates and the general going and coming of Royat. Presently, from the tram terminus I saw advancing the familiar gaunt figure of Lackaday. I was glad, I scarcely knew why, to note that he wore a grey soft felt instead of the awful straw hat. I rose to greet him, and invited him to my table. "I would join you with pleasure," said he, "but I am thinking of paying my respects to Lady Auriol." When I told him that he would not find her, he sat down. We could keep an eye on the hotel entrance, I remarked. "Our lunch with Bakkus is off," said I. "Yes. I'm sorry. I rang him up early this morning. Elodie isn't quite herself to-day." "The thunder last night, perhaps." He nodded. "Women have nerves." That something had happened was obvious. I remembered last night's half-hearted performance. "By the way," said I, "Bakkus mentioned in his note that he was going over to Clermont-Ferrand to see you." "Yes," said Lackaday, "I left him there. He has marvellous tact and influence when he chooses to exert them. A man thrown away on the trivialities of life. He was born to be a Cardinal. I'm so glad you have taken to him." I murmured mild eulogy of Bakkus. We spoke idly of his beautiful voice. Conversation languished, Lackaday's eyes being turned to the entrance of the hotel some fifty yards away up the sloping street. "I'm anxious not to miss Lady Auriol," he said at last. "It will be my only chance of seeing her. We're off to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Our engagement ends to-night. We're due at Vichy next week." I had not realized the flight of the pleasant days. But yet--I was puzzled. Yesterday there had been no talk of departure. I mentioned my surprise. "I have ended the engagement of my own accord," said he. "The management had engaged another star turn for to-day--overlapping mine. A breach of contract which gave me the excuse for terminating it. I don't often stand on the vain dignity of the so-called artist, but this time I've been glad to do so." "The atmosphere of the circus is scarcely congenial," said I. "That's it. I'm too big for my boots, or my head's too big for my hat. And the management are not sorry to save a few days' salary." "But during these few days----?" "We wait at Vichy." He spoke woodenly, his lined face set hard. "I shall miss you tremendously, my dear fellow," said I. "I shall miss your company even more," said he. "We won't, at any rate, say good-bye to-day," I ventured. "There are cars to be hired, and Vichy from the car point of view is close by." "You, my dear Hylton, I shall be delighted to see." The emphasis on the pronoun would have rendered his meaning clear to even a more obtuse man than myself. No Lady Auriols flaunting over to Vichy. "May I ask when you came to this decision?" I enquired. "Bakkus's note suggested only a postponement of our meeting." "Last night," said he. "That's one reason why I sent for Bakkus." "I see," said I. But I did not tell him what I saw. It looked as though the gallant fellow were simply running away. Soon afterwards, to my great relief, there came Lady Auriol swinging along on the other side of the pavement. The café, you must know, forms a corner. To the left, the park and the tram terminus; to the right, the street leading to the post office and then dwindling away vaguely up the hill. It was along this street that Lady Auriol came, short-skirted, flushed with exercise, rather dusty and dishevelled. I stood and waved an arresting hand. She hesitated for a second and then crossed the road and met us outside the café. I offered a seat at our table within. She declined with a gesture. We all stood for a while and then went diagonally over to the park entrance. "I've been such a walk," she declared. "Miles and miles--through beautiful country and picturesque villages. You ought to explore. It's worth it." "I know the district of old," said Lackaday. "I'm tremendously struck with the beauty of the women of Auvergne." "They're the pure type of old Gaul," said Lackaday. She put up a hand to straying hair. "I'm falling to pieces. I have but two desires in the world--a cold bath and food. Perhaps I shall see you later." He stood unflinching, like a soldier condemned for crime. I wondered at her indifference. He said: "Unfortunately I can't have that pleasure. My engagements take up the rest of the day, and tomorrow I leave Clermont-Ferrand. I shan't have another opportunity of seeing you." Their eyes met and his, calm yet full of pain, dominated. She thrust her hand through my arm. "Very well then, let us get into the shade." We entered the park, found an empty bench beneath the trees and sat down, Auriol between us. She said: "Do you mean at Royat or in the world in general?" "Perhaps the latter." She laughed queerly. "As chance has thrown us together here, it will possibly do the same somewhere else." "My sphere isn't yours," said he. "If it hadn't been for the accident of Hylton being here, we should not have met now." "Captain Hylton had nothing to do with it," she said warmly. "I had no notion that you were at Clermont-Ferrand." "I'm quite aware of that, Lady Auriol." She flushed, vexed at having said a foolish thing. "And Captain Hylton had no notion that I was coming." "Perfectly," said Lackaday. "Well?" she said after a pause. "I came over to Royat, this morning," said Lackaday, "to call on you and bid you good-bye." "Why?" she asked in a low voice. "It appeared to be ordinary courtesy." "Was there anything particular you wanted to say to me?" "Perhaps to supplement just the little I could tell you yesterday afternoon." "Captain Hylton supplemented it after you left. Oh, he was very discreet. But there were a few odds and ends that needed straightening out. If you had been frank with me from the beginning, there would have been no need of it. As it was, I had to clear everything up. If I had known exactly. I should not have gone to the circus last night." His eyelids fluttered like those of a man who has received a bullet through him, and his mouth set grimly. "You might have spared me that," said he. He bent forward. "Hylton, why did you let her do it?" "I might just as well have tried to stop the thunder," said I, seeing no reason why this young woman should not bear the blame for her folly. "A circus is a comfortless place of entertainment," he said, in the familiar, even voice. "I wish it had been a proper theatre. What did you think of the performance?" She straightened herself upright, turned and looked at him; then looked away in front of her: a sharp breath or two caused a little convulsive heave of her bosom; to my astonishment I saw great tears run down her cheeks on to her hands tightly clasped on her lap. As soon as she realized it, she dashed her hands roughly over her eyes. Lackaday ventured the tip of his finger on her sleeve. "It's a sorry show, isn't it? I'm not very proud of myself. But perhaps you understand now why I left you in ignorance." "Yet you told Anthony. Why not me?" I was about to rise, this being surely a matter for them to battle out between themselves, but I at once felt her powerful grip on my arm. Whether she was afraid of herself or of Lackaday, I did not know. Anyway, I seemed to represent to her some kind of human dummy which could be used, at need, as a sentimental buffer. "I presume," she continued, "I was quite as intimate a friend as Anthony?" "Quite," said he. "But Hylton's a man and you're a woman. There can be no comparison. You are on different planes of sentiment. For instance, Hylton, loyal friend as he is, has not to my knowledge done me the honour of shedding tears over Petit Patou." I felt horribly out of place on the bench in this public leafy park, beside these two warring lovers. But it was most humanly interesting. Lackaday seemed to be reinvested with the dignity of the man as I had first met him, a year ago. "Anthony--" I could not help feeling that her repeated change of her term of reference to me, from the formal Captain Hylton to my Christian name, sprang from an instinctive desire to put herself on more intimate terms with Lackaday--"Anthony," she said in her defiant way, "would have cried, if he could." Lackaday's features relaxed into his childlike smile. "Ah," said he, "'The little more and how much it is. The little less and how far away.'" She was silent. Although the situation was painful, I could not help feeling the ironical satisfaction that she was getting the worst of the encounter. I was glad, because I thought she had treated him cruelly. The unprecedented tears, however, were signs of grace. Yet the devil in her suggested a _riposte_. "I hope Madame Patou is quite well." Lackaday's smile faded into the mask. "Last night's thunderstorm upset her a little--but otherwise--yes--she is quite well." He rose. Lady Auriol cried: "You're not going already?" His ear caught a new tone, for he smiled again. "I must get back to Clermont-Ferrand. Goodbye, Hylton." We shook hands. "Good-bye, old chap," said I. "We'll meet soon." Auriol rose and turned on me an ignoring back. As I did not seem to exist any longer, I faded shadow-like away to the park gate, where I hung about until Auriol should join me. As to what happened between them then, I must rely on her own report, which, as you shall learn, she gave me later. They stood for a while after I had gone. Then he held out his hand. "Good-bye, Lady Auriol," said he. "No," she said. "There are things which we really ought to say to each other. You do believe I wish I had never come?" "I can quite understand," said he, stiffly. "It hurts," she said. "Why should it matter so much?" he asked. "I don't know--but it does." He drew himself up and his face grew stern. "I don't cease to be an honourable man because of my profession; or to be worthy of respect because I am loyal to sacred obligations." "You put me in the wrong," she said. "And I deserve it. But it all hurts. It hurts dreadfully. Can't you see? The awful pity of it? You of all men to be condemned to a fife like this. And you suffer too. It all hurts." "Remember," said he, "it was the life to which I was bred." She felt hopeless. "It's my own fault for coming," she said. "I should have left things as they were when we parted in April. There was beauty--you made it quite clear that our parting was final. You couldn't have acted otherwise. Forgive me for all I've said. I pride myself on being a practical woman; but--for that reason perhaps--I'm unused to grappling with emotional situations. If I've been unkind, it's because I've been stabbing myself and forgetting I'm stabbing you at the same time." He walked a pace or two further with her. For the first time he seemed to recognize what he, Andrew Lackaday, had meant to her. "I'm sorry," he said gravely. "I never dreamed that it was a matter of such concern to you. If I had, I shouldn't have left you in any doubt. To me you were the everything that man can conceive in woman. I wanted to remain in your memory as the man the war had made me. Vanity or pride, I don't know. We all have our failings. I worshipped you as the _Princesse Loinlaine_. I never told you that I am a man who has learned to keep himself under control. Perhaps under too much control. I shouldn't tell you now, if----" "You don't suppose I'm a fool," she interrupted. "I knew. And the Verity-Stewarts knew. And even my little cousin Evadne knew." They still strolled along the path under the trees. He said after a while: "I'm afraid I have made things very difficult for you." She was pierced with remorse. "Oh, how like you! Any other man would have put it the other way round and accused me of making things difficult for him. And he would have been right. For I did come here to get news of you from Anthony Hylton. He was so discreet that I felt that he could tell me something. And I came and found you and have made things difficult for you." He said in his sober way: "Perhaps it is for the best that we have met and had this talk. We ought to have had it months ago, but--" he turned his face wistfully on her--"we couldn't, because I didn't know. Anyhow, it's all over." "Yes," she sighed. "It's all over. We're up against the stone wall of practical life." "Quite so," said he. "I am Petit Patou, the mountebank; my partner is Madame Patou, whom I have known since I was a boy of twenty, to whom I am bound by indissoluble ties of mutual fidelity, loyalty and gratitude; and you are the Lady Auriol Dayne. We live, as I said before, in different spheres." "That's quite true," she said. "We have had our queer romance. It won't hurt us. It will sweeten our lives. But, as you say, it's over. It has to be over." "There's no way out," said he. "It's doubly locked. Good-bye." He bent and kissed her hand. To the casual French valetudinarians sitting and strolling in the park, it was nothing but a social formality. But to Auriol the touch of his lips meant the final parting of their lives, the consecrated burial of their love. She lingered for a few moments watching his long, straight back disappear round the corner of the path, and then turned and joined me by the park gate. On our way to the hotel the only thing she said was: "I don't seem to have much chance, do I, Tony?" It was after lunch, while we sat, as the day before, at the end of the terrace, that she told me of what had taken place between Lackaday and herself, while I had been hanging about the gate. I must confess to pressing her confidence. Since I was lugged, even as a sort of _raisonneur_, into their little drama, I may be pardoned for some curiosity as to development. I did not seem, however, to get much further. They had parted for ever, last April, in a not unpoetic atmosphere. They had parted for ever now in circumstances devoid of poetry. The only bit of dramatic progress was the mutual avowal, apparently dragged out of them. It was almost an anticlimax. And then dead stop. I put these points before her. She agreed dismally. Bitterly reproached herself for giving way in Paris to womanish folly; also for deliberately bringing about the morning's explanation. "You were cruel--which is utterly unlike you," I said, judicially. "That horrible green, white and red thing haunted me all night--and that fat woman bursting out of her clothes. I felt shrivelled up. If only I had left things as they were!" She harped always on that note. "I thought I could walk myself out of my morbid frame of mind. Oh yes--you're quite right--morbid--unlike me. I walked miles and miles. I made up my mind to return to Paris by the night train. I should never see him again. The whole thing was dead. Killed. Washed out. I had got back some sense when I ran into the two of you. It seemed so ghastly to go on talking in that cold, dry way. I longed to goad him into some sort of expression of himself--to find the man again. That's why I told him about going to the circus last night." She went on in this strain. Presently she said: "I could shed tears of blood over him. Don't think I'm filled merely with selfish disgust. As I told him--the pity of it--all that he must have suffered--for he has suffered, hasn't he?" "He has gone through Hell," said I. She was silent for a few moments. Then she said: "What's the good of going round and round in a circle? You either understand or you don't." By way of consolation I mendaciously assured her that I understood. I don't think I understand now. I doubt whether she understood herself. Her emotions were literally going round and round in a circle, a hideous merry-go-round with fixed staring features, to be passed and repassed in the eternal gyration. Horror of Petit Patou. Her love for Lackaday. Madame Patou. Hatred of Lacka-day. Scorching self-contempt for seeking him out. Petit Patou and Madame Patou. Lackaday crucified. Infinite pity for Lackaday. General Lackaday. Old dreams. The lost illusion. The tomb of love. Horror of Petit Patou--and so _da capo_, endlessly round and round. At least, this figure gave me the only clue to her frame of mind. If she went on gyrating in this way indefinitely, she must go mad. No human consciousness could stand it. For sanity she must stop at some point. The only rational halting-place was at the Tomb. If I knew my Auriol, she would drop a flower and a tear on it, and then would start on a bee-line for Central Tartary, or whatever expanse of the world's surface offered a satisfactory field for her energies. She swallowed the stone-cold, half-remaining coffee in her cup and rose and stretched herself, arms and back and bust, like a magnificent animal, the dark green, silken knitted jumper that she wore revealing all her great and careless curves, and drew a long breath and smiled at me. "I've not slept for two nights and I've walked twelve miles this morning. I'll turn in till dinner." She yawned. "Poor old Tony," she laughed. "You can have it at a Christian hour this evening." "The one bright gleam in a hopeless day," said I. She laughed again, blew me a kiss and went her way to necessary repose. I remained on the terrace a while longer, in order to finish a long corona-corona, forbidden by my doctors. But I reflected that as the showman makes up on the swings what he loses on the roundabouts, so I made up on the filthy water what I lost on the cigars. How I provided myself with excellent corona-coronas in Royat, under the Paris price, I presume, of ten francs apiece, wild reporters will never drag out of me. I mused, therefore, over the last smokable half-inch, and at last, discarding it reluctantly, I sought well-earned slumber in my room. But I could not sleep. All this imbroglio kept me awake. Also the infernal band began to play. I had not thought--indeed, I had had no time to think of the note from Bakkus which I had received the first thing in the morning, and of Lackaday's confirmation of the summons to the ailing Elodie. Women, said he, had nerves. The thunder, of course. But, thought I, with elderly sagacity, was it all thunder? As far as I could gather, from Lackaday's confessions he had never given Elodie cause for jealousy from the time they had become Les Petit Patou. Her rout of the suggestive Ernestine proved her belief in his insensibility to woman's attractions during the war. She had never heard of Lady Auriol. Lady Auriol, therefore, must have bounded like a tiger into the placid compound of her life. Reason enough for a _crise des nerfs_. Even I, who had nothing to do with it, found my equilibrium disturbed. Lady Auriol and I dined together. She declared herself rested and in her right and prosaic mind. "I have no desire to lose your company," said I, "so I hope there's no more talk of an unbooked _strapontin_ on the midnight train." "No need," she replied. "He's leaving Clermont-Ferrand tomorrow. I'll keep to my original programme and enjoy fresh air until a wire summons me back to Paris. That's to say if you can do with me." "If you keep on looking as alluring as you are this evening," said I, "perhaps I mayn't be able to do without you." "I wonder why I've never been able to fall in love with a man of your type, Tony," she remarked in her frank, detached way. "You--by which I mean hundreds of men like you, much younger, of course--you are of my world, you understand the half-said thing, your conduct during the war has been irreproachable, you've got a heart beneath a cynical exterior, you've got brains, you're as clean as a new pin, you're an agreeable companion, you can turn a compliment in a way that even a savage like me can appreciate, and yet----" "And yet," I interrupted, "when you're presented with a whole paper, row on row, of new pins, you're left cold because choice is impossible." I smiled sadly and sipped my wine. "Now I know what I am, one of a row of nice, clean, English-made pins." "It's you that are being rude to yourself, not I," she laughed. "But you are of a type typical, and in your heart you're very proud of it. You wouldn't be different from what you are for anything in the world." "I would give a good deal," said I, "to be different from what I am--but--from the ideal of myself--no." She was quite right. Although I may not have sound convictions, thank Heaven I've sacred prejudices. They have kept me more or less straight in my unimaginative British fashion during a respectable lifetime. So far am I from being a Pharisee, that I exclaim: "Thank God I am as other decent fellows are." We circled pleasantly round the point until she returned to her original proposition--her wonder that she had never been able to fall in love with a man of my type. "It's very simple," said I. "You distrust us. You know that if you suddenly said to one of us, 'Let us go to Greenland and wear bearskins and eat blubber'; or, 'Let us fit up the drawing-room with incubators for East-end babies doomed otherwise to die,' he would vehemently object. And there would be rows and the married life of cat and dog." She said: "Am I really as bad as that, Tony?" "You are," said I. She shook her head. "No," she replied, after a pause. "In the depths of myself I'm as conventional as you are. That's why I said I was puzzled to know why I had never fallen in love with any one of you. I had my deep reasons, my dear Tony, for saying it. I'm bound to my type and my order. God knows I've seen enough and know enough to be free. But I'm not. Last night showed me that I'm not." "And that's final, my dear?" said I. She helped herself to salad with an air of bravura. She helped herself, to my surprise, to a prodigious amount of salad. "As final as death," she replied. * * * * * There had been billed about the place a Grand Concert du Soir in the Casino de Royat. The celebrated tenor, M. Horatio Bakkus. The Casino having been burned down in 1918, the concerts took place under the bandstand in the park. After dinner we found places, among the multitude, on the Casino Cafe Terrace overlooking the bandstand, and listened to Bakkus sing. I explained Bakkus, more or less, to Auriol. Although she could not accept Lackaday as Petit Patou, she seemed to accept Bakkus, without question, as a professional singer. The concert over, he joined us at our little japanned iron table, and acknowledged her well-merited compliments--I tell you, he sang like a minor Canon in an angelic choir--with, well, with the well-bred air of a minor Canon in an angelic choir. With easy grace he dismissed himself and talked knowledgeably and informatively of the antiquities and the beauties of Auvergne. To most English folk it was an undiscovered country. We must steal a car and visit Orcival. Hadn't I heard of it? France's gem of Romanesque churches? And the Château--ages old---with its _charmille_--the towering maze-like walks of trees kept clipped in scrupulous formality by an old gardener during the war--the _charmille_ designed by no less a genius than Le Nôtre, who planned the wonders of Versailles and the exquisite miniature of the garden of Nîmes? To-morrow must we go. This white-haired, luminous-eyed ascetic--he drank but an orangeade through post-war straws--had kept us spellbound with his talk. I glanced at Auriol and read compliance in her eye. "Will you accompany us ignorant people and act as cicerone?" "With all the pleasure in life," said Bakkus. "What time shall we start?" "Would ten be too early?" "Lady Auriol and I are old campaigners." "I call for you at ten. It is agreed?" We made the compact. I lifted my glass. He sputtered response through the post-war straws resting in the remains of his orangeade. He rose to go, pleading much correspondence before going to bed. We rose too. He accompanied us to the entrance to our hotel. At the lift, he said: "Can you give me a minute?" "As many as you like," said I, for it was still early. We sped Lady Auriol upwards to her repose, and walked out through the hall into the soft August moonlight. "May I tread," said he, "on the most delicate of grounds?" "It all depends," said I, "on how delicately you do it." He made a courteous movement of his hand and smiled. "I'll do my best. I take it that you're very fully admitted into Andrew Lackaday's confidence." "To a great extent," I admitted. "And--forgive me if I am impertinent--you have also that of the lady whom we have just left?" "Really, my dear Bakkus----" I began. "It is indeed a matter of some importance," he interposed quickly. "It concerns Madame Patou--Elodie. Rightly or wrongly, she received a certain impression from your charming luncheon party of yesterday. Andrew, as you are aware, is not the man with whom a woman can easily make a scene. There was no scene. A hint. With that rat-trap air of finality with which I am, for my many failings, much more familiar than yourself, he said: 'We will cancel our engagement and go to Vichy.' This morning, as I wrote, I was called to Clermont-Ferrand. Madame Patou, you understand, has the temperament of the South. Its generosity is apt to step across the boundaries of exaggeration. In my capacity of friend of the family, I had a long interview with her. You have doubtless seen many such on the stage. I must say that Andrew, to whom the whole affair appeared exceedingly distasteful, had announced his intention of obeying the rules of common good manners and leaving his farewell card on Lady Auriol. Towards the end of our talk it entered the head of Madame Patou that she would do the same. I pointed out the anomaly of the interval between the two visits. But the head of a Marseillaise is an obstinate one. She dressed, put on her best hat--there is much that is symbolical in a woman's best hat, as doubtless a man of the world like yourself has observed--and took the tram with me to Royat. We alighted at the further entrance to the park, and came plump upon a leave-taking between Lackaday and Lady Auriol. You know there is a turn--some masking shrubs--we couldn't help seeing through them. She was for rushing forward. I restrained her. A second afterwards, Andrew ran into us. For me, at any rate, it was a most unhappy situation. If he had fallen into a rage, like ninety-nine men out of a hundred, and accused us of spying, I should have known how to reply. But that's where you can never get hold of Andrew Lackaday. He scorns such things. He said in his ramrod fashion: 'It's good of you to come to meet me, Elodie. I was kept longer than I anticipated.' He stopped the Clermont-Ferrand tram, nodded to me, and, with his hand under Elodie's elbow, helped her in." "May I ask why you tell me all this?" I asked. "Certainly," said he, and his dark eyes glittered in the moonlight. "I give the information for what it may be worth to you as a friend, perhaps as adviser, of both parties." "You are assuming, Mr. Bakkus," I answered rather stiffly, "that Madame Patou's unfortunate impressions are in some way justified." It was a most unpleasant conversation. I very much resented discussing Lady Auriol with Horatio Bakkus. "Not at all," said he. "But Fate has thrown you and me into analogous positions--we are both elderly men--me as between Lackaday and Madame Patou, you as between Lady Auriol and Lackaday." "But, damn it all, man," I cried angrily, "what have I just been saying? How dare you assume there's anything between them save the ordinary friendship of a distinguished soldier and an English lady?" "If you can only assure me that there is nothing but that ordinary friendship, you will take a weight off my mind and relieve me of a great responsibility." "I can absolutely assure you," I cried hotly, "that by no remote possibility can there be anything else between Lady Auriol Dayne and Petit Patou." He thrust out both his hands and fervently grasped the one I instinctively put forward. "Thank you, thank you, my dear Hylton. That's exactly what I wanted to know. _Au revoir_. I think we said ten o'clock." He marched away briskly. With his white hair gleaming between his little black felt hat cocked at an angle and the collar of his flapping old-fashioned opera-cloak, he looked like some weird bird of the night. I entered the hotel feeling the hot and cold of the man who has said a damnable thing. Through the action of what kinky cell of the brain I had called the dear gallant fellow "Petit Patou," instead of "Lackaday," I was unable to conjecture. I hated myself. I could have kicked myself. I wallowed in the unreason of a man vainly seeking to justify himself. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to see Horatio Bakkus again. I went to bed loathing the idea of our appointment. Chapter XXII Lady Auriol, myself and the car met punctually at the hotel door at ten o'clock. There was also a _chasseur_ with Lady Auriol's dust-coat and binoculars, and a _concierge_ with advice. We waited for Bakkus. Auriol, suddenly bethinking herself of plain chocolate, to the consumption of which she was addicted on the grounds of its hunger-satisfying qualities, although I guaranteed her a hearty midday meal on the occasion of the present adventure, we went down the street to the _Marquise de Sévigné_ shop and bought some. This took time, because she lingered over several varieties devastating to the appetite. I paid gladly. If we all had the same ideas as to the employment of a happy day, it would be a dull world. We went back to the car. Still no Bakkus. We waited again. I railed at the artistic temperament. Pure, sheer bone idleness, said I. "But what can he be doing?" asked Auriol. I, who had received through Lackaday many lights on Bakkus's character, was at no loss to reply. "Doing? Why, snoring. He'll awake at midday, stroll round here and expect to find us smiling on the pavement. We give him five more minutes." At the end of the five minutes I sent the _concierge_ off for a guide-book; much more accurate, I declared, than Bakkus was likely to be, and at half-past ten by my watch we started. Although I railed at the sloth of Bakkus, I rejoiced in his absence. My over-night impression had not been dissipated by slumber. "I'm not sorry," said I, as we drove along. "Our friend is rather too much of a professed conversationalist." "You also have a comfortable seat which possibly you would have had to give up to your guest," said Auriol. "How you know me, my dear," said I, and we rolled along very happily. I think it was one of the pleasantest days I have ever passed in the course of a carefully spent life. Auriol was at her best. She had thrown off the harried woman of affairs. She had put a nice little tombstone over the grave of her romance, thus apparently reducing to beautiful simplicity her previous complicated frame of mind. For aught I could have guessed, not a cloud had ever dimmed the Diana serenity of her soul. If I said that she laid herself out to be the most charming of companions, I should be accusing her of self-consciousness. Rather, let me declare her to have been so instinctively. Vanity apart, I stood for something tangible in her life. She could not remember the time when I had not been her firm friend. Between my first offering of chocolates and my last over a quarter of a century had lapsed. As far as a young woman can know a middle-aged man, she knew me outside in. If she came to me for my sympathy, she knew that she had the right. If she twitted me on my foibles, she knew that I granted her the privilege, with affectionate indulgence. Now, perhaps you may wonder why I, not yet decrepit, did not glide ever so imperceptibly in love with Lady Auriol, who was no longer a dew-besprinkled bud of a girl and therefore beyond the pale of my sentimental inclinations. Well, just as she had avowed that she could not fall in love with a man of my type, so was it impossible for me to fall in love with a woman of hers. Perhaps some dark-eyed devil may yet lure me to destruction, or some mild, fair-haired, comfortable widow may entice me to domesticity. But the joy and delight of my attitude towards Auriol was its placid and benignant avuncularity. We were the best and frankest friends in the world. And the day was an August hazy dream of a day. We wound along the mountain roads, first under overhanging greenery and then, almost suddenly, remote, in blue ether. We hung on precipices overlooking the rock-filled valleys of old volcanic desolation. Basaltic cliffs rose up from their bed of yellow cornfields, bare and stark, yet, in the noontide shimmer, hesitating in their eternal defiance of God and man. We ascended to vast tablelands of infinite scrub and yellow broom, and the stern peaks of the Puy de Dôme mountains, a while ago seen like giants, appeared like rolling hillocks; but here and there a little white streak showed that the snow still lingered and would linger on until the frosts of autumn bound it in chains to await the universal winding-sheet of winter. Climate varied with the varying altitude of the route. Here, on a last patch of mountain ground, were a man or two and a woman or two and odd children, reaping and binding; there, after a few minutes' ascent, on another sloping patch, a solitary peasant ploughed with his team of oxen. Everywhere on the declivitous waysides, tow-haired, blue-eyed children guarded herds of goats, as their forbears had done in the days of Vercingetorix, the Gaul. Nowhere, save in the dimly seen remotenesses of the valleys, where vestiges of red-roofed villages emerged through the fertile summer green, was there sign of habitation. Whence came they, these patient humans, wresting their life from these lonely spots of volcanic wildernesses? Now and then, on a lower hump of mountain, appeared the ruined tower of a stronghold fierce and dominating long ago. There the lord had all the rights of the _seigneur_, as far as his eye could reach. He had men-at-arms in plenty, and could ride down to the valley and could provision himself with what corn and meat he chose, and could return and hold high revel. But when the winter came, how cold must he have been, for all the wood with its stifling smoke that he burned in his crude stone hall. And Madame the Countess, his wife, and her train of highborn young women--imagine the cracking chilblains on the hands of the whole fair community. "Does the guide-book say that?" asked Auriol, on my development of this pleasant thesis. "Is a guide-book human?" "It doesn't unweave rainbows. As a _cicerone_ you're impossible. I regret Horatio Bakkus." Still, in spite of my prosaic vision, we progressed on an enjoyable pilgrimage. I am not giving you an itinerary. I merely mention features of a day's whirl which memory has recaptured. We lunched in that little oasis of expensive civilization, Mont Dore. Incidentally we visited Orcival, with its Romanesque church and château, the objective of our expedition, and found it much as Bakkus's glowing eloquence had described. From elderly ladies at stalls under the lee of the church we bought picture post cards. We wandered through the deeply shaded walks of the _charmille_, as trimly kept as the maze of Hampton Court and three times the height. We did all sorts of other things. We stopped at wild mountain gorges alive with the rustle of water and aglow with wild-flowers. We went on foot through one-streeted, tumble-down villages and passed the time of day with the kindly inhabitants. And the August sun shone all the time. We reached Royat at about six o'clock and went straight up to our rooms. On my table some letters awaited me; but instead of finding among them the apology from Bakkus which I had expected, I came across a telephone memorandum asking me to ring up Monsieur Patou at the Hôtel Moderne, Vichy, as soon as I returned. After glancing through my correspondence, I descended to the bureau and there found Auriol in talk with the _concierge_. She broke off and waved a telegram at me. "The end of my lotus-eating. The arrangements are put through and I'm no longer hung up. So"--she made a little grimace--"it's the midnight train to Paris." "Surely to-morrow will do," I protested. "To-morrow never does," she retorted. "As you will," said I, knowing argument was hopeless. Meanwhile the _concierge_ was 'allo'-ing lustily into the telephone. "I ought to have stuck to head-quarters," she said, moving away into the lounge. "It's the first time I've ever mixed up business and--other things. Anyhow," she smiled, "I've had an adorable day. I'll remember it in Arras." "Arras?" "Roundabout." She waved vaguely. "I'll know my exact address to-morrow." "Please let me have it." "What's the good unless you promise to write to me?" "I swear," said I. "Pardon, Miladi," called the _concierge_, receiver in hand. "The _gare de Clermont-Ferrand_ says there is no _place salon-lit_ or _coupé-lit_ free in the train to-night. But there is _one place de milieu_, _premiere_, not yet taken." "Reserve it then and tell them you're sending a _chasseur_ at once with the money." She turned to me. "My luck's in." "Luck!" I cried. "To get a middle seat in a crowded carriage, for an all-night journey, with the windows shut?" She laughed. "Why is it, my dear Tony, you always seem to pretend there has never been anything like a war?" She went upstairs to cleanse herself and pack. I remained master of the telephone. In the course of time I got on to the Hôtel Moderne, Vichy. Eventually I recognized Lackaday's voice. The preliminaries of fence over, he said: "I wonder whether it would be trespassing too far on your friendship to ask you to pay your promised visit to Vichy to-morrow?" The formality of his English, which one forgot when talking to him face to face, was oddly accentuated by the impersonal tones of the telephone. "I'll motor over with pleasure," said I. The prospect pleased me. It was only sixty kilometres. I was wondering what the deuce I should do with myself all alone. "You're sure it wouldn't be inconvenient? You have no other engagement?" I informed him that, my early morning treatment over, I was free as air. "Besides," said I, "I shall be at a loose end. Lady Auriol's taking the midnight train to Paris." "Oh!" said he. There was a pause. "'Allo!" said I. His voice responded: "In that case, I'll come to Clermont-Ferrand by the first train and see you." "Nonsense," said I. But he would have it his own way. Evidently the absence of Lady Auriol made all the difference. I yielded. "What's the trouble?" I asked. "I'll tell you when I see you," said he. "I don't know the trains, but I'll come by the first. Your _concierge_ will look it up for you. Thanks very much. Good-bye."' "But, my dear fellow----" I began. But I spoke into nothingness. He had rung off. Auriol and I spent a comfortable evening together. There was no question of Lackaday. For her part, she raised none. For mine--why should I disturb her superbly regained balance with idle chatter about our morrow's meeting? We talked of the past glories of the day; of an almost forgotten day of disastrous picnic in the mountains of North Wales, when her twelve-year-old sense of humour detected the artificial politeness with which I sought to cloak my sodden misery; of all sorts of pleasant far-off things; of the war; of what may be called the war-continuation-work in the devastated districts in which she was at present engaged. I reminded her of our fortuitous meetings, when she trudged by my side through the welter of rain and liquid mud, smoking the fag-end of my last pipe of tobacco. "One lived in those days," she said with a full-bosomed sigh. "By the dispensation of a merciful Providence," I said, "one hung on to a strand of existence." "It was fine!" she declared. "It was--for the appropriate adjective," said I, "consult any humble member of the British Army." We had a whole, long evening's talk, which did not end until I left her in the train at Clermont-Ferrand. On our midnight way thither, she said: "Now I know you love me, Tony." "Why now?" I asked. "How many people are there in the world whom you would see off by a midnight train, three or four miles from your comfortable bed?" "Not many," I admitted. "That's why I want you to feel I'm grateful." She sought my hand and patted it. "I've been a dreadful worry to you. I've been through a hard time." This was her first and only reference during the day to the romance. "I had to cut something out of my living self, and I couldn't help groaning a bit. But the operation's over--and I'll never worry you again." At the station I packed her into the dark and already suffocating compartment. She announced her intention to sleep all night like a dog. She went off, in the best of spirits, to the work in front of her, which after all was a more reasonable cure than tossing about the Outer Hebrides in a five-ton yacht. I drove home to bed and slept the sleep of the perfect altruist. I was reading the _Moniteur du Puy de Dôme_ on the hotel terrace next morning, when Lackaday was announced. He looked grimmer and more careworn than ever, and did not even smile as he greeted me. He only said gravely that it was good of me to let him come over. I offered him refreshment, which he declined. "You may be wondering," said he, "why I have asked for this interview. But after all I have told you about myself, it did not seem right to leave you in ignorance of certain things. Besides, you've so often given me your kind sympathy, that, as a lonely man, I've ventured to trespass on it once more." "My dear Lackaday, you know that I value your friendship," said I, not wishing to be outdone in courteous phrase, "and that my services are entirely at your disposal." "I had better tell you in a few words what has happened," said he. He told me. Elodie had gone, disappeared, vanished into space, like the pearl necklaces which Petit Patou used to throw at her across the stage. "But how? When?" I asked, in bewilderment; for Lackaday and Elodie, as Les Petit Patou, seemed as indissoluble as William and Mary or Pommery and Greno. He had gone to her room at ten o'clock the previous morning, her breakfast hour, and found it wide open and empty save for the _femme de chambre_ making great clatter of sweeping. He stood open-mouthed on the threshold. To be abroad at such an hour was not in Elodie's habits. Their train did not start till the afternoon. His eye quickly caught the uninhabited bareness of the apartment. Not a garment straggled about the room. The toilet table, usually strewn with a myriad promiscuously ill-assorted articles, stared nakedly. There were no boxes. The cage of love-birds, Elodie's inseparable companions, had gone. "Madame----?" He questioned the _femme de chambre_. "But Madame has departed. Did not Monsieur know?" Monsieur obviously did not know. The girl gave him the information of which she was possessed. Madame had gone in an automobile at six o'clock. She had rung the bell. The _femme de chambre_ had answered it. The staff were up early on account of the seven o'clock train for Paris. "Then Madame has gone to Paris," cried Lackaday. But the girl demurred at the proposition. One does not hire an automobile from a garage, _a voiture de luxe, quoi?_ to go to the railway station, when the hotel omnibus would take one there for a franc or two. As she was saying, Madame rang her bell and gave orders for her luggage to be taken down. It was not much, said Lackaday; they travelled light, their professional paraphernalia having to be considered. Well, the luggage was taken down to the automobile that was waiting at the door, and Madame had driven off. That is all she knew. Lackaday strode over to the bureau and assailed the manager. Why had he not been informed of the departure of Madame? It apparently never entered the manager's polite head that Monsieur Patou was ignorant of Madame Patou's movements. Monsieur had given notice that they were leaving. Artists like Monsieur and Madame Patou were bound to make special arrangements for their tours, particularly nowadays when railway travelling was difficult. So Madame's departure had occasioned no surprise. "Who took her luggage down?" he demanded. The dingy waistcoated, alpaca-sleeved porter, wearing the ribbon of the Médaille Militaire on his breast, came forward. At six o'clock, while he was sweeping the hall, an automobile drew up outside. He said: "Whom are you come to fetch? The Queen of Spain?" And the chauffeur told him to mind his own business. At that moment the bell rang. He went up to the _étage_ indicated. The _femme de chambre_ beckoned him to the room and he took the luggage and Madame took the bird-cage, and he put Madame and the luggage and the birdcage into the auto, and Madame gave him two francs, and the car drove off, whither the porter knew not. Although he put it to me very delicately, as he had always conveyed his criticism of Elodie, the fact that struck a clear and astounding note through his general bewilderment, was the unprecedented reckless extravagance of the economical Elodie. There was the omnibus. There was the train. Why the car at the fantastic rate of one franc fifty per kilometre, to say nothing of the one franc fifty per kilometre for the empty car's return journey? "And Madame was all alone in the automobile," said the porter, by way of reassurance. "Pardon, Monsieur," he added, fading away under Lackaday's glare. "I cut the indignity of it all as short as I could," said Lackaday, "and went up to my room to size things up. It was a knock-down blow to me in many ways, as you no doubt can understand. And then came the _femme de chambre_ with a letter addressed to me. It had fallen between the looking-glass and the wall." He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. "You had better read it." I fitted my glasses on my nose and read. In the sprawling, strong, illiterate hand I saw and felt Elodie. _Mon petit André_---- But I must translate inadequately, for the grammar and phrasing were Elodesque. As you no longer love me, if ever you have loved me, which I doubt, for we have made _un drôle de ménage_ ever since we joined ourselves together, and as our life in common is giving you unhappiness, which it does me also, for since you have returned from England as a General you have not been the same, and indeed I have never understood how a General [and then followed a couple of lines vehemently erased]. And as I do not wish to be a burden to you, but desire that you should feel yourself free to lead whatever life you like, I have taken the decision to leave you for ever--_pour tout jamais_. It is the best means to regain happiness. For the things that are still at the Cirque Vendramin, do with them what you will. I shall write to Ernestine to send me my clothes and all the little birds I love so much. Your noble heart will not grudge them to me, _mon petit André_. Praying God for your happiness, I am always Your devoted ELODIE I handed him back the letter without a word. What could one say? "The first thing I did," he said, putting the letter back in his pocket, "was to ring up Bakkus, to see whether he could throw any light on the matter." "Bakkus--why, he cut his engagement with us yesterday." "The damned scoundrel," said Lackaday, "was running away with Elodie." Chapter XXIII He banged his hand on the little iron table in front of us and started to his feet, exploding at last with his suppressed fury. "The infernal villain!" I gasped for a few seconds. Then I accomplished my life's effort in self-control. My whole being clamoured for an explosion equally violent of compressed mirth. I ached to lie back in my chair and shriek with laughter. The _dénouement_ of the little drama was so amazingly unexpected, so unexpectedly ludicrous. A glimmer of responsive humour in his eyes would have sent me off. But there he stood, with his grimmest battle-field face, denouncing his betrayer. Even a smile on my part would have been insulting. Worked up, he told me the whole of the astonishing business, as far as he knew it. They had eloped at dawn, like any pair of young lovers. Of that there was no doubt. The car had picked up Bakkus at his hotel in Royat--Lackaday had the landlord's word for it--and had carried the pair away, Heaven knew whither. The proprietor of the Royat garage deposed that Mr. Bakkus had hired the car for the day, mentioning no objective. The runaways had the whole of France before them. Pursuit was hopeless. As Lackaday had planned to go to Vichy, he went to Vichy. There seemed nothing else to do. "But why elope at dawn?" I cried. "Why all the fellow's unnecessary duplicity? Why, in the name of Macchiavelli, did he seize upon my ten o'clock invitation with such enthusiasm? Why his private conversation with me? Why throw dust into my sleepy eyes? What did he gain by it?" Lackaday shrugged his shoulders. That part of the matter scarcely interested him. He was concerned mainly with the sting of the viper Bakkus, whom he had nourished in his bosom. "But, my dear fellow," said I at last, after a tiring march up and down the hot terrace, "you don't seem to realize that Bakkus has solved all your difficulties, _ambulando_, by walking off, or motoring off, with your great responsibility." "You mean," said he, coming to a halt, "that this has removed the reason for my remaining on the stage?" "It seems so," said I. He frowned. "I wish it could have happened differently. No man can bear to be tricked and fooled and made a mock of." "But it does give you your freedom," said I. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. "I suppose it does," he admitted savagely. "But there's a price for everything. Even freedom can be purchased too highly." He strode on. I had to accompany him, perspiringly. It was a very hot day. We talked and talked; came back to the startling event. We had to believe it, because it was incredible, as Tertullian cheerily remarked of ecclesiastical dogma. But short of the Archbishop of Canterbury eloping with the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbour nothing could seem less possible. If Bakkus had nurtured nefarious designs, Good Heavens! he could have executed them years before. Well, perhaps not. When one hasn't a penny in one's pocket even the most cynical pauses ere he proposes romantic flight with a lady equally penniless. But since April, Bakkus had been battening on the good Archdeacon, his brother's substantial allowance. Why had he tarried? "His diabolical cunning lay in wait for a weak moment," growled Lackaday. All through this discussion, I came up against a paradox of human nature. Although it was obvious that the unprincipled Bakkus had rendered my good friend the service of ridding him of the responsibility of a woman whom he had ceased to love, if ever he had loved her at all, a woman, who, for all her loyal devotion through loveless years, had stood implacably between him and the realization of his dreams, yet he rampaged against his benefactor, as though he had struck a fatal blow at the roots of his honour and his happiness. "But after all, man, can't you see," he cried in protest at my worldly and sophistical arguments, "that I've lost one of the most precious things in the world? My implicit faith in a fellow-man. I gave Bakkus a brother's trust. He has betrayed it. Where am I? His thousand faults have been familiar to me for years. I discounted them for the good in him. I thought I had grasped it." He clenched his delicate hand in a passionate gesture. "But now"--he opened it--"nothing. I'm at sea. How can I know that you, whom I have trusted more than any other man with my heart's secrets------?" The _concierge_ with a dusty chauffeur in tow providentially cut short this embarrassing apostrophe. "Monsieur le Capitaine Hylton?" asked the chauffeur. "_C'est moi_." He handed me a letter. I glanced at the writing on the envelope. "From Bakkus!" I said. "Tell me"--to the chauffeur--"how did you come by it?" "Monsieur charged me to deliver it into the hands of Monsieur le Capitaine. I have this moment returned to Royat." "Ah," said I. "You drove the automobile? Where is Monsieur Bakkus?" "That," said he, "I have pledged my honour not to divulge." I fished in my pocket for some greasy rags of paper money which I pressed into his honourable hand. He bowed and departed. I tore open the envelope. "You will excuse me?" "Oh, of course," said Lackaday curtly. He lit a cigarette and stalked to the end of the terrace. The letter bore neither date nor address. I read: MY DEAR HYLTON, You have heard of Touchstone. You have heard of Audrey. Shakespeare has doubtless convinced you of the inevitability of their mating. I have always prided myself of a certain Touchstone element in my nature. There is much that is Audrey-esque in the lady whose disappearance from Clermont-Ferrand may be causing perturbation. As my Shakespearian preincarnation scorned dishonourable designs, so do even I. The marriage of Veuve Elodie Marescaux and Horatio Bakkus will take place at the earliest opportunity allowed by French law. If that delays too long, we shall fly to England where an Archbishop's special licence will induce a family Archdeacon to marry us straight away. My flippancy, my dear Hylton, is but a motley coat. If there is one being in this world whom I love and honour, it is Andrew Lackaday. From the first day I met him, I, a cynical disillusioned wastrel, he a raw yet uncompromising lad, I felt that here, somehow, was a sheet anchor in my life. He has fed me when I have been hungry, he has lashed me when I have been craven-hearted, he has raised me when I have fallen. There can be only three beings in the Cosmos who know how I have been saved times out of number from the nethermost abyss--I and Andrew Lackaday and God. I passed my hand over my eyes when I read this remarkable outburst of devoted affection on the part of the seducer and betrayer for the man he had wronged. I thought of the old couplet about the dissembling of love and the kicking downstairs. I read on, however, and found the mystery explained. The time has come for me to pay him, in part, my infinite debt of gratitude. You may have been surprised when I wrung your hand warmly before parting. Your words removed every hesitating scruple. Had you said, "there is nothing between a certain lady and Andrew Lackaday," I should have been to some extent nonplussed. I should have doubted my judgment. I should have pressed you further. If you had convinced me that the whole basis of my projected action was illusory, I should have found means to cancel the arrangements. But remember what you said. "There can't by any possibility be anything between Lady Auriol Dayne and Petit Patou." "Damn the fellow," I muttered. "Now he's calmly shifting the responsibility on to me." And I swore a deep oath that nevermore would I interfere in anybody else's affairs, not even if Bolshevist butchers were playing with him before my very eyes. There, my dear Hylton (the letter went on), you gave away the key of the situation. My judgment had been unerring. As Petit Patou, our friend stood beyond the pale. As General Lackaday, he stepped into all the privileges of the Enclosure. Bound by such ties to Madame Patou as an honourable and upright gentleman like our friend could not d of severing, he was likewise bound to his vain and heart-breaking existence as Petit Patou. A free man, he could cast off his mountebank trappings and go forth into the world, once more as General Lackaday, the social equal of the gracious lady whom he loved and whose feelings towards him, as eyes far less careless than ours could see at a glance, were not those of placid indifference. The solution of the problem dawned on me like an inspiration. Why not sacrifice my not over-valued celibacy on the altar of friendship? For years Elodie and I have been, _en lout bien et tout honneur_, the most intimate of comrades. I don't say that, for all the gold in the Indies, I would not marry a woman out of my brother's Archdeaco If she asked me, I probably should. But I should most certainly, such being my unregenerate nature, run away with the gold and leave the lady. For respectability to have attraction you must be bred in You must regard the dog collar and chain as the great and God-given blessing of your life. The old fable of the dog and the wolf. But I've lived my life, till past fifty, as the disreputable wolf--and so, please God, will I remain till I die. But, after all, being human, I'm quite a kind sort of wolf. Thanks to my brother--no longer will hunger drive the wolf abroad. You remember Villon's lines: "Necessité fait gens mesprendre Et faim sortir le loup des boys." I shall live in plethoric ease my elderly vulpine life. But the elderly wolf needs a mate for his old age, who is at one with him in his (entirely unsinful) habits of disrepute. Where in this universe, then, could I find a fitter mate than Elodie? Which brings me back, although I'm aware of glaring psychological flaws, to my Touchstone and Audrey prelude. Writing, as I am doing, in a devil of a hurry, I don't pretend to Meredithean analysis. Elodie's refusal to marry Andrew Lackaday had something to do a woman's illusions. She is going to marry me because there's no possibility of any kind of illusion whatsoever. My good brother whom, I grieve to say, is in the very worst of health, informs me that he has made a will in my favour. Heaven knows, I am contented enough as I am. But, the fact remains, which no doubt will ease our dear frie mind, that Elodie's future is assured. In the meanwhile we will devote ourselves to the cultivation of that peculiarly disreputable sloth which is conducive to longevity, _relevé_ (according to the gastronomic idiom) on my part, with the study of French Heraldry which in the present world upheaval, is the most futile pursuit conceivable by a Diogenic philosopher. I can't write this to Lackaday, who no doubt is saying all the dreadful things that he learned with our armies in Flanders. He would not understand. He would not understand the magic of romance, the secrecy, the thrill of the dawn elopement, the romance of the _coup de théâtre_ by which alone I was able to induce Elodie to co-operate in the part payment of my infinite debt of gratitude. I therefore write to you, confident that, as an urbane citizen of the world you will be able to convey to the man I love most on earth, the real essence of this, the apologia of Elodie and myself. What more can a man do than lay down his bachelor life for a friend? Yours sincerely, Horatio Bakkus P.S.--If you had convinced me that I was staring hypnotically at a mare's nest, I should have had much pleasure in joining you on your excursion. I hope you went and enjoyed it and found Orcival exceeding my poor dithyrambic. I had to read over this preposterous epistle again before I fully grasped its significance. On the first reading it seemed incredible that the man could be sincere in his professions; on the second, his perfect good faith manifested itself in every line. Had I read it a third time, I, no doubt, should have regarded him as an heroic figure, with a halo already beginning to shimmer about his head. I walked up to Lackaday at the end of the terrace and handed him the letter. It was the simplest thing to do. He also read it twice, the first time with scowling brow, the second with a milder expression of incredulity. He looked down on me--I don't stand when a handy chair invites me to sit. "This is the most amazing thing I've ever heard of." I nodded. He walked a few yards away and attacked the letter for the third time. Then he gave it back to me with a smile. "I don't believe he's such an infernal scoundrel after all." "Ah!" said I. He leaned over the balustrade and plunged into deep reflection. "If it's genuine, it's an unheard of piece of Quixotism." "I'm sure it's genuine." "By Gum!" said he. He gazed at the vine-clad hill in the silence of wondering admiration. At last I tapped him on the shoulder. "Let us lunch," said I. We strolled to the upper terrace. "It is wonderful," he remarked on the way thither, "how much sheer goodness there is in humanity." "Pure selfishness on my part. I hate lunching alone," said I. He turned on me a pained look. "I wasn't referring to you." Then meeting something quizzical in my eye, he grinned his broad ear-to-ear grin of a child of six. We lunched. We smoked and talked. At every moment a line seemed to fade from his care-worn face. At any rate, everything was not for the worst in the worst possible of worlds. I think he felt his sense of freedom steal over him in his gradual glow. At last I had him laughing and mimicking, in his inimitable way--a thing which he had not done for my benefit since the first night of our acquaintance--the elderly and outraged Moignon whom he proposed to visit in Paris, for the purpose of cancelling his contracts. As for Vichy--Vichy could go hang. There were ravening multitudes of demobilized variety artists besieging every stage-door in France. He was letting down nobody; neither the managements nor the public. Moignon would find means of consolation. "My dear Hylton," said he, "now that my faith in Bakkus is not only restored but infinitely strengthened, and my mind is at rest concerning Elodie, I feel as though ten years were lifted from my life. I'm no longer Petit Patou. The blessed relief of it! Perhaps," he added, after a pause, "the discipline has been good for my soul." "In what way?" "Well, you see," he replied thoughtfully, "in my profession I always was a second-rater. I was aware of it; but I was content, because I did my best. In the Army my vanity leads me to believe I was a first-rater. Then I had to go back, not only to second-rate, but to third-rate, having lost a lot in five years. It was humiliating. But all the same I've no doubt it has been the best thing in the world for me. The old hats will still fit." "If I had a quarter of your vicious modesty," said I, "I would see that I turned it into a dazzling virtue. What are your plans?" "You remember my telling you of a man I met in Marseilles called Arbuthnot?" "Yes," said I, "the fellow who shies at coco-nuts in the Solomon Islands." He grinned, and with singular aptness he replied: "I'll cable him this afternoon and see whether I can still have three shies for a penny." We discussed the proposal. Presently he rose. He must go to Vichy, where he had to wind up certain affairs of Les Petit Patou. To-morrow he would start for Paris and await Arbuthnot's reply. "And possibly you'll see Lady Auriol," I hazarded, this being the first time her name was mentioned. His brow clouded and he shook his head sadly. "I think not," said he. And, as I was about to protest, he checked me with a gesture. "That's all done with." "My dear, distinguished idiot," said I. "It can never be," he declared with an air of finality. "You'll break Bakkus's heart." "Sorry," said he. "You'll break mine." "Sorrier still. No, no, my dear friend," he said gently, "don't let us talk about that any more." After he had gone I experienced a severe attack of anticlimax, and feeling lonely I wrote to Lady Auriol. In the coarse phraseology of the day, I spread myself out over that letter. It was a piece of high-class descriptive writing. I gave her a beautiful account of the elopement and, as an interesting human document, I enclosed a copy of Bakkus's letter. As I had to wait a day or two for her promised address--her letter conveying it gave me no particular news of herself--I did not receive her answer until I reached London. It was characteristic: My Dear Tony, Thanks for your interesting letter. I've adopted a mongrel Irish Terrier--the most fascinating skinful of sin the world has ever produced. I'll show him to you some day. Yours, Auriol I wrote back in a fury: something about never wanting to see her or her infernal dog as long as I lived. I was angry and depressed. I don't know why. It was none of my business. But I felt that I had been scandalously treated by this young woman. I felt that I had subscribed to their futile romance an enormous fund of interest and sympathy. This chilly end of it left me with a sense of bleak disappointment. I was not rendered merrier a short while afterwards by an airy letter from Horatio Bakkus enclosing a flourishing announcement in French of his marriage with the Veuve Elodie Marescaux, née Figasso. "Behold me," said the fellow, "cooing with content in the plenitude of perfect connubiality." I did not desire to behold him at all. His cooing left me cold. I bore on my shoulders the burden of the tragio-comedy of Auriol and Lackaday. If she had never seen him as Petit Patou, all might have been well, in spite of Elodie who had been somewhat destructive of romantic glamour. But the visit to the circus, I concluded, finished the business. Beneath the painted monster in green silk tights the dignified soldier whom she loved was eclipsed for ever. And then a thousand commonplace social realities arose and stood stonily in her path. And Lackaday--well! I suppose he was faced with the same unscalable stone wall of convention. Lackaday's letters were brief, and, such as they were, full of Arbuthnot. He was sailing as soon as he could find a berth. I gave the pair up, and went to an elder brother's place in Inverness-shire for rest and shooting and rain and family criticism and such-like amenities. Among my fellow-guests I found young Charles Verity-Stewart and Evadne nominally under governess tutelage. The child kept me sane during a dreadful month. Having been sick of the sound of guns going off during the war, I found, to my dismay, scant pleasure in explosions followed by the death of little birds. And then--I suppose I am growing old--the sport, in which I once rejoiced, involved such hours of wet and weary walking that I renounced it without too many sighs. But I had nothing to do. My pre-war dilettante excursions into the literary world had long since come to an end. I was obsessed by the story of Lackaday; and so, out of sheer _tædium vitæ_, and at the risk of a family quarrel, I shut myself up with the famous manuscript and my own reminiscences, and began to reduce things to such coherence as you now have had an opportunity of judging. It was at breakfast, one morning in November, that the butler handed me a telegram. I opened the orange envelope. The missive, reply paid, ran: Will you swear that there are real live cannibals in the Solomon Islands? If not, it will be the final disillusion of my life.--AURIOL I passed the paper to my neighbour Evadne, healthily deep in porridge. She glanced at it, glass of milk in one hand, poised spoon in the other. With the diabolical intuition of eternal woman and the ironical imperturbability of the modern maiden, she raised her candid eyes to mine and declared: "She's quite mad. But I told you all about it years ago." This lofty calmness I could not share. I suddenly found myself unable to stand another minute of Scotland. Righteous indignation sped me to London. I found the pair together in Lady Auriol's drawing-room. Without formal greeting I apostrophized them. "You two have behaved disgracefully. Here have I been utterly miserable about you, and all the time you've left me in the dark." "Where we were ourselves, my dear Hylton, I assure you," said Lackaday. "I shed light as soon as I could," said Auriol. "We bumped into each other last Monday evening in Bond Street and found it was us." "I told her I was going to the Solomon Islands." "And I thought I wanted to go there too." "From which I gather," said I, "that you are going to get married." Lady Auriol smiled and shook her head. "Oh dear no." I was really angry. "Then what on earth made you drag me all the way from the North of Scotland?" "To congratulate us, my dear friend," said Lackaday. "We were married this morning." "I think you're a pair of fools," said I later, not yet quite mollified. "Why--for getting married?" asked Auriol. "No," said I. "For putting it off to a fortuitous bump in Bond Street." The End